Work Text:
The industrial chill of Birmingham's National Indoor Arena cuts through the thick backstage air, but inside the cramped dressing room, Ritchie Blackmore is burning. He sits hunched over the edge of a road case, his fingers coiled tightly around the glossy mahogany neck of his Fender Stratocaster. His knuckles are chalk-white. Across the room, David Coverdale watches him, a heavy knit scarf tossed casually over one shoulder, his sharp eyes tracking the unnatural, rigid curve of his husband’s spine.
"Ritchie, love," David murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly rasp tailored to the early nineties, rich with decades of quiet intimacy. "You're gray. You don't have to go out there and play nice for Gillan."
Ritchie doesn't answer. He can't. Beneath his ribs, a slow, sickening sway has taken root, sending false signals straight to the cerebral cortex and scrambling his perception of the solid concrete floor. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to anchor himself, but the room tilts forty-five degrees to the left.
Out front, the roar of the crowd swells into a deafening wall of sound. Jon Lord’s Hammond organ roars to life, pounding out the iconic, fast-paced rhythm of "Highway Star." Ian Paice joins in with a thunderous, driving beat. The band is on stage, tearing into the intro, assuming Ritchie’s absence is just another spiteful maneuver in his legendary, exhausting feud with Ian Gillan.
"They think you're throwing a strop," David says softly, kneeling down in front of him. He places a warm, steady palm over Ritchie's trembling knee. "Let them play the intro twice. Fuck 'em."
Ritchie forces his eyelids open, his dark gaze unfocused. "I'm... fine," he lies, the word barely a breath.
He pushes himself up. His legs feel like wet cardboard, but he grips his guitar strap and forces his feet to move forward toward the blinding stage lights. David stays right at his elbow, a watchful shadow. When Ritchie steps out from the wings into the haze of stage smoke and flashing strobes, the arena explodes. But the moment his boots hit the lit stage, the world violently detaches from its axis. The overhead rigs spin into chaotic ribbons of light. A sudden, violent burst of vertigo hits the outer layer of his brain like a physical blow, stripping away his balance instantly.
Ritchie sways dangerously. He stumbles sideways, his shoulder crashing hard into David, who is already moving to catch him. David’s arms lock around Ritchie's waist, taking most of the older man's weight as the Stratocaster whines in a sudden spike of high-pitched feedback.
Ian Gillan stops at the center mic, turning around with an irritated sneer. "Oh, brilliant timing, Ritchie!" Gillan barks into the microphone, his voice echoing over the heavy bass line. "Glad you decided to grace us with your presence!"
Ritchie doesn't react to the taunt. He can't even process the words. He buries his face into the leather fabric of David's jacket, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps as the floor ocean-waves beneath them. Seeing Ritchie go limp, David stops trying to fake playing his rhythm parts. He wraps both arms firmly around Ritchie's torso, signaling frantically toward the side-stage crew. The music around them stutters and dwindles into a messy, confusing halt as Jon Lord eases off the keys, sensing something is horribly wrong.
Gillan, however, isn't having it. Marching aggressively across the monitors, his face flushed with anger, he strides up to the pair. "Get up and play, for God's sake! Stop the bloody theater—"
Gillan reaches out and shoves Ritchie's left shoulder to force him upright. The sharp movement is the final straw. Ritchie’s eyes roll back slightly, his head dropping forward as a violent convulsion racks his chest. David catches him just as Ritchie double-over, vomiting violently onto the black stage carpet. He pales to a deathly chalk, gasping for air between dry, agonizing heaves, completely unable to support his own feet.
"Ian, back the fuck off!" David roars, his voice dropping all performer polish as he lowers Ritchie gently toward the floor, keeping the guitarist’s head elevated so he doesn't choke.
Ritchie's hand clutches weakly, desperately at David's denim sleeve, slick with cold sweat and completely helpless. Gillan freezes, his anger evaporating into stunned silence as he looks down at the mess and Ritchie's shuddering frame.
"Drop the bloody pettiness for five seconds and go call an ambulance!" David screams up at him, his voice cracking with raw, unvarnished terror as he pulls his husband close against his chest. "Now, Ian! He's sick!"