this is not alex (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
thisisalex) wrote2007-10-03 03:55 am
thisisalex) wrote2007-10-03 03:55 am
(no subject)
Prompt: Our Gang's Dark Oath by Aiden
Character: Kirley Duke
Summary: Before a Sisters show in Wales.
The crowd was chanting their name. Over and over, thousands of voices screamed out in a failed unison, from the pit to the back rows of the balcony, shaking the very roof above their heads. It was a frenzied, excited crowd of teens and twenty-somethings, rebellious youths and anarchist punks, even a healthy group of concerned protesters in the front of the stadium. They were all there for them, they were there for the --
"Weird Sisters! Weird Sisters! Weird Sisters!" Some chanted faster than others, some much slower, but the message was clear. The support act was done and off the stage, it was time for the main attraction, the ones whose posters they clutched and t-shirts they had ripped from the merchandise table. It was time for the Weird Sisters.
Kirley Duke stood backstage, pacing. It had been years since the slightest flutterings of stage fright had bothered him. Even when the stadium was crammed full, even when the thousands of people screamed out his name, had their eyes trained on him, waited for his solos and kept stealing his damn shirt, he felt no nervousness. Kirley was a born performer, a made musician, one damn good guitarist, and he'd be fucked if anyone told him they had ever failed to put on an amazing show. The Weird Sisters were good. Kirley was good.
And yet, he still paced.
They were playing near Pontrhydyfen, near enough that old friends and enemies from his half-summers and every-other-holidays in Wales could, and likely would, attend. They would clamber for backstage passes, claim close friendships and relations with him and Wags so they could get in and drape themselves over Heath and Herman and Don, or stare, wide-eyed, and tell them just how "totally fucking brill and, like, cool-like you fuckers fucking are!" But Kirley didn't care about them. He'd let them in and let them do their fanatical thing. What fun was there in being famous if you snubbed all your fans, anyways?
No, Kirley didn't give a fuck if all of West fucking Glamorgan shoved their way backstage. All except Brynn.
Brynn fucking Haskall, his constant reminder of his past and his past mistakes, the cousin of one of the old gang, of Ryan, and the only one who had been sober enough to see them as they really were. She made them too ashamed to laugh about their past antics, she reminded them that their youthful mistakes had led to Ryan's death, the incarceration of Daniel, the near death of Kirley, the destruction of their healths for the rest of their lives.
Kirley hated her. Kirley wasn't too loving of a person to begin with, but he hated Brynn. He hated her, and when she sent him a note, asking if she could see him after the show, he had ground his teeth and punched the wall and torn up the note. And, after he'd finished his little outburst, he'd given in.
That was why Kirley paced. She could have been asking to see him to tell him about someone else's death, to cut him down some more, anything but a friendly little chat between two friends to catch up. The memory of of their last meeting was too fresh in Kirley's memory to imagine her dropping by to see a show and congratulate him on a job well done and a life well turned around. She hated him, he hated her, and it showed itself in every time they spoke, in the way they looked at each other and moved around each other, in the way she had looked at him the last time they had seen each other.
"I can't correct everything that ruined your life," she had spat at the seventeen-year-old Kirley, shaking from the lack of drugs he hadn't known he was addicted to, a bandage wrapped around his head, covering the spot where he had failed to lose a game of Russian Roulette. "Turn your own life around."
Kirley clenched his first as the shouting reached a fevered intensity and the lights on the stadium came down. He had turned his life around, and he had done it on his own. This was his life, wasn't it? He was famous, he was well off, he wasn't shooting up. He had saved his fucking self. No matter what Brynn had to say to him, Kirley was no longer a fuck up.
"And now... the motherfucking WEIRD SISTERS."
Character: Kirley Duke
Summary: Before a Sisters show in Wales.
The crowd was chanting their name. Over and over, thousands of voices screamed out in a failed unison, from the pit to the back rows of the balcony, shaking the very roof above their heads. It was a frenzied, excited crowd of teens and twenty-somethings, rebellious youths and anarchist punks, even a healthy group of concerned protesters in the front of the stadium. They were all there for them, they were there for the --
"Weird Sisters! Weird Sisters! Weird Sisters!" Some chanted faster than others, some much slower, but the message was clear. The support act was done and off the stage, it was time for the main attraction, the ones whose posters they clutched and t-shirts they had ripped from the merchandise table. It was time for the Weird Sisters.
Kirley Duke stood backstage, pacing. It had been years since the slightest flutterings of stage fright had bothered him. Even when the stadium was crammed full, even when the thousands of people screamed out his name, had their eyes trained on him, waited for his solos and kept stealing his damn shirt, he felt no nervousness. Kirley was a born performer, a made musician, one damn good guitarist, and he'd be fucked if anyone told him they had ever failed to put on an amazing show. The Weird Sisters were good. Kirley was good.
And yet, he still paced.
They were playing near Pontrhydyfen, near enough that old friends and enemies from his half-summers and every-other-holidays in Wales could, and likely would, attend. They would clamber for backstage passes, claim close friendships and relations with him and Wags so they could get in and drape themselves over Heath and Herman and Don, or stare, wide-eyed, and tell them just how "totally fucking brill and, like, cool-like you fuckers fucking are!" But Kirley didn't care about them. He'd let them in and let them do their fanatical thing. What fun was there in being famous if you snubbed all your fans, anyways?
No, Kirley didn't give a fuck if all of West fucking Glamorgan shoved their way backstage. All except Brynn.
Brynn fucking Haskall, his constant reminder of his past and his past mistakes, the cousin of one of the old gang, of Ryan, and the only one who had been sober enough to see them as they really were. She made them too ashamed to laugh about their past antics, she reminded them that their youthful mistakes had led to Ryan's death, the incarceration of Daniel, the near death of Kirley, the destruction of their healths for the rest of their lives.
Kirley hated her. Kirley wasn't too loving of a person to begin with, but he hated Brynn. He hated her, and when she sent him a note, asking if she could see him after the show, he had ground his teeth and punched the wall and torn up the note. And, after he'd finished his little outburst, he'd given in.
That was why Kirley paced. She could have been asking to see him to tell him about someone else's death, to cut him down some more, anything but a friendly little chat between two friends to catch up. The memory of of their last meeting was too fresh in Kirley's memory to imagine her dropping by to see a show and congratulate him on a job well done and a life well turned around. She hated him, he hated her, and it showed itself in every time they spoke, in the way they looked at each other and moved around each other, in the way she had looked at him the last time they had seen each other.
"I can't correct everything that ruined your life," she had spat at the seventeen-year-old Kirley, shaking from the lack of drugs he hadn't known he was addicted to, a bandage wrapped around his head, covering the spot where he had failed to lose a game of Russian Roulette. "Turn your own life around."
Kirley clenched his first as the shouting reached a fevered intensity and the lights on the stadium came down. He had turned his life around, and he had done it on his own. This was his life, wasn't it? He was famous, he was well off, he wasn't shooting up. He had saved his fucking self. No matter what Brynn had to say to him, Kirley was no longer a fuck up.
"And now... the motherfucking WEIRD SISTERS."