"Fuck," Mick says.
Keith laughs. "Brilliant, mate. Fucking genius." He's lying on the floor. Playing a lick on his guitar.
Mick smiles.
*
"U.S. out of Vietnam?" Mick asks. "U.S. out of sodding Vietnam-- that's all you had to say?"
"They're, I did some research, man, and- I'm an artist, yeah? And they're funding a war on my work, on my back, on all of our backs, which. Man, that is so not on. That's, that's fucking. That's. It's just- down with the military-industrial complex, Mick, right, down with-"
"Right. Fine. U.S. out of Vietnam. Never mind that we're-"
"Mick, you-"
"-not-"
"Mick."
Keith peers over the top of his shades. Mick swallows. They stand there, staring at each other, for what Mick will later realize was only a minute, but what feels at the time like hours. A couple of Decca execs walk by. They turn vaguely purple and scurry around a corner.
"Fuck," Keith says. He's laughing. They both are. "We, fuck. I just can't believe they won't release our single, man, I mean, that's some grade-A class act shit right there, some fucking brilliant vocal work on your-"
Mick bows. "Well, thank you kindly. I did try-"
"-and the emotional honesty, mate, that was seriously fucking true-to-life. 'Ah, Mr. Jagger,'" he continues, aping a BBC accent, "'So is it true that you funded your early career by prostituting yourself? Sources suggest that you've even written a song, obviously censored by your former record label, detailing this part of your life. Any comments?'"
"Right, yes, I happen to have a short statement prepared," Mick says. "Two words: sod and off."
*
They didn't even listen to the entire song. Mick still feels vaguely cheated.
"So, do you-"
"Is this a joke?" an executive whose name Mick doesn't know asked. His face matched his tie: green and red polka dots. "Are you trying to be funny?"
"No?"
Someone coughed. Keith just sat there, glaring: a poster child for bad boy rock stars.
(Question: "Would you let your daughter marry a Rolling Stone?"
The correct answer: "Are you mad? Of course not.")
Mick cleared his throat. "No, this is not a joke. This is a serious, this is. Why? Did you find it humourous? I, myself, find the song to be a particularly poignant and thought-provoking examination of modern society, but if that's not-"
"We're not releasing that. That. That profanity."
"No?" Mick said. Slightly pouting. He shrugged. "Oh, well."
"No, of course we're. It's disgusting, it's degenerate, it's filthy. We most certainly are not releasing," he looked down at the title, sputtered, and continued, "And if I even get a hint that this is some sort of a scam, I will file suit so quickly your heads will spin."
Mick smiled. "Well, we've upheld our end of the contract, so if we can't persuade you to release the song, that terminates our business together." He stood, gathered his papers. Keith right behind him. "It's been a pleasure, boys," he added, waving.
Half-way out the door, Keith turned and proved himself a hippie.
*
They are really very drunk. They are also very high. Even Charlie looks bemused.
"So," Keith is saying, "This one cat, rather rotund and almost piglike in appearance, turns purple, right, eyes all popping out of his head, and he starts spitting, just, 'fuh, fuh, fuh', right, and saliva shooting out of his mouth, yeah, and Mick's just sitting there, all calm as you please, asking, 'So, do you like it?' all wide-eyed and innocent and. Fuck. It was just fucking brilliant, yeah?"
"And Keith just sat there, glaring at everyone for the entire meeting, looking menacing. I thought someone was going to have a stroke, they were all so nervous. Just kept glancing at Keith, looking away-"
"-accidentally looking at Mick and fucking changing colours and it's-"
They're all laughing. All hysterical. Keith finishes his bottle of Jack. Mick takes a drag off his smoke and raises his glass. "To Decca," he says, "May they rot in hell."
Keith chimes in with a cheerful, "U.S. out of Vietnam."
Mick almost chokes. "Ow," he says, laughing. "U.S. out of sodding Vietnam, indeed."
"Right," Charlie says, "To the Stones, to Freedom." He smirks. "To the Queen."
Everyone drinks. Mick lights a cigarette. Keith nicks it. Someone, Mick's never sure who, puts on a Muddy album. Keith's mouth goes slack, his eyes are already glassy, and he melts into his chair.
Mick doesn't watch. He doesn't reach out and pet Keith's hair. He finishes his drink and lights another fag. He closes his eyes and he listens. He doesn't take Keith's hand, he doesn't feel for Keith's calluses against his skin, he doesn't stroke Keith's wrist. He doesn't inhale the smoke from Keith's mouth. He sits. He drinks. He listens. He drinks.
Keith doesn't touch him back.
The album skips.
"Fuck," Mick says.
fin.
[once more into the fray]