Jett and Goldie mourn David Bowie

"I can't fucking believe this shit. Can you fucking believe this shit?" Jett stormed from the kitchen into the living room, grimacing as he waved his phone over his head. Goldie sat quietly a few feet away, looking up as Jett entered the room and tucking his phone away. He was good like that, a good listener, not fucking around on his phone like what Jett had to say wasn't interesting.

Possibly because what Jett had to say was always interesting. Or Jett liked to think so, anyway.

And this was massive. "Fucking Johnny Rotten is just driving the Sex Pistols the last little bit into the ground. Again. Like he hasn't sold out so far that there's literally no selling out left to do. I mean, do you remember when they came out with Sex Pistols credit cards ? Like..." Jett adopted an English accent on the fly—not half-bad, considering the amount of time he'd spent in the UK—and paced the room, hands weaving in agitation, nearly smacking a vase. "Oi, do you want to spend the rest of your life indebted to The Man? Sure you do! Let's do it together, with dapper new Sex Pistols credit cards! Do you want anarchy? Say it with your Sex Pistols credit card! That'll show 'em!"

He groaned, long and low and utterly disgusted, and then looked to the heavens (or their admittedly pretty swank ceiling) as if for guidance from above. "Now, as if that were not enough, there are Sex Pistols Converse. Not like my good old fashioned All Stars with graffiti lovingly hand-drawn on the canvas, no . These are licensed. These are official merch. For only eighty-plus dollars a pop, you too can own official Sex Pistols themed sneakers! Good goddamn, what is the world coming to?"

Jett's volume rose as he hit his stride, stomping around the living room like a caged predator, raking one hand through his long black hair. "Can you believe this shit? How broke is Johnny Rotten that he does this shit? Can he not just fucking live in a nice little slummy hellhole and eat Ramen like any other self-respecting punk until his career picks back up? What is this shit? Did he ever even believe in the principles of the punk movement at all?"

Growling, Jett turned to face Goldie, bringing up his fists in frustration, like he might punch thin air in lieu of punching John "Johnny Rotten" Lydon. "Y'know the worst fucking part? The really scummy, low, reeking toejammy part of it all? Fucking kids these days, they're gonna get their parents to buy them those fucking sneakers, and they're gonna feel like rebels. They're gonna feel punk. And god help 'em, they don't know the first thing. They're fucking babes in the woods, lambs to the corporate slaughter. Gone are the days of paying two bucks for a used pair of sneaks from the thrift shop and going at 'em with a dollar store Sharpie. Who needs creativity? Who needs artistic self-expression? What is wrong with the world?"

Wait. Was Goldie crying? Jett blinked and dropped to a crouch in front of Goldie, looking up at him in confusion. Sure, it was a fucking horrible situation, a real shitsucking piece of news that just further solidified all Jett's fears about where the planet was headed, but it wasn't worth crying over, and Goldie's interest in the Sex Pistols had always been somewhat more temperate than Jett's.

"You... aren't crying about the sorry state of punk idols, are you, baby?" Jett frowned and reached up to brush his knuckles gently across Goldie's damp cheek.

Goldie blinked a few times, sniffed, then brought his hand to his face and touched the tears like he was surprised that they were happening. His lips parted like they were trying to twist into words, but whatever had him so upset had apparently robbed him of his ability to make sound.

He silently patted the spot next to him on the luxurious white couch. Tears streaked down his face, and his shoulders tensed as he let out a soft sob. "Bowie."

"What about Bowie?" Jett joined Goldie on the couch and slipped his arm around his husband, wiping away Goldie's tears with his thumb. "Did someone pan his new album? Was somebody wrong on the Internet again?"