u wut m8 (helosub) wrote in killers_slash,
u wut m8
helosub
killers_slash

Title: Wolf in a Suit 
Pairing: Brandon and Ronnie, Ronnie's POV.
Rating: R again.
Warnings: Self harm, violence, sadness, suicide. Also very graphic. 
Disclaimer: I would be crying in a dark corner for the rest of my life if this really happened. So, yeah, fiction. I also don't own them.
Notes: Fic written by me, have in mind that English is my second language. But no mistakes should be found in this since two of my american friends edited it for me. 

This community is so dead.



It's easy enough to guess why I started it. Acting like an asshole that is, and drink my life out every damn night. I wanted to be hated. I wanted them to hate me. I wanted them to leave me so they wouldn't miss me when I was gone, so I would just be remembered as the worthless drummer of some band who got lost into addictions, as worthless as my existence. But I couldn't make them suffer. I love them too much to make them suffer, so this was my way of protecting them, protecting them from myself. Even if it would've gone wrong sometimes, it was working; slowly they were giving up on me. My family had abandoned me. They are all so much better than I'll ever be. My wife had gone back to her mother's house and me, I stayed at home drinking all day long; trying to drink myself into some alcoholic coma, which seemed to be harder than I expected. But that day I decided that I couldn't just die drinking at home, so I went out, left my house open and started to walk under the morning sun. A bottle of whiskey in my left hand, my sweaty green shirt, black jeans with a pack of smokes in the pocket and my red untied converse. I lit a cigarette; put it in between my lips, long drags. Smoke curling into the air like ghost sighs. I'm not the kind of guy to smoke but that would just help finish me off, so I would give it a shot.

I couldn't remember how much time I walked, how many cigarettes I blew while listening to the buzzing of my drunken state and the sound of expensive whiskey hitting the sides of its own bottle, but I walked a lot. I remember paying attention to small things like the withering electric posts and cocaine tinted sand because there's nothing more to do when you're walking without a destiny. Finally I saw the grey aura of Vegas, the grey aura that showed human activity, made it harder for the sun to shine but made it easier for it to heat up the dark pavements, choking on its own smog. Funny, isn't it? It’s like we weren't already dying under the desert sun every damn day. 


While tripping over my feet and falling flat on the sidewalk near the Strip I looked up, seeing an airplane. You know, when you're a kid you always see airplanes. You always hear them and they seem to be such great things, but when you're older you just forget about the tons of metal flying over your head because you can't even hear them anymore. Airplanes going to places very far or very close, maybe no where at all. Why do these simple great things lose their sparkle over the years?


I got back up, not caring about getting bruises; I already had them all over my body. I've fallen from the staircase of my house a couple of times in my drunken stupor, hitting each step with a deserved, painful whack and well, that might get you a couple of bruises.


While walking down the Strip I started to think about how it all began. I could see the luxurious hotels we used to work at, and the places in which we used to meet up, when life was so simple. And now it was such a big mess. I wanted to have the simplicity back, I wanted to have my weekends back, I wanted to have my crooked teeth back, I wanted to stop keeping up appearances, showing someone that wasn't me, but would make up the audience's mind. I was a product and I didn't want that for me. I wanted to spend days with my family, I wanted to hang out with Ted and Taylor but I just couldn't, and I couldn't get out of that life either. This was the life of exposure I chose for myself. I felt like I was living inside a cage at the zoo. My plastic skin melted under the throbbing sun.


I stopped, taking a sip out of my bottle and putting out my stubby cigarette. I looked up a very tall palm tree; I think Brandon's written something about them. "And you're looking for shade that no palm tree can provide." Is that right? Well, I was, I was looking for shade, I was looking for a relief. Under a palm tree with its flimsy leaves and plastic roots. There was something that could provide it.


Before I could think any further about that, I felt a hand on my shoulder and heavy breathing near my neck. I turned around to see a very familiar face, remembered and burned into my skull doused in sunsets and burning stage lights.


Brandon Flowers. 


I looked at him for a couple of moments, blinking more than usual, sweat dripping into my eyes. He looked down, then up again, his eyes gazing at my hunched figure; I could see his expression of concern as he did so. He took the bottle out of my hand. I frowned at him.


"Gimme that back." Looks like the only person I couldn't fool with my bad habits was Brandon. That fucking church had taught him how to not lose hope. I wanted him to, though. 


"No, I'm taking you home, now let's go." I felt his hand gripping around my right wrist, an iron lock. He turned around and tugged my arm, almost making me fall. We began to walk and I started to protest. I tried to stop him, but he was the sober one.


"I don't fucking want to! Now stop this-" I managed to wrench my wrist out of his grasp. "And gimme that back!" I pointed to my bottle in his hand.


He gripped my arm tighter this time, and started to walk, again. I, of course, tried to get away once more, but he was prepared and wouldn't let me go. I kicked and grunted, and he wouldn't stop, until I finally took to a desperate measure that maybe would make him hate me. I swung a clenched, clumsy fist and watched it land right on his left eye. He let my precious bottle sail to the ground, breaking it. I yelled at him while I watched liquid gold soak up the sidewalk, trail away like fresh blood underneath a door, then almost immediately evaporate under the Vegas noon sun. He squirmed in pain, and stood up again, putting his hand around my right bicep. He cupped his eye and tugged me along.


This time I followed, and since even punching him wouldn't work, what could I do? He threw me inside his Hyundai, the backseat. I didn't even fight my way up. I just laid there, the air conditioner hitting my hot and sweaty face. You know, my beard and long hair aren't easy to keep up with in the middle of the desert. 


"Where are you taking me?" I asked, hearing Brandon starting up the engine. I looked at the top of the buildings through the car's window. Where were the airplanes again?


"To your home." I raised my eyebrows at the mention of that word.


"Okay, you can take me to my house; just don't call it "home", my wife isn't there anymore." I felt the car starting to move and my vision blacking out. Oh, I was drifting off. Great. 


I woke up in a well-known place, feeling a well-known mattress under my back and looking at a well-known ceiling. I tried to get up, a tidal wave of a headache hitting me like a car crash. I felt something move around on the mattress, and Brandon's figure is beside mine. He helped me sit up. My eyes were scrunched shut, my nails digging into my skull as I raised my hands to my head. Maybe it would quell the pain somehow. I felt his hand gently resting on my back and I looked up at the purple soon-to-rainbow-into-many-dark-colors circle around his eye. I could say I had the most apologetic look on my face as I did so. He smiled at me. 


He fucking smiled at me. In that moment I saw how bad I was to Brandon, because he would never lose his faith on me, and I was just making him suffer more and more, and that wasn't what I wanted. 


Brandon got up from the bed, and told me to get rid of my shirt. I did as told; the fabric was sticking to my body, just as my hair. I threw the shirt on the floor and pointed to the bathroom, looking at Brandon. For some reason his eyes were wide while he looked at my now exposed torso. "Get me something… For this headache, please." I whispered. I curled up on the bed. 


Then it hit me. How did he even get me up here? 


I took the pills Brandon gave me, I wasn't sure if they were the right ones, but I'd take anything to make the pain go away. I sat up again, on the edge of the mattress, looking down. Brandon's hand touched a bruise on my chest, and then I understood why he looked at me like that. I was covered in bruises and cuts from falling on top of bottles and staircases and wondering about airplanes. He slid his hand to my chin, making me look up at him; he was standing right in front of me. I spotted the pained twist in his expression. "You haven't even seen my legs yet." My lips curled into a smirk. 


Brandon made me sit up, leading me to the bathroom. He closed the door behind us and told me to take my pants off while he went to draw the bath. I did as I was told, taking my underwear off too. He took a glance at my legs and quickly looked away. "And I didn't break one single bone." I let out a low laugh, and stopped as I felt the hangover again. "This isn't the kind of thing to be laughing at and making jokes about, asshole." Brandon snapped.


I dove into the water, looking at Brandon, looking at what I had done to his beautiful face in exchange for a feeling that would never exist. I could see it in his eyes. He would never hate me, disappointingly. I sat down in the bath, never breaking eye contact with him. He grabbed the soap, finally looking away, rubbing it on my chest and arms, a little too harshly. It pained me. You can't put pressure over bruises, man. I could see him frowning while looking. I got the feeling that he was a little mad at me, for what I've done to myself, to the ones around me. 


"What have you done to yourself?” Yeah, I was right; I could read Brandon like a book. Even if he was taking care of me now, it's usually the opposite. It's usually Brandon who runs to my arms at night for a release. He always thought I was so much stronger than him to deal with all the pressure they put over us. Fortunately he found his religion again before I got sick of life I guess. He didn't need me for anything other than pleasure anymore. 


"I ask myself the same thing." He looked up at me while pulling on my arm to reach my back with the soap.


"Why, Ronnie?" His tone was coarse, enraged, grip on my arm tightening. Was he getting mad at me?


"I…" I waited for him to release my arm, and pressed the soap on my right leg. I winced. "I can't have children." I couldn't let him know about all that made me do it, but that; the fact that I couldn't justify my own existence was the last drop. I could keep up with all the falseness if I could get myself a little girl to live for. If I could make Lisa happy, carrying my sorry excuse of a life with her. But not even that. 


Suddenly Brandon stopped rubbing the soap on my leg. Looking up at my dirt smeared face, I smiled weakly at him. I knew what was in his mind. Brandon was so happy now that he had children. He loved them so much, and they were the brightest light in his life. He would always tell me how it was the best thing that could have ever happened to him. And he would even stop searching for my comfort after he had Ammon. It's been years since we had a night together for the last time.


"But. There are other ways." Brandon whispered softly. I could see the look on his face. Boy, was he was really sorry for me. He started to gently rub the soap on my skin again, this time looking at my tiny injuries, my knees two dark purple shadows. It disgusted even me.


"There aren't other ways, Brandon, that's it. I can't have children." I saw Brandon open his mouth to protest. I wouldn't let him. "You can't really say anything, can you? You have three wonderful boys, a beautiful Mormon family, and a lovely woman. I wanted to have your perfect life." He raised his index finger to the air, his right hand squeezing my leg; I jerked it out of his grasp.


"Listen, it isn't that perfect! If you-" 


"Shut up." I said, and sunk my head in the water; I wasn't in the mood to listen to his bullshit. 


Slowly I emerged for air. I searched for the shampoo on the side of the bathtub. Brandon started to rub the soap on my legs again, meticulously. He didn't look angry, but I think he finally realized the pain I was going through. I put some shampoo in my hand, then in my hair and a little on the beard. That thing is hard to take care of, don't you think it's that easy. Even more now that it was out of control, since the last time I got a nice trim was like two weeks ago. I began to lathe my hair, looking at Brandon's hand rising up my thigh, coming close to "it". I stopped what I was doing and looked at him, a dumb, slippery smile on his face.


"After everything I told you, you still give me that dorky grin? While you’re touching my fucking cock?" I pointed my finger,covered in foam, at him. "Look, I have no problem spending my dead seed on you, but if you tease it, you'll have to take it." I smiled broadly. For some reason his tease made me forget about what was going on with me. Brandon had that effect on people, but usually he isn't nearly as bold.


I started to wash my hair again; I closed my eyes and felt Brandon taking my cock into his hand, stroking it slowly. I let out a low moan, my hips rising a little in the water. I hadn't been touched in such a long time now. 


In a couple of minutes I had a full erection and made Brandon stop. "Go to bed, and you better be naked when I get there." I went underwater once more after seeing him walk out of the bathroom door, but before he left, he said. "I have no problem in 'taking it'." It didn't sound very sexy, but harsh, like it was a challenge. Well, he needs to care about who's he's challenging. 


I rinsed my hair and beard, getting up and getting myself dry, quickly. I brushed my teeth and in no time I was back into the bedroom, Brandon spooning, naked in my bed. I got closer and laid by his side, looking him in the eye, letting out a low laugh at his bruised eye, my body turned to him. I ran one hand by the side of his arm. My Brandon was so strong now, he had been working out and that was very good for him, I guess. I, on the other hand, had lost weight in the past weeks I spent drinking. My skin was sticking to my muscles. I looked fine; I guess if you don't take my injuries in consideration. My hand went down to his hip, holding him, while I approached myself, kissing him. 


It's been a while since the last time we kissed, and god, how much I missed it. He took one of his hands and held my damp beard, then stroked it gently while my tongue explored his mouth. I took my hand off of his hip, grabbing his chin, making him open his mouth wider. I was attacking his lips, and he was doing the same with mine. Looks like I wasn't the only one who missed it. After we couldn't breathe anymore, we broke the kiss. I raised myself, making Brandon lie flat on his back and climbed on top of him. 


I started to suck on his neck, grazing my teeth on it, making him shiver with the feel of my beard against his white, delicate skin. I started to lick down his chest, my hands were holding his arms down now and my purple knees were by the side of his hips. I made a little stop to bite on his collar bone and kept going south until I reached one of his nipples. I bit down on it, hard, and I heard a sharp gasp leave his lips. He tried to raise his arms but I wouldn't let him. Then he started to beg for me to let it go. I did, and bit down the other, his legs jerking up. I smirked. I knew how it hurt. I saw his hands gripping the sheets and his breath becoming faster. I let it go, he let out a sob. I licked it again, and went up, going for his lips once more. 


I kissed him between his quick gasps for air. My hands were on his arms and my body over his, pinning him down on the mattress. I reached down between his legs, releasing one of his arms. I started to stroke his cock slowly, his jaw started to shiver, but I kept on kissing him. I left his lips, going for one of his ears, biting down his earlobe. I heard him moaning, his hips rising. I was torturing him, I knew it, and that was what I wanted. 


I kissed him on the forehead once more and got out of the bed. I heard him groaning, losing contact. I went to find my bottle of lube, it was somewhere in the room. I wasn't really worried about finding it quickly. Brandon could just lay there, desperate for my cock and I wouldn't care because I wanted him to suffer a little. 


"Ronnie… C-come on…" I heard him crying out, I looked back to see his head turned to me, his face with a pained look, one of his legs raising, his hands gripping the sheets. He was breathing fast, his erection throbbing, begging for my touch. He knew he couldn't touch himself, or he would get nothing from me. I smirked, he closed his eyes. I turned my head back to what I was doing. Soon enough I found the bottle of lube somewhere in my wardrobe. I went back to the bed and positioned myself in between his legs. 


I dripped some lube onto my fingers, taking them to his entrance. I threw the bottle on the bed, and lowered my head to bite his shoulders while pressing one of my fingers into him. I heard him sob, quickly gripping my still damp hair with one of his hands. I didn't give him that much time to get used to it and soon he had 3 of my digits inside of him. He was pulling my hair with one hand, scratching down my back with the other. I went down to bite his nipples again, while moving my fingers in and out of him. His legs were twitching, his head sinking back into the pillow, letting out low cries. He started to pull on my hair, trying to make me stop biting him. I let it go, coming back up. 


I took my fingers out of him, he moaned for the loss. I put his legs up my shoulders, my cock pressing up against his entrance. I held one of his thighs with my hand and I took the other to his mouth, muting him. Not that I didn't want to hear him moan with the violation, but I liked seeing him struggle against it, I liked to hear his muffled screams. I started to enter him, feeling him breathing irregularly fast on my hand. I smiled mischievously once I was completely inside him; his hands were on my arm, trying to get my hand off of his mouth. We stayed like that for a while, letting him get used to my size, while his nails were digging marks into my arm, like the ones I already had weren't enough. 


I started to thrust in and out of him slowly, making sure to go as far as I could. I was moaning too, but hearing his muffled little cries were turning me on even more. I picked up the speed, going faster and harder, now he was screaming under my palm. I let go of his mouth, grabbing the sides of his hips with my hands, fucking him harder than I've ever fucked anyone. His high-pitched screams were so beautiful, better than a symphony to my ears. What worried me was not knowing if he was screaming out of pleasure or pain. I had no idea of what I was making him go through, all I knew is that I wouldn't stop now. And anyway, he wouldn't speak to me in the present situation, so I couldn't ask. This too proved the bastard I was. I didn't know how to make "love", just sex; I didn't know how to also care about his pleasure, only mine. I think it was because I've told myself that I could only love my wife, therefore, I needed to make Brandon suffer for trying to get pleasure with me. And since I was a little incoherent prick, I, of course, would fuck him to punish him. I made these thoughts go away, concentrating myself in the pleasure again. Brandon was so tight; it made my eyes get watery.


I took my hand to his cock; I wanted to stroke it to my rhythm. But as soon as I touched it, he came. His muscles tensing up, his body jerked. He took his hands to my biceps and grasped them with all his might. Like I needed more bruises. I saw his come making a mess on his belly and in my hand. Unfortunately for him, I wasn't that close to come. I know that it's kind of torturing to continue to fuck him after he's come, but I had no option. I took my hand full of his come to his mouth, letting him lick it between his low cries and moans. My thrusts became slower but more desperate; looking at him sucking on my fingers was more erotic than I thought. I was panting, my other hand making white imprints on his thigh. I couldn't take much more.


I came inside him, making him moan a little more, my head was thrown back. Our breaths started to settle down, and we looked at each other's eyes intensively. Brandon's arms fell to the bed, and I took his legs off of my shoulders, pulling out; my come and some blood leaking out of him. Looks like some of those screams were actually from pain. 


I laid by his side, exhausted, Brandon curled up by my side, his now muscular arm across my chest. His body was really different now, when we used to spend nights together he was pretty much normal, delicate sometimes. I felt like if I would put too much pressure over his skin it would break like porcelain. Feels like I've also lost my Brandon. What do I have to live for? My fans? I don't care about them, they feel like I'm saving them but I can't even save myself. I don’t have my family anymore, I don’t have kids, I don’t have friends. The only one left was Brandon just because he would refuse to give up on me. I put my hand on his arm, turning my head to his side, looking at him. He smiled, placing a kiss on my cheek. 


"Have I saved you?" He said. "Saved me from what?" Nonsense. I didn't need to be saved. "From yourself." I smirked, looking up; I forgot how sweet he was. And I forgot how he couldn't save me anymore. "Yes, you did." I smiled broadly at him.


I've saved him.


Soon we fell asleep, while looking at each other for the longest time. I was exhausted and I really needed some energy for what I was going to do. I thought about the consequences of it, and it all seemed fair for what I've already done. It was better for me, better for them all. 


I woke up with the sun going down. A beautiful sunset over Vegas. I nudged Brandon's arm off of my chest gently, sitting up. Musing my hair, I got out of bed and shuffled to my wardrobe. I needed some special clothes tonight. I slid on a pair of orange briefs. Most of my underwear had these funny colors, and I quite liked it. Nobody could see them but, just the colors felt great. I opened that one part of my wardrobe with what I only wore to the famed parties, those famed parties I was demanded to attend to keep up appearances and shit. I didn't like them, but I would wear them now. It was appropriate for a homecoming, after all. I shifted through these enormous number of suits that I've probably worn only once, picking out this really nice grey one, something new. I guess it was the most expensive piece of clothing I had. I remember Lisa buying it for me in London; I think she said I needed it for one of those awards things or something. All bullshit, though. I only wore it once.


"What are you doing?" I heard a sleepy voice hum from the bed, Brandon sitting up on it, face twisted into a perplexed state. "I'm just dressing myself up." I said, a joking lilt in my tone. I came back to the wardrobe, not paying attention to him. I picked up some pressed white shirt and put it on, buttoning it. I went for a tie. I wanted a green one, green being my favorite color, the one I used to wear a lot back in the Fuss days. Something old this time. I plucked it and lowered myself to Brandon's side. "Put it on for me." 


I was horrible with ties; usually it was Lisa or Brandon who did it for me. I felt his sleepy, sluggish arms placing it around my neck, then tying it up. He was yawning while doing it. I found it rather funny. When done he looked up into my eyes, and he still had that bruise I blessed him with on his left eye. "Why're you dressing up like this? Where you off too?" I slipped my hand to his face, thumbing his one purple lid. He closed his eyes. "I'm just going to meet some old friends, and I really hope you don't come with me." He opened his healthy eye, looking a bit confused. "I guess it's personal, and well, there's no reason for me to go with you..." He trailed off. I placed a light kiss on his forehead and went back to the wardrobe. 


I put the pants on, something bought, then the jacket, and picked up some orange socks and went to find myself a nice pair of shoes, those being borrowed. They were these ones I wore to that Elton John party attended with Brandon and Dave, and they were nice enough. Now I was completely dressed up, and sharply. Ironically I guess.


I looked outside, standing next to the bed. I could see the sunset, but for some reason it all seemed so white. Not orange like it should. It was sterile and cold, and blinding. I looked away, and glanced at Brandon's furrowed eyes once more. Green; wide, murky green eyes, so different from my little brown ones. I smiled at him and made my way to the bathroom. The hallway, littered with pictures of smiling Lisas and fake Ronnies, seemed to echo.


I slid inside, closing the door. I went to find my razor, rummaging through the drawers on my sink, under the big mirror Lisa made me buy. I found it, on the back of some box. I took the blade out and left it on the sink. I raised my gaze and watched my reflection tentatively. My hair and beard being all overgrown, but I kind of liked that, because it made me look like Dad. 


Like a wolf in a suit.


I stayed at my reflection, measuring up what I've turned into. At the expensive clothes, at the white teeth, at the smooth skin. At the person that wasn't me, a truly lonely person in the middle of all the false, rich faces of the music industry, the "biz." Then, the worthless drummer that couldn't even fulfill a means of existence by having his own children. Will they miss me tomorrow? Will they come to see my body one last time? Or have I succeeded in making them hate me? I wish I had. God, I really did. 


It's not their fault that I'm such a failure though, that I've become this sham, and I hope they don't miss me or suffer too much because of it. But Brandon, he didn't give up on me. I hope someone will be there to hold and comfort him like I did when his mother died. I don't want them to suffer all because of me. Not too harshly. But asking for that was too much, considering how selfish it would all turn out to be in the end.


I smiled at the teal curtains, faded things shaking against the cooling wind and white sunset. The porcelain bath, too extravagant, and the tiled, glimmering floor. Our towels. Fluffy blue towels, light and dark. I almost wanted to cry because of those damn towels, imagining the tell-tale stain of crimson they'd soon obtain. They made one so sad and lonely. 


I picked up the blade, contemplating where I should cut. Richie Tenenbaum seemed to have gotten it right the first time, but I didn't want to make his mistake of being saved. He sliced his wrists, but there had been time to save him. No, I didn't want to be saved and I wanted something quick.


I rose a hand to my neck, trying to find the jugular. It pulsed against my fingertips, alive. I held the blade in front of my eyes, so clean, cleaner than it had ever been, gleaming like it's own sun in the darkened room. I haven't shaved in such a long time that Lisa probably bought a new one. I took it to my neck where my finger's been pressed. I felt the tip of the cold metal lick my skin.


Freedom was close, a red heaven in the distance, but Brandon pulled me back to hell. He opened the door, right when I was about to do it.  Perfect timing, might I add. 


"Ronnie, what are you--"


My spine jerked back quickly when I heard him. 


I watched his porcelain skin seep in new red splotches. I guess he saw when my eyes rolled to the back of my skull, never to go back.


Super Mormon should've known He couldn't save me. 


My knees gave way just as everything else quit. My body fell to the ground. Brandon grabbed it, this falling body, but I wasn't even there anymore. He pressed his hand against the cut, blood spilling over his beautiful hands, the prettiest sight I've ever seen. They tried to stop the gush, but it was no use. He shook it, pressing his hand on the neck even when most of it's fluid was plastering and painting the walls of that unquiet house. He kissed it's cold lips between pained yelps. 


He was never told that he couldn't save everybody.


Even after he held his painted hand over the cut for hours, staring blankly at those white eyes.


But finally, I was free. 


Smiling Lisa deserves a daughter, and Fake Ronnie was no more than that cold body clutched to the chest of a super hero. 


The white sun was beautiful as it sunk amongst the stars.




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