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Toronto, 1983. A long empty hotel corridor. The overhead lights are harsh and ugly. It's long past midnight. A lone man walks briskly down the hall, his long coat billowing behind him. A second man steps out of the elevator, stumbling briefly before regaining his composure. He’s drunk. Both men glance up, then glance away. Then they each do a double take; they recognize each other. They look one other up and down, their actions mirrored. The drunk one suddenly feels stone cold sober. Neither of them speak for a long moment.
Finally, the man in the long coat breaks the silence. “Hello,” he says shyly, so quietly that the other man hardly hears him.
The other man stares at him, mouth half open. He looks as though he's seen a ghost. “David?” He asks in disbelief.
“Mick,” David breathes, and in a split second decision he takes several paces forward to close the distance and tightly embrace his old friend. They’re both flooded with emotions of the past. Mick’s anger and pain rises to the surface with a tightness in his throat; David feels a pang of anxiety deep in his belly from pure guilt. He’d acted so poorly all those years ago. What if the man in his arms wanted nothing to do with him? That’d pain him more than anything in the world.
Mick isn’t really hugging him back, but still David doesn’t want to let go. He hopes that by clinging onto Mick, he’ll stay. How irrational.
Mick reeks of whisky, but David doesn't comment on it. At last David lets him go and steps back.
Both men stand in silence for a moment, looking at each other, remembering the last time they saw each other. It was eight years ago. David knew what year it had been, seventy-five, but he couldn't remember what time of year it was or even what happened the last time he saw Mick. Regrettably, the cocaine had done irreparable damage to his memories during his worst years of addiction. Sometimes David thought it was for the best. It was easier not to remember. But it’s in moments like now that he wishes he could remember. He’s overcome with one thought only: Mick is here , right in front of him, and David won't lose him again. He can't.
David speaks, words spilling out too quickly, desperately, “Will you come to mine? Please? I just want to talk.”
The inebriated guitarist opens his mouth and closes it again. He hesitates before nodding once shortly, silently. So guarded. His walls are built up high.
David exhales strongly in relief. “It’s this way,” he says, gesturing down the hall, turning and walking back to his room, repeatedly glancing over his shoulder with a look in his eyes that Mick couldn’t read.
They arrive at a door at the end of the hall which David unlocks and holds open for Mick to pass through. Mick enters the room and finds it, to his surprise, completely empty. David’s place would never have been empty ten years ago. There’d always be someone there. A friend, a groupie, a stranger. Anyone. But now there was no one. Mick stands in the entrance of David’s hotel suite which is far too big for one man, yet there he was, seemingly alone in this place. Only what Mick assumes are David’s belongings are laid around the room. At least that’s what Mick assumes; he doesn’t recognize any of it. He sways slightly on the spot, the effects of the alcohol impairing his balance. He leans against the wall, and hopes David doesn’t see through him. But David does, of course. Nothing like that escapes David’s notice.
“Would you like to sit?” David asks politely, gesturing to a pair of armchairs by the coffee table.
Mick nods and bears David’s scrutinizing gaze as he concentrates to cross the room in as straight a line as he can and sits on the offered chair.
“You drunk?” David asks, tilting his head questioningly. His tone is not accusatory, just curious.
Mick nods wordlessly.
“Get drunk often?”
Another silent nod.
David hums in acknowledgement.
“Sometimes I wish I didn’t, but I don’t want to stop. Not really. I’m drunk most nights these days.” He doesn’t know why the confession is suddenly pouring out of him. He hasn't talked to David in so long, but he doesn’t care. He lets it happen. “Ian tells me to stop. He gets angry with me sometimes. We have a row, then everything goes back to normal after a while. But I don’t– drinking doesn’t make me angry. Or aggressive. Not often. I mean, I’ve never hurt anyone.” He doesn’t know why he feels the need to clarify that part, either.
“Except for yourself.”
Mick becomes upset at this, naturally, because David was right, because it was hurting his personal relationships, but also because–. “You’re one to talk! How can you say that, you nearly died -”
David cuts him off, moving to sit down in the chair beside Mick. He holds up his hands, palms out. An honest gesture. “I’m clean.”
“You’re clean.” Mick repeats. David does look better. His face is fuller, not sunken and skeletal like it was the last time they met. Yet, Mick still frowns. He’s doubtful.
David nods. He notices Mick’s disbelief, but isn’t offended. After what happened, Mick has every right to question him. David speaks softly, “Have been for a while now. There have been relapses, but I think I’ve got it this time.” He pauses, then decides to share more. “The band has been helpful. Alomar especially, you know him?”
Mick nods. He had met Carlos, and had a good impression of the man.
“He’s been very good with me regarding drugs. He… protects me, in a way, I suppose.” David trails off and shakes his head embarrassedly. “I don’t know what else to call it. He keeps people who use away from me. He knows if I were to ever be tempted, it’d be over.” He withholds the fact that one guitar player had even been replaced in the touring band largely due to substance abuse. It simply had to be done. Absolutely no risks could be taken; David knew this, and perhaps more importantly, so did Carlos.
Mick deflates, sighing. “Good. That’s… That’s good.”
“Yes. Thank you,” David murmurs.
They lapse into silence. David needs a drink and a cigarette, but he doesn’t think Mick should drink any more tonight, and he wouldn’t be so rude as to serve himself a drink but not his guest. So instead, he gets up and fills two glasses of water, placing one in front of Mick and the other in front of himself. Mick mumbles his thanks.
David pulls a pack of Marlboros out of his shirt pocket and first offers one to Mick, who accepts, then he pulls out a second one and places it between his own lips. He offers Mick his lighter. He takes it, lights his cigarette and hands it back to David, who then lights his own. He leans back in his chair, inhaling deeply, then exhaling long and slow. He closes his eyes and thinks of all the cigarettes they’d shared before. One is most memorable.
They were huddled in the cold outside a venue in a back alley of god-knows-which American city. It was dark; only the glow of their cigarettes and the moon illuminated their faces. They each held a cigarette between their lips, and Mick stepped close to light David’s, their faces just inches apart. Their eyes met– and god, David hadn’t felt electricity like that in ages. There was something about his guitarist that he couldn’t resist. Platinum hair framed his face, his strong nose accentuated by the cigarette’s glow. David watched as Mick pulled smoke into his lungs and tipped his head back, exhaling it into the night air. David smiled shyly, tilting his head down and looking up at Mick through his eyelashes. It was a feminine gesture, because he knew that’s what Mick would like. It worked. Mick looked back at David, and there was no mistaking the wanting in those mismatched eyes. Even Mick couldn’t deny it. David looked at him the same way as girls looked at him when he was chatting them up in bars after playing a show. He had been doing so for a while now. Mick would be lying if he said he didn’t think this was the prettiest man he’d ever laid eyes on. David would swoon to hear such a thing escape Mick’s lips, but of course Mick would never divulge such thoughts.
Something about that night was different. Neither one of them was sure why. Maybe it was newfound boldness on David’s end, or newfound acceptance on Mick’s. Either way, when David closed the space between them and softly pressed their lips together, Mick closed his eyes and let David kiss him. It was soft and slow; it was gentle and innocent. Mick instinctively put a hand on David’s waist and kissed him back. After a moment, David pulled back and looked at Mick like he was the loveliest thing in the universe because right then, he was. But looking at his guitarist’s face, David knew something was wrong. Mick’s expression had become a hard mask, cold and guarded. Mick dropped his cigarette and went inside, leaving David in the dark and cold.
Shit.
A few nights later in another darkened alley over another cigarette, Mick would confess to David that when he kissed him, there was a voice in his head that was screaming at him to stop , that it was wrong , that he can’t be a queer . Perhaps the voice was his father’s.
David reached out to hesitantly touch Mick’s arm, a gesture of support, something innocent enough not to scare him off again. I’m listening. Mick kept his head bowed as he quietly whispered to David that it certainly didn’t feel wrong. It felt lovely. His lips had been so soft. Was it scary? Yes. Vulnerable? Definitely. It just felt like too much all at once. That’s why he ran away that night. He was sorry he ran off. And with much difficulty, Mick admitted that he liked it, and wanted to do it again. He promised he wouldn’t disappear this time. This time it was Mick who leant in and kissed David, gently as when David had kissed him. Something blossomed inside them both.
David smiled and told him that it was okay, that he understood. Mick wrapped his arm around David’s waist and pulled him close, murmuring something long forgotten in his ear, and they finished their cigarettes together in the dark city alley. That’s how it was until the bitter end. Cigarettes and stolen kisses in the night.
They sit in their respective armchairs and David briefly wishes he could be as close to Mick as he once was, but he knows deep inside that could never happen. To feel that spark he used to feel when he was with Mick would make him feel so alive . God knows he wanted to feel that intensity.
He pushes these selfish thoughts aside. Too much time had passed and too little had been said. Or perhaps too much had been said, David isn’t sure. He doesn’t remember much from those last days, but he knows he was awful, pushing away the people who loved him, feeling miserable, feeling sorry for himself. And he knows what’s in the press. He knows what he said about Mick to the reporters because he read the article afterwards. It was mean and stupid, and he doesn't stand by what he said. He regrets it immensely and wants to apologize, but doesn’t know where to begin. How do you apologize to someone when you don’t even know the extent to which you damaged them? David realizes that Mick still means so much to him, even after all this time. He briefly wonders if Mick feels the same, but shuts that thought down too. Selfish, wishful thinking. How could Mick still love him after everything that’s been said? Does Mick even like him? Doubtful. But Mick is here , in David’s room, so that probably means he doesn’t hate David, at least. He’s willing to reconnect. It’s a start.
David sighs heavily.
Mick looks at him. “What?”
David looks back at Mick, eyes full of regret and sorrow. Out with it, he supposes. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for not answering your calls, for not calling back. For… what I said about you in those interviews.” David knew Mick had read them. He remembers reading Mick’s brutally honest response to his own cheap insults. “You were right. I do need someone to tell me to fuck off sometimes. I get too absorbed with myself and… you know.”
“I know.”
“You used to be the one to do that. I remember you telling me to slow down and look around and quit thinking about myself for once.”
“Yeah, and you never listened.”
David feels his stomach drop. It stings, but he knows Mick is right. He bows his head, looking at his hands fidgeting in his lap. “I should have listened,” he whispers.
Mick doesn’t hesitate. “You should have,” he snaps back gruffly, his voice odd.
David glances back up at Mick nervously. Mick looks emotional, eyes bright with unshed tears. Alcohol always made it harder for Mick to mask his emotions, David notes that hasn't changed. But David had never known Mick to be a man to cry easily, and in seeing Mick now on the verge of tears David realizes how much his actions had hurt Mick, and god, he’s so sorry. At that moment, David vows to himself that he’ll never hurt a friend like that again. It should be an easier vow to keep, too, now that he’s clean.
In a dramatic gesture, David leaves his chair and kneels before Mick, offering his sincerest apologies with a soft touch to his arm, that same innocent, supportive touch that comforted Mick one night very long ago.
Mick looks down at David and rolls his eyes. In some ways he was just the same. That flair for the theatrical and dramatic hadn’t left, something that had endeared Mick to him from the very beginning. Mick can’t hide the laughter rising in him as he looks at David’s face, so sincere, so worried, so apologetic that he’s literally on his knees offering his apologies. How ridiculous. He now finds it easy to blink away the tears that threatened to spill. Of course Mick would forgive him. “God, David, you’re such an arse.”
David’s expression is one of surprise, which quickly turns to mock outrage. “Are you laughing at me?” He asks incredulously. “Here I am kneeling before you, begging your forgiveness, and you’re laughing? ”
“Get up, you absolute idiot.”
David stands grinning, and pulls Mick up with him into another embrace. He laughs in relief, then sighs. “I’ve missed you,” he murmurs into Mick’s shoulder. “I really am sorry.”
Mick gives him a friendly squeeze and lets him go. “I know.”
David also makes a promise to keep in touch with Mick, if Mick wants to, and do everything he can to make up for the lost time. But where could he start? He wishes it could be like before, back in the early seventies, David and Mick against the world, on stage, perfect foils for one another. Damn wishful thinking.
But wait– on stage. Ah. That’s it. David knows just where to start. He offers the idea to Mick.
Mick listens, a slight frown on his face. “Really? You want me to?” He asks, unsure. He’s concerned that he might intrude, or that he might not fit in.
“Of course.” David’s response is immediate and confident. “I want you to be there.”
Mick’s worries dissipate, and a sparkle returns to his eyes. “Let’s do it.”
~~~
“I was walking through a corridor in Toronto last night, and I ran into someone I hadn't met for eight years. And I said, ‘What’re you doin’ tonight?’
And he said, ‘Not much.’
So I said, ‘D’you wanna come and play with us?’
He hasn’t worked with me for ten years. I’d like to introduce you to one of the original Spiders from Mars, Mick Ronson!”
A small Jean Genie snuck off to the city,
Strung out on lasers and slash-back blazers…