rareslash | irish!bandslash (RPS): "Before the Encore"

Most people write popslash - they slash the guys from the Backstreet Boys or N*sync. I write irish!bandslash. I think I'm the only girl writing irish!bandslash in the universe, although there may be a female-equivalent individual on some planet somewhere else in the galaxy scent-marking into a tree a tale about some ethnic musicians who specialize in a music style particular to a small troubled island nation.
Though I doubt it.

This fic is what I refer to as Stormslash. As in, Gaelic Storm, the Irish band from "Titanic".
For those who are reading this and don't know who Gaelic Storm is and are baffled by the fact that a fellow named Steve seems to be masturbating and I can't make up my mind how his name is spelled, that's because there's two Steves: Steve Twigger and Stevie Wehmeyer.

Title: Before the Encore
Author: Val Mora
Rating: PG-13
'Ships: Patrick Murphy+Steve Wehmeyer, dream!Steve Wehmeyer/dream!Steve Twigger
Disclaimer: This fic is not meant to reflect the reality of the people depicted in any way. It is merely for entertainment (and traumatisation) value and should not be taken seriously, either to write Cease And Desist Letters or to physically attack the author. She is not making money off of it, either.

The lighting is bright and the music is loud and the crowd is so wild Patrick can taste their sweat, their enthusiasm, their adoration. It's more intoxicating than all the pints of Guinness he's had during the day.

Steve is enjoying himself, the guitar still singing out at the mic even after half an hour of steady abuse - Steve rides his guitars hard, probably like he'd treat a woman if he ever wanted one - and his whiskey-and-razors voice like smoke, driving the audience quiet to listen to him, to hear every sound that drips off his tongue. His eyes flick over to Patrick, and he smiles into the mic. Patrick sees him; knows he's grinning at Patrick strut-dancing across the stage, making himself eye-candy for the women in the front row.

Stevie is on Patrick's other side, throwing all of himself into that bodhrán like it's not just his soul but better than sex too, swaying and sweating and grinning like the Devil. If Patrick were a praying man - hasn't been, really, since his last girlfriend, but he probably should go this Sunday - he'd cross himself, after seeing that smile.

The song ends, a final beat from Ryan and a note from Steve and Ellery to finish it off, and the show is almost over. Almost- just an encore and they're done, and from the state of Ryan's hands, that's not a bad thing.

They're about to go onstage, amid the roar of applause from the audience, when Tom comes up to them and mutters, "The stage just collapsed, Patrick - your accordion was broken. I'm sorry. Sorry," and stands there for a moment while Patrick tries not to turn around because he can definitely sense Steve and Stevie feeling each other up behind him. And goddamnit but he knows Stevie does it deliberately, either to get him angry or jealous or both but probably the first because Patrick's been good about hiding the latter lately.

Patrick wakes up suddenly, baffled and no litle bit disturbed, and thinks, panicked, of where the accordion is before mostly relaxing. It was just a dream. It's okay. It's fine.

No, it's not fine - the accordion is safe but even if Stevie isn't groping Steve backstage he's still married to the most wonderful woman Patrick's ever met and he hates her for it.

He buries his head in the pillow and starts writing a tune about the virtues of bachelorhood, trying to convince himself it's true or even, failing that, that he believes it.