Written for Jen 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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James Patrick Page doesn't need to think twice when he gets the call.
His answer can only be a "yes", no matter if he's looking at the matter from a professional point of view or from a less professional one.
The music drifts gently through the dark, stuffy air of the studio. He listens as the characteristic sounds of the different instruments stream from the speakers - a thumping bass provides the rhythm for the reverberating guitar sound that gently intertwines with softly humming strings. The strings - he can't remember when he's last heard an arrangement that complimented a piece so well; the violins add feeling and the cellos give soul. It's envy that mixes with his ardent amazement. They had offered this piece to him first, but he refused, swamped with other work. Now he can taste bile on his tongue when he admits to himself, and himself only, that he could never have done this with the rough sheet of scribbled notes and chords he saw. Shakespeare's green-eyed monster tightens its grip on him and nurtures that insatiable drive that courses through his veins at all times anyway. One of his hands reaches for the technician's shoulder, who, startled, slides his headphones off before letting out an inquiring grunt. "Who's arrangement is this?" He expects to hear the name before the bearded guy even opens his mouth: "Fellow called John Paul Jones." This is a story as ancient as the world - everyone sooner or later finds their master. No matter how renowned you are for your work, someone always turns up and does better. Just like that, without too much effort. Jimmy has experienced this before. It is hard to believe that Eric has ever done anything else than playing his guitar, they almost seem fused. At first he thought this hot, acidic feeling would consume him, but then he found a way to use it. They became friends eventually and it spurred Jimmy on. Like a sprinter running next to a faster man. Maybe this new nemesis would do the same for him.
When he gets the call the soft voice at the other end of the line is enough to make him smile.
The good thing about session work - apart from less health dangers due to shitty accommodation on tour - is that the companies care about you. Surely not as much as they care about their stars, but they know that you're the grease that keeps the money machine running. So parties like this one - free drinks, an expensive buffet and scantily clad models - are always open for the working class of professional musicians as well. Jimmy is hungry. On some days he goes without any food that deserves the name. It's not that he's that poor, although he knows a lot of people who make more money than him, it's just that he spends his money on other things. Guitars, strings, drugs - food is not a priority. Today, however, it's free, so he fills his plate with everything that appeals to his taste buds and makes his dry mouth water. He is so focused on building a little tower of canapés that it takes him a while to realise that someone is talking to him. "Sorry?" he asks and turns to look into a pair of impressively blue eyes. "Session musician?" the chap asks presumably for the second time and Jimmy must've looked confused for the stranger continues: "You seem hungry." He points at the overly full plate and Jimmy finds himself smiling. "Got me there." The stranger smiles back and his eyes really are very, very pretty, but Jimmy doesn't think about that now, instead he extends his hand, careful not to tilt the porcelain. "Jimmy Page." "John Baldwin," comes the reply. The name is not familiar and he wonders whether or not the man could be one of the boldfaced spongers who sometimes talk their way into these parties in search of a free meal or drinks or a shag. "I'm working for the company as well," the stranger, John, attests as if he had been reading Jimmy's thoughts. It might just as well be a lie, but Jimmy is inclined to believe him, which has little to do with his intimate knowledge of human nature and much more with that open, honest gaze. They sit down at a table together and talk shortly until it is time for one of them to leave.
When he hears that voice he almost laughs about his own stupidity again. It is an alleviated laugh because he is glad about his mistake.
It is there on his shoulder again, injecting the bubbling venom into his blood with a sting that digs deep into his flesh. He can feel it coursing through his body and it is there on his tongue. The urge to spit is pressing, but he knows he can't, not here, not now. "Do you think you can do that?" he is asked and he has to concentrate to stay calm. Of course he can do that, who do they think he is? "Sure," is all that he can force through his gritted teeth. By the time he has tuned his guitar he has regained enough self-control to at least appear composed. The envy and aggression are there in his music though, he can make them out when they listen to the takes afterwards, and Jimmy is glad that this is not a love song. He needs a drink, he decides when he's finally free to escape the suffocating dark cave of a studio. Guitar case in hand he hurries down the stairs and into the foyer where he almost collides with another man. Only at a second glance does he recognise his acquaintance from the party about a month ago. "Oh, hello!" John stops in his tracks. "Jimmy, right?" A short breath of something that feels suspiciously like delight blocks out his anger. He remembers me. Jimmy nods and then spontaneously adds: "Care for a drink?" John responds using a lot of supposed tos and actuallys, but in the end they sit down at a table in the pub just down the street. Jimmy doesn't really know why he likes to be in this man's company so much. He knows virtually nothing about him, only that he works for the same people, that he likes his whisky without ice and doesn't eat stuffed olives. Oh, and that his eyes still are a clear blue and twinkle when he makes him laugh. He hates himself a little because he thinks of Eric again right now, but it's only to note that they're nothing alike. "Which instruments do you play?" It's hard to believe he didn't think to ask that when they first arrived here over an hour ago, or a month ago when they first met. John swallows a mouthful of whisky eager to answer, grimacing in a way that Jimmy thinks is both funny and adorable, and then doesn't fail to impress. "Piano," he begins and doesn't stop talking for a while, before he finishes, "but mostly bass these days." Now Jimmy has to swallow, but there's no envy he finds, only admiration. "We should jam some day," he suggests, admittedly hopeful. John looks at him for a while, his lips curved in a smile and Jimmy can't help imagining how the liquor would taste on those lips that shine in the light of the candle to their right. "How 'bout now?" "Didn't you say you had work to do?" Jimmy objects and wants to slap himself in the next second, but John just shrugs. "The work will still be there tomorrow. Besides, playing other people's music gets tiresome after a while." Jimmy knows exactly what he means, and says so.
They go over to Jimmy's flat, just because it's closer and he pleads to every higher power that might be listening that he didn't leave anything lying about that could embarrass him.
Because, yes, he wants to impress John, even though he has no indication whatsoever that this could lead to more than a platonic friendship, but that doesn't change his feelings. The gods are merciful, his flat looks fairly civilised and he even manages to dig up a bottle of brandy that he must have nicked from his parent's cupboard because he can't remember buying it. John seems more interested in his collection of instruments and amps than in his living conditions anyway.
He tests a few guitars before he picks up Jimmy's favourite bass guitar, and the way he runs his fingers over the thick strings softly and affectionately unravels a chord in Jimmy's stomach, but he so doesn't dwell on that now. Instead he transforms the feeling into music, and soon both their fingers pick and pluck away, drawing notes and chords from the tightly strung metal, which swirl through the air to form new and unheard melodies. It is hard not to drift too far from reality, carried by their own creation, and Jimmy thinks that this is it. The ultimate unification, and that he doesn't need more, doesn't want more. But then he looks up to see the absent, trance-like expression on the other man's face and he wishes that he had caused that. Not with the help of an instrument, but with his hands, with his body. He sighs softly and concentrates on his fingers on the strings again, he almost wishes that they'd dig into the tips like they did when he first started, just so the pain would take his mind off these things. They play, and talk, and play again and Jimmy thinks he's doing well at not letting his thoughts stray to any indecent place until it's time for John to leave. They stand at the opened door, both hesitant to end their conversation, it's already dawning and John really has to leave, he says. But he still hasn't gone when Jimmy has to think about a reply for a moment and looks deeply into John's eyes while he searches for words, and then it's John's hand on his cheek suddenly. The taste of brandy on the other man's, John's, lips is tinged with smoke and something sweet Jimmy can't place, and he moans against his mouth softly when he feels his tongue brushing over his lips and buries a hand in the thick, soft hair. It's everything Jimmy had imagined and then some. "I had," Jimmy breathes out softly between kisses, "no idea..." John doesn't answer, but his lips curve into a smile against Jimmy's. He rests his head on John's shoulder when they break off, breathing raggedly and pressing soft kisses to his collarbone. "I really have to go," John whispers against his skin, while he elicits little shivers by running his hands over Jimmy's back. "I'll be back though." He forces Jimmy to look at him. "For more." And that shiver travels straight to his groin. The flat seems empty when he closes the door behind him, but Jimmy takes another sip of brandy to refresh the taste and then he drifts off into a peaceful sleep.
When he hears those words there suddenly seems to be far too little space in his ribcage for both his heart and lungs.
It is difficult to say when was the last time that he was so enthusiastic about his work. His head is suddenly filled with new ideas and not even John Paul Jones could come up with something more inspired, he is sure. Of course it's the kiss - the kisses, he corrects himself -, but not only that. The knot that obligation and the need to be fucking professional had tied inside of him has burst, all it took was an extensive jam session and a bit of a crush. Okay, a lot of a crush, a major one. Jimmy spends the best part of the day scribbling away notes and arrangements, only interrupted by thoughts about John - little things he had played on his instrument, the light flick of his tongue against Jimmy's, the way he had used dynamics to create tension in the music, the feeling of his fingernails scratching his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt. The best thing is that they'll meet again. John has said so and gave him his number and made him promise to call. Jimmy can't wait for more of the same, and just more. He goes to see the producer about his work later, when he's unable to decide whether calling the next day is too early or just right, and he can't stand being around a telephone anymore. There is an unusual smile on the man's face when he greets him. Jimmy frowns a little, but then he thinks that maybe it does show just a little, he can feel that damned grin on his face that he's never lost throughout the day. Possible that he even grinned in his sleep. You are ridiculous, James. His conscience sounds just like his grandmother, and it certainly kills off any naughty thoughts he might have had. They go through his work and the pile of sheets Jimmy has brought, and surprisingly the smile doesn't leave the boss' face. He's genuinely pleased with Jimmy and he says so. Before he manages to get away - he has decided that calling on the next day only shows that he cares - his boss says something about introducing him to someone, and Jimmy sighs inwardly because he knows that this is important and part of the business, but he doesn't want it right now. He stays though, concentrating on his work once more while his boss goes outside to fetch that ever so important person. To his great surprise it is John who steps into the office, and Jimmy smiles, a smile that freezes on his face when he hears the producer's voice saying loud and clear: "Jimmy, meet John Paul Jones." He stares, and then he stares some more. This is John Paul Jones, he thinks, and then, I am a bit in love with John Paul Jones. And this is the first time he admits it to himself. And this is also when he sees the woman clinging to John's arm.
When he finds his breath again, he almost wants to shout it out loud: "Yes!" But things are never that easy.
There is a girlfriend, a fiancé even, and although John says it's not a problem, Jimmy thinks that it bloody well is. They do meet again after that awkward scene in the middle of the office during which Jimmy hoped the ground would already open up to swallow him whole or that he woke up in his bed, cold sweat on his brow from his nightmare. But it is all very real. They kiss again after that awkward scene, but somehow it's not right, even though it feels oh so right. "You are John Paul Jones," Jimmy states after they part, and John smiles that brilliant smile of his and he looks flushed and his lips so deliciously red that Jimmy just wants to bend down again, but instead he says it once more: "You are John Paul Jones." "It's only a stage name," John explains and if he's confused about why Jimmy harps on about this he doesn't let it show, but all that Jimmy can think of to say is: "Yes, but you are John Paul Jones." As if John had lied to him, although he knows he hasn't, and that doesn't change anything about the girlfriend, the fiancé either. "And you are going to marry," he manages to add and thinks that must finally make sense to John. It's like his words brush the smile from John's face, like a cloud covering the sun. "Yes, that's true," and Jimmy sees how his fists clench at his sides, and he's glad to see a hint of guilt, but that doesn't mean he's any less angry. No, not angry, disappointed, gutted. "Would you have told me?" Somehow he needs to know. "I would have," the answer comes fast and he knows it's the truth. "I... I just." John pauses and then carries on slowly, furrowing his brow as if it costs him to find the words. "This is so not easy for me, Jimmy. I didn't mean to, but I saw you and your smile was so... and then you talked to me and I thought I'd recognised myself in your words, and then the music... the music!" He stresses the words as if they'd explain everything, and oddly enough Jimmy thinks he understands because he's felt it, too. And he's flattered and feels like grinning although he's angry and hurt, but he's also smitten, and, damn it, giddy like a schoolgirl. "Mo knows," John pulls him back to the issue at hand."Well, not about you, but she knows it." He gesticulates nervously now, blinking rapidly. "I owe her so much, Jimmy, and, and I love her, but now there's you..." His hand stretches out as if to accuse him. And that's that. Jimmy thinks he's probably lost his mind because then they're kissing again and his teeth gently graze the skin at his neck when his mouth strays, and Jimmy feels that he's fucking trembling. He knows that it's wrong, that he really shouldn't, but he still wants that more that's been promised, who is he fooling, certainly not himself. They stumble across the room and somehow his hands find their way under John's shirt, drawing circles on the warm, smooth skin of his back, while John's hands rest on his hips, gently squeezing whenever he moans against his mouth or skin. Suddenly he hits his bed with the back of his legs and that is when that blasted alarm in his head goes off, and he really really wants to punch himself, hard, when he hears himself say: "I'm sorry, John, but I don't think I can do this." Definitely not the right time to develop morals all of a sudden. The truth, however, is that he cares too much, a lot, definitely an insane amount for how little time they have spent in each other's company. They do meet again, even after that, because as John puts it, there's far too much creativity between them. But they don't touch, they are careful not to. Often they come close, so close that Jimmy can feel the maddening warmth of his body, his breath on his skin, and one time, he swears, John's lashes bat against his cheek and Jimmy finds that he is weak, so very, very weak, but not that weak. Their relationship might not flourish as Jimmy had hoped it would, but something else flourishes inside of him, and he finally picks up the courage to say goodbye to session work and takes that place in the Yardbirds that's been offered to him. It must be fate's sick and twisted sense of humour that lets him end up playing bass instead of guitar, he thinks, but he is unexpectedly happy, pleased to be out there on stage in front of an audience, breathing the sweaty, alcohol-laden atmosphere of the clubs instead of the dusty, stale studio air. This is what he's meant to do and when he senses the Yardbirds falling apart he knows that he'll continue with this, guitar in hand. Jonesy, as everyone now calls him, is still working in the studios, he's married now, and Jimmy can see the strain on him whenever they meet, but he can't say anything because they're both not going there. There's this elephant in the room with them whenever they're together, but they skilfully dance around it even if it's right there and its movements make the earth quiver under their feet or it trumpets loudly right into their ears. And it goes well for a few years.
Things are not that easy, and certainly not for them, but Jimmy agrees to meet - alone, just him, John and the elephant.
"I can't stand this session thing anymore." Jimmy sees it, it's there in his eyes and in the way he holds his body, he must be tired. "I heard about your plans, and I thought I'd ask. We work so well together." It's right, Jimmy knows it, but that's really not the point. "Mo?" he asks, and he doesn't even notice that they're not talking about that, but they are really, because no matter how much time has passed it's always fucking there. John laughs and he sounds just a bit hysteric, which is probably understandable because he says: "She suggested I call you." There's an apology somewhere in his voice - because he knows what he's asking from me, Jimmy thinks, and what he's asking from himself, and Mo. "I have to think about this," Jimmy responds, and the disappointment on John's face almost breaks his heart. "If this were only about the music I'd already have said yes, you know that." And John nods, but the shadow doesn't lift from his face. "I'd better go then. Let you think." John finally speaks again and gets up from where he sat on Jimmy's couch, looking far smaller than he ever has. "Yes." Jimmy tries to smile, but he knows that his eyes betray his sadness. "I'll see you out." They stop shortly in front of the door so Jonesy can get his coat from the hook it hung upon, and Jimmy can't stop himself from thinking about the last time they stood here like this and how his heart fluttered in his chest, and then he thinks about everything that happened afterwards and he can see that John thinks about it as well, it's there in his eyes. "I don't know if I can do this," he sighs, and he must've looked pitiable because John takes a step in his direction and lifts an arm as if to touch him, but he doesn't. I can't do this, Jimmy thinks because John is so painfully close and if this is so difficult now, how could it possibly become easier if they saw each other on a day-to-day basis. And then he thinks: Don't go! But John tears his gaze away and turns around, and Jimmy knows that he'd never touch him again if Jimmy doesn't tell him to or touches him first because he's just so... He doesn't even know what to call it. Good, respectful, stupid? And that's when Jimmy forgets about all the pros and cons and just reaches out for John's shoulder because he still wants him, still needs him. It is impressive with which speed and force John has him pinned against the wall in the next second, a hungry mouth threatening to devour him and Jimmy shakes off his surprise and responds eagerly because this is what he's forbidden himself for so long and yet craved all the time. What follows is a strange struggle and stumble, a fumbling and groping that's aimless and aimed at the same time. This is it, Jimmy thinks and then he thinks nothing anymore because John forces a thigh between his and all he can do is groan at the friction and bite into those lips on his, a little too forceful perhaps, he tastes blood. At some point the back of his legs hit the bed once more, and he's been here before, but this time he sits down, running his hands along John's slim sides, and then he lies back compliantly when John follows and his delicious warmth and weight are upon him. "Jimmy," he sighs. "Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy." And Jimmy knows exactly what he feels because there's no space for anything else in his head, only John and how his body feels pressed close against his, how they fit together perfectly, how he does - oh my God - does that thing with his hips that almost makes him spill himself in that very second. "Too... many... clothes." he manages to press forth between gasps and kisses, and John looses no time and sits up, straddling Jimmy's hips and pulls his shirt over his head. Jimmy follows suit and then there's hot, flushed skin against his erect nipples and a nibbling mouth at his neck. Jimmy trails his hands over his back, grinding against John's crotch frantically, and then lets his hands slip into the waistband of his trousers pulling him even closer between his spread legs. "Fuck me!" Words ring out in the heavy air around them, and he knows that they are his because that's what he wants, but he can't even remember saying them. He's already painfully hard when John sits up once more to open the fly of his trousers. Before he alleviates the pressure fully, he stops and looks down at Jimmy writhing underneath him, his pupils dilated and his voice hoarse when he says: "Look at you, you're beautiful." And suddenly there's far more pressure in his chest than in his groin, but he isn't allowed to dwell on that feeling because John pulls down his trousers, stripping him fully naked, and then his hand closes around his throbbing cock. Jimmy grips the sheets tightly, not caring about holding back his moans and whimpers now. "Fuck me," he repeats and he doesn't manage more than a whisper this time. John rolls off him, and first he's shocked, afraid, but then he realises that he's merely removing his own trousers. Jimmy pulls him back down as soon as he's done, he needs to feel his heat against his body, his mouth on his own again, and - damn - his stiffened cock brushing against his own. He isn't going to last much longer, he has lasted for some years, so he fumbles in the drawer of his bedside cabinet while he's placing little bites on John's neck because it draws the sweetest sounds from his mouth. John looks at him, smiling, his eyes almost black, when he presses the small bottle into his hand. "Are you sure?" he asks, and Jimmy can only nod because his erection presses against the flat of Jonesy's belly in just the right way. And then there's a slick finger slipping inside of him and Jimmy drifts away from everything around them, focussed on the pressure on his prostrate and how it makes his whole body throb with lust and arousal. A second finger is added, bending and scissoring. Jimmy writhes and tenses his muscles around them because they feel so good inside of him and he still wants more. He tries to focus his gaze on John, but his vision is already blurring. "Now," he says and the fingers are removed only to be substituted by John's cock pressing inside, up to the hilt. They both hesitate for a moment, getting used to the feel of each other, and Jimmy pulls John down into a deep and urgent kiss since this still is not enough. And then John starts to move and Jimmy claws at anything in his reach, sinking his nails into Jonesy's sweat-covered skin because he's falling, fast and without any hope. John groans loudly, but he doesn't stop to thrust into him, thoroughly and deep, with the pent-up passion of years. Jimmy rolls up his hips to meet him and then the angle is just right and all the pressure in his body agglomerates before he spills himself, groaning, nails digging even deeper. Only a few moments later he can feel John's muscles clench and he comes still inside of him, muttering curses that make Jimmy smile. He is pretty sure that all of his muscles and bones have melted into his flesh, but he still somehow finds the strength to pull John into his arms. They touch from head to toe, and Jimmy thinks that this has to be their reward for not touching at all for so long.
James Patrick Page doesn't need to think twice when he gets the call. His answer can only be a "yes", no matter if he's looking at the matter from a professional point of view or from a less professional one. And so he says it, whispers it into the ear of the man resting beside him: "I want you as my bassist." And it goes without saying that he wants him as a lot more than that.
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