Slyder
...Sometimes All You Need
Is a Grander Speed...
Manic Panic.
He felt like that's what he was doing. Panic panic panic, no space for choice between his heartbeats. Manic insanity, glowing in the depth of his red eyes, almost hidden behind shaggy same-hued hair. Panic panic panic.
They weren't going to make it. He knew it. But he only knew for a second before he dismissed it. He had THOUGHT they weren't going to make it. "Hey, Raitard. Why the HELL're you late?"
"Cool it Jackass. Traffic trouble." He smirked and hoisted his guitar, cocking his head at the face of disapproval the drummer made at his speech. "What, Clay?"
It was the only way they would DARE speak to eachother.
Opposite movements, and yet they were synched.
One tan young man with spiky natural brown hair, eyes that seemed made of polished jade, his neck ringed by a collar with a sun pendant hanging from it, his arms covered by sleeve tattoos of blue-swirling clouds. Fluid movement. Fluid speech. One pale, pale boy, yellow sunglasses dyed hair the color of cinnabar with matching eyes bruised by lack of sleep, a spike collar encircled his neck, his bare shoulders bore band-like tattoos around the circumfrence of his arm. Mechanical movement, slang speech. They took one look at eachother, a glaring, scathing look, burning acid green, smirking red embers.
Most would mistake that look for hatred.
It had twice the smouldering power of hate. Twice the pull, twice the push.
"Show's on guys, let's ROCK." The redhead pulled his sunglasses down, the blonde drummer tied his red bandana to keep his hair out of his eyes, the dark-haired, silent bassist smirked and readied his bass almost ceremonially, and the tan Brazilian did nothing but offer a thumbs up to his bandmates.
Manic Panic.
That was the name of the feeling of a heart pounding in a chest. The name of how it felt to play guitar, to sing, to drum. The name of swift creation, inspiration, the thirty minutes in which one was a hero.
That was the name of Jack Spicer's band.
Sliding, ambling, strutting, slinking out on the stadium stage, the four of them raised their instruments high above their heads to the sound of the cheering crowd. Drumsticks crossed. Bass held aloft like a sword. Acoustic guitar held like a trophy. The electric guitar swung in a wide arc and FLIPPED in the air. In seemed to flip forever, that exalted moment of stunned silence.
Rise, flip. Fall. Last twist. Impact. Perfect catch. Flashing red eyes. Cheer from the crowd. The music started. All of that in LESS than five seconds.
Jack sang, his voice slick like glimmering molten steel, his guitar seemed as if it would throw sparks any second. He sang, not to the crowd, but to the tan boy beside him, sidelong glances with that same ember-heat intensity.
Manic Panic. The name of how those glances affected the other guitarist.
Manic Panic. It was a co-pilot kind of thing. it was just as much Raimundo Pedrosa's band as that Jackass.
Raimundo took his cue and sang as well, the lyrics breezing right back across the stage. The sound reached the ears of the cheering crowd. The meaning reached jack. And so did a few sprays of that green, burning acid.
What did those looks say? What secret messages did they hold?
Get your cue right. Play faster. You're doing it all wrong. Stop upstaging me! Raitard...
I did get it right. Fuck you, they like it. I'll do what I want, Jackass.
Five Words hidden behind insulting glances.
Meet you after the show.