DISCLAIMER"characters are not mine, they belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, the W. B, UPN and FOX, blablabla. I'm only having a little fun with them. This story belongs to me, and which I have no commercial purpose".
Author's babling: Well, first I have to thank Dan Sickles for his help and support. Thank you so much! And thanks to Rene Marie and Ninja Daughter of Hermes for their Story Alert.

Again, if you wanna point out my mistakes, I would be glad to listen to you. Just please, not flames. It's not my intention to offend anyone.

Then…I think I have to explain a few things about my own fanfiction. My spangles fics are about a hypothetical fifth season of ATS. Angel and Spike are still "living" in W&H's facilities, but they're reformed and a little less... evil. One day I'll write that story... I hope all this won't make you to run in the opposite direction.

Saturday August16, 1969; Woodstock,USA. (Pete Townshend's POV)

/

You should be nervous, but the LSD softens the edges of reality and turns your guitar into a hatchet that kills your stage fright. This is your night. Nothing can go wrong. The stars have guided you up to this moment; this is where you will fulfill your destiny.

You go on to the stage and a human sea waves and howls in front of you. Lovingly, you touch your guitar, a "Special" Gibson, and you sigh because you really like this guitar. A part of yourself regrets that first time you broke your instrument by accident in that dirty joint.

Finally, everything gets silent; people wait expectantly, hungry of you. You adjust a little better your jacket of the Union Jack, your inseparable and faithful friend, and strum the taut strings of your guitar, letting flow the first notes. You hear the rest of your teammates follow you in this leap into the void, as if they were far away from you.

Your soul jumps, fights, struggles trying to escape from the prison of your body. The crowd rages at your feet as a sparkling ocean, and you shiver before its beauty. How many of you are there this night? Thousands, hundreds of thousands; a countless number of bodies, voices, hearts. And it is amazing because you feel that you all are one person. A single animal singing under the moon; and you feel running through your body all the energy, all the love, the whole faith, also all the hate, all the fear. As nocturnal flowers every man and woman open for you; they give you their spirits like an offering to a pagan god. And then you take every one of those feelings; you tattoo them under your skin, lock them into your heart.

Your soul boils as it was hot blood devouring everything in its path, while your body seems to have life of its own, drunk of immensity. The music makes you to go deaf; your soul's essence fingers flows from your fingers mixed with all those others that you just have been gifted.

It is…wonderful, much better than LSD and alcohol. You feed from the audience that trembles at your feet, and at the same time you feed them. You all breathe with the same lungs, rebel with an identical cry; you are the same heart beating in some dark corner of an infinite universe.
It is too much. You are not even aware of how long you have been in that stage, beating your right arm on the battered strings of your guitar. However, it is time to stop, to cross the final frontier, to lose you whole. Your soul exploits inside you when the guitar slammers into the stage floor and the compact human mass howls, prey of your same frenzy.

You're exhausted and slowly you regain sanity. You remember where you are, who you are. You look around yourself and see that Moon has blown his drums once again, but you can't say at what point he did it.

Your gaze travels over your restless fans. Then your heart speeds up again when you notice that, in the middle of the crowd, a man remains still, his eyes fixed on you. He is young, blond, and he has beautiful blue eyes in which you fall, from which you don't even want to escape. He knows you are looking exclusively at him, and smiles, that exciting smirk that you've seen before, licking his pale lips. And for a few seconds, you feel this strange sensation piercing your soul, dark and painful…like the first time you saw him.

/

Today, private library in W&H. LA, USA.

"My life grows tired, hungry to no purpose..." Spike mentally caresses the sad verses, painfully recognizing himself in them. The vampire morbidly recreates in the last two words, whispering them overwhelmed: "hungry to no purpose," cried the poet. The desolation draws a smile on his lips, which he hastens to delete drinking his whisky. During a brief moment, Spike wonders if that poor abandoned poet will not be himself.
"I love what I do not have. You are so far." Conclude the verses, and it is too much for one night. He feels desperate and with sudden violence closes the book and throws it on the coffee table. The dull sound of the book against the noble wood echoes in the silence of the enormous room. It only serves to emphasize his loneliness.

It's late on the office, and he is sure there is no one else in the building, so he decides that a little music wouldn't bother anyone. The leather of the sofa creaks when he stands up and walks across the room until he is beside a large window. There is a great music system, which seems to be very expensive. Spike likes it because in spite of its modernity, it blends well in the warm and classic atmosphere of the library, thanks to its false antique appearance. In fact, it can even play old vinyl, which is a pleasure.

However, the blond vampire isn't in the mood to look for something decent in Angel's extensive and boring collection. So he just turns on the radio and fiddles with the tuner, until he finds a bearable station. He needs to get rid of this silence that pressed his chest; that absurd melancholy that the verses have resurrected, reminding him too late why he stopped to read poetry a long time ago.

So, what do you think?

If someone got confused reading the first part, it's been told from Pete Townshend´s point of view.

Thanks again for reading! ^^