Work Text:
At first, Pete hadn't noticed. He was too caught up in his own breakdown that he never paid much mind to Keith's antics. They were naught but white noise filtering in and out of Pete's consciousness as he spent his days and nights isolating himself in his home to work - to perfect new material that never seemed to turn out the way that he wanted it.
Explosions and demolished furniture was nothing compared to his building anxiety, steadily creeping up on him with every passing day. He was constantly looking over his shoulder, so of course Pete didn't see what was right in front of him. But Keith, ever the persistent one, was going to get his attention one way or another.
Pete was in the middle of his nightly routine of writing, berating himself and then scratching everything out and trying again when his phone rang. He was planning on ignoring it, but the shrill noise threw him out of his thoughts and it became impossible to continue working.
Throwing some pointed curses at the stupid thing, Pete stomped over and yanked it off its cradle. He didn't have time to answer before Keith was talking. It took far too long for him to process whatever the fuck their drummer had gotten him into this time. Keith was talking a mile a minute, interrupting himself every so often to throw in a manic laugh.
"And so, dear boy, I've decided to include you in me little project 'ere. Now I know what you're thinkin', but you don't have to do a single thing! Just stand there and look pretty, yeah?" Another cackle punctuated the last sentence.
Pete had no idea what on earth Keith was on about and even told him so, his agitation growing with every passing minute that he wasn't writing. They had an album to finish and he couldn't keep procrastinating like this. There were still seven more tracks – seven more songs worth of chords and tunes that he had to come up with. It didn't look like either Roger or John wanted to contribute, so Pete was on his own.
"No," Pete snapped. "No. Whatever it is: no. The album isn't going to finish itself! I have work to do!"
There was an uncharacteristic silence on the other end and, for a moment, Pete thought that Keith had actually hung up. His hopes were dashed when Keith came back on the line, this time far more quiet than before. Pete only felt a little guilty at the change in his mood. He wasn't out to hurt Keith, no matter how insane and erratic that he could be.
"You're right, it isn't," Keith said solemnly, bouncing back to his typical demeanor just as fast. "I'll be over in a tick, Blandford!"
Pete grit his teeth at the name he loved to irritate him with until he realized what Keith was going to do. "Wait, Keith, no –" He had already hung up. "Fuck."
He rushed over to the front door, latching all three locks. There was no way Keith was going to ruin his momentum. Especially when he was one more failure away from success!
Pete returned to his home studio, looking over the sheets of paper he had leftover amidst the chaos. There were several balled up rejections, ones that were either too cheesy or had started off good and ended horribly. Most of these had been binned, leaving a strewn mess of chewed pens and empty teacups that had held a mixture of Earl Grey and brandy at some point or another.
The sheet that Pete had been working on was a wreck. There were only two legible lines and the rest was all blotted out. Now that he was out of the zone he'd been in, Pete had no idea where he was going with any of it. Sighing he plopped down on his office chair, hearing the familiar, comforting squeak as it took on his weight.
It wasn't long before Pete began another attempt on a clean piece of paper. So far, there weren't many mistakes during the process – it was like words were flowing automatically from the pen without any help from his brain. He couldn't remember how much time had passed, or if time passed at all, when his doorbell rang. The sound made him wince, a familiar aggravation welling up inside him.
Pete knew exactly who it was. Hoping Keith would take a hint, he ignored it in favor of finishing off the last line of his song. He was so close. Just one more bridge and he could begin working on the chords.
The ringing persisted for a considerably long amount of time and came in a variety of different beats, though Pete wasn't listening anymore. He could only hear the lines echo back in his head, reawakening memories and reliving traumas. His body heaved with each one, wanting desperately to let loose the sorrow that had been locked away for so long.
Pete wished he had the capability to cry. It would've felt so good to lift that burden from his chest. But instead he was a slave to his pen, seeking solace in what feeble words he could coax out. Pete drained the last bit of comfort from strings of meaningless sentences. He was a gasping, thirsty man in a desert wringing nourishment out of a barren cactus. Always, always getting pricked in the process.
"Guess who?"
Pete started, dropping his pen with a clatter as the world went black. A pair of cold, clammy hands were pressed over his eyes. He recognized that childish lilt anywhere. Pete wished he didn't.
Ripping away from the hands that held him hostage, Pete twisted around in his chair to glare at Keith. "How'd you get in?!"
He felt violated. Exposed. Like Keith had just seen him at his most vulnerable, and it wasn't a pleasant feeling. Pete wanted to cover up, hide away until everyone forgot his name and why he existed. Pete hurriedly shoved the paper into a drawer of his desk, suddenly embarrassed.
Keith gave him a lop-sided grin, totally unbothered by his hostility. "Well, you wouldn't answer your door! I wouldn't leave your window unlocked. You attract all sorts of people that way!"
He snickered to himself after a suggestive eyebrow waggle. Pete glared at Keith tiredly, not able to be completely angry – especially with those soft brown eyes blinking down at him, almost in a nostalgic, mournful way. It was as if Keith was flickering between two moods, a dying candle unsure of whether to burn brighter or peter out entirely.
"Go home, Moon." Pete stood up, towering over Keith by at least half a foot. Clad in only jeans, tennis shoes and a stained t-shirt, Keith made him seem over-dressed in a cashmere robe and socks. Still, he couldn't bring himself to be particularly harsh this time.
"You're the one who wanted me help!" Keith cried petulantly, his cheeky grin fading into something sad and miserable.
Keith's attempt at humor fell flat and Pete didn't know whether to feel angry or piteous of him. Barring the fact that he'd broke into Pete's house, Keith had really done nothing wrong. He obviously wanted company. Who was he to deny Keith such an innocent request?
"If you keep quiet, you can stay." Pete grumbled, turning around to sit back down at his desk and continue working.
He was abruptly stopped by icy fingers around his wrist. Had it really been that cold outside? Letting himself be manhandled just this once, Pete bit back a remark as he was spun in the opposite direction, facing Keith again.
"What is it, now?"
He was taken aback at the sight of watery doe-eyes, red-rimmed with the sadness that Pete couldn't rid himself of. Keith's cheeks were a rosy red, still wind bitten and scuffed up from whatever elements he had faced on the trek to Pete's house. It was true, Keith looked like he had just been dragged backwards through a bush and, by all accounts, smelled like a pub floor, but he was still Keith underneath all of that grime. The same Moonie that Pete had laughed with and drank with and spent so many grueling hours on tour with. The same boy that, with all of his cockiness, strode up to the group and insisted he prove his mettle as a drummer.
Struck by a sudden burst of affection, which seemed to happen more often in the recent days, Pete lifted a hand to rub away a smudge of dirt from Keith's stubbled cheek. His thumb lingered for far longer than what was necessary, but Keith didn't look like he minded all too much. He was relishing in the attention, absolutely leaning into Pete's touch like a greedy cat.
One lone tear escaped, making a slow trail down from his tear duct and along the side of his nose. Pete swept it up with the calloused pad of his finger just as it reached his lip. It was like a dam broke as several more tears followed until Keith was sniffling softly, fluttering his eyes helplessly but not inclined to pull away. He remained stiff and still and forcibly silent. It took a great deal of effort, as Pete could see Keith biting his lower lip every so often to keep any noise from escaping.
"C'mere, Moonie," he said, opening his arms.
Keith didn't waste any time as he smashed into Pete's chest, sobbing with a fervor that was usually saved for his drumming. Pete cradled the back of his head with one hand, delicately stroking the greasy cowlicks. The other came to rest at Keith's waist, anchoring him to the here and now with gentle squeezes on his fleshy sides barely encased by the tight material of his shirt.
It was one of the most intimate positions Pete had with anyone. In this moment, he was Keith's rock, his stable place to fall. And no kiss, no love-making, could compare to the intense feeling he had right now. There was just something about being relied on so heavily by someone else that carried such a heady emotion. But if Pete couldn't even save himself, how was he meant to save Keith?
With every heartbreaking heave of breath and stuttering whine, Pete wanted to try.
"What happened, love? Talk to me." His voice was a whisper in Keith's ear, private and secure. He made it clear that anything he said wouldn't leave Pete's studio.
Peeling his face from Pete's tear-stained robe, Keith peered warily up at him. His eyes looked so unnatural, swollen and somber and not at all like the bright and lively ones he saw almost every day. If someone was responsible for Keith's mood, Pete would make sure that they couldn't get up for at least a month, courtesy of his Gibson up their ass.
There was a moment of complete silence as Pete drowned in roiling pools of chocolate, feeling such a strong adoration for the younger man that he found it hard to breathe properly. The heaviness weighed down upon his chest, choking the air from him. He wanted to express his thoughts, but couldn't get his lips to form even the most quiet "I love you." Pete wanted to think that Keith was having the same problem, as his mouth opened and closed with unspoken words. It could've been his imagination, but Pete could see the same conflicted love swirling around in Keith's eyes.
"I understand why you don't wanna hang around me. I'm awful, I know. But sometimes I wish – I wish you could just bloody pretend to tolerate me –" His face crumpled, crushing Pete's heart along with it.
God, how had Keith gotten to this point? How many times had Pete turned him down before Keith began thinking no one liked him? Too often than he wanted to admit, that was for sure. He pulled Keith closer, unable to form a proper explanation without making the situation worse. Guilt ate at him for all of the times that Pete shut Keith out when all he wanted was a shoulder to cry on. When all he really wanted was for someone to love him.
"I don't fuckin' tolerate you." Pete's voice was broken and ragged. "I want you around, no matter how often I say I don't."
"It's 'cause of me drummin', innit?" Keith said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, completely disregarding what Pete was telling him. As if he was totally convinced that he was being treated like an investment. "Just say it, just say it. If it weren't for me bloody drums I wouldn't be nothing – nothing."
Pete took hold of Keith's shoulders, trying to quell the tremors that began to take over his body. Keith was squirming in Pete's grip, eager to get loose. His cheeks were wet with tears that still fell like water from a tap no matter how often he scrubbed at his eyes to make them go away. No matter how firmly Pete held him still, Keith still shook.
"Shut up! You just don't get it, do you?" Pete was beginning to grow impatient with his lack of success, raising his voice to get his point across. "I'll still want you, even if you don't have any fucking arms! Even when we're too arthritic and achy to play anymore." Unconsciously, he began to rub little circles into Keith's shoulders.
"Keith, I care about you."
And he finally went still.
Just when Pete thought he was getting somewhere, Keith's face crumpled up again. He made a pitiful squeaky sob and Pete drew him back in. It was the worst he had ever seen Keith. He was a mess of scrambled words in between desperate pleas for Pete to stay, please stay. Keith wouldn't look him in the face, choosing to hide away in the dampened creases of Pete's robe, batting reddened eyes painfully.
Pete sighed, resting his chin on top of Keith's head. His body thrummed with exhaustion. Hopefully Keith would cry himself out soon. There wasn't any remedy for insecurity Pete knew of except for liquor and rest. Brandy hadn't failed him before, neither had the blessed release of sleep. Reassurance was so foreign to him that he'd forgotten what it felt like. Apparently he wasn't the only one who shared the sentiment. Keith hung onto every word Pete spoke. Right now, in his fragile state, anyone could easily shatter him to pieces, grind him to dust on the wooden floors with mere words alone.
The thought of someone hurting Keith that badly struck a chord within Pete. He'd rather cause himself irreparable damage than ever wish it upon Keith. Out of all of them, he deserved it the least.
"I want you," he murmured, the words thick with emotion.
This was the closest Pete would ever get to confessing his love. It was so simple to just write out articulate, romantic words on blank, unbiased paper. But speaking them aloud to the very person he'd been writing about? It was next to impossible. Yet Pete powered through at the sight of pitifully hopeful brown eyes blinking up at him expectantly, waiting for more reassurance.
"You're extraordinary. You wormed your way into my head until I thought of nothing but you. I'm stuck with you now, and I wouldn't have it any other way."
Pete nearly rushed out the door the moment Keith let go. With his face fully exposed, he wasn't sure what to do with himself, especially after such a vulnerable confession. He scratched awkwardly at his beard, analyzing Keith's expression. With the flood of tears gone, there was barely anything left. He was a shell of a man, scraped raw from the inside out. Pete understood this better than anyone else because he was too.
They were both hollow, trying in vain to fill themselves up with money, love, drugs only to have them leak out the next day. Nothing short of a lifetime of self-care and sobriety could fix them. Those seemed almost laughably impossible at this point in their lives. Pete actually giving enough of a shit about taking care of himself was as rare as Keith refusing the temptation of a beer. And that was the problem.
Pete sighed, fuck the problem!
Pulling away enough to angle his head properly, he dove in for a sweet peck on Keith's mouth. Keith, startled, didn't react for a full minute. He stared at Pete in pure astonishment, looking like he'd just seen God on Earth – or, Pete's darker side fretted, maybe something much worse than that. Had he read the signs all wrong? Had he taken advantage of Keith at his lowest?
Just when Pete was beginning to regret his decision, Keith took him by the collar of his robe and tugged hard. Their lips connected roughly, so close together that their teeth clanked and their noses bumped into each other. It was awkward and uncomfortable and altogether magnificent. That was because Pete was kissing Keith of all people, and enjoying the hell out of the way his lips moved and Keith's tongue skimmed into his mouth.
"Christ," Pete huffed between breaths. "You're bloody wonderful, y'know that?"
"Pete. Pete," Keith chanted in response to the praise, pupils large and wide. The I love you was unspoken, but clearly expressed.
Why hadn't Pete done this before? Just the adoring look Keith gave him was reward enough for the risk. The sweet noises that Keith made were a nice incentive to keep going, boosting Pete's ego enough to keep running his mouth while it was still attached to his heart. Later on, he'd worry that he sounded like a lovestruck idiot, though for now he was content to let Keith hear all of his babbling, hoping it would convince him of how much Pete truly cared.
"I'll always have time for you. Even when I yell and scream and say I don't." Pete pecked the crown of Keith's head, ruffling a hand through his hair affectionately.
Keith was beaming, by now. So wide it stretched his cheeks and crinkled his big brown eyes. It was a genuine expression, something so different than what he gave the public. This was the real Keith that Pete loved so dearly. And God, Pete wouldn't mind seeing that cherub-cheeked, boyish face for the rest of his days.
"Does this mean I get to help you write?" He asked, bouncing on his heels. Pete rolled his eyes fondly, unsurprised at how fast Keith was able to move on to a different subject. But he couldn't turn Keith down, not after this. Not anytime in the near future either.
So, with Keith half on his lap and half on the floor, they exchanged lines with each other like a songwriting version of mad-libs. Pete balanced a worn out notebook on the thigh unoccupied by Keith's head and scribbled everything down as it happened. Somehow, it was far more therapeutic than his solo writing sessions. Nothing was ever too heavy, and Keith kept Pete out of his head. No one could rhyme 'flashing faces of awe' with 'my best mate's neighbor's dog' like Keith could, and anything Pete threw at him, he could send back tenfold.
The end result was absolutely terrible. It wasn't a song for an album or even a concert. There was a vague tune with little to no rhythm – purely a backbeat accompanied by jumbled, rambling prose. It was a terribly beautiful song that Pete would find himself reciting years into the future, the words finding places between his teeth and in his gums when he needed them most.
Amongst all the chaos and havoc, they found something that was uniquely theirs. Something Pete could sing soft, low, and lilting to calm Keith down after a panic attack. Something Keith could reference with a cackle to drag Pete out of an alcohol-fueled writing slump. The song was a cottony comfort to pack the most infected wound, one that they would be careful not to overwork as to keep its potency.
There would always be exceptions made for the second and third line in the fourth verse however, which Keith would near-always sing over the phone when he needed Pete's affection the most and couldn't express himself as honestly as he would like. Those were the nights that Keith would employ those lines: 'I love you like the knot on my head. I love you more than the whore in my bed' just to get Pete to see him.
But for now, the two laid there on the floor of Pete's studio in each others' arms, dawn was beginning to break across the horizon and the drifting flakes of gold floating into the room made them feel like this was forever. Echoing across the universe, so would it be.
FIN.