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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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Shameless

Chapter Six

Two weeks passed in relative peace. Brett and Richard began work on several promising songs. Stefan walked around with a dopey grin on his face, permanently wrapped in what Brian referred to as “the bliss of the freshly fucked”. Mat, who would never have admitted to any such thing, quietly marveled at how happy Brett had become - and, being a good friend, felt grateful for it. And Brian sang softly to himself when he was alone, rejoicing in the words of nearly forgotten love songs. Only Simon seemed to hold back, watching, waiting for the moment when it would all begin to fall apart.

Which, of course, it did.

Brett was at home, doing some preliminary packing, when Richard confronted him. “I can’t go on tour.”

“What?” Brett blinked, trying to catch hold of the reality that had momentarily slipped from his grasp. “Of course you can.”

“No.” Richard’s hands were curled into fists, his whole body pulled as tight as the sheets on a freshly made bed.

Remembering the shy, scared, sixteen-year-old he was accustomed dealing with, Brett thought he understood. “Look, it’s perfectly normal to have a bit of stage fright before your first major tour. But remember how much they all loved you at the fan club gig? You’re more than ready for this.”

“I know I’m ready for it.”

“Then for god’s sake, why--?”

“Fifteen months. Over a year. I’ve finally found the man who makes me feel complete, and you want me to be away from him for over a year?”

Oh. Brett took a deep breath. He felt like a cheap magician, distracting a child with glossy assurances and shiny half-lies. But what else could he tell Richard? The truth? Yes, you’ll be away from him, and despite all your vows, and all your promises, and all your good intentions, you’ll slowly drift apart, until love turns into the distance between galaxies. Because that’s what happens. That’s the price for doing what we do. “Richard, it’s not that bad. You can call him as much as you want. And sometimes there will be short breaks in our schedule, and you can even fly back to be with him, or he could fly out to be with you.”

Richard looked incredulous. “That’s it? That’s your solution? I’m in love, and you’re offering me phone conversations and stolen days? No!”

“You’re young,” Brett tried to reason, hating the condescending note that entered his voice. “This seems like a huge sacrifice, but it’s not. Relationships come and go. What matters is your talent. The songs we’ve been working on - they’re great. Together, we can make a fantastic album, take Suede to the top and keep it there. Touch millions of lives. Create music that will live on after we die. Isn’t that more important than your temporary feelings toward one person?”

But Richard refused to be dazzled by promises of immortality. Instead, his eyes grew cold, and hard, like two small stones. He seemed angry, perhaps half-aware of Brett’s attempted manipulations. “Is that what you said to Bernard?” he snarled.

Brett winced, as if Richard had slapped him. “Bernard? What the hell do you know about Bernard?”

“Is that what you said to Bernard?” Richard insisted. “Is that how you convinced him to tour America, even though his father was dying? Is that how you consoled him when he got the phone call? Did you tell him that his ‘temporary’ feelings toward one person were insignificant compared to your insane ambition?!”

Brett lunged forward, driven to madness by the desire to wrap his hands around Richard’s throat and choke him into silence. But, just in time, he caught himself and forced his arms down to his sides, where they hung like two dead things. “You don’t know a damn thing about it,” he hissed.

“I know what Simon told me. He may be self-absorbed, but he’s not blind. Or stupid.”

“Richard.” Using every ounce of his willpower, Brett managed to keep his voice steady. “I don’t care how you feel about Placebo’s bass player. You have to go on tour. We need to promote the album, and you’re our guitarist, and that’s all there is to it.”

“Then I guess I’m not your guitarist anymore.”

Brett gawked at him. “That’s your decision? You’re going to give up a chance to create great music, in order to trail after him like some sort of glorified groupie?”

“In order to be his lover. In order to be the last thing he sees when he closes his eyes at night, and the first thing he feels when his body stirs from sleep in the morning. In order to share his dreams, and his fears, and his failures.” Richard looked directly into Brett’s eyes, and Brett felt a dull, helpless nausea as Richard’s gaze cut him open, searching out his sins like cancers. “Why do you need to make it sound so cheap?” Richard pressed. “Why don’t I deserve a chance to revel in my first love? Just because you had this once, and you poisoned it?”

Nausea turned to despair, and then to numbness. “You can’t quit,” Brett reminded, refusing to think about anything other than the central issue. Refusing to look backward at the cities he’d left in flames, and the ghosts that reached out to him with vengeful hands. “You signed a contract.”

“So sue me.” With that, Richard turned and started to leave the room.

Unthinking, Brett snatched his arm. “You can’t do this! Dammit, no guitarist of mine--!”

“I’m not yours!” Richard screamed in his face. “You don’t own me. You don’t own any of us.” Angrily, he tore his arm free.

Stunned into silence, Brett let him go. But, when Richard reached the door to Brett’s apartment, he glanced over his shoulder as he opened it. “You know something, Brett? I feel sorry for Brian. He’d do anything for you. He really loves you, and you don’t love anything but yourself.”

Then Richard was gone, the slam of the door echoing behind him like a gunshot. Like the first resounding crack in a world about to shatter.

Left behind, Brett sunk into a chair, staring at nothing. No. This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t be. Just when they most needed to present a unified front, they’d lost another member -- another guitarist. Brett could hear the reporters swooping in like cackling crows. They’d blame him, of course. Make a mockery of his ambition and need for control. Chortle over how even a sixteen-year-old kid had proved to be too rebellious for him. He’d become a joke. Suede would become a joke. All his work, all his sacrifices, only to be remembered as a joke?

Is that so bad?

The voice was feminine, and slightly husky, echoing from the deep recesses of his memory. Turning his eyes inward, Brett saw her standing in the shadows of remembrance: her worn jeans, her ripped T-shirt, her slightly masculine face, and her dark hair cut into a mirror of his own style. Justine. Is that so bad? she repeated, smiling kindly. Is that really the end of the world?

It’s the end of my world, he answered her.

Maybe your world needs to change. She shifted positions, hooking her thumbs into her belt loops, the way she always did when she was about to argue with him, as if she had to brace herself against his force. Richard is right, you know. You do have something really special with Brian. Something like what we had. Maybe this is your second chance.

Brett thought about that. About the way he felt around Brian. Safe, and free, and content. Maybe Justine had a point. Maybe he’d taken ambition as far as it could go. Maybe it was time to try love again.

But just as he began to imagine the possibility, another voice spoke inside his head.

Live your life in support of another person’s dreams? You wouldn’t last a week.

And Justine vanished, replaced by Bernard. Shoulder length brown hair, sharp nose like a beak, and eyes filled with that strange mixture - fierce arrogance about his talent, and stifling shyness about everything else. Don’t kid yourself, he chided. We both know what you are.

What else can I do?

You know the answer to that. You have all the clues.

Do I? Brett tried to think. To find some way he could still save his beloved band. And, slowly, the pieces did begin to fall into place. Richard’s blind innocence about love. The secrets that Brian had whispered to him their first night together, including the attraction that still existed between Brian and Stefan. Richard’s parting words: ‘He’d do anything for you.’ No. No, I couldn’t do that. It’s too cruel.

Bernard tilted his head, and his hair rustled like dead grass. More cruel than what you did to me?

Unwilling to answer that, Brett shook his head, clearing it of all visions. This was crazy. What was he thinking, sitting here and talking to himself? He’d go see Mat. Mat would take him out for a few drinks, discuss the situation rationally, and calm him down.

Brett got up, brushed his hair, and put on a jacket. But even as he left his apartment, he knew Mat wasn’t his destination. He was going to see Brian.
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