Work Text:
***1***
"I met Sergio when I was 17. He said, 'Join my rock band. I know you're a bit weird and sing a lot but it will fucking work,' and this is the outcome."
Tom, NME 2014
The first time Serge heard Tom sing, he almost jumped in his seat. For once, the radio was playing a song he liked and he was well lost among the steady beats of the drums when a sudden howling came from behind him.
“I AM THE RESURRECTION AND I AM THE LIFE. I COULDN’T EVEN BRING MYSELF TO HATE YOU AS I’D LIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIKE.”
Once the initial shock had passed from his system, two consecutive thoughts ran through Serge’s head. One, that this Meighan kid had practically no shame whatsoever singing loudly in a car of a schoolmate and a schoolmate’s father he had just met. Two, that this skinny kid, who hadn’t stop chattering nonsense all the way from the football field where they had been practicing to the car which was taking him home now, had lungs that could make him sing with even more fervor than Ian Brown himself.
He’d never stopped singing since, and never failed to infuse the same strength to any song Serge wrote for him. Looking back, Serge isn’t so surprised they managed to get where they are today.
***2***
"I was just helping out my old man, collecting parts and doing mots. Tom was working in fabrications, drilling. He used to come home black, man. He was so dirty. It used to take him 20 minutes to have a wash."
Serge, The Sun 2011
Serge was loitering around in front of the Meighans’ residence, waiting for him to come back from work. They had planned for a practice session that evening, as was their habit for the past several weeks, where they would either manage to squeeze a couple of verses from their combined minds on a productive day or go through entire cigarette packs with senseless talks about aliens, pretty girls, or pretty alien girls on a less-than-productive day.
Tom was running late. He said he’d started a job at a drilling site 40 minutes away from where they lived, his brother’s mate got him in. From what he’d heard from the neighbourhood kids, it wasn’t an easy job. Welding metal sheets for 8 hours a day would be painfully tedious as hell for a normal person, let alone for someone whose mind and body couldn’t stay still for more than a minute. Perhaps Tom would be too knackered or too brain dead to compose after all.
A company van came to a halt a couple of houses away and let out several blokes in dusty overalls. The cluster of workmen broke up after exchanging goodbyes and went to their respective homes, or possibly favourite pubs. One figure headed towards where Serge was standing and started running as he came nearer, waving one hand happily with a familiar grin plastered to his face. His soot black face.
“What the fuck happened to you?” asked Serge, bewildered. The dark dust was so consistent in its coverage one would think someone painted Tom on purpose as some sort of modern art project. Streaks of light brown were visible where the ash failed to completely cover his hair, and blue eyes resolutely pierced through the overall blackness of his gleeful countenance.
“Oh, you know, busy day,” he said as if it explained everything and started skipping towards the house. “Wait until I tell you about these ideas I got today. Gotta tell you, didn’t think a factory could be so inspiring. Thought it’d be bleak and all, you know? Sorry, did you wait long?”
“No, that’s alright.” How could anyone be that chirpy looking like that after a hard day’s work?
“Just let me have a shower, yeah? Might be a while,” he called back over his shoulder as he entered the door.
For days after that, Serge found himself showing up in front of Tom’s house just in time to welcome him home.
***3***
"Imagine the end of the night. We’re the last ones who are still awake. This special moment that you share. We listen to music together, mostly Neil Young. It just feels perfect. That’s why I wanted to write a song about this exact moment."
Serge Pizzorno about S.P.S., Fast Forward Magazine, October 2014
The day had been long - the tediousness of soundchecks and rehearsals, the frenzy of last-minute adjustment, the heady exhilaration of performance, the giddy pleasure of fan greetings, the celebratory buzz of afterparty, the hazy drunkenness of after-afterparty, and the stumbling trip back to their hotel. Throughout the night, crew members had broken away from the pack in twos or threes and gone back to their rooms (presumably) until only a few remained, in Tom’s designated room. All of them had stopped making sense hours ago, and yet conversations -or what passed the lowest standards for conversations- flowed still in all its inane glory until sleep took them one by one.
Apart from the last two.
Well, three if you count the singing voice blasting from the earphones these two were sharing.
“You know what I really like about Neil Young?” asked Tom.
“What?” Serge said, looking at his friend next to him, in a position that mirrored his own - sprawled on the floor, legs up on the edge of the bed.
Tom opened and closed his mouth a few times. “I can’t remember now.”
Serge sniggered and directed his gaze back to the ceiling. His legs were tapping against each other to the rhythm of the song in his ears.
Tonight’s the night
Tonight’s the night
Tonight’s the night
Tonight’s the night
His peripheral vision caught the sight of Tom’s lips moving to the words. He wasn’t singing loudly, no. His voice was barely a soft whisper. At this time of the night, who has he got to entertain? This time Tom wasn’t singing for anyone else but himself. He wasn’t burning blindingly bright like he was on stage. This time, the fire in him had morphed to something far gentler and blanketed them both in a nice warm glow.
Well, late at night
When the people were gone
He used to pick up my guitar
And sing a song in a shaky voice
That was real as the day was long
Serge turned his head and looked at him again. He smiled, and let the warmth cocooned him till morning came.
***4***
"Onstage he's like a lion prowling in his den. But offstage, he's one of the soundest, sweetest people you'll meet. He'd roll the same way in buckingham palace as he would down the working men's, and that's why people adore him."
Serge, The Guardian 2011
It was one of those nights where looking for a cab proved to be one task too many for Serge. Between hauling himself up and off the leather sofa in the pub, and dragging himself on the dimly lit and slightly-slippery pavement, he didn’t even have any energy left to not let his head plop down on Tom’s general shoulder area as soon as they closed the cab door. Not that he’d been able to stand upright on his own two legs since drink number...twenty? Twenty two? He’d lost count. He’d also been using a Tom as a human crutch ever since. As a matter of fact, it was Tom who did most of the previously mentioned hauling and dragging, which was quite a feat since Serge was sure that his mate was equally wasted as he was.
The ride home was supposed to be a quiet one. They were both tired, and they were both ready to drift off when the driver started talking. Serge didn’t respond, couldn’t respond, and couldn’t be arsed to respond. He thought if they remained quiet, the driver would get the hint and leave them in peace. But Tom replied. Sweetly and politely, he answered questions and graciously offered “ooh”s and “aah”s and chuckled “aw really?” at stories of his daughters, his wife, and his loud neighbour that may or may not have nicked his blooming tomatoes. Where he’d managed to get the willpower to be nice at this ungodly hour, Serge couldn’t even begin to imagine. So instead he let himself be lulled to sleep by the lowly-spoken words and the soft vibration of the solid chest under him, completely content.
***5***
There was a time in the US where they hadn't spoken for seven weeks, but the row never escalated to guitar-wielding fights. They say they simply won't let it get to that far. Meighan says, "Time apart helps. Like in any good relationship, you need a bit of space."
Loaded Magazine, February 2015
Somewhere between the east and west coasts, Tom lost his shit. Despite all the glamorous lights and fancy tour buses, week after endless week of touring were never easy. And when you didn’t have exuberant audience to recharge your energy and appreciate your music, well...
Tom didn’t say a word through the entire trip back to the hotel, and the rest of the crew knew to stay in their own rooms when Serge followed Tom to his and shut the door with a bang. Afterwards they tried to ignore the muffled shouting that came from the adjoining walls.
“I don’t give a fuck about your fucking contract or your fucking agent, I am not doing any more of this!” Tom yelled.
“Look, mate, I have been trying fucking hard to keep us together through this shit. You think it’s been fucking easy for me? You’re supposed to be on my side instead of being a fucking crybaby about it!”
Serge figured that was probably the wrong way to handle the situation when he was unceremoniously kicked out of the room.
It was just a stupid row, Serge thought, we’d be fine in a couple of days.
But they didn’t speak to each other again for the remainder of the tour.
Once he was back in the wet rainy comfort of London, Serge had time to realise that when he had rows with other mates, it usually didn’t leave him with more sorrow than anger. It didn’t leave him with what felt to be a gaping hole in his chest. It didn’t make him wander around at night, find himself in front of their flat, ran up the stairs and knocked frantically, then hugged them crushingly tight as soon as they opened the door.
The last time Serge made up after a stupid fight, he most certainly wasn’t filled with blissful relief as he breathed in the familiar scent in his embrace.
***+1***
What’s the most romantic gig you’ve ever played?
Tom: Probably in my living room, playing my new songs to Serge, when I’m out of my mind.
Serge flopped down on Tom’s mattress.
“You alright, mate?” asked Tom. He was mindlessly strumming his guitar in his own bedroom with a cold bottle of beer keeping him quiet company when the front door opened and the sound of slow quiet steps travelled up the flat. Next thing he knew, his best friend appeared in the threshold of his bedroom and proceeded to land on his bed without so much of a hello.
“No,” came Serge’s muffled reply.
“Rough day?”
Serge made a noncommittal noise indicating that it was indeed a rough day. Especially rough, apparently, if he couldn’t even bother to form words. Tom remained quiet and returned to the instrument in his lap. Asking Serge questions about his day would get him nowhere, as Serge tended to switch off his speech function when he was in a bad mood. The best course would be to try and cheer him up from a distance, softly and carefully, not unlike trying to feed a bear in a zoo cage.
Come on, let the sun go down
Let me see you smile again
Let me come and hold your hand
The air was filled with the depth of Tom’s voice, that reverberated around the room and rendered Serge’s inside shivering with its richness. If there was one thing that Tom knew how to do as well as singing, it was giving Serge what he wanted -no, what he needed- even when not asked. Glimpses of the past decade flashed behind Serge’s eyelids. Tom’s shameless unrestrained singing that completed his little band. The sparkle in his blue eyes that never faltered even amidst the mundane daily life that could have threatened their dreams. The gentle warmth he provided especially for Serge when they were alone. The unspoken thoughtfulness that put Serge’s comfort, and everyone else’s, before his own. The unquestioning forgiveness that came so easily once they were both done being idiots.
Serge rolled to his back and look at the familiar face that had accompanied him for years, and something clicked in his mind.
He dragged himself to the edge of the bed until he was mere inches from his friend’s face.
Tom stopped his singing and looked up, “What?”
“I’ve been an idiot,” Serge said with a smile, and kissed him.