Open Arms

Chapter Eighteen

The studio windows were fogged with cold. Light snow peppered the streets and grass, glittering the hair of all who walked through it. Cheeks were pink, breath was silver, and Angus' fingertips were red with blood. A few new blisters had come up from practice and one broke open during a particularly difficult new riff. He ignored it, letting the blood drip on the fretboard and strings, hiding his winces of pain by bobbing his head up and down. Like any other obstacle, it didn't affect his playing, and for that George was grateful. 

Bon sat in the corner of the room, back against the wall and his knees pulled halfway to his chest. One hand held a little black book with pages littered with messy handwriting and scribbled out text. The other was twirling a pencil in its fingers. Bon's eyes were half-closed, the dark circles still as present as ever. His sense of humor was still there and his smile had hardly been altered. But he didn't talk nearly as much as he used to. Most words exchanged with him nowadays were from his girlfriend, Silver. She wasn't there now, however, and his silence was still more noticeable. 

From the sound room, George and Harry were listening to them play, stopping them to make an occasional comment or change. Eventually, they'd meet up to work on a final product, which would end up being the next album. But of course, Bon had to write the rest of the words first. 

Thirty minutes of nonstop playing in the dead of winter seemed to put a damper on everyone's spirits. Malcolm and George yelled a bit louder than normal, Angus refused to clean up his hands and got a bit of blood on his Styraphome teacup, and even Cliff got in a bit of a row with George. After being minorly threatened to be replaced for the bass on the album, Cliff merely shook him off and let Malcolm attempt to order him back to the sound room. Harry kept to himself, playing each track and deciding which technique sounded best. 

Phil's input was quiet. He never yelled at anyone, and he kept his swearing to a minimum. Due to this, his playing was consistent and steady and George, satisfied with how it sounded so far let him go home early. With a smug smile, he left the men for a pot of good tea at home. 

"You're not our babysitter, George," Angus muttered bitterly. "It's hard enough playin' without you stickin' your head up our arses-"

"An' where would you be without our help, Ang?" George asked. "Harry's been workin' all day an' night playin' each track over again to give you guys the best sound an'-"

"We've got Mutt workin' on it too, he's been in here more than either of you-"

"Mutt can only do so much, he's a busy man!" George interrupted. "An' he doesn't know his brothers' sound like I do, an' this is my day off from my own work--up to my arse in snow,  staplin' you two to the wall to keep you from buntin' me across the room," he yelled pointing at Malcolm. "An-" Bon snickered from where he sat in the corner. "What are you laughin' at?"

"Nothin'," he grinned, continuing to write. 

"You keep outta it then," he said as Bon shook his head. His pencil scratching was the only thing to be heard in the room until George kept talking. "An' you're gettin' blood on every surface in here, we jus' cleaned this place!"

"I'm jus' playin' hard like you told me," Angus argued. "There ain't one guitarist within a hundred-mile radius knowin' how to play the songs well enough to replace me, or Mal for that matter-"

"Will you stop--" George yelled slamming his hand on the wall beside him. "Bein' such a prima fuckin' donna!"

Before either Cliff or Malcolm could have stopped him and before Harry even knew what was going on in the next room Angus' guitar was thrown down to the floor along with a young man named George. Considering stepping in, but knowing how the Youngs settled their differences, Cliff kept to the side, also hating the thought of getting hurt himself. Malcolm did a great deal of yelling, then swearing before setting his guitar down and stepping over Angus' to get to them. He was soon knocked down as well, and it was difficult to tell which Young was which.