#jack irons

Remembering Hillel Slovak, the original guitarist of Red Hot Chili Peppers who died from an accidental heroin overdose on June 26th, 1988. He was 26.

🌶️That drawing, by the way, is a portrait Hillel drew of Anthony back in 1986, February 1st.✡️

@subway-to-venus89

@kiediixss

@aprilisadingusdongus

@ijustfndamilldllrsthatsmnefgt

@ride-the-hammett

@romanticizing-life11111

@songbirds-sweet

@iggy-girl

Pearl Jam live at Moore Theatre - Seattle, WA, USA (Fan Club Show). February 5, 1995. (Part II)

Pearl Jam!

I know nothing about Pearl Jam

I know Jeremy.

But Eddie Vedder is pretty cool so, hell yeah

Red Hot Chibi Peppers pt1

Established relationship <3 Angsty (but not extremely, more moody) moment alone in Germany. Sweet story and ending

3rd person omniscient narration!!!

Written with the 1992 EU tour in mind but the writing itself doesn’t specify

I’ve never been to Europe pls forgive any innacuracies

REALLY proud of this one pls enjoy <33

Warnings: descriptions of kissing mwah, no use of "y/n", femme pronouns used / Word count: 2774

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Naturally, there are people everywhere. Countless blue and brown eyes. She weaves through them down a straight sidewalk until she comes upon a deserted hill and begins to climb it. As she settles into the grass, she can gaze down upon all the passersby in their beige and black coats, which gradually meld into the grey fog of the sky, smothering what should be green around her, like looking at one big sheet with the odd fold or shadow here and there.

She lost feeling in the tips of her toes trying to find some place of respite from noisy busy claustrophobic music boy world. She wasn’t sure what it was, but something had nibbled at her from the moment she awoke. She put on a nice outfit and ate a late breakfast hoping it was fatigue, or inundation, or something to do with her cycle, and not a deep intrinsic melancholy bubbling up to the surface. Most likely, it was. It always snuck up on her at unpredictable times after being ignored for too long.

What was she doing here? What she wanted, of course. Seeing Europe. Falling somehow deeper in love. Working tirelessly on the manuscript so she could, hopefully, move on from her columnist job in Seattle. Faxing articles to her editor in the meantime so she didn’t lose that columnist job. Something about it didn’t feel right, or something inside her didn’t feel right, or something really was wrong. But people dream of the privilege to shop around like this. She had dreamt of it.

Meanwhile, some rooms over, the boys were playing the same intro to a deep cut song for the fifteenth time, unable to get past it without falling apart or someone stopping. Everyone seemed to be one wrong note away from snapping. Maybe they’d all stayed up too late, not late enough, breakfast was spoiled, or they had all independently received bad news hours earlier. Regardless, nobody said a word about it as they kept trying to play.

When she walked in, already trying to shoo away her own storm cloud, she could feel the tension like a veil over the doorway. After a few seconds, Jeff paused his playing, watching Dave with a straight face. He couldn't keep time, so how could Jeff be expected to follow? Dave, defensive, slowed down his drumming, which forced Mike and Stone to lose their rhythm, all while Eddie sighed and pursed his lips. He'd been waiting twenty minutes for his cue to sing. Nobody said a word.

“We just need to keep playing,” Jeff tried to mediate. “Even if somebody messes up, keep playing.”

Except he'd accidentally cut his eye at Dave while suggesting that someone was to blame. Dave's frown grew deeper. Who was the first to stop playing, after all? She wondered if she should say something to intervene—cut the wire as an outsider. She decided against it.

Dave, annoyed and gripping his sticks harder than necessary, began playing something else to release the tightness in his wrists. This was no time for noodling, and Eddie turned around to furrow his eyebrows at him. Now feeling fully attacked, Dave kept playing. Mike began practicing his riff over it. The sound of chaos reigned. Jeff could have rolled his eyes but bit down hard to keep himself from doing so.

She watched Stone carefully. His eyes widened as he assumed a far-off stare into the feet of the drum platform. He was somewhere between aggravation and dismay. Not just because they couldn't play the damn song, but because it drove them to act like such Primadonnas, communicating through silent passive aggression. On a better day, they'd be laughing at themselves, maybe even decide to just work on it another time, but stubbornness was stringing like a web between all of them.

“Let's just run it again,” he shouted over the ruckus.

So they did, and it fell off once more. It brought her down even further to watch such a sure thing falter. She might have been able to change everything simply by reinvigorating her gratitude to be in a brand new place, so she chanted in her head “Berlin, Berlin, Berlin,” and as the walls seemed to taunt back “Life is a cabaret, old chum,” she had to hurry up and get out of there.

Now, watching the broad grey scene from the hilltop, there are no hallucinations.

How much daylight beauty in all these places have they scorned in favor of the ruckus of the night? Sleeping until call time, hungover in sunglasses, under cover of stadiums until sundown. Like vampires. The brightest day so far was in Spain, after a breeze blew the late winter clouds away for the afternoon. It wasn’t nearly as cold as everywhere else. But then, the memory of Spain only makes her worse; They’d looked out over cliffs nearly like Lime Kiln Point in Washington, which makes her heart sink with nostalgia to recall. Now she has to miss both the orcas in Washington and the breeze in Barcelona. Later, she will find something to miss about Berlin.

In the low distance, a vibrant blot appears against the gray sheet. A bright yellow figure coolly strolling by down on the pavement slows to a halt. She realizes that it's someone staring up at her, then quickly recognizes the shape of their body as Stone’s. At the same time, he finds the tilt of her head unmistakable and begins trekking up the hill, holding something in both hands. The closer he gets, two paper coffee cups with lids, as well as the pensive expression on his face, become clear. He’s a wheel of color: his hair several shades of brown, cheeks turning pink in the cold, green eyes the hue the hill should be, mustard pullover sweatshirt hanging over his lean body.

She might have been annoyed if she wanted to be alone, but she doesn't. Although, she wonders what drove him to come looking for her. Depending on whether the musical gloom was resolved, Eddie might have asked if she was alright, to which Stone brushed off any concern with “Think we could all use a breather,” and ordered their favorite hot drinks before leaving. The thought both warms and embarrasses her. Thankfully, days like these come and go. She can be the life of the party (or at least a vein of it) at the best of times, when Stone doesn’t have to make deflections about whether she’s alright.

As colleagues, his bandmates always try to be considerate of one another, and sometimes that means treading lightly. They've found that going away awhile and coming back usually works better than snapping at each other. There are still, of course, uglier days, but with three nights in a row of shows ahead of them, now isn't the time for that. They can really get into it once they’re back home, if necessary. But he figures that it won't even matter by then.

It was nothing career altering. We're having a bad day. Big deal, he shrugs to himself. Not wanting to be angry with them—underneath everything, they’re his friends, and everyone is allowed to have bad days—he takes no issue feeling entirely frustrated with the situation, impersonally. Remembering some good advice he was given, he considers that creative tension might be a positive thing in disguise. Something will come of it, whether it be finally finding their harmony later or even a new song.

But they still couldn't just play the damn song, which they wrote and recorded perfectly fine just months ago. Sure, they're out of practice with it, but they're not a bunch of monkeys. They're globally celebrated, for fuck's sake. He knows it's his fault, as well. He messed up a few of the chords. This never happened when they practiced in someone's living room in Seattle. They could use a living room, just about now. Maybe Europe isn't their element.

Maybe that's a ludicrous idea. When he gets closer to her, he sees that she isn't watching him with a “go away” glare but a welcoming gaze, which is a green light for him to stick around. He silently extends one of the cups to her. As she accepts it, the heat radiating from it brings some color back into her hands.

“Did you come out here to sing ‘The Sound of Music’?” he tries to joke. “Go frolicking?”

She doesn't answer. She brings the cup to her lips and it tastes better than anything from a hotel cafe. Where could he have gone to get it? The benefit of dating an ex-barista. He’s undoubtedly drinking coffee with some eccentricity like lavender or hazelnut syrup.

“Thank you,” she mumbles.

He briefly smiles a “You're welcome” smile without his eyes. As he lowers himself to the ground beside her, a heavy sigh echoes from his nose. She turns to him attentively at the sound of it. When their eyes meet, they can tell that the other has numerous thoughts swirling around behind them, but neither has anything to say. He just strings his arm around behind her, still looking into her eyes, cautiously running his long fingers along her upper arm to bridge the gap between them. She leans into his warmth, her head resting against his cheek, her palm closest to him landing softly on his knee.

“What’s the matter?” he bluntly asks, almost demands, neither sweetly nor crossly, but sternly. She might laugh. Always so straightforward. But the answer isn’t.

“I don’t know.”

But he still doesn’t look away from her face as she stares down at her cup, brow slightly wrinkled, thumbing mindlessly over a small tear in his jeans. What could it be? It’s not like she has anyone to argue with, and she’s no less absurdly gorgeous than any other day. Had her mother written a nasty letter? Did she realize an awful truth? Something to do with the manuscript? It's clearly something, though not serious enough to make her look sick or panicked. 

Sometimes there's no explanation for feeling ungrounded or lost, and if she does have one, maybe he’ll just have to wait for her to tell him. Already knowing what’s the matter with him, she doesn’t ask.

There's no way for him to know that the hand on her arm is the only thing pulling her back to earth, and that if he lets go she's afraid she might float away and burn up in the sun. He does know that her cold forehead against his cheek is something real and disconnected from a temperamental set of instruments, and would still be real whether he could play one or not, whether he was “globally celebrated” or not. All of that falls away; temporary, always changing. He certainly remembers now how lucky he is to be doing it. Being a military general is life or death. Playing music shouldn't be.

His real girl. How lucky. His glare softens, no longer examining her but admiring. He reaches over her face to tenderly touch her eyelids, her softest skin, with his fingertips, brushing some hairs out of her face.

“Was the ceiling caving in there?” He tries again, “Or was that just me?”

She chuckles, “Jesus, like London Bridge.”

“Well, at least London Bridge fell all the way down. It got some catharsis.”

“It's unresolved, then?”

“I don’t know exactly what there would be to solve,” he mutters into his coffee.

“You should add a shrink to the rider. Or I could just stand by with a spray bottle while you guys rehearse.”

After getting him to laugh, she grows slightly more serious and finally looks up at him, “I think I'm homesick.”

He nods, “I think I am, too.”

She sends him a knowing look of scorn because, while he might be telling the truth, there's no chance he actually wants to go home.

“Stone, they couldn't pay you to go home.”

He raises his eyebrows as if to say “I don't know…” then suddenly frowns at what she's implying, “Oh, but they could pay you?”

She sips her drink and resists the urge to tease him (“How much?”), not feeling playful enough for it. She knows he wouldn't go near an American airline for the next month. At the same time, she knows that he imagines a net of ease and safety surrounding Seattle.

She shrugs, “You spend so much time on something, it doesn't make sense when it doesn't come out perfect. Sure.”

He sends her a deadpan stare, “You know something?”

“Hm?”

“I need you to tell me that my job is to play a hunk of wood with strings, and that I'm being a complete drama queen.”

“You said it, not me.”

They smile at each other wryly, squinting their eyes. Then, humorously having made the exact same stupid face, their expressions melt into fond close-lipped smiles. They found each other in a world so big. But the longer she looks at him, fondness is only a mask for the fatigue and dimness creeping up her throat.

Desperate to get rid of it, she impulsively leans forward to nudge the supple skin of his cheek with her nose. He takes this as a playful gesture and presses his lips to hers sweetly with the same flippant attitude with which she’d spoken. Yet, as much as she tries to subdue it, the body itself does not know how to lie, and her vulnerability quickly becomes clear to him by way of her grip on the bottom of his sweatshirt and her lingering kiss.

Now, he understands that she needs him to keep her from floating away, however he can. He puts down his coffee so he can bring his other hand up to the back of her neck, entwined with her hair, holding her face close to his as she takes his bottom lip between hers.

He takes over completely, doing his best to comfort her in adoring open-mouthed kisses—his cool chapped palms running from her face, to hair, to waist, then back again. She sighs, relieved, holding on to him warmly. The sound makes his hair stand on end. From the soft fuzz of her cheek and her sweet taste, he could devour her like a peach until she was pureé around him. But he forbids such a rough thought, for the moment.

He pauses, thumb running over her cheek, asking more gently this time, “What's really wrong?”

She looks almost helpless, whispering, “I really don't know.”

She watches his big green eyes search between hers, his warm breath condensing as a light vapor on her face. At least she doesn't look like she'll cry. His fingers, smoothing over her skin, have flushed hot beneath their cold surface. He tenderly presses his lips to hers again.

It's funny how someone you think so highly of can be made small by nothing. She’s a supermodel and a genius, in his eyes, but now in his hands she feels as fragile as a porcelain doll on the verge of shattering. He scoops her from under and pulls her into his lap, as close as they can get, to keep her together. She relaxes into his arms at the feeling of his tongue grazing into her mouth, welcoming the taste of coffee breath and slightly salty saliva. 

Young, successful, sharp, untouchable; No one ever suspects either of them needing anyone. They haven't talked about it, but they both prefer things this way. No one else needs to know, anyway. No one else could know the way they do.

“Stone,” she utters, almost into his mouth.

His voice vibrates through her, closing the space between them once more, “Mm?”

She breaks it to speak again, “Love you.”

“I know,” he says, kissing her again.

He meant it in the sense that she didn’t need to say it so urgently, as if to give him a reason to stay there. He knew before the first time she ever said it. He’ll be here for her even when she’s old and forgets that she ever loved him.

Regardless, it was the wrong thing to say. She pulls her face away completely and scoffs, quickly pinching his ear, not hard enough to really hurt him.

“Ouch!” he tilts his head away, snickering.

She poorly suppresses a grin, “‘Scuse me.”

He covers his ear, dramatizing the pain, “Sometimes I think you don't even like me.”

“I love you,” she repeats.

He smiles pleasantly, like he'd forgotten, “Oh, right.”

“Excuse me?”

“I love you, too,” he corrects himself, taking her face in his hands and beginning to press slow kisses across her cheeks.

She hums, pleased, “Thank you very much.”

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thank u for reading <3