âmes pétillantes ~ classic rock imagines

• Brett Anderson •

Rest In Peace, Ozzy Osbourne, you absolute mad bastard 🙏🏼❤️

Wasn't a Suede fan before writing this (had never listened to a note of theirs, but did have Brett Anderson's books because they have nice titles), but I think I am now so, thanks for the request kiniskin! Hope you enjoy! Working on a Bob Dylan request, but it's turning into a novel – just like this one did, honestly 😭

--☆--

You'd met Brett on the tube. And you couldn't help thinking it was funny, later, when you were drifting off listening to his gentle breaths as he held you, that it was the tube that rekindled the ashes of your love.

When you met, he was coasting through life, a student in a dead-end course, putting off life as long as he could. You, already entangled in a soul-draining 9-5, resented his carefree eyes.

It was this middle-aged anger, the rolling of your eyes, the distaste for everything, that made Brett sneak into the seat beside you and 'put a smile on that pretty face'.

How your relationship came to be was hazy, lost between smoke-soaked nights in his shared flat and conversations on walkabout adventures through London. But, one morning, you woke in his bed, took his hand, and kissed his jaw like you'd been married twenty years.

And then... you fell apart. You wanted to work – you saw it as the only escape from the poverty you were raised in and couldn't fathom why he didn't have the same drive. All Brett wanted to do was play.

In the middle of the night, after an argument screamed when he'd come home hours after his lectures, you packed your bags and disappeared into your own life.

Somehow, years later, that life brought you back to Kensington station, the tube line where you met him. Your job had changed for the better, you had a nice flat in Richmond Upon Thames, and you didn't think of the waifish boy with carefree eyes. Not ever. Not every time you took the tube. Not every time you went on a date. Not every time you heard his voice, melodious and melancholic, just as he'd used to sing to you, on the radio. Nope. Never.

The doors slid open, and you dodged your way inside, jostled by the Saturday crowds. You were busy cursing them all, rolling your eyes and tutting. You didn't see him.

But he saw you.

If you'd met his eyes in the tinted glass - glowing like crystals against the blur of the underground tunnel - you would have seen that they were unblinking with shock. And just as beautiful as they had always been.

Brett was frozen, unsure if he'd seen you. He'd imagined your face so many times - in window reflections, around street corners, in singing crowds - that he didn't bother checking anymore. But that anger on your face, slightly older but no less perfect, was so like the day you'd met, he was sure he couldn't have conjured it up.

He leaned his head out from the safety of his hat, searching through the crowded carriage. Busy, but not packed. He found you quickly, standing by the doors, arm around a yellow pole, back against the plastic guard beside the filled seat.

Despite the rattling train, Brett stood smoothly and covered the vibrating distance in a few strides. You didn't notice, too busy scanning the map and counting stops. He leaned against the opposite side of the door, waiting for you to notice him.

When you didn't, he pondered approaches. What had he started with last time? You look like you need a good shag. Hm. That hadn't worked then, either.

He watched desperately, but you only shifted your gaze from the wall to the floor. Sighing heavily, he couldn't help thinking that this would make a fantastic song someday.