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Rush	By : Kiniaq Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Depeche Mode Views: 1670 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of Depeche Mode. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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3.

He was dreaming about something nice, warm and fuzzy. He wanted to stay in this place a little bit longer but something was dragging him back to reality. A heavy, thumping sound, repeated in endless staccatos came crashing into his sweet oblivion. He forced his eyes open, trying to place the things that surrounded him, trying to place that annoying noise as he slowly settled himself down into the real world.

All right, I'm in my room, the hotel room. Someone's knocking at the door. Rather persistently I would say.

Alan sighed heavily as he pushed himself off of the bed, taking one of crumpled, sweaty sheets and wrapping it loosely around his waist. Whoever it was, they didn't deserve to see him naked. He slowly dragged his feet across pleasant darkness of his bedroom towards the door. “All right, I'm coming! Stop it already!” He shouted angrily and regretted it at almost the same moment. The knocking stopped but he could already feel a very nasty thumping in his own temples.

“Alan, its Andy!” he heard his band mate's voice from behind the door. “Open up! We have a situation here!”

“Keep your voice down for fuck’s sake,” Alan muttered as he unlocked and opened the door. The light from the hall stung his eyes and made him cringe. “What?!” he barked at the tall figure standing before him.

“Have you seen Martin or Dave lately?” Andy didn't seem to notice his grumpiness; he didn't even seem to mind that it was a ridiculous question in the middle of the night, right after the concert. “No, I haven't,” Alan closed his eyes and leaned heavily over the threshold. “Why in the fuck do you care? They're partying or sleeping, just like I did before you woke me up to ask me a stupid--”

“Alan, it's one o'clock,” Andy stated sternly. “One p.m. We are leaving in three hours and we can't find them anywhere.”

“One o'clock you say?” Alan looked at him in disbelief. “I thought I slept for only a few hours...” He rubbed his eyes carefully, hangover still sinking its claws into his brain. Yeah, we have a fucking situation here. “You sure they're not in their rooms?”

“Don't know,” Fletch shrugged uncomfortably. “Nobody's answering the door. Daryl went to ask at the reception desk if they had seen them going out or something.”

“Ok, give me five minutes,” Alan stepped back and closed the door. He stumbled back to the bedroom, cursing under his breath as he put on some random clothes. He was sure they would find their troublesome mates in their rooms, sleeping, or rather unconscious – Martin still drunk and Dave stoned. It had happened before, it would happen again. But every time it happened he was getting more and more anxious, even against his better judgment. This time Martin could have drank too much. This time Dave could have taken too much. Alan cursed louder as he headed back to the door. Why did he care anyway? Why the fuck did he still care?!

Andy was standing at the end of the hall, right next to the elevators. He was talking to Daryl and some guy in grey suit. “Hi Charlie,” Daryl smiled weakly as Alan approached them. “This is Mr. Simmons, the hotel manager,” he pointed to the man in the suit. “We just checked Martin's room. It's empty. He didn't spend night in there.”

“The receptionist is sure he didn't leave,” Andy jabbed at the elevator call button impatiently. “Let's see if Dave... if he's in.”

It doesn't look good, thought Alan as they all got into the elevator. It was unusual for Martin to disappear without telling anyone. And if Fletch was pounding on Dave's door as hard as he did with Alan's, stoned or not, Dave had to be able to hear it – and respond somehow. The dreadful feeling was getting stronger and stronger and by the time they had gotten to Dave's suite, Alan was sure they wouldn't like what they would find inside.

“I would appreciate it if you waited outside,” he said to the manager. “We'll let you know if we need your assistance.” For a moment the manager looked like he wanted to protest, but then he just gave up. He slid the master key card through the lock, opened the door and stepped aside.

The suite was dark, the curtains drawn together keeping all the day light from getting in. They stepped inside slowly, closing the door behind them as they turned the lights on. Everything looked pretty normal.

“Dave, are you here?” Andy's voice sounded so weird in this utterly silent place. Weird and spooky. Alan shivered uncontrollably, waiting for any response, and then he thought he heard some kind of noise from behind the slightly ajar door that apparently lead to the bedroom area. It sounded like a weak moan. “Did you hear that?” he asked as he moved towards the sound. “Someone's in there.”

Even before he reached the room he knew he would see something terrible. He felt like a character in one of those stupid horror films, knowing he shouldn't open that door, yet still going to do it. What would he see? A monster? Or a dead man?

Slowly, he reached out, pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The bedroom was basked in warm, golden light from a few standing lamps. The curtains were drawn; the air was still and heavy, smelling of alcohol, sweat and something else, something foul. And there was large king size bed in the middle of the room. Crumpled sheets, pillows thrown carelessly onto the floor. And on the bed...

“Sweet Jesus!” Andy pushed himself beside Alan and ran forward with Daryl at his heels. “Martin, are you all right?!”

No, Martin wasn't all right. He was fucking far from all right. And all Alan was able to do was to stand there and watch that thin, naked body, spread eagled over stained sheets, arms stretched, hands tied to the headboard, pale skin bruised, boyish face swollen and stained with blood. What happened here? Who did that? Who dared?!

“He's unconscious,” Andy's shaken voice brought him back to earth. He blinked, seeing that both men had already freed Martins hands and now Fletch was trying to cover him with one of the sheets, while Daryl stepped aside, as shocked as Alan himself. “Call the ambulance,” Andy shot them a quick glance but then Martin moaned louder and stirred under his friends touch, taking back Fletch's whole attention.

Daryl obediently moved towards the night table and reached for the phone, but before he could press any key, Alan was there, grabbing at his hand. “No, you don't,” he said, trying to pull the receiver from him, but Daryl struggled. “What the fuck are you doing, Charlie?!” he hissed. “Martin needs help! I have to--”

“He needs help, but not the attention,” Alan finally managed to snatch the receiver and slammed it back. “What do you think happened to him, huh? Do you think he'd like the press to know all about it? Do you?!”

“He needs help,” stated Andy from the bed, where he was keeping his friend in a careful embrace. “I know,” Alan took a deep breath, trying to calm down. “Daryl, go to that manager guy and ask him to send some trustworthy doctor to Mart's room right away. Tell him he was... beaten.”

“Oh... all right,” Daryl stammered slightly and shot one more worried glance towards the bed before he rushed out of the room.

“We have to take him out of here,” Alan touched Andy's shoulder gently. The tall man started a little and looked up with not-so-conscious eyes. “Where's Dave?” he muttered. “Where's that bastard?”

Alan looked around once again, looking for any trace of the room's owner, but he couldn't find any. “I'll check the bathroom,” he said. “Be right back.” He crossed the silent suite, again feeling like he was in some stupid movie. Famous keyboard player finds his rock star junkie friend dead on the bathroom floor. Good, but too long for a title, he thought, trying to chase away his anxiety as he reached the bathroom's door. There was a light coming from beneath them. He took a deep breath and pushed it open.

Of course Dave was there, curled on his side on the tiled floor, half naked and very much alive. He was breathing slowly and peacefully, he even had a small smile wandering upon his lips. Alan exhaled with relief, but in the next moment he was fighting the urge to kick the singer right in the guts. He could see that junkie gear scattered all over the place and it made him sick to the core. How much did he take this time? And what kind of shit was it? Did he just go out of his fucking mind and force Martin to play some sick games? Did he beat him? Did he... rape him?

Alan could feel the ball of acid coming up into his throat. If he stayed here even a little longer he'd either throw up or kick the living shit out of that bastard. He had almost decided to do the latter, when he heard sounds of struggling and weak cries coming from the bedroom. In that instant he forgot all about his anger and ran back.

Fletch was still on the bed, trying to get a hold on Martin. The obviously delusional blond was thrashing all over, babbling some incoherent words and trying to free himself from the covers and from Andy's hands. He didn't seem to understand what's going on around him, he didn't hear his friends calming words, and he was just so desperate to break free. Alan looked for a few moments at the effortless struggling, but he couldn't stand it for long. Martin seemed so small and so broken, just like some wild animal, trapped and scared to death, and so helpless, so fucking helpless.

He didn't think, he just did the first thing that came to his mind – he came to the bed, get a hold on Martin's arm and slapped him across the face, first lightly, but when it didn't help he slapped harder. Suddenly the blond stopped his struggle, blinked few times and finally focused his eyes on Andy's face.

“Fletch?” he whisper hoarsely. “Is that really you?”

“Yeah Mart, it's me. Are you all right?” Andy was panting slightly from all the fighting as he tried to fix the sheet over Martin's shoulders. “Please, don't go anywhere,” the blond clung to his arms with a desperate gesture, his voice breaking. “Don't leave me Andy, please!”

Slowly, Alan stepped aside and stood by the door, clenching and unclenching his fist in silent fury. He never saw his band mate like that, he didn't think he ever saw anybody in similar state. And he couldn't do anything, he was afraid to even come into Martin's sight because it could trigger another panic attack. So he just stood there, watching Martin curled on Andy's lap, holding on him for his dear life and sobbing his heart out.

***

The pain was the very thing that brought him back to consciousness. It wasn't suppose to be like that, but it was. The pain was everywhere, inside and outside his body, filling his lungs with every breath, flowing in his veins, pumped by his aching heart, and sliding all over his brain like a slimy worm. That was the worst down he had in very long time, hell, it was probably the worst down he ever had! What was that shit they gave me, he thought as he slowly lifted himself into a sitting position.

“Good morning, asshole,” a quiet voice greeted him. “Did you sleep well?”

Dave blinked, trying to focus his sight at the figure leaning against the wall in front of him. “Alan? What the fuck are you doing here?” he frowned at the awful sound of his own voice.

“I'm your wake up call,” his band mate came closer and gripped his arm, hauling him up roughly. “Move your sorry ass, Gahan and get ready.”

Dave couldn't help but cry out as his whole body screamed with pain. “Are you out of your fucking mind?” he hissed, trying to free himself from Alan's bruising grip. “Let me go!” But Alan didn't pay any attention to his words. He just pulled him forward, practically dragging him out of the bathroom into the living area. “You've got half an hour,” he said, finally letting go. “Pack your shit, the car is waiting.”

Dave tripped, lost what little balance he had and almost fell onto the floor. He managed to get a hold of the back of an armchair though. “Stop pushing me,” he growled turning towards Al. “What the fuck is your problem?!” He could now clearly see his friend's face, tensed and motionless, and his eyes, looking at him so coldly it sent a chill down his spine.

“You are my problem,” Alan answered with strangely calm voice, “and since we're at it, I think I better leave before I try to solve it the way I really want to.”

Oh yeah, that's exactly what I need right now, thought Dave, forcing his aching body to stay upright. Another poor excuse of a friend breaking into my privacy and moaning about my so called state. “I asked you what you're doing here,” he growled under his breath. “This is my room, and the door was locked. How--”

The look in Alan's eyes made him stop. Half consciously he took a small step back, the urge to run away from him rising rapidly. “Don't worry David, no one came here to rescue you,” Alan spat clenching his fists. “If it wasn't for Martin nobody would even noticed you're not there.”

That hurt. Pretty bad actually. But just a second later it came to him. “What do you mean?” he asked tentatively. “What's wrong with Martin?”

“So, you don't even remember,” Alan sneered in a way that once again made Dave step away until back of his legs hit the armchair. He was almost scared for real as he watched Alan approaching him slowly. “I remember,” he started defensively. “He was here, and I... kind of got...”

“Stoned,” Alan was really close now, towering over him with silent threat. “Yeah, you got fucking stoned and now he's... What have you done to him?!”

“Get off me! I didn't do anything!” now Dave was really scared. “They brought me this junk, and it was too pure! I almost died here! I couldn't lift a fucking finger let alone do anything to anybody!”

“Oh, you poor little thing,” Alan snarled at him, his face no longer calm. “But you still have your chance. Unless Martin says it wasn't you, I will personally take care of putting us all out of your misery.” With that cold words and last shove, Alan left him alone.

Dave slowly slid down to the armchair and dropped his head into his hands. What the fuck had happened here? What happened to Martin? Did those fucking dealers hurt him in some way? Did they... Oh God, it was supposed to be the best night in his life, and it turned into such a disaster! “My whole life is a fucking disaster,” he mumbled, feeling hot tears gathering behind his eyelids. Alan was right, no one cared. No one would come to rescue him.

No one, except for Martin.

In a haste, he got up, put something on and left his room, desperate to see his friend, to ask him if he still cared. He felt like a car crash, and probably he looked like a wreck too, but he didn't care. He had to know.

But he never made it there. Before he got to the elevator he ran into Daryl. “Have you seen Mart?” he asked, grabbing the man by his arm. “Is he in his room?”

“Yes, he is. But I'm not sure he would want to see you,” Daryl stated slowly. “In fact, I'm pretty sure he doesn't want to see anybody right now.”

Dave didn't want to listen; he just wanted to leave Daryl and his stupid words, to go and see his best friend, because Martin was still his friend and he would meet him, would talk to him, wouldn't he? But he saw something in Daryl's eyes, something that made him stop in his tracks. Something, that made him ask.

“What happened to him?” Dave tensely gripped Daryl's arm. “Why are you looking at me like that? First Alan, now you... What happened? What do you think I've done to him?!”

“We found him in your room,” Daryl looked away. “He was unconscious. And beaten, pretty badly. We thought...”

“You thought it was me, huh?” Dave couldn't help the bitterness slipping into his words. Daryl shuffled his feet, obviously embarrassed. “You know Dave, sometimes you can be--”

“Whatever,” the singer interrupted him, unable to listen to any of the lame excuses any more. “Just tell me if Mart is all right.”

“We called a doctor. He's in there right now.”

“Good,” Dave slowly let go of his hand and turned, heading back to his room. Daryl was saying something to him, but he didn't listen any more. He didn't need to. He knew that now he was all alone for real, all alone with his misery, with everyone thinking he was some kind of a monster abusing his friends. And maybe they were right, maybe he was a monster, not deserving anything else but slow and painful death.

His feet led him right into his room and into the bathroom, his hands all by themselves found everything that was needed. He slowly started to prepare the fix, blinking every now and then to get rid of those annoying, hot tears.

***

Golden light of the afternoon sun was shining through windows. He watched a small yellow patch that was sitting on the wall, encircling one of the big red flowers painted on the wallpaper. Artificial petals were glowing slightly, giving him a false impression of three dimensions. But he could tell it was only an illusion. The flower was dead. Just like him.

He heard a soft rustle of clothes, as Andy moved a bit. Martin could sense that his friend was more than uncomfortable, but he couldn't make himself compassionate. God, he could hardly even look at Andy at all. He had a great urge to just ask him to leave, but he knew it would hurt his friend, so he decided to bear with it a little more.

After all Andy gone through a lot of trouble because of him, re-scheduling their flight, interviews and a photo session, and he even offered to cancel the next gig. Martin tried to reassure him it wasn't necessary, that during those three days that was left before the show he’d heal enough and his bruised face could be easily covered by some extra make up. He even managed to make him joke about coming back to old routine of over-using foundation and eye liner. But that was few minutes ago, and since then that awful, heavy silence started surrounding them like thick fog, and Martin could almost sense the question that was slowly growing in it.

He wasn't sure if he wanted to hear it, if he wanted to answer it, but he definitely didn't fear the confrontation. He knew he probably should, but that violent outburst of emotions from before left him drained and perfectly numb. The only thing he could feel now was the pain, and it wasn't even the physical one. The doctor gave him enough painkillers to get rid of it, but then something else came to the surface. It was that strange, dull aching, placed somewhere inside his chest. He could feel it with every heart beat, with every intake of the breath. It wasn't exactly physical, neither was it an emotion. It just felt... It felt like someone had ripped his soul out, leaving him with an aching void.

“I know you'd rather not to talk about it right now...” Andy moved uncomfortably on his chair once again, “but I have to ask you Mart. Can you tell me what exactly had happened there?”

So, you want details, thought Martin as he glanced briefly at his friend. Sorry mate, can't grant you that wish. I just can't tell it, not to you, not to anyone on this fucking world. I just can't, even if I wanted to. 'Cause you see, the words, they don't want to come out.

Andy must have sensed his refusal, because he sighed wearily. “Martin, I have to know,” he insisted. “I mean, I've never try to meddle with your personal... affairs. I really don't care what you do with your life as long as you don't get hurt. Which has just happened. So please, tell me... Was it Dave? Did he do that to you?”

Dave... Martin cringed at the very sound of that name. He didn't know why, but it caused strange sensation in his heart. Just like someone had squeezed it hard with a clawed hand. “Where did you get that idea from?” he snarled at Andy, trying to hide his first reaction behind a rude attitude.

Andy turned his eyes away, rubbing his hands nervously. “You see... We found him completely stoned in the bathroom while you were... And everybody knows that he sometimes can be aggressive while he is high, so...”

“It wasn't Dave,” Martin interrupted him sternly. “Dave didn't do anything. Anything at all.”

Andy didn't react to his statement in any way. He was sitting there in silence, obviously waiting for the rest of the story. Martin sighed deeply, feeling that slight ache inside his chest starting to grow. He had to tell him something, something close to the truth enough to be probable. Maybe then Andy would finally leave him alone.

“We had a little private party,” he started slowly, pushing the words one by one through his mouth. “Just him, me and couple of girls and guys. He got stoned, I got drunk. Girls left but I asked those guys to stay. We had some fun and then they got... carried away a little. That's it, end of story.”

He went silent, fixing his gaze back on that damn wallpaper flower. All that lies were burning his lips, filling his mouth with bitterness he hardly could stand. Why I'm not telling him the truth, he asked himself, over and over again. But he didn't know the answer.

For few moments Andy remained silent, perhaps waiting for Mart to add something more. “All right,” he said finally. “So, I presume you don't want to inform the police or anything, do you?” There was something in his voice that made Martin look at him once again. Their eyes met for one moment, and then the blond quickly averted his gaze. He didn't want to see it. He simply refused to acknowledge that his friend knew more than he's supposed to.

“But the thing is I have to tell something to the others,” he could feel Andy's piercing gaze. “How much do you want me to tell them, Mart?”

Oh, screw the others, thought Martin angrily. I don't care about them. They already have their opinion about me. They do expect me to go around, drunk and naked, making scenes and fucking every guy who's careless enough to bend over near me. You can tell them whatever you want, you could even tell them the truth and they wouldn't be surprised at all!

Then once again that clawed hand gripped painfully at his heart. “Who else, except you, saw me...” he started, but wasn't able to finish. Suddenly he had to focus on breathing, because his throat clenched so tightly. Suddenly, he was sure he would choke if he tried to push out just one word more.

Fortunately Andy knew what's on his mind. “Only Alan and Daryl were there with me,” he said. “So I suppose I can tell them the truth. As for the others... Let's say, you were drunk and got into a brawl or something. That should explain your condition just right, don't you think?”

“Yeah, thanks,” Martin managed to mumble the response. What would I do without you Andy, he thought closing his eyes. You deserve someone better as a friend, not such a miserable, lying queer like me.

“Ok, I better leave you now,” he heard Andy's getting up, and then he felt his friend putting a hand on his shoulder. “I'll take care of everything, you just rest,” he said, leaning closer.

As much as he hated it, Martin couldn't help but to flinch. Suddenly he wanted to scream 'Don't touch me!', suddenly he wanted to hit him and run away, all at the same time. Instead, he froze, eyes still shut tightly, his whole body stiff and tensed.

“Oh, sorry,” Fletch took his hand away, apparently misreading his reaction. “I forgot about your bruises. See you later, mate.”

Only when he heard the door's closing did Martin dare to breathe again. Why am I acting so stupid, he scolded himself. It's just Andy! For fuck's sake, he didn't try to hurt me; he didn't mean anything by touching me. So why in the hell am I'm shaking so much?

He curled on his side, embracing himself tightly as he tried to suppress the trembles, tried to breathe deeply just like he used to do during one of his panic attacks, but it didn't help much. That doctor said he could experience 'anxiety', he even left some pills, just in case. Martin could see the small plastic bottle at his bed side table, but he didn't want any pills. Not right now. He would fight it on his own; he wasn't that weak to seek comfort in drugs. He wasn't... Dave.

Again, pain clawed at his heart, making him moan silently. Dave... Dave was all right. He didn't overdose, didn't die. And he probably didn't have any clue about what had happened. Any fucking clue...

The pain was now everywhere, sinking its claws into his racing heart, squeezing his lungs, shutting down his throat and making him gasp for air. He wanted to scream, but his voice was lost, he wanted to cry but his eyes remained dry. He wanted to thrash around, to punch his fist into the hard wall but he couldn't move even a single muscle.

Once again, he was dying inside, and that bastard didn't even have a clue.
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