Some Kind of Suicide
Title: Some Kind of Suicide
By: Rebecka
Pairing: Billie/Tre
Note: I’ve been missing these boys a lot lately, and suddenly I had an urge to write. But I can’t write fluff anymore and I’m sorry. Maybe someday I can write some good old schmoop, but for now, it’s gloom. Oh well. Enjoy.
-
You got the call at 4am. With your face pressed deep into the pillow, you mumbled crankily, questioning who the fuck would call you at this goddamn hour, but the person on the other side yelled back. Something about a hospital. Something about Tre. Something about drugs. You had probably never gotten out of bed that quickly before, stumbling into the clothes you had left on the bedroom floor. Cursing with every step and every breath and every heartbeat.
You got to the hospital in a rush, beating all the red lights and parking illegally on the curb outside, this was how fast you needed to see him. As if he wouldn’t be there if you took the time to find a parking spot. Your hair was a mess of black, and the nurse didn’t understand your mumbling words, so you took a long shaky breath and tried again. “Tre Cool, I need to see him.”
But as always with hospitals, they had him signed in as Frank Wright, and as soon as you remembered this, they led you straight down to his room. The green walls made you a little dizzy. Hospitals made you a little dizzy. But there he was, tiny and rosy cheeked. His hair a mess of red. His lips black with something. Your eyes darted from his lips to the doctor, back to his lips. “We had to stomach pump him,” she stated as if that was something everyone did on a regular basis.
“What?” You said, feeling a little shaky. Was she serious? This was Tre! He didn’t do drugs anymore. Not like this.
And she talked and talked and talked, named the drugs he had devoured and the alcohol he had mixed them with, and you just stood there confused. This wasn’t him, this wasn’t him, this wasn’t him anymore. When she left, you stood motionless for a while, feeling too shocked to move. The beeping of a machine next to the bed was distracting, the noise poking at your thoughts, and you sighed audibly.
Frowning, you sat down on the edge of the bed and you couldn’t take your eyes off his black lips. Charcoal. His near death experience. You reached and let your fingers touch his cheek, tears forming in your eyes when he didn’t react to the touch. You knew that he wouldn’t, but suddenly, oh so very suddenly, everything became a thousand times more clear. He smelled of alcohol, tequila, maybe some gin. And cigarette smoke. Far too much cigarette smoke.
It was as if you were looking at him, but he was someone else. He wasn’t Tre. He wasn’t your drummer, your best friend. He wasn’t the man you loved to kiss and fall asleep with, he wasn’t the man you loved with all your heart. You leaned down and kissed his darkened lips gently.
And suddenly there was a loud beeping, the monitor on the side of the bed screaming that something was wrong, something was so very wrong, his heart had stopped, his heart had stopped, his heart didn’t beat anymore. You screamed for help. Oh how you screamed.
But it was over, he was gone. The drugs and the alcohol and all those goddamn cigarettes had squeezed his heart to a full stop and there was nothing more to do. There was nothing more. Your love was gone.
“Billie!”
You sat up straight in the bed, absolutely covered in sweat and shivered from the lingering feeling of seeing your love dead just seconds earlier. “Billie,” the voice came from the person next to you, a big drummer hand reaching out to stroke your arm, “what the hell were you dreaming, man?”
You turned to him and he was perfect. Flushed cheeks and soft skin and big blue eyes. His hair was a mess of red and his lips were pink. Not black. So you smiled and sighed in relief and let him wrap you up in his arms. But the feeling would stay with you for a long time. And later, you would realize that it was never about him.
It was about you.
-
By: Rebecka
Pairing: Billie/Tre
Note: I’ve been missing these boys a lot lately, and suddenly I had an urge to write. But I can’t write fluff anymore and I’m sorry. Maybe someday I can write some good old schmoop, but for now, it’s gloom. Oh well. Enjoy.
-
You got the call at 4am. With your face pressed deep into the pillow, you mumbled crankily, questioning who the fuck would call you at this goddamn hour, but the person on the other side yelled back. Something about a hospital. Something about Tre. Something about drugs. You had probably never gotten out of bed that quickly before, stumbling into the clothes you had left on the bedroom floor. Cursing with every step and every breath and every heartbeat.
You got to the hospital in a rush, beating all the red lights and parking illegally on the curb outside, this was how fast you needed to see him. As if he wouldn’t be there if you took the time to find a parking spot. Your hair was a mess of black, and the nurse didn’t understand your mumbling words, so you took a long shaky breath and tried again. “Tre Cool, I need to see him.”
But as always with hospitals, they had him signed in as Frank Wright, and as soon as you remembered this, they led you straight down to his room. The green walls made you a little dizzy. Hospitals made you a little dizzy. But there he was, tiny and rosy cheeked. His hair a mess of red. His lips black with something. Your eyes darted from his lips to the doctor, back to his lips. “We had to stomach pump him,” she stated as if that was something everyone did on a regular basis.
“What?” You said, feeling a little shaky. Was she serious? This was Tre! He didn’t do drugs anymore. Not like this.
And she talked and talked and talked, named the drugs he had devoured and the alcohol he had mixed them with, and you just stood there confused. This wasn’t him, this wasn’t him, this wasn’t him anymore. When she left, you stood motionless for a while, feeling too shocked to move. The beeping of a machine next to the bed was distracting, the noise poking at your thoughts, and you sighed audibly.
Frowning, you sat down on the edge of the bed and you couldn’t take your eyes off his black lips. Charcoal. His near death experience. You reached and let your fingers touch his cheek, tears forming in your eyes when he didn’t react to the touch. You knew that he wouldn’t, but suddenly, oh so very suddenly, everything became a thousand times more clear. He smelled of alcohol, tequila, maybe some gin. And cigarette smoke. Far too much cigarette smoke.
It was as if you were looking at him, but he was someone else. He wasn’t Tre. He wasn’t your drummer, your best friend. He wasn’t the man you loved to kiss and fall asleep with, he wasn’t the man you loved with all your heart. You leaned down and kissed his darkened lips gently.
And suddenly there was a loud beeping, the monitor on the side of the bed screaming that something was wrong, something was so very wrong, his heart had stopped, his heart had stopped, his heart didn’t beat anymore. You screamed for help. Oh how you screamed.
But it was over, he was gone. The drugs and the alcohol and all those goddamn cigarettes had squeezed his heart to a full stop and there was nothing more to do. There was nothing more. Your love was gone.
“Billie!”
You sat up straight in the bed, absolutely covered in sweat and shivered from the lingering feeling of seeing your love dead just seconds earlier. “Billie,” the voice came from the person next to you, a big drummer hand reaching out to stroke your arm, “what the hell were you dreaming, man?”
You turned to him and he was perfect. Flushed cheeks and soft skin and big blue eyes. His hair was a mess of red and his lips were pink. Not black. So you smiled and sighed in relief and let him wrap you up in his arms. But the feeling would stay with you for a long time. And later, you would realize that it was never about him.
It was about you.
-