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: Please, english is my second or third language, so don't be too hard with me. I swear I'm trying my best.
Please, feedbacks are my drug. I need them to know if I should keep working on this, or just shut the f*ck up. So let hear your outraged screams! Thank you!
Notes: Sorry, sorry! Forgive me! Oh my God, Real life is been a real pain in the ass. Also, I lost faith in my muse..and my bad english. But hey! I've decides that I can't be a coward. And I'm here again. Hope you are still interested. Non-beta, so all aaall mistakes are mine. ^^
November of 1969, Pete Townshed's study . San Francisco, EEUU.
(Pete Townshend's POV)
The smoke of your cigarette draws grey spirals playing with the lights and shadows of the room, making you to half-close your eyes. Cheking the time, you marvel to see it's already six and a half in the morning. You have been working the whole night in your last song; your sore muscles complain, and your eyes are burning. But you're happy because you have done it. It has been a complicated delivery, frustrating in a few moments, because you went beyond words, you were not able to retain his essence. Even now you have doubts as to whether you have achieved transmiting his beauty, but sadly you shake your head; you Could never create anything as beautiful as he was.
At least you can take comfort in the knowledge that no one may do so ever; he was too beautiful to be of this world. Many times since that night you've ever wondered if perhaps he was not.
Today his husky voice still resonates in your head. His laughter, dark and tired, as if it was very old. The sound of his boots on the ground of your precarious dressing room. Since that night, several months ago, you haven't stopped replaying the conversation you had after your concert at Woodstock.
You haven't found yet how he managed to pass security, but you didn't care then, and surely you don't give a damn now.
"I thought this time you wouldn't do it". It was the first thing that he said, without even introducing himself. He stared at you for a few seconds with his back still resting on the metal door closed behind him.
Confused, you answered with another question, asking him to explain what he was talking about, and he smiled a bit before answering. "The guitar. I thought you wouldn't break it, not this time". Even now, the memory of his words makes you shudder.
His words hit you hard, because for a few seconds, on that stage, you also believed that. Hearing your own doubts from the lips of a stranger made you feel uneasy, and full of unanswered questions.
With difficulty, you managed to ask him a question, the only one that you actually did not need to be answered. " I know you… don't I?"
The boy nodded amused and the white light from the naked fluorescent that illuminated the room made his hair sparkle. "Five years ago, that local of the Soho. You were brilliant, you almost took The Marquee down". You remember perfectly the tone of his voice, the note of disappointment stroking the word almost, as if he regretted that it didn't happen.
You asked him his name, letting yourself fall on a shaky sofa. He followed your movements in silence until he decided to join you. He still had time to look at you with those eyes extremely clear, outlined in black, before answering your question.
"I am Tommy", he said, deliberately discovering the lie with a mischievous smile.
"Why did you think I wouldn't break it this time? ", you wanted to know. Perhaps listening to his explanation you could find your own. "You looked… you look tired. Very tired of all this". His words hurt you deeply then, and you still hurt this morning thinking about them. Tired of all this, he said. And again you felt like you've gotten rid of all your skin and he was looking directly at your heart. As if you were made of glass and he could see through it, reading the truth of your soul.
"It is not ... that, exactly," You lied. "It's just that when I started this, I thought it would be different. I wanted to… I want to send a message. But sometimes I'm not sure if the message that people listen is the same that I'm trying to send them. I mean… Have you seen them? Out there, all this people. They are supposed to fight against something, to be looking for love but, a part of me feels that they are only looking for the pieces of my broken guitar".
The silence between you two was long, but not uncomfortable. Sad perhaps, barely interrupted by the screaming on the other side of the walls. The falsely called Tommy sighed then, and he spoke, more to himself than to you. You remember so well the color of his voice…
"Destruction. Love. Are the same Pete. Deep down, they are the same thing." "Not the love that I'm looking for. ", You stubbornly retorted.
"The love that you are looking for doesn't exist. That only lives in fairy tales, and Percy Sledge's songs. That love is not real. The authentic love shatters everything in its path. It changes you inside and out, it dynamites your soul, makes you go crazy. Destroys everything you are, it hits you until it leaves you breathless. Love is the brother of the hatred and pain. It is short-lived, you always seem to lose it too soon. Love is the poison of the heart, the vengeance of the blood."
He looked so lost while he was speaking that you felt the impulse to hug him and try to erase the pain of his eyes. But you just look at him, overwhelmed by the immensity of his words.
In that moment he really seemed to be very old, and yet his body was a perfect work of youth and vitality. His long and strong legs under a well worn blue jeans; a black vest that barely covered his torso, Remembering him now with that body, his sweet eyes, the severity of his soul… you wonder again, if maybe he wasn't an archangel fallen from Heavens? Perhaps… thrown out of it?
"Listening to you you someone would believe that you know what you're talking about",your attempt to joke made him smile again, but it was also as if he had built a wall around himself.
"Well, it's only an hour till dawn. I have to look for my girl, and find where to sleep off the hangover", you were about to ask him to stay with you but at the end you only offered him your hand, that he shaked friendly.
He turned around and opened the door, the sound of the outside broke into the room as an intruder. Before he left, you remember that he gave you a last ice-cold glance.
"Hold on Pete, I know that it's not easy. Being always the bad guy is harder than people think, but what you do is important". Being always the bad guy is harder than people think…that phrase was engraved on your heart. Tommy finally got out, leaving you lost in a blue fantasy of vindictive love.
Next morning you started a new song, experimenting with your new guitar, willing to change that. Ready to unmask the loneliness hidden behind a sharp smile, ready to scream at the world how much it hurts to play the role of villain. You wanted them to knew what they had never bothered to know; but above all of that, you wanted him to knew that during that brief conversation, you've discovered the ocean of broken dreams that roared inside his cruel blue eyes.