Self Destruction
1996
Chris’s eyes were still bleary when he entered the sparsely furnished studio. He sighed at the video, still on loop, and turned on the light. He sunk back into the moth-eaten couch and watched, intently, for what felt like the millionth time, The Begotten. Trent brought the coffee just as Mother Nature gave birth, he glanced at the television screen, snickering to himself, and handed Chris a Styrofoam cup.
“You could turn it off, I know it skeeves you out.” He sat by the, still immersed, drummer.
“If you knew it bothered me, why’d you let him play in the first twelve times?” Chris asked, taking a drink.
“It’s his process,” Trent glanced at his partner, “we can’t hinder him.”
“They’re late.” The blonde glanced at his watch.
“Manson time,” Trent shrugged “part of the process.”
“Well it’s been half an hour.”
“It’s only 7:00?”
“7:12” Chris glanced at his watch.
“They’re not gonna be showing up anytime soon.” Trent hauled himself up from the small sofa, took a couple of paces and shut off the T.V. set.
“What was that for?” Trent couldn’t help but laugh to himself, his partner’s half glare reminiscent of a child’s. As he settled back on the couch, his hand finding it’s way to Chris’s inner thigh.
“This.” he practically purred before leaning in to sneak a kiss. Chris mewled softly into his partner’s mouth, snaking his arm around Trent’s neck, hand tangling in dark hair.
“I love you.” He gasped, breaking the kiss. Trent placed light kisses along his jawbone, stopping to nip at the sensitive spot behind his ear.
“I love you too.” The singer’s soft, baritone voice answered, sending chills up Chris’s spine. “I don’t want to lose you again.” He ran his hand further up the inside of his lover’s thigh, earning an angst-ridden moan. Chris pulled Trent into a full on hug and nuzzled his nose into the singer’s neck; incredibly happy for the intimate contact, after so many nights of work. He, instinctively, bucked his hips forward into Trent’s inviting hand as the singer began to work at his fly. The sweet, gentle movements soon turned rough and heated, the studio filled with tender moans and words of mutual affection.
They didn’t hear the soft ‘click’ of the doorknob as the dazed band stumbled in. Their collective gaze didn’t quite catch the moaning mass of producer and drummer on the couch, not at first anyway. A yelp caught in, the bassist, Twiggy’s throat drawing the attention of the tardy singer who, for once in his life, was without words. Time stood still as the muddled band decided what to do.
“Guys?” Twiggy spoke first, tilting his head to one side. “Guys?”
Trent jolted upright and caught himself quickly before he tumbled to the floor.
“Five minutes?” Marilyn inquired, rhetorically, as he herded his band out of the door with a knowing wink toward Trent.
Trent opened the door, lips still swollen and deep pink. The band entered, once more to a scarlet faced Chris, sitting uncomfortably on the couch.
“Listen, guys…” he began before Pogo cut him off
“We didn‘t see anything,” The keyboardist gave him a sly grin before adding “that we didn’t see on tour.”
“Yeah,” Marilyn chimed in “and, maybe Trent won’t be so fucking uptight now.”
“So that’s it for today or...tonight.” Trent announced, stifling a yawn. “And turn off that damn movie, it scares Chris.” He felt himself blush at the band’s giggles.
The couple waved the band out the front door, and inevitably, off to a night--err… morning of depravity. Trent turned back to his lover who melted to his touch, leaning into his side and beginning toward the stairs, eager to finish what they‘d started, yesterday.
He hadn’t been sleeping a lot. There was no real reason, it just didn’t come. He’d cut down on the coke, tried sleeping pills and even gave smoking with Pogo half a shot…none of it worked. Trent rose quietly; he didn’t want to wake Chris. He let his gaze fall over his lover’s still form, softly illuminated by the sunrise seeping through cracks in the blinds. He was perfect and Trent loved him more than he had ever loved anyone, he’d also hurt him, and he knew that. But it had hurt him too; no one ever seemed to think about that. Yeah, it might’ve been mostly him…but, Chris’s hero worship knew absolutely no bounds and he never would’ve passed up on the chance to drum-whore around Crash Palace. Trent shook his head, violently, at the thought; they were together now, that’s all Trent needed.
He found his way, downstairs and to the kitchen, meandered over to the designated liquor pantry and pulled out a full bottle of…something dark, in the meager light he couldn’t tell. After some intensive testing (a deep gulp) he surmised it to be tequila.
‘Probably Cuervo,’ He thought to himself, with a smile, groping for a glass and fishing the new sleeping pills out of his pocket. He triumphantly pulled a tumbler from the cabinet and settled himself at the island, popping the pills into his mouth and hoped that, eventually, he’d start to nod off.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Can you do the show?” Trent tried to conceal hurt, anger, guilt and nausea with that inquiry. No apology, no big fight like they’d grown accustomed to, just a question…but somehow, that hurt Chris even more. He thought for a moment. He couldn’t see straight and the incessant throb in his head certainly didn’t help anything, but he couldn’t let Trent win…no, he couldn’t let Trent down.
“Yeah,” he gave a small, searing nod “but, we’ve gotta skip March of the Pigs.”
The singer turned and left, without a word.
Chris hadn’t seen the microphone stand soaring toward him, nor had he felt the blunt impact until the blood pouring down his face obscured his vision. He pieced it together while drumming, one handed, and holding the towel he’d been passed from offstage to the gash on his forehead; and he knew that, somehow, this was a product of the tension mounting between himself and his partner.
It shouldn’t have mattered to Trent after everything he’d done and was, currently, doing. Chris had never done that to him down before and he wouldn’t tolerate disloyalty…especially not from him. Trent hadn’t meant to hurt him, really, but seeing him like that was just it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Trent?” Chris shook him again, holding a hand to his nose, trying to check for breath. The inebriated singer’s eyes shot open. He flinched at the intense midmorning light flooding the kitchen.
“Chris?” He half slurred.
“Yeah, I’m here.” The drummer placed one hand over his, reassuringly. “Are you okay?” He lifted the, now empty, bottle of gold for a closer look.
“I’m fine,” Trent shot, swatting the startled drummer’s hand away “why don’t you ask Manson?”
“Oh, come on, you can’t be starting that again.” The incensed drummer rolled his eyes.
“I didn’t start anything.” Trent stumbled off the barstool but fell back toward the island, placing a hand on the countertop to steady himself. “I’m not he one who left to tour with the Germans. I’m not the one who blew the opener.” He stumbled toward Chris.
“You wanna talk about fucking around with the opener?” Chris scoffed.
“I trusted you,” Trent hissed, thrusting a finger into his chest. “I thought you were better than that.”
“Get over it, Trent.” Chris brushed him off, starting toward the front door.
“If you leave, then I’m not taking you back.” The singer knew that he didn’t mean it, he just wanted to stop Chris from leaving…it didn’t work.
“Oh, you’re going to fire me again?” He didn’t bother to turn around. When Trent slurred something that sounded like an angry ‘yes’ he continued, but not before retorting.
“That really doesn’t bother me that much.”
Chris didn’t bother looking back to see Trent stager behind him, he didn’t see Trent crumble to the unforgiving, hardwood floor and he didn’t hear Trent‘s tearful apology…but it wouldn’t have made a difference anyway.
“You could turn it off, I know it skeeves you out.” He sat by the, still immersed, drummer.
“If you knew it bothered me, why’d you let him play in the first twelve times?” Chris asked, taking a drink.
“It’s his process,” Trent glanced at his partner, “we can’t hinder him.”
“They’re late.” The blonde glanced at his watch.
“Manson time,” Trent shrugged “part of the process.”
“Well it’s been half an hour.”
“It’s only 7:00?”
“7:12” Chris glanced at his watch.
“They’re not gonna be showing up anytime soon.” Trent hauled himself up from the small sofa, took a couple of paces and shut off the T.V. set.
“What was that for?” Trent couldn’t help but laugh to himself, his partner’s half glare reminiscent of a child’s. As he settled back on the couch, his hand finding it’s way to Chris’s inner thigh.
“This.” he practically purred before leaning in to sneak a kiss. Chris mewled softly into his partner’s mouth, snaking his arm around Trent’s neck, hand tangling in dark hair.
“I love you.” He gasped, breaking the kiss. Trent placed light kisses along his jawbone, stopping to nip at the sensitive spot behind his ear.
“I love you too.” The singer’s soft, baritone voice answered, sending chills up Chris’s spine. “I don’t want to lose you again.” He ran his hand further up the inside of his lover’s thigh, earning an angst-ridden moan. Chris pulled Trent into a full on hug and nuzzled his nose into the singer’s neck; incredibly happy for the intimate contact, after so many nights of work. He, instinctively, bucked his hips forward into Trent’s inviting hand as the singer began to work at his fly. The sweet, gentle movements soon turned rough and heated, the studio filled with tender moans and words of mutual affection.
They didn’t hear the soft ‘click’ of the doorknob as the dazed band stumbled in. Their collective gaze didn’t quite catch the moaning mass of producer and drummer on the couch, not at first anyway. A yelp caught in, the bassist, Twiggy’s throat drawing the attention of the tardy singer who, for once in his life, was without words. Time stood still as the muddled band decided what to do.
“Guys?” Twiggy spoke first, tilting his head to one side. “Guys?”
Trent jolted upright and caught himself quickly before he tumbled to the floor.
“Five minutes?” Marilyn inquired, rhetorically, as he herded his band out of the door with a knowing wink toward Trent.
Trent opened the door, lips still swollen and deep pink. The band entered, once more to a scarlet faced Chris, sitting uncomfortably on the couch.
“Listen, guys…” he began before Pogo cut him off
“We didn‘t see anything,” The keyboardist gave him a sly grin before adding “that we didn’t see on tour.”
“Yeah,” Marilyn chimed in “and, maybe Trent won’t be so fucking uptight now.”
“So that’s it for today or...tonight.” Trent announced, stifling a yawn. “And turn off that damn movie, it scares Chris.” He felt himself blush at the band’s giggles.
The couple waved the band out the front door, and inevitably, off to a night--err… morning of depravity. Trent turned back to his lover who melted to his touch, leaning into his side and beginning toward the stairs, eager to finish what they‘d started, yesterday.
He hadn’t been sleeping a lot. There was no real reason, it just didn’t come. He’d cut down on the coke, tried sleeping pills and even gave smoking with Pogo half a shot…none of it worked. Trent rose quietly; he didn’t want to wake Chris. He let his gaze fall over his lover’s still form, softly illuminated by the sunrise seeping through cracks in the blinds. He was perfect and Trent loved him more than he had ever loved anyone, he’d also hurt him, and he knew that. But it had hurt him too; no one ever seemed to think about that. Yeah, it might’ve been mostly him…but, Chris’s hero worship knew absolutely no bounds and he never would’ve passed up on the chance to drum-whore around Crash Palace. Trent shook his head, violently, at the thought; they were together now, that’s all Trent needed.
He found his way, downstairs and to the kitchen, meandered over to the designated liquor pantry and pulled out a full bottle of…something dark, in the meager light he couldn’t tell. After some intensive testing (a deep gulp) he surmised it to be tequila.
‘Probably Cuervo,’ He thought to himself, with a smile, groping for a glass and fishing the new sleeping pills out of his pocket. He triumphantly pulled a tumbler from the cabinet and settled himself at the island, popping the pills into his mouth and hoped that, eventually, he’d start to nod off.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Can you do the show?” Trent tried to conceal hurt, anger, guilt and nausea with that inquiry. No apology, no big fight like they’d grown accustomed to, just a question…but somehow, that hurt Chris even more. He thought for a moment. He couldn’t see straight and the incessant throb in his head certainly didn’t help anything, but he couldn’t let Trent win…no, he couldn’t let Trent down.
“Yeah,” he gave a small, searing nod “but, we’ve gotta skip March of the Pigs.”
The singer turned and left, without a word.
Chris hadn’t seen the microphone stand soaring toward him, nor had he felt the blunt impact until the blood pouring down his face obscured his vision. He pieced it together while drumming, one handed, and holding the towel he’d been passed from offstage to the gash on his forehead; and he knew that, somehow, this was a product of the tension mounting between himself and his partner.
It shouldn’t have mattered to Trent after everything he’d done and was, currently, doing. Chris had never done that to him down before and he wouldn’t tolerate disloyalty…especially not from him. Trent hadn’t meant to hurt him, really, but seeing him like that was just it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Trent?” Chris shook him again, holding a hand to his nose, trying to check for breath. The inebriated singer’s eyes shot open. He flinched at the intense midmorning light flooding the kitchen.
“Chris?” He half slurred.
“Yeah, I’m here.” The drummer placed one hand over his, reassuringly. “Are you okay?” He lifted the, now empty, bottle of gold for a closer look.
“I’m fine,” Trent shot, swatting the startled drummer’s hand away “why don’t you ask Manson?”
“Oh, come on, you can’t be starting that again.” The incensed drummer rolled his eyes.
“I didn’t start anything.” Trent stumbled off the barstool but fell back toward the island, placing a hand on the countertop to steady himself. “I’m not he one who left to tour with the Germans. I’m not the one who blew the opener.” He stumbled toward Chris.
“You wanna talk about fucking around with the opener?” Chris scoffed.
“I trusted you,” Trent hissed, thrusting a finger into his chest. “I thought you were better than that.”
“Get over it, Trent.” Chris brushed him off, starting toward the front door.
“If you leave, then I’m not taking you back.” The singer knew that he didn’t mean it, he just wanted to stop Chris from leaving…it didn’t work.
“Oh, you’re going to fire me again?” He didn’t bother to turn around. When Trent slurred something that sounded like an angry ‘yes’ he continued, but not before retorting.
“That really doesn’t bother me that much.”
Chris didn’t bother looking back to see Trent stager behind him, he didn’t see Trent crumble to the unforgiving, hardwood floor and he didn’t hear Trent‘s tearful apology…but it wouldn’t have made a difference anyway.