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Shameless	By : FalconBertille Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Placebo Views: 1534 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the celebrity I am writing about. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Chapter Four

“You what?” Even in the pub’s dim light, Mat’s look of incredulity projected clearly across the table. “Are you out of your mind?”

Cautiously, Brett stirred his Bloody Mary with a stalk of celery, beginning to wonder if he’d made a mistake when he’d accepted Mat’s invitation to join him for a late breakfast, and then spilled out the whole story. “I made a bet. Is that such a big crisis?”

“Well, for starters, if you lose you’re going to have to kiss Brian Molko on the lips, in front of several thousand people. Have you even thought about that?”

Brett had. Not so much about the several thousand people, but about the kiss itself. About what it would be like to taste those lips, shiny and sweet, like poisoned candy. And the more he thought about it, the more he tried not to think about it, which only made the vision more vivid inside his head. “I won’t lose. You know Simon.”

“Certainly, we both know Simon.” Mat lifted a forkful of sausage. “But what about Richard?”

“Richard?” Brett blinked, startled by the question. “Richard’s a good kid. He does what he’s told.”

“Unlike Bernard?”

The words were so hurtful, and so unexpected, that Brett could hardly believe he’d actually heard Mat speak them. “Is that an accusation?” he demanded.

Mat shrugged. “I don’t know. Is there anything to accuse you of?”

Of course there was. Despite all his ruthlessness, Brett felt acutely aware of his crimes, burning beneath his skin like a fever he could never quell. He’d put ambition before friendship. He’d chosen security over adventure. In short, he’d driven someone out of the band because the music they were making, while brilliant, was growing less and less marketable. All these things he’d done, for the sake of Suede. But he’d never heard any of his band mates - especially not Mat - raise any objections. “I did what I had to do,” Brett defended. “And I don’t remember any of you complaining.”

“Bernard lost my sympathy after he started bad-mouthing you to the press. And Simon never sees farther than his own bedroom. What did either of us have to complain about?” Mat set down his fork. “Look, I’m not trying to rip open old wounds. I’m just saying that you seem to think Richard is some sort of toy, to wind up and set in motion, and maybe he isn’t. Maybe you shouldn’t be so confident about this stupid bet of yours.”

Brett reached his hand into his jacket pocket, fingering the piece of paper where Brian had written down his phone number and address. “I’m not going to lose.”

Mat shook his head. “It’s just so uncharacteristic of you. You’re not a gambler. You’re not impulsive. I can’t imagine why you’d risk being forced to do something you found repugnant. Unless…”

“Unless?”

“Unless,” Mat concluded triumphantly. “Unless BOTH outcomes were to your liking.”

“It’s not like that! Brian was just so smug, so arrogant. I wanted to show him how suddenly the world can collapse under your feet.”

But Mat was having none of it. “You have a crush on Brian Molko! Brett and Brian, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G…”

Brett rolled his eyes, knowing he was beat. It was actually a relief to be able to admit it, however indirectly, to another person. To be able to admit it to himself. “Mat. Remind me again why I let you stay in the band?”

“Because I know all your nasty secrets,” Mat began, ticking off the reasons on his fingers. “Because you can’t push me around. And because I make you, Simon, and Richard look incredibly handsome by comparison. Oh yes, and because I have a really cool car.” Mat reached into the pocket of his pants, pulled out his cellular phone, and began to dial.

“Hey--!” Brett began, warningly. “What are you doing?”

“Calling Simon. This bet just got interesting for me.”

“Mat--!”

But Mat held up his hand, commanding silence. Then he spoke into the phone. “Simon? This is Mat. I was just wondering - what? No, I haven’t seen him. No. He can’t be at Brett’s. Brett is here with me. I-okay, I’ll call if he turns up.” Mat pressed the disconnect button, before pushing the phone back into his pocket. Then he grinned at Brett. “Better pucker up, Loverboy. Richard and Placebo’s bass player seem to have gone missing together.”

*****

Brian lay in his bed, daydreaming about the previous night’s encounter. Arrogant piece of work, Brett. And cold like an unexpected frost. What made a man turn so bitter? What made him seal himself off from the world behind a wall made of distrust and ambition? A difficult barrier to sneak past. But Brian liked a challenge, and besides, the possible rewards were certainly worth the effort. To unlock those eyes, to touch that skin, to make those lips laugh again - a goal as ambitious as catching a star in his teeth. And just as likely to get him badly burned. But to taste a star… To lick, and bite, and swallow it whole. For that, Brian felt willing to risk everything.

Slowly, Brian’s hand slipped under the blankets as he thought about Brett’s flop of dark hair, always hanging across one eye like a half-mask. Like a shadow that couldn’t be banished by any amount of light. Brian wondered what it would be like to run his fingers through those black currents. To press his lips to Brett’s slender, swan throat, until his kisses became tangled around the gold chain of the necklace Brett wore like a self-imposed noose. And as he thought and wondered, Brian trailed his fingers down the flat of his stomach, lingering around the curve of his thigh. Brett. Beautiful Brett, whose body moved like water running over cool, pale stones. How long until that body was really in this bed beside him?

Brian began to stroke more intimate regions, causing soft cries to fly from his lips like exploding butterflies, born of longing and desire. But before he could reach his climax, the sharp blare of the phone jolted him from his fantasy. For a moment, Brian tried to ignore it, but his mood had already been broken. Sighing, he rolled over and lifted the receiver from its cradle on his bedside table. “Hello?”

“Brian? This is Stef.”

Stef. Brian’s annoyance evaporated, replaced by wild eagerness. But he tried to keep his tone casual as he answered. “Stef? I seem to remember someone by that name. I think I kicked him out of the band after he abandoned Steve and me at a boring party last night.”

On the other end of the line, he heard Stefan snort. “Oh, as if the two of you haven’t bailed on me, when you had the proper incentive.”

“Point taken. And just how “proper” was your incentive?”

“It was heaven.” Then, behind Stefan’s words, Brian heard light, boyish laughter. Stefan’s voice seemed to turn from the phone as it said something Brian couldn’t quite make out. The laughter repeated itself, and then escalated into a squeal of delight. More laughter - Stefan’s now mixing with that of the other person.

“Hello? Stef?” Brian insisted.

Stefan’s voice returned to the phone. “Sorry. It’s just that - God, Brian, I think I’m in love.”

“Damn!”

“Damn? What kind of response is that? I thought you’d be happy.”

“I am happy for you,” Brian assured. “You just lost me a bet, that’s all. But it’s not important. Not compared to the romantic fulfillment of one of my best friends. Which one is it, if I dare ask? The drummer or--?”

As if in reply, the sound of someone pounding on Brian’s front door echoed through the apartment, accompanied by a voice shouting “Dammit, Molko! What have you done with my guitarist?”

“Oops!” Brian exclaimed. “Never mind. I think the answer just came to me. Listen, Stef, I really am joyously glad for you, but I have to go. Give me a call in a couple of hours.” Hanging up the phone before Stefan could protest, Brian flung back the covers and got up. Hastily, he pulled on a robe. Then went to answer the door.

As he expected, an enraged Brett Anderson stood on the other side of the threshold. “Where is he?” Brett demanded, shoving Brian aside, and striding into the apartment, as if Brian might be holding Richard hostage. “So help me, if you’ve hurt him--.”

Brian grinned. “I haven’t laid a finger on him. Which, apparently, is more than I can say for Stefan. I just got a call from the happy couple.”

“They called you? Where the hell are they? We have rehearsal this afternoon!”

“Oh, lighten up,” Brian chided. “Let the boy live a little. I’m sure they’ll turn up by tonight.”

“Tonight? What am I supposed to do until tonight?”

Brian tilted his head to one side, and his hair rustled softly as it fell against the silk of his robe. “Well, I don’t know what you’re going to do. But apparently I need to spend the time thinking up nice things to say about your band.”

“Huh?” Brett looked bewildered.

“Stefan thinks he’s falling in love.” Brian spread his hands in the air, exaggerating a look of helplessness and defeat. “You win. Fair and square.”

The reminder of their bet seemed to suck the air out of Brett. “Oh,” he said, sounding faintly disappointed. “Really?”

“Really,” Brian agreed. Absently, as if he wasn’t even aware of the gesture, he let the fabric of his robe shift, taunting Brett with a flash of pale, smooth skin. Never taking his eyes off Brett’s face.

Color flushed Brett’s cheeks, and for a moment he seemed to forget how to shape words. “Oh,” he finally managed to repeat. “You see, I came over here thinking that you’d won. It’s so unlike Richard to run off like that. He must be pretty obsessed with your bass player.”

And Brian saw it. A flicker of desire. A swirl of longing. A break in the cold, gray clouds of loneliness. However hard Brett might try to hide it, there was still a man behind the wall. Still a shadow of humanity that Brett hadn’t yet managed to purge. Brian could almost taste how much Brett wanted that kiss, and he knew that if he made the first move, he wouldn’t be turned away. But he didn’t want to make it easy. He wanted to drive Brett to action, to force him to understand the fierceness of passions he tried so hard to deny. “Well, if there’s no clear winner, we could always call the whole thing off...?”

“No. A bet is a bet.”

“A tie, then?” Brian inquired, feeling the same rush as a cat toying with a mouse. “You don’t have to kiss me, and I don’t have to say nice things about Suede?”

“I agree with the tie. But I don’t like the idea of not paying my wager. That doesn’t seem fair.”

“Oh, alright,” Brian surrendered, faking a pout. “I’ll say nice things about your band, then you have to kiss me onstage during your set at the Phoenix Festival. And may this teach us both a lesson about the evils of gambling.”

Brett opened his mouth, and then seemed to realize that Brian has tricked him into begging for a decision that had already been made. His eyes flared, but instead of storming out, he grabbed Brian, pulling the smaller man into a ferocious kiss. Brian’s mouth opened, helpless beneath Brett’s onslaught, and tongue stabbed at tongue, as warm breath mingled like spilled blood. When they finally broke apart, gasping, the room seemed to spin around Brian. “What--?” he managed to rasp. “What the hell was that?”

“That,” Brett answered, “was practice.”

And he kissed Brian again.

*****

“Well,” Stefan announced, hanging up the phone. “That was…odd.”

Richard rolled over onto his side, resting his cheek against Stefan’s bare chest. He wasn’t sure how long they’d been in bed together - minutes replaced by murmurs of pleasure, hours condensed into screams of delight. Maybe days had passed. Maybe years. Maybe, outside the walls of Stefan’s apartment, whole civilizations has risen and fallen. Richard didn’t know. And, frankly, he didn’t care. “What was odd?” he asked, lazily.

“Well, I was talking to Brian, and suddenly I heard someone pounding on the door, shouting: ‘What the hell have you done with my guitarist?’ Then Brian hung up.”

The room’s warmth vanished, like sunlight devoured by dark clouds. “Oh god,” Richard cursed, making a rare foray into religion. “Brett. God, god, god… He’s going to kill me.”

“Brett is?” Stefan inquired, smiling slightly. “Or god?”

But Richard was in no mood for humor. He felt like Cinderella at midnight, her dress turned to patches and scraps, dragged back to old drudgeries after tasting the joys of a different life. “Rehearsal. We have - had? - rehearsal this afternoon. Brett’s going to hit the ceiling.” Then, suddenly defiant, Richard threw his arms around Stefan. “I don’t care. Let him get angry. I want to stay here, with you.”

Stefan pulled Richard closer, returning his embrace. “Mmmm. I don’t want to sound ungrateful. That’s a lovely thought. But.”

“But?” Richard pressed, apprehensively.

Slowly, Stefan trailed his fingers across Richard’s bare back, writing love poems in forgotten languages. “But I detect something more than passion in your offer. Why don’t you want to go to rehearsal?”

Terror. All the fear he’d buried beneath his relationship with Simon suddenly clawed its way to the surface, like a creature tearing its way out of a premature grave. Desperate, Richard fought to push it back down. “Please,” he begged, breathing unspoken temptations across Stefan’s skin. “Let’s not talk about it. Let’s make love instead.”

“Richard.” Stefan shifted positions, cupping Richard’s face in his hands. “Richard, look at me. I meant what I told Brian. I really think I am falling in love with you. And I’ll support you any way I can. But I won’t be a wall for you to hide behind. That’s what Simon was, and we both know how that turns out.”

“I--”

“Why don’t you want to go to rehearsal?”

Richard tried to turn away, but with Stefan’s hands on either side of his face, he couldn’t escape. So he looked into Stefan’s gray eyes, praying that he’d find courage there. “Because I’m afraid.”

“I know. Afraid of what?”

“Afraid of failing.” Richard could hardly believe that he’d spoken the words that had haunted him for so long. Finally confessed to the one thing Brett refused to concede was even a possibility. “When they first picked me to be Suede’s new guitarist, it was like a dream come true. Now it’s more like a nightmare. Sure, I can play the songs Bernard wrote. I can mimic the same notes. But now Brett wants me to help him write some new songs. B-sides for the next single, to prove that Suede haven’t rolled over and died. And I’m terrified. Terrified of what the critics will say, terrified that I’ll let Brett down, terrified that somehow someone made a mistake and I’m really just a stupid kid from Dorset who never deserved this chance.”

Stefan smiled a sad, understanding smile, and touched his lips to Richard’s forehead. “Terrified that you’re not special?”

Richard closed his eyes. “Yes.”

“Well, I have some unpleasant news,” Stefan confessed. “You’re not special. But neither am I, and neither is Brett, and neither was Bernard. No one is. We’re all just human. We get up each day and try our best - sometimes that’s enough, and sometimes it’s not. But it’s all we can do.”

“Bernard was a genius. Everyone says so.”

Stefan sighed. “People give that title to others in order to absolve themselves from any responsibility. It lets them believe that a different sort of human, a genius, creates ‘art’. So if they’re not geniuses -- which they’re always sure that they’re not - then they never have to try. But let me tell you something, Richard. Trying is what matters. It’s all that matters. Bernard may have been a damn fine guitar player, but that never would have mattered to anyone if he hadn’t tried. Don’t obsess about how much talent you have. You can’t control that. Just vow to keep trying.”

Stefan’s words settled in Richard’s heart, warm and gentle. “I love you,” he whispered.

Stefan laughed. “You’re trying to change the subject again.”

“No.” Richard opened his eyes. “I mean it. What you just said - I feel like you’re the only person who looks at me and sees what’s really there.”

“Everyone else is just blinded by your beauty.”

Joy filled Richard, and he laughed. “You win. I’ll talk to Brett tonight. I’ll tell him that I’m ready to try writing something.”

Gently, Stefan ran his fingers through the trembling currents of Richard’s hair. “When you move your head like that, the sunlight catches your hair, and it’s like a web of gold. Have I mentioned how much I love that?”

“Only about twenty times. I’m always happy to hear it again.” Rolling himself up on top of Stefan, Richard pressed his lips against his lover’s. And, for the first time, he didn’t taste the grim reassurance of safety. He tasted lightning, he tasted wings in flight. He tasted freedom.
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