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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.

Chapter List
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Shameless

Chapter Seven

Brian was going through his closets, sparing some outfits, but tossing others backward onto his bed. “Charity. Keep. Keep. Christ, what was I thinking when I bought this one?” He held up a white coat which appeared to be constructed out of polar bear fur. And not just any polar bear - a polar bear with an Afro. “Charity.”

He wasn’t sure what had triggered his current sorting spree. Normally, he clung to his possessions, as if someday soon, the money that had bought them might evaporate even more quickly than it had appeared. However, during the last two weeks, that had all changed. Suddenly, he felt secure. Not a security based on things, but a security based within the heart of another person. Brett was his lover. What did shirts, or shoes, or dresses matter? It seemed to Brian that part of him was expanding, exploding outward like a galaxy released from the grain of sand that imprisoned it, and he wanted to make room, both emotionally and physically, for whatever changes occurred on the journey. “Keep. Charity. Give to Stef.”

The doorbell buzzed. For a moment, Brian considered ignoring it, since he wasn’t expecting anyone. But curiosity triumphed. Abandoning his mess, Brian went to the front door and swung it open.

“Brett! I thought you weren’t coming over until tonight?”

Brett averted his gaze. “I--.”

Grinning, Brian wrapped his arms around Brett’s slender waist. “I know,” he teased, “I’m so irresistible that you can’t stay away. I have that affect on a lot of people.”

But Brett didn’t answer, and his body submitted to Brian’s touch without passion or desire. Stung, Brian released him, and stepped back. “Brett? Is something wrong?”

“Can I come in?” Brett requested, his voice heavy with resigned sadness, as if he’d just asked to be present at his own funeral.

“Yes. Yes, of course.” Brian moved aside, watching Brett enter his apartment. And, as he did so, the fear returned. His previous security vanished, and Brian found himself fighting the urge to retreat to his bedroom and start shoving clothes back into the closet. Hardly daring to breathe, he waited for Brett to speak.

But Brett didn’t speak. Instead, he drifted over to the coffee table, where a copy of the latest NME had been tossed down. Its cover featured Brian, Stefan and Steve, locked in one of their customary three-way hugs. Slowly, Brett picked up the magazine, and stared at it like a hazy memory. “We never touch each other during photo shoots,” he murmured. “We just stand there, like four strangers waiting for an elevator.”

Brian tried to imagine what life would be like without Steve and Stef, always there, always ready to hold him. Always ready to catch him when he started to fall. “That must be very lonely.”

“Maybe. We each…we each deal with it in our own way.” For the first time since his arrival, Brett looked directly into Brian’s eyes. “I made Suede successful. Simon, Mat, Richard, even Bernard - they’re rich and famous because of me. Able to live out their musical ambitions because of me. That has to count for something, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” Brian agreed. “That counts for something.”

Brett set the magazine down. “You told me that Stefan is your friend. If you asked him to break things off with Richard, what would he say?”

Brian tried to laugh, but the sound drowned in his throat, like he was swallowing mud. “He’d say that I could go to hell. Which is exactly what he should say. Why would you want me to--?”

“Richard can’t stand the thought of being away from Stefan. He wants to quit Suede.”

“Christ,” Brian whispered. “I’m sorry. But can’t you find a replacement?”

“No. No, I can’t. Someone who could learn Bernard’s guitar parts that quickly? And write songs? When we held auditions, no one but Richard came even remotely close. And even if we did get someone else, even if we got John-fucking-Squire, it wouldn’t be enough. The press would never let us live it down.”

And suddenly, like the first shuddering premonition of an approaching storm, Brian knew what was about to be asked of him. “No,” he pleaded, touching his fingers to Brett’s lips, as if that could keep the words from tumbling out. “Don’t say it. Forget Suede, and I’ll forget Placebo, and we can so some place where none of that matters. We can leave tonight. But please, don’t say it.”

“Brian--.”

“No!” Brian struggled against the urge to clamp his hands over his ears and start chanting nonsense - anything to block out the anticipated words. “No. Don’t you see? If you ask this of me, then I’m not your lover. I’m just your whore. And it’s over between us.”

“Brian. You said that Stefan is still attracted to you. If you tried, could you get him into bed?”

One by one, Brian’s fingers dropped away from Brett’s mouth, like petals on a dying flower. It was too late. The words had been spoken, and nothing, ever again, could erase them. “So that you can arrange for Richard to walk in on us?”

“Yes.”

Brian bowed his head, utterly defeated. But what right did he have to complain? Brett had warned him. Brett had told him the fates of all the others. But, fool that he was - oh, arrogant fool that he was - he’d thought it would be different with him. Wasn’t that what battered wives always said? This time I was sure, so very sure, that he wouldn’t hit me. “If Stef was drunk enough, yes. I think I could.”

“Will you?”

“Will I?” Brian echoed, feeling the words reverberate in the emptiness where his heart used to be. He thought about Richard, the smile that always flashed so quickly and so easily, and the eyes, like untouched forest glens where fairies danced at night. Brian’s own innocence, of course, had not lasted until he was sixteen. But he could still remember the pain of losing it. “You’re asking me to betray a child. A child and one of my best friends.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

The afternoon light fell across Brett’s face, and shadows pooled in the hollows of his cheeks, giving him a vaguely skeletal appearance. “Suede is all I have.”

What about me? Brian wanted to scream. What about the way I love you? But he could tell it wouldn’t do any good. His love wasn’t real - not to Brett. Nothing was real to Brett, except fire and ambition. And if he lost those, if something took his band away from him, then nothing would be left but a scorched shell. Stefan’s heart might break when Richard left, but he’d get over it. If Brett lost Suede, he’d self-destruct. And Brian couldn’t stand to see that happen. “I’ll do it.”

“Thank you.”

For a moment they stood there, both of them trying to find words, trying to cross the chasm that had opened up between them. Then, as Brett turned to go, Brian finally spoke.

“So. I really meant nothing to you.”

Brett looked back, pain pacing back and forth inside his eyes, like a caged tiger. “You meant everything to me,” he corrected, touching Brian’s hand. “Everything in the world. And it still wasn’t enough.”

The story of my life. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?”

Sorry that I couldn’t save you. Sorry that you’ve chosen this path. Sorry that some morning you’ll wake up and realize that fame, and critical acclaim, and even art doesn’t matter when there’s not one damn person who really loves you. Sorry that I couldn’t spare you from that pain. “Nothing. Just go.”
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