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To Play With Madness	By : BassFerret Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Iron Maiden Views: 1673 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of Iron Maiden. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-To Play With Madness
- 1
Disclaimer: The guys of Iron Maiden are their own people; I don't know 'em, never met 'em. This is a fantasy - a fiction, people - based on their public personas only. If you don't get that then bog off elsewhere and read someone else's stories. If you do, however...come on in...

Feedback: Would make my day. Go on, pleeeeeease...

Archive:Rockfic, AFF. Anyone else, ask. Thanks.

Summary: Bruce muses on an unusual, occasional relationship.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s time for me to go.

We don’t do this very often, but we’ve found that the best way to deal with it…is not to deal with it. He finds it uncomfortable, so I just slip away with the dawn and no-one’s any the wiser. We can all pretend that nothing’s going on, and the craziness of life on the road continues as normal – until the next time. The next time we’re all exhausted, and sick of touring, and hating the nightly battle with nerves that precedes the race out on to the ht, ht, open stage, and the adulation of thousands of huge-voiced fans out there in the light-speckled darkness. Ride that wave of adrenaline like a surfer; smell the sweat and pheromones that wraps itself around us, beguiles and bedazzles us until we’re lost to ourselves and are merely The Band…

We all have distractions that are…useful. And we use them; we all have football, and families, and friends, and –

But in the end it’s not enough. Even the women who hang out backstage desperate for a dalliance; even plunging yourself into a sweet female body, roughly pulling and grabbing, driving the frustrations into a desperate act of almost-violence on the willing body of a groupie – not even close, eventually. Plus none of us are exactly getting any younger, and no matter how tempting that pneumatic young thing may be you begin to wonder – after a while – if she mightn’t be comparing you to other, more youthful rock’n’roll idols. Paranoid? Maybe. But when your very soul is feeling battered and bruised from the insane three ring circus that’s a Maiden tour in fuly yoy you don’t want to take even the slightest chance that a comfort might turn into a nightmare.

Listen to me. They all tell me that I talk too much, and I daresay they’re right. But my point is that there comes a time when you run out of people to turn to; only the ones who are huddled in the eye of the storm with you really, truly understand what it’s all about. And there’s degrees, even in that; natural extroverts deal with it far better than…some of us others do. There even comes a time when the brotherly, macho, let’s-all-get-pissed-together-and-trash-something isn’t quite enough; no amount of sober bonding, good food and clean exercise get the toxins out of your system, either. So what does that leave, you might wonder?

Well, this. Eventually, that is; I sneak back to my room before he properly wakes up and we all get on with life once more. A safety valve. A rush of steam…not a bad metaphor, I suppose. Hot and wet and scalding in its intensity; not quite burnt this time, and rescued from exploding. I’m sure you’ve guessed what I’m saying by now, haven’t you?

He’s not gay. Neither am I, come to that, although I’m certainly a hell of a lot more bicurious than he is…he says it’s because of my background; poor little rich boy with a public school education. All that rugger and cold showers.

Maybe he’s right.

I let the curtain slip from my fingers, and listen to the rustle of the bedclothes as he turns over and mumbles in his sleep; nothing I can make out, just a couple of random syllables that swiftly drops back into a breathy snoring, which soon smoothes into deep, even breathing.

I have to smile when I look at him in the rapidly spreading pearly grey light; his hair has spread itself in a silky brown fan over the pillow, and is reflecting the dawn back at me so smoothly I almost expect to see my face in it. He’s got beautiful hair…and not a single speck of grey, bastard. It’s thick and wavy, and before I can stop myself I’ve perched on the edge of the bed and am stroking it gently. My fingers – now apparently with a life of their own – smooth a stray lock from his face, and I finally manage to drag my hand away even as my eyes take their time to scan lovingly across the unshaven cheek, the full lips, the elegant sweep of ridiculously long dark lashes casting delicate shadows across that skin I want to caress one…last…time…

He smiles, awake but keeping his eyes closed; he must have felt my breath on his cheek. I smile in return, rather ruefully; I know the rules. Time to go.

Hell with it. I lean down, nuzzle that cheek gently.

“Thank you,” I murmur softly.

He mumbles, “s’ok,” and turns over again, already half way back to sleep. I rise and head for the door, fumbling in my pocket for my key card and moving a little stiffly; I’ll take it as a personal insult if he isn’t sitting down bloody carefully at breakfast, although we won’t mention it. Perhaps an eyebrow lift a spa sparkle from those dark brown eyes, but no more.

I pause with my hand on the doorknob, and look back over my shoulder; he’s awake, and watching me. Maybe he’ll ask me to come back to bed –

“Save me a seat at breakfast, will ya?”

My shoulders sag a little, but I nod. “Sure.”

“Thanks Bruce,” he yawns, and curls up beneath the sheets once more.

I close the door, and lay my fingertips on it’s cool surface. “No problem, ‘Arry,” I mutter almost silently, then return to my own room for a shower.

And it’s over. Again.

For now, at least. Until the next time.
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To Play With Madness