Jealousy (1/1)
Title: Jealousy (1/1)
Pairing: Belldom/Other, Dominic POV
Rating: R for language and sexual references
Summary: This, my first shot at angst, is a stream-of-consciousness, songfic type piece that examines Dominic's jealousy and unhappiness due to Matt's new relationship.
Disclaimer: None of this ever happened. I do not know, own, or claim to know or own any individual, piece of work, place, or item that you recognize in this fic. Jealousy (c) 1978 was written by Freddie Mercury and does not belong to me. This story belongs to me, but the real people do not. No defamation is intended.
Stuffed in one of my suitcases on the tour bus is a worn collection of Queen LPs. I don’t know how many countries or even continents I’ve dragged those albums to and through, but I know I’ve not taken them out of my suitcase in years. I cycle through the albums, rig them up on the turntable in the front room, choose whichever set of songs best fit my mood. I throw the record on, plug in my old-school headphones, and let the album play.
The record I keep finding atop the stack is Jazz.
The album is nearly as old as I am, released in 1978; I guess it’s younger than me by a year, but if you ask me, I look far better for my age. The cover, black with a strange circular design, has a large scratch stretching from one corner to the other. The sleeve is worn around the corners and the words on the spine have completely worn away. I’ve been much kinder to the vinyl, paying it the same kind of attention I give to my looks, and there’s nary a scratch on either side.
Sandwiched on the first side of the album, between Fat Bottomed Girls and Bicycle Race is Jealousy. I once told an interviewer that Don’t Stop Me Now, which is also on Jazz, is the song I want played at my funeral. In recent months, I’ve let Jealousy take its place. How sad and ironic is that? The eternally sunny Dominic Howard wants to throw a pity party at his own funeral and play a song about being jealous as they lower him into the ground.
It’s the middle of the night and the bus is rolling through some godforsaken part of the United States where everything out the window looks the same: tan. Everything is bloody tan for miles and miles without so much as a tree to interrupt the monotony of it all. In the past, we used to gather around the windows and play drinking games, taking a shot every time we passed a tumbleweed or a prairie-dog mound; Matt almost always ended up on the floor first, pissed out of his mind, giggling as he rolled back and forth on the carpet. It was a nice way to make the featureless miles go by, but we haven’t done that in years, so the ride is simply tan.
Things are not quite so tan or monotonous inside the bus. They’re at it again, and it’s keeping me awake. The rustling of sheets, the squeaking of tired mattress springs, the frustrated groan of an old bed frame. All of it is screaming in my ears and for an encore, I get breathy feminine moans of ecstasy and not-so-masculine orgasmic cries.
With a grunt, I throw the duvet and sheets off of my body and lunge out of bed. I reach into my suitcase and snatch Jazz from atop the stack of albums, exactly where I knew it would be. I shuffle through the sleeping area in the dark with the record tucked under my left arm and an index finger shoved in each ear to drown out the sound of fucking. As I slip out of the room, I flip the light switch with my elbow just to piss Matt off.
Matt calls something after me, probably wanker or bitch, and I ignore him and keep walking. For all I know, his girlfriend is into name calling and she never noticed I left the room, let alone turned on the light.
I open the entertainment cabinet and pull the turntable to the front. I lift the lid, slide Jazz from the record sleeve, and drop the needle on the correct groove. The song is just ramping up as I shove the headphone jack into the port and slide the headset over my ears.
Oh, how wrong can you be?
Oh, to fall in love was your very first mistake
How was I to know I was far too much in love to see?
I watch the record spin round and round and keep the album cover clenched in my hands, my perfectly filed nails digging crescents into the soft cardboard. I know, as soon as Freddie begins to sing, why I seem to play this song every day with the hopes that maybe one more listen will fix what seems to have gone so wrong.
Everyone thinks I’m such a sunny person. I used to be, and I think I do a damn good job of pretending I still am. I smile and laugh, take Matt’s teasing in stride, and dress in bright, flamboyant clothing. At first, I truly was a happy person and the clothes I wore reflected who I was and how I felt; after awhile, they became a costume or a mask that covered up how I felt inside. I slowly started replacing the bright blues and pinks with whites and blacks, and some keen fans have noticed that I’ve retired my trademark neon green, yellow, and pink skinnies. I can’t bear to wear them anymore; it just feels too fake and too much like false advertising.
I think I’m beginning to slip a bit. Chris and Tom both have commented on how down I look, and they both razz me on falling behind on my beauty regimen, saying that if I don’t keep things up, I’ll end up looking my age. I want to tell them. I’m screaming inside to tell them, to tell anyone, that I’m tired of laughing and smiling and watching and listening as Matt gets everything he wants and he gets it from someone that isn’t me.
Oh, jealousy, look at me now
Jealousy, you got me somehow
You gave me no warning
Took me by surprise
Jealousy, you led me on
You couldn’t lose, you couldn’t fail
You had suspicion on my trail
A-ha, I’ve let the truth out; of course, it wasn’t terribly obvious before. The childish huffing and puffing and ear-plugging weren’t indication enough that I’m being eaten alive by envy. I’m a grown man, a successful musician, a sex object if any of the perverted women on the internet are to be taken into consideration, and here I am, almost shaking with jealousy at three in the morning in the middle of the middle of nowhere. I’m jealous because my best mate’s falling in love, jealous because he’s happy, jealous because he’s not doing any of those things with me.
I’m sure the fangirls on the internet would be thrilled to see me now, sitting and sulking in front of a Queen album as Matt fucks his girlfriend in the back room. They’d delight in the fact that I am, in fact, madly in love with Matthew James Bellamy, and that their naughty suspicions have been right for years. I’ve been in love with Matt longer than there’s been a band called Muse, and at this rate, I figure I’ll be in love with Matt long after there’s a band called Muse. Muse, and its success, won’t bookend my life.
My love for Matt will.
How, how, how all my jealousy
I wasn’t man enough to let you hurt my pride
Now I’m only left with my own jealousy
I feel my throat growing tight with emotion as I wrap my left hand around the headphone cable and twist it around my fingers. I wind it around my hand until it digs into my tanned skin and turns it white, and I keep it there until my fingers begin to lose feeling. I loosen the cord, watch the color flood back into my fingers, and begin the process again. I’m not sure why I’m doing it, or why I do it every time I sit down in front of the turntable, but it probably has something to do with me punishing myself for the shit, pathetic person I am.
I hate myself.
When I sit here and wallow in my heartbreak, I absolutely hate myself for feeling this way. I’ve scolded myself so many times in the recent months, telling myself to smile and be happy for Matt. I remind myself that he deserves happiness. He deserves someone to take care of him, to hold him in the night and care for him in the day. I want to be the cheerful best mate everyone is convinced that I am, so I try my bloody well best every day, smiling and playing the part I’m expected to play, while on the inside, I’m screaming. I’m screaming and cursing and bleeding for him, because of him, and I’m terrified that I will always be broken.
Oh how strong can you be?
With matters of the heart
Life is much too short
To while away with tears
If only you could see just what you do to me
I think I can hear sounds seeping into my headset and I crank the volume knob, wishing desperately that the music could grow louder even as my eardrums throb in protest. I don’t think the music will ever be loud enough to drown them out, or to drown myself in.
I’m practically choking on my angst now, my stupid bloody emo angst, and I can feel the hot tears swelling around my grey eyes. I hold them in until my eyes burn in protest and then I clap my arm across my mouth as my lips part. I sob silently into my bare arm, biting down on the skin to muffle my cries. My shoulders shake and I reach through the darkness of the bus with my mind; I reach for Matt, silently begging him through our now-abandoned connection to find me and wrap his thin arms around me. But he doesn’t come. He never does. Not for me, not anymore.
Oh, jealousy, how you tripped me up
Jealousy you brought me down
You bring me sorrow, you cause me pain
Oh, jealousy, when will you let go?
Got a hold of my possessive mind
Turned me into a jealous kind
I wonder bitterly if she knows how to please him, if she can make him come. If she has ever caused his brilliant blue eyes to turn black with lust before they roll back in absolute bliss. I can still feel his beautiful body beneath my hands. I can feel his eyes burn into mine, branding me as surely as any glowing iron ever could. I can smell his sweat and arousal as our bodies blend together, and even over the music thrumming against my ears, I can hear his moans and cries as he moves below me, above me, within me…
I hate her, and I fear her, far more than I thought I could ever hate or fear anyone. Other people see her as a perfect companion, but I can’t, and don’t, because for so long, I was that perfect companion. She’s taking my place, she’s pushing me out of the picture, and nobody seems to see it but me. I hate her for taking my Matthew away, and I fear her because I’m afraid I’ll never get him back. Doesn’t she understand? Doesn’t he? Doesn’t anyone understand that without him, I’m only half of me?
How, how, how all my jealousy
I wasn’t man enough to let you hurt my pride
Now I’m only left with my own jealousy
I wish I could hate him. I truly do. I wish that I could turn my anger with myself, my hatred for that bitch that writhes beneath him, and turn it all on him. I want to hit him and watch the imprint of my hand spread across his cheek. I want to cut him and watch his blood run down his skin, and think that maybe, for even a moment, he feels what I feel. I want to scream in his face until he understands every single thing I’ve ever felt. I want to throw her from the tour bus and watch her turn into a blip in the godforsaken tan expanse that surrounds us from every side. I want to scream until my throat is raw and take my life back…but I don’t think that I can. My desire to wait for Matt, to linger in the shadows until he needs me again, is just too strong.
I draw in a shaky breath and lift my tear-stained face from my arm. I see my reflection in the windowpane across from where I sit, and I shudder. I’m a handsome man, or at least I used to be; now, I’m just an unhappy, desperate, jealous mess.
I miss the man I used to be.
I miss the life I used to live.
I miss the man I love.
I miss the man that used to love me.
But now it matters not
If I should live or die
‘Cause I’m only left with my own jealousy
Pairing: Belldom/Other, Dominic POV
Rating: R for language and sexual references
Summary: This, my first shot at angst, is a stream-of-consciousness, songfic type piece that examines Dominic's jealousy and unhappiness due to Matt's new relationship.
Disclaimer: None of this ever happened. I do not know, own, or claim to know or own any individual, piece of work, place, or item that you recognize in this fic. Jealousy (c) 1978 was written by Freddie Mercury and does not belong to me. This story belongs to me, but the real people do not. No defamation is intended.
Stuffed in one of my suitcases on the tour bus is a worn collection of Queen LPs. I don’t know how many countries or even continents I’ve dragged those albums to and through, but I know I’ve not taken them out of my suitcase in years. I cycle through the albums, rig them up on the turntable in the front room, choose whichever set of songs best fit my mood. I throw the record on, plug in my old-school headphones, and let the album play.
The record I keep finding atop the stack is Jazz.
The album is nearly as old as I am, released in 1978; I guess it’s younger than me by a year, but if you ask me, I look far better for my age. The cover, black with a strange circular design, has a large scratch stretching from one corner to the other. The sleeve is worn around the corners and the words on the spine have completely worn away. I’ve been much kinder to the vinyl, paying it the same kind of attention I give to my looks, and there’s nary a scratch on either side.
Sandwiched on the first side of the album, between Fat Bottomed Girls and Bicycle Race is Jealousy. I once told an interviewer that Don’t Stop Me Now, which is also on Jazz, is the song I want played at my funeral. In recent months, I’ve let Jealousy take its place. How sad and ironic is that? The eternally sunny Dominic Howard wants to throw a pity party at his own funeral and play a song about being jealous as they lower him into the ground.
It’s the middle of the night and the bus is rolling through some godforsaken part of the United States where everything out the window looks the same: tan. Everything is bloody tan for miles and miles without so much as a tree to interrupt the monotony of it all. In the past, we used to gather around the windows and play drinking games, taking a shot every time we passed a tumbleweed or a prairie-dog mound; Matt almost always ended up on the floor first, pissed out of his mind, giggling as he rolled back and forth on the carpet. It was a nice way to make the featureless miles go by, but we haven’t done that in years, so the ride is simply tan.
Things are not quite so tan or monotonous inside the bus. They’re at it again, and it’s keeping me awake. The rustling of sheets, the squeaking of tired mattress springs, the frustrated groan of an old bed frame. All of it is screaming in my ears and for an encore, I get breathy feminine moans of ecstasy and not-so-masculine orgasmic cries.
With a grunt, I throw the duvet and sheets off of my body and lunge out of bed. I reach into my suitcase and snatch Jazz from atop the stack of albums, exactly where I knew it would be. I shuffle through the sleeping area in the dark with the record tucked under my left arm and an index finger shoved in each ear to drown out the sound of fucking. As I slip out of the room, I flip the light switch with my elbow just to piss Matt off.
Matt calls something after me, probably wanker or bitch, and I ignore him and keep walking. For all I know, his girlfriend is into name calling and she never noticed I left the room, let alone turned on the light.
I open the entertainment cabinet and pull the turntable to the front. I lift the lid, slide Jazz from the record sleeve, and drop the needle on the correct groove. The song is just ramping up as I shove the headphone jack into the port and slide the headset over my ears.
Oh, how wrong can you be?
Oh, to fall in love was your very first mistake
How was I to know I was far too much in love to see?
I watch the record spin round and round and keep the album cover clenched in my hands, my perfectly filed nails digging crescents into the soft cardboard. I know, as soon as Freddie begins to sing, why I seem to play this song every day with the hopes that maybe one more listen will fix what seems to have gone so wrong.
Everyone thinks I’m such a sunny person. I used to be, and I think I do a damn good job of pretending I still am. I smile and laugh, take Matt’s teasing in stride, and dress in bright, flamboyant clothing. At first, I truly was a happy person and the clothes I wore reflected who I was and how I felt; after awhile, they became a costume or a mask that covered up how I felt inside. I slowly started replacing the bright blues and pinks with whites and blacks, and some keen fans have noticed that I’ve retired my trademark neon green, yellow, and pink skinnies. I can’t bear to wear them anymore; it just feels too fake and too much like false advertising.
I think I’m beginning to slip a bit. Chris and Tom both have commented on how down I look, and they both razz me on falling behind on my beauty regimen, saying that if I don’t keep things up, I’ll end up looking my age. I want to tell them. I’m screaming inside to tell them, to tell anyone, that I’m tired of laughing and smiling and watching and listening as Matt gets everything he wants and he gets it from someone that isn’t me.
Oh, jealousy, look at me now
Jealousy, you got me somehow
You gave me no warning
Took me by surprise
Jealousy, you led me on
You couldn’t lose, you couldn’t fail
You had suspicion on my trail
A-ha, I’ve let the truth out; of course, it wasn’t terribly obvious before. The childish huffing and puffing and ear-plugging weren’t indication enough that I’m being eaten alive by envy. I’m a grown man, a successful musician, a sex object if any of the perverted women on the internet are to be taken into consideration, and here I am, almost shaking with jealousy at three in the morning in the middle of the middle of nowhere. I’m jealous because my best mate’s falling in love, jealous because he’s happy, jealous because he’s not doing any of those things with me.
I’m sure the fangirls on the internet would be thrilled to see me now, sitting and sulking in front of a Queen album as Matt fucks his girlfriend in the back room. They’d delight in the fact that I am, in fact, madly in love with Matthew James Bellamy, and that their naughty suspicions have been right for years. I’ve been in love with Matt longer than there’s been a band called Muse, and at this rate, I figure I’ll be in love with Matt long after there’s a band called Muse. Muse, and its success, won’t bookend my life.
My love for Matt will.
How, how, how all my jealousy
I wasn’t man enough to let you hurt my pride
Now I’m only left with my own jealousy
I feel my throat growing tight with emotion as I wrap my left hand around the headphone cable and twist it around my fingers. I wind it around my hand until it digs into my tanned skin and turns it white, and I keep it there until my fingers begin to lose feeling. I loosen the cord, watch the color flood back into my fingers, and begin the process again. I’m not sure why I’m doing it, or why I do it every time I sit down in front of the turntable, but it probably has something to do with me punishing myself for the shit, pathetic person I am.
I hate myself.
When I sit here and wallow in my heartbreak, I absolutely hate myself for feeling this way. I’ve scolded myself so many times in the recent months, telling myself to smile and be happy for Matt. I remind myself that he deserves happiness. He deserves someone to take care of him, to hold him in the night and care for him in the day. I want to be the cheerful best mate everyone is convinced that I am, so I try my bloody well best every day, smiling and playing the part I’m expected to play, while on the inside, I’m screaming. I’m screaming and cursing and bleeding for him, because of him, and I’m terrified that I will always be broken.
Oh how strong can you be?
With matters of the heart
Life is much too short
To while away with tears
If only you could see just what you do to me
I think I can hear sounds seeping into my headset and I crank the volume knob, wishing desperately that the music could grow louder even as my eardrums throb in protest. I don’t think the music will ever be loud enough to drown them out, or to drown myself in.
I’m practically choking on my angst now, my stupid bloody emo angst, and I can feel the hot tears swelling around my grey eyes. I hold them in until my eyes burn in protest and then I clap my arm across my mouth as my lips part. I sob silently into my bare arm, biting down on the skin to muffle my cries. My shoulders shake and I reach through the darkness of the bus with my mind; I reach for Matt, silently begging him through our now-abandoned connection to find me and wrap his thin arms around me. But he doesn’t come. He never does. Not for me, not anymore.
Oh, jealousy, how you tripped me up
Jealousy you brought me down
You bring me sorrow, you cause me pain
Oh, jealousy, when will you let go?
Got a hold of my possessive mind
Turned me into a jealous kind
I wonder bitterly if she knows how to please him, if she can make him come. If she has ever caused his brilliant blue eyes to turn black with lust before they roll back in absolute bliss. I can still feel his beautiful body beneath my hands. I can feel his eyes burn into mine, branding me as surely as any glowing iron ever could. I can smell his sweat and arousal as our bodies blend together, and even over the music thrumming against my ears, I can hear his moans and cries as he moves below me, above me, within me…
I hate her, and I fear her, far more than I thought I could ever hate or fear anyone. Other people see her as a perfect companion, but I can’t, and don’t, because for so long, I was that perfect companion. She’s taking my place, she’s pushing me out of the picture, and nobody seems to see it but me. I hate her for taking my Matthew away, and I fear her because I’m afraid I’ll never get him back. Doesn’t she understand? Doesn’t he? Doesn’t anyone understand that without him, I’m only half of me?
How, how, how all my jealousy
I wasn’t man enough to let you hurt my pride
Now I’m only left with my own jealousy
I wish I could hate him. I truly do. I wish that I could turn my anger with myself, my hatred for that bitch that writhes beneath him, and turn it all on him. I want to hit him and watch the imprint of my hand spread across his cheek. I want to cut him and watch his blood run down his skin, and think that maybe, for even a moment, he feels what I feel. I want to scream in his face until he understands every single thing I’ve ever felt. I want to throw her from the tour bus and watch her turn into a blip in the godforsaken tan expanse that surrounds us from every side. I want to scream until my throat is raw and take my life back…but I don’t think that I can. My desire to wait for Matt, to linger in the shadows until he needs me again, is just too strong.
I draw in a shaky breath and lift my tear-stained face from my arm. I see my reflection in the windowpane across from where I sit, and I shudder. I’m a handsome man, or at least I used to be; now, I’m just an unhappy, desperate, jealous mess.
I miss the man I used to be.
I miss the life I used to live.
I miss the man I love.
I miss the man that used to love me.
But now it matters not
If I should live or die
‘Cause I’m only left with my own jealousy