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Pete and Roger had wormed away from the crowd like they often tried to do these days. Concerts were great, sure, and the adrenaline rushes were to kill for, but something seemed off for the past month. All four members of The Who felt it, but no one had the balls to say anything about it.
Sitting side by side, the lead vocalist and guitarist stared at an empty parking lot as they sat on the edge of a wilting parking block. There was plenty of time to speak up, but too many words to try and pin down. Until Roger gave it a shot.
“Sometimes I just worry ‘bout yah, I dunno,” Roger muttered as he brought the joint to his lips. He stared down at his dirty knuckles, trying to keep his gaze away from Pete’s.
He knew where this conversation was bound to lead them. It would be angry talking with very little eye contact. It would be shameful, mumbled arguing that could wind up with flying fists. As he let the smoke out of his lungs, he came to the realization it would be one of those nights.
Pete waited patiently like he always did, getting the timing right on when he would strike. He needed Roger to be looking at him before he could let the snake loose.
“Worried about me, huh?”
“Tha’s what I said, isn’t it? You’re gonna drink yourself sick if you don’t fix it! You’ll be worse than Keith in a matter of time, don’t yah think?” Roger cut himself off quickly, bringing the joint to his lips once more. He puffed hard as he pulled himself to stand. He didn’t plan on going anywhere, but he needed this height for once. He needed to feel physically bigger than Pete.
“Says the one who’s smokin’ grass and blowin’ it straight in my face. You’re worried ‘bout me? Least this shit’s legal, huh? Let me worry ‘bout my own well being. You aren’t my fuckin’ father, Daltrey,” Pete growled, watching from the ground as the blonde man rose.
The height difference was only held for a short minute before Townshend stood up, crushing any idea the vocalist had of being bigger. The six inches held between them seemed bigger than ever when someone was angry.
Roger flipped Pete the bird before flicking his ashes at the guitarist. It was a subtle gesture that said more than his words ever could.
“I’m not tryin’ ta fight yah, Pete, I’m not,” Roger muttered, biting back what he had previously pushed at the younger man. He didn’t want this to unravel into one of their fights. He didn’t want to throw punches and scream nasty things that good friends shouldn’t scream at one another.
“So what are yah doin’ then? Wha’s it that you’re tryin’ ta do?” Pete asked, reaching forward to taking the dying roach from his friend. He threw it to the ground, ridding them of one potential accident. “Tell me,” he persisted, gritting his teeth as he took a step forward.
“I’m just saying, Pete, I’m just saying…”
Townshend wanted to shove his best mate flat on his ass, shout some crude things, and march off. He didn’t need anyone “just saying” anything that criticized who he was. He knew that things weren’t as good as they could be, but so what? He had this under control.
He glanced down at the shorter, yet older man and rolled his eyes. There were choice words pushing at his lips, ready to fly out and do damage. It took all of Pete’s self-control to not let them out.
“Well..yah know what? Just go shove off. Go ‘just say’ somewhere else. Go give Keith a talking to? Why doesn’t anyone get onto him? Bet he’s loaded right now! I bet you no one is giving him a shit time for having one measly drink before a concert!” Pete shouted, his hands shooting upwards rather than forward. Roger still flinched.
“And yah think Keith would listen? There’s a difference between you an’ him. There’s a difference, lots of differences, really…”
Roger’s voice trailed off as he realized that Pete was backing away. He didn’t bother to finish or go after his guitarist. Not then, anyway. The brunette wasn’t too drunk to talk understandingly, rather too sober. Later, in the wee hours of the night, they were bound to have this conversation again. And it wouldn’t go over any better.