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lupinity87I said I aimed to get on with writing and posting stuff, but even this was quicker than I expected. Here's a little original thing I drafted a couple of years ago, intended as a snapshot exploration of non-visual descriptions (e.g. smell and sound) for a couple of paragraphs but which grew into a short scene.
I've got the quote "Conscience is the inner voice that warns us someone may be looking" saved at the top of my file but don't remember where it came from...
Title: Stale Air And Concrete Dust
Fandom: Original
Rating: 15
Genre: Bit slashy
Characters/Pairing: OMC/OMC
Word Count: 1305
Warnings: References to adult content
Author's Notes: My first original fic to reach the internet.
Summary: It's all part of the performance and band camaraderie if the guitarist gazes at the singer a bit too long, isn't it? It's never real if it's onstage.
Stale Air And Concrete Dust
Blond hair hangs past Davy's face in slick wet clumps, brushing his knees as he scrubs at his head with a towel. Behind his closed eyes he imagines he's at home, the familiar scent of peppermint shampoo masking the musty odour of the dressing room. They all smell the same, he finds, whether they're in a modern sports arena or an old civic hall; the venues always have a taste of stale air and concrete dust backstage. But with his head down and his eyes closed, and with the mint aroma tickling at his nose, he's away from the band, away from the road, sitting in the clean, airy bathroom of his London flat. For a brief moment he lets his mind embrace the image, safely enclosed in his cotton cavern.
The click of a door latch is almost muffled by the towel, but the whine of dry hinges pierces through easily. He listens as bare feet pad into the room and the door swings shut with a dull thud. It doesn't sound like any door in his home and the fantasy image in his mind evaporates.
Reality returns fully and he opens his eyes.
He straightens the towel around his waist but leaves the other on his head, partially obscuring his view of the room. Grubby moss-green carpet, a beige sofa with a stain down one arm opposite the padded bench he's sitting on, and a few wooden chairs litter the room. A small Formica-topped table holds glass bottles in varying states of emptiness, more of them drained before they went onstage than their manager would like. It could be Madison Square Garden or Hammersmith; Davy doesn't know and he doesn't much care.
"Alright, Davy?"
"Alright," he replies, and looks up at the singer from under his towel. Marcus is already dressed, his long dark hair drying against his shoulders and leaving dark damp patches at the neckline of his t-shirt. Davy glances away. He envies him being able to quickly shower and dress as soon as he steps offstage with no instruments to load. The crew can deal with the amps and heavy equipment, but he prefers to wipe down and pack up his guitars himself, prefers not to put his trust in anyone else. "Where are the others?"
"Sam's found a couple of friends for the evening." Marcus digs around in his bag for a pair of socks. "Twins. Blonde. Probably over eighteen."
Davy slides the damp towel from his head onto his bare shoulders, and starts dragging a hairbrush through the tangled clumps of wet hair. He mutters an "oh," unsurprised at their bassist's entertainment for the evening, but doesn't find himself envious. "And Johnny?"
"Got a phone call from his wife, she's brought the kids along. He's gone straight to the hotel to meet them."
He nods as he pulls at a stubborn knot, teasing the wet strands apart until he can slide the brush through cleanly. The sun bleached ends spring into loose curls in its wake.
"What about you?" Marcus asks as he ties his shoelaces.
Davy tosses the towel from his shoulders to the floor and stands. "Early night, I think." He says it non-committally as he turns away from the singer, and rummages in his bag for clean clothes. Finding a pair of pants, he loosens the towel from his narrow hips, and it joins its partner on the floor.
"Don't fancy a repeat of last night?"
The question stops Davy in his tracks, and he wishes he hadn't dropped the towel. He clears his throat uncomfortably, and quickly pulls his briefs on without turning around. "Who?"
He hears Marcus move behind him. "Does there need to be someone?"
"I'm assuming someone's caught your eye if you're even suggesting it, yeah." He's about to pull a pair of old jeans on when he feels a hand on his bicep, warm and solid in the cool air.
"Davy."
He pauses, still as a rock, clutching his jeans in his hands. He wants to rub at the spot where Marcus' palm meets his arm, an itch yearning for his attention that he can't move to scratch. A breath escapes through his nose.
Marcus clears his throat, hesitancy hanging in the air between them. "I noticed you, last night." He says it quietly, unlike his normal sonorous voice, melodic both onstage and off.
Davy finally moves, and the warm palm leaves his arm as he bends to pull his jeans on. "I should hope so," he says, purposely not looking at the singer as he straightens and pulls them up over his hips. He concentrates on fastening the fly and button. "We were shagging the same girl."
"But you were watching me."
He closes his eyes, wishing he could return to his mental sanctuary from before Marcus walked in, but the palm returns to his shoulder now, too solid, too real. He lets out a slow breath and opens his eyes, turning to the other man.
"I know," Marcus tentatively continues, "because I was watching you."
The eye contact is so intense Davy imagines Marcus can read his mind, and he quickly turns away. He doesn't need a mirror to know his face is red, he can feel the warm flush blooming across his cheeks and down his neck.
"Davy." The voice is so quiet that he can't help but look, and he's surprised to see Marcus glancing away self-consciously. "If I've got the wrong end of the stick, then tell me and we'll leave it at that." He pauses, hesitant.
Davy wants to say yes, of course you've got the wrong end of the stick, I've never looked at you like that but he can't because his mouth is too dry and his throat is too tight and because he does, every night onstage, when no-one questions it. Because it's all part of the performance and band camaraderie if the guitarist gazes at the singer a bit too long, isn't it? It's never real if it's onstage.
"You're reading too much into it," he eventually says, trying to keep his voice casual. He knows his own words aren't true; what's more, he knows that Marcus knows.
Marcus nods slightly and his grip on Davy's arm loosens. "But there is something to read into?"
Davy glances at the closed door and swallows. He can feel the hairs on his skin stand up with nervousness and, he admits to himself, excitement. He knows the singer can feel the gooseflesh under his hand.
"I don't – I'm not – " Davy blinks. "I like women," he finally says, not sure whether he's trying to convince Marcus or himself. It's a last ditch attempt at denial, at stopping this thing from going wherever it's going. But the truth is he's not sure he wants it to stop, and he bites his bottom lip as he looks back towards the door.
The hand leaves his arm, the flushed skin cooling in its wake, and Marcus sighs. "Are you looking for an escape route?" The confusion must be clear on Davy's face, because the singer continues, "only you keep staring at the only door out of the room."
Despite himself, Davy glances at the door again, at the brass handle latching the door closed but not locked. He could leave, he tells himself. He could never mention this or last night again, and just laugh and shrug a denial if Marcus ever tried to discuss it.
He looks at Marcus, dark eyes inches from his own face, and swallows dryly as he shakes his head. A few bare footsteps take him to the door, and the handle feels cold under his palm.
The soft click of the lock sliding closed breaks the silence and when Davy meets Marcus halfway across the room, no further words are needed.
I've got the quote "Conscience is the inner voice that warns us someone may be looking" saved at the top of my file but don't remember where it came from...
Title: Stale Air And Concrete Dust
Fandom: Original
Rating: 15
Genre: Bit slashy
Characters/Pairing: OMC/OMC
Word Count: 1305
Warnings: References to adult content
Author's Notes: My first original fic to reach the internet.
Summary: It's all part of the performance and band camaraderie if the guitarist gazes at the singer a bit too long, isn't it? It's never real if it's onstage.
Stale Air And Concrete Dust
Blond hair hangs past Davy's face in slick wet clumps, brushing his knees as he scrubs at his head with a towel. Behind his closed eyes he imagines he's at home, the familiar scent of peppermint shampoo masking the musty odour of the dressing room. They all smell the same, he finds, whether they're in a modern sports arena or an old civic hall; the venues always have a taste of stale air and concrete dust backstage. But with his head down and his eyes closed, and with the mint aroma tickling at his nose, he's away from the band, away from the road, sitting in the clean, airy bathroom of his London flat. For a brief moment he lets his mind embrace the image, safely enclosed in his cotton cavern.
The click of a door latch is almost muffled by the towel, but the whine of dry hinges pierces through easily. He listens as bare feet pad into the room and the door swings shut with a dull thud. It doesn't sound like any door in his home and the fantasy image in his mind evaporates.
Reality returns fully and he opens his eyes.
He straightens the towel around his waist but leaves the other on his head, partially obscuring his view of the room. Grubby moss-green carpet, a beige sofa with a stain down one arm opposite the padded bench he's sitting on, and a few wooden chairs litter the room. A small Formica-topped table holds glass bottles in varying states of emptiness, more of them drained before they went onstage than their manager would like. It could be Madison Square Garden or Hammersmith; Davy doesn't know and he doesn't much care.
"Alright, Davy?"
"Alright," he replies, and looks up at the singer from under his towel. Marcus is already dressed, his long dark hair drying against his shoulders and leaving dark damp patches at the neckline of his t-shirt. Davy glances away. He envies him being able to quickly shower and dress as soon as he steps offstage with no instruments to load. The crew can deal with the amps and heavy equipment, but he prefers to wipe down and pack up his guitars himself, prefers not to put his trust in anyone else. "Where are the others?"
"Sam's found a couple of friends for the evening." Marcus digs around in his bag for a pair of socks. "Twins. Blonde. Probably over eighteen."
Davy slides the damp towel from his head onto his bare shoulders, and starts dragging a hairbrush through the tangled clumps of wet hair. He mutters an "oh," unsurprised at their bassist's entertainment for the evening, but doesn't find himself envious. "And Johnny?"
"Got a phone call from his wife, she's brought the kids along. He's gone straight to the hotel to meet them."
He nods as he pulls at a stubborn knot, teasing the wet strands apart until he can slide the brush through cleanly. The sun bleached ends spring into loose curls in its wake.
"What about you?" Marcus asks as he ties his shoelaces.
Davy tosses the towel from his shoulders to the floor and stands. "Early night, I think." He says it non-committally as he turns away from the singer, and rummages in his bag for clean clothes. Finding a pair of pants, he loosens the towel from his narrow hips, and it joins its partner on the floor.
"Don't fancy a repeat of last night?"
The question stops Davy in his tracks, and he wishes he hadn't dropped the towel. He clears his throat uncomfortably, and quickly pulls his briefs on without turning around. "Who?"
He hears Marcus move behind him. "Does there need to be someone?"
"I'm assuming someone's caught your eye if you're even suggesting it, yeah." He's about to pull a pair of old jeans on when he feels a hand on his bicep, warm and solid in the cool air.
"Davy."
He pauses, still as a rock, clutching his jeans in his hands. He wants to rub at the spot where Marcus' palm meets his arm, an itch yearning for his attention that he can't move to scratch. A breath escapes through his nose.
Marcus clears his throat, hesitancy hanging in the air between them. "I noticed you, last night." He says it quietly, unlike his normal sonorous voice, melodic both onstage and off.
Davy finally moves, and the warm palm leaves his arm as he bends to pull his jeans on. "I should hope so," he says, purposely not looking at the singer as he straightens and pulls them up over his hips. He concentrates on fastening the fly and button. "We were shagging the same girl."
"But you were watching me."
He closes his eyes, wishing he could return to his mental sanctuary from before Marcus walked in, but the palm returns to his shoulder now, too solid, too real. He lets out a slow breath and opens his eyes, turning to the other man.
"I know," Marcus tentatively continues, "because I was watching you."
The eye contact is so intense Davy imagines Marcus can read his mind, and he quickly turns away. He doesn't need a mirror to know his face is red, he can feel the warm flush blooming across his cheeks and down his neck.
"Davy." The voice is so quiet that he can't help but look, and he's surprised to see Marcus glancing away self-consciously. "If I've got the wrong end of the stick, then tell me and we'll leave it at that." He pauses, hesitant.
Davy wants to say yes, of course you've got the wrong end of the stick, I've never looked at you like that but he can't because his mouth is too dry and his throat is too tight and because he does, every night onstage, when no-one questions it. Because it's all part of the performance and band camaraderie if the guitarist gazes at the singer a bit too long, isn't it? It's never real if it's onstage.
"You're reading too much into it," he eventually says, trying to keep his voice casual. He knows his own words aren't true; what's more, he knows that Marcus knows.
Marcus nods slightly and his grip on Davy's arm loosens. "But there is something to read into?"
Davy glances at the closed door and swallows. He can feel the hairs on his skin stand up with nervousness and, he admits to himself, excitement. He knows the singer can feel the gooseflesh under his hand.
"I don't – I'm not – " Davy blinks. "I like women," he finally says, not sure whether he's trying to convince Marcus or himself. It's a last ditch attempt at denial, at stopping this thing from going wherever it's going. But the truth is he's not sure he wants it to stop, and he bites his bottom lip as he looks back towards the door.
The hand leaves his arm, the flushed skin cooling in its wake, and Marcus sighs. "Are you looking for an escape route?" The confusion must be clear on Davy's face, because the singer continues, "only you keep staring at the only door out of the room."
Despite himself, Davy glances at the door again, at the brass handle latching the door closed but not locked. He could leave, he tells himself. He could never mention this or last night again, and just laugh and shrug a denial if Marcus ever tried to discuss it.
He looks at Marcus, dark eyes inches from his own face, and swallows dryly as he shakes his head. A few bare footsteps take him to the door, and the handle feels cold under his palm.
The soft click of the lock sliding closed breaks the silence and when Davy meets Marcus halfway across the room, no further words are needed.
