#idk im tired i banged out 900 words of this tonight for seemingly no reason???

[anaalnathrakhs]

1, 55, or 57 with Mick and a ship of your choosing for the put that guy in a situation thing <3

ty for requesting bestie i tried going for the whole triad (though more 1. and 57.) AND with the nice usual serving of polycrue bc i'm an indecisive bitch here u go hope it's cool bc none of it was written at socially acceptable waking hours

This is a Song for the Broken Hearted

1k words Rated T for The usual motley crue bullshit Polycrue Prompts: 1. Touch-Starved/Cuddle Curse, 55. Mutual Pining/Oblivious, 57. Accidental Hand-Holding

ALSO AVAILABLE ON AO3, MORE WHERE THAT CAME FROM FOLKS

The very first time Mötley Crüe played what they could proudly call a show, not merely a gig, Vince had strutted towards the audience down in the pit, grabbing Nikki’s hand on the way, and o grace, Mick’s too. Tommy had bounced away from his drumkit and come to join them in the front, standing to Mick’s side hand in hand.

His heart had thumped in his chest, desperately. Vince’s crowd-charming nonsense spilled out and Mick heard none of it, none of the rumble of the public just below, droning noises washing up on the cliffside of his brains. 

Everything felt gross. 

Their palms were thoroughly damp, melding together like mud after the rain. 

Sweat beaded on his forehead, smeared down his back and matted his hair. 

His clothes hung heavy, rough and irritating and too real against his skin.

But nothing mattered at that moment. The electricity that ran through his veins when from either side his boys squeezed his hands as they bowed down to the public, however painful it might be for him, that was all the comfort he ever needed. And if it were to never happen again, if Mötley Crüe was destined to go out in a blaze of glory only months before they’d started doing real concerts, then Mick could still ride on that high for the rest of his life. 

It was exhilarating. Euphoric. Completely foreign. He could thread his fingers through theirs, and know they’d drag him with them, to wherever was the next stop in their headless chicken adventure through this new emerging scene.

Mick thought he knew his way around being in a band. It wasn’t his first stage, it wasn’t his first rodeo. But none of his bandmates before had been quite like this. Quite as stupid, if there was a nice way to put it. But neither were they quite as warm and oh so desperately alive as Nikki, Vince, and Tommy never stopped being for a single second. This band was going places.

It was a great tearing, when the hands went away, dropped his own to their cold solitude and left him until the next encore. 

From then on, it became his lifeline. Fragmented and explosive as their ensemble could be, slave to Nikki’s moods, and Vince’s whims, and Tommy’s recklessness, and despite his teeth often grinding in anger, despair, and so much more, it was the cement of it all. None of this could have existed if it were not for the monstrous, evergoing current that flowed through the four of them, merciless. He sought it, this familiar chaos that had come to feel like coming home. He couldn’t have done anything else, could he? 

He could always count on the warmth, the comfortable warmth of the hands that took his. The only constant. A definitive sign that none of them would let go.

That’s the vision that visited his dreams, often when he passed out slowly in the little hours of the morning, alone again.

He remembered the fluid touch of Tommy’s thumb, rubbing circles on the back of his hand. Like he somehow knew, or had guessed, or maybe had Mick told him in a moment of weakness he didn’t remember, how precious this minuscule fragment of time was to him. And with such delicacy too; disgusting, terrifying delicacy, like Mick’s hands were going to break, like he didn’t want to hurt his guitarist. His calluses, inevitable from the constant friction of the drumsticks, anchored the feeling deep in Mick’s mind.

He searched for Vince’s hand in the dark sometimes, hoping for the squeeze he earned after hours of playing, sweating, and tearing the music from the strings. The intimate millisecond where someone, anyone, told him and him alone that he’d done good. He’d always squeeze back. Vince seemed to notice, and smiled bright and solar at Mick before turning to the crowd and announcing the greatest motherfucker on guitar, the one and only Mick Mars. But the hand meant so much more.

Nikki never did touch as much, moreso he reluctantly let Vince drag his hand as well during salute, but every once in a while he brushed Mick’s hand walking past, before the show, at the afterparty, when he left rehearsal. He never looked, never looked away either. For the longest time, it seemed like happy little accidents, until one day he blinked at Mick, and all the pieces of the puzzle fell together, practically screaming at him that he was seen. It was Nikki’s way to prove him he was right there with them. Mick felt nauseous, yet he kept leaning towards his bandmates.

And for a while, it seemed like all he was ever going to get. 

Because that was the sad truth. Mick wanted. Wanted so much, so desperately it almost made him sick, so deeply he’d feel his heart break over and over again every day the bustling afterparty died down behind his back as he staggered back home.

He never wanted to face it, never wanted to look down at their interlocked hands, in fear that it would start within him something he could not quench. His wife’s hand had felt like a bridge above the inevitable gap. These hands felt like the rightful place for his. Like everything was finally on the right track, and he never ever wanted them to leave. He crossed his arms at night, held onto himself like a lifeline to fight off the emptiness of a lone bed in a lone apartment.

That is, until the day he must’ve dozed off drunk on someone’s couch, and when he woke up in the dark, helped by a sliver of sunlight coming in through the patchy broken blinds, he saw before he felt the hands in his hands, on his chest, around his waist. 

He didn’t ask any questions. Didn’t speak a word. There could have been many to raise, of the sort of why the hell exactly were his bandmates using him as a pillow. Why didn’t they just go home, to their ratty nasty flat, though that one might’ve been self-evident. What would they do when they woke up. But he didn’t say any of that. Instead he let himself melt into the pleasant warmth of the softest binds he’d ever known.

The mindless humming around him was proof enough that everything was going to turn out alright.

#idk im tired i banged out 900 words of this tonight for seemingly no reason??? #i love writing i hate writing i have a complicated relationship with writing #ty so much for requesting robin mwah #i write things sometimes #motley crue #mick mars #rpf #motleyposting on main