TITLE: "Fall Into Me"
PAIRING: Pierre Bouvier et David Desrosiers
RATING: R, for angst and language
SUMMARY: Pierre never moved. Instead, he sat there as if nothing happened, as if he hadn't gone on a rampage and been the one to break the all mirrors in his room, along with that possibly-imported terracotta flower pot.
DISCLAIMER: Not real, don't own...yet.
Silence swept through the room like a wildfire.
David and Pierre were the only inhabitants in this posh, mid-sized suite, in some swanky, hip hotel right in the center of downtown Los Angeles; the city that was supposed to make Pierre feel alive.
He was not so.
He'd been in the city for a day-and-a-half, wandering through the streets aimlessly, in search of something he wasn't quite sure of. In fact, Pierre had been wandering through life that way for the past several months, like a lost soul. Like a goddamned lost soul that was trapped in a world it had supposedly left behind some time ago.
Pierre was spending everyday, everynight milling around different hotels and bars and apartments with people that he had no longing to know. He was the prince of a kingdom he had no desire to lord over; restless with drinking and partying and fucking all the socialites one possibly could without completely going insane.
...Except that, in Pierre's mind, he was just about there.
He'd figured out that his destiny was to only be one of those tragic musicians who wrote songs about angst and rebellion, and would later end up dead, lying in a pool of his own blood, because he offed himself, à la Kurt Cobain. He'd be sure to garner himself a spot on E! True Hollywood Story, without a doubt.
He didn't necessarily think he was depressed, per se, but what he knew was that he felt undeniably empty. Blank. Useless. Morose. Pierre didn't think his life was actually headed anywhere, anyplace decent. Sure, his band squeezed out a couple of platinum albums, but that didn't matter when he felt like those accomplishments were no longer deserving of any praise.
He had friends, lots of friends. But those friends, Pierre understood, only cared to be apart of his elite inner circle, for the sake of saying that they knew and partied with a rockstar. They didn't give a shit about all the times he passed out on stage because he was too stoned, too cold to focus on what was supposed to be important.
Even his own bandmates stopped believing in him. They'd grown accustomed to all the times he'd shown up hours late for rehearsals and gigs - if he even showed up at all. "You're a burn-out," they'd tell him harshly and walk away, discussing their plans to talk to the label executives about finding a new lead singer.
...Well, everyone except David, stopped believing, anyway.
The end was drawing near for Pierre, or so he'd made himself think. He'd practically estranged himself from everything and everyone, and had the notion that because of the fact that he lacked stability, tangibility, and above all things, love, life had no purpose and he should just go away.
David, on the other hand, to the fucking world, was heavenly. God. He was a dreamer, a believer, highly optimistic and beautiful. He was everything Pierre wanted to be, but hadn't had the courage to. Looking at David disgusted Pierre beyond the shadow of a doubt. No, not because he hated the guy, but because David had, without even speaking, constantly reminded Pierre of how much of a fuck-up he was; how much of a degenerate bastard he'd morphed into over the course of about eight months.
And the silence was so loud, Pierre thought his ears would bleed.
David only sat there, staring at the same imaginary spot on the wall of the suite. He was on the very opposite end of the bed that Pierre was on, his knees pulled to his chest. David thought his friend appeared as a child that way. A small, helpless child.
There were painkillers of some sort strewn about the nightstand. Shards of glass littered the floor. An expensive flower pot was there, too; it's contents, orchids and soil, blemished the carpet. Pierre's eyes were empty and emotionless; his body, pale and slick with sweat. The room was almost chilly. Hell, it had better feel that way. The band paid a good amount of money to stay in that hotel. Still, sweat was running down the sides of Pierre's face as he made no point to wipe it away. In fact, he probably didn't even realize it was there.
It was just six minutes to three in the morning. David had been sleeping peacefully; happily, until in the next room, he heard a series of loud crashes and incoherent ranting emanating through the walls.
His later found hs best friend, the guy who asked him to be apart of his band all those years ago, just as he was at that moment: wrapped up in himself, on his bed with the black silk sheets.
Upon entering the room, David never uttered a single word. He only sat with Pierre, and focused his eyes on that spot on the wall that wasn't actually there. He, for all these months, had been witness to Pierre's ever-tragic descent. The singer was unravelling within himself, ripping apart at his seams. He'd lost his passion for life, his will to even fucking breathe.
The tabloids were calling Pierre crazy. They all reported that he was suffering from some nervous breakdown. There were scandalizing pictures of him milliing around various cities like a guy without a home. They were commenting on how his rapid weight loss was questionable and the fact that an unidentified street punk in New York claimed he'd sold cocaine to Pierre.
Whether it was true or not, David didn't care. His only goal was to be the best friend he possibly could, even when Pierre yelled at him and called him an asshole or idiot or said that he wished David would just leave him alone and go die. David also didn't care when he and Pierre fought for hours and the arguments only resulted in David stealing away to his bunk with moist eyes and a broken heart.
What was killing David, was that he knew he was losing his best friend - his best fucking friend - to the dangers and stresses and pressures of his celebrity. He was seeing Pierre as dead, although his body was still warm, his heart was still beating, and breath was swirling in his lungs.
As perfect and godly as Pierre thought David was, David needed Pierre to feel whole. Sane.
The silence grew to decibels so deafening, they both felt their heads might explode.
Pierre never moved. Instead, he sat there as if nothing happened, as if he hadn't gone on a rampage and been the one to break the all mirrors in his room, along with that possibly-imported terracotta flower pot.
David remained quiet and cautious, too afraid to speak, lest Pierre begin shouting and throwing heavy objects at him and he end up in his pitch-black room, lying face-down on his bed as tears soaked his pillow. He understood all too well how Pierre might end up, and although the two had known each other for ages, Pierre didn't want David's help; didn't need David's help.
Or so he figured.
David had seen so many come and go; promising young musicians with promising lives and careers, be pulled six feet under the icy cold currents of the industry and fame, itself, becoming the very tortured subjects of the mournful songs they had written. He didn't want to see Pierre that way; didn't want to bury his best friend whose name would only be remembered by David and the slick, grey stone it would soon be etched in. They had come too far, dreamed too much to have it all be snatched away by personal demons and money-hungry label executives who couldn't care less about what was going on with Pierre, so long as he was contributing to their empire's billions.
"Do you fall, too?"
David was so deeply engrossed in his thoughts that it hadn't even dawned on him that Pierre had spoken, had asked him anything. They'd sat in the same intolerable silence for so long, that it overpowered Pierre's voice, which was somber and twinged with guilt and pain and suffering.
His friend seemed to not get what Pierre was asking, as he sat on his end of the bed wrinkling his forehead in confusion. But Pierre, saddened and angered by David's goddamned perfection and near saint-like qualities, was asking, hoping that David, too, had come to points in his own life when it was too much of a hassle to stay sane. Fuck, it was even too much trouble for Pierre to keep breathing anymore. He needed to know that David disassembled within his own self, too, and that Pierre wasn't the only one who was just some fucking shell of a person that secretly, everyone was laughing at, as his life became more and more of a distant memory of the good times.
He needed to know that David wasn't so goddamned wonderful and superb and magnificent, that he was still human; that he didn't feel like Pierre could contaminate him. Hell, if the latter was actually the case, Pierre probably would have done away with himself at that very moment. Little did David know, a piece of Pierre was ripped from him with each fight they had. Pierre knew David all too well to not realize that the tireless arguments and pleas were wearing David out and Pierre was the one to blame.
And David, despite what Pierre was thinking, did understand the question. With each tabloid report, each time David snuck in Pierre's rooms to find and discard his drugs, he fell. He fell - spiraled - down, down, down.
"Yeah," David whispered, still staring at the nothingness on the wall. "Yes, I fall."
Pierre's eyes moistened and for the first time since David had entered the room well over an hour ago, he moved; stretched his body out, facing the ceiling with his legs hanging off one side of the bed. He sighed a deep, pained sigh, quietly wishing for a day when things wouldn't be so difficult, and stopped blinking away the tears that had formed. He made no sounds, made no effort to hide the fact that was was crying. But instead, he only lied there, bound, broken, and beaten.
David moved closer, resting his tiny porcelain hand atop Pierre's. He crumbled inside, collapsed, knowing that Pierre had given up. His best friend was hapless and desolate. Weak.
He squeezed Pierre's hand, gently at first, but tighter, as though he was desperate, trying to save Pierre from himself one last time, before any mentions of a funeral and a short life, lost. David's own eyes filled with tears and his words tangled in his throat, choking him, mocking him, rendering him out-of-commission.
But still, David fought. He always fought. Dreamers and believers don't let their hope deflate. He forced his mouth open and with every ounce of strength and will in his body, he spoke out with tears streaming down his beautifully flushed, alabaster cheeks.
"Fall into me, Pierre. Fall into me."
A/N: i greatly appreciate the place in my head that i'm in right now. comment, please.