Written for electricwitch for the 2009 xmas_rocks exchange
| This story is a work of fiction and therefore completely untrue. No harm or libel is meant or implied about any of the individuals named within this work and it was written without their involvement or permission. No profit is being made. |
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The bus was all impatience and excitement, mixed with the world weariness of having done it a hundred fucking times before.
Cale's eyes were on the tree line, his thoughts elsewhere. Tonight was important. He shifted in his seat, but it didn't recline so he sulked. Chris was in front, his mean leather jacket hung carelessly over the seat. He'd dozed off, and awoke with a shock. Names of signs and stores flashed by as he looked for clues of where he was. There was another thump in the back of his chair. He flinched and John gave a pleased snort. 'Pass the beer, help 'self,' John mumbled. Chris was angry with himself for flinching, and passed it curtly. His ears rang with the familiar hiss of a beer being cracked. John slopped a little on his exposed belly but didn't care. There was a slip of paper near John's elbow, 'Lou' scrawled large, with an address. Chris frowned then turned back to the tape deck. Cale felt a casual nonchalance for the music the boys were playing. He had no responsibility for it. But he was fidgety. He slumped in his chair, or lip synced along, or kicked Chris' chair, and threatened and thundered in turns without really caring - for diversion as much as anything else. He kept asking with a child's impatience and forgetfulness, how long until they hit New York. 'What's the big deal, John? We'll get there, man,' said David, placing a hand on his shoulder, reassuringly. Cale snorted dismissively, and the skinny drummer left to sit in front with Chris. 'Thank Christ for that,' murmured Chris, following Cale out of the bus. David was already sitting on a carton amid a pile of speakers and instruments. Chris carried his guitar close to his chest, cradling it. 'Take a load off, asshole,' David said, cheerfully calling him over. 'Gimme a look at your girlfriend there.' He handed his guitar to David, talking shop to him as his friend inexpertly strummed a test. It was a few minutes before Chris noticed Cale, staring. The drummer looked between them, confused. Chris half-gestured him over, holding up a smoke; John muttered something and then left. Chris just smiled at himself. 'He's the boss,' he said lightly to his companion. 'He told me he'd "arranged a meeting with an acquaintance",' David's voice dropped to a bass as he mimicked Cale, then cracked a punky grin. 'I bet he's just getting his end in.' Chris tightened his lips and brushed his dark, thick fringe to the side. The same tape had been playing in the dressing room for hours since John got back. John seemed enamoured with the first four bars, and rewound it over, and over. There was a piercing, paranoid lurch to the music that lulled him. No one else could stand more than five minutes, which seemed to please him further. 'I've got enemies. I've got enemies right here in New York.' He kept on whispering to himself, winking and grimacing at a private joke. The music pitched and spat, and John's elegant fingers were never far from the tape buttons. 'Kept waving little packets of coke in my face. Thinks he can mess with me.' A beer can was tossed at his feet, and Chris hurried from the doorway. He could get Dave to do the stage call. A boisterous Cale came out on stage. Chris watched him, warily. He was solid in denim overalls, all muscle and gut. John giggled when he saw him. He linked his fingers like a butterfly in front of his face, and wiggled the fingertips. 'What did I get up to last night, man?' he asked in an aside. Chris felt like laughing but swallowed it, unsure of John's reaction. 'Was I a good boy?' This time John was looking for a laugh, raising his eyebrows comically. But Chris felt he was being mocked, and ignored him behind his shades. John was pouring sweat from the lights. He was dressed in all black, and he looked like a bloated heart throb. Chris complemented him on stage, in a violent and careless beauty. Battling, riffing. John was electric and unpredictable when Chris was on stage, competing with him, intimidating him. He put a hand around his waist. Spedding suffered the touch, fighting the urge to push him off. He tightened the grip and Spedding's head snapped up, his hands dangerously twitching on his guitar. The larger man lifted a meaty palm, and, savouring Chris's reaction, kissed his black brow. Spedding let his guitar hang on its strap and started to leave. John stopped him, whispered something. He took the furthest part of the stage, concentrating grudgingly on his guitar, his fingers tripping. The set ended and he stormed off, with John shadowing him. He was trying to insert something beautiful and John just howled like a monkey. He was a professional for Christ's sake. 'You fucked up!' Cale yelled, looking around wildly for something to throw. 'You watch me,' he pointed a finger hard into his chest. 'You watch me on stage to know when to end the song.' He grabbed Spedding by the jaw, forcing him to meet his eyes. Chris endured it, staring back hard. He felt a flood of insults, but bit his lip. 'Prick.' Had he said that aloud? He became increasingly sure as John chased him around the dressing room, trying madly to kick him. Spedding knew he could out-run him. He also knew what the wrong end of Cale's shoe felt like. 'Calm down!' he shouted, throwing jackets and drumsticks in John's way. 'Calm the fuck down!' The fights always ended the same way. The room was disordered and smelled of grog and sweat stained shirts. The two men were alone, exhausted, and spent. Cans littered the floor. 'You're mine,' Cale purred silkily into Chris' ear. He ran the pot-stained and blunted edge of the cutting scissors along his shirt. Chris tried to move, feeling beached and bloated with beer and weed. 'You're in my band.' 'Did you spike my drink?' Chris thought he said. 'It was my own goddamn drink.' Trust John to spike himself. Jesus Christ, he's got a death wish. 'You've got a death wish,' he said aloud. The music was still playing, looping and hurling, hurdy gurdy. John made a gurgling, growling sound, sucking coke off his hand. Chris thought again that he should move. 'I could do anything I wanted to you. With you.' He pulled Spedding to him by his hair, for emphasis, and leaned heavily on his thigh, his balance unsteady. Spedding realised that the pressure was good, and that he didn't want it to stop, and that he might need to throw up. 'You feel good,' he said aloud; and then promptly heaved onto his shoes. 'Turn him so he doesn't...Hendrix? Hemorrhage?' he thought he heard John say, in the black. 'Then why do you stay?' David had asked him the next day, flicking the cherry off his smoke. 'When it's good, it's good...,' 'You sound like a battered wife,' he nudged his ribs. 'Yeah, got the fucking battle scars to prove it,' Chris grinned rakishly. 'Hey baby, grab me a soda, eh?' Spedding bristled. He reached for a coke and began shaking it furiously. John slinked up behind him, quiet as a cat, despite his large frame. He pinned both of Spedding's hands behind his back. 'How's Lou, John?' Cale's jaw pressed against Spedding's ear, his breathing laboured. He braced himself for a shooting pain, and estimated whether he could spray John with the can from that angle. John's hand tensed and Chris became aware of the sensitive joint at his wrist. He raised his chin, defiantly. John moved his hand down shyly, testing him. Made confident by his lack of resistance, he cupped him, gingerly, then possessively. Spedding squirmed at the hot huffs on his neck. He held himself stiffly, trying not to react, but he felt small and weak against John's bulk. Chris listed chords for the songs in that night in his head: B-, A, B-, A. 'The Hunt'. Cale continued groping and stroking him through his jeans. 'Let me go, John,' he said, trying for a measured tone but choking a little on his name. 'Say my name again,' he answered huskily, imploring. 'Hey Dave!' Chris hollered with all his lungs. 'Can you help me carry these drinks in, man?' John dropped him hotly and fled. Chris adjusted himself, nearly dropping the can from distraction. This was going to be on his terms, not John's. John slammed the door of the dressing room and flicked the tape off. The silence was unexpected and strangely heavy. He brushed picks, gaffer tape, and an ashtray off the edge of the table without distinguishing, and sat. There was a shadow outside the door. 'Fuck off,' he said, resignedly. He traced the spilt ash on the table, half hoping for a shouting match. Something other than silence. He bent to pick up the tray, but heard a sound. John looked up. Chris was seated on a carton, his jeans unbuttoned. 'Just...watch me,' he gulped. John shut up and sat down in shock. Chris slipped one hand under the other, concentrating, and tensing his face. Cale looked as though he might say something, but choked on it. 'John,' Spedding moaned a little, conscious of putting on a show. John whimpered, uselessly. He looked at him too intensely, then rolled his eyes back. His wrist moved practiced, knowing the science of his own body - timing, pace, rhythm. John was breathing in sync with him, speeding him up and slowing him, like hypnotism, like magic. 'Come for me,' he mouthed. He looked shocked at himself, he struggled for a moment and said it again, insistent. He was a picture of heavy-lidded desire. Chris ignored him, focusing on his hands. Close. There was a burst of relief, and his body went slack. 'I want you,' Cale said. Chris wore a stupid lazy smile that felt out of place, but for its match on John's face. 'I quit,' 'Like hell you do,' said John, rising. As he towered over him, Spedding wondered if it might be nice to have the use of his legs back. Suffering no resistance, John kissed him deeply. 'Like hell.' Closing his eyes, Chris agreed: if this was hell, then he was in good freakin' company. He smiled.
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