#raine tells him no one lives on the moon and hes like what youve been there to check :\ | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hocuspocusbullshit · 8 months ago

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he throws the door to the roof open, stepping into cool evening air. the door slams shut behind him with a subtle click. he goes to the edge without thinking about it, still fuming.

/throw yourself off/ a voice in the back of his head tells him. /no one will care/.

no. for once, that is not what he came up here for.

yes, johns song is stupid. he has every right to be angry, really. this whole album is fucking stupid. but its only one, brian tells himself as he lowers himself to the ground. in a few months, they will be gone from this place, the album will be out, they will plan a tour, and he will have something to do.

atleast the view is nice. it might be the only pleasent thing about this godforsaken studio.

silver clouds roll overtop the forest, bringing a soon promise of rain. in the distance is the lake, dark and shimmering. a gentle wind teases his curls.

it really is beautiful here.

he moves forward until his legs hang over the edge. he kicks them freely. a sense of freedom comes over him, one that he has rarely felt since he was 27. if someone comes up here and sees him like this, they will be furious. for now though, it is worth the risk.

he stays there until the first drops begin to fall. cold, but not stinging. living in london his whole life has made rain a welcome friend. just, not here. his hand closes on the handle and-

its locked.

brian frowns.

pushing down and rattling the handle does nothing. theres the telltale sound of rattling on the other side but the door does not budge.

"seriously?" he mutters, then kicks for good measure.

panic unfurls and grips his heart, spreading like ice.

he does not have a watch but judging by the rapidly darkening sky, he has been up here for atleast a few hours. no one has come looking for him, and it will be fully night soon. there is no shelter here. with the incoming storm, there will be no moon or stars to light the sky and pass his time with. if, they dont come for him soon.

which. they might not. today was far from the first time he has ran off in a huff.

"youve got to be fucking kidding me" one paticular drops smacks him directly in the eye and he curses again. yelling for help will not do anything either. every second reduces the chances of someone coming up here looking for him. they stopped chasing after the first half dozen times he left.

he kicks the door again, then sighs. it is going to be a long night.

the storm grows fast, angry grey clouds and fat drops that smack against the tarmac so hard they bounce. the wind picks up too, howling so hard it whistles in when his ear when it touches him. he lays spread eagle in the middle of the roof, far away from a chance of the winds blowing him off, and watches until he cannot see anymore. thunder booms and lightning flashes far away. they will miss the worst of it, atleast, and the studio will likely keep its power.

he has not laid in the rain like this since he was a child.

here, there is no mother scolding him for soiling his clothes or a father yelling at him for tracking mud across the floor. the fog had not found him then. but even that momentarily feels like it has been left behind with the rest of civilization, washed away by the sound and feel of rain smacking on his skin.

far below, freddie roger, and john go to bed. the red special sits untouched waiting in her stand. te will be back to play later, he always is, they know, when they are not there to bother him.

the novelty of being stuck up here fades once every part of him has been drenched in water. his clothes stick his body and his hair hangs flat and tangled and christ alive he is /cold/.

between the damp and the night and the wind, every bit of warmth has been sapped from him. even when he hauls himself up and stumbles to a stickout for a vague attempt at shelter, it cannot stop the onslaught of rain. he is only half hidden from the wind no matter which direction he faces. the metal presses against his back when he crouches and freezes him further.

brian buries his face in his knees.

"this fucking sucks"

he walks makes tiny motions to keep his blood circulating. rubbing his hands on his arms, staying curled does nothing to help him or his mind. he screams once from pure frustration, letting the storm carry his voice away into nothing. it does not bring the catharis he wishes for. he wants to burn energy he does not have, scream until his throat is raw and bleeding. no one will hear him anyway (he thinks that might be a metaphor for how most of his life has gone up to this point) but when he opens his mouth a sob slips out instead.

the rain hides his tears.

eventually, his stomach grumbles. he folds his hands overtop, flexes his feet. he had to adjust his position when his muscles began to cramp. they are still cramping, beset with chill. now, he is half laid down, leaning against the powerbox. if he stretches his toes just enough, he can brush the lip of the roof.

he is still shivering. at some point he started sneezing too.

atleast if he gets sick, he will have an excuse to hide away for a few days. he will not have to hear how useless he is.

this is, far and beyond, the worst night of his life. he is /miserable./ even the night he had collapsed had not been like this. hazy though the memories are, delirious with pain, he knows he had the luxury of speed, his head in freddies lap, a hospital bed, someone always holding his hand.

there is no such comfort anymore. there will not be, either. they are not that close anymore. long are the days of sitting in each others lap, tangling their feet together, even falling into the same bed at the end of a show. he cannot remember the last time any of his friends have even so much as clapped him on the shoulder.

he cannot remember /warmth./

he has never been so cold in all his life.

one shiver runs through him so hard he hits his head on the wall. it hurts, he knows it does, can feel it radiating throughout his skull. it is just that it is muffled. his tongue feels like cotton in his mouth. his eyes sting. his hands and feet are numb.

maybe the prospect of throwing himself off here was a good idea.

he wonders who will find his body in the morning.

the rain has stopped.

everything hurts.

it is nearly 11 in the morning when roger finally throws a (something) into the wall.

"where the bullocks is he?" he curses. "does he really think he can be lazy and wank off while the rest of us are here?"

"oh leave him, its not like we need him" john rolls his eyes. "the longer he stays out of this, the better. i feel like i can finally breathe without him hounding me"

"youre not doing anything either rog. why dont you go join him?" freddie purrs.

"because i know that i occassionally have an actual job to do!" he spits the words. "im not fucking enjoying this either but atleast im not being a bum about it!"

"oh, you can go have some actual fun" paul, snickering at freddies shoulder.

"oh for fucks sake-" roger abrubtly stands, knocking over a stand. "we are a BAND. ACT LIKE IT." he pays no attention to the mess, stomping over to john and closing an iron grip over his arm.

"what are you-"

"youre the one responsible for this. youre coming with me to drag his sorry ass here. if i have to sit here and do nothing, so does he."

"roger-"

"come." john grumbles, but follows him out the door anyway.

roger is still swearing when they get to brians door. john hands him a cigarette, and it seems to quiet him down, if only momentarily. he leans against the far wall and lights his own while roger knocks.

"brian." he bangs on the door. "wake up."

no awnser

"we need you to play something"

no awnser.

"god i hope hes fucking decent" roger mutters before turning the knob and stepping inside.

"brian harold may you lazy fuck-"

his voice dies in his throat. brians room is empty. sheets pulled back expose an empty bed, the shower is not running, there is no pair of shoes tucked besides the door.

unease settles over him.

he steps back out of brians room, closing it behind with a soft click.

"well? is he coming or not?"

"john" rogers voice comes out tinny and small. "go get freddie. hes not here"

there are no other residents in munich studios. only the four of them, their producers, and the staff. there are only so many places a guitarist can hide.

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