âmes pétillantes ~ classic rock imagines

• Brian Jones •

The party was dying and had been for some time, but several clingers-on were desperate to make the most of a Rolling Stones celebration.

Mick had long since disappeared into the night, and Charlie had barely stayed for an hour. Keith was, at the present moment, unaccounted for, but no doubt he was on the prowl for someone to leave with. Brian was sat beside you.

It was his house everyone had invaded. Allegedly a housewarming party - but not one Brian himself had arranged. Possibly Mick. Maybe Keith. Nobody cared - they all turned up.

Brian had wanted to sit by the pool. It was the middle of February, and very few others wanted to brave this venture. You knew several party goers had snuck out to the property's adjoining forest to vanquish their conquests in the blissful secrecy of night, but only a handful of people populated the beautiful house's lawn.

You had perched yourself under the sheltered lounging area, in perfect view of the illuminated house and gentle rippling pool. Brian did not look at either. He stared into his empty glass as though hoping a seventh vodka would materialise within it. You'd been late to the party. You had no idea what else he'd ingested.

"How's 1969 geared up for you?" You made a stab at conversation, but Brian was in a strange mood. Often, he wanted you just to be with him so that he knew someone was with him.

"Terrible," he responded with shocking anger. "They're kicking me out."

You sighed. The potential parting of ways within The Rolling Stones was not a new topic of conversation between you two. "Why would they do that?" Because of the missed sessions and the drugs and alcohol that are always swimming around your system. Just like tonight.

Keith just so happened to emerge from the property's forest at this exact moment, hand in hand with some skinny blonde, dirt on his knees and streaked through his hair. Brian stared at him darkly.

"They despise me."

"No, they don't." You hesitated. You didn't want Brian to turn nasty, but sometimes the only way to get him out of his self-deprecating moods was with cold, harsh honesty. "But, if you have a guitarist, you expect them to play every now and again, y'know?"

Instantly, his blackened eyes turned on you.

"I started this fucking band. It's mine. And people started following us because of me. You didn't see people walking around with Keith's ratty hair, or copying Charlie's fucking undertaker style when we started. They wanted me."

"I never said they didn't. But, you got talent, man, and it's like... I don't know, like you don't even want it."

You took a sip from your drink, watching two deadheads roll down a slope in the lawn. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Brian staring at you, feel his glare scalding you. This, sadly, was also not uncommon.

In a swift motion of one hand, Brian pulled your rattan chair in towards him, until it bashed into the arm rest of his own.

"Hey," you exclaimed, as your nearly full glass almost overflowed with this sudden yaw.

Brian ignored you. "Now, listen," he said, but did not carry on. He was leaning into you like he had the most important secret in the world to share, hand bracing himself on the harsh rattan that sat between you.

"Just let me..." he halted again, as still as a lion crouched in the long Savannah grass. "I'm gonna try something. Okay?"

You knew what Brian's 'something' was, knew it as you nodded wordlessly, knew it as he brought his shaggy head closer to yours.

His kiss was strange. His lips tasted of vodka, so much so you were almost heady without having touched a drop yourself. His hair tickled at your cheeks. His ring-adorned fingers held the side of your head, keeping flowing wisps of hair pressed out of the way.

Brian was your friend, and had been for a couple of years. Had you considered the possibility of romance? Oh, many times, in daydreams and sleep aid fantasies. But, in reality, was being his friend far healthier than being his beau? He was not unlovable by any means - but you would undoubtedly call him unpredictable. Complicated. Enigmatic. Impossible.

His kiss was very strange.

In only a few seconds, Brian pulled away, considered you for a moment, then collapsed back into his chair.

You followed suit, staring out onto the dead lawn to discover if anyone may have seen. But it was past midnight at a Rolling Stones party. They could barely see their hand in front of their face.

"Feel anything?" you asked, with casual curiousity.

"No," Brian said.

"Me neither," you confirmed. "At least we got it out of the way."

Brian nodded in agreement.

"I might go for a swim," he said thoughtfully, after a moment permeated only by the sound of everyone else enjoying their night.

At that moment, a man, not much younger than the two of you, happened to float past in the pool, still and lifeless. The lights from the house windows reflected on his pale skin, striped by the shadow of the pane. Strung out eyes stared unfocused at you. Lips bared in a terrifying grin. As he soared lazily past, he rolled over and sank, face down, to the bottom of the pool.

"Maybe not," Brian mumbled.