The matter of a show

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The matter of a show

Inlägg  Russell Young i tor mar 15, 2012 9:03 pm

Russells' breath were heavy when he came of the stage to the comfort of the backstage. Sweat pearled down his brow, wavy hair damp. He had done a good show. Always did, no matter how he felt. No matter what, their fans that payed to see 'em should get something to remember.

His feet, naked, hurt like hell. Him jumping and running around on stage every day didn't really make his feet more endured. And his back, man, must the back really start to smart as well?

He swallowed, his throat itchingly dry after pushing the high notes all evening. A bottle of water from somewhere, from someone, and he accepted the drink with a lazy smile. Water drops tickling down his chin and neck as the gulps he took were to big to swallow, and dark eyes swept over the room.

They got caught in Joseph's, the guitarist darker eyes made smaller as he squinted at him. Joseph's smile more of a sneer, he pulled his hand down from his ears, and over explicitly turned his gaze to a roadie coming up to him with a smoke to ease the stress of the stage.

Joseph had turned his amps on louder on him, drowning him out. Had stayed away from him on stage, kept to his own corner as if his feet had grown roots there.

Joseph didn't care about making a good show like he did.

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Russell Young

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Inlägg  Joseph Moore i fre mar 16, 2012 10:17 pm

Joseph had turned his amp on so low that he woudln't be able to hear another smart comment from Russell. So loud that if he just looked right ahead, or if the crowd that had started to grow on them shied him, down at the stage floor. The gaze locked somewhere between the cheat paper and his widely parted feet.

He had grown tired of Russell commenting on how he always had to tune his guitar for him 'cause he seemed to be tone deaf, or that he shouldn't stand like that because it didn't matter if it were just a sound check, if he did like that in practice, he would do so in reality and this and that and everything. And the deadliest weapon a guitarist had, was his amp. So he let Russel drown.

In the end, it always hurt him too. When he came of the stage his ears shrieked and buzzed. On stage he had felt Russell's glaring stares and watched from behind how the singer engaged more and more in the audience the more his guitarist ignored him.

His jaw hurt from how he tightly had pressed them together, his thighs aching from how much they had to support his weight when he leaned back in the typical swaggery nonchalant guitarist style.

His hands fell from were it had pressed against his ears to accept the smoke one of the roadies came up to him with. His sneere turned more friendly as he looked away from Russell.

A laugh from a tired voice, and when that girly laugh joined, Joseph couldn't help but to glance back.
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