Michael Knight (still_michael) wrote in open_high_ways,
Michael Knight
still_michael
open_high_ways

Concert

Kitt had met his band, talked to them, gotten used to them. Most of them, he was going to get along with. His bassist, keyboardist, and drummer were all fantastic, though he felt like his second guitar needed him to prove something. All of them, though, picked up on his songs and though they needed lyrics sheets, they were ready.

He was more than impressed, and he thought, for a few moments, about how good it was to have... friends. Not exactly friends he'd known for so long or so well as Michael or Bonnie or Ray, but friends. People who had no idea he was a car... But nothing could be perfect.

His drummer, named Jason, had asked him quietly, "You're not gonna... like... hit on me or anything, are you?"

Kitt had almost fallen off his shoes.

That tale was one of a few he got to tell to Michael and Stevie over dinner, while he wasn't apologising or trying to explain. But then, almost before he knew it, he was in front of a crowd of people, all screaming their enjoyment. He opened with Waiting For the Fall, as he'd known he would. He kept the pace up with Breathe, and then eased the crowd into Let Me Go. The set ended with his ballad. And he was still smiling, happy, waving and yelling "Thank you!" to the cheers as they headed off stage, a five-person tangle of a successful concert, Kitt almost towering over all of them. Tracey was pressed against his side, because he could fend off the crowd for her - she was only five-three or so. But it was time for the band people had actually paid to come see to take the stage.

Class Action.

Michael Knight's debut as lead singer.

Lights and music and a cheering crowd, and Michael with a guitar in his hands. Blue leather-- or fake leather-- not skintight, but tight enough. And the song he'd been rehearsing for days.

"There's a look you've got in your eyes
All aglow, and so inviting," Better, he was better-- sounded good, but

something's not right

Stevie in something that looked Victorian-pretty before it had been shredded, pale pink and white gold adventure-novel heroine, 'pushing' Michael to his knees, half dancing as he sang. "Telling me you're watching my every move..."

something's not right something's wrong something's wrong

He pulled her into his lap. Her voice was as beautiful as ever, warm and soft and harmonizing with his.

"Why should we wait for a while
When your touch is so exciting
Full of fire burning beyond control, Whoa!"

He kissed her cheek. The fans loved it.

something's wrong something's wrong

They sprang to their feet, Stevie moving, Michael strumming the guitar Kitt had brought him-- it really could make anyone sound good.

"This could be our first night together
Listen to my heart and you'll know it's right
Doesn't it seem there's a spell falling over us tonight?"

Something is not right

Son of a bitch!

"This could be our first night together
If we only follow our heart's desire
Waiting like a fire to ignite, could be our first night tonight!"

Crescendo.

The crowd went wild.

Michael hoped he was seeing lighters held in salute and not spots swimming in his vision. Stevie didn't give him a chance to blink and try to clear his sight, but took his hand and pulled him into a bow.

And another.

And then offstage. Michael had to jog to keep up.

Something's not right...
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He'd been watching from backstage. Not because he was so hungry for the concert but because after the first line, he had seen...

Something.

So he'd made his excuses to watch, and he'd surreptitiously pulled the PKE meter. It stayed in his quasi-pocket now. And what he saw left him with faint chills. Oh heavens... When he could, Kitt approached, a fake smile on his face and a hand outstretched to touch Michael's shoulder. Not disturbing. But... being there.

Because something was going on, and it was something he couldn't stop. And he was afraid. "Hey there, gorgeous people, that was great," he greeted.
Michael flashed him a look that should have been a smile, doing the same for-- oh, almost everyone. But he was sweating and panting (understandable) and less than steady on his feet. Nauseous.

"You were fantastic." Paul Block, taking hold of Michael's other arm.

"Thanks," Michael managed. Damn. Damn, was this going to happen every time?

"And I think you knew it," Paul said to Stevie, nearly ignoring Michael and Kitt.

"I was working up to that," she said, cheerfully smug. "You didn't give me a chance."

And then there was a crowd of well-wishers-- Michael thought he recognized someone's girlfriend, someone's boyfriend, a sound tech, and Kitt's keyboard player, but he was still dizzy enough to want to put his head between his knees. Hands were shaken, his shoulder was clasped a few times, and Paul disappeared completely.

Somehow, he kept from swearing aloud when someone said "See you at the party!"

Jimmy, though, Jimmy he recognized. He didn't recognize the bag Jimmy had, though. "Really good gig," he told them. "Really good."

"Thank you," Stevie said, as she'd been saying, making up for Michael's quiet.

"Listen, I... thought you might want this." Jimmy offered the bag to Stevie.

"What is it?"

"Well, it's, uh, some of Greg's things." Michael tried to pull himself into focus for that. "Found the bag stuffed behind a seat on the bus. Just... thought you might want it."

"... Thank you, Jimmy." Stevie was quiet, sincere.

Jimmy nodded, changed his tone. "Hey, you sounded good. Really hot. You too. You too, man."

"Thanks, Jimmy," Michael managed.
Kitt was quiet, standing there, hoping he... Well, there wasn't much he could say. Except how, now and then, he managed a 'See you tomorrow, sweetheart, yep, rehearsal, of course I'll be there.' And he gave Jimmy a big smile when he could. But most importantly, he stayed with Michael, kept a hand on his back.

He couldn't act now. Not when his partner was in so much pain, where it was so obvious to him.
Stevie unzipped the bag. There didn't seem to be much inside besides a video tape. "... It's not much to remember him by."
Touch her? Don't touch her? Hold her?

Michael settled for staying upright, though he swayed a bit. He was catching his breath, at least. "You okay?"

Stevie didn't really answer. Instead she turned to Michael and Kitt. "Hey, I'll... I'll see you two later, okay? I just... feel like being alone."

"Yeah, sure," and he tried to make it sound gentle. She was hurt. That was plain.

something's not right
Kitt nodded as well. And he kept his hand on Michael's back, though he edged it up to Michael's shoulder, to squeeze. "Of course," Kitt said, quiet, nodding, himself.
Stevie headed off, then, without another word-- in fairness, she looked shaken.

"Poor Stevie."

... Said by a man who looked moments from melting out of his jumpsuit.
"Yes. Poor Stevie. And poor you. Come on - let's get you back to your dressing room. She's hurting, and so are you. I can tell." Kitt gently encouraged him to go on, and began to guide him further back, away from the crowd and toward the the dressing room.
Michael nodded and let Kitt steer him where he would. "I feel like I'm gonna throw up," he admitted.

Michael hated throwing up.
Kitt didn't care who saw them now. They had the excuse of being old friends. Even if they didn't, Kitt wouldn't have let go for anything. "Let's get you sat down first, then. And some cool water. And then we'll see how you feel from there."

It wasn't too far. There were still some people backstage, but Kitt guided them to dodge. No autographs just now.
At least Michael didn't look in any shape for it-- autographs or being A Star. The dressing room was cramped, but by now it would stay empty-- everyone had headed off to the party.

"I'm skipping the party. I know, I'm being a bad lead singer and a bad--" wait, close the door-- "investigator, but I'd have everybody thinking I've got the flu." Michael half collapsed into a chair.
"You stay there," said Kitt, once he knew Michael was going to be all right where he was. "I'll be right back."

He slipped out - he needed cool water and a cloth, both of which he had in hand when he returned. The glass, he handed to Michael. The cloth, he dabbed at Michael's forehead, crouched beside the chair. "There..."
"Too good to me," he murmured before taking a long, long drink of water-- but he appreciated it. Touched Kitt's face briefly before wrapping both hands around the glass.

"S'better now," he assured Kitt. "Can't tell if it was all my head or if I was just cooking in this thing." He was certain some of it was his head...
"You would've done the same for me," Kitt murmured, holding the washcloth gently over Michael's forehead, then his cheeks, then his neck. "I've been the object of your worrying before."

Then, shifting in his crouch, he drew out the PKE meter to have a look. Not quite as strong. But still strong enough. "You were spiking while you were out on stage. You're right. Part of it was in your head. The rest probably is the outfit." All spoken quietly, Kitt sighed. "I hope you brought something cooler to wear back to the hotel."
He nodded. "Same stuff I wore in. There's a shower in here, right? I'm stewing. I think there's a puddle." Joking. Trying to joke, anyway.

"What in hell is setting it off?"
"I wish I knew. If I did, I'd know how to stave it off." But all Kitt could do was sigh and run the cloth over Michael's face once more. "There's a shower, yes - over there, I'm guessing. I can wait until we're at the hotel. You go ahead." The washcloth he'd gotten was from his own.
He handed the mostly-empty glass to Kitt and heaved to his feet-- absently kissing Kitt's cheek as he made for the shower.

Which was small, really, but all he wanted was to rinse the sweat off. Michael stripped out of the-- "Son of a bitch!"

At least it didn't sound pained.
"Michael?" Kitt, however, was worried. And anything out of the ordinary got worried at. "Are you all right?" He was just outside the bathroom door by then. Long legs made quick work of a small room.
Son of a bitch.

Son of a bitch.

"... Yes," Michael called in answer-- somewhere between more swearing, laughing, and crying.

"I'm just... blue."
"...Oh, Michael..." He pressed his hand over his mouth, mind supplying most of the thankfully censored details. "Put on a towel. You got to see my hair dyed like flame - even's even."
"Oh for the love of-- you dyed my hair," Michael pointed out.

Besides, he still had to get his boots off.

He had no idea where his guitar had ended up. "You dyed my hair assorted."
"And if I were dyed blue, you wouldn't want to see it? Besides, you put decals on me twice." He knew he wouldn't get in. He didn't really care. He just hoped to get a little bit of humour out of Michael.
"... Fine." It would just be easier.

He grabbed a towel and hastily wrapped it around his waist before stepping back into the dressing room.

He was blue.

He even turned around so Kitt could see just how blue. Shoulders, underarms, all along the insides of his arms, his sides, his back, his legs, particularly the backs and insides and backs of his knees. His elbows were blue.

"Can I try to wash it off now?"
Kitt bit at his bottom lip, stifling his grin. And then he hugged him. "I'll let you put one of those ghastly silver stars on me if you want to. Go shower."

And he gently nudged Michael back toward the miniature bathroom.
"You're a weird kid," Michael said, but closed the door behind him and started running very hot water.

It helped.

Well, it helped his headache and got rid of most of the blue. Michael came out after a few minutes in the same towel, hair rubbed mostly dry. Twice he'd gone into that bathroom, and had forgotten so much as un-blued shorts both times. "We're gonna need some bleach or something," he told Kitt as he rummaged for real clothes.

There were still faint traces of blue, but only where he'd been worst stained.

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