Space They Cannot Touch
Title: Chapter One: If I Could Start Today Again
Pairing: Matthew/Dominic
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Dominic is taken to the hospital. The boys follow as quickly as they can.
Disclaimer: I do not own Muse. The events within are entirely fictional. Thankfully.
Author's Notes: The first set of italics are song lyrics, the second set is a flashback.
Betas: The dynamic duo: millionstar and dolce_piccante
Warnings: Angst, hurt/comfort
Previous Parts:
Prologue: Time is Running Out
All the kings and queens, in the Bible
They could not turn back time
So what chance have I of a miracle
In this life of mine?
I only want one day
To unsay the things I said
Undo that thing I did
Twenty-four little hours
Oh God, can you wipe them all away?
And I promise I will change
If I could start today again
If I Could Start Today Again - Paul Kelly
When she’s asked, Judith always claims that you get used to it after a while. It’s a lie. She’s never gotten used to it. Even after thirty years experience working at the hospital, the sight of an ambulance pulling up outside the emergency department never fails to send a shiver of pure horror down her spine.
The paramedics move swiftly. The moment the ambulance comes to a stop, they climb out, running to the back of the vehicle to unload the stretcher. Judith takes a deep breath, steeling herself for whatever sight awaits her. She turns her attention to the hospital computer, quickly scanning the directory to find the nearest available room. As they enter the waiting room, she recognises one of the paramedics, Joseph, from her shift the other week. His mouth is set in a hard line as he wheels the patient’s trolley through the hospitals double doors.
The prone figure on the stretcher is ghostly white but for the blood; blood that is spread over blond hair and down the patient’s neck.
“Dominic Howard. Unconscious. Probable head trauma and heavy blood loss,” Joseph states.
Judith enters the information into the database and directs them to an empty room. She glances at Mr Howard as he rolls by, and is shocked when a vague spark of recognition flares in her brain. The blood makes it difficult to say for certain, but she could swear she has seen the young man before. When the trolley is out of sight, she turns her attention back to the screen in front of her, checking to make sure that everything is still running smoothly.
She is just about to go and make herself a cup of tea when the doors open, admitting three distressed young men into the waiting room.
“Where is he?” the shortest of the men demands. He paces up and down in front of the desk, clawing at his black hair and twitching slightly. Judith eyes him warily. She has dealt with more than her fair share of drunks and drug addicts making trouble on a Saturday night, and experience has taught her to deal with everyone who walks through the doors with caution. “Where the fuck is he?!”
The other two men appear calmer, though no less concerned. One of them - tall and well built - reaches out and lays a hand on the shoulder of the restless man. The dark-haired man visibly shrinks at the touch, and he curls himself into the larger body of his friend. He looks for all the world like a frightened child clinging to his father.
“It’s okay, Matthew,” the man says softly.
The third man approaches the desk, hands shoved into his pockets and a deep frown on his face. “My name is Thomas Kirk. We followed the ambulance that brought Dominic Howard. Can you tell us how he is, please?”
Judith nods. “He was brought in about ten minutes ago. He’s still unconscious, and he’s lost a lot of blood, I’m afraid. We’ll know more when Dr Thomas has finished examining him.”
“Right,” Thomas says shakily. “Is it okay if…can we wait here?”
“Of course,” Judith replies, offering the anxious young man a sympathetic smile. Whoever Dominic Howard is, it’s clear that his friends care about him very much. “There’s a small cafeteria down the hall,” Judith continues. “If you need a warm drink or something to eat. I’ll let Dr Thomas know that you’re here. I’m sure she’ll update you as soon as she knows more.”
Thomas nods stiffly. “Thank you.”
Judith watches as Thomas returns to his friends. They stand in a small huddle for a moment; Thomas obviously relaying the information Judith has just given him to the other two men. Ten minutes pass and then the three men make their way over to the rows of blue plastic chairs that line one wall of the waiting room. They slump into them in a sombre line, and silence falls on the room once more.
For the first time she is able to clearly see the face of the smaller man, who, in sharp contrast to his earlier agitation, is now sat motionless on the chair. Her heart stops. She definitely knows that face. It is plastered all over her teenage daughter’s walls. Matthew, the other man had called him. That’s right, she thinks. Matthew Bellamy. The lead singer of Muse, her daughter’s favourite band. The man sat on his left, the one who had comforted him earlier; he’s in the band too. And the blond…the blond is the drummer, she’s sure of it.
One of the things Judith has always prided herself on is her discretion. She is desperately curious as to how a member of one of the world’s biggest rock bands - so she’s been told - could have ended up in the emergency department with a serious head wound, but she knows better than to ask. Right now, the men in front of her are not rock stars or celebrities, they are just three men worried about their mate, and Judith respects that. When she catches one of the younger nurses pulling out a CD with the intention of getting Matthew to sign it, Judith gives her a proper dressing down and makes sure that all the other nurses on duty know that the men are not to be disturbed by anyone other than Dr Thomas.
After almost half an hour of silent contemplation, Thomas stands up and heads for the canteen. He returns soon after, with three cups of tea and a plate of biscuits.
“Should we be worried that Dr Thomas hasn’t come out yet?” he asks Judith, pausing by her desk on his way back to the others.
“She’s incredibly thorough,” Judith replies, hoping to reassure him. “I’m sure she’ll be out as soon as she is satisfied that she hasn’t missed anything.”
Unconscious. Heavy blood loss.
The words keep repeating themselves in Tom’s head. Just thinking about it makes his hands shake, the tray of tea rattling loudly as he sets it down. On top of his concern for Dom, seeing Matt so quiet is unnerving him far more than he’d care to admit. Chris is staring resolutely at the floor, refusing to make eye contact with anyone. His arm is still wrapped around Matt’s shoulders, his warm weight an obvious comfort to the singer. For the first time in years, Tom feels like an outsider. Unnecessary. He briefly considers leaving, but the idea is quashed before it can come to fruition. Where would he go? What could he possibly do that would take his mind off the blond? No, he’s staying right where he is until they can find out what is going on.
With a heavy sigh, he reaches for his cup. Tea. The Englishman’s solution to everything. Except no amount of tea can fix this. Tom knows it, they all know it; but he needed something to do; some way to make himself useful.
That’s all he’s ever wanted really. A way to help out his mates. If he didn’t have his photography, he’d have been happy to push boxes around or package up CDs in the merchandise warehouse. He might have drawn the line at mopping Dom’s face with a towel while he drummed, but it would have been a close call. His friends - his other friends - think he’s pathetic for following Muse around the world instead of getting a career for himself. They don’t understand. From the very first time he heard them play, he has been spellbound by his three friends. Their music was like nothing else he had ever heard; it was beautiful in a way no other music has ever been. Whatever anyone else might say, he knows the truth: Thomas Kirk is Muse’s biggest fan.
He’d started taking pictures and videoing the band mostly out of his own desire to see Muse’s rise to success chronicled. He never really expected to be any good at it; in fact, he’d resigned himself to the fact that once the band reached a certain point, he would no longer be good enough to photograph them, and they would bring in an expert. But it never happened. Tour after tour, they continued to insist that Tom came with them. In the studio, on-stage, meeting fans, out exploring foreign countries…he got to experience it all. He got the kind of life most people can only dream of. What’s even more baffling to Tom is that, somewhere along the line, he became the unofficial forth member of the band. People started to ask for his autograph, started wanting their picture taken with him, and thanked him for his pictures. Total strangers buy him drinks in bars. Pretty girls bat their eyes at him and ‘accidentally’ brush soft hands against his arms. Fans bring him presents for his birthday. And all because he hangs out with his best mates and takes a few pictures.
That’s not to say he doesn’t take his job seriously. When he’s photographing the band, particularly on-stage, he is committed to taking the best pictures he can. He likes to experiment with angles and lenses and lighting. He likes to try and capture the passion with which they perform and the joy that the music brings them.
He’d been filming Dom when it happened, hoping for that perfect collision shot like some kind of sick freak. The camera had been unceremoniously dumped onto the stage the moment Tom saw blood. He ran, completely forgetting that he was on a stage in front of thousands of people and fell to his knees beside the motionless drummer. He knew immediately that something was seriously wrong. That much blood coming from someone’s head was never a sign of something good. He felt immediately nauseous, and not just from the blood. How could he have let this happen? How could he be worried about getting the right camera angle when his friend was about to be hit in the head by an extremely solid guitar? Why didn’t he warn him?
A wave of nausea washes over him again, and he stands up, hoping for something to distract him. There’s a notice board on the wall opposite their chairs, and he wanders over to read it. His footsteps sound like thunderclaps in the otherwise silent room and he winces at the noise. To his surprise, all the notices appear to say the same thing.
USELESS. YOU ARE FUCKING USELESS.
It’s true, of course; but he hadn’t realised the fact was so widely known. He likes to think that in recent years he’s made a real and valuable contribution to the band he loves so much. Running the website is no easy task, and while it hasn’t been entirely problem-free, he thinks he’s done a pretty reasonable job. Then there’s all the Twitpics and concert footage and general media tasks. It feels good, making such a tangible contribution. What can he contribute now? Words of hope that he himself doesn’t believe? A shoulder to cry on? What good is that to Dominic?
He’s never felt as useless as he does now. They’ve come to rely on him, he knows that - takes pride in it - and he can’t help but feel he’s let them all down. He’s become surprisingly adept at handling the little problems that occasionally pop up whilst touring and more than once he’s been the voice of reason during heated meetings with record labels and tour promoters. They trust that he has the band’s best interests at heart, and he does. But this is one problem that he can’t fix, and he hates himself for it.
He scrubs a hand over his eyes and when he opens them the notices are back to advertising safe sex practices and displaying the hospital’s visiting hours.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, though there’s no one there to hear it. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
Unconscious. Heavy blood loss.
On their own, the words make sense. Said in the same sentence as the name Dominic Howard, though, it’s as if Tom were speaking another language. Chris doesn’t understand. Won’t understand. How can Dom be unconscious when just over an hour ago he was winking at Chris and flashing him that brilliant smile?
But he knows it is true. He saw it happen. He watched Dom topple off his chair. He saw the blood pooling in the neck of the drummer. He saw the paramedic check his pulse before pronouncing him unconscious. He continues to see it, whenever he closes his eyes. It makes him shudder, though he tries to pass it off as an attempt to get more comfortable. As if his own comfort is of any importance.
It’s absurd, but Chris has always looked on Matt and Dom as children, full of youthful exuberance and occasionally needing guidance and protection. He’s always tried to watch over them as he would his own kids; trying not to be judgemental, but there to put the fear of God into them when it was required. If he’s honest with himself, he’s been dreading this day for years. The day when one of them would do something so monumentally stupid that the effects could not simply be swept under the carpet and written into Muse legend. He should have known the culprit would be Matt. Should have seen it coming the moment the singer stepped onto the stage with an intensity that Chris hasn’t seen in years.
Chris heard them arguing, earlier in the afternoon. That’s one more warning sign he chose to ignore. He doesn’t know what they were discussing, and from the sounds of it neither did Dom. The drummer kept insisting that he didn’t know what Matt was talking about, whilst Matt hurled accusations of selfishness and deceit at the blond. Matt had stormed out of the room with a face like sour milk and Dom had emerged moments later looking thoroughly confused and decidedly pissed off. Arguments between Matt and Dom tend to result in much bigger problems. They are both so stubborn that it’s damn near impossible for either one of them to admit that they are wrong.
Matt is still leaning against him, and Chris’ skin is starting to prickle uncomfortably in response to the other man’s closeness. That’s the guilt, he supposes. Frankly, he’s surprised that Matt is even willing to place himself so close to Chris right now.
He should have spoken to them, should have reminded them that they had a gig to play and not to let off-stage tensions affect their work on-stage. It’s what he would normally do. Not that they always listen to him, but he makes him feel better to have tried. Sometimes, his pleas work, and the two of them will set aside their differences long enough for them to survive the interview, or put on a great show. It’s his assigned role in the band, he knows this. Matt is the unpredictable creative genius, Dom is the charmer, and Chris is the overprotective, sensible one. But sometimes, he gets really sick of playing nursemaid. Gets fed up of the mother-hen jokes and the constant reminders that he’s an old, married man. So he left them to it. Left them to implode. And all for the sake of his fucking pride.
The thing is, in some ways, Matt is more predictable than anyone. When he’s happy, he’s unbelievably affectionate with the few people he truly trusts. If he’s worried about something, he’ll stay silent and sulky until Dom or Chris corners him and forces him to spill his guts. A decision doesn’t go his way and he takes it out on someone who doesn’t deserve it. Dom and Chris join forces against him and he shuts them both out completely. Arguments with Dom have always hit him particularly hard, though Chris is at a loss to explain why. It’s not the first time Matt has lashed out physically at the drummer; in fact, it used to be a regular occurrence. It’s the first time Matt might actually have succeeded in doing some damage though. No argument is worth that, surely?
The moment he saw Matt’s guitar collide with Dom’s head, he felt the full weight of his decision come crashing down on him. At first he’d simply assumed that Dom would have a nasty bruise and Matt would get the silent treatment for a few days. When Dom didn’t get up he knew something more sinister had happened. The sight of Dom, bloodied and silent, will haunt him forever. In that moment, he saw just how badly he had failed at protecting his friends. He feels like a father, who took his eyes off his son for the briefest of moments, only to discover he’d been hit by a bus.
The whole journey to the hospital, all Chris could think of was Dom’s mother, who probably has no idea of the condition her son is currently in. The mother to whom Chris had promised to look after Dom when his father died. The mother he will now have to call and beg forgiveness from. Forgiveness that he suspects he does not deserve. He’ll have to call Kelly as well. One more person he has let down. He can’t even bring himself to look at Tom. What must the other man think of him?
“Thomas Kirk?”
A woman’s voice cuts through Chris’ introspection, and he lifts his eyes from the floor to find himself looking at an auburn-haired woman in a white coat. Tom clears his throat and stands up.
“I’m Tom,” he says hoarsely.
“Dr Thomas,” the woman replies, shaking Tom’s hand.
“How is he?” Matt shouts, jumping up and standing next to Tom.
Dr Thomas lets her eyes rest on Matt for a brief moment, and then shakes her head. “It’s not good, I’m afraid. Mr Howard is still unconscious, but we’ve been able to halt the blood loss. He has suffered quite serious trauma at the point of contact, but it’s impossible to tell how severe it is until he wakes up.”
Unconscious. Heavy blood loss. Severe head trauma.
If it hadn’t been for Tom’s arm gripping his, Matt is pretty sure he would have been unable to remain upright. He digs his fingernails into his palms, the deep red crescents a welcome distraction from the pain in his chest. Dr Thomas’ mouth continues to move, but the words do not penetrate his brain. He already knows all he needs to know.
He knows that it’s all his fault. He knows that, thanks to him, his best friend is lying in a hospital bed right now, lucky to be alive.
Normally, the stage is the only place Matt feels in control. He fucking owned that arena. They were eating out of his hand. And, as usual, he had to push it too far.
Matt has never been good at accepting responsibility for his mistakes. It is, perhaps, his greatest weakness. He could blame Tom for what happened. After all, he had requested a show that would ‘go down in history’ for him to film. He could blame Dom for pissing him off enough that, when the urge took him, he wasn’t strong enough to resist it. He could blame the audience for egging him on. Hell, he could even try blaming Chris for…for not catching the guitar before it hit Dom? For not tackling Matt to the ground before the guitar had a chance to leave his hands?
No.
This time there is no one to blame but himself. He threw the guitar. He aimed it at Dom. He knew the damage it could do.
He’d always suspected he was a bad person. Hell, enough people have told him so over the years. He never expected to prove it so convincingly though. And in front of an arena full of people. It seems exceptionally selfish of him to worry about what the fans must think of him, and Matt despises himself for it.
The urge to run is overwhelming. He needs to get out of this place. It’s bearing down on him. Crushing him with the stench of death and sickness and misery. But he won’t run. Not this time. He has to be strong. Strong like Dom.
Matthew tugs the frayed ends of his long-sleeved shirt further down over his bony wrists. He’s ridiculously early, but it’s his first day at a new school and the last thing he wants is to get lost and end up interrupting a class. He glances down at the map in his hands, scowling as he takes in his stupidly long fingers. He nearly trips as he makes his way up the stairs, cursing his genetic makeup and wondering if there’s any part of his body that works the way it’s supposed to. As it happens, he finds his classroom with very little difficulty. The door is already open, so he ducks inside and grabs a seat by the window.
It isn’t long before the other students start filtering in. They all seem impossibly big compared to him, and if any one of them has noticed him sitting there, they don’t say anything. The room is filled with the usual juvenile chatter of who shagged who, and who drank what over the holidays. His eyes scan the room, assessing his new classmates. They all appear to be of the standard: sporty boys with neatly trimmed hair and vacuous girls wearing too much makeup. Entirely unremarkable. Boring.
Matt pulls a book out of his bag and starts to read. He has no interest in making friends with people like that. He knows that, as the new boy, he’s expected to try and make an impression; he’s supposed to want them all to like him. Fuck that. He’s not doing anything just because he’s supposed to.
The sudden silence when the door opens makes him lift his head up, expecting the teacher. Instead, a small, blond boy enters the room. He’s wearing jeans and a baggy green jumper and his long hair hangs in front of his face. Slowly, he makes his way across the room, gracefully dodging the many legs that are stuck out in an attempt to trip him up.
“Oi, Howard!” one of the boys cries. “I thought fags were supposed to have decent dress sense?”
The boy - Howard, Matt assumes - rolls his eyes. “I’m a fag because I like cock, not because I like clothes.” He slumps into the chair next to Matthew, who stares at him in shock. Dom catches his eye and sighs. “Look, if there’s a spare seat, I’ll move, but can I please just sit here for now?”
If it hadn’t been for that hint of uncertainty, Matt’s not sure he would ever have had the guts to speak to the blond boy. Thank God he did though. It terrifies him to think of how his life might have turned out if it hadn’t been for Dom. Dom, with his drum kit and his hideous jumpers and his unfailing self-belief. At fifteen, Dom had more self-confidence than Matt has managed to amass in his whole life. Matt both loves and hates him for that. He owes everything to the other man, and this is how he chooses to repay him?
It seems unspeakably cruel to Matt that the one person he would never wish to hurt is the one he has hurt the most. Real, physical damage. How could Dom ever forgive him for that?
The clenching of Tom’s arm brings Matt back into the conversation just in time to hear those fatal words.
“I feel I should warn you, there’s a chance that Mr Howard might have suffered some nerve damage to the canal. If this is the case, there’s strong possibility that his hearing may be affected.”
“His hearing?” Chris repeats, throat struggling to form the words.
“I’m afraid so.”
Matt’s knees buckle at the news, and Chris’ arms fly out to support him. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Tom, furiously shaking his head and mouthing the word no.
“We won’t know for sure until Mr Howard wakes up. Until then, please try to stay positive.”
“We can stay here right?” Tom asks. “Until he wakes up?”
“If you like.”
Tom glances at Matt, who nods.
There’s no way he’s leaving until he’s seen Dom.
Pairing: Matthew/Dominic
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Dominic is taken to the hospital. The boys follow as quickly as they can.
Disclaimer: I do not own Muse. The events within are entirely fictional. Thankfully.
Author's Notes: The first set of italics are song lyrics, the second set is a flashback.
Betas: The dynamic duo: millionstar and dolce_piccante
Warnings: Angst, hurt/comfort
Previous Parts:
Prologue: Time is Running Out
All the kings and queens, in the Bible
They could not turn back time
So what chance have I of a miracle
In this life of mine?
I only want one day
To unsay the things I said
Undo that thing I did
Twenty-four little hours
Oh God, can you wipe them all away?
And I promise I will change
If I could start today again
If I Could Start Today Again - Paul Kelly
When she’s asked, Judith always claims that you get used to it after a while. It’s a lie. She’s never gotten used to it. Even after thirty years experience working at the hospital, the sight of an ambulance pulling up outside the emergency department never fails to send a shiver of pure horror down her spine.
The paramedics move swiftly. The moment the ambulance comes to a stop, they climb out, running to the back of the vehicle to unload the stretcher. Judith takes a deep breath, steeling herself for whatever sight awaits her. She turns her attention to the hospital computer, quickly scanning the directory to find the nearest available room. As they enter the waiting room, she recognises one of the paramedics, Joseph, from her shift the other week. His mouth is set in a hard line as he wheels the patient’s trolley through the hospitals double doors.
The prone figure on the stretcher is ghostly white but for the blood; blood that is spread over blond hair and down the patient’s neck.
“Dominic Howard. Unconscious. Probable head trauma and heavy blood loss,” Joseph states.
Judith enters the information into the database and directs them to an empty room. She glances at Mr Howard as he rolls by, and is shocked when a vague spark of recognition flares in her brain. The blood makes it difficult to say for certain, but she could swear she has seen the young man before. When the trolley is out of sight, she turns her attention back to the screen in front of her, checking to make sure that everything is still running smoothly.
She is just about to go and make herself a cup of tea when the doors open, admitting three distressed young men into the waiting room.
“Where is he?” the shortest of the men demands. He paces up and down in front of the desk, clawing at his black hair and twitching slightly. Judith eyes him warily. She has dealt with more than her fair share of drunks and drug addicts making trouble on a Saturday night, and experience has taught her to deal with everyone who walks through the doors with caution. “Where the fuck is he?!”
The other two men appear calmer, though no less concerned. One of them - tall and well built - reaches out and lays a hand on the shoulder of the restless man. The dark-haired man visibly shrinks at the touch, and he curls himself into the larger body of his friend. He looks for all the world like a frightened child clinging to his father.
“It’s okay, Matthew,” the man says softly.
The third man approaches the desk, hands shoved into his pockets and a deep frown on his face. “My name is Thomas Kirk. We followed the ambulance that brought Dominic Howard. Can you tell us how he is, please?”
Judith nods. “He was brought in about ten minutes ago. He’s still unconscious, and he’s lost a lot of blood, I’m afraid. We’ll know more when Dr Thomas has finished examining him.”
“Right,” Thomas says shakily. “Is it okay if…can we wait here?”
“Of course,” Judith replies, offering the anxious young man a sympathetic smile. Whoever Dominic Howard is, it’s clear that his friends care about him very much. “There’s a small cafeteria down the hall,” Judith continues. “If you need a warm drink or something to eat. I’ll let Dr Thomas know that you’re here. I’m sure she’ll update you as soon as she knows more.”
Thomas nods stiffly. “Thank you.”
Judith watches as Thomas returns to his friends. They stand in a small huddle for a moment; Thomas obviously relaying the information Judith has just given him to the other two men. Ten minutes pass and then the three men make their way over to the rows of blue plastic chairs that line one wall of the waiting room. They slump into them in a sombre line, and silence falls on the room once more.
For the first time she is able to clearly see the face of the smaller man, who, in sharp contrast to his earlier agitation, is now sat motionless on the chair. Her heart stops. She definitely knows that face. It is plastered all over her teenage daughter’s walls. Matthew, the other man had called him. That’s right, she thinks. Matthew Bellamy. The lead singer of Muse, her daughter’s favourite band. The man sat on his left, the one who had comforted him earlier; he’s in the band too. And the blond…the blond is the drummer, she’s sure of it.
One of the things Judith has always prided herself on is her discretion. She is desperately curious as to how a member of one of the world’s biggest rock bands - so she’s been told - could have ended up in the emergency department with a serious head wound, but she knows better than to ask. Right now, the men in front of her are not rock stars or celebrities, they are just three men worried about their mate, and Judith respects that. When she catches one of the younger nurses pulling out a CD with the intention of getting Matthew to sign it, Judith gives her a proper dressing down and makes sure that all the other nurses on duty know that the men are not to be disturbed by anyone other than Dr Thomas.
After almost half an hour of silent contemplation, Thomas stands up and heads for the canteen. He returns soon after, with three cups of tea and a plate of biscuits.
“Should we be worried that Dr Thomas hasn’t come out yet?” he asks Judith, pausing by her desk on his way back to the others.
“She’s incredibly thorough,” Judith replies, hoping to reassure him. “I’m sure she’ll be out as soon as she is satisfied that she hasn’t missed anything.”
Unconscious. Heavy blood loss.
The words keep repeating themselves in Tom’s head. Just thinking about it makes his hands shake, the tray of tea rattling loudly as he sets it down. On top of his concern for Dom, seeing Matt so quiet is unnerving him far more than he’d care to admit. Chris is staring resolutely at the floor, refusing to make eye contact with anyone. His arm is still wrapped around Matt’s shoulders, his warm weight an obvious comfort to the singer. For the first time in years, Tom feels like an outsider. Unnecessary. He briefly considers leaving, but the idea is quashed before it can come to fruition. Where would he go? What could he possibly do that would take his mind off the blond? No, he’s staying right where he is until they can find out what is going on.
With a heavy sigh, he reaches for his cup. Tea. The Englishman’s solution to everything. Except no amount of tea can fix this. Tom knows it, they all know it; but he needed something to do; some way to make himself useful.
That’s all he’s ever wanted really. A way to help out his mates. If he didn’t have his photography, he’d have been happy to push boxes around or package up CDs in the merchandise warehouse. He might have drawn the line at mopping Dom’s face with a towel while he drummed, but it would have been a close call. His friends - his other friends - think he’s pathetic for following Muse around the world instead of getting a career for himself. They don’t understand. From the very first time he heard them play, he has been spellbound by his three friends. Their music was like nothing else he had ever heard; it was beautiful in a way no other music has ever been. Whatever anyone else might say, he knows the truth: Thomas Kirk is Muse’s biggest fan.
He’d started taking pictures and videoing the band mostly out of his own desire to see Muse’s rise to success chronicled. He never really expected to be any good at it; in fact, he’d resigned himself to the fact that once the band reached a certain point, he would no longer be good enough to photograph them, and they would bring in an expert. But it never happened. Tour after tour, they continued to insist that Tom came with them. In the studio, on-stage, meeting fans, out exploring foreign countries…he got to experience it all. He got the kind of life most people can only dream of. What’s even more baffling to Tom is that, somewhere along the line, he became the unofficial forth member of the band. People started to ask for his autograph, started wanting their picture taken with him, and thanked him for his pictures. Total strangers buy him drinks in bars. Pretty girls bat their eyes at him and ‘accidentally’ brush soft hands against his arms. Fans bring him presents for his birthday. And all because he hangs out with his best mates and takes a few pictures.
That’s not to say he doesn’t take his job seriously. When he’s photographing the band, particularly on-stage, he is committed to taking the best pictures he can. He likes to experiment with angles and lenses and lighting. He likes to try and capture the passion with which they perform and the joy that the music brings them.
He’d been filming Dom when it happened, hoping for that perfect collision shot like some kind of sick freak. The camera had been unceremoniously dumped onto the stage the moment Tom saw blood. He ran, completely forgetting that he was on a stage in front of thousands of people and fell to his knees beside the motionless drummer. He knew immediately that something was seriously wrong. That much blood coming from someone’s head was never a sign of something good. He felt immediately nauseous, and not just from the blood. How could he have let this happen? How could he be worried about getting the right camera angle when his friend was about to be hit in the head by an extremely solid guitar? Why didn’t he warn him?
A wave of nausea washes over him again, and he stands up, hoping for something to distract him. There’s a notice board on the wall opposite their chairs, and he wanders over to read it. His footsteps sound like thunderclaps in the otherwise silent room and he winces at the noise. To his surprise, all the notices appear to say the same thing.
USELESS. YOU ARE FUCKING USELESS.
It’s true, of course; but he hadn’t realised the fact was so widely known. He likes to think that in recent years he’s made a real and valuable contribution to the band he loves so much. Running the website is no easy task, and while it hasn’t been entirely problem-free, he thinks he’s done a pretty reasonable job. Then there’s all the Twitpics and concert footage and general media tasks. It feels good, making such a tangible contribution. What can he contribute now? Words of hope that he himself doesn’t believe? A shoulder to cry on? What good is that to Dominic?
He’s never felt as useless as he does now. They’ve come to rely on him, he knows that - takes pride in it - and he can’t help but feel he’s let them all down. He’s become surprisingly adept at handling the little problems that occasionally pop up whilst touring and more than once he’s been the voice of reason during heated meetings with record labels and tour promoters. They trust that he has the band’s best interests at heart, and he does. But this is one problem that he can’t fix, and he hates himself for it.
He scrubs a hand over his eyes and when he opens them the notices are back to advertising safe sex practices and displaying the hospital’s visiting hours.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, though there’s no one there to hear it. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
Unconscious. Heavy blood loss.
On their own, the words make sense. Said in the same sentence as the name Dominic Howard, though, it’s as if Tom were speaking another language. Chris doesn’t understand. Won’t understand. How can Dom be unconscious when just over an hour ago he was winking at Chris and flashing him that brilliant smile?
But he knows it is true. He saw it happen. He watched Dom topple off his chair. He saw the blood pooling in the neck of the drummer. He saw the paramedic check his pulse before pronouncing him unconscious. He continues to see it, whenever he closes his eyes. It makes him shudder, though he tries to pass it off as an attempt to get more comfortable. As if his own comfort is of any importance.
It’s absurd, but Chris has always looked on Matt and Dom as children, full of youthful exuberance and occasionally needing guidance and protection. He’s always tried to watch over them as he would his own kids; trying not to be judgemental, but there to put the fear of God into them when it was required. If he’s honest with himself, he’s been dreading this day for years. The day when one of them would do something so monumentally stupid that the effects could not simply be swept under the carpet and written into Muse legend. He should have known the culprit would be Matt. Should have seen it coming the moment the singer stepped onto the stage with an intensity that Chris hasn’t seen in years.
Chris heard them arguing, earlier in the afternoon. That’s one more warning sign he chose to ignore. He doesn’t know what they were discussing, and from the sounds of it neither did Dom. The drummer kept insisting that he didn’t know what Matt was talking about, whilst Matt hurled accusations of selfishness and deceit at the blond. Matt had stormed out of the room with a face like sour milk and Dom had emerged moments later looking thoroughly confused and decidedly pissed off. Arguments between Matt and Dom tend to result in much bigger problems. They are both so stubborn that it’s damn near impossible for either one of them to admit that they are wrong.
Matt is still leaning against him, and Chris’ skin is starting to prickle uncomfortably in response to the other man’s closeness. That’s the guilt, he supposes. Frankly, he’s surprised that Matt is even willing to place himself so close to Chris right now.
He should have spoken to them, should have reminded them that they had a gig to play and not to let off-stage tensions affect their work on-stage. It’s what he would normally do. Not that they always listen to him, but he makes him feel better to have tried. Sometimes, his pleas work, and the two of them will set aside their differences long enough for them to survive the interview, or put on a great show. It’s his assigned role in the band, he knows this. Matt is the unpredictable creative genius, Dom is the charmer, and Chris is the overprotective, sensible one. But sometimes, he gets really sick of playing nursemaid. Gets fed up of the mother-hen jokes and the constant reminders that he’s an old, married man. So he left them to it. Left them to implode. And all for the sake of his fucking pride.
The thing is, in some ways, Matt is more predictable than anyone. When he’s happy, he’s unbelievably affectionate with the few people he truly trusts. If he’s worried about something, he’ll stay silent and sulky until Dom or Chris corners him and forces him to spill his guts. A decision doesn’t go his way and he takes it out on someone who doesn’t deserve it. Dom and Chris join forces against him and he shuts them both out completely. Arguments with Dom have always hit him particularly hard, though Chris is at a loss to explain why. It’s not the first time Matt has lashed out physically at the drummer; in fact, it used to be a regular occurrence. It’s the first time Matt might actually have succeeded in doing some damage though. No argument is worth that, surely?
The moment he saw Matt’s guitar collide with Dom’s head, he felt the full weight of his decision come crashing down on him. At first he’d simply assumed that Dom would have a nasty bruise and Matt would get the silent treatment for a few days. When Dom didn’t get up he knew something more sinister had happened. The sight of Dom, bloodied and silent, will haunt him forever. In that moment, he saw just how badly he had failed at protecting his friends. He feels like a father, who took his eyes off his son for the briefest of moments, only to discover he’d been hit by a bus.
The whole journey to the hospital, all Chris could think of was Dom’s mother, who probably has no idea of the condition her son is currently in. The mother to whom Chris had promised to look after Dom when his father died. The mother he will now have to call and beg forgiveness from. Forgiveness that he suspects he does not deserve. He’ll have to call Kelly as well. One more person he has let down. He can’t even bring himself to look at Tom. What must the other man think of him?
“Thomas Kirk?”
A woman’s voice cuts through Chris’ introspection, and he lifts his eyes from the floor to find himself looking at an auburn-haired woman in a white coat. Tom clears his throat and stands up.
“I’m Tom,” he says hoarsely.
“Dr Thomas,” the woman replies, shaking Tom’s hand.
“How is he?” Matt shouts, jumping up and standing next to Tom.
Dr Thomas lets her eyes rest on Matt for a brief moment, and then shakes her head. “It’s not good, I’m afraid. Mr Howard is still unconscious, but we’ve been able to halt the blood loss. He has suffered quite serious trauma at the point of contact, but it’s impossible to tell how severe it is until he wakes up.”
Unconscious. Heavy blood loss. Severe head trauma.
If it hadn’t been for Tom’s arm gripping his, Matt is pretty sure he would have been unable to remain upright. He digs his fingernails into his palms, the deep red crescents a welcome distraction from the pain in his chest. Dr Thomas’ mouth continues to move, but the words do not penetrate his brain. He already knows all he needs to know.
He knows that it’s all his fault. He knows that, thanks to him, his best friend is lying in a hospital bed right now, lucky to be alive.
Normally, the stage is the only place Matt feels in control. He fucking owned that arena. They were eating out of his hand. And, as usual, he had to push it too far.
Matt has never been good at accepting responsibility for his mistakes. It is, perhaps, his greatest weakness. He could blame Tom for what happened. After all, he had requested a show that would ‘go down in history’ for him to film. He could blame Dom for pissing him off enough that, when the urge took him, he wasn’t strong enough to resist it. He could blame the audience for egging him on. Hell, he could even try blaming Chris for…for not catching the guitar before it hit Dom? For not tackling Matt to the ground before the guitar had a chance to leave his hands?
No.
This time there is no one to blame but himself. He threw the guitar. He aimed it at Dom. He knew the damage it could do.
He’d always suspected he was a bad person. Hell, enough people have told him so over the years. He never expected to prove it so convincingly though. And in front of an arena full of people. It seems exceptionally selfish of him to worry about what the fans must think of him, and Matt despises himself for it.
The urge to run is overwhelming. He needs to get out of this place. It’s bearing down on him. Crushing him with the stench of death and sickness and misery. But he won’t run. Not this time. He has to be strong. Strong like Dom.
Matthew tugs the frayed ends of his long-sleeved shirt further down over his bony wrists. He’s ridiculously early, but it’s his first day at a new school and the last thing he wants is to get lost and end up interrupting a class. He glances down at the map in his hands, scowling as he takes in his stupidly long fingers. He nearly trips as he makes his way up the stairs, cursing his genetic makeup and wondering if there’s any part of his body that works the way it’s supposed to. As it happens, he finds his classroom with very little difficulty. The door is already open, so he ducks inside and grabs a seat by the window.
It isn’t long before the other students start filtering in. They all seem impossibly big compared to him, and if any one of them has noticed him sitting there, they don’t say anything. The room is filled with the usual juvenile chatter of who shagged who, and who drank what over the holidays. His eyes scan the room, assessing his new classmates. They all appear to be of the standard: sporty boys with neatly trimmed hair and vacuous girls wearing too much makeup. Entirely unremarkable. Boring.
Matt pulls a book out of his bag and starts to read. He has no interest in making friends with people like that. He knows that, as the new boy, he’s expected to try and make an impression; he’s supposed to want them all to like him. Fuck that. He’s not doing anything just because he’s supposed to.
The sudden silence when the door opens makes him lift his head up, expecting the teacher. Instead, a small, blond boy enters the room. He’s wearing jeans and a baggy green jumper and his long hair hangs in front of his face. Slowly, he makes his way across the room, gracefully dodging the many legs that are stuck out in an attempt to trip him up.
“Oi, Howard!” one of the boys cries. “I thought fags were supposed to have decent dress sense?”
The boy - Howard, Matt assumes - rolls his eyes. “I’m a fag because I like cock, not because I like clothes.” He slumps into the chair next to Matthew, who stares at him in shock. Dom catches his eye and sighs. “Look, if there’s a spare seat, I’ll move, but can I please just sit here for now?”
If it hadn’t been for that hint of uncertainty, Matt’s not sure he would ever have had the guts to speak to the blond boy. Thank God he did though. It terrifies him to think of how his life might have turned out if it hadn’t been for Dom. Dom, with his drum kit and his hideous jumpers and his unfailing self-belief. At fifteen, Dom had more self-confidence than Matt has managed to amass in his whole life. Matt both loves and hates him for that. He owes everything to the other man, and this is how he chooses to repay him?
It seems unspeakably cruel to Matt that the one person he would never wish to hurt is the one he has hurt the most. Real, physical damage. How could Dom ever forgive him for that?
The clenching of Tom’s arm brings Matt back into the conversation just in time to hear those fatal words.
“I feel I should warn you, there’s a chance that Mr Howard might have suffered some nerve damage to the canal. If this is the case, there’s strong possibility that his hearing may be affected.”
“His hearing?” Chris repeats, throat struggling to form the words.
“I’m afraid so.”
Matt’s knees buckle at the news, and Chris’ arms fly out to support him. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Tom, furiously shaking his head and mouthing the word no.
“We won’t know for sure until Mr Howard wakes up. Until then, please try to stay positive.”
“We can stay here right?” Tom asks. “Until he wakes up?”
“If you like.”
Tom glances at Matt, who nods.
There’s no way he’s leaving until he’s seen Dom.