New Author's Note (12/6/13): I was glancing over my old stories and realized that this one contained a remark in my original notes that came off as trivializing self-harm. I would like to apologize for that, and have removed it. In reality, when I wrote this story a few years back, it was partially to deal with my own experiences with self-harm. (I'm a lot better now.) Again, I sincerely apologize if my previous notes caused distress to anyone.
Contains: slash, het (sort of), profanity, self-harm, and alcohol use. Possibly slight dubcon.
Murderface leaned against the wall, glowering at the party guests milling around the hotel ballroom, and absently traced the tip of his knife down the wall, slicing through the expensive wallpaper. Coked-up record execs and their drunken sluts, tall and slender in clinging silks, jewels that were undoubtedly real and undoubtedly expensive flashed at their throats, their hands, from under their elaborate hairdos.
"Waschte of money," he mumbled to himself. If he had a girlfriend, he wouldn't go around spending his—hell, of course he would, but what was the use, when after all he was never going to have another girlfriend, couldn't even get the groupie sluts in bed with him, fucking pathetic failure—
"Wein, mein Herr?" asked a white-jacketed waiter, pausing in front of him and offering a tray with glasses of Riesling. Wine, sir?
He took a glass. "Danke." Germany wasn't so bad after all, he decided. At least he remembered a little German from high school. That was more than any of the others knew, except, of course, Charles, who had surprised them all by speaking fluently to the customs officials, those douchebags who'd had some kind of problem with the band bringing in explosives, weapons, and whatever had been in Pickles's suitcase that the drug dogs had whimpered and backed away from.
"No reschpecht for perschonal property," he said to no one in particular, shaking his head, and took a drink of wine.
So here they were in Düsseldorf ("What town ams we in, Moidaface?" Skwisgaar had asked. "Düschelldorf," he'd answered, and they'd all laughed. It had gotten old after the sixth or seventh time)—in Düsseldorf, yes, because they'd had a break of a few days between their Paris show and the one in Berlin—Charles had arranged it that way, and arranged this party as well, to promote their new album, invited as many slimy grinning ad men (and women), promoters, and music people as he could get his hands on, not to mention a few minor politicians and a number of high-class whores.
"Nathan, Skwisgaar," Charles had instructed when they'd arrived at the party, "You two should make a point of talking to Herr Stromschlag," he indicated a dark-haired man in a well-cut suit who stood talking to two women. "His firm handles the advertising for several major manufacturers who have expressed interesting in using you as spokespersons. Toki and Pickles—please try to go easy on the alcohol, Pickles—can entertain Frau Feindschaft," he turned and nodded to an attractive red-haired woman, who returned the nod and began to move nearer. "She writes for a prominent music magazine here and I'm sure you'll want to—ah—create a good impression."
Skwisgaar had complained about not being assigned to accompany Frau Feindschaft, but Nathan, with a glance at Murderface's dour expression, had quieted him and led him away. Toki had gone apprehensively toward the red-haired woman with Pickles in tow; the latter had already somehow acquired a daiquiri.
Murderface had turned to Charles. "What about me?"
"You, William? You can, ah, well, that is—don't you usually, ah, hang out, so to speak, with Knubbler at these things?"
"He'sch not here."
"Ah. That's correct. Well, perhaps you can—ah, stay out of the way?"
He'd sighed and nodded, and had been standing here at the outside of the crowd ever since. He looked up at the ornate clock above the doorway, and realized it'd been about an hour. All right, fuck it. He'd put in his time, now he was going to go back to his room and order a bottle of something from room service.
The door was on the other side of the room. He pocketed his knife and started through the crowd, spotting Skwisgaar engaged in conversation with a man who vaguely resembled the singer from some punk group or other, and Frau Feindschaft brandishing a small tape recorder at an inebriated Pickles. Murderface was about halfway to the door when his eye was caught by a lone figure leaning against the doorjamb of the open French doors leading out onto the terrace. A girl. Woman, he corrected himself—gotta have respect for women—but she was younger than he was, for sure, and as out of place as a leberwurst at a vegetarian convention. She wasn't wearing a dress, for one thing, but a short skirt and a sweater, and didn't look like she belonged to one of the execs or politicians. With a glum expression she swirled the remains of the ice in her glass and looked around the room, but none of the waiters seemed to notice her.
His curiosity was piqued. He went over to her. "Willscht du ein Getränk?" he asked haltingly. Do you want a drink?
"Na ja, wie du willst. Is' mir egal, wurd' nur hierher von einer Freundin hingeschleppt," she answered rapidly.
"Schorry?" said Murderface. "I didn't catsch all of that."
"Oh, you speak English," she said with a slight accent. "Ja, I said, if you vant. Doesn't matter."
He turned and snapped his fingers, catching the attention of a nearby waiter who had previously not deigned to acknowledge the girl.
"Jawohl?"
"Waiter, bring me a whischkey and schoda and—" He turned to the girl and raised an eyebrow.
"Gin and tonic, please."
"Very good, sir." The waiter hurried off.
"Scho, what'sch a girl like you doing in a plasche like thisch?" he asked.
She shrugged. "My friend Anna brought me here. She told me she vould get me in vhen I came, but she vas not telling me it vas so formal, und now I can't leave until she does vithout being impolite."
"That'sch a bitschy thing to do," he said.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I schaid—uh, I schaid that waschn't very nische of her."
"Ah. It happens freqvently. You speak an unusual dialect, yes?"
"I, uh, I guesch scho. It'sch embarrasching."
"No, no," she insisted. "It is charming. One does not encounter such a thing so often."
Murderface found himself blushing—blushing? He was glad that the waiter returned at that moment with their drinks. Murderface tasted his. Expensive.
The girl took a sip of her gin and tonic and tucked a few strands of hair behind her ear. "Also, you speak German?"
"I, that isch, juscht a little." Then, emboldened by the whiskey, he asked her, "Wie hießcht du?" What's your name?"
"Lena. Und du?" Lena. What's yours?
"Mur—uh, I mean, William. Yeah."
"Villiam," she repeated. "Ist schön. Englisch, oder?" That's nice. English, isn't it?
"Uh..." He shrugged. "Weißch nischt." I don't know.
"Du bist ja Amerikaner?" You're American, right?
"Yeah, and I think that'sch all the German I know," he said. "Schorry."
"Kein Problem," she said, and then laughed. "Sorry. I mean, not a problem."
Murderface took long drink of his whiskey and soda and looked at her again. Not the most attractive woman he'd seen by a long shot—built like him, short and broad-shouldered. Her round face suggested peasant descent. But her hair was the color of dark honey and her eyes were green like—like his own, yeah, that was it, that was all.
"Lischten, it's kinda loud in here, you want to—heh—go outschide? Scho we can talk?"
"Aren't you staying in the hotel?" she asked.
"Yeah, but what doesch that have to do with—"
"I thought perhaps you vould prefer to go to your room."
Murderface nearly choked on his drink. "I—uh—schure, schure. Right thisch way."
He led the way to the door that opened out into the lobby, resisting his instinct to shove past the increasingly intoxicated guests, not wanting lose Lena in the crowd. On the way out, he saw Toki, eating a bowl of candy and talking to the journalist—he must've bribed one of the waiters—while Pickles hung drunkenly on his arm. Nearer to the door, Nathan looked up from his talk with the ad exec, made eye contact with Murderface, saw the girl, and registered surprise. Then he scowled and turned back to Herr Stromschlag. A little drunk by now, maybe.
Murderface turned back to make sure she was still right behind him. Lena raised an eyebrow in a way that couldn't be called anything but suggestive, and he felt his cock begin to stiffen. By the time he closed the door of his seventh-floor room behind him, he was nearly in pain from the pressure against the front of his shorts. It'd been so long since he'd had a girl, so long since anyone except that hypocritical bastard stumbling to his bed every time he drank too much, and leaving again the next morning, always while he, Murderface, was still asleep.
Lena wasted no time in undoing his shorts and pulling them down to his ankles.
"Ah, no undervear, I see."
"Nope, it'sch called free—" He broke off as she knelt in front of him, and, to his surprise, didn't back away from his scarred member, just hesitated for a moment, then, cautiously, ran a hand over it and slowly, too slowly, licked the tip.
He gasped. It had been a long time since he'd gotten a blowjob from anyone. She took the head into her mouth, bobbed up and down a few times, and then began, still slowly, to take him in deeper. He looked down, into her green eyes, even though it was a different pair of green eyes he would've liked to see looking back up at him. Goddamnit, no. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall, panting now, reaching out to tangle his fingers into dark—no, blonde hair, damn it. It would never be dark hair because Nathan would never do this for him, would only come in trashed and strangely timid, crawl into bed with him, put an arm around him until he, Murderface, as always, gave in and turned to face him, let the big hand move to his hip and then, greedily, lower, fondling him roughly and then moving back, shoving a finger into him, then another—the first time had hurt unbearably; he'd always made sure to keep lube around after that—moving in and out of him until he turned back over and let Nathan fuck him. Afterward, Nathan would collapse next to him, breathing whiskey but no objections as Murderface moved closer and rested his head upon Nathan's shoulder, fingers tracing the scar below his ribs and the sparse yet surprisingly soft hair trailing down his belly.
But it was no good, he was always alone by the time he woke up, and Nathan never made any acknowledgement, in private or at the breakfast table, where he drank cup after cup of tea and muttered about how he couldn't remember anything from the previous night, he'd been so drunk.
"Villiam, vat is the matter? Is there someone else that you are thinking about, ja?"
He opened his eyes, and realized that Lena had stopped. In fact, she'd stopped some time ago. Of course, she wouldn't have been talking to him otherwise. He also realized that he was crying. How had that happened?
"Nothing! I mean, no one!" He scrubbed the tears roughly from his face. "Now, come on, schweetheart, why don't you juscht go back to—"
She stood. "I don't care if you are in love vith someone, but I can't do that to you vhile you're crying. It's too creepy, no matter how much you are villing to pay."
Pay?
"Wait, you mean, you're a—a whore?"
She looked at him strangely. "Ja, vat did you think? I told you, I came here vith my friend. Your manager or someone arranged for a few of the girls to be here, Madam Elke told me to come too, at the last minute, but she vasn't knowing that the dresses vould be necessary." She seemed distressed; she spoke faster and her accent got stronger.
Murderface leaned back against the wall. "Scho you didn't like me at all?"
"I—vat can I say?" She shrugged. "One does things that are a part of one's job, even if some of the tasks are unpleasant."
"But—but—"
"No, don't vorry, I vill not be charging you."
"That's not—" he began weakly.
She moved closer, took his face in her hands, and kissed him on the forehead. "I hope it vorks out for you vith whomever it is."
And then she turned, went to the door, and was gone. He stared numbly after her, then went and locked the door, and threw himself back onto the bed. He couldn't even make it with a whore. Now that was the definition of being a fucking failure. Fresh tears began to run down his face. He stared down at his still-erect penis in dismay. Sighing, he took his cock in his hand and jerked himself gloomily until he achieved a weak, mediocre release.
He got up, went into the bathroom, cleaned himself off with a hand towel, threw it into the laundry hamper, returned to the bedroom, and pulled his shorts back on. As he did so, he felt the knife in the pocket. He took it out and looked at it for a long time, giving in to a sob of misery, and then another, louder. It'd been a while since he'd done this, too.
He held the blade against his left forearm, the point among a net of old scars, and wished that he'd had a little more to drink earlier. Incompetent bastard, can't even get properly drunk, can't even fuck a whore. He pressed down and brought the blade across his arm. Not hard enough. It had barely broken the skin.
You complete fuck-up, can't even make yourself bleed a little. The blade came down again, slashed across his arm, making a deeper cut just below his elbow, then another. He switched the blade to his left hand.
Worthless piece of shit. The knife moved across his right wrist now. All you're good for is letting a drunk shove his dick into you before he leaves you in the morning. He doesn't want you. He doesn't even like you. No one does. Useless, worthless, might as well kill yourself, but you'll fail at that too; you did before.
Now sobbing so hard that he shook, he brought the knife down again and again, but never quite in the right place—he had that much restraint left, for the moment. Blood dripped from wounds on his arms, seeped from the backs of his hands. That cut on his wrist was bleeding pretty decently, actually. He pulled the bed sheet from the mattress and held the corner to his wrist.
There was a knock at the door.
"Go away."
"Hey, uh, Murderface, can I, uh, come in?"
"I schaid go away!"
"Please?"
"Fuck off!"
From outside, there was fumbling with the lock and a metallic click, and the door swung open.
"How did you do that, you cockschucker?" demanded Murderface.
Nathan shrugged as he stepped into the room and let the door fall closed behind him. "It's simple, you just—oh dear lord, what did you do?"
"Nothing! Juscht leave me alone!"
Nathan hurried into the bathroom and came back with an armful of clean towels. "Goddamnit, Murderface, what the hell were you thinking?" The words were harsh, but the tone of his voice betrayed worry.
Murderface looked up at him indifferently, not bothering to wipe away the tears drying on his face. "What'sch it matter?"
Nathan knelt next to him and pressed a hand towel to the worst cut on his wrist. "If you kill yourself, we're out a bass player," he said with a scowl, and bit back the familiar remark about the bassist being useless anyway. "And it'd, you know, kinda suck. A lot."
"Oh, schure," snorted Murderface. "Like you care."
"Get up."
He didn't. Nathan's scowl darkened.
"Come on, get up. Now." He tugged at the bassist's arm, not too hard, so as not to worsen his injuries. Murderface sighed, heaved himself to his feet, and allowed Nathan to lead him into the bathroom. Feeling slightly dizzy, he sat down on the edge of the tub while Nathan ran water in the sink.
"I swear to God, you asshole, if you ever try anything like this again—"
"I waschn't trying to kill myschelf!" he interjected.
Nathan turned to him in disbelief, running a hand through his dark hair and pushing it back out of his eyes to get a clear look at Murderface. "Why else would you come up here and slice the fuck out of your arms? I mean, I saw you with the girl, I came up here like you wanted." His voice softened. "I don't, uh, don't really know what you expect me to do here."
"The girl wasch a whore," he admitted bitterly.
"What, just because she was willing to go to bed with you?" Nathan asked before he could stop himself. He busied himself by grabbing another towel and dipping it into the hot water, turning away from Murderface so he didn't have to see his expression when the comment registered. Fortunately, it didn't seem to faze him.
"No, asschhole, I mean a professchional whore."
"She was a hooker? No way."
"Yeah. And sche walked out on me."
Nathan considered, wringing out the towel and dabbing at the cuts on the other man's arms before he answered. "I, uh, well, to be honest, I thought—" He broke off uncomfortably.
"What?"
"I thought you were trying to make me jealous."
"Jealousch? Why?"
"Uh, cause, you know..." Nathan shrugged, his face coloring a little. Or possibly Murderface was imagining it. Nathan never blushed. But it did seem as if the skin over his cheekbones was just a bit more pink than usual—
"Causche why?" Murderface pressed.
"I mean...you know, cause you were, uh, with someone else."
The bassist stared. "What? What do you care?"
"I—uh—" Nathan looked away again, taking the towel, rinsing it in the sink, and wringing it in his powerful hands. "I dunno. Nothing. Never mind."
"It'sch not like—" Murderface took a deep breath. He was really going to say it, bring it out into the open. "It'sch not like you have any reaschon. I mean, you juscht—we juscht had schex a couple timesch. That'sch it."
Nathan looked down at the floor and rubbed the back of his neck. "I. Uh. Yeah. About that. I, uh, didn't mean for it to be like that, exactly."
"Scho what happened?" Murderface didn't yet feel up to asking just what the singer had meant for it to be like.
"I, uh, it was embarrassing. I was embarrassed."
"Becaushe you schlept with me? I can schee why that would be embarrassching." Murderface climbed into the tub and pulled his knees up to his chest. Nathan leaned over him and engaged in a brief struggle to take hold of the other man's right arm. He won, and wrapped Murderface's wrist with the towel.
"That looks like it's, uh, mostly stopped bleeding. I think you should be okay. If it goes on much longer, we should, uh, maybe get you some stitches."
"I'm fine," he snapped.
The two were silent for a few moments. Nathan sat down on the edge of the tub and bit his lower lip. Then he cracked his knuckles, one at a time. Then he ran a hand through his hair.
"Would you schay schomething already?"
"Um. Yeah. I—I'm sorry. You're not the reason I was embarrassed."
Murderface raised an eyebrow, prompting him to elaborate. "It's just that I, uh, was drunk, and that was never how I wanted things to happen, you know?"
"No, I don't know," said Murderface. He took a peek under the towel. The bleeding had nearly stopped. Nathan looked at him questioningly. Murderface lifted the towel and showed him. Nathan gave a sigh of relief and leaned back against the shower wall.
"I—look, do you think we could, you know, just start things over?"
"Schtart thingsch over? In what way?"
"Like," Nathan's eyes stayed focused on the showerhead, "like, just forget for a couple minutes that we ever—you know—and let me try to make things right."
Murderface considered. He wasn't stupid, after all. He wasn't going to let himself be set up again to be—hell, of course he was. Like things ever changed. He looked up at Nathan to see genuine anxiety in his eyes. Maybe it would be different? It might be worth another shot.
"How about we schay I don't exactly forget, but I don't hold it againscht you?"
Nathan nodded slowly. "O—okay, I guess. You want to get up for a minute?"
"What for?" Murderface asked with suspicion.
"No, just to, uh, come here for a second. Out of the bathroom."
Murderface stood, faltering a little and grasping at the shower curtain, and Nathan reached out to steady him.
"Thanksch."
Nathan nodded again, but remained silent and went out of the bathroom. Murderface followed. Were they simply moving to the bed? No, Nathan was opening the doors to the balcony. Curious, Murderface followed him out.
It was dark. The air was cool, and the lights of the hotel and nearby buildings shimmered on the surface of the Rhine. Murderface shivered. The exposed cuts on his arms stung in the chilly breeze.
"Scho why are we out here?"
"It's, uh, it's a nice view. I thought you might like it. Or, uh, something. I guess—never mind."
Murderface leaned against the railing and stared down at the water. "It'sch, uh, it'sch nische. Yeah."
Nathan took a step closer, reached out, hesitated, and then, tentatively, placed a hand on Murderface's arm. "Are you gonna be, you know, okay?"
"Don't exschpecht miraclesch."
"Uh. No. Right."
They stood for a moment. Murderface tried not to shiver again. Nathan's hand was warm against his skin. He wondered how far of a drop it was to the river below. The warmth shifted, and the knuckles of Nathan's fist rubbed gently against his shoulder.
"Hey."
Murderface turned to him. "What?"
Nathan leaned toward him slowly, almost nervously, and kissed him, just brushing over his lips before he pulled back. "Is, uh, is that okay?" he asked, only to be met with a silent, inscrutable green stare. "Uh, Murderface?"
"Huh? Yeah, it'sch—it'sch fine, I guessch."
Silence descended upon them again.
"It's kind of cold out here," Nathan remarked finally. "You want to, you know, go back in?"
Murderface nodded. He turned and went back inside. Nathan followed, closing the door. They stood looking at each other awkwardly.
"Scho," said Murderface finally. "Thisch isch, heh, kinda...schtupid."
"Yeah."
"I mean, it'sch...awkward."
"Sorry. I'll go." Nathan turned and started toward the door. Murderface took a step after him. He wanted to stop him, call him back, but he didn't know what to say. But now Nathan had reached the door, now his hand was on the doorknob, now it was too late.
Nathan paused. Murderface felt his breath catch in his chest. Now he had another chance to speak, but he couldn't. He couldn't breathe, and his throat felt paralyzed.
Nathan turned.
They stared at each other. Murderface forced himself to take a breath and speak. He only accomplished the first part before he found himself in Nathan's arms with his feet six inches above the floor and his ribs in danger of being crushed. Aside from the excessive strength, it actually felt—good? Someone was holding him? That hadn't happened since—well, he couldn't remember that it had ever happened.
He went with it and fastened his arms around the bigger man's neck and buried his face in his long black hair. It smelled clean and faintly of sweat and Nathan's own scent.
Then, too soon, he was lowered and set on the floor again, and he reluctantly let go.
"What wasch that about?"
"Hug therapy. Did it work?"
"It might... require more schesscions," said Murderface slowly.
"I think that, uh, could be arranged." Nathan only hesitated for a second this time before he slipped an arm around Murderface's shoulders and kissed him. This time Murderface returned the kiss and let his fingertips trace gently up Nathan's cheek before the two broke apart.
Nathan smiled, at least as much as one could smile without looking completely unmetal.
"Listen, I'm gonna call the doctor up here—no, not the gay one," he quickly reassured Murderface as he opened his mouth to object. "I think a few of those, uh, deeper cuts should really have stitches."
Murderface scowled and folded his arms, wincing a little as he did so, but didn't argue.
"But, uh, after that, you wanna sneak out of here and go get a drink someplace? Like, someplace without a bunch of assholes and sleazebags sucking up to each other?"
"Yeah," said Murderface, feeling strangely calm now. "Schure. That'd be okay."
Final Author's Note: Well, there you go. I hope you liked it. Review it if you wanna, and if not, that's cool too. I have no clue what I'm going to write about next. Maybe I'll make a move away from angst and porn, maybe not. If anybody has any suggestions or, dare I suggest it, requests, let me know and I'll see what I can do, but I can't promise anything wonderful.