by DevilChild
Fandom: Poisontaster's A Kept Boy 'verse
Rating: Mature (language and themes)
Characters: Josh Homme & Chris Kane
Author's Note: A sequel of sorts to Pathoheterodoxy Syndrome.
The title comes from the Queens Of The Stone Age song "Leg of Lamb"
Copyright and Disclaimer: The following is a bit of whatiffery, set in a fantasy universe and is not intended as an accurate reflection of any particular person's actions, world view, or morals.
Slave or free? The rules says that those distinctions are left at the door.
And yeah, as much as possible, they are. (Except for the flare of pity in some people's eyes when they spot a collar.)
You become a member of the Indigo Blue because you love music. And if you're good, they'll even let you play.
And from what Chris can hear as he jogs down the stairs, whoever's up on that postage stamp of a stage sings like an angel and can really play the guitar.
When he sees who it is, the shock feels like being doused in ice water.
It's one of those redheaded BIS Agent motherfuckers from last month.
The one who didn't pistolwhip him.
Shaking with alternate bursts of fear and rage, Chris hastily scans the rest of the club, but there's no sign of his bastard of a partner.
"Shot of Jack," he says to Mike, the bartender, who lifts an eyebrow as he pours, because Chris is more of a brandy or tawny port kind of guy. He downs it and motions for another as the burn sets in. "Who is this guy?" he asks with a calm he doesn't feel and knocks the second shot back.
"Josh Homme. Before tonight, he's come in strictly on Thursdays, which is probably why you haven't seen him before. Auditioned two weeks ago and blew Kyle's socks off."
A part of Chris wants to ask if Kyle knows that he's got fucking Commerce in the house.
A part of him wants to announce that fact to the rest of the club as soon as there's a break between songs.
Two things stop him. One, hassling or heckling anybody on stage is a guaranteed dis-invite from the Indigo Blue, and it's not so much that Jeff will be pissed at him when he hears about it, and Ever will sigh the next time she sees him, it's that he'll be barred from the Indigo Blue.
Two, Agent Josh Homme is fucking amazing.
Right now, he's singing the Beatles' "Blackbird" and Chris knows that's not a song that just anybody can play properly, and Homme's making that complex picking look easy as he sings the lyrics in a honey-drenched tenor much more soulful and than anything McCartney ever managed.
(Probably because he knows things Sir Paul has never known about broken wings and waiting for the moment to be free.)
Chris takes his third whiskey, settles into a dark corner and lets the music wash over him.
It's not all covers though; Homme plays mostly originals and Chris is pulled in not only by Homme's technical wizardry, but by the range of genres mixed in: psycho-billy, rock, power pop, folk, punk, and even a touch of the blues. He likes the lyrics, too. Yeah, some of the verses would be nothing much without Homme's voice to shade them with meaning, but other songs are full of wry asides and sly wit. "Broken Box" in particular makes him want to go up to the man and say, "So, when did you meet Mary-Louise?" Because those scathing words are everything Chris has ever thought of her and/or wanted to say to her.
The set closes with a song called "I Never Came" and Homme's ability to falsetto — and easily too, no hint of raggedness or strain or of being on the edge of losing control — up into the counter-tenor range sends chills up Chris's spine, as do the lyrics to the song, which is about a relationship which failed on every level because it was a counterfeit of real intimacy and it makes Chris think about aspects of his life before Jeff, of going through the motions.
And he's as torn as ever at the end of it all, because ....
Because.
Because a part of him loathes this man.
Because it's so rare to see such a true gift.
With a groan, Chris decides to head for the bathroom before hitting the road.
Homme's washing his hands when Chris steps in. Recognition flashes in his eyes before they clamp down, go empty. He says nothing, grabs a towel and dries his hands and moves to pass through the door, but Chris stays him.
Cool and hard as a glacier, Homme's eyes bore into his.
Chris wants to say so many things to him. He can feel them stuck in his throat like a lump that won't go down.
(I'm still furious about last month, asshole. Does Kyle know he's got fucking Commerce in the house? "The Fun Machine Took A Shit and Died" is the best title for a song, ever. "Broken Box" reminds me a hell of a lot of a woman I know. Do you know that you're a genius and I've never heard anything quite like your originals? Where'd you learn to play?)
"You missed your calling, man" he says, voice low and hushed. "Totally missed your calling."
For a moment, Homme's eyes lose a touch of their flinty brittleness and his mouth quirks in something that wants to be a smile. "Didn't we all?" he replies, feather-soft.
And then he's gone, door rattling in his wake.
"Yeah, didn't we all," Chris says softly to himself. "Didn't we all?"
And when he wakes up the next morning with what he knows is going to be an all day headache, he tells himself it's because he drank too much the night before.
It's all he can do.
Last Updated: 1/03/09