Needing Release
Title: Needing Release
Rating: NC17 *shrug*
Word Count: 3,310
Warnings/Spoilers: Swearing. Cutting is implied. Emo!Jepha.
Summary: Jepha is drowning in his depression, and one day - it becomes too much. A certain guitarist notices him and only wants to help.
Disclaimer: I own a couple of posters of theirs...that count?
AN: One-shot; possibly a sequel? Please tell me what you think...
“Oh no - oh no you fucking don’t.” yelled the voice through the door, tone pleading and angry at the same time, followed by rough pounding. The guitarist was undoubtedly trying to break down the door. “You are not fucking shutting me out now, Jepha. Not now. Open the door. Please - open the door!”
The bassist quivered where he was sitting, back pressed up against the far wall of the bathroom. The tiles were white and horribly clean, making his eyes hurt. It was too bright. Too surreal. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like this. Any of it. It was fake. He shut his eyes, blocking it out. Hiding away - a bitter taste in the back of his throat. Choking a back a sob, he huddled into the corner. After raising his arms, he wrapped them around his legs, pulling them to his chest. His tattoos stood out against everything, making him feel dirty. One swirling jumble of colour ruining the entire effect. He stared at them, eyes narrowing into a hateful glare.
He hated himself. He hated all of this. Everything…had gone downhill. Ever since the start of the tour. He’d felt it coming for a while now; tried to hide it. It hadn’t gone too well. That stupid twist of his stomach he felt when around friends, the way he’d have to fake all of his smiles…turn up the over-dramatic, eccentric form of personality to convince everyone he was fine. He was fucking fine. Nothing wrong. It was all good…all good…
Yeah right.
His heart started hammering a little louder, all sounds drowning out. Shit. It was that feeling he’d get, feeling like some wave of sadness would spread through his body. It made him feel like he would burst, needing a form of release - which would usually end up being tears. He’d cry for hours in cramped places backstage until he was ready to face people again. Because of course, nothing was wrong. Nothing at all.
It was just something he needed to get out of his system every once in a while. Not anything to worry about, right?
Except it was more than that. He may have been lying to everyone else, but he was lying to himself most of all.
He had a fucking problem. Why was it so hard to admit?
Shuddering slightly, he curled up into himself as much as he could. The walls felt a lot closer than they had been previously. And he wasn’t claustrophobic - no way. Was this all in his head? A few of his tears dripped off the end of his nose and onto the floor. His cheeks felt cold for a brief moment, before more tears leaked down them again.
He’d started drinking more often. He didn’t know if Bert or Dan had noticed, but Quinn certainly had. Jepha knew he’d been keeping an eye on him recently. Shying away from being spied on, he had snuck bottles into hotel rooms, onto the tour bus. He’d drunk on his own - got wasted by himself. Somehow, it wasn’t the same. Being around friends made it seem more of an activity, not a last resort.
It was a form of release, but not the right one.
Never the right one.
He knew what the right form was. He’d known ever since he was fifteen, the red cuts under his wristbands giving him some sort of sad satisfaction. The first time he’d taken the risk, he’d been sitting in his room - upset because his girlfriend had dumped him. She’d gone off and made out with some jock right in front of him and his friends. His face still flushed thinking about it. The embarrassment, the feeling he was no good for her. Worthless in her eyes. She made him feel like a freak, even more so when she started spreading rumours about him. She went from being a characteristic, unique girl, into just another one of those airhead cheer-leader types. He swallowed away the sick feeling in the back of his throat. That night had been hell for him. He’d wanted to make himself better, and had no clue where to begin. Spotting his broken pencil sharpener, he’d taken out the blade and watched his reflection in it for a few seconds. He’d debated about it - thinking it stupid. But his eyes told him different, staring back at him with an accusing kind of intensity that had me him feel weak. He wanted to make himself stronger. Prove to himself and to everyone else that he could do it.
So he did.
The first time he’d cut his wrist, he’d hissed in pain, wanting to stop because, fuck - there was no satisfaction; no pleasure. But anger at himself had made him carry on. He ran the blade through his skin, pushing it further in to make it bleed. And it worked. Tiny droplets of red forming in his skin. He’d blinked slowly, cocking his head and analysing it. After a few seconds, the pain wasn’t there. It had felt like something was oozing from his body out of that little cut. That the emotions he’d bottled up inside were making their way out. He could finally breathe again.
He’d stopped eventually though. Playing bass meant that his wrists hurt when he pressed them too close to the body of the guitar. No-one had ever found out; he wore wristbands all the time anyway. He half-knew that if anyone had ever discovered his secret at the time, it would have made him take it one step further, just in an act of rebellion.
Every so often, he would try it again. If things got too much, fame or fans became too much to handle, he’d retreat to someplace and let it all out. But of course, he knew Bert had other solutions to that kind of shit. Drugs and partying. The two main things that his life seemed to revolve around when on tour. Jepha found himself dragged into that for an ongoing period of time. Not that he minded too much - he met a lot of friends along the way. It distracted him from that growing feel of emptiness, building up inside.
He sniffed loudly, ignoring Quinn’s soft pleads from the other side of the door. Tilting his head back against the wall, his mind wandered back to the past few weeks.
He’d felt seriously alone. Being surrounded by people all the time just made him feel more of an outcast, more of a reject. He didn’t feel normal - not that he wanted to. Sitting in the corner of a room, watching people partying, laughing in all the right moments, smiling whenever someone looked his way….; he started to resent the fact he couldn’t enjoy these things as much as others seemed to be able to.
The party last week backed him up completely. Made him re-think on what exactly all of this was. What was the point? Was his life actually heading in a certain direction, or was this all completely random shit until he died? As hard and often as he would try and figure out a point, he never could. His mind started to go numb after a while from listing out all of his theories. Which were rare.
Bert had passed out on the couch, Quinn tangled up beside him, with Dan on the floor. Empty bottles had lain scattered around. Jepha had been the only one awake - the only one sober, unbeknownst to his band mates. Sat in the middle of the wrecked hotel room, he’d stared at the wall opposite, before breaking down in fits of tears. His friends were dead to the world when it happened, which had made him so fucking thankful.
But now what? Why was he like this now? What the fuck had happened..?
The show had been good. They’d finished a few hours earlier. Bert had turned to the three of them, suggesting a night club nearby. Apparently a couple of the other bands on tour with them were going as well. According to Bert, everyone had been making plans to ‘fuck up this town.’ In a true ‘rock and roll’ style, of course. Dan had immediately agreed, Quinn nodding and glancing over at Jeph enquiringly. He’d given in, not wanting to look like an idiot. When Quinn threw an arm over his shoulder as they headed for the building, he’d tried not to flinch.
The club reminded him a little too much of the filming of their music video for ‘Pretty Handsome Awkward.’ It was total chaos; different colour lights shimmering in every direction, making the bassist feel dizzy. Quinn had laughed and made a comment to Jepha about some dude dancing near them, but he’d already zoned out by then. People had separated into their little groups as usual, Bert heading somewhere near the back, undoubtedly to scheme some form of mass destruction. Dan had started talking to some other drummer there. Quinn had dragged Jepha through the dance floor, towards the bar. Thankfully he hadn’t got knocked over by any stoned partiers on the way.
To say he’d felt uncomfortable was an understatement. In truth, he’d wanted to drink. Desperately wanted to down something heavy and strong. But not with other people. He didn’t want to be somewhere as public as this. He’d stared into his drink for the majority of their time there, vaguely hearing Quinn chatting to him.
Eventually, the guitarist had noticed something was up, and Jepha’s face must have fallen in a very obvious way - because then Quinn was leaning closer, expression worried. A hand hesitantly fell on his arm, and Jepha swallowed. This was fucking torture. He just wanted to be alone.
But then again, he was always alone.
“…are you all right…?” his best friend had asked softly, eyes urging Jepha to take the next step, to talk to him. But the dancers, and the lights and surreal feel of the situation had made Jepha jump back from him. He needed to get back to the hotel. He needed to get away from this. Stepping backwards from Quinn and the stools they’d been sitting on, he had nodded feverishly. Fuck it - he would not cry. Not now.
Twisting around, he’d practically ran out of the club. He’d barely made it a few steps outside when a familiar voice had started calling him from behind, urgently - concernedly. And the voice had gotten louder too. He’d picked up his pace a little, not wanting to talk to Quinn - just wanting to get away. He’d let his guard down. Now they’d all know something was up. Shit.
Unable to hold it in any longer, he’d let out a sigh, turning into a half-choked sob as he had hurried along.
A few more steps, and then a hand was clutching his shoulder, pulling him forcibly backwards. Quinn had obviously caught up. Jepha’s mouth had tightened at the feel of Quinn’s fingertips on his body, wanting to scream and jerk away. So that’s exactly what he did, not so much screaming, more like yelling and struggling out the grip he was being held in. It constricted, and he burst into tears, weakly falling backwards into the guitarist. Surprised, Quinn had gently lowered himself to the floor, cradling Jepha in his arms.
Jepha briefly recollected silence, and then gentle murmurs into his ear. Quinn had questioned what was wrong. Jepha had quickly took the chance to escape from the guitarist, getting back to the hotel with Quinn on his heels. He and Quinn were rooming together.
And this was the current situation.
“Jepha…” started Quinn gently, tone persistent. “…please open the door…”
Jepha let his face fall into his arms. He’d fucked it all up. Everything.
“I just want to help. Please, I’m your friend…I -…just…” the guitarist trailed off, his pounding on the door slowly diminishing into silence. A small thump was the tell-tale sign that Quinn was resting his head on the door. Jepha stared at the ceiling wordlessly.
How was he meant to explain what he felt? It wasn’t as easy as Quinn made it out to be. If it was, he would have talked to someone a long time ago. Mentioned it to all of them before they’d started touring, before they’d started focusing more and more on their ever-increasing popularity in the music business. He would never go see a therapist. It wasn’t his thing. The faint white scars on his arms could end up admitting him to some mental hospital. He didn’t want to chance it.
He’d thought these emotional outbursts had gone away. That he’d learnt to control them. Obviously not.
“…Jepha.” His name was spoken a little more sharply this time, making him blearily open his eyes to peer at the door. “I…I’m gonna knock the door down if you don’t open it.”
Images of hotel staff gathered around outside the room, to find him sitting here, in a pathetic mess flickered through his mind. He sat, frozen in fear - unable to believe it. What would Quinn use to knock down the door anyway? After a long moment, he slowly stood, feeling dizzy again as he hesitantly reached for the lock. Was he prepared to face the wrath of the person on the other side of the door? He closed his eyes. No. But to stay cooped up in here wouldn’t work. Bert and Dan would come back eventually.
He unlocked the door, letting it slowly open.
Quinn stood before him, hair ruffled up in all directions, eyes wide and worried. His gaze scanned Jepha, making the bassist cringe in embarrassment. When their eyes met again, Jepha’s lip quivered. He couldn’t handle this. He couldn’t handle whatever it was Quinn would say.
Tears spilled from the corner of his eyes once more; face crumpling up in an effort to hold them back - to pretend he was fine.
“Shit…” he heard Quinn mutter, taking one large step towards him, arms snaking around his waist and pulling him in close. In any other situation, Jepha would have found this weird. But it felt nice, he felt warm, which he needed to after all that time spent on the bathroom floor. He buried his face into Quinn’s chest, gasps and sobs racking his body, muffled by Quinn’s shirt.
“I can’t -“ he choked out. “I can’t keep on like this…”
The taller man gently dragged him out of the bathroom, and into the actual hotel room. Away from those goddamn lights. They both sunk onto Quinn’s bed, the closest one, and he held onto Quinn’s arm, feeling a hand steadying the back of his neck, keeping him beside the guitarist.
“What…?” Quinn asked softly. “Keep on like what?”
Jepha shook his head, unable to explain. It was impossible. He couldn’t word it. Quinn sighed into his ear, pressing himself closer.
“What’s wrong? Why are you like this…?”
Jepha closed his eyes, savouring the feel of Quinn’s warmth seeping into his skin. He didn’t want to answer, because he couldn’t. And Quinn couldn’t help either. No-one could. He shouldn’t have opened the door, he should have stayed there.
“…I don’t know.” He whispered eventually, feeling small and insecure all of a sudden.
He pulled back from Quinn, not daring to look him in the eyes, although he could feel that gaze burning into him.
“I feel alone…all the time.” He admitted quietly, voice barely audible. Quinn leant closer, fingers tracing up Jepha’s arm to rest on his shoulder. “I…I can’t explain it. It feels like no-one loves me or n-notices…”
His voice cracked, mouth suddenly dry from this statement. He ducked his head down, wanting to sink away into nothingness. To forget that any of this had ever happened.
“…what are you talking about?” asked Quinn, and calloused fingers tenderly lifted up Jepha’s chin, forcing him to look into his eyes. “I notice. Dan does; Bert does. We all care for you, y’know? You’re never alone…never have been.”
Jepha shook his head. Quinn didn’t understand. He didn’t get it. He didn’t get what the bassist had meant by that. Tears stung the corner of his eyes. How was he meant to get it through to him? To make him understand? Talking had always been something Jepha could easily do, but now he couldn’t even string together a few words to explain how he felt. His heart hammered in fear, wondering if he’d ever be able to relate to someone or get them to know what was going on.
He stared at the tattoos on his arms, a different memory and piece of his life history behind each one. A different story. That was all. He was just a person made up of a bunch of different stories. Would he get another tattoo to mark this one down somewhere? Something in the back of his head told him he wouldn’t have a chance to. He closed his eyes, feeling Quinn’s hand drop down into his own lap.
They sat together in silence, Jepha not bothering to watch the guitarist. He knew Quinn was thinking.
And then a small murmur broke down the mental barriers the bassist was building.
“I love you.”
His eyes snapped open, blinking to raise his gaze over at the person beside him in disbelief. Quinn was staring at his hands in his lap, eyes closed. He must have felt Jepha’s gaze on him, because in the next moment, he looked up, eyes glinting determinedly. Jepha blinked again, uncertain about what Quinn had meant.
“I love you Jepha.” Jepha froze, heart fluttering wildly, unable to do anything but stare up at the guitarist as he shifted closer. “I’ve loved you since the day I joined the band.”
Jepha’s mind reeled back to that summer years ago, remembering Quinn picking up his guitar and the two of them trying out different songs together. It had signalled Quinn was perfect for them.
The guitarist paused, smiling slightly. “When the band came together - I thought it was a dream come true, you know that? …I’d get to be near you all the time - travel and see you more often than I ever had back home...”
The tears forming in Jepha’s eyes were rapidly disappearing, the initial shock he felt written all over his expression.
“And then…you started acting like this.” Quinn said softly. “Cutting yourself off from us. I can’t believe it took you this long to tell me…you can always trust me - with anything…”
He trailed off, Jepha watching Quinn’s eyes look a little more shiny than usual. The guitarist blinked away his own tears, before pushing himself right in front of him.
“I didn’t know how to tell you.” He murmured, hand raising itself beside Jepha’s cheek to brush away a tear with his thumb. “I wanted to for so long. And…I don’t want you feeling like this. You think you can’t handle it…? Well…neither can I.”
And with that, he leant forward, capturing Jepha’s mouth in a gentle kiss. He slowly moved his mouth against his, tongue sweeping around the bassist’s mouth. Jepha melted into it, Quinn’s other arm encircling him and making him sink into the embrace. All of his thoughts, all of his worries - they vanished instantly. All he could feel was Quinn, pushing him backwards onto the bed - and the rushing sound around his ears could only be a product of the pleasure he was feeling.
Quinn pulled back finally, hovering over Jepha, both of their lips swollen and red. His darkened eyes prompted Jepha to speak, and the bassist stared at the man above him. And then it hit him.
“…I don’t feel empty anymore…”
Quinn smiled down at him in relief, and Jepha weakly smiled back - the first smile of his for months looking natural and genuine.
Things were looking up.
Rating: NC17 *shrug*
Word Count: 3,310
Warnings/Spoilers: Swearing. Cutting is implied. Emo!Jepha.
Summary: Jepha is drowning in his depression, and one day - it becomes too much. A certain guitarist notices him and only wants to help.
Disclaimer: I own a couple of posters of theirs...that count?
AN: One-shot; possibly a sequel? Please tell me what you think...
“Oh no - oh no you fucking don’t.” yelled the voice through the door, tone pleading and angry at the same time, followed by rough pounding. The guitarist was undoubtedly trying to break down the door. “You are not fucking shutting me out now, Jepha. Not now. Open the door. Please - open the door!”
The bassist quivered where he was sitting, back pressed up against the far wall of the bathroom. The tiles were white and horribly clean, making his eyes hurt. It was too bright. Too surreal. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like this. Any of it. It was fake. He shut his eyes, blocking it out. Hiding away - a bitter taste in the back of his throat. Choking a back a sob, he huddled into the corner. After raising his arms, he wrapped them around his legs, pulling them to his chest. His tattoos stood out against everything, making him feel dirty. One swirling jumble of colour ruining the entire effect. He stared at them, eyes narrowing into a hateful glare.
He hated himself. He hated all of this. Everything…had gone downhill. Ever since the start of the tour. He’d felt it coming for a while now; tried to hide it. It hadn’t gone too well. That stupid twist of his stomach he felt when around friends, the way he’d have to fake all of his smiles…turn up the over-dramatic, eccentric form of personality to convince everyone he was fine. He was fucking fine. Nothing wrong. It was all good…all good…
Yeah right.
His heart started hammering a little louder, all sounds drowning out. Shit. It was that feeling he’d get, feeling like some wave of sadness would spread through his body. It made him feel like he would burst, needing a form of release - which would usually end up being tears. He’d cry for hours in cramped places backstage until he was ready to face people again. Because of course, nothing was wrong. Nothing at all.
It was just something he needed to get out of his system every once in a while. Not anything to worry about, right?
Except it was more than that. He may have been lying to everyone else, but he was lying to himself most of all.
He had a fucking problem. Why was it so hard to admit?
Shuddering slightly, he curled up into himself as much as he could. The walls felt a lot closer than they had been previously. And he wasn’t claustrophobic - no way. Was this all in his head? A few of his tears dripped off the end of his nose and onto the floor. His cheeks felt cold for a brief moment, before more tears leaked down them again.
He’d started drinking more often. He didn’t know if Bert or Dan had noticed, but Quinn certainly had. Jepha knew he’d been keeping an eye on him recently. Shying away from being spied on, he had snuck bottles into hotel rooms, onto the tour bus. He’d drunk on his own - got wasted by himself. Somehow, it wasn’t the same. Being around friends made it seem more of an activity, not a last resort.
It was a form of release, but not the right one.
Never the right one.
He knew what the right form was. He’d known ever since he was fifteen, the red cuts under his wristbands giving him some sort of sad satisfaction. The first time he’d taken the risk, he’d been sitting in his room - upset because his girlfriend had dumped him. She’d gone off and made out with some jock right in front of him and his friends. His face still flushed thinking about it. The embarrassment, the feeling he was no good for her. Worthless in her eyes. She made him feel like a freak, even more so when she started spreading rumours about him. She went from being a characteristic, unique girl, into just another one of those airhead cheer-leader types. He swallowed away the sick feeling in the back of his throat. That night had been hell for him. He’d wanted to make himself better, and had no clue where to begin. Spotting his broken pencil sharpener, he’d taken out the blade and watched his reflection in it for a few seconds. He’d debated about it - thinking it stupid. But his eyes told him different, staring back at him with an accusing kind of intensity that had me him feel weak. He wanted to make himself stronger. Prove to himself and to everyone else that he could do it.
So he did.
The first time he’d cut his wrist, he’d hissed in pain, wanting to stop because, fuck - there was no satisfaction; no pleasure. But anger at himself had made him carry on. He ran the blade through his skin, pushing it further in to make it bleed. And it worked. Tiny droplets of red forming in his skin. He’d blinked slowly, cocking his head and analysing it. After a few seconds, the pain wasn’t there. It had felt like something was oozing from his body out of that little cut. That the emotions he’d bottled up inside were making their way out. He could finally breathe again.
He’d stopped eventually though. Playing bass meant that his wrists hurt when he pressed them too close to the body of the guitar. No-one had ever found out; he wore wristbands all the time anyway. He half-knew that if anyone had ever discovered his secret at the time, it would have made him take it one step further, just in an act of rebellion.
Every so often, he would try it again. If things got too much, fame or fans became too much to handle, he’d retreat to someplace and let it all out. But of course, he knew Bert had other solutions to that kind of shit. Drugs and partying. The two main things that his life seemed to revolve around when on tour. Jepha found himself dragged into that for an ongoing period of time. Not that he minded too much - he met a lot of friends along the way. It distracted him from that growing feel of emptiness, building up inside.
He sniffed loudly, ignoring Quinn’s soft pleads from the other side of the door. Tilting his head back against the wall, his mind wandered back to the past few weeks.
He’d felt seriously alone. Being surrounded by people all the time just made him feel more of an outcast, more of a reject. He didn’t feel normal - not that he wanted to. Sitting in the corner of a room, watching people partying, laughing in all the right moments, smiling whenever someone looked his way….; he started to resent the fact he couldn’t enjoy these things as much as others seemed to be able to.
The party last week backed him up completely. Made him re-think on what exactly all of this was. What was the point? Was his life actually heading in a certain direction, or was this all completely random shit until he died? As hard and often as he would try and figure out a point, he never could. His mind started to go numb after a while from listing out all of his theories. Which were rare.
Bert had passed out on the couch, Quinn tangled up beside him, with Dan on the floor. Empty bottles had lain scattered around. Jepha had been the only one awake - the only one sober, unbeknownst to his band mates. Sat in the middle of the wrecked hotel room, he’d stared at the wall opposite, before breaking down in fits of tears. His friends were dead to the world when it happened, which had made him so fucking thankful.
But now what? Why was he like this now? What the fuck had happened..?
The show had been good. They’d finished a few hours earlier. Bert had turned to the three of them, suggesting a night club nearby. Apparently a couple of the other bands on tour with them were going as well. According to Bert, everyone had been making plans to ‘fuck up this town.’ In a true ‘rock and roll’ style, of course. Dan had immediately agreed, Quinn nodding and glancing over at Jeph enquiringly. He’d given in, not wanting to look like an idiot. When Quinn threw an arm over his shoulder as they headed for the building, he’d tried not to flinch.
The club reminded him a little too much of the filming of their music video for ‘Pretty Handsome Awkward.’ It was total chaos; different colour lights shimmering in every direction, making the bassist feel dizzy. Quinn had laughed and made a comment to Jepha about some dude dancing near them, but he’d already zoned out by then. People had separated into their little groups as usual, Bert heading somewhere near the back, undoubtedly to scheme some form of mass destruction. Dan had started talking to some other drummer there. Quinn had dragged Jepha through the dance floor, towards the bar. Thankfully he hadn’t got knocked over by any stoned partiers on the way.
To say he’d felt uncomfortable was an understatement. In truth, he’d wanted to drink. Desperately wanted to down something heavy and strong. But not with other people. He didn’t want to be somewhere as public as this. He’d stared into his drink for the majority of their time there, vaguely hearing Quinn chatting to him.
Eventually, the guitarist had noticed something was up, and Jepha’s face must have fallen in a very obvious way - because then Quinn was leaning closer, expression worried. A hand hesitantly fell on his arm, and Jepha swallowed. This was fucking torture. He just wanted to be alone.
But then again, he was always alone.
“…are you all right…?” his best friend had asked softly, eyes urging Jepha to take the next step, to talk to him. But the dancers, and the lights and surreal feel of the situation had made Jepha jump back from him. He needed to get back to the hotel. He needed to get away from this. Stepping backwards from Quinn and the stools they’d been sitting on, he had nodded feverishly. Fuck it - he would not cry. Not now.
Twisting around, he’d practically ran out of the club. He’d barely made it a few steps outside when a familiar voice had started calling him from behind, urgently - concernedly. And the voice had gotten louder too. He’d picked up his pace a little, not wanting to talk to Quinn - just wanting to get away. He’d let his guard down. Now they’d all know something was up. Shit.
Unable to hold it in any longer, he’d let out a sigh, turning into a half-choked sob as he had hurried along.
A few more steps, and then a hand was clutching his shoulder, pulling him forcibly backwards. Quinn had obviously caught up. Jepha’s mouth had tightened at the feel of Quinn’s fingertips on his body, wanting to scream and jerk away. So that’s exactly what he did, not so much screaming, more like yelling and struggling out the grip he was being held in. It constricted, and he burst into tears, weakly falling backwards into the guitarist. Surprised, Quinn had gently lowered himself to the floor, cradling Jepha in his arms.
Jepha briefly recollected silence, and then gentle murmurs into his ear. Quinn had questioned what was wrong. Jepha had quickly took the chance to escape from the guitarist, getting back to the hotel with Quinn on his heels. He and Quinn were rooming together.
And this was the current situation.
“Jepha…” started Quinn gently, tone persistent. “…please open the door…”
Jepha let his face fall into his arms. He’d fucked it all up. Everything.
“I just want to help. Please, I’m your friend…I -…just…” the guitarist trailed off, his pounding on the door slowly diminishing into silence. A small thump was the tell-tale sign that Quinn was resting his head on the door. Jepha stared at the ceiling wordlessly.
How was he meant to explain what he felt? It wasn’t as easy as Quinn made it out to be. If it was, he would have talked to someone a long time ago. Mentioned it to all of them before they’d started touring, before they’d started focusing more and more on their ever-increasing popularity in the music business. He would never go see a therapist. It wasn’t his thing. The faint white scars on his arms could end up admitting him to some mental hospital. He didn’t want to chance it.
He’d thought these emotional outbursts had gone away. That he’d learnt to control them. Obviously not.
“…Jepha.” His name was spoken a little more sharply this time, making him blearily open his eyes to peer at the door. “I…I’m gonna knock the door down if you don’t open it.”
Images of hotel staff gathered around outside the room, to find him sitting here, in a pathetic mess flickered through his mind. He sat, frozen in fear - unable to believe it. What would Quinn use to knock down the door anyway? After a long moment, he slowly stood, feeling dizzy again as he hesitantly reached for the lock. Was he prepared to face the wrath of the person on the other side of the door? He closed his eyes. No. But to stay cooped up in here wouldn’t work. Bert and Dan would come back eventually.
He unlocked the door, letting it slowly open.
Quinn stood before him, hair ruffled up in all directions, eyes wide and worried. His gaze scanned Jepha, making the bassist cringe in embarrassment. When their eyes met again, Jepha’s lip quivered. He couldn’t handle this. He couldn’t handle whatever it was Quinn would say.
Tears spilled from the corner of his eyes once more; face crumpling up in an effort to hold them back - to pretend he was fine.
“Shit…” he heard Quinn mutter, taking one large step towards him, arms snaking around his waist and pulling him in close. In any other situation, Jepha would have found this weird. But it felt nice, he felt warm, which he needed to after all that time spent on the bathroom floor. He buried his face into Quinn’s chest, gasps and sobs racking his body, muffled by Quinn’s shirt.
“I can’t -“ he choked out. “I can’t keep on like this…”
The taller man gently dragged him out of the bathroom, and into the actual hotel room. Away from those goddamn lights. They both sunk onto Quinn’s bed, the closest one, and he held onto Quinn’s arm, feeling a hand steadying the back of his neck, keeping him beside the guitarist.
“What…?” Quinn asked softly. “Keep on like what?”
Jepha shook his head, unable to explain. It was impossible. He couldn’t word it. Quinn sighed into his ear, pressing himself closer.
“What’s wrong? Why are you like this…?”
Jepha closed his eyes, savouring the feel of Quinn’s warmth seeping into his skin. He didn’t want to answer, because he couldn’t. And Quinn couldn’t help either. No-one could. He shouldn’t have opened the door, he should have stayed there.
“…I don’t know.” He whispered eventually, feeling small and insecure all of a sudden.
He pulled back from Quinn, not daring to look him in the eyes, although he could feel that gaze burning into him.
“I feel alone…all the time.” He admitted quietly, voice barely audible. Quinn leant closer, fingers tracing up Jepha’s arm to rest on his shoulder. “I…I can’t explain it. It feels like no-one loves me or n-notices…”
His voice cracked, mouth suddenly dry from this statement. He ducked his head down, wanting to sink away into nothingness. To forget that any of this had ever happened.
“…what are you talking about?” asked Quinn, and calloused fingers tenderly lifted up Jepha’s chin, forcing him to look into his eyes. “I notice. Dan does; Bert does. We all care for you, y’know? You’re never alone…never have been.”
Jepha shook his head. Quinn didn’t understand. He didn’t get it. He didn’t get what the bassist had meant by that. Tears stung the corner of his eyes. How was he meant to get it through to him? To make him understand? Talking had always been something Jepha could easily do, but now he couldn’t even string together a few words to explain how he felt. His heart hammered in fear, wondering if he’d ever be able to relate to someone or get them to know what was going on.
He stared at the tattoos on his arms, a different memory and piece of his life history behind each one. A different story. That was all. He was just a person made up of a bunch of different stories. Would he get another tattoo to mark this one down somewhere? Something in the back of his head told him he wouldn’t have a chance to. He closed his eyes, feeling Quinn’s hand drop down into his own lap.
They sat together in silence, Jepha not bothering to watch the guitarist. He knew Quinn was thinking.
And then a small murmur broke down the mental barriers the bassist was building.
“I love you.”
His eyes snapped open, blinking to raise his gaze over at the person beside him in disbelief. Quinn was staring at his hands in his lap, eyes closed. He must have felt Jepha’s gaze on him, because in the next moment, he looked up, eyes glinting determinedly. Jepha blinked again, uncertain about what Quinn had meant.
“I love you Jepha.” Jepha froze, heart fluttering wildly, unable to do anything but stare up at the guitarist as he shifted closer. “I’ve loved you since the day I joined the band.”
Jepha’s mind reeled back to that summer years ago, remembering Quinn picking up his guitar and the two of them trying out different songs together. It had signalled Quinn was perfect for them.
The guitarist paused, smiling slightly. “When the band came together - I thought it was a dream come true, you know that? …I’d get to be near you all the time - travel and see you more often than I ever had back home...”
The tears forming in Jepha’s eyes were rapidly disappearing, the initial shock he felt written all over his expression.
“And then…you started acting like this.” Quinn said softly. “Cutting yourself off from us. I can’t believe it took you this long to tell me…you can always trust me - with anything…”
He trailed off, Jepha watching Quinn’s eyes look a little more shiny than usual. The guitarist blinked away his own tears, before pushing himself right in front of him.
“I didn’t know how to tell you.” He murmured, hand raising itself beside Jepha’s cheek to brush away a tear with his thumb. “I wanted to for so long. And…I don’t want you feeling like this. You think you can’t handle it…? Well…neither can I.”
And with that, he leant forward, capturing Jepha’s mouth in a gentle kiss. He slowly moved his mouth against his, tongue sweeping around the bassist’s mouth. Jepha melted into it, Quinn’s other arm encircling him and making him sink into the embrace. All of his thoughts, all of his worries - they vanished instantly. All he could feel was Quinn, pushing him backwards onto the bed - and the rushing sound around his ears could only be a product of the pleasure he was feeling.
Quinn pulled back finally, hovering over Jepha, both of their lips swollen and red. His darkened eyes prompted Jepha to speak, and the bassist stared at the man above him. And then it hit him.
“…I don’t feel empty anymore…”
Quinn smiled down at him in relief, and Jepha weakly smiled back - the first smile of his for months looking natural and genuine.
Things were looking up.