Shameless

Many thanks to Coffee for your lovely review! I'd actually stopped posting this story because I thought no one was reading it, but since you like it, I'll put up the final chapter and epilogue.

(Yes, I am familiar with Blur. And while I find the whole Justine/Brett/Damon soap opera fascinating, I just don't find Damon sexy enough to write slash about. Sorry.)

Chapter Ten

Mat stepped into the hospital's small chapel, and his footsteps seemed deafening in the late night stillness. Darkness encompassed everything, except for two rows of tiny lights, tracing a path between the wooden pews, like a miniature runway. Beyond them, the faint glow of neon seeped in through the sanctuary's single stained-glass window. For a moment, Mat paused to admire the window's beautifully rendered angel, with her sword raised high overhead, as if she intended to swing it down and cleave the skull of some unfortunate sinner. And yet, her expression wasn't one of anger. Instead, she looked sad, and compassionate, regretting the action her position forced her to take. The depiction made Mat wonder what the artist had intended to imply. The divine capacity for mercy? Or the unavoidable justice of getting exactly what you deserve?

As if in answer, a soft sob drifted from the front of the chapel. Straining his eyes against the blackness, Mat saw the silhouette of a man sitting in the first row of pews, his body bent, his face buried in his hands. And Mat knew that he'd managed to find Brett.

Pulled by the same force that had drawn him to the chapel, Mat walked forward, until he stood beside his friend, torn by conflicting impulses. Part of him wanted to turn around and run. During all the time he'd known him, Brett had never shown any sign of weakness. To see him sitting in the darkness, crying -- it scared Mat, the same way a true believer might be scared if his God turned out to be nothing more than a broken child. However, as much as Mat wanted to flee, another part of him wanted to drop to his knees and wrap his arms around Brett. To hold him until everything was okay. Unfortunately, their friendship had never been based on physical touch, and Mat didn't know how to get past old barriers. So, he didn't embrace Brett. But he didn't run, either. He sat down on the pew beside Brett, pulled a packet out of his jacket pocket, and extended it to his friend. "Cigarette?"

Hours seemed to pass. When Brett finally raised his head, he looked at Mat with empty, tearless eyes. Eyes like bottomless caves, or night skies where no stars had ever glimmered. "I'm damned," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "I'm damned to hell."

Mat shook his head. "Not if they'll take my soul instead." He didn't mean to sound heroic, or selfless, or anything at all. He just spoke the only truth he knew. And maybe it had been the right thing to say, because Brett managed to pull a cigarette from Mat's pack, light it, and get the proper end in his mouth.

For a long time, they sat in silence, watching smoke rise up across the angel's stained-glass face. Then Mat decided to give conversation another try. "The doctors didn't know where you went. But something told me that I might find you here."

"I couldn't take it." Brett exhaled slowly, as if even breathing required a monumental effort. "They pumped his stomach. Have you ever seen someone get their stomach pumped, Mat? Really seen it? And Richard tried to fight them. I don't know whether he still wanted to die, or whether he was just scared out of his mind, but he kept struggling, so they had to restrain him. Seeing him like that, strapped to a gurney with a tube down his throat -- knowing it was my fault. I couldn't take it. I ran."

"Your fault?" Mat raised an eyebrow. "You tied him up and forced him to drink window cleaner?"

"No. But I arranged for him to discover his boyfriend screwing around with another man."

Mat tugged out a cigarette of his own, and lit it. "Yeah. I kind of figured that."

"You--?"

"Give me some credit, Brett. I've known you for a long time."

"Then how can you possibly be here?" Brett sounded incredulous. "How can you possibly sit there and tell me that you'd exchange your soul for mine, when you know the sort of shit I pull?"

Mat stared at the tip of his cigarette, burning like a tiny window into hell. "Because if you're damned, then so am I. And so is Simon, and Richard, and Bernard, and every Suede fan in the entire world. We all benefit from what you do. Look at me, for god's sake. I'm dating a model. Do you think she'd even look twice at me if I wasn't in a famous band? I can't claim that my hands are clean. I can't claim that your sins aren't my own."

"I swear, I never thought Richard would hurt himself." Brett tilted his head, until it rested against the back of the pew, and smoke rose straight up from his lips like steam from a geyser. "If I'd known he was going to try to drink poison--."

"You would have done exactly the same thing."

"Fuck. Probably." Brett tossed down the cigarette stub, and ground it out beneath the toe of his boot.

Mat sighed. "You've got to stop taking responsibility for everything that happens."

"But I am responsible for everything that happens! I coerced Brian into betraying his best friend. I squeezed Bernard out of the band. I drove Justine into the arms of Damon Albarn -- for that alone, I deserve to burn in hell. And Richard, he's just a kid. He shouldn't have to deal with all this."

"Bollocks," Mat snapped. "If Richard wanted to live a normal life, he wouldn't have answered our ad in the paper. Or, at the very least, he would have run out of the room when he discovered who he was auditioning for. He's a willing participant in this, just like the rest of us."

Brett glanced away. "Is he going to be okay?"

"I think so. Apparently the main threat was if his body got so slowed down that he stopped breathing -- but they've got him on a respirator now, so that won't happen. He just needs to rest."

"But he could have died? If Simon and I hadn't found him?"

"Yeah," Mat conceded. "He could have died."

Silence weighed down on them like an impossible burden. Mat glanced at his watch, noting the minutes as they blinked past. 5:41 AM. 5:42 AM. 5:43 AM. He wanted to say something to comfort Brett, but he didn't know what. He didn't know how to offer redemption.

Eventually, Brett spoke again. "What if I'm like this forever? What if it drives me until the day I die? What if I can never turn my back on it, and really love someone else?"

Mat shrugged. "I don't know. But I do know that, whatever happens, I'll be right there with you. Until you tell me to go."

At that moment, dawn touched the sky outside. The first rays of daylight poured through the angel's upraised sword, falling down over them like a blessing, and Mat remembered the old paintings he'd seen -- the ones depicting knights kneeling in medieval throne rooms, while the king tapped a sword tip to either side of the knight's neck. Sometimes the touch of a blade didn't mean death. Sometimes it meant being anointed. Being chosen for some great quest.

Beside him, Brett smiled. "Well. I guess you'll just have to be enough."

"You could do worse," Mat assured, returning his friend's smile. Then he stubbed out his cigarette and got to his feet. "Come on. Let's get back to Richard. We don't want him to wake up alone."

"Alone?" Brett looked puzzled as he stood up. "Isn't Simon with him?"

"I haven't seen Simon. He gave me a call, and told me to get my ass down to the hospital. That's the last I heard from him."

"But where is he?"

Mat rolled his eyes, feeling as if he were talking to a very young, very naive child. "You know what happened. Where do you think he is?"

*****

"Walking through these empty rooms, tears in my eyes," the woman's voice sung. "This is where the story ends. This is goodbye..."

Stefan adjusted his headphones, then reached out, cranking the stereo volume higher. He'd put on ABBA in an attempt to cheer up, but now found himself relentlessly listening to one of their most depressing songs. So maybe he didn't want to cheer up. Maybe he wanted to wallow in his misery. Maybe he wanted to lie on the floor, stare at the ceiling, and miss Richard.

"Knowing me, and knowing you. There was nothing else that we could do..."

After several hours, Stefan had finally persuaded Brian to go home. Not because he was mad at Brian. Quite the opposite. Brian seemed badly shaken by the whole evening, and Stefan felt genuinely sorry for him. But he just couldn't deal with Brian's presence right then. It stirred up too many feelings, reminded Stefan too strongly -- of all that he'd lost, and all that he'd never have. Naturally, Brian hadn't wanted to go, obviously afraid that Stefan intended to do something stupid. And the more Stefan insisted that he had no such plans, the more Brian became convinced of exactly the opposite. Finally, Stefan had managed to get rid of him by promising to call Steve right after Brian left. Which he did, suggesting to Steve that now might be a good time for paying an early morning visit to their lead singer.

So, with his two best friends safely out of the way, Stefan moped in peace. Of course, it was all for the best. He'd done it for Richard's own good. But when he thought about Richard's soft laughter, about Richard's tongue against his skin as Richard licked sugar from his fingers, about Richard's long, golden hair shining in the morning light -- his senses ached, as if half of his body had been torn away.

"Breaking up is never easy, I know. But I have to go..."

A loud knock at the door interrupted the song's flow. Not quite sure if he'd heard right, Stefan turned off the music and removed his headphones. The knock repeated itself. Sighing, Stefan struggled to his feet. Obviously, Brian had come back, maybe dragging Steve with him. Prepared to explain, one more time, why he just wanted to be left alone, Stefan swung open the door. And barely had time to register Simon's presence before Simon's fist hit him squarely in the face.

Drunk, sleep-deprived, and heartbroken, Stefan crumbled under the blow, hitting the ground with a soft thud. The next thing he knew, Simon stood over him, one booted foot planted firmly on Stefan's chest. "I warned you about what would happen if you hurt Richard."

Stefan thought about rolling over onto his side, about trying to fight. But he didn't have the willpower. Instead, he just lay on his back, staring up at Simon. "Go ahead," he invited. "Put me out of my misery."

For a moment, Simon looked like he was going to. Then he shook his head and removed his boot from Stefan's chest. "You're not worth the effort. But I promise you, if I ever catch you anywhere near Richard, I'll beat your head against the floor until your tongue gets splinters."

"Is that how Richard feels about it?"

"Richard hates you. Richard doesn't ever want to see you again." Curling his lips, Simon spat, and the phlegm hit the ground beside Stefan's cheek. Then Suede's drummer turned and walked out of the apartment, slamming the door behind himself.

For a long time, Stefan lay on the floor, more stunned by Simon's words than by his physical attack. Did Richard really hate him that much? He'd expected the kid to be disappointed and hurt. But hatred? Stefan couldn't stand the thought of Richard being that angry at him. Crawling over to the phone, Stefan dialed Richard's number. He couldn't explain everything, not the full truth, but maybe there was something he could still say that would make things better. Make it so that one day, there might still be hope...?

But the phone rang without being answered. Richard didn't want to talk to him. So, there was nothing to say. No hope.

It was over.

*****

Glaring at the hospital wall, Brett barely resisted the urge to give it a good, solid kick. He hated waiting. "What the hell is he doing in there?"

Three days had passed since Richard's suicide attempt. Luckily, using a combination of lies, bribes, and threats, they'd managed to keep it out of the news. And now, Richard was finally ready to be released from the hospital. However, when the remaining members of Suede arrived to pick him up, a nurse had informed them that Richard was in his room with some man, and refused to see them until he'd finished doing whatever he was doing.

Simon cracked his knuckles. "If he's in there with that bastard from Placebo, I'll strangle him with an IV tube. I'll strangle both of them." Then, as an afterthought, he added "By the way. My cousin just got accepted to a drama school here in London He wants to know if it would be okay for him to drop by the studio sometime."

"Cousin?" Mat smiled. "You never mentioned having a cousin."

"Yeah, well, I haven't seen him since he was in diapers. I've never been real close to my family, you know." Simon glanced away. "Maybe it's time to change that."

Brett considered the prospect, then shrugged, unable to think of any reason to protest. "Why not? The more the merrier. Have him come by when he gets into town."

Before the subject could be pursued any further, the door to Richard's hospital room swung open, and, for one bizarre instant, Brett thought that a switch had been made -- that, somehow, he was face to face with Brian instead of Richard. Blinking his eyes in a desperate attempt to dispel the illusion, he realized the figure before him really was Richard. But Richard's long, golden hair had turned jet black. That's what he'd been doing. Dying his hair.

Richard nodded to his band mates, before turning to the man beside him, who he presented with a handful of money. "Thanks for coming down from the salon on such short notice, David."

"Anytime," David assured. Then, with a cheerful wave to the assembled group, he walked away down the hospital corridor.

Silence. Brett felt acutely aware that they were all staring at Richard, but he couldn't take his eyes off the dark strands cascading past Richard's face. He wondered if Richard had changed his hair color in an unconscious effort to make himself more like the man who had tempted his lover, or if it was a deliberate act of rebellion, defiling the aspect of his beauty that Stefan had most loved. Whatever the reason, Richard didn't give him any time to dwell on it. Instead, he walked right up to Brett, and met his eyes with a confident gaze.

Older, Brett thought to himself. And stronger, somehow. Like metal tempered by the fierce heat of fire. Maybe that was the true significance of the dark hair -- golden strands burned black by the rite of passage Richard had undergone.

"I'm ready to be back in the band," Richard announced. Not asked, not requested, not begged. "I've been asleep for long enough. And I'm no longer afraid."