Shameless

Shameless

Chapter Nine

After ending things with Simon, Richard had moved into a room of his own -- although, perhaps, it said something about the fragile state of his independence that he chose one located in the same hotel as Simon's. Nevertheless, it was the only sanctuary where he could still take refuge, and now his body carried him toward it like a homing beacon.

Running down the hotel corridor, Richard slammed into the maid's cart without seeing it. Even as the pain of impact hit his nerves, and he flailed to catch his balance, his brain barely registered the obstacle. Instead, the intensity of his grief drove him onward. Stumbling around the cart, he flung himself at the door to his room. Then, finally, he was inside, slamming the door shut behind himself. But even that wasn't enough. He wanted to fall to the floor, to rip up the wood with his bare fingers, until he'd dug a hole deep enough to crawl into and hide. But he couldn't. So he compromised. Toppling face down onto the bed, Richard buried his face in the mattress and pulled a pillow over his head. Then, and only then, did he allow his sobs to escape.

How? How had he fallen short? That was what he didn't understand. What had he lacked, that his lover needed to find it in the arms of another man? Had he revealed too little of himself? Or too much? Had he clung too tightly? Or not tightly enough? Or maybe, just maybe, it had been a lie, right from the very start. All of it. Maybe every time Stefan had praised his beauty, or bolstered his courage, inside he'd really been laughing about how easy it was to fool such a stupid, naive kid.

"Stupid," Richard hissed, his voice muffled by the pillow. "Stupid, stupid, stupid!"

And now what? Crawl to Brett? Beg to be taken back into Suede, since the man who was his motivation for quitting had been caught sticking his tongue down the throat of Brett's boyfriend? Or slink back home? Admit that his dream was a sham? He'd been offered a chance that anyone else would have killed for, and he'd blown it all to hell. He'd failed. Failed his lover, failed his music, failed everything.

Caught between the pain of his past, and the impossibility of his future, Richard had never craved sleep more fiercely. And yet, he had never been surer that he wouldn't be able to escape into its familiar oblivion. Not when every inch of him throbbed with the pain of his breaking heart. Frustrated by his own helplessness, Richard let out an angry shriek and hurled his pillow at the wall. Then, summoning what little strength he still possessed, he hauled himself to his feet, before staggering over to the hotel dresser.

Once there, Richard tugged open the top drawer, praying for a bottle of sleeping pills. But those had all been left behind when he'd resolved to start a new life. Now all he owned was a lonely looking container of allergy medication. "A new life," he snarled, shaking his head. "What a stupid joke."

Against his will, Richard remembered nights when he hadn't been able to sleep, and Simon had fed him little white pills like sugar cubes. Simon. Richard reached up, unconsciously smoothing his disheveled hair. He could go back to Simon. Couldn't he? No. No, he couldn't. Being with Stefan had shown him the vast, unexplored landscapes of love -- and, having seen them, he couldn't go back to living in an empty room. Besides, why should Simon take him back? Maybe it hadn't been love, but Simon had offered him shelter when he needed it most, and how had he repaid him? By running off with the first person who asked him to. Simon probably already had half-dozen new pretty boys, all fighting take Richard's place.

Again, Richard's eyes fell on the allergy medication. There was sleep. And then, there was sleep. Deep sleep. Permanent sleep. A sleep that would make all his decisions for him. But how? He doubted he could kill himself by snorting antihistamines up his nose.

And then he remembered the maid's cart.

Forcing his face into some semblance of calm, Richard poked his head outside the hotel room. The maid's cart remained where he'd last seen it. Absently, as he crept toward it, Richard wondered if this was what teenagers felt like, shoplifting for the first time. What a great headline for the tabloids: Suede's New Guitarist Caught Stealing Housekeeping Supplies. But when he reached the cart, there was no sign of the maid, much less any reporters. Quickly, he scanned the assorted bottles and cans. Furniture polish? He wasn't sure how he'd get the spray can open. Scrubbing powder? Too hard to swallow. Finally, he settled on a container of window washing fluid. After all, it was blue, and that just wasn't natural. Surely anything blue had to be truly toxic. Snatching the plastic bottle, Richard darted back to his hotel room, and once more closed the door.

Sitting down on the carpet, a strange sense of peace came over him. Soon. Soon, the past would cause him no more pain, and the future would never come. Richard unscrewed the bottle's cap, and nearly choked on the stench of ammonia and alcohol. But his resolve remained strong. "All I ever wanted was something to make the fear go away," he whispered to the world. "Was that so much to ask?"

But the world didn't have an answer. So Richard drank.

*****

Simon sighed as he looked down at the small pile he'd assembled. The last of the things Richard had left behind. Amazing how few of them there were, considering that they'd been lovers for several months. Amazing how little their lives had really intermingled. Just a few anonymous shirts, a pair of old jeans, and a necklace. Hesitantly, Simon lifted the necklace -- ran his fingers along its leather cord, and toyed with its stone charm. It was his own fault. He was the one who'd dictated the terms of their relationship. The one who'd made it clear to Richard, right from the beginning, that any true emotional connection was out of the question. Just like with all the others.

A sense of loss stirred inside Simon, and he dropped the necklace, as if it was what had poisoned him. Then, turning from the pile, he went into the bathroom, prepared to do one last scan for any missed items. But even as he did it, he knew he was just putting off the inevitable. Just like he'd been putting it off for the last few weeks.

Once inside the bathroom, Simon rested his hands on the sides of the sink, studying the man reflected in the mirror mounted above it. A few more wrinkles around his eyes, like cracks in a slowly crumbling facade. And his hair. Was he starting to lose his hair? Simon reached up, running his fingers through the unnaturally stiff strands. It was all the constant dye jobs. What was it that his hairdresser had said? That if he kept it up, one day clumps of it were going to start snapping off in his hands? Well. It didn't matter. It didn't matter if his face shriveled, and his hair fell out -- he was still rich, still famous, and all the pretty boys would continue to flock to his bed. That was all he wanted.

Wasn't it?

Had it ever been? Really? All he wanted?

"How did this happen?" he asked his reflection. "How the hell did I end up here?"

Because, really, it had been the last thing he ever expected. Maybe that was what made it easier for Brett and Mat. Brett had dreamed this, in every detail, ever since he was born. And he'd preached it to Mat so many times that Mat could imagine no other promised land. Even Bernard. Even strange, introverted Bernard had believed that his music would eventually take him wherever he needed to go. But in his own case, Simon reflected, things were different. Playing drums wasn't his passion. It was his fury. Growing up poor and angry, it was the way he'd found to channel his pain when there was nothing left to hit. Of course, on the hardcore punk scene, there'd never been any possibility of revealing his true sexuality. Have a boyfriend? Not unless he wanted to get killed. So he'd taken it quick, taken it anonymously, in dark corners and alleyways, believing that was all he'd ever have.

Except that somehow, against all probability, he'd ended up in a band with Brett, who wrote songs about loving men and slapped his own ass on stage. So Simon had finally been able to come out -- first to the band, then to the rest of the world. But it was too late. Old habits had sunk their claws in too deeply. All he knew was the hunt, the conquest, the culmination. Love? Tenderness? He'd banished them from his life a long time ago.

Maybe, in a way, Richard had been his attempt to change that. Before Richard, it had been simple enough to fuck and run. But Richard was in the band. They saw each other every day. And maybe, Simon thought, I hoped that slowly, over time, familiarity would eat away at old walls, and I'd remember how to be close to someone.

Simon shook his head. Fuck that. What did he expect? That Richard would magically read his mind? That he'd stick around forever, just waiting for Simon to work it all out? That would be absurd. He couldn't blame Richard for leaving him. Not when the kid had found someone capable of offering him everything Simon couldn't.

"I always thought I was the strong one," Simon muttered, mocking his reflection. "The one protecting him. But in some ways, he's braver than I'll ever be. Because he's not afraid to fall in love."

His reflection refused to argue the point. So Simon drew a deep breath, left the bathroom, and lifted the pile of Richard's things. "Let's get this the hell over with."

The hotel elevator carried him down two floors, to the level of Richard's new room. In truth, Simon didn't think Richard would actually be there, since he was probably off somewhere with Stefan. But, back when the wound of their parting was still fresh, he'd seduced the desk clerk into giving him a spare key -- some noble idea about being able to rush to Richard's rescue if the kid ever needed him. Idiotic. Now, he planned to slip in and leave the spare key along with the rest of Richard's stuff. A symbol of his permanent exit from Richard's life.

What he didn't expect was to find Brett, standing in the hallway, alternately knocking on Richard's door and rattling its knob. "Richard? Richard, I know you're in there."

Simon almost snapped around and ducked back into the elevator. But he resisted the urge. He'd promised himself he was going to get this over with, and by god, that was exactly what he planned to do. Trying to appear casual, he wandered over to Brett. "What's up?"

Brett didn't even glance back at him. "It's a long story," he replied, before giving the doorknob another futile tug. "Richard? I know that you're upset, but this isn't doing either of us any good. Please. Open this door so I can talk to you."

Normally, Simon would have left it at that. He could certainly understand the occasional urge to lock Brett on the other side of a door -- any door at all. But something about the current situation worried him. Maybe it was the tone of Brett's voice, or the persistent silence coming from within the hotel room, or simply the fact that Brett had said "please". Whatever it was, something felt wrong. Wrong enough that Simon reached into his pocket, pulled out the spare key, and handed it to Brett.

Brett didn't ask any questions, didn't even look particularly surprised. Maybe he just took it for granted that Simon had the keys to every room in the entire hotel. Briefly, Simon wondered if he should consider that a compliment, but before he could say anything, Brett turned the key in Richard's lock and pushed open the door.

"Richard?"

As they stepped into the room, Simon glanced around, and experienced a wave of relief. It seemed that Brett had been wrong about Richard being inside. Walking over to the dresser, Simon set the small pile of clothes down on top of it, then turned to leave. Which was when his eyes snagged on the foot sticking out of the bathroom. Brett seemed to see it at the same time, and they both dashed forward, elbowing each other out of the way in their joint urgency to get through the bathroom door. After a particularly sharp jab to Brett's ribcage, Simon managed to push ahead. And nearly gagged.

The air in the bathroom reeked with an overwhelming combination of alcohol and bile. Richard lay sprawled on the tile floor, apparently having passed out after an unsuccessful attempt to get to the toilet before puking. "Richard?" Simon murmured, dropping to his knees beside his former lover. Gently, he shook Richard's shoulders. "Richard? Are you alright?"

Richard's eyes melted open, and Simon recognized the look of drowsy accusation he'd seen so many times before when waking Richard. As if, somehow, he was betraying Richard by calling him back from his dreams. "Go 'way" Richard mumbled. "Let me sleep..."

"Hell. He's just drunk." Brett sounded relieved. "Come on, I'll help you get him into bed."

Shifting positions, Simon managed to get one of Richard's limp arms draped around his neck. But as he began to hoist him to his feet, Richard cried out, softly, like a kitten in pain. Simon hesitated. Then he bent his face closer to Richard's, sniffing his breath. Alcohol. Definitely alcohol. But also something else, something bitter and chemical. An unpleasant suspicion crept up on Simon, and he glanced around the bathroom, confirming his fears. "Brett? If he's drunk, why aren't there any empty cans or bottles around here?"

Brett shrugged. "Maybe he got drunk at the hotel bar."

"And made it back to his room? When he can't even stand up? I don't think so."

"They must be in the main room, then."

"Did you see any?"

"I don't..." Brett looked befuddled. "I don't remember...?"

"Well go look, for fuck's sake!" Simon yelled, his temper finally snapping. Still appearing somewhat dazed, Brett turned and hurried to do so. Tenderly, Simon eased Richard back down onto the floor, resting Richard's head on his lap. "Fuck, Richard. Please tell me you didn't do this."

After what seemed like forever, Brett returned, holding an empty plastic bottle. "This was on the floor by the bed."

Simon winced as he read the label. Window cleaner. "Call an ambulance."

"What? You don't think--?"

Simon's voice could have scraped paint off the walls. "What's your brilliant theory? That he went on a drunken cleaning spree and exhausted himself washing all the windows? Jesus-fucking-christ, Brett! He drank window cleaner. He tried to kill himself. Now call a fucking ambulance before I break your fucking neck!"

As if in confirmation, Richard groaned. "Go away. Let me sleep. Let me die."

Brett turned pale. For a moment, Simon feared that Suede's singer was going to pass out next to his guitarist. Instead, Brett spun around and sprinted back into the main room, where he immediately grabbed the phone. Simon listened to him dial, before returning his attention to Richard. "Richard," he coaxed, stroking Richard's hair. The long, straw-colored strands were soaked with sweat, and clung to his fingers like frightened cries. "Why? Why did you do this?"

Making a visible effort, Richard managed to speak, each word as slow and deliberate as stones dropped into a deep, deep well. "He...doesn't...love...me."

Simon bowed his head, overcome by guilt, even though he knew the accusation wasn't aimed at him. If he'd been braver, if he'd treated Richard like a person not a pet -- if he'd been able to give him some trace of emotional connection, then maybe the kid wouldn't have had to throw himself at the first person who asked. A person who, it now seemed, didn't deserve him. "Richard. I know it isn't love. But I do care about you. So much more than I've ever been able to say. And I'm so sorry that I let this happen to you."

"I..." Richard began. Then he clenched his eyes shut, and swallowed. "I'm gonna...puke...again."

"It's alright." Gently, Simon held Richard, making sure he didn't choke. He felt like it was his own body, tearing itself apart every time Richard retched. "Go ahead. It's alright. Everything is going to be alright."

Eventually, Richard grew quiet again, and when Simon looked up, he saw Brett standing over him, accompanied by two strangers. "Paramedics," Brett explained. "They say there's only room in the ambulance for one of us to ride with him. Do you want--?"

Simon glanced down at his clothes, covered with the former contents of Richard's stomach. "You go. I'll change, then call Mat. We can meet at the hospital."

"Right."

In a daze, Simon watched as the paramedics tended to Richard, then carried him out of the hotel room. Brett started to follow them, but Simon called him back. "Brett?"

"Yeah?"

"What happened? Between him and Stefan?"

Brett glanced at the floor, as if the crime had been his own. "We walked in on Stefan making out with Brian." Then, before Simon could ask anything else, the elevator dinged, announcing its arrival, and Brett ran out into the hall to catch up with the paramedics.

Left alone, Simon pulled himself to his feet. He could hardly see. It felt like the heat of his fury was making the insides of his eyes boil. Involuntarily, a wordless scream of anger tore his lips apart, and he swung his fist toward the bathroom wall. But, at the last instant, he pulled the punch. He shouldn't waste his energy. After all, the wall hadn't done anything. But Stefan had.

And Stefan was going to pay.