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“But Robert-“
“No, Jimmy, for the last fuckin’ time, we are not there yet. In fact, I deliberately took the long way just to piss you off, and I seem to have succeeded! Although I have to say with how bloody annoying you’re being, I really wish I hadn’t.”
“Hadn’t succeeded?”
“Hadn’t taken the long route, smart-arse.”
Jimmy paused for breath by a stream, hands on his knees as he spluttered and gasped.
Robert, who was far ahead and prancing around like some ridiculous elf, didn’t seem to notice (and if he had, he sure as hell wasn’t giving it away.) Jimmy blinked, trying to make out just how far he’d have to hurry before he was within the blond’s earshot. Ugh. He would lose sight of Percy if the man went much further, but Jimmy really, really didn’t feel like walking anymore. He’d been promised the perfect view on some hill somewhere past the never-ending expanse of trees, and that in itself had taken him considerable time to prepare for. But forget the hill, he was winded just walking a couple of miles down the riverbank. They still had a ways to go, and to hell with his desire to write a song overlooking paradise. It was just not worth the physical exercise. He needed to tell Robert so they could call it quits and return to the comfort of the great indoors. God, how he missed the dry, carpeted floors that didn’t make his feet muddy and sopping with rainwater. Yes, he was done with hiking through the forest with his guitar (which all of a sudden weighed several brick-tons) slung across his back. He stood up straight, shivering as the misty wind hit his face, and let out an exhausted groan. Now he’d have to spend his energy just walking to Robert so he could tell him to stop walking. Shaking his head, he stepped up the pace, shuffling along across the grass in nervous determination until a familiar mass of golden appeared in the distance. Panting and out of breath once more, the guitarist grasped his guitar strap tighter and stumbled towards the blond, yelling at him to stop.
After a third strangled whine, Robert turned around, a shit-eating grin spreading across his face as he bounded over to where Jimmy had decided to take refuge on a rock.
“What, are you tired already?”
Jimmy scoffed. “We’ve been walking for ages, Percy! And I’ve got this guitar to hold on to as well! Can we just go back now? I don’t really feel like going any further.”
Robert rolled his eyes and tugged the guitar off the older man’s shoulders, slinging it across his own.
“Come on, you big baby. We’re almost at the hill, and if we make it in twenty we’ll still be able to catch the sunset.”
“Noo, can we please go back? Please? I’m tired and I want tea and- what’re you- fucking hell put me down!”
Robert, in one swift move, had lifted Jimmy onto his right shoulder, somehow pushing the guitar out of the way. Despite the dark-haired man’s squirming and protest, Robert moved ahead with gusto. The singer didn’t have much left in him to talk, what with the load he was heaving uphill, but he managed a sentence of explanation.
“If you’re going to act like a child, James, then I’ll treat you like one. Now shut up and stop struggling so much. You’re heavy enough as it is.”
Jimmy grimaced as Robert tugged his arm forcefully, and hung in silence, feet dangling at an odd angle behind him and his head resting perilously between the blond’s crotch and his knee. He was feeling queasier by the minute, and perhaps the position was too much for Robert to handle, because with familiar ease he was suddenly being pulled up until his feet fell over Robert’s arm and his neck was held up by his other arm as though he were a baby. He could feel himself redden with humiliation and embarrassment.
“What the fuck are you doing, Robert?”
“Ah, the blushing bride in all her bearded glory!”, Robert gasped, grinning as he pushed onwards, evidently close to the top of the hill. His eyes were alight with a desperation to be done with lugging around all this weight, and Jimmy suddenly felt guilty.
“You can put me down now. ”
“Never. Poor little Pagey is much too tired to walk, isn’t he?”, Robert cooed. Jimmy swatted his chest in retaliation, an immediately felt himself fall to the ground. He landed with an audible thud, and whined loudly as he dusted off his backside.
“You twat! You didn’t have to drop me like that!”
Robert shrugged and took the guitar off his back, handing it to Jimmy. He then proceeded to to fall onto the grass himself, sighing as he soaked in the view.
“This is it. Isn’t it absolutely gorgeous, Jimmy?” The guitarist smiled, propping himself up against Robert’s knees and tuning his guitar.
“It is.”
“And what do you say to the person that carried your moping arse all the way here?”
Jimmy leaned over, rolling his eyes, and dropped a sweet kiss on Robert’s cheek, eliciting a disbelieving laugh from the blond, and then went back to casually strumming a tune.
“Thank you, darling.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Jimmy was passed out. Again. Robert sighed as he watched Bonzo poke the guitarist in a drunken stupor. God, it was like living in a madhouse, being in this band. Gone were the days when just being on stage gave them a rush of adrenaline that lasted days without leaving them like this— hurt and weakened and dead to the real world. Now they scored blow for breakfast and bathed in booze on an everyday basis, and it was showing. Bonzo stumbled towards Robert, and the blond put on a smile, grabbing Bonzo’s arm and leading the grumbling man to his room. He made sure Jonesy knew where the drummer was so he could check in on him from time to time (something the two of them now took turns doing, like they were their fucking wives or something.) Robert then walked briskly back to the couch where Jimmy lay in cold sweat, groaning as he clutched his barely-there stomach. It hurt to see the guitarist reduced to this mass of clanking bone and skin. He was shivering, and Robert bit his lip in sincere worry for the older man. He had grabbed a bag of crisps and a bottle of water from the roadies on the way, and he now balanced them carefully on the arm of the couch, proceeding to lift Jimmy by the shoulders until he was sitting down. He gently placed the guitarist’s head on his lap and rubbed his arm as Jimmy shuddered and buried his nose in his stomach.
“Hey, hey. Pagey, I need you to drink some water.”
Jimmy came around slowly, blinking unsteadily and sitting up with great effort. Robert passed him the water and the open bag. Jimmy sipped little by little, uncaring of the rest that trickled down his shirt. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and groaned again, finding warmth in Robert’s arm and clinging to it. Robert’s heart panged with despair as Jimmy continued to mumble incoherently. The man’s ribcage shone much too clearly against his pale skin, and the blond wondered when he’d last eaten a proper meal.
“Can you eat something? Please?”
Jimmy whined and shook his head.
“Just one? For me, Pagey?”, Robert tried again, holding a single crisp to Jimmy’s mouth. He watched the guitarist process the event sluggishly, then take a small bite. He did a little victory dance in his head, because this was the first time in a week he’d managed to get both water and food into the man after a concert. Jimmy swallowed, looking almost pained, but then, he reached for the bag in Robert’s hand, and slipped a second one between his lips, chewing quietly. The younger man couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face, and he wrapped an arm around Jimmy’s back in encouragement.
Once he’d finished about half the bag, he took another swig of water, and then fell asleep against Robert’s shoulder, exhausted. The blond shifted him carefully so that his head was resting comfortably on his lap and his legs ran the length of the couch. Jimmy instinctively pressed himself against Robert, humming in a little less manic discontent. He wasn’t groaning any more, and he looked almost peaceful now. Robert pushed his matted, dark curls out of his face and sighed, watching his friend in silence. He could feel tears pricking his eyes as he ran his fingers over the hollowed planes of Jimmy’s face. His pallor was greying and bruised, and his forehead was lined with stressed creases and weariness. He was so light Robert could have pushed him off the couch with his pinky, and it was almost unsettling to the singer that his friend had turned into this. This husk of a human. He choked back a sob, wary of the random photographers and groupies loitering the corridors, and shifted uneasily at the thought of someone catching them alone like this (not they were doing anything compromising, but there was most definitely an image he— and Jimmy, he was sure— wanted to maintain.)
Jimmy stirred, registering Robert's movement, and suddenly panicked, grasping Robert’s hand as though he was afraid the singer was leaving him. He held on in desperation, mumbling quiet words that punched the blond in the gut with how timid they sounded.
“Please stay”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Jonesy’s alone tonight. By choice, he has pointed out to literally every one in the bar that has wandered past him and commented on his solitary existence. He isn’t even alone (technically). He's seated in corner booth, looking past the empty chair in front of him and straight down the length of the bar to where Peter is watching with growing fascination as Robert and Bonzo perform some variety of a gigue on the tiny dance floor. Laughter bubbles over as Robert trips and catches himself, and the singer, hands on hips in indignation, grabs Peter’s hand and yanks him onto the dance floor with them, playfully challenging him to a dance-off. Jimmy looks on with glee and sets aside his bottle of Jack Daniels. His arm candy grows restless beside him, trying in vain to keep the attention of the man, but to no avail. Jonesy’s hoping she’ll soon realise (for her own good) that Jimmy’s not in the mood. And as cruel as it might seem, Jonesy gets it. He holds an affection in his heart for all his friends— the pretty girls and eager roadies and everyone between— but sometimes (like right now) all he wants is to sit in a corner booth, sip on his beer, and watch. Watch the greying men hunched over their gins and tonic, burying their creased faces in their glasses, worrying about mortgages and divorce settlements and ailing parents and god knows what else. Watch the crowds of scantily-clad LA girls primp their meticulously-styled hair and reapply their smoky makeup before approaching Jimmy or Robert, bright and giggly, fingers gripping skirts, palms sweaty and lips bitten a hungry red. Watch bartenders keep order in this madhouse of drunks with their counter tricks, turning the mundanity of filling glasses into a precise art, holding the gaze of the awed virgins and the amicable veterans, all of whom gravitate in equal admiration towards the counters, hands in pockets, coughing up change and crumpled bills in exchange for a performance of dancing cups and gurgles of falling colours almost as magical as the drinks themselves. Jonesy likes it all. People are such a mystery, yet so unbelievably open, if only you know which angle to look at them from. Everyone has an Achilles heel. Every cynic has a soft spot. Every rebel relents. Every nihilist surrenders to the right lover.This is the only rule of life he has never seen exceptions to. Everyone has an Achilles heel. As his eyes drift back to his bandmates, the young girl leaves Jimmy’s side, undeniably inebriated. She stumbles past the guitarist after one disappointing peck on the lips and makes a shaky beeline towards… him? Jonesy looks behind him, but there’s no one there. Turning back, he realises she’s moving closer. It’s unnerving, the glint in her eye, and as she approaches his carefully constructed bubble of isolation, he finds himself intrigued by her sunken demeanour. A resentment hugs her small frame, a bitterness. Bitter. A word the bassist would never have used to describe any of Jimmy Page’s lovers. He knows Jimmy's bitter. Knows Jimmy holds grudges and scoffs at true love and regularly bemoans the idea of settling down. But he also knows Jimmy likes to keep up appearances so as not to give himself away. He knows that the hopeful optimism of Jimmy's girlfriends is something he relishes in the dark and dismisses in plain sight. Jimmy's bitter. But usually, his lovers aren't. So this should be interesting. He wonders what she wants. The girl tips forward and slides into his booth, sidling up to him drunkenly, face burning pink under the beams of the warm, watery light above them. “You alone?”, she licks her lips, tossing back a shot of whisky and coughing loudly. “By choice”, he says firmly, then shifts his body so he’s facing her. “He send you over here?”, Jonesy asks, pointing to Jimmy. Of course he’s aware that’s not the case, but he’s learnt that sometimes people like when you pretend they have some kind of purpose. Sure enough, a flicker of pride crosses her face, the very idea that she might be so in-the-know that Jimmy would send her over to deliver a secret message, but it quickly dissolves into a sullen frown. “No. I don’t think he’s even noticed I’m gone.”Jonesy feels bad for her, but really, what more was she expecting of the guitarist? “Yeah, he can get like that sometimes.”She nods in resignation. “I just don’t understand it, you know?”
Jonesy offers a sympathetic shrug. She leans her head on his shoulder as the two of them watch the unfolding drama on the dance floor. Robert is doing some ridiculous footwork with Peter, tossing his frizzy mane back and letting his floral blouse fall off a shoulder without much of a care. Grant gives up when Robert starts to do the Hustle, and the singer yells in victory, scanning the grounds for someone new to face off against. Gaze landing on Jimmy, he beckons predatorily, and Jimmy, alarmed, shakes his head. From the side, Bonzo shoves the guitarist harshly so he falls, flailing, into Robert’s inescapable circle of dancing doom, much to the singer’s excitement. At this point, Jonesy finds himself smiling along to conversations that he can’t even hear, and it takes him a second to realise that the groupie next to him is talking.“Sorry, what did you say?” His question is met with a dejected sigh. “You’re all the same…”, she says quietly, as if she’s just felt the reality of it crash into her all at once. From across the room, Jimmy laughs, twirling Robert around as they sing along to atrocious disco music that they’d rather die than be caught listening to on a sober day. The girl sighs again. “How does he do it?”Jonesy raises his eyebrows in confusion. “Robert”, the girl clarifies. “Jimmy looks at him like he’s the only other person in the world.”Jonesy snorts at the campness of her thoughts. He hopes she isn’t one of those kids who are deluded enough to think that the two frontmen are undoubtedly gay for each other (and of whom there are a surprisingly large number) because that’s a theory he find pretty stupid. He tells her this, and she sits up straight, indignant.
“But it’s true!”, she defends, ignoring Jonesy rolling his eyes. “Look at them! No, really look. “
She grips his shoulders and presses the side of her face against his, guiding his face in an effort to show him what she sees. Jonesy finds himself getting increasingly uncomfortable, because these are his friends. They’re not gay, and as an observant man, he’s pretty sure that he would have seen the signs a long time ago if they were. Then again, he’s never needed to observe them per se. There’s something about being so involved with a group of people, so intimate and connected and close, that you forget to really look at them sometimes...“He can’t take his eyes off Robert. He’s practically glowing just watching him have fun. Look, just look at them.”
He senses there’s no harm in entertaining the girl for a while, and so gives in, watching his friends despite the growing stiffness and discomfort in his chest. He wonders what that’s all about. Maybe he’s having a heart attack? It seems unlikely. He’s distracted by laughter and continues to "look" at them. A few minutes pass by, and the realisation crawls upon him that he may indeed have missed something worthwhile.
Everyone knows Robert adores Jimmy like no other; that their bond is truly remarkable. But Jimmy’s a lot quieter about expressing his affection in public. Jimmy is the reserved one. Yet here he is, having the time of his life with Robert. The strains of overhead light splinter their shadows across the walls, wrapping them in a haven of coloured bursts that flit across their faces in time with the sponge-soaked, grainy synth music pounding in the floors beneath them. And in the midst of all this, the smile that graces Jimmy’s face as Robert continues to dance is so genuine, so adoring, so giddy, that Jonesy feels the power of it hit him square in the chest in a manner much too unsettling to ignore. He realises that this is a symptom of guilt. He feels like he’s invaded a personal diary, a hazy, romantic recollection of a night with the perfect person. It’s so ugly and raw and bleeding with honesty that he can feel himself at once repulsed and moved beyond comprehension.
He turns back to the groupie who’s looking at him knowingly, a sad smile on her face, and for once, he feels truly sorry for the girl. It isn’t pity, that much he wants to affirm. It isn’t pity. It’s just finally understanding how heartbreaking it must be to know you’ll never have the fullest attention of the man you adore. The kind of attention he pays his best friend. The kind of attention that erases the rest of the world for the sake of a moment free of time and place. He has felt that attention, and he has doled it out himself to the woman in his life. He knows the feeling the well, has lived in the skin of a man infatuated. But he had never recognised the form it took to the observer. The selfishness of desire. The outright egoism of leaving behind the world that has some semblance of a center around you, everything and everyone who has worked to keep themselves in your eyes, and every moment you have have worked to keep yourself in theirs, all for the sake of a crush. The Achilles heel.
He doesn’t pity the girl. But he feels secondhand (and some resurfacing firsthand) guilt on the part of his friend, who cannot help himself but follow his wounded heart blindly in the hopes of a cure, but also cannot see how he has wounded that of those holding him in the same light. Jonesy must be wearing this influx of emotion on his face, because the girl waves her hand dismissively.
“I understand it. After all the time they’ve spent together, it would probably be stranger if Jimmy didn’t feel that way. But it does hurt a little, y’know? I just wish I knew what it feels like to mean that much to someone. Robert doesn’t even have to try; Jimmy just loves him. And I love Robert, but I hate him a little too, just because he doesn’t know how much Jimmy loves him.”
Jonesy listens in silence, every word fitting into the complex puzzle of the Page-Plant relationship that he’d given up trying to piece together years ago. Suddenly, he feels himself nod along vigorously to her rant. It’s absolutely true, the warmth in Jimmy’s eyes is palpable.
Someone once took pictures of him dancing with Mo on their farm, and when he got his hands on them, Mo had laughed her arse off at the spaced out expression on his face. In truth, he’d just loved watching her flit around like a fairy in her beautiful dress, angelic and adorable as the day he met her. Jonesy sees nearly the same expression on Jimmy’s face now as the two of them walk to the bar, clothes sticky with sweat, Robert going on and on about something or the other in his exhausted, drunken stupor.
“You alright?”, the girl snaps him out of his creeping.
“No, but you are. Right, I mean.”
She shrugs, snuggles into the backrest of the booth, and closes her eyes. “Doesn’t take a genius.”
He disagrees. He’s known Robert and Jimmy for six years now, and he never gave their togetherness a second thought. The surreptitious glances, the protectiveness; it had never occurred to him that there might be something stirring there other than platonic friendship. Until tonight.
“You’re very observant”, he notes. More observant than I,he thinks, and I thought myself quite the watcher of people. Doesn’t take a genius, but it takes care. It takes care to notice something as delicate and budding as unspoken intimacy. To anyone else, this is just drunken dancing.
“You’re very, very observant.” She giggles, eyes still shut. “Thanks”, she slurs, nodding off to sleep by the end of the word.
“G’night.”
Jonesy’s heart pangs with fondness for the girl who has brought him revelation upon revelation. Her hair is shimmering with the ebbing disco lights, eyes shut and arms crossed in a vulnerable way that pains him, knowing what he knows. He hopes she’ll find someone who’ll love her the way she dreams. Kissing her forehead gently, he says goodnight and informs one of the bartenders that she will probably need a ride. Passing the man some cash with the strict instruction to get her home safely, Jonesy walks over to his bandmates, greeted by a chorus of “There he is!” and “JONESY”s. Robert’s telling a story that’s mostly incoherent, and every time Bonzo interrupts Jimmy glares at him, urging a whiny Robert to continue. The guitarist is fixated on his singer, and Jonesy feels a warmth in his veins when the two men rub shoulders, enjoying each others’ company far too much to be concerned with personal space. Suddenly every move they make is filled with innuendo and motive, almost unbearably tense to watch for the bassist. He steps back from them and faces Bonzo and Peter, both of whom grin teasingly at the pair, just as aware of the situation as he is.
“My wife doesn’t even look at me like that”, Bonzo mutters, nudging him. Jonesy laughs. “It sure is something.”
Everybody has an Achilles heel, he thinks as Jimmy props his chin up on an elbow, eyes casually watching Robert’s lips.
Everybody.