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Bert had trashed hotel rooms before, it was always embarrassing, but he hadn’t expected the shattered bottle and mirror, booze poured over every surface, everything in Quinn’s suitcase turned out across the floor. (Why not? Why the fuck not?)
His guitar remained tucked out of the way – just not where Quinn left it.
The room had been so fucking nice when they’d gone downstairs.
His own fault. Bert left the hotel bar wasted, thrashed, not the drunkest Quinn had seen him, but enough for the warmth to recede from his eyes, leaving something frantic and lacertian staring through his small body. Quinn had watched him leave – maybe I should go after him – and decided fuck it, why should I cut my night short? If Bert wanted to sulk –
– if he was alone up here, he’d get bored, sleep it off –
– and if he didn’t, Quinn could crash with Dan and Jepha.
He’d never been so angry at himself. When the fuck does Bert cut a night short? But after last time, when Bert came to him and they talked about nights like this and how they always end like driving right into a brick wall at eighty, Quinn had an idea that Bert had listened to him. He would never admit that Quinn had a point, but he could live with that, so long as Bert just stopped fucking himself over. Fucking the band over.
Quinn surveyed the room, a camera surveying the aftermath of natural disasters, like on the news. A man standing with his hands on his head while his wife picked through the wreckage of their lives. He thought about how pumped they’d all been earlier, checking in, like yeah, we can spend a few weeks here; somewhere to come back to after recording.
“Jeph?” Bert called. The curtain hanging in front of the balcony door fluttered open in the breeze, and Bert’s scrawny ass half-leaned, half-swayed across the threshold. “Oh. It’s you.”
“Yeah. Me. The guy you share a room with.”
“Ready to turn in?” Bert asked, stumbling inside. “Does Quinny-poo need his beauty sleep?”
He laughed viciously. There was no drink in his hand, which might have been a relief if not for the shattered glass spread across the floor, glinting like stars on a dead-quiet night. Bert stumbled over to Quinn, barefoot – “Watch out!” “What do you care?” – and then stood in front of Quinn, small and compact, alive and burning with further damage.
“I leave you alone for five fucking minutes—”
“Is that how long it’s been?” Bert sneered. “Really?”
“That’s not the point—”
“Isn’t it? So what’s the point? Come on, tell me. What is it?”
Bert shoved Quinn. It occurred to him that he could leave, go back downstairs. Find someone else to deal with this, someone better equipped to deal with Bert – but who would that be?
“Where were you?” Bert asked.
“Downstairs. Where you left me.”
“You could have come up.”
“I—”
“Don’t act like I left you down there!” Bert shouted. “You could have come after me, it’s your room too!”
“I thought—”
“You thought? Thought what? That I’d had enough? I was going in for an easy night? Is that what you thought? Really?”
Yes, but when Bert said it like that it sounded stupid. The truth was worse. He was having a good time, he didn’t want to cut things short, he wanted to hang with the guys, fuck around. When Bert had excused himself – this blows, I can have more fun alone– Quinn was relieved. He let Bert walk out, avoided looking at him.
“Well, you know,” Quinn heard himself say. His body was drunk, limbs loose and mouth thick with the acrid taste of too much booze and stomach acid, but the drunken haze vanished. Every detail he saw was sharpened to a vicious point making the whole room painful to look at. “I thought you were done for the night.”
Bert snorted, like Quinn had said something funny. “Yeah. Well. I thought you’d come up after me. Shows what kind of friend you are.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?”
“How was I supposed to know that’s what you wanted? I thought—”
– good, it’s about fucking time I had an evening without your crap –
Bert shook his head, a flash of pain flickering across his face before vanishing. How long had Bert waited, before he started breaking shit? When did he realise that Quinn wasn’t coming after him, that he was wrong? Bert had no reason in the world to believe that of anyone, but he believed it of Quinn because – stupidly, as it turned out – he trusted him. Meanwhile Quinn was downstairs, drinking, doing nothing of note. The worst person on the fucking planet. There wasn’t anyone that Quinn would have rather spent the evening with, wasting time together, laying in bed watching shit on TV and kissing and touching and messing around. And he could have had that, if he’d just used his fucking head, actually thought about it, instead of just getting caught up in whatever story Jeph had been telling that made it so easy not to look at Bert as he was walking away. He should have wanted to come with him; shouldn’t have even had to think about it. He should have been more worried. It wasn’t a secret that Bert was sensitive to this kind of thing.
“Yeah. Whatever,” Bert said. “I’m going out.”
He shouldered Quinn aside, or tried to; Quinn grabbed him, fingers wrapping all the way around his forearm.
“No,” he said.
Bert punched him in the jaw.
His head stuttered back, colliding hard against the wall. Bert had already turned away from him, towards the door, and Quinn abso-fucking-lutely could not let Bert leave the hotel room while he was this pissed at the world. He wrapped an arm around Bert’s waist, dragging him back, he would do anything to keep him here, lock him in the bathroom, tie him to the bed, it didn’t matter: Bert was not leaving this room.
Bert disagreed. He swiped at Quinn, twisting around and grabbing his shirt, punching him again, once, twice, a third time, in the jaw, his head slamming against the wall like a jackhammer. Quinn tried to hold on, but it was no good, the shock of pain loosened his grip, but by this point Bert’s attention had shifted, his interest in the world fading in favour of beating the shit out of Quinn.
He heaved forward, slamming them both against the far wall. The impact was hard, sharp, and winded Bert, driving the fight from him along with his breath.
“Let go of me,” Bert said, his voice low. “I’m done. I’m not fucking around.”
Through swelling eyes, Quinn tried to search his face for any sign of how fucked he was. He could hardly believe that he’d done it. This was not the first time he’d been violent with Bert, but never like this.
Quinn shook his head. He tasted blood, felt it draining down the back of his nose, dribbling down his face, over his lips, coating his teeth. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“I don’t care what you think.”
It was ridiculous that of everything happening, this was what stung. Quinn blinked through his own drunkenness, his head filled with static from the impact. He made an awkward sound, a laugh if not for how it made him sound like he was in pain, disproportionate to what was happening to his face.
But Bert wasn’t leaving, and that was the only important thing.
“I’m sorry,” Quinn said.
“Don’t you ever try to stop me from leaving.”
“It’s a bad idea, Bert.” You know that.
Blood dripped from his nose. He licked it away, raised a hand and touched his lip. Bert shoved past Quinn. Often Quinn found himself gritting his teeth, knowing that Bert genuinely didn’t see the problem in how he got on – after all, what was the harm? Quinn would be there to clean him up. It would be so much easier to deal with if Bert actually believed that. There was a not insignificant possibility that Bert would end up arrested, making a call for someone – Quinn – to get him. If he thought that Bert would actually learn anything about this, Quinn would almost be tempted to let that play out. Let him deal with his own problems.
But there was the band to think about; they needed their frontman.
And it was vitally, ecstatically important that he prove Bert wrong about being the kind of person to let him walk off.
The room was hazy, black tinging the edge of Quinn’s swollen vision, as Bert turned to the door. In strength they were evenly matched, each with certain advantages like angles and size and Quinn’s willingness to punch Bert, and right now, his willingness to get in the way of actually stopping Bert from going through the door. He grabbed Bert’s shoulder, and as Bert’s head snapped back to his guitarist Quinn leaned forward, pressing his mouth against Bert’s, feeling how he stiffened, his mouth a hard plane of skin. But he didn’t shove Quinn away.
“I’m sorry,” Quinn repeated as he broke their kiss. “Stay with me?”
“You can’t just fuck me every time you want to get your own—”
“That’s not what’s happening here.”
“How desperate can you be, really…”
But he was touching Quinn, fingers tracing lightly over his skin, travelling the length of his forearm. He didn’t object when Quinn’s hands settled on his shoulders, when Quinn leaned his face forward, touching his forehead against Bert’s. The blood that dripped from his nose beaded on his lip, before dripping onto the carpet; his face throbbed, the whole room spinning.
Their hands found the familiar places where they always grabbed each other, Quinn’s arms wrapping around the back of Bert’s neck as he pulled him closer, Bert pulling Quinn’s shirt up to reveal his stomach and chest. They parted just enough for Bert to pull it over Quinn’s head, throw it to the side, and he stumbled against Quinn, and they collapsed back against the wall. A fistful of Quinn’s hair – jerking his head back – covering Quinn’s mouth with the other. The bloody nose made it hard to breathe, a familiar feeling only partly chased off by the snap of teeth at his throat.
Then in bed, Quinn falling against Bert, pushing him onto the mattress, grabbing at each other. Blood and snot from his nose dripped down into his mouth, mingling with the spit, spilling onto Bert’s face; when they kissed Quinn couldn’t breathe, he had to keep pulling back for a breath and to wipe his mouth, his whole face tender every time he touched it. Bert’s teeth latched onto his lip, his skin too warm. He felt his eye swell; every time he blinked it was harder to open his eyes again.
He reached between them, unhooking Bert’s belt and tasting drunken gasp as Quinn grabbed him through his boxers, sweat and alcohol mingling in his mouth. They’d done this so many times, there was nothing about tonight that was different, but Quinn’s hands felt a mile away from the rest of his body. Bert tugged at him impatiently, which usually Quinn took as an invitation to drag it out longer – hold him down, touch him firmly but never giving him enough, watching as the full weight of the experience worked through him, impatience turning to irritation and then desperation, waiting until he begged for more, begged for Quinn, God, I could make you agree to anything. And he could. Quinn absolutely could, and he held to the memory of everything he’d made Bert promise like a talisman.
“C’mon,” Bert was saying, grinding out the words through gritted teeth. “What’re you gonna do, Quinn? What are you gonna fucking do?”
“What the fuck do you think?”
“Then fucking do it. Come on – make it worth it. This is what you abandoned your little night downstairs for, right? How much do you want it…”
They kissed again, to shut Bert up, to give Quinn more time as he ran one hand along the inside of Bert’s thigh, slid the other between the fabric of his boxers and his sweaty skin, fingers twining between the hair. He wanted to be in the bathroom, wiping blood from his nose, or laying down with an ice pack spread across his face. He felt how Bert gasped, his wiry body raising off the bed, twisting underneath him, pulling Quinn’s hair harder so he had no choice but to twist his head to the side, teeth locked in a grimace, leaving his neck exposed to the hum of Bert’s gasps and moans. He was always so responsive, his whole body an electrically charged wire; Quinn barely had to touch him to feel the energy jump to him.
“Don’t stop,” Bert whined. “Don’t fucking stop, Quinn, you fucking bastard—Fuck me, right fucking now, make me pay, make me sorry, you’re fucking pissed at me, right? Then come on, make me sorry—”
– you broke my nose, you fucking asshole –
He grabbed Bert’s pants and yanked them down over his thighs, backing off to give Bert the space he needed to wriggle out of them. Between the two of them, they had almost a complete outfit, and it would be funny if Quinn didn’t have to work his own belt open, working through the adrenaline crash to get himself hard when all that he could think about was how much his face hurt, a steady hot radiating pain that pulsed in time with his racing heartbeat.
Bert propped himself up onto one elbow, staring impatiently as Quinn touched himself. It felt like nothing. Skin against skin. A heavy, squidgy weight in his palm.
“You good?” he asked.
“Just give me a fucking second, okay?” Quinn snapped.
“Wow,” Bert said. “I didn’t expect this from you. Usually I’m the one who—”
“Forget it,” Quinn said. But before he could hike his jeans back, Bert snatched his wrist with one hand and his dick with the other, running the pad of his soft thumb over the head. They’d done this so many times before, this was really no different, but something about the way that he looked at Quinn made him wish that he’d never started this, that he’d just – (let Bert walk out the door? Get arrested, trash the hotel room?) – stayed downstairs. Or followed him upstairs, maybe even been the one to suggest they leave once he realised the shit mood Bert was in. That would have gone down well, Quinn was sure, but he had ways of making it seem sweet. Make it seem like Bert’s idea.
“Drink too much?” Bert asked blandly as he continued to stroke Quinn, although with no reaction. Good, he didn’t want to react, but he felt it, raw nerves twisted up in Bert’s hands.
“This isn’t working,” Quinn muttered. He grabbed Bert’s wrist, which took an inordinate effort. “Let’s just do what I was doing before—”
Bert punched him. Quinn’s head whipped to the side, pain erupting through his head, sending him collapsing against the bed.
They stared at each other, Bert leaning forward on his arms. For the first time all night, he looked like he was having a good time.
“Why?” Quinn asked.
“That’s what you asked for, right? Go back to what we were doing before?”
I didn’t do anything to you. The thought came so clearly, so heavily, it settled on his tongue and threatened to push its way through his mouth, like uncontrollable vomit. He didn’t know what to do except to say it, the thought now taking on a gravitational pull that swallowed up everything else that Quinn might have done.
He pushed himself up. Even though he knew what he was going to find, he touched his face, surprised to find that it felt like a nose, that he hadn’t been ground down to dust. Then he leaned forward, towards Bert, let their bodies collide and his own weight guide them closer to the bed, Bert beneath him. He ignored the undignified squawk as he touched Bert, his hand moving lower, wrapped around Bert’s dick and pumping with a firm but steady rhythm; any protest that he might have made dissolved into whines and whimpers, nonsense words and a high-pitched, pathetic whine.
He came abruptly, and Quinn continued for several seconds, until Bert’s begging took on a different tone, helpless and despondent and hurting, just this side of hyperventilating. Quinn could do whatever he wanted to him, Bert couldn’t stop him, and the whining desperation made something stir deep in Quinn’s gut. He could so clearly imagine how it would look, Bert sobbing underneath him.
Quinn let go, collapsing next to him on the bed, his sticky hand spread across Bert’s stomach where Bert lay flat on his back, each breath shuddering. He turned his face against Quinn’s shoulder, his breath warm and damp against Quinn’s bare skin.
“Love you,” Bert slurred.
“I know.”
“Say it then. Say it.”
“I love you, too.”
“Like you mean it.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know. Like you’re happy about it,” Bert spat. “Like you actually want to be here.”
This time it was easy, although how Quinn felt had nothing to do with what he did. His mouth found Bert’s, felt how his hands travelled up along the line of his jaw. “Something like that, yeah,” Bert said. “Come on. Put some work into it.”
“I love you,” Quinn repeated, and kissed him.
“Eugh,” Bert said. “Fucking gross.” He paused, letting his eyes droop close, half a smile still on his face, lingering. “Fucking gross,” he repeated.
“Just go to sleep,” Quinn said, raising his hand to Bert’s face, batting at the space around his eyes. Bert laughed, but rolled over, throwing an arm around his waist. He curled himself small, pressing his body against Quinn, and through the blood and sickly aftertaste of alcohol starting to turn stale, Quinn let out a slow breath.