AnCatKatie
Rock n' Roll Doggie ALL ACCESS
This is going to go back and forth between '78 and '86, kids. Sorry if that gets confusing. But it's integral to the story.
I had a strange idea when I woke up this morning...and here it is.
***
It was a very unexpected change in Larry’s life. Edge, Adam and Bono wondered why he left practice that day. But nothing meant anything, briefly; all his breaths tore, and his heartbeats shattered. It wasn’t much better that he was at home, staring at the shadows in his room until they shifted and blurred and the heat behind his eyes spilled over. He shook his head and blinked and the tears stop, leaving his head feeling like a thin shell over the confusion and turmoil inside, his body having even more difficulty containing the overwhelming emotion and shock.
He came to school the next day like any other, though his heart was in nothing. He inwardly laughed at any assignments he was made to do. School was a joke. On the outside, he was little Larry Mullen, stone-faced or unnoticed, as he always had been at Mount Temple, though now there was something hard and brittle about his exterior. On the inside, he felt like the world was shaking and falling through him.
He didn’t go to practice, the next day.
He didn’t go to another day of practice.
The rest of the band were looking at him oddly when they saw him at school, trying to figure out why the hell he was avoiding them. He finally came through the confusing sea of people in the cafeteria and tapped Bono on the shoulder, once. The other boy looked over wildly.
“Lar! Why haven’t you been at—“
He shook his head and motioned for Bono to follow him into a quieter space by the wall, where there was no-one trying to overhear, and no-one could see the expression on Larry’s face.
Bono began with the questions, but Larry cut him off with his stare. He looked like he hadn’t slept for days. Whatever reason it was, was serious.
“Bon, my mother’s died.”
“What—“
“She was hit by a car, no-one saw it coming.” He swallowed, ducking before he could see that strange bit of sympathy in the other boy’s eyes.
“I just…I need some time off.”
Bono nodded. If there was one thing the singer would regret for the next few months, it would be not having stopped Larry…1978, in an echo of other times, was the year where everything spiraled out of control.
He closed his eyes, and felt the memory of another death and other problems bite through him…
Paul collapsed when he got home. For a few days, everything had seemed unreal, after the sharp reality of his grandfather’s death and funeral. The day had been like needles in his skin, like a spreading wet rain under the surface of things. And now, it all swept back in. Iris Hewson’s closed eyes as Paul tried to look everywhere but the signs that indicated she was not breathing, her heart no longer beat, and life support had failed to do its job.
Through that spiraling rain-wet darkness was Ali. He stared up at her and let her unwrap his limbs from around himself, collided hard with her body in a way they hadn’t previously, his tears quickly soaking through the fabric of her shirt. He pulled away at last and tried to forget any of this had happened, but there was a little warm light of a presence: Ali, and she did not fade, she did not leave.
When his mother had died, the people at the school said ‘okay, you can have your time away’ and he would just walk out of class, shards of glass for his body, silence for his face. The world mourned differently around Larry; it seemed like no-one knew, and the boy was already silent and withdrawn to begin with.
Paul sighed, mind still awash with the phosphorescent half-memories, and unclenched his fingers, as if letting Larry go.
He’d come back eventually. He would. If not, Paul would keep himself from exploding as best he could; he didn’t need to start a fight about something so close to home.
Ali called out to him from where she leaned against the edge of the building after school. He smiled at her with a little whispering hint of pain, still thinking of Larry, and of himself, and embraced her tightly. Ali frowned, a little bit of the sky’s forgiveness entering her:
“What’s wrong, Paul?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Lar’s having troubles.” He looked over to her and realized she knew something of what those troubles might be.
Unspoken, was the do-you-remember-when…
Yes. He did.
The moments from years ago, of he and Ali, were both very ephemeral and very real in his mind. An instant where he had been in the backyard, she watching while he wrote down lyrics, and he set the words aside for her, smiled a bright half-smile and whispered to her, taking her hand, “I’m yours, Ali.”
She had believed him. She had no reason not to. She was the light against the darkness she understood too well inside of him. But there was something, something they could barely understand, beneath the surface of things, rippling through that warm ease in being of their connection.
It said, it whispered, Maybe this will not last, something more dangerous than her previous fear, maybe you’re friends and that’s it. The strange ways in which the world worked made an ending with a beginning.
Bono had strange dark dreams. The sky had twisted over and through him and left him an empty shell of a man, something to be filled by happiness or sadness. There were still parts of him that felt numb, that questioned the way his life was now. Unconsciously he shifted his body, in sleep, away from Ali; in his subconscious, he thought she burned with fever and he stood crying somewhere, unable to do anything about it.
No, Bon, that wasn’t Ali…
He unclutched his thoughts from the whirlpools of his head, sighed, and let them unravel his breath into sleep.
In the golden space of that moment between sunrise and clarity of vision, something shifted and gradually the light washed away, leaving him in his body again. It was sunrise, where he stood, and he felt a heavy, all-encompassing amazement filter in that was not his own. There were so many people here, so many who looked away when she tried to walk through them, smiling as she apologized for elbowing a man in the side in her impatience to see this new place—
—She? What? And Bono understood crowds, he lived and breathed through them, and somehow also could endure the quiet times where there was only himself, his surroundings, and few other people—
His thoughts were snatched away again. Bono felt a sudden wrenching behind his ribs, and the thoughts distanced himself from him. He stared straight forward.
He could recognize who he saw, even from behind. The little asymmetrical freckles just above the back of her shirt, the way she turned her head even though he could not see her place. He still felt what she felt—he had often thought they didn’t have two hearts, but one single one between them that felt for both—but distanced in his shock.
He had seen that faint line across her shoulderblade, slightly white, a little raised, almost faded into skin. She had told him once, lying in his arms in the chill morning sunlight, that her father had done that, and the cuts that had been on her face and arms, and he had understood why Edge assumed the worst about him. He knew that particular scar well; he had looked at it, and her, when she had fallen asleep again, and knew it by touch: he had thought as if to smooth it away.
A little stutter of a heartbeat came to him, slamming him away from what she saw and bringing to his attention he could not move; he was rooted where he stood, unable to reach forward.
He knew, but despite it…
“Cath?”
She turned; she looked past him. Someone’s little boy was making a commotion on the stairs and had to be carried upside down by his father to be silenced. Her face gripped at Bono, and then—
He woke, and kissed Ali on the forehead when she murmured a confused question about where he was going so early in the morning. There was a small noise: Ciarán had come in and refused to leave when the thunder started, and he seemed a little close to waking now. Paul looked at him for a long moment, trying to understand the magnitude of what was going through his mind, and left the room quietly.
The desert held no answers. So he dreamed a waking dream into the early afternoon, when the rest of the world rose, and mused as well on the way Eve had been staring at the ring on her hand, as if some memory lay embedded there in little embers and darkness.
Perhaps it was Eve. Bono wasn’t used to having Eve around; the fact that even Larry was here so much was different. Maybe it was bringing back years, and he was confusing troubled thoughts about the past with the conversation they had had.
There was something, though, about that dream that made the hairs on his arms rise and the heat gather in warmth and sadness behind his eyes and ripple throughout his body. He knew, when a part of himself became distant as he spoke to Ali over breakfast, that somehow now and eight years ago were connected intrinsically, if only because of Eve.
And Cath…
I had a strange idea when I woke up this morning...and here it is.
***
1978
It was a very unexpected change in Larry’s life. Edge, Adam and Bono wondered why he left practice that day. But nothing meant anything, briefly; all his breaths tore, and his heartbeats shattered. It wasn’t much better that he was at home, staring at the shadows in his room until they shifted and blurred and the heat behind his eyes spilled over. He shook his head and blinked and the tears stop, leaving his head feeling like a thin shell over the confusion and turmoil inside, his body having even more difficulty containing the overwhelming emotion and shock.
He came to school the next day like any other, though his heart was in nothing. He inwardly laughed at any assignments he was made to do. School was a joke. On the outside, he was little Larry Mullen, stone-faced or unnoticed, as he always had been at Mount Temple, though now there was something hard and brittle about his exterior. On the inside, he felt like the world was shaking and falling through him.
He didn’t go to practice, the next day.
He didn’t go to another day of practice.
The rest of the band were looking at him oddly when they saw him at school, trying to figure out why the hell he was avoiding them. He finally came through the confusing sea of people in the cafeteria and tapped Bono on the shoulder, once. The other boy looked over wildly.
“Lar! Why haven’t you been at—“
He shook his head and motioned for Bono to follow him into a quieter space by the wall, where there was no-one trying to overhear, and no-one could see the expression on Larry’s face.
Bono began with the questions, but Larry cut him off with his stare. He looked like he hadn’t slept for days. Whatever reason it was, was serious.
“Bon, my mother’s died.”
“What—“
“She was hit by a car, no-one saw it coming.” He swallowed, ducking before he could see that strange bit of sympathy in the other boy’s eyes.
“I just…I need some time off.”
Bono nodded. If there was one thing the singer would regret for the next few months, it would be not having stopped Larry…1978, in an echo of other times, was the year where everything spiraled out of control.
He closed his eyes, and felt the memory of another death and other problems bite through him…
Paul collapsed when he got home. For a few days, everything had seemed unreal, after the sharp reality of his grandfather’s death and funeral. The day had been like needles in his skin, like a spreading wet rain under the surface of things. And now, it all swept back in. Iris Hewson’s closed eyes as Paul tried to look everywhere but the signs that indicated she was not breathing, her heart no longer beat, and life support had failed to do its job.
Through that spiraling rain-wet darkness was Ali. He stared up at her and let her unwrap his limbs from around himself, collided hard with her body in a way they hadn’t previously, his tears quickly soaking through the fabric of her shirt. He pulled away at last and tried to forget any of this had happened, but there was a little warm light of a presence: Ali, and she did not fade, she did not leave.
When his mother had died, the people at the school said ‘okay, you can have your time away’ and he would just walk out of class, shards of glass for his body, silence for his face. The world mourned differently around Larry; it seemed like no-one knew, and the boy was already silent and withdrawn to begin with.
Paul sighed, mind still awash with the phosphorescent half-memories, and unclenched his fingers, as if letting Larry go.
He’d come back eventually. He would. If not, Paul would keep himself from exploding as best he could; he didn’t need to start a fight about something so close to home.
Ali called out to him from where she leaned against the edge of the building after school. He smiled at her with a little whispering hint of pain, still thinking of Larry, and of himself, and embraced her tightly. Ali frowned, a little bit of the sky’s forgiveness entering her:
“What’s wrong, Paul?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Lar’s having troubles.” He looked over to her and realized she knew something of what those troubles might be.
Unspoken, was the do-you-remember-when…
Yes. He did.
The moments from years ago, of he and Ali, were both very ephemeral and very real in his mind. An instant where he had been in the backyard, she watching while he wrote down lyrics, and he set the words aside for her, smiled a bright half-smile and whispered to her, taking her hand, “I’m yours, Ali.”
She had believed him. She had no reason not to. She was the light against the darkness she understood too well inside of him. But there was something, something they could barely understand, beneath the surface of things, rippling through that warm ease in being of their connection.
It said, it whispered, Maybe this will not last, something more dangerous than her previous fear, maybe you’re friends and that’s it. The strange ways in which the world worked made an ending with a beginning.
1986
Bono had strange dark dreams. The sky had twisted over and through him and left him an empty shell of a man, something to be filled by happiness or sadness. There were still parts of him that felt numb, that questioned the way his life was now. Unconsciously he shifted his body, in sleep, away from Ali; in his subconscious, he thought she burned with fever and he stood crying somewhere, unable to do anything about it.
No, Bon, that wasn’t Ali…
He unclutched his thoughts from the whirlpools of his head, sighed, and let them unravel his breath into sleep.
In the golden space of that moment between sunrise and clarity of vision, something shifted and gradually the light washed away, leaving him in his body again. It was sunrise, where he stood, and he felt a heavy, all-encompassing amazement filter in that was not his own. There were so many people here, so many who looked away when she tried to walk through them, smiling as she apologized for elbowing a man in the side in her impatience to see this new place—
—She? What? And Bono understood crowds, he lived and breathed through them, and somehow also could endure the quiet times where there was only himself, his surroundings, and few other people—
His thoughts were snatched away again. Bono felt a sudden wrenching behind his ribs, and the thoughts distanced himself from him. He stared straight forward.
He could recognize who he saw, even from behind. The little asymmetrical freckles just above the back of her shirt, the way she turned her head even though he could not see her place. He still felt what she felt—he had often thought they didn’t have two hearts, but one single one between them that felt for both—but distanced in his shock.
He had seen that faint line across her shoulderblade, slightly white, a little raised, almost faded into skin. She had told him once, lying in his arms in the chill morning sunlight, that her father had done that, and the cuts that had been on her face and arms, and he had understood why Edge assumed the worst about him. He knew that particular scar well; he had looked at it, and her, when she had fallen asleep again, and knew it by touch: he had thought as if to smooth it away.
A little stutter of a heartbeat came to him, slamming him away from what she saw and bringing to his attention he could not move; he was rooted where he stood, unable to reach forward.
He knew, but despite it…
“Cath?”
She turned; she looked past him. Someone’s little boy was making a commotion on the stairs and had to be carried upside down by his father to be silenced. Her face gripped at Bono, and then—
He woke, and kissed Ali on the forehead when she murmured a confused question about where he was going so early in the morning. There was a small noise: Ciarán had come in and refused to leave when the thunder started, and he seemed a little close to waking now. Paul looked at him for a long moment, trying to understand the magnitude of what was going through his mind, and left the room quietly.
The desert held no answers. So he dreamed a waking dream into the early afternoon, when the rest of the world rose, and mused as well on the way Eve had been staring at the ring on her hand, as if some memory lay embedded there in little embers and darkness.
Perhaps it was Eve. Bono wasn’t used to having Eve around; the fact that even Larry was here so much was different. Maybe it was bringing back years, and he was confusing troubled thoughts about the past with the conversation they had had.
There was something, though, about that dream that made the hairs on his arms rise and the heat gather in warmth and sadness behind his eyes and ripple throughout his body. He knew, when a part of himself became distant as he spoke to Ali over breakfast, that somehow now and eight years ago were connected intrinsically, if only because of Eve.
And Cath…
