Vivamus, Moriendum est (Rorschach x oc)

38. Cha-Cha Changes

Mary's P.O.V.  Late Fall 1958

"What are you going for again?" I asked. This happened to be much to the distress of James. He ran his hands over his face and groaned.

"For the last bloody time. Hard and fast." He snapped.

"Right," He started to grow more agitated as I spoke. "I'm sorry! I just am not sure I know what that means!" 

"It means hard and fast! Heavy!"

"But not Elvis?"

"No! Not bloody Elvis! We're trying to create a new genre! A new musical experience!" 

"Elvis?"

"NO!" He kicked over a music stand and pulled at his curly hair.

I stood up, grasping my guitar by the neck. The frustration almost made me want to smash it. It's not my guitar after all. "You're not giving me enough to go on."

"Heavy drums, heavy bass, heavy lead guitar! Is that enough for you?" James roared.

"What does that even mean?" I cried back. 

James shook his hands in front of himself, "you said you knew music!"

"I know music! And what you're trying to do is not music!" 

He smiled and laughed dismissively, "you're right! It's art! Something I don't expect you to effing understand!" 

"EXPLAIN IT TO ME AND MAYBE WE'D GET SOMEWHERE!" I roared. 

"You know what. Fine. I don' care anymore." He made his way for the door, flinging it open. 

"Come back to me when you get a bloody effing clue." James snapped. He slammed the door shut behind him. Leaving the frame to take the shock of impact. 

Roger sighed and set down his drumsticks. Resigned, I settled back onto the stool I had previously occupied. Tentatively, Roger approached me.

"Sorry 'bout him." He said.

"It'd mean more coming from him." It was a silly thing to say. We both knew apologizing was the last thing James Oliver would ever do.

"He's just frustrated is all. We've been working at this for a long time and the band has seen some...tough spots." 

"Seems to me that all it is is tough spots. I mean you don't have any songs written at all, no lyrics. What am I supposed to do with that?"

Roger was standing in front of me now, desperation laced his voice. "I know. But we have a vision and concepts."

"Visions and concepts that you cannot seem to express in a clear or concise manner." I responded haughtily. 

Roger sighed, "you just have to see it. It's not something to be explained, but rather something to be felt."

"Oh great, that clears things up nicely. I'll get right on that." 

"Look, just-" Roger wrested the guitar from my hands. "Here."

"What are you-"

"Just wait." 

Roger fiddled with the guitar. Adjusting the amps, playing with the tuning pegs. I watched him work in silence. His brows furrowed; face set in deep concentration. It was a long time before he handed the guitar back to me.

"Here ya go." He said, his usual disarming smile spread across his face.

"What am I supposed to do?" I asked, raising a brow at him.