Finishing Lyrics - 1. Chapter 1

A/N:The songs mentioned here exist in reality. They were all created by Martin Grech . The song that is the main inspiration for this is Guiltless [www.savefile.com/files/707693]. The other songs mentioned, are:Only One Listening[www.savefile.com/files/707784]andHoly Father Inferior [www.savefile.com/files/707785].

His music is most certainly not everyone’s cup of tea, but do listen to Guiltless—the atmosphere of it may have you looking at Finishing Lyrics in a slightly different light. You may watch the video [www.youtube.com/watch?v=HgxWVrLWfHc] , though it might be a bit too graphic and disturbing for some.

And I do want to send out a lovely thank you to Lucas for ‘pointing out things,’ as always. Go read his wonderful work [luc.gayauthors.org].

This story involves sexual contact and male/male relationships. If this is something that you find offensive do not read any further. If you are under the age of 18 or not of legal age in your area, or if this content is illegal in your area do not read any further.

This story is property of the author and is not to be copied or posted elsewhere without written permission of the author. All characters and plot lines are fictional. Any resemblance is strictly coincidental and should be noted as such.

 ***

I set the guitar aside. After a few hours of trying out different chords and trying to come up with something, I still had nothing. Lying down, hands crossed over my chest, I stared up at the boringly white ceiling.

I figured that I really should do something with this place. It was mostly white, only the bathroom and the kitchen had a dash of life to them. The bathroom was a pale blue and the kitchen was supposed to be Moroccan—but it was decorated in these colours of ‘badly burnt flesh,’ I was never going to believe that it was supposed to be ‘terra cotta.’ But as far as I got it, the previous owner had started doing something and then moved out. But at least it was something.

I stood up and stumbled into the bathroom, resting my hands on the edge of the sink to look at myself in the mirror. I was tired. It was early, really early. Only 6am. I looked tired, or, actually, I just looked like shit. I rubbed at my eyes, trying to get the slight puffiness surrounding them to go away. It didn’t work and now my eyes took on a red-ish tone, too. Wasn’t going to seduce anyone looking like that. I brushed my teeth, combed out my tousled hair and yawned.

I hated mornings. The sun was already up, glaring through the partially closed blinds and sneaking into the bathroom. Fucking summer.

And I looked at myself again. I looked alright, really, except for the tiredness. But that would go away throughout the day.

After a long breakfast and a few smokes, I set off to the studio. Watching faces as I walked down the busy streets with a steaming cup of Starbucks tea. I liked looking at people, or, more accurately, I liked staring at people, until they felt something, and watching them react. Some saw me, some didn’t. Some smiled, some didn’t. Very few stared back.

Greg had stared back.

I was the first to get there, so I put on some of our yesterday’s work, to get into the right mood, until Phillip showed up.

The day passed in a relative blur, as it usually would. The studio had no windows or anything, but I knew it was already evening by the way my throat was feeling scratchy as we were listening to some falsetto’s we had just recorded. Greg stuck his head inside the room and knocked. I pushed my chair towards him and pulled him into my lap by the hand.

He laughed, “These chairs are dangerous, you know.”

”I’m used to falling on my ass.”

He looked around the room and watched Phillip work some knobs, bobbing his head to music playing in his headphones, oblivious to his surroundings, “So how’s it going?”

”Going well, I’m done for the day.”

“Good. We should stop at my place, because I need to shower and change, and then go have a drink. I want to talk to you.”

After about half an hour of settling everything and putting stuff away, we were off to Greg’s apartment.

He had told me to sit in the living room while he went about his shower and getting changed, but I wouldn’t have it. I carefully arranged myself on his bed and waited for the water to stop running, fingers playing with the hem of an orange t-shirt he had set out before going into the bathroom.

The water stopped running and he walked out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around his hips.

I licked my lips, “You’re not wearing this ugly t-shirt.”

“Why not?”

I grimaced at it once more, “It does nothing for you, it’s too bright, it’s ugly and it’s old. You have no taste. Why?”

“I don’t see why it’s so bad,” he said as he put it up against him and looked himself over in the mirror.

I rolled my eyes and he threw the shirt into the wardrobe. “Fine, pick out something for me to wear, I’m all yours.”

I smirked; “Promise?” Greg didn’t seem to notice that remark, or my suggestively arched eyebrow, so I went about my way, rummaging through some of his clothes. I picked out a steel-blue shirt. “This is what you should wear; it’ll bring out your eyes.”

Greg caught it and looked at it skeptically, but shrugged after a moment and put it on.

I smiled at him as I went back to the bed. For some reason he seemed to hesitate a few moments, pretending to wipe some dust off the jeans he was holding, before sitting down and shoving his feet into the pant legs. Just as he was about to stand up, I let the back of my fingers brush against his bare hip.

He ignored that, too, and busied himself with the zipper of the jeans.

I stretched myself out on the bed, reaching out to grab the book from one of the nightstands, knowing perfectly well where his eyes went.

Just as I was about to ask who was reading Brontë’s Wuthering Heights, Jamie walked in. I chose not to listen in on their conversation, and to ignore any tone about me occupying the bed. But there wasn’t any tone really.

I set the book down when I heard the door shut and rolled over, propping myself up on my elbows. His eyes were still on those lines of skin that were revealed when my sweater rode up from all of my moving around. He quickly looked down when he realized that I was staring at him and continued buttoning up his shirt.

“You can have me any time you like, Greg, you know that.”

He ran his fingers through his hair, looking a little distressed. He was just so fucking beautiful. It almost hurt your eyes, really.

“We should get going before the pub gets too full.”

***

It was the end of my set, the club was filled in with this indie crowd—which I liked; but Greg, sitting right up front, looked way too posh to be here.

I glanced at the setlist as I grabbed a bottle of water. We were going to finish off with one of my favourite songs—Only One Listening. I set down my Fender, adjusted the microphone and started tapping the rhythm of the drums as Ian and the guys started playing. It was more fun, musically, than the songs I had played previously.

“Listen, listen to silence. I can’t hear with the lights down. In here the air never felt so thick.” I loved singing. The actual physical process of singing. I loved feeling the muscles in my throat straining and moving, creating sounds. Different kinds of sounds, with different textures and movements hiding in between the notes. “Sinking into the floor. I’m fighting, I’m fighting for air. I’m screaming, bullets under the ocean…”

I just generally loved music. It spoke to me in ways nothing else could. It had everything in it – love, life, imagination, passion, distraction, sensuality, cruelty. Everything.

And he was sitting right there. Loving the sounds, letting them embrace him. It is what music did—or what it should do. It should absorb you into itself, not let you go until silence set in—and if it wasn’t doing that, it was just because you weren’t listening to it right. I always believed that. I might have been wrong, but I doubted it.

“A life in solo, I can’t keep shutting you out. You’re me as much as I am…”

***

It was 3am and I was sitting in the kitchen, watching the steam rise out of the boiling kettle. I couldn’t sleep again, but couldn’t do any songwriting either. Though I had come up with some music-less words.

I looked down at the notepad, “I am ill, I am deathly ill and well, I am sick again. I am ill, I am sick of being ill.” I could already hear the gentle sounds of an acoustic guitar following the words.

I stood up and went about pouring myself some tea, before sitting back down and lighting a cigarette, letting the smoke mix with the steam now coming from the mug.

I was going to be the ‘Best Man’… somehow, that didn’t at all excite me. Was going to get a tux fitted later today and then Greg wanted to go out and celebrate a little. And then there was going to be the stag weekend. At least I was looking forward to that.

***

We burst through the door of my flat, laughing and out of breath. I shoved my keys into a pocket and took off my jacket. Greg was still recovering, leaning against the wall. He was half-drunk and so was I.

I grabbed his hand and tugged him towards the kitchen, “Let’s get a drink.” Out of the corner of my eye I saw him shake his head.

“I shouldn’t, I’m already drunk.”

He stumbled a little into me when I stopped and steadied himself against my chest.

I was looking at him as he stood there, still holding my hand, looking down at the way he was still holding my hand after some time had passed. At the back of my mind, I think I wondered if the light caught my eyes just right.

Suddenly he released my fingers as though they had burned him and took a single step back, “God…I can’t.”

“What?” I laughed a little.

“I just… I can’t understand why I’m here.”

“Greg, it’s fine—”

“It’s not! We passed by my home and it’s 2am and I so—”

And I didn’t let him finish, my fingers wrapped in his hair and our lips touched. He had such soft lips and I missed them so much. But just as I was about to part my lips, his hands wrapped around my wrists and he pulled away, with a tiny whimper, trying to draw back from me.

“Neal, please, I’m getting married in two weeks.”

And there was that tiny whimper again as I tried to press closer to him, but he pulled back and slipped past me, murmuring something about the time. I leaned against the doorframe and watched him go, watched him hesitate at the door. He was just so bloody beautiful.

I sighed as the door clicked shut and pushed myself away from the doorframe, grabbing a cigarette and the lighter on the way to the kitchen. I lit it, throwing the lighter onto the table, and walked up to the stove, putting a kettle on. I sucked in a breath and closed my eyes against that wonderful feeling of smoke tickling the back of my throat.

Thoughts scattered through my head. Of those beautiful lips. Those few melodies I had come up with earlier in the day. The wedding.

I hated weddings. Being the best man wasn’t some fucking honour, didn’t need some goddamned position to know something like that. And I wasn’t at all going to enjoy it. For lots of reasons.

My lips twitched as I wondered what guilt would feel like. I had no idea where the thought had come from, but suddenly I wondered what someone else would think if they were in my position. I mean, I guessed I should be feeling guilty about something right now; it’s what people usually feel, but I wasn’t feeling anything of the sort. I wasn’t going to just let Greg get away with wanting everything and being oh-so-confused about what exactly was it that he wanted. I don’t know what changed really, why he was suddenly confused, or whatever.

But fuck, Jamie was such a nice woman—or girl, really. She was just so nice I could just vomit from all the sweetness. Still didn’t know what it was he saw in her. They’d known each other what—6 months?

I sighed, letting the smoke tumble out of my body. They were going to go off to their honeymoon, fuck a lot, she’s going to come back pregnant. Then year by year give birth to lots of nice little children.

Living in a nice home, with a sweet wife, lots of cute little babies. Total crap.

I snorted, coughing a little as some smoke got up my nose. She was probably pregnant already and her daddy would have killed Greg if he decided not to marry her.

Fucking breeders.

And I still wasn’t feeling any…guilt. Was I guilt-less?

That word struck me for some reason. Guiltless.

“You kissed me and the wounds bled, just the way you had predicted.”

I remembered the few lines I’d written for some future song and they seemed to fit this odd image that popped up in my head out of nowhere.

Guiltless.

That’s going to be the title of the song.

I quickly turned off the boiling kettle and went off to the bedroom, grabbing one of my guitars on the way.

***

He smiled as he sat down, setting his tea on the coffee table before him. “So is this the last song off the album?”

I shook my head as I rummaged through some nameless CD’s. “No, we aren’t going to do it that way. We’ll finish recording as much material as we, and namely I, can come up with. Then just choose what is the best, what should get the golden ticket, edit it nicely all around and then we’re done. Couple of months, I suppose.”

“And this one?”

I knew he liked listening to me talk, “This one will definitely be on the album, finished it, might even be a single.”

He nodded and continued watching me, “What’s it called?”

I smirked as I pushed play, “Guiltless.”

The slow thump of the drums filled the room, gradually increasing in volume. He closed his eyes, frowning a little, waiting for whatever it was to come—he could never be sure what a song of mine would sound like. Which is why I had taught him to listen to music like that, let the sounds penetrate his skin. The lead guitar kicked in and I moved my body with the music. The melody was loaded with agonizing desire, a dark and cruel sensuality. I started mouthing the words at him, even though he couldn’t see.

“Taste of purest roses, you cut me and it feels good. I felt the breath of stigma…like every little boy should.”

His frown disappeared and when I moved to straddle him, he didn’t do anything to stop me, he didn’t open his eyes. I wrapped my fingers in his hair, pulling his head back to reveal his neck. I continued mouthing the chorus against his neck and jaw, “Thencomes alchemy, then comes loyal, then comes sensual and then comes holy. Then comes debauchery and then comes fortune. Then comes godly and then comes…guiltless,” listening to his breath quickening.

I closed my eyes as I felt his hands snake up my thighs, tugging hesitantly at my clothes.

“Guiltless.”

***

I leaned against the door of the bathroom once I shut it and quickly undid the belt, wrapping my hand around my cock and stroking against the pressure that had built up in my groin. I shut my eyes and bit my lip, straining not to make any noise. I needed to relax, in prospect of all the crap I was going to have to listen to, and watching Greg get dressed into that wonderful black suit of his didn’t at all help.

As an after thought, I grabbed the silken pocket square and reached down again, fisting my cock through the wonderfully soft silk. I loved the feeling of silk sliding against my skin, anywhere.

And after a few minutes I heard Greg’s voice at the other side of the door, “Neal!? Everything’s starting in a few minutes and you should be there first.”

I frowned a little and bit back another moan as I came, the familiar tingles now exploding from my abdomen upwards, making the muscles of my abdomen convulse. I moaned a little as I continued stroking myself, trying not to mess up my own tux.

“Neal?”

Fuck. “God, I’ll be out in a minute…” I cleaned up quickly, all the while trying to steady my breathing.

As soon as I opened the door, Greg grabbed my arm and started dragging me out the room and down the corridor.

The rest of the day passed mostly in a blur. I just remembered at one point seriously fighting the urge to roll my eyes at every sniffle I heard behind me and all the crap the ‘priest’ was saying. Fucking weddings.

But I did like the soft jazz the band played once the ‘reception’ kicked in. Then they brought out the cake—it was completely disgusting because of all the icing and the marzipan; it was like eating fucking plastic. And then my dad had to ruin that disgusting cake even more by having a ‘conversation’ about family values and nice traditions and asking me when I was going to come to my senses.

God. I hated weddings.

***

The sounds faded out of my headphones as I breathed heavily, feeling my throat pulse as I grabbed for a bottle of water.

“Nice, very nice, Neal. I think we should stick with that and just rework whatever bits seem out of place later.”

I smiled and nodded. Phillip was probably the only who knew my music half as well as I did. “Yeah, I’m gonna rip my throat if I don’t stop now.”

I grabbed my notes and walked out of the booth. As soon as I finished my bottle of water, I got another one from my bag. I walked up to Phillip’s chair and leaned against him, wrapping my arm around his neck as I drank and he played what was just recorded.

For the last few hours, we had been recording the powerful falsettos for Holy Father Inferior and the last variant was the one I liked the most.

I smiled and ran my fingers through his hair, tugging slightly, as I pushed myself away from his chair, “Good, good. I think I’ll stick to that.”

I dropped myself onto the couch and stretched out, “Think we should celebrate this; Brett Anderson is playing at the Jam House tonight, we should go.”

I liked it when people knew my music.