#askptownshend

ooc; i think we might’ve been the same person because when i was fourteen, i had blue tips :1 omfg

ooc; IM LAUGHING SO LOUD but also this is me

((omg i couldn't help it

ooc; THAT PICTURE MADE ME LAUGH SO LOUD OMG

❝ You know better than to get screwed up night before a show, McCartney.

It is London?

           Don't know. Doesn't seem like it. Shouldn't he be at a bar? This place doesn't resemble any bar ... not that he knew of. And he was a little too tipsy to say for certain -- with the border between tangible and ethereal has already smeared inside his head.

It was dark. Very dark. And his surrounding was nearly, if not, thick with shadows of the alleyway. London's alleyway. Strange to be out for a man of sort. Strange to be seen for a bassist of such band --

Dress shirt and tie, and a tad bit of messy hair.

And crouched in a pool of yellow light with his back to a brick wall, puffing yet another cigarette, Paul McCartney, languid amidst the nightly resonance of the metropolis. He inhales, the lit end flaring like a temper -- but god, don't wanna go. Not the hotel. Not where the other lads are. They'll get mad at him. For messing up. For not being the expected Paul McCartney. For sneaking out. For being here...

       Alone. 

                Exhausted.

Yet longing --

"Keith…"

The party was long over. Everyone had gone their seperate ways, alone or in pairs that were not necessarily those they had arrived in. 

Everyone, that is, except for the two figures clumsily shambling away from the club, the taller one trying in vain to support the weight of a companion only slightly less steady than himself. Pete’s call went unheard as his bandmate fell to the pavement, retching and heaving out the stinking spoils of a night of excess. 

As the guitarist looked on in disgust, Keith raised himself from the sidewalk, wiping his mouth with the back of one callused hand, attempting to grin through the haze in his eyes and the bile on his teeth. "All in a night's work, dear boy- Baron von Moon, out to conquer the pubs and bars of the world!" He gave a grand gesture to nothing in particular, followed by a burst of what was almost certainly forced laughter.

In another time, in another place, if there had been more people around and Pete was not in the midst of that horrible limbo where drunkenness is beginning to give way to sobriety, and without the sick reminder of Keith's weakness on the ground, it might have seemed funny. But now it struck Pete as a pathetic, almost desperate show, a melodrama in reverse where the comedy was so overacted it became tragic.

"You're going to kill yourself, Moon," Pete murmured through lips that were still too intoxicated to believe the hypocrisy passing through them. "You can't keep doing this every night."