Chapter Text
Right…” Robert sighed wearily and finished dressing, then gathered up from the floor what little possessions he could still call his own: a rucksack, a handful of cassette tapes, some old photos he kept in a paper bag and shut the door behind him.
Steve had finally asked him to leave, and that Robert did not expect—at least, not yet. He knew it was inevitable of course, just as it was with everything in life, but it was still a devastating blow. After all this time…after all that Robert thought he had helped him with musically, and their relationship; what it had eventually turned into, the physical aspect of it all, and what he had given of himself—Robert felt used. It was all just an utter farce. Laughable, Robert thought, and he couldn’t help but let a cynical, little chuckle escape at his utter stupidity. From the very beginning, the signs were portentous, and the outcome was exactly what he had predicted: he was now left with no one and had nowhere else to go.
It was January and cold and Robert plodded along aimlessly, slinging his rucksack over one shoulder, drawing his trench coat up higher on his neck and clutching his bag. What was the point to purpose in his stride now? He couldn’t think of one place he had to go, and not a soul had seemed to care that he still breathed life. The days of an impossibly packed, all-distracting schedule with The Banshees, The Glove, and The Cure were now over, and he was suddenly unimportant. He had been cast aside…
The thought of hailing a taxi back to his childhood home to hide out in his bedroom in Crawley had crossed his mind, but that notion was quickly squashed—he was determined to fight against that comfortable, fruitless, excuse for an existence. Besides, he was convinced there would be no welcoming party waiting for him on that doorstep any time soon, not with the way he'd been behaving lately.
And Mary…he thought of phoning her right then out of desperation, but wisely reconsidered. She was no pushover. He could offer nothing to her now and they both knew that. She had often told him so, right before she’d finally had enough.
Robert realized his options were few, and dwindling quickly. A hotel was out of the question; although the anonymity of that was tempting, he dreaded them. His thoughts kept circling back to the friends he thought he still had for support; maybe Lol... No, he couldn’t possibly… He was grasping at straws. It was ironic that for the first time in his life when he so desired the shoulder of others—a sense of security through familiarity—he was suddenly alone. He had foolishly squandered everything.
Robert stopped in his tracks when one last option finally came to him: Bill. The Fiction office. There, he would have the chance to clear his head and start fresh, he was sure of it. He turned around and squinted through the falling snow, eyeing the expanse of the road ahead, and began the long walk to Charlotte Street amidst the Tuesday morning commuters.
*** *** ***
“Well, there’s the couch…” Chris sighed, “You’re welcome to it.”
Chris’ head tilted in the direction of the long, tattered couch that Robert knew so well–and that had obviously seen better days. Much better days, Robert thought. His eyes seemed to cloud over as he stood in the middle of the room, his coat dripping wet from the weather outside, clutching his rucksack and soggy paper bag tightly in his hands as he recalled those better days…and how often he and Simon would find themselves together on that very same couch to sleep off whatever booze or drugs they had ingested that night, too wasted to drive home.
One evening, in particular, had never left his memory. The events that happened one late night replayed over and over in his mind often, even though they had been estranged for more than a year now, and that was the first night Simon touched him, fucked him on that couch… Robert’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment.
“Everything’s just as before.” Chris continued, breaking Robert from his spell, “Blankets are in the closet…”
“Yeah, thanks.” Robert mumbled and let his bags drop where he stood.
The sudden catapult back into the present made him feel the effects from the near hour walk in the snow, and he was now soaked and freezing. He slid off his cold, wet coat and boots, slumped on the lumpy couch, and glanced listlessly around at his dank, dark surroundings in the basement. So, this is it. This is “home,” he thought, Lovely. It had somehow seemed so much more appealing years ago…
“There’s some tea if you’d like.” Chris spoke again and stood in the doorway, eyeing Robert sitting there with shoulders still hunched, his hair wet and clothes rumpled, staring off at nothing ahead, rubbing his chin thoughtlessly.
“Sure…” Robert paused and finally looked up at him, “Vodka?”
“Upstairs. Everything’s upstairs.” Chris flicked the light switch on, lit a cigarette, then tossed his pack and lighter at Robert’s still form on the couch.
“Thanks,” Robert tried to grin, but it was forced, brittle. His gaze dropped and he slid a cigarette out of the pack as Chris shut the door behind him.
*** *** ***
He couldn’t sleep without passing out. Left alone with his thoughts in the quiet darkness he tossed and turned, the rough fabric of the woolen blanket itching his skin, and the sordid memories of the past life he hoped would never resurface, emerged night after night. It was all a maddening nightmare, and the only way Robert knew how to silence the racket in his head was to drink himself into a coma alone in the unrelenting, cold, damp hell in which he now imprisoned himself. And as a result, in the span of little over a week, the stocked cabinet upstairs was practically emptied of every bottle of liquor it once housed.
Most days, Robert wouldn't regain consciousness until well into in the afternoon. Bleary-eyed, rumpled and sluggish, he would only bother with changing into the few articles of clean clothing he still had left in his rucksack on rare occasion. There was no phone or radio in the room, and he had no contact with anyone apart from Chris, and even that was fleeting. Once or twice every few days he would shuffle upstairs for some biscuits, milk, or tea, sometimes using the office phone to order a take away when the mood struck, only to quickly duck back down into his lair as if hiding from a killer as he clutched his beer and food.
Surprisingly, none of his instruments or equipment accompanied him. Even though Chris had offered to have those items brought straight to him, Robert couldn’t bear it. And so, those guitars—once as precious as gold, sat unused, deposited in an off-site storage room, indefinitely.
*** *** ***
There was a knock on the door that startled Robert, causing him to cease all movement right where he stood, then reached down to scoop up his dirty shirt from the floor, slipping it on over his head.
“Yeah?” He murmured, and Chris opened the door.
“Lol here to see you… Upstairs.” He said, and before moving to shut it, “I’ve told him you’ll only be a moment.”
The door shut and Robert froze. He didn’t know how to react to Chris’ obvious ploy to get him out of his dark cell—to coax him back into some sort of interaction with humankind—and Robert’s chest tightened at that thought. He was almost certain Lol had only appeared due to Chris’ pleading, and not from any true concern of his own. Come to think of it, Robert was even convinced that Chris’ concern was little more than financial; the label, of course. He saw right through him. He saw right through them both. Ha! Another utter, fucking sham, Robert thought. But even so, perhaps since they were waiting upstairs, he could finally tell them what he wanted to say for months.
“Fuck…” He uttered and began the long plod out of the room and up the steps.
It hadn’t gone as Robert intended; his heart was racing and his hands became clammy as he mechanically spat out the words he thought he would never divulge: The Cure was over, the music was finished and that was that. He’d had enough.
There was very little said as they stood facing each other and both Chris and Lol looked incredulous as Robert had announced just what he thought of them and just what his plan was, which was to do nothing. To let it all dissolve away, and he would disappear into oblivion. Christ...nearly there now, he thought. It would be as if The Cure never existed, and the first, real grin he'd shown in months slowly spread across his face—he quite liked that idea.