Open Arms

Chapter Twenty Five

"Tell him to fuck off then."

"Angus, he's doin' everything in his damned ability to help you, you're the one bein' an arse," Malcolm yelled, defending George standing beside them. 

"An' why don't you tell me to fuck off, Ang?" George asked, heated as well. "Don't get Mal to do your dirty work for you." Angus didn't respond, instead choosing to pluck a few strings on his guitar, keeping his back to everyone. 

Cliff and Peter were in the sound room talking, Mutt in there as well with a pair of headphones on. Phil hadn't shown up yet, and Malcolm and George were in the main room holding an intervention for their brother's hostile behavior. The idea of moving locations didn't sit quite well with Mutt, who thought keeping the tracks together would be the best way to keep them from getting ruined. Malcolm, who knew there were hardly any tracks made yet, figured it was alright. George stepped in noticing Angus keeping to himself, and made the mistake of trying to be a brother. 

"He's been actin' this way ever since I called him in last," Malcolm said. "Ever since he ran out the door he's been in a mood."

"I'm not in a mood," Angus muttered. 

"We're all in a mood," George said. "We're all stressed, you don't think we all want the next guy strangled?" He gave a small kick to the leg of Angus' chair, Angus only pausing a moment to sigh. "So what's the deal then, eh? Somethin' goin' on at home?"

"Nothin'."

"Havin' a fight or somethin'?"

"If ya' don't mind George, I'd like it if you kept your mouth shut an' let me work on this riff, yeah? Thanks," he muttered over his shoulder. 

"I'm gettin' pretty fuckin' sick of your attitude lately, Ang. You're never this bad, you've never grabbed me by the throat with two hands," George said. "C'mon, I'm your brother, mate. Is it something about Hannah? Are you fighting, is there a money problem? What is it?"

Angus almost answered, almost, but something stole the words right from his mouth. Perhaps it was the lump in his throat, choking him up. Clearing his throat and blinking rapidly, he shrugged. "I dunno what's goin' on."

"I call your bullshit," George said quietly, Malcolm having left the room to check on the rest of the guys. Angus eyed the window, hoping Phil would show up and put an end to this discussion. No sign of his car. "Look, if somethin's goin' on bad an' all I would understand, ya' know? But if there's nothin' at all--an' everything is runnin' on water then there's no reason to be actin' like a childish prick."

Angus was in no mood to fight. Energy drained out of him and he felt deflated. Exhausted. George stayed for maybe a minute longer before standing up and heading for the sound room. Good. Maybe he'd get a bit of work done. 

Every note he plucked carved a deeper etch into his fingers, his skin tingling under the callouses. They had healed from his last assault, and were now protected against another lashing. Something bright shone right through the window he faced, and he squinted for a second before it left. It was the first sunny day in a while. The English sun was much more welcomed, and accepted with a few thankful sighs. 

He paused in his playing to rub the back of his neck. He hadn't slept at all well the past few days. Tossing and turning with rogue thoughts as his lullaby. Hardly any words were exchanged that morning before he left for the studio, Hannah either still asleep or pretending to be. Angus left without a goodbye, closing the door rather harshly behind him. He could admit he was being childish, but it was difficult to be the bigger man when a woman so stubborn as Hannah shared the blame. Something she never grew out of.