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The oak door to the Ritz closed with a soft click, shutting out the visitor from the outside noise of the rooftop party. Alex wearily threw a black leather jacket right on the floor of the hallway, not bothering to hang it on a hook, took off his shoes on the go, clumsily prying the back with his toe, and drowned in a deep, a half meter sofa in the center of the room, throwing his head back.
No matter how cloyingly sweet the group described hot yoga and swimming pools in the interviews, telling reporters about their recover between concerts, in reality after each show they were hopelessly drunk in expensive bars of the city, sometimes waking up on a crisp hotel sheets with no memory of the previous night.
Today's performance in Finsbury was no exception. Spring London pleased with warm weather, making it possible to hold an open air after-party on the 12th floor of The Ritz-Carlton hotel, whose management was convinced of the safety of what was happening by the pleasant weight of the envelope inserted into the inner pocket of the jacket.
It was the longest and most exhausting tour of their career, by the way, still not over. Countries, venues, microphones, people - all this circled in a multi-colored kaleidoscope, ready to completely dazzle at any moment. It was clearly obvious - they would end the tour being different people. Not those Sheffield Monkeys in faded jeans and dirty Converse, but dudes in sequined jackets and starched polos. It's amazing how just the right hairstyle and sunglasses change a person, not only outwardly, but also getting out of the previously unknown depths the ability to spread your legs imposingly in an interview, light a cigarette, biting your lip, and twirl your hips in front of a distraught crowd, like you are a real stripper all from the same Sheffield.
It was impossible to make out where the image ended and Alex began, just as impossible as to determine whether it was an image in principle. It changed from album to album, each time revealing its new verge to the world. They say that actors have an amazing opportunity to live many lives in one, and Alex chose his next life with each fresh record. The only difference between Turner and the actors was that he really lived his life, not acted. Yes, different, but it belonged to him. He did not choose heroes or idols for inspiration, it seemed that every year he simply removed an invisible layer, exposing the real himself. But how to understand when he finally becomes himself without crossing the line, at some point became unknown even to himself.
Therefore, instead of sports exercises that are much more beneficial, after the show he drank, drowning out the annoying voices in his head. After a year on the tour, the rivers of amber liquid, which ceased to cope with their direct duties, smoothly led the vocalist to cigarette rolls right on the stage, and then to the white lanes in the toilets.
Perhaps this was the dirtiest and thickest layer of Alexander Turner.
***
Tired of sugary smiles, tenacious touches of frilly ladies who inadvertently circling around him all evening, and unfounded toasts to the group's success, Alex grabbed a bottle of whiskey he had begun and disappeared into his room. Hoping to get another dose of pleasure and a long-awaited relaxation, he reluctantly got up from the sofa, holding on to the wall, reached the suitcase by the bed and with the dexterity of a thief, opened the inside pocket at the bottom, carefully taking out a bag of powder.
He didn't like this cinematic show with bank cards forming lanes, expensive cigars and scantily clad girls around. The effect was more important to him than the method of achieving it, so now sitting on the soft fleecy carpet of his panoramic suite in a wrinkled shirt, he looked more pathetic than respectable, like Al Pacino doing the same.
The curtains half-hid him from the hustle and bustle of the city at night, the white reflection of the moon was the only source of light in the room, and the unmade bed in the morning even added some charm to this whole semi-intimate atmosphere. Alex, who had time to close the suitcase, poured the contents of the bag directly onto its lid, tore off a sheet of a hotel notebook lying on the bedside table nearby, formed two long lines with it and holding one nostril, completely inhaled the first track. Turner threw his head back straightening strands that had come out of his hair with a wide stroke of his palms. It got better immediately, in just a few seconds. The body was filled with pleasant warmth, the eyelids covered themselves with satisfaction and it became easier to breathe. He yanked the cufflinks out of his shirt, rolling up the sleeves and straightening it out of the tight jeans, the top three buttons stably unbuttoned no matter where he was.
Alex was just about to take a second puff when there was a sudden knock on the door. In the resulting silence, this sound was akin to the impact of a fallen stool under the gallows. The man didn't want to think,why such a comparison came to him first. He froze not wanting to let in a guest who appeared so at the wrong time, distracting him from a damned pleasant process.
- Alex, open the door, I know you're here, - a muffled voice came from behind. It was Matt. Turner cursed, rising heavily from the floor and a little, rather intuitively, straightening the folds in his clothes. He was snorting cocaine a minute ago, but he's worried about cleanliness. Divine.
Pulling the handle down harder than he wanted, the frontman opened the door, leaning his shoulder and head against the jamb.
- God, Al, are you okay? - the drummer recoiled from the aroma, which he was doused with from the stuffy room, but quickly assessing the condition of his friend, went inside. Alex sharply repulsed the desire to sniff in front of Matt, but he didn't think about cleaning up the crime scene at all, lounging imposingly on the familiar couch. Helders, squinting at the contrast between the dark room and the bright corridor, stood awkwardly in the center of the room looking around the room and noticing the suitcase between the bed and the wall.
- Fucking hell, are you completely dumb, Turner? What the fuck are you doing? - Matt twitched in the direction of the powder, but then turned to the frontman, finally noticing the white marks on his face. Catching his eye, he ran his thumb over the tip of his nose, picking up the leftovers and licking them without breaking an eye contact.
- I'm resting, - Alex drawled hoarsely, smiling slightly.
- Damn bastard! Hash is not enough for you, when you forget the words on the stage, I see. And now this, dear Lord! I go with you to all these interviews so that you don’t blurt out too much, but no, it turns out that it’s not enough for you! - Helders was angry, confused and scared.
He sat on the edge of the bed, resting his elbows on his knees and forcefully running his hands over his face. For a few minutes they sat in silence that was pleasant for Turner and suffocating for Matt, broken by barely audible drunken laughter from the party upstairs. The drummer thought carefully, biting his lip. He did this when he was focused either on the plat or on his thoughts, and then cautiously, but insistently began:
- Al, we need to talk. This is not a joke anymore. You have crossed the border. - each phrase was given to him with difficulty, knocking the air out of his lungs and making his heart contract painfully.
- And where is it, this border? You didn't install it for me. As long as my mouth provides us with a secure life, I see no reason to complain, - did that sound disgusting? Yes. Was it true? Yes.
Undoubtedly, not only Turner decided everything in their group, many arrangements were invented with Nick, the words for some songs with Jamie, and the drums were almost entirely on Matt, but if it were not for his baritone, hypnotizing the audience, then hardly anyone would have listened just beautiful melodies of them. Unfortunately, this wasn't the first time he had heard such statements from a drunken friend, but he never took it personally, deep inside knowing that he did not really think the way he said. They were a family to each other, inferior, strange and maybe not always friendly, but they are "together longer than apart" and only closer people were their parents.
- Al...you don't think so, I know you're not yourself at all right now. And I'm not the only one who sees this, we all noticed it. If you need help, just tell me, we'll put this damn tour on hold and talk about everything that's going on. There hasn't been anything in the years of our friendship that we haven't managed, yeaht? - the drummer tried to speak softly, but confidently, trying to convey the seriousness of his intentions.
- Don't make me laugh, Matty, will you solve issues with Domino and James because of lost revenue, will you deal with reserved venues, will you write down appeals to fans?
- Damn, if you want, then I will! - the man suddenly jumped up from the cold sheets and turned to the window, adding a little more quietly, - if you think that I don't like our current way of life, then you are mistaken. It gives me pleasure to hear the crazy screams of the crowd in the stadiums, to realize that the four of us are the center of their universe, I like to beat all the crap out of the drums on Pretty Visitors, and then burn money, knowing that they will not end today, tomorrow, or in year of such a life. "We can do anything" - so you think, Alex? Of course you do. But it's wrong, it's destroying us. Everything we do now, except music, is wrong. We have forgotten who we were, where we started from, and who we really are. The further the more terrible it is for me to lose us completely.
Matt said all this, standing with his back to his friend, slowly and with some hysterical despair, as if repenting of a crime. It was hard to admit that the vanity that you had just shamed another was not alien to yourself.
- We are so similar. Always have been, - Turner wheezed after an eternity of silence at the end of the drummer's monologue, clearing his throat. - you always felt me better than others, understood, shared experiences...
The drowsy look of the shiny eyes said that Alex felt very good. And how clearly one could think in such a situation is a moot point.
- Turner, stop it, you sound like very cheap porn, - Helders was disgusted how everything he said was perceived by Alex in such a way. He turned to him, hitting the curtain with his shoulder, which made the man on the couch laugh stupidly.
- Would you watch porn with me, Matty? - Al asked still giggling and arching an eyebrow. For his own support, he spread his arms wide on either side of him, digging his nails into the expensive leather upholstery and crossing his legs.
- I regularly see it on the stage, - the man who was now standing a few centimeters from the sofa answered seriously, not succumbing to provocations. The moonlight fell on the top of his head, silvering his curls and giving him the face of a saint.
- I could arrange a private show for you, - Turner playfully continued to drive him crazy, not giving a fuck of what he was saying and whether he was serious. He was bored with these moralizing conversations, and it was necessary to give the night more atmosphere. Or maybe he was scared that he was finally noticed? Someone climbed into his soul and revealed the truth, which he so skillfully hid even from himself. And the most banal defensive reaction is to give insignificance to everything that happens. Especially if this goes out of his best friend.
Matt definitely had a significant place in his life. They've known each other since elementary school and probably know more about each other than they'd like to. They had sleepovers together, ate mom's homemade cakes, skipped classes together, got drunk together at school discos, talked about the first kiss to each other, created a group together in the end. It seemed that they did not remember a life in which they had not yet been. Matt was for Alex that person who didn't require explanations, he felt him on some special level, understood what exactly he was experiencing now, what demons he was fighting this time. Therefore, the number of night calls, missed meetings that ended at Matt's house, empty bottles and silent hugs had no count, they were simply part of their existence. No cause or effect. Did they want something more? Maybe. Certainties? Yes, probably. Arctic Monkeys is not the name of a band, it's four guys from Sheffield whose names can't be replaced by any other and it's the only thing that was predetermined in their lives. And at the very least, Alex and Matt wanted to know that this would always be the case.
- Stop making yourself a whore, it's you and Miles who can fuck for cheap dope that you smoke in front of the audience without worrying about our reputation, and you won't talk to me like that. Never! - Matt spat out these words with poisonous saliva. They had been sitting in him for a long time, and now he didn't feel remorse finally expressing them. Turner deserved to hear them. He continued, finally noticing the genuine revival of his eyebrows that raised in surprise, - what do you think I'm so naive not to catch? When would Alex-god-himself -Turner have stooped down to personally buying drugs?
- He takes a lot, Matty, I have to spin. I only smoke high quality crack, 'cause I'm a fucking rock star, remember? Your words, by the way, - seeing no reason to deny the obvious, Alex calmly replied. Of course, his pride was hurt, but not to such an extent as to come up with stupid excuses.
And Matt couldn't resist any more. In a fraction of a second, shortening the already small distance between them, he roughly took the man by the collar of his shirt, lifting him from the sofa with force, and almost dragging him on himself, slammed him into the wall from the side. And then a punch to the jaw happened. Not strong - there will be no bruising, but noticeable. Then another, but in millimeters from his face. Alex froze, closing his eyes and exhaling unevenly, not fully understanding what had just happened. The left side of his face was hurting, but it was an insignificant pain compared to the one that was seething inside. Matt leaned his head against singer's chest, pressing his hot forehead against the sharp collarbone, keeping hand on the wall, while the other one was clenched into a fist in an attempt to calm himself.
- More, - and this unexpectedly demanding tone sent goosebumps down Matt's neck. What did this damn bastard allow himself?
But without hesitation, Matt hit again, on the nose, where Alex with the rapture of a baby drove fairy dust for adults. The blood flowed slowly and viscous down his chin, staining his white shirt in large drops. Alex laughed louder, smearing it across his parted lips and teeth with the back of his hand.
- Like it when it's tough, don't ya, Al? Do you like it, huh? - not noticing behind the veil of tears of despair that came out, Matt unexpectedly closed his fingers on the frontman's graceful neck, pressing him harder against the wall and thrusting his knee between his legs. Alex, countering the reactions of a normal person in such a situation, rolled his eyes in ecstasy, exhaling air through his nostrils.
- Matthew, you can do it better, - Turner hissed, smiling.
- I can, - the drummer agreed, pressing harder on both sides. He would never hurt his Adam's apple, no matter what state he was in, he knew the rules, he knew that he had no moral right to do this, he could not really hurt him.
- That's it, yes, - Alex drawled huskily without opening his eyes and helplessly knocking his palms on the cold surface behind him. - We haven't played this game for a long time, I miss it.
- My hands on your neck, like in 2009 in Vagabond, remember? Tell me, does Kane fuck you as hard or do you lick like chicks? - Matt didn't recognize his voice, which now prickly dug under the skin of a friend. Only one person could bring him to such emotions, and now he was barely audible moaning from the pressure that the drummer was putting on his throat.
- Shut up and kiss me already, - Alex whispered quickly, spraying saliva.
Matt felt like water was doused on him. He jerked away from the singer, running his hands through short hair and pulling back painfully to regain his sense of reality. He went too far.
The drummer sank helplessly on his haunches, leaning his back on the bed corner, and let out a groan of despair more like a whine.
- Come on, Matthew, I liked it, - Alex, who had been noisily swallowing air all this time and rubbing his neck slightly, recoiled from the wall, sank to the floor and crawled up to the seated man, carefully putting a hand on his knee.
***
Of course Alex remembered his calloused fingers in a cheap motel in the middle of the Californian desert. Then, during the recording of Humbug, for the first time they felt like they were truly adults, free and able to create something meaningful. They felt their importance in music, in each other's lives, and this understanding blinded their eyes.
That evening, Jamie brought a bottle of tequila, forbidding Turner to make Margaritas from it and assuring that this particular liter should be drunk outright, without spoiling the taste with Triple Sec, lime, or salt.
- These cocktails of yours are a complete mockery of alcohol. You're missing out on real pleasure.
Jamie didn't know yet that just on that hot night Alex would feel that very pleasure. No, not from 5 shots of pure tequila in a row, but from Helders' heavy breathing, pressing him into a springy mattress, and a sweet spasm in his throat. How the two of them ended up in Vagabond on the outskirts of Mojave, none of them remembered, absolutely, and under what pretext they rented a room there at 2 o'clock in the morning too. But both distinctly remembered sparks in their eyes, hastily removed T-shirts, drunken laughter, hasty "what are we doing?" and the ensuing hungry kiss until teeth gnashed against teeth. They were alive as never before, life seeping through their veins, hitting their temples with a frantic rhythm and not letting them hear their own heartbeat.
- Will you regret it tomorrow?
- No
- Me too
They didn't sleep that night, spending it 20 bucks room in endless quiet conversations. They intertwined the little fingers of rough palms and awkwardly poked their knees into each other on the narrow bed. Alex then called Matt the closest person to him and assured that this would never change. And Matt kissed his shoulder, catching every mole with his lips, and barely audibly answered that he had always known about it, that he would not be able to love someone like him, and that he would have exchanged all their glory for the opportunity to spend every night like that.
***
But it was the first and the last night. Nothing has changed in their communication, they were still close to each other, but none of them had the courage to repeat that night. The men knew that once again drowning in each other, they would not come up again. And then Matt had Breana, Alex met and parted a lot of women, but not a single graceful girlish fingers replaced those, that left purple marks above the collarbone under the starry sky.
And now, 5 years later, sitting on the floor of a room for several thousand dollars, with lines of cocaine behind their backs and holes in their souls, both understood that somewhere in their 28 years they fucked up.
With a slight movement of his hand, Alex lifted the drummer's chin, forcing him to look at the man with empty eyes:
- Matt, I really enjoyed it, thank you.
- No, Al, you shouldn't like it. You and I are both sick. I-damn it, I missed you so much all the time that you ruined your health with this rubbish, but at the moment when you demanded more, for a second it seemed to me that you were back and I couldn't stop.
Instead of giving an answer Turner leaned a little on the man, settling between his spread knees, and continuing to stroke the jaw line, pressed his warm from dried blood lips to his. Matt didn't resist, just exhaling greedily into the kiss and running his fingers through the other man's slicked-back hair. They kissed endlessly, enjoying the long-awaited intimacy, wet, ignoring the bloody saliva between them, and gently, making it clear that youthful emotions were not forgotten. Alex felt himself literally come to life, dissolving in the forgotten feelings of comfort and care that his friend bestowed on him.
Without opening his eyes, he clasped Matt's cheeks with both palms, pulling him closer, although it would seem that it was already impossible to be closer. Turner clung to him like a lifeline, like a light from a beacon in the depths of the sea, showing him the way to healing.
- I'm sorry for everything I said to you today. You needed help, not my tantrums... I was just afraid that I started to lose you, - Helders was the first to speak, gently tearing himself away from his beloved lips and continuing to slowly massage the back of the man's head, bringing his strands out of style into even more mess.
- And you forgive me for this, - a vague nod towards the suitcase, - I will stop, I promise. I know where this path will lead, it’s too late for me to go to Club 27, but I’m not eager to open Club 28, - Alex answered bitterly smiling, settling next to a friend.
After sitting in silence that was finally tranquill for both of them, Turner found the man's hand on the fleecy carpet, intertwined his fingers and smiled relaxedly. Everything is as it was then, nothing has changed. Almost.
- Alex, - Matt's gaze was fixed somewhere on the ceiling, but his fingers only grabbed another's tighter, - I have never regretted that night. What I really regret is that we repeated it just now. I'm tired of ignoring my feelings for you, hiding them, justifying them. I loved you since childhood, but I was sure that all friends experience this. And when Cookie and Nick appeared, I realized that not all of them. Only we. Only to you. And I don't care what they think of us, it's not enough for me to burn your back at concerts with my eyes, I need to know that I can touch you and not be afraid to get caught. I'm tired of smiling sweetly at Kane, knowing what happened between you two.
I need to know that ours is forever.
Turner turned in his direction, carefully peering into his native profile, brought a woven bundle of fingers to his lips, kissing each knuckle in turn and only then said:
- Matty, you know we can't. If our relationship somehow affects the group, I won't be able to forgive myself. And you won't. As much as we don't want to, 10 years ago we chose a path that would not allow us to be together, and despite this I can still kiss your hands in a hotel room.
- Promise we won't lose another 5 years.
- I promise, - Alex smiled warmly for the first time all night, the way he smiled only as a child when he blew out the candles on a birthday cake, and Matt tightly hugged his neck.
- Don’t leave today, stay with me.
And Helders stayed. Tonight and the next day, sat side by side in their airjet's seat on the way to Sheffield, unobtrusively stroking his thigh during the flight, went to his parents' apartment in High Green, despite the tempting offer to spend 2 weeks between concerts with Breana, and never missed a chance to capture a relaxed friend by the fireplace with a cup of steaming mint tea on his film camera.
Turner of course didn't say that he added whiskey to it, but he began to sleep really calmer and for Matt this was the most important thing. Layer after layer, he shed the hard skin he had acquired over the past year and a half, slowly getting rid of the hated image, clearly realizing that he had outgrown it. He did not know what would be his next point, what he would be in a month, a year, but the understanding that Matt was now nearby gave confidence. He was not just as a friend or a member of a group, but as a part of the soul, sharing both sorrow and joy with him.
Maybe he was real only with him? Maybe the invisible armor was built to learn how to breathe without Helders, but the more it got, the less air came in? Maybe they were the only people whose hugs could solve any problem in life?
- Maybe, - Matt thought at the birth of his daughter.
- Maybe, - Alex thought as he proposed to Louise.