...
Well I'm pissed, alright? Yep.
So, I'm supposed to be the only one writing? Bullshit, that ain't how it's supposed to go down. Why won't no ******** body write it? It's so frustrating and it's frustrating me.I just want to not be in this boat alone.
Anyways, here's a fic. It's a bit old, but anyways, that's besides the point. I have to boost the Stones.
Title: That's Why I'm Here
Pairing: Keith/Mick
Disclaimer: I don't own them, etc, etc, etc.
"Rock on, gold dust woman
Take your silver spoon, dig your grave
Heartless challenge
Pick your path and I'll pray" - "Gold Dust Woman" by Fleetwood Mac.
Mick knew he shouldn’t have been surprised that he hadn’t seen Keith in days. In all, sometimes he didn’t see him any longer than a week. He knew he shouldn’t expect phone calls, or even a note. He would be waiting for Keith to come into the studio, hopefully with some type of melody so he could add his lyrics to it. Lately, Keith had been slipping even farther into his heroin addiction. He showed up late, sometimes he wouldn’t even show up. Mick was becoming increasingly worried.
He stood outside of Keith’s hotel room. More as he stood down the hall. He was ready to come to Keith’s aid. There was a feeling he couldn’t shake. Keith possible was in the room, or he might have been off somewhere else. He saw dealers come in and out of that room, like moths constantly to flames. They were sometimes thin, sometimes large. He saw a glimpse of Spanish Tony. Even for a dealer, he couldn’t understand why Keith even put up with that annoying as ******** waste of sperm and egg person.
He opened the door as he came to it. He slowly stuck his head inside of the door. He was cautious. Keith and become really paranoid that the cops were watching him. If he came into a room a certain way without Keith knowing it, he would freak out, thinking that it was the cops. His long collar bone length hair swayed with him, tickling his exposed pale neck. The room was dark, save for a few lit candles. The room smelled of hot wax, a cinnamon smell lingered with the air.
He looked over to his bed, seeing the covers twisted and cast into a lonely pool of fabric. He took slow, almost cautious steps into the bedroom. Things were scattered in piles and some things were torn. Needles were all over the stands, spoon littered the floor.
Keith was in a state of depression. He had received word that his third child with Anita, Tara, had died. People started immediately blaming Anita’s drug problem and Keith’s too. Keith was using more in order to try and hide his pain. Mick could understand on how Keith felt, reminding him of how Marianne had lost hers too.
He slowly crept inside, taking in the dark atmosphere. He looked into the bathroom, the door was closed shut. He saw a small light on, it fleeted through the small crack. He slowly turned the knob, and opened it. What he saw nearly broke his heart. Keith the corner, looking down. He was huddled up in the fetal position, knees drawn up to his chest. He sat in the corner beside the large tub. His face had a somber look. His arms were littered with track marks.
Keith pathetically looked up to Mick, who was standing in the doorway. Keith had a look of regret in his eyes, and dried up tear streaks. He never would let his weaknesses show through, too afraid of vulnerability. It actually hurt Mick to see his best friend, his own lover, in shambles when he was sop usually strong and tough willed.
“Michael,” he said softly. “I…”
Mick waited patiently for his answer.
“I haven’t eaten… done anything for 4 days,” he said like it was the hardest thing.
It hurt him to see Keith this way. He wanted to be able to stop this. To get Keith out of his hole that he had buried himself in. He didn’t want Keith to die. He already lost Brian to it, but he didn’t want Keith to go. It would absolutely crush him if Keith were to die. He didn’t want Keith to die off in some corner with a needle sticking out from his arm.
He glided towards Keith, and helped him to his feet. Keith was wobbly and could barely stand. He had lost a lot of weight, more than healthily necessary. He felt light, almost feather. He had helped Keith over to the bed, pulling up the covers. He helped Keith down while pulling up the covers. He picked up his clothes and he had put them away. He was beginning to leave, but he heard Keith lowly speak up.
“Mick,” he said a little hesitantly. “I…”
Mick turned around. He had a sincere look on his face. He didn’t need to know what Keith was asking for, he already knew. He sighed and walked back towards the bed. He knelt down, taking stock of Keith’s face. He smiled and traced his fingers around his cheek.
“Of coarse Keith,” he said softly. “I’ll stay with you. You don’t have to ask.”
With that, he crawled into the bed. He pulled up Keith to his lap, allowing his body to lean on his for support. He wrapped his arms around Keith’ thin torso, as the secured his arms. He pressed his face into the slope of Keith’s shoulder. Keith had breathed out a sigh of relief. As Keith leaned back into Mick’s flat chest, he breathed out a few words.
“Thank you Mick," he said softly. “For everything.”
“Hey, that’s what friends do for each other.”
Mick held onto him. He had made a secure guard around Keith. He hoped that one day Keith wouldn’t be on this s**t. He was wasting away right in front of him. All he could do was to hope as he slowly slipped into a slumber, the sound of Keith’s even breaths was the last thing he heard as he slowly slumbered.
No music. The sound of that goddamn movie "Hannah Montana".
