life's hard when you're ridiculously nancy. (midnightsausage) wrote,
life's hard when you're ridiculously nancy.

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Okay, so because alison_12 asked me to, this is the beginnings of a fic. Nowhere near finished, and I think it's going to need some serious fixing before I unleash it anywhere else...but anyway.

I won't tell you who the characters are, other than dearest Jawn from the Libs, because you'll guess, eventually.

"Well, maybe if you didn't fuck it up so much, I wouldn't need to be high to make sense of you!"

"Pete, the reason we're fucking up anyway is because you're high!"

John rolled his eyes at Gary. This was just one of the many spats between their frontmen that had been getting progressively worse as the tour went on, until some nights it seemed as if the two were going to rip each other apart with their verbal sparring. He and Gary had made an unspoken agreement that usually, this was Pete and Carl's problem, and to leave them to it. However, for John, tonight was just one night too many.

"Look, why don't you two just shut the fuck up, eh?"

Both Pete and Carl looked over at him, slightly shocked that they'd been interrupted. Even Gary seemed vaguely surprised that he'd intervened where he usually didn't feel the need.

"I'm so effing sick of it! You two should really sort your shit out right about now, or else I'm out!"

With that, John stormed off towards the dressing rooms at the end of the hallway, leaving his stunned bandmates standing in the corridor staring after him.

"What the fuck was that?"

Gary sighed. "I think that was a warning, mate."

John slammed the dressing room door behind him as he stomped into the room. Throwing himself down in one of the chairs, he scowled darkly at the bare wall; which, he fancied, was probably asking itself what it had done to deserve such a glare.

He sighed wearily; he was worrying about a wall's feelings, and was on the verge of comforting it and assuring it that it wasn't at fault.

"They're sending me potty, mate," he informed the wall instead. The wall, predictably, didn't reply.

"Someone else who ignores me. Great."

He decided he had to get out of there. Not just for his sanity's sake, but because the others would be coming back soon, and he didn't want to be asked what was "bothering" him, or, worse, have to deal with more of Pete and Carl's bickering. Grabbing one of their rejected setlist drafts from the floor, he nabbed the pen out of Pete's journal and scrawled a quick note telling them he'd headed out for a walk and not to worry, he'd get back to the hotel fine.

Spotting a roll of gaffa tape on the floor, he broke some off and went to tape the note to the wall he'd been musing over earlier. However, as he went to stick it down, his hand, curiously enough, went through the wall.

"Well, you're just full of secrets, aren't you my frien -"

John was cut off by a force behind the wall yanking the rest of his body forward to join his hand on the other side of the so-called "wall".

John looked around him curiously. After a dizzying fall through some sort of technicolour tunnel, he'd found himself in a room that looked remarkably like the one he'd just been pulled from. Same shape, same positioning of the door, very similar furniture…In fact, the only differences were the way the room looked slightly less worn, and the fact that none of their gear was in here. There was still an array of drink and drugs laid out on the table in the corner, but someone else's clothing and personal effects were scattered over the chairs and floor. A glittering catsuit that John was sure none of them would try to pull off (Note: I really want to change this to something else, but I'm not sure how to put it) Platform boots in a rather bizarre orange leather. And a collection of make up that covered the dressing table, mingled with the traces of cocaine obviously left by its owner when they left the room hurriedly.

Someone was coming. John could hear stumbling footfalls and hushed laughter from the corridor outside. Panicked, he stared wildly around the room, hoping for somewhere, anywhere to hide. Spotting a cupboard in one corner, he dashed over to it and dived in amongst a collection of disused stage costumes that smelt like theatre: make up, a little bit of sweat and, overpoweringly, must from being left in the cupboard a little too long. He carefully pulled the door closed behind him, but for curiosity's sake, left a tiny gap to peer through. Maybe the mysterious owner of the dressing room could shed some light on what the hell was going on here.

His dash into the depths of the cupboard was not a second too late, for the next moment the door burst open, and two figures fell through it, entangled in each other, before slamming it closed behind them. One of the figures had a hood of some sort over his hair, and his back to John, so was therefore unidentifiable, but the other, with vivid orange hair spiked up above his head with hairspray...

John bit back a gasp. David Bowie?? He was in David Bowie's dressing room?

But hang on, why was Bowie in his Aladdin Sane getup? Everyone knew he was a more serious, adult artist these days, what was going on there?

John realised this probably wasn't his main worry right now, when Bowie and his unidentified companion began kissing each other again, deeply. John flinched slightly, seeing where this was probably heading all too clearly, and not wanting to have to witness it.

"Mmph..." They broke off the kiss for a moment, and stood panting for a moment, still close together.

"Thought we'd never get away."

That voice, John sounds familiar.
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