My Happy Place

• Summary: The fantasies and realities of a rock band member.
  
• Rating: As mentioned above. M/M, may contain disturbing bits but these are not explicitly described. The bad lyrics just might be more traumatizing.
  
• Feedback: Yes please, of any kind.
  
• Author’s notes: This was written in response to the prompt "sex, love, rock n' roll".
  

You most likely never heard of us, but it's a small world, so just in case you did, I won't mention our names or describe our appearance. Me, I don't mind, but he... well, I'd just rather not. It's not a story about him, anyway. It's a story about my confused, stumbling feelings.

He's the singer in our band, and also the score writer, and sometimes second guitar. I'm the lyrics and keyboard person, and sometimes I do the violin. Yes, we're that kind of rock band. There are other people involved of course, but they're insignificant to this particular story, except for the lead guitar, who fucks me.

Let's go back to the Singer though. It's not an obsession. It's not that I think about him all the time, but that when I do, it's always an indescribable, irrational good feeling. So naturally, I think about him a lot, simply cause it's pleasant. He's my happy place. Whenever I have to think of something good, or am just plain bored, I think of him. It's like a soundless theme song, that feeling that I've got.

At some point, I've got a melody for that theme song too. It's the outro for our second album, except we didn't know it yet then, of course. We were sitting in the studio, and he'd just play around with his acoustic guitar as we waited. Eventually, the gentle strumming started forming into a melody, and then dissolved again.

- Wait, what was that? - I asked.

- Huh? - He looked up at me.

- What was it that you just played?

- Oh, nothing... improvising. - He shrugged.

I knew he were, of course. - Can you play it again?

- Sure. Think something can be done with this? - He smiled.

- I think so, yeah. - More like "definitely", but I can't help but be reserved around him. Afraid to look stupid, perhaps.

So he played it again, and then we extended and reworked it, and it became the outro, and the theme song in my head every time I thought of him. It sounds like breeze in the land of the elves should.

I have this fantasy, a half-dream, where I sit on a bench in a park at night time. There's not a soul around, and I write lyrics and doodle in my notepad, under the glow of an old-fashioned street light. And then he appears out of the shadows. Except that it's not him of course, it's a vampire who looks like him, just as handsome and calm, but not him, because he'd never attack me, just as he'd never want me.

The vampire-him is upon me in the blink of an eye, he bites my neck, draining me of blood until I'm limp and defenceless. And then he rapes me. There are some variations of it - one where he just does me from behind, and another one, that only appears when I'm actually dreaming. There, he wants me to suck him off and I do, until I bite, and then I suffocate in the torrent of his blood, and wake up.

Here you are, a work of art

Dimensions cheat, we're miles apart

Look at me, as cold as stone

Smiling and, I'm all alone

Again.

And sometimes, I lie in bed and turn to the wall and close my eyes, and I stroke myself as his theme plays in my head. I imagine a vampire with his mesmerizing eyes, the ones that stare from walls in houses across country, his stare that is never this fiery when he looks at me, but this is my fantasy, so this time it will be.

And then I hear someone entering, and I instantly know who it is so I don't bother opening my eyes. The Lead guitar is beside me, his hand brushing across my stomach, and he whispers:

- Been missing me?

- Yeah. - I lie.

And then we kiss, and I make believe that it's another man, and when he asks why are my eyes closed, I say that this way I don't know where he touches next. This satisfies him, and I can continue imagining the fiery eyes, and the hand that grips the microphone. And then he does all kinds of things that I don't like, such as tugging hard at my underwear so that it digs into me, and pinching painfully and scraping with his nails, but I take it, because it's worth it afterwards.

He only lets me remove the underwear when it's all drenched at the front. That's another thing I don't like, soiling clothes, but it turns him on and by that time I'm beyond caring anyway. And then he's finally inside, and I imagine it's the vampire, hot and forceful after taking a drink of me, and the remainder of my blood gathers in my groin, and I come. And then I lay in his arms, drifting in the mists of satiation.

Everyone knows we are lovers, and that's actually more than what we really are. There is nothing between us, except the fucks, and the times when he's drunk or high and he wraps his arm around me possessively or even gropes me, regardless of whether we're in public or not. I don't care, so I shouldn't mind it when Singer comes in and sees us naked in bed.

I shouldn't mind but I do, because I know that there'll be nothing but slightly embarrassed disinterest in his eyes as he lays them upon me, and then looks away with awkward respect and goes on to mind his business. And it hurts me as my lover does not let me move and cover myself. He holds me in his heavy embrace, and I suffocate, but do not wake up.

Look at me, a lie within

Paint is peeling, rust sets in

Here you are, I want to scream

I fall apart, and only dream

Again.