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He is deaf to the music, he can hardly hear anything through the rush of blood in his head. He's not the one for confrontations, he never was, but this time? Oh, this time he is ready to murder John fucking Reid with his bare hands. Or at least scream in his face.
- What the fuck do you think you're doing? - he asks through clenched teeth, hands already curled into fists. The only thing he sees is Reid's eyes, holding his gaze with sort of sinister cheerfulness only he can produce.
- I'm managing. - he replies simply, his accent rolling on his tongue like cat's purr.
- I saw your managing, okay? - Bernie growls, lowering his voice. All he can do now is stopping himself from punching the other man in the face. - As it happens, I fucking saw you managing him, and I really wish there was a good explanation for what I saw, Reid.
He was already nervous he's going to be late; the day was hectic and the cab driver was so awfully slow, and of course there was traffic just so close to the goddamn place. He laughed out loud when he saw Elton just stepping out of the phone box across the street. It couldn't be that bad if HE was still not there, there was plenty of time. Bernie only now noticed how tense he was, just when his muscles relaxed for a second and when he slumped into his seat.
And then he saw.
- Stop the car. Please, stop the car. - he muttered, his heart in his throat, his hands shaking, his gaze fixed only on two men standing next to the phone booth. - Please wait. Just a minute. We'll be back in a minute.
He is talking nonsense and the driver yells something after him, but he is out on the street already, and then on the pavement, practically running.
- Elton! - he shouts, gaining attention of a few passerby, but none of Elton himself.
He sees Reid storming off, and then - and it stops him right in his tracks, mouth falling slightly open - his friend following him meekly with his head lowered like an ashamed child, his steps soft and unsure.
They are so close now but Elton doesn't seem to notice anything around him; he looks like something that would crumble under the slightest touch, turn to dust if forced to look anyone in the eye.
He feels sick when he crawls back to the taxi, the driver clearly annoyed with him, and Bernie can't stop shaking ever since, up to this point when he standing in front of John. Fucking. Reid. smiling at him lazily, staring him down with baffled amusement.
- You know the explanation, Bernie. - his name sounds like an insult in the man's mouth. - He is out of control. Likes to feel sorry for himself. He needs someone to steer him back on the right path, that's all. That's the managing. And look at him - he gestures toward the stage door, music booming from the direction. - He's just fine.
Bernie gets one step closer to Reid now and God, he can feel the heat crawling onto his cheeks and the back of his neck. He saw Elton's eyes, and he knew it was as far away from fine as it could be, all the pride and radiance and hope gone, swallowed by hurt.
- If I see you laying your hands on him one more time... - he seethes, but John smiles a little brighter and leans towards Bernie, so he's just whispering into his ear, not letting him finish the sentence.
- If you wanted to lay your hands on him so badly, you should have done this years ago. You know how he'd like that. But you haven't, so... let me take over, alright, Bernie?
And just like that Bernie no longer is able to stop himself, and his fist flies up to the other man's face.
***
He's spent.
Clothes are clinging to his wet back, sweat running down his brow. He's panting and feels burning in his lungs and his throat, and he knows he should be so much more careful, take some actual care of his body. He just never seems to get around to do it.
Smiles are flashing around him and he returns them as much as he can, nodding at praises and clapping on the back, and the corridor between the stage and his dressing-room seems to have no end. It's always such a shorter distance the other way around, when he's almost praying that the whole thing catches fire and he doesn't have to perform tonight.
All he can do is stop himself from literal running.
He feels dizzy, but the alcohol already wore off; it's just lack of sleep and his body starting to demand it's own rights.
Screw you he thinks We're going to do it my way.
He already has plans for the rest of the night with John, and there's no way in hell he's doing this without drugs. The only thing that can mellow him a bit right now is thinking about the small silver box placed in front of the mirror. He's counting small blessings. John always seems to be in a more charitable mood after their fights - when he calms down satisfied with his triumph, and of course he always triumphs, he turns sweet and gentle around him, calling him darling, talking to him softly as to a child. They never had a fight as big as the one today, so maybe he will get even kinder and hell, maybe trying to get his shit together for some more hours is, in the end, worth the effort? Even though right now it feels to Elton like he could die if John tried to touch him and he knows full well how arguments sharpen his appetites.
He enters the dressing room and closes the door behind him. The lights are on, it's almost quiet here, and he sighs softly looking in the mirror. That sad remains of hair on his head looks truly pitiful, wet and tangled. When the fuck did he get that ugly and miserable he has no idea. He just knows he looks like a clown, and he hates himself so much at this moment he actually finds some energy to throw his fancy glasses across the room, sending them at the wall. He hears the satisfying sound of something breaking, and for once it's not him breaking, so it feels comforting for a second or two.
And then he hears the second sound, which makes his heart skip a beat.
Someone is there in the bathroom, and Elton tastest bile in his mouth, feeling of safety shattered just like the glasses.
- John? - he asks already hating himself again for the quiver in his voice, and takes a few careful steps towards the bathroom door.
He silently prays to all gods in heaven it is some maniac fan or a psychopatic murderer, and not his manager, not now when he is not ready yet.
He opens the door, hoping to see a flash of camera in his eyes, or a barrel of a gun aimed at his forehead, but what he finally sees is both better and so much worse than that.
Bernie is sitting on the closed toilet lid, dabbing with some wet rag at crusted blood under his nose. The middle of his face is a bruise and all in all his best friend may actually look worse than him at the moment. When their eyes meet, Bernie mumbles something from under the rag, and Elton can only ask stupidly:
- What?
And to this question Bernie removes hand from his nose and repeats, his voice croaked:
- Dump his fucking ass, please.
His head is spinning with the realization, but no, he must be wrong and it absolutely can't be as it looks and sounds like, so he plays dumb.
- What are you talking about? What happened to you?
- John Reid happened to me, that's what. - Bernie answers, resuming to clean his face, squinting a little with each dab. - Jesus shit, Elton, what do you see in him?
- What do you mean... John? John did this to you? - he feels weak, but he's next to Bernie now, crouching next to the toilet, looking up in disbelief.
He doesn't hold himself back when he doesn't need you on a stage in ten minutes is all he can think about. And one day I won't be performing. His heart flutters like a captured bird trying to find a way out of the cage.
- Yeah... - Bernie confirms miserably. There are buttons missing from his shirt.
- You had a fight?- Elton asks stupidly.
- He's an asshole, okay? I know it, everyone knows it, please tell me you know it. Elton...
He shakes his head. That's not John at all. He had reason to unleash it all on him but on Bernie? What the fuck could he possibly want from Bernie?
- That doesn't sound like John. He doesn't attack people like that. - he whispers and Bernie grimaces even though it obviously hurts him. Elton's own face still stings from the punch he received earlier, bruise blooming painfully under flimsy layer of makeup.
- Well, yeah, he didn't have to, I started.
Elton looks at his friend, his useless brain trying to wrap around the idea of Bernie starting a fight. And with John! Of all people.
- I don't understand. - he says finally, hating himself yet again for sounding so goddamn helpless. He should be doing something right now. Sure as hell Bernie would be doing something were he in his place. He would help him to clean his face, offered to take him to hospital, find him some painkillers - but the only thing Elton is able to do right now is stare and not collapse, and even that is not going really well.
- Me neither, Elton. - Bernie says softly. - You really should get rid of this pest. Go back to Dick.
- You know it's not possible, Bernie. - Elton shakes his head again. Oh, how much he would like that. That old life doesn't seem to be half that bad now; but how can he just go back to it after all he has done, burning bridges behind him, now completely undeserving of trust and forgiveness?
- Are you okay? - Elton asks finally.
- I'm fine. - Bernie sighs. - He's even better, I've missed. You know I can't fight for a shit.
There's something dangerously close to laughter that grows in Elton's chest, along with the need to throw his arm across Bernie's shoulders and to hold him close, staying safe together from every danger there is. They both never could throw a proper punch for the life of them, so what else can they really do?
- But I bled all over his shirt. - adds Bernie with grim satisfaction in his voice. - I hope it's ruined.
Elton finally sits down next to the toilet and can't help himself but lean his head on Bernie's thigh. He's so weak. He didn't know he could be that weak.
- He would hate that. - he says quietly. His eyelids are so heavy and there's burning behind them. He doesn't want this conversation, he just wants his drugs and John calling him darling, but sitting like this, Bernie's hand suddenly on top of his head, gentle as kiss, is the next best thing. He knows he should ask some questions and that Bernie won't give him a single detail unprompted. That's how it is with Bernie: tiptoeing around every tiny hurt - and this hurt is not tiny, and Elton thinks knowing more about this fight would be unbearable. At least now. He's not ready. He's not ready at all.
He hears smile in Bernie's voice over his head.
- Good.
- Good. - he replies, tears swelling in his eyes; because it really feels so good it hurts, to sit there and pretend they would both be able to save each other from pain.
He knows it's going to be silent now for a while before they both need to get up and clean their faces, but for now they are safe and oh, he would love to die just then.