(no subject)
TITLE: Evil
RATING: er...R?
DISCLAIMER: Don't know, didn't happen. Clearly.
A/N: Be warned, it ain't pretty.
His fingers slid over the cool blade lightly, not wanting to come to terms with what he was about to do. It wasn’t…it wasn’t that he wanted to die. If there was some limbo he could stay in where he could watch the world forever, watch his friends grow old and fat and happy, then he’d do it. As long as he didn’t have to participate. As long as no one made him do anything: speak to anyone, breathe any air… feel any pain.
He’d miss them, sure. They had been his friends, his best friends for anywhere from six or seven years to thirteen. He’d miss the lifestyle as well: fans kept him going, or at least they did for awhile. The energy was great. To be able to go out there and just spend two hours with complete strangers who worshipped him because he sang the lyrics they wanted to hear, he looked the way they wanted him to look and because he was, if nothing else, happy-go-fucking-lucky. He was their escape. He was the one they wanted to see--well, not all of them. He was always amused to see the girls (and a couple of guys…) who would continuously look between him and David, or him and Seb. The really amusing ones were the ones who would look at him but made it obvious that all they wanted was for him to move so they could catch a glimpse at Chuck.
God, Chuck. Chuck won’t understand. He already knew how Chuck would react when he was found: he’d retreat into that shell that it had taken years to break him out of. Chuck was his partner in legal crime. Tight-ass though he might be, Pierre could make him do things that his introversion would only dream of. Pierre could make Chuck be himself, could make him stop censoring his words and his actions for just five minutes. What would Chuck do without him there? A voice in Pierre’s head assured him that Chuck would be fine. And inside, Pierre knew the voice was right. Chuck would be fine. The two had shared a lifetime of memories and had been brothers--closer than brothers. The bond was deep and Pierre knew it wouldn’t be broken. He’d have to write something for Chuck to tell him not to forget him--but not to let him get in the way of making new friends. They’d existed for so long in each other’s lives that he wasn’t sure Chuck would know how to function without him. No, he knew he couldn’t function without Chuck. It was better this way. This way he couldn’t hold Chuck back anymore. Chuck needed to find out what else there was out there. Beyond the lights and the amps and the sweat. He deserved more and with Pierre around, the push for success would never blunt itself. He’d always be Chuck Comeau the entrepreneur, puppet-master of successful band Simple Plan. Those were nice decorations, but they weren’t what defined him, so Chuck’s new purpose in life, unless they replaced Pierre, should be to find out what that higher meaning was.
Pierre stopped for a minute to chuckle at the idea of Charles Comeau ministering on television. He couldn’t help the stream of consciousness, and after 26 years of just putting up with life he figured he was entitled to a little pointless humor.
Seb was fine and happy, Jeff and David were as well. Patrick…he wasn’t sure what Patrick would do. He at least hoped there’d be a few tears from all of them but even more he hoped they’d realize that he had a reason for this. That it wasn’t all just senseless. That he didn’t want to just end his life because he was tired of living. It was more than that. He was partially responsible for the happiness of five other men. He couldn’t handle it anymore but he knew he couldn’t leave. If it kept going the way it’d been going, who knows what he would have done. Wound up killing David one day because the motherfucker couldn’t stop being a depressing bitch for more than twenty seconds? Made Seb cry? He’d done it before and paid the price dearly by total exclusion from the others. You just don’t hurt Seb. Mainly because he never does anything to deserve it.
He wondered who would find him. One of the guys? His parents? He could never tell who would visit him or when, so it was really a toss-up. He wondered how long it would take. Later today? Tomorrow? Next week? Would be rotting already? He shook his head, it just wasn’t a thought he wanted, at least not yet. Maybe when consciousness was slowly fading away and his body was too tired to shudder at the thoughts of his own corpse decaying. Too tired to think of the look on the face of the person who found him. Secretly he hoped it would be David. Give him something to really be emo about. Finding one of his “best” friends laid out in the bathroom of the apartment he’d finally decided to get, wrists bleeding, eyes open and staring up at David. Maybe he’d luck out and die with a slow smirk on his face that would really haunt David’s dreams.
Wait. It’s not David’s fault you hate him. It’s the fans’.
Well, admittedly David did have a large hand in the eventual estrangement of the two friends. It was the constant rumors that there was something going on behind the scenes that the fans should know about. Pierre couldn’t help the scoff as his eyes trained themselves on the blade still in his hand. Like he would ever fuck David. There had been plenty of chances for him to realize this homosexuality that these fans were so convinced of and even more chances for male-turned-femme David to do the same yet neither of them seemed to have come to that conclusion. Or so Pierre had always assumed. He’d never seen David with a man, but then, what David did in his private time was nothing Pierre felt the need to know about.
As for himself…he’d dabbled in some same-sex “stuff”. He never knew how to define it. He’d never gotten fucked or fucked another man--he drew a definite line on that. If he hadn’t really been feeling what led up to sex, he doubted he’d enjoy the act at all. He’d kissed a man--Chuck, in fact. Back when they were teenagers. The traditional confusion that accompanies racing hormones and puberty gone wild. They’d kissed. Once. Neither felt the need to continue. Considering that Chuck was currently boning one of the most attractive women Pierre had ever seen--very loudly, he would add--Pierre had come to the conclusion that Chuck was happy, at least in bed. She was low-maintenance, from what he could tell, and a very nice girl. So he had no qualms.
But David…David just played into the rumors. He started grabbing at Pierre’s crotch, curling up to him any time he could, running wild with affection. It was funny--people didn’t see them joking around in private. They didn’t understand that it was a joke. That they forgot cameras were there and that the camera didn’t laugh with them. Pierre wasn’t scared that they would find out he had some deep affection for David--he was afraid that they’d one day catch him strangling the bassist. David was a handful and David got more and more dramatic as the days went on. The look facilitated the lifestyle to a point where the only one who could truly handle David’s shit was Jeff. Finally David and Pierre had fought to a point where after two weeks they still weren’t speaking unless it was for the benefit of the fans. And even they had caught onto something being wrong. The fans labeled it a lover’s quarrel. And if Pierre was one to elaborate, he’d simply say that he’d had enough of pretending that he didn’t hate David and that he, in fact, thought him to be one of the biggest assholes on the planet. Maybe Satan himself.
Fuck this. It wasn’t the point.
The point was in Pierre’s hand. The point was the blade. The point was that this was the night, Pierre could fucking feel it. He’d pussied out so many times before. He had scars that he covered up with arm-bands from where he had tried to muster the courage to press down hard enough to sink through his skin. He’d tried to take pills, but those had just put him to sleep for a day. No one ever knew, it was a day off--a day at home. But this time…this time he’d do it. This time there was no turning back.
Pierre clenched the blade between his thumb and forefinger and slid it lightly against his skin. A small red line formed where blood just barely broke the surface. Pierre smiled--it was sharp. Touching the blade again to his skin at an angle, he pressed down as hard as he could, wincing at the pain. He dragged it slowly across and was immediately greeted by the warm trickle of blood over his exposed skin. He grinned and pushed the blade against his skin again, hard, cutting a cross into his wrist. More blood. Quickly he switched the blade to the other hand and pushed it against his clean wrist, vertically first, then again he cut it horizontally, his movements swift. It hurt less this time but he imagined it was because his body was in shock. He was high on adrenaline and felt no pain. He dropped the blade on accident and went to reach for it with his freshly cut hand but he couldn’t move his fingers very well. He growled when he realized that he’d probably cut too deep and torn his tendon to shit.
Sighing heavily, upset that death was taking so long, he got up and looked at the bathtub, debating for a moment climbing in and running hot water over the cuts--it would make the blood flow faster. But Pierre would not be typical--any more typical than he was being already and he climbed to his bed and laid back, his wrists gushing now as he started to get sleepy. He laid his arms at his side and stared at the doorway, his vision blacking out quickly now. He trained a slow grin on his face and hoped it would hold. Slowly he lost all consciousness and took his last breath.
David climbed the steps of the apartment and let himself in with the key Chuck had given him, then called out for Pierre. He was here to apologize, after a severe lecture from both Sebastien and Chuck. He still didn’t think he was in the wrong, but they had said that Pierre was getting more and more depressed lately and they were afraid he might do something. For a brief moment, David almost hoped he would then immediately scorned himself for even thinking it. Fate may or may not exist, but either way there’s no point in tempting it. Especially when it came to someone’s life.
He called out for Pierre again then, assuming he was sleeping, took a look around and tried to make a little noise to wake Pierre up. Pierre was never this heavy a sleeper… he thought to himself as he stepped out of the kitchen and into the hallway. Suddenly a pit entered his stomach and he knew what he was going to see as he walked to Pierre’s room. He turned into the doorway and was greeted by Pierre’s eyes, open and staring at him as he grinned slightly. David turned and ran to the bathroom where he was sick in the toilet before he looked over to the tub, seeing blood all over everything. He was sick again and he ran out of the bathroom, screaming slightly when he realized that some of Pierre’s blood was on his shirt. He sank into a ball in the hallway between the bathroom and the bedroom and pulled out his cell phone, dialing 9-1-1. After he’d called for an ambulance, he tried to think of what to do as he stared at the cell phone. With fingers that could barely dial, he managed the only number he could think to call.
“Chuck?” he managed with a shaky voice, tears slowly taking him over as the weight of what he’d seen sank in. “Chuck get the fuck down here. He’s fucking dead.”
RATING: er...R?
DISCLAIMER: Don't know, didn't happen. Clearly.
A/N: Be warned, it ain't pretty.
His fingers slid over the cool blade lightly, not wanting to come to terms with what he was about to do. It wasn’t…it wasn’t that he wanted to die. If there was some limbo he could stay in where he could watch the world forever, watch his friends grow old and fat and happy, then he’d do it. As long as he didn’t have to participate. As long as no one made him do anything: speak to anyone, breathe any air… feel any pain.
He’d miss them, sure. They had been his friends, his best friends for anywhere from six or seven years to thirteen. He’d miss the lifestyle as well: fans kept him going, or at least they did for awhile. The energy was great. To be able to go out there and just spend two hours with complete strangers who worshipped him because he sang the lyrics they wanted to hear, he looked the way they wanted him to look and because he was, if nothing else, happy-go-fucking-lucky. He was their escape. He was the one they wanted to see--well, not all of them. He was always amused to see the girls (and a couple of guys…) who would continuously look between him and David, or him and Seb. The really amusing ones were the ones who would look at him but made it obvious that all they wanted was for him to move so they could catch a glimpse at Chuck.
God, Chuck. Chuck won’t understand. He already knew how Chuck would react when he was found: he’d retreat into that shell that it had taken years to break him out of. Chuck was his partner in legal crime. Tight-ass though he might be, Pierre could make him do things that his introversion would only dream of. Pierre could make Chuck be himself, could make him stop censoring his words and his actions for just five minutes. What would Chuck do without him there? A voice in Pierre’s head assured him that Chuck would be fine. And inside, Pierre knew the voice was right. Chuck would be fine. The two had shared a lifetime of memories and had been brothers--closer than brothers. The bond was deep and Pierre knew it wouldn’t be broken. He’d have to write something for Chuck to tell him not to forget him--but not to let him get in the way of making new friends. They’d existed for so long in each other’s lives that he wasn’t sure Chuck would know how to function without him. No, he knew he couldn’t function without Chuck. It was better this way. This way he couldn’t hold Chuck back anymore. Chuck needed to find out what else there was out there. Beyond the lights and the amps and the sweat. He deserved more and with Pierre around, the push for success would never blunt itself. He’d always be Chuck Comeau the entrepreneur, puppet-master of successful band Simple Plan. Those were nice decorations, but they weren’t what defined him, so Chuck’s new purpose in life, unless they replaced Pierre, should be to find out what that higher meaning was.
Pierre stopped for a minute to chuckle at the idea of Charles Comeau ministering on television. He couldn’t help the stream of consciousness, and after 26 years of just putting up with life he figured he was entitled to a little pointless humor.
Seb was fine and happy, Jeff and David were as well. Patrick…he wasn’t sure what Patrick would do. He at least hoped there’d be a few tears from all of them but even more he hoped they’d realize that he had a reason for this. That it wasn’t all just senseless. That he didn’t want to just end his life because he was tired of living. It was more than that. He was partially responsible for the happiness of five other men. He couldn’t handle it anymore but he knew he couldn’t leave. If it kept going the way it’d been going, who knows what he would have done. Wound up killing David one day because the motherfucker couldn’t stop being a depressing bitch for more than twenty seconds? Made Seb cry? He’d done it before and paid the price dearly by total exclusion from the others. You just don’t hurt Seb. Mainly because he never does anything to deserve it.
He wondered who would find him. One of the guys? His parents? He could never tell who would visit him or when, so it was really a toss-up. He wondered how long it would take. Later today? Tomorrow? Next week? Would be rotting already? He shook his head, it just wasn’t a thought he wanted, at least not yet. Maybe when consciousness was slowly fading away and his body was too tired to shudder at the thoughts of his own corpse decaying. Too tired to think of the look on the face of the person who found him. Secretly he hoped it would be David. Give him something to really be emo about. Finding one of his “best” friends laid out in the bathroom of the apartment he’d finally decided to get, wrists bleeding, eyes open and staring up at David. Maybe he’d luck out and die with a slow smirk on his face that would really haunt David’s dreams.
Wait. It’s not David’s fault you hate him. It’s the fans’.
Well, admittedly David did have a large hand in the eventual estrangement of the two friends. It was the constant rumors that there was something going on behind the scenes that the fans should know about. Pierre couldn’t help the scoff as his eyes trained themselves on the blade still in his hand. Like he would ever fuck David. There had been plenty of chances for him to realize this homosexuality that these fans were so convinced of and even more chances for male-turned-femme David to do the same yet neither of them seemed to have come to that conclusion. Or so Pierre had always assumed. He’d never seen David with a man, but then, what David did in his private time was nothing Pierre felt the need to know about.
As for himself…he’d dabbled in some same-sex “stuff”. He never knew how to define it. He’d never gotten fucked or fucked another man--he drew a definite line on that. If he hadn’t really been feeling what led up to sex, he doubted he’d enjoy the act at all. He’d kissed a man--Chuck, in fact. Back when they were teenagers. The traditional confusion that accompanies racing hormones and puberty gone wild. They’d kissed. Once. Neither felt the need to continue. Considering that Chuck was currently boning one of the most attractive women Pierre had ever seen--very loudly, he would add--Pierre had come to the conclusion that Chuck was happy, at least in bed. She was low-maintenance, from what he could tell, and a very nice girl. So he had no qualms.
But David…David just played into the rumors. He started grabbing at Pierre’s crotch, curling up to him any time he could, running wild with affection. It was funny--people didn’t see them joking around in private. They didn’t understand that it was a joke. That they forgot cameras were there and that the camera didn’t laugh with them. Pierre wasn’t scared that they would find out he had some deep affection for David--he was afraid that they’d one day catch him strangling the bassist. David was a handful and David got more and more dramatic as the days went on. The look facilitated the lifestyle to a point where the only one who could truly handle David’s shit was Jeff. Finally David and Pierre had fought to a point where after two weeks they still weren’t speaking unless it was for the benefit of the fans. And even they had caught onto something being wrong. The fans labeled it a lover’s quarrel. And if Pierre was one to elaborate, he’d simply say that he’d had enough of pretending that he didn’t hate David and that he, in fact, thought him to be one of the biggest assholes on the planet. Maybe Satan himself.
Fuck this. It wasn’t the point.
The point was in Pierre’s hand. The point was the blade. The point was that this was the night, Pierre could fucking feel it. He’d pussied out so many times before. He had scars that he covered up with arm-bands from where he had tried to muster the courage to press down hard enough to sink through his skin. He’d tried to take pills, but those had just put him to sleep for a day. No one ever knew, it was a day off--a day at home. But this time…this time he’d do it. This time there was no turning back.
Pierre clenched the blade between his thumb and forefinger and slid it lightly against his skin. A small red line formed where blood just barely broke the surface. Pierre smiled--it was sharp. Touching the blade again to his skin at an angle, he pressed down as hard as he could, wincing at the pain. He dragged it slowly across and was immediately greeted by the warm trickle of blood over his exposed skin. He grinned and pushed the blade against his skin again, hard, cutting a cross into his wrist. More blood. Quickly he switched the blade to the other hand and pushed it against his clean wrist, vertically first, then again he cut it horizontally, his movements swift. It hurt less this time but he imagined it was because his body was in shock. He was high on adrenaline and felt no pain. He dropped the blade on accident and went to reach for it with his freshly cut hand but he couldn’t move his fingers very well. He growled when he realized that he’d probably cut too deep and torn his tendon to shit.
Sighing heavily, upset that death was taking so long, he got up and looked at the bathtub, debating for a moment climbing in and running hot water over the cuts--it would make the blood flow faster. But Pierre would not be typical--any more typical than he was being already and he climbed to his bed and laid back, his wrists gushing now as he started to get sleepy. He laid his arms at his side and stared at the doorway, his vision blacking out quickly now. He trained a slow grin on his face and hoped it would hold. Slowly he lost all consciousness and took his last breath.
David climbed the steps of the apartment and let himself in with the key Chuck had given him, then called out for Pierre. He was here to apologize, after a severe lecture from both Sebastien and Chuck. He still didn’t think he was in the wrong, but they had said that Pierre was getting more and more depressed lately and they were afraid he might do something. For a brief moment, David almost hoped he would then immediately scorned himself for even thinking it. Fate may or may not exist, but either way there’s no point in tempting it. Especially when it came to someone’s life.
He called out for Pierre again then, assuming he was sleeping, took a look around and tried to make a little noise to wake Pierre up. Pierre was never this heavy a sleeper… he thought to himself as he stepped out of the kitchen and into the hallway. Suddenly a pit entered his stomach and he knew what he was going to see as he walked to Pierre’s room. He turned into the doorway and was greeted by Pierre’s eyes, open and staring at him as he grinned slightly. David turned and ran to the bathroom where he was sick in the toilet before he looked over to the tub, seeing blood all over everything. He was sick again and he ran out of the bathroom, screaming slightly when he realized that some of Pierre’s blood was on his shirt. He sank into a ball in the hallway between the bathroom and the bedroom and pulled out his cell phone, dialing 9-1-1. After he’d called for an ambulance, he tried to think of what to do as he stared at the cell phone. With fingers that could barely dial, he managed the only number he could think to call.
“Chuck?” he managed with a shaky voice, tears slowly taking him over as the weight of what he’d seen sank in. “Chuck get the fuck down here. He’s fucking dead.”