Written by Trin for Soobie for the 2011 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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He fell in love with his voice before he fell in love with him. They met in Copenhagen in 1973, their bands tacked together on the same venue calendar, one Friday night, one Saturday night. Ian and the others packed up as fast as they could Sunday morning, but Ritchie used the one-day break between shows to stay another night. The people recognized him, asked autographs, gushed over his guitar playing like the Americans never would. He stood in the back of the club, the moniker reading "Elf," and the band took the stage, herald by a short man in purple and jeans, curly hair frizzed out, snaking down his back. He didn't expect much. The first impression was not impressionable, and he prematurely glanced at the clock, wondering if he should leave after the first or second song, as the lights dimmed and small hands cradled the mic, bringing the silver mesh bulb to parted lips. And when Ritchie heard that voice, he re-learned his childhood lesson to never judge by looks. He wasn't the only one who gathered around That Voice once the show was over. The fans didn't notice or didn't care when he joined them in the praising circle surrounding Him. Being so close to That Voice, Ritchie transformed from some god guitarist of some band into the people around him, the people who followed him around Copenhagen, from his hotel room to a restaurant to the venue and back. He was Ritchie the fan, wanting a conversation, an autograph, a handshake just like everyone else. The Voice met his eye, but didn't approach him until the very last. Every fan went home smiling, cradling something to their chest with signatures sprawled across. Ritchie came forward, the backstage now empty of all crewmen and fans, and offered his hand like the others did. For a moment, The Voice didn't take it. He stared at it, and then broke into a sheepish smile. He saw the same transformation happen to The Voice: a god becoming a mortal fan. "I'm so, so sorry about that. Wow. That was stupid of me. I'm Ronnie." Their hands met, sweaty palm against sweaty palm. Ritchie grinned. "And here I thought you were ignoring me." "God no! I know who you are. I just got a little overwhelmed for a moment that it was you." He leaned in, pulling Ritchie close to him, tilting his head up, smirking. "It is you, right? Not an impersonator?" Ritchie chuckled. "Got a guitar?" Ronnie laughed in a way that warmed Ritchie's belly. The way the eyes twinkled, the smile on that face, that gentle hand resting on the small of his back. "I don't think that'll be necessary, my friend." "You sure? You kind of doubted my integrity there." "You want a jam or something?" Ritchie weaved his arm around Ronnie's slender shoulders. "It'd be an honor." It was a quick jam in the privacy of Ronnie's hotel room. Ritchie closed his eyes, sweeping his fingers and the pick over the fret board and the strings, playing along to Ronnie's voice, singing like Coverdale wished he could. That voice did something to him, spoke to his bones, to his heart, snapped and reformed his mind, drove it to a place he didn't know, didn't understand and didn't care. He delved head-first into the mood, into the moment, into that voice and the music they made. And he knew then he had to do something with this man in some way, somehow. There was no question about it. Ronnie looked at him, eager like a schoolboy on stage for the first time. "So...how was it?" Ritchie settled the guitar onto the floor and let his body answer that question. They stayed up all night talking at the bar between their hotels, swamping tour stories, the debauchery turning into tales of their childhoods, their love of music and their passion to do more. They did it again and again each time their paths crossed, their touches more fleeting and their looks further lingering, until their drinks clinked together like their teeth when they kissed. He was addicted to Ronnie, addicted to weaving his hands through coarse hair, tasting soft skin under his lips, hearing hiccupped moans right on the shell of his ear. It was one of the reasons why Ritchie left, the secret main reason, telling Coverdale and the others to go to hell two years later in 1975. He had to make these moments permanent. He had to have that body and that voice as his. And he did that day, when he offered a hand, a gig and so much more to Ronnie, and he never felt happier when Ronnie broke into that wide grin and said yes. Their fairytale lasted three years, shorter than his tenure in Deep Purple, shorter than Ronnie's in Elf. There was love, communication and dedication, but it wasn't enough to keep the professional out of the personal. Their fights never ended, continued from the bedroom to the studio, dragging people in who had nothing to do with it. The intimacy disappeared. The music changed. Everyone saw the end coming but them. He was too stubborn, too set in his ways. He wasn't going to back down and change for anybody, and Ronnie was the same. The parting kiss stayed with him for years. His Rainbow faded away, taken from his hands when Ronnie said goodbye with that sweet smile of his. The band survived, but it wasn't the same. Ritchie buried it away six years later in 1984, resurfaced it a decade later, and killed it again after three years - another three damn years - when the memories were too much to deal with. They didn't talk like they did. They didn't phone each other, didn't exchange addresses, didn't send letters or anything. But when they met at clubs or gigs or award shows or festivals, Ronnie never shunned him, never turned him away, never ignored him. He kissed him, embraced him, went out for drinks with him. He didn't like to bring up then, didn't want to conjure up bad memories and feelings. But he couldn't help asking on the 15th anniversary of their break-up what Ronnie thought of him. Maybe it was because the new millennium was approaching, and everyone in 1999 was talking about the end of the world thanks to Y2K. Maybe it got to his head. But he had to know. If he would die tomorrow, he had to know what Ronnie thought. "I don't care about what happened then," Ronnie said with that smile Ritchie still loved. "I don't hold ill-will to anyone." "But..." "I don't care. I mean that. It's done and over with. I don't hate you." Their hands met as they did then, sweaty palm on sweaty palm, fingers weaving with an old intimacy once shared. Ronnie pulled Ritchie close and rested his cheek on his chest. "I never did." He chuckled softly. "We just weren't meant to be." Ritchie swallowed hard, speaking through the lump in his throat. "Really?" "Yes." That smile told him the truth, as did those eyes. Ronnie never lied to him like he did. The weight he carried since their end would never disappear, but he always felt lighter when Ronnie told him those needed words. He rang in the New Millennium wishing Ronnie a Happy New Year and offering a drink on him. Ten years later, Ronnie's hair disappeared. He lay in bed ghastly thin, his soft eyes sunken in, his lips blue, his skin stretched and intravenous. But there was still so much life in that small body. Ronnie still reached out to him, held him in his arms when he cried, consoled him and kissed him and thanked him for everything he did, the good and the bad. "It's not fair," he whispered into Ronnie's neck, sounding like a little kid losing his best friend in the whole world. His fingers dug into Ronnie's bony shoulders, feeling so pathetic, so useless and powerless, unable to do anything to save him. It was too late. But in the privacy of the hospital room, away from prying eyes, the media and the world, Ritchie could let his emotions go like he never could. "Shh. It's how it is. There's nothing more about it." Ronnie pushed him back with what little strength he had, so he could look into his eyes and cup his cheek, the tubes tugging his skin. And he smiled that beautiful smile Ritchie would always treasure. "I'm happy though. Do you know why?" Ritchie shook his head no, the tears still falling. They fell harder when Ronnie smiled that beautiful smile he'd always treasure. "Because I'm so glad I got to meet you." He brushed his fingers over Ronnie's palm and pressed them together as they did then, sweaty skin against sweaty skin. Today became yesterday when their lips met one last time. And Ritchie saw the Ronnie he first met, the enigma, the persona, the short Italian on stage back in Copenhagen in 1973, commanding the audience of a hundred, saluting them with horns that defined a genre, captivating their souls with a Voice that revolutionized music. The man he fell in love with. The man he still cared so much for. The man he and the world would never forget.
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