Queer As Folk fanfiction: "Loud"
May. 29th, 2007 11:27 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ninety6tearsTitle: Loud
(one-shot, 677 words)
Characters/Pairings: Brian and Michael
Rating: PG-13
Summary: A slightly farfetched imagining of a phase in Brian and Mikey's deviant youth.
Before Babylon, there were punk shows.
Their junior year ripped-jeans-and-rebel-rock phase was dangerous and wild and short-lived, just like everything Brian wanted.
And he got what he wanted. Manly knees peeking out of denim holes, masses of skinny young fools after the seven-hour ride to CBGB’s to see bands that they hadn’t even heard of, everyone drunk on liquor and screaming noise posing as politics. He had his way with those rawboned, neon-blond boys at the back wall of the club; one time Michael saw him emerge from a moshpit with a grinning one already undoing his fly. Brian mocked their spiky dispositions with a dry smile even as they went down on him; he bit the metal bars in their tongues as he licked inside their swollen mouths. The first night they went was the first time Brian tried cocaine; after he inhaled it the look on his face told Michael they’d be coming back.
Brian wasn’t even really into the scene, and Michael was just following along. On the way back to the bus station he’d complain, “These assholes probably don’t know any music from before the eighties, and they’re bitching about how punk is dead.” Michael would laugh and try to make fun of him for mourning the loss of a cultural movement he’d been too young to really participate in, and Brian would just scowl and they’d listen to their Walkmans on the bus, swapping tapes when they got tired of what they were listening to; Brian’s Joy Division and Gang of Four, Michael’s Cure and Cult passing over their tightly clad laps. When they took the train instead they left their Walkmans at home because there was always the hidden area next to the bathroom with a big window to stand by, ideal for smoking weed while they itched around their black cuffs and resented that they couldn’t see the stars outside.
Brian did not dance or visit clubs out of an appreciation for music; in fact, one could often tell that he enjoyed a song by the fact that he did not move to it at all. Most of the time he would act like his favorite songs weren’t there at all, like a lot of things he loved.
On the night Michael had cashed in his change jar to afford the Greyhound ticket, Brian and this boy were jouncing shoulder to shoulder, gradually making their way to the back of the club, when this throaty singer gave over the mic to the bassist and they started to play a cover of “No Love Lost”; like magic, Brian gave up the chase and appeared, smelling pleasantly of vodka if such a thing was possible, at Michael’s side, and was lighting a cigarette. A nasty-browed skinhead tapped an unlit cig on Brian’s shoulder and asked, “Got a light?” Brian saw the swastika tattooed on his arm and said, “No,” even as he flicked the lighter shut and pocketed it. Michael grinned. The guitar solo clenched over into the raucous glory of pounding drums, and Brian patted down the matted mess of Michael’s spike-worn hair and kissed him with a small sneer.
Michael hadn’t seen - and Brian probably couldn’t remember - the very first time the famous Kinney had knocked his head back against a wall in a surge of ecstacy in a back room or a bathroom or maybe next to a stage. But when Brian pulled Michael into his arms and lifted his chin up over his friend’s head with eyes closed, mouth open in a deep smile swelling with the sound, it felt as though it had been this way since before the beginning of time. Whether they’d been twin brothers nestled against one another in the womb, or they’d been lovers in a past epoch reincarnated gracelessly into two awkward denim-jacketed teenage fags in the middle of this sweaty club, or later their speed-maddened figures trickling through the bass-heavy glittering tremors of Babylon, their lives would form into a life, and would have to be a noisy one at that.
(one-shot, 677 words)
Characters/Pairings: Brian and Michael
Rating: PG-13
Summary: A slightly farfetched imagining of a phase in Brian and Mikey's deviant youth.
Before Babylon, there were punk shows.
Their junior year ripped-jeans-and-rebel-rock phase was dangerous and wild and short-lived, just like everything Brian wanted.
And he got what he wanted. Manly knees peeking out of denim holes, masses of skinny young fools after the seven-hour ride to CBGB’s to see bands that they hadn’t even heard of, everyone drunk on liquor and screaming noise posing as politics. He had his way with those rawboned, neon-blond boys at the back wall of the club; one time Michael saw him emerge from a moshpit with a grinning one already undoing his fly. Brian mocked their spiky dispositions with a dry smile even as they went down on him; he bit the metal bars in their tongues as he licked inside their swollen mouths. The first night they went was the first time Brian tried cocaine; after he inhaled it the look on his face told Michael they’d be coming back.
Brian wasn’t even really into the scene, and Michael was just following along. On the way back to the bus station he’d complain, “These assholes probably don’t know any music from before the eighties, and they’re bitching about how punk is dead.” Michael would laugh and try to make fun of him for mourning the loss of a cultural movement he’d been too young to really participate in, and Brian would just scowl and they’d listen to their Walkmans on the bus, swapping tapes when they got tired of what they were listening to; Brian’s Joy Division and Gang of Four, Michael’s Cure and Cult passing over their tightly clad laps. When they took the train instead they left their Walkmans at home because there was always the hidden area next to the bathroom with a big window to stand by, ideal for smoking weed while they itched around their black cuffs and resented that they couldn’t see the stars outside.
Brian did not dance or visit clubs out of an appreciation for music; in fact, one could often tell that he enjoyed a song by the fact that he did not move to it at all. Most of the time he would act like his favorite songs weren’t there at all, like a lot of things he loved.
On the night Michael had cashed in his change jar to afford the Greyhound ticket, Brian and this boy were jouncing shoulder to shoulder, gradually making their way to the back of the club, when this throaty singer gave over the mic to the bassist and they started to play a cover of “No Love Lost”; like magic, Brian gave up the chase and appeared, smelling pleasantly of vodka if such a thing was possible, at Michael’s side, and was lighting a cigarette. A nasty-browed skinhead tapped an unlit cig on Brian’s shoulder and asked, “Got a light?” Brian saw the swastika tattooed on his arm and said, “No,” even as he flicked the lighter shut and pocketed it. Michael grinned. The guitar solo clenched over into the raucous glory of pounding drums, and Brian patted down the matted mess of Michael’s spike-worn hair and kissed him with a small sneer.
Michael hadn’t seen - and Brian probably couldn’t remember - the very first time the famous Kinney had knocked his head back against a wall in a surge of ecstacy in a back room or a bathroom or maybe next to a stage. But when Brian pulled Michael into his arms and lifted his chin up over his friend’s head with eyes closed, mouth open in a deep smile swelling with the sound, it felt as though it had been this way since before the beginning of time. Whether they’d been twin brothers nestled against one another in the womb, or they’d been lovers in a past epoch reincarnated gracelessly into two awkward denim-jacketed teenage fags in the middle of this sweaty club, or later their speed-maddened figures trickling through the bass-heavy glittering tremors of Babylon, their lives would form into a life, and would have to be a noisy one at that.
---
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2007-05-30 06:10 am (UTC)he bit the metal bars in their tongues as he licked inside their swollen mouths. The first night they went was the first time Brian tried cocaine; after he inhaled it the look on his face told Michael they’d be coming back.
and this:
A nasty-browed skinhead tapped an unlit cig on Brian’s shoulder and asked, “Got a light?” Brian saw the swastika tattooed on his arm and said, “No,” even as he flicked the lighter shut and pocketed it. Michael grinned.
I've always been interested in Brian's youth and his experiences. Have you written anything else?
no subject
Date: 2007-05-30 04:12 pm (UTC)I'm a newbie and haven't yet posted anything else, but I'm working on other stuff :) Thanks for reading!
no subject
Date: 2007-05-30 08:18 am (UTC)At first the idea of them going through a punk phase just seemed so indulgent and far-fetched I could hardly get into it, but with your descriptions of them riding together on the bus and stuff, I started to actually be able to see them doing this shit. Somehow, it makes sense.
no subject
Date: 2007-05-30 02:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-05-30 04:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-05-30 02:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-05-30 04:20 pm (UTC)ninety6tears: QAF: Loud
Date: 2007-05-30 08:45 pm (UTC)Oh, wow, that is such a perfect description of Brian. I can really picture this, too, how still he would stand and try not to acknowledge the effect something is having on him.
Whether they’d been twin brothers nestled against one another in the womb, or they’d been lovers in a past epoch reincarnated gracelessly into two awkward denim-jacketed teenage fags in the middle of this sweaty club,
I love this prose, and the concept--it seems so right for these two, hits just the chord.
Also, nice that Brian won't offer the guy a light; how he complains about the shows even as they go to them; how Michael sees it all happen and understands it with the clarity only a best friend can. I'm a big fan of the Brian-Michael dynamic and you really captured it beautifully here. :)
Re: ninety6tears: QAF: Loud
Date: 2007-05-31 12:57 am (UTC)Re: ninety6tears: QAF: Loud
Date: 2007-05-31 08:42 am (UTC)Re: ninety6tears: QAF: Loud
Date: 2007-05-31 07:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-05-30 10:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-05-31 01:05 am (UTC)