Marc had just reached Buried Alive’s bus, more than ready to undress and tuck himself into bed, when he saw Chris walking from the other end. He wasn’t even lifting his feet off the ground, zigzagging, almost stumbling, as he approached the door.
He had a slight idea of the things that might be running around in his friend’s mind, yet in reality, he knew nothing. The guitarist didn’t want to talk to him; had been avoiding him like the plague for days, barely looking at him. And honestly, it was probably for the best because, as calm as Marc was, there had been moments when he’d wanted to punch him in the face.
Afraid to move and be seen, the bassist stood there paralyzed, until Chris stepped on his own foot and fell to his knees.
The fuck?Marc thought, sighing as he looked up at the sky.
He should be fucking livid for the way this man had treated him for the last few days, as if what had happened had been his fault. And a part of him was—anger was easier than sadness. But he couldn’t help himself. He wasn’t one to hold grudges for long. Besides, it was his friend, and as stupid as it made him, he still cared.
Before he could even make a conscious decision, his body was already moving towards Chris. “Shit, man… You’re boozed,” he said, reaching for his arm to help him up.
“Like I don’t know,” the asshole slurred as he yanked himself away. “I can get up on my own.” He mumbled something unintelligible and stood up, a palm pressed on the side of the bus to keep his balance.
Marc took a deep breath, gathering all the patience of the world. Chris was completely intoxicated and he couldn’t take his hostility like a personal attack now. “You okay, though?” he asked, truly concerned. It’d been a long time since he’d seen Chris so bad. “You seem like you’re about to pass out any minute.”
“I amperfect. Now fuck off.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“I can handle myself even in this state. Don’t need you babysitting me.” Chris rubbed a palm over his face, mouth hanging a little open, gaze blank.
“I doubt that.” Marc crossed his arms over his chest and raised a condescending brow. “You fucking reek of alcohol. Have you drunk an entire distillery?”
“None of your damn business.” Chris tried to walk around him, only to end up tripping again.
In an involuntary, quick reflex, Marc gripped both his shoulders to stop him from stumbling forward. His heart was unbridled, and frustration boiled as their chests pressed together. “See? Why don’t you just—”
“Don’t fucking touch me.” Jerking backward as he slapped his hands away, Chris glared at him, disturbance and rage firing up in his dilated pupils. “I fucking told you to leave me alone!”
“Jesus, I wasn’ttouchingyou, just avoiding you kissing the fucking floor. You need to get your shit together, Schmidt, and stop acting like a prick just because we got carried away a few nights ago.”
It hadn’t just been with the bassist. Chris had been a royal pain in the ass to everyone living with them on the bus. His aura emitted a creepy vibe, and the permanent scowl twisting his expression didn’t make it easy for anyone to approach him. Every time someone had dared to talk to him, they’d had to brace themselves because he could simply answer with a monosyllable or raise hell. They never knew.
Chris’s nostrils flared as he bared his teeth, swallowing while clearly trying to center his vision on Marc. “Do you want me to punch you?”
“Jesus, you’re certifiable,” the bassist said. “What we did is out of your normal sexual repertoire, so what? No one fucking cares if you like pussy, dick, or both.”
“Shut the fuck up!” Chris shoved his chest, losing his stance.
Marc gripped the front of his tee to prevent him, once again, from falling. The inertia as he pulled him forward brought their bodies together, so close they ended up breathing each other’s oxygen. “Or what?” he taunted, flashing him a nasty smirk.
Chris grabbed his wrists. “Let me go!” He struggled with him.
“You’re being ridiculous.” Marc released him, giving up attempting to have a normal conversation with Chris in this state. “I was just trying to help you.”
The guitarist staggered on wobbly legs. “I haven’t asked you to. Have I?”
“Dude,” Erik muttered. “You can barely stand on your feet.”
Marc stiffened, glancing over his shoulder. Shame and guilt roiled inside of him. Not exactly sure when it had happened, Erik and Leah were behind him, concern written all over their faces.
Fucking fantastic.
A part of him was glad that they were here to help him control this drunk, angry version of Chris. But he wished they were still alone. This,thisfucking shit was what the drummer had been dreading could happen all along, and he hated proving him right.
“That’s none of your fuckin’ business. I don’t need a nanny, and for sure, I don’t wantyouanywhere near me,” Chris grumbled as his attention came back to the target of his rage.
Marc frowned, his patience running thin.“Why the hell do you have to be such an asshole?”
