Fandom/Pairing: Lost/SawyerxCharlie
Prompt: #60. AU - Sawyer as a rock star. Who fangirls him?
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 6725
Summary: AU - Sawyer's the guitarist of a band called Wreckage, with his best friend Boone and his buddy Michael. He knows Charlie's a gold digger but he can't help but fall for him.
Author's Notes: Written for hiatus_stories. Thanks![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
toestastegood for betaing. And yes, I used Smile Empty Soul lyrics for Wreckage's songs; it fit. Also, there's a big Supernatural reference because I suck at cars.
"…And here's who you've been waiting all night for. Wreckage!"
An almost natural scream, a moment's pause, a grin around the small group of three, and then running onto stage. That was how it always was. The story of their lives - their introduction, and then the praise.
Sawyer didn't know what he'd do without it as he slid to his spot, having decided to go on stage without shoes that night. It was things like that, simple things that made the crowd love him. Sometimes he would jump around if he had a bad day, scream if he had a good day, or jump into the crowd half naked (though only once while wearing his boxers, which got a very strong warning by the techies to stop disrobing) because he'd had a fucking awesome day.
The first song started right away, and it was nothing like what he was feeling. But how could anything be like what he was feeling? The screams, the shouts, the people ready to sing along. He could remember playing in bars, in garages, at random parties for twenty bucks, just to get their name known. It'd worked.
Of course it'd fucking worked. Twenty thousand.
Sold out.
All loving him.
Maybe he was getting a bit ahead of himself, but it wasn't his fault. As they shouted the words along with him, as he heard Boone playing the bass with his voice, as he played the guitar along with it, as he heard Michael slam the sticks down on the drum set so hard he was expecting it to break, he knew he could get ahead of himself for once. A garage band, thought of with Boone while high with the other going down on him out of boredom turned into something like this, before his nineteenth birthday. He thought that he had a bit of fucking right to get ahead of himself, thank you very much.
"Say the right things all the time, I've heard it all before and I don't need another asshole in my life right now. Try to be my everything, my everything and more but everything in my life holds me down and keeps me bored."
He consistently terrified everyone, sometimes even Boone and Michael. It was spur of the moment things, like holding his microphone ut to the crowd so low that somebody could grab it, that maybe the band think he was going to get stabbed by someone who hated him eventually. There were threats, considering he wasn't one of the singers who kept himself quiet in the news.
But he still leaned down with the mic, keeping it almost mouth-level with the crowd. He couldn't help but grin widely as they sang back the words he'd written one day when his grandmother had been trying to get him to continue with school, to not drop out after he'd failed ninth grade for the third time.
"So open your fucking ears and listen to my words; there's nothing you can ever say to change my mind. I need to make this clear, these words, they must be heard. I'm only me and I don't care if you don't like it."
Jumping back up, he was just in time to yell, "I don't give a fuck if you don't," into the microphone, and then started jumping. But with socks and a very slippery, stained hard-wood floor, it could only lead to disasters.
He was glad he hadn't fallen gracefully. People always tried to. But that was a contradiction of who he was. Instead, his feet went up, and he slammed on his back. It knocked the wind right out of him which surprised him, as it was something he didn't know was possible from the back. From the amount of fights he got in, he knew it was possible from the front but wow. It might've been the fact that his guitar had nearly decapitated him, a random item he half the time forgot to play (which had gotten them to finally resort to using taped recordings of the songs, so it sucked when he wanted to play things out of order, techies needing to scramble, sometimes just giving up, throwing their hands up at the sides of the stage especially when he would take requests. But it helped if he kept in sync in case he ever randomly forgot to play for half a second, just so it sounded almost normal), but still. Damn.
Boone was ready to run over but just as he stopped playing, Sawyer croaked out, "Like it... Fake it..." to the music, making Boone falter and start playing again, slowly but surely.
Sawyer decided Boony was quite good as he tried to get his breath back. It didn't work, so he continued singing, proving he at least didn't lip sing. He wasn't that pathetic; he wasn't going to be the next Ashlee Simpson. "Love it... Hate it..." Then he began the chorus again, getting up to jump around again while ignoring stagehands at the side trying to throw him shoes.
Going Shoeless was fun. It meant it was going to be a long night, and so he'd definitely enjoy it.
* * *
Sawyer knew he was going to get yelled at by Michael as they headed backstage but he didn't care. It'd been such an awesome concert. Michael was always such a drama queen, bitching about the stupidest things. He could hear him now. 'Sawyer! The guitars aren't plugged in!' 'Sawyer! You're going to puke from drinking so much and we need to leave tomorrow at seven!' 'Sawyer! Why do you have drugs?!' 'Sawyer! The building's on fire and you're holding a lighter and lighter fluid!'
So the last one had only happened once, and he'd really hated that place. Could he really be held responsible? The cops had never even found out.
It was all besides the point. He always complained, and as they headed back to the dressing room, he could tell Michael wasn't happy. Screw him.
"Sawyer. For once in your life, can you do a gig normal? Like a human being? With shoes, pants, and preferably a shirt?" Michael snapped, turning into the dressing room.
"I like him without his pants and shirt though," came a British accent, belonging to a man laying on one of the couches situated in the room. In front of him on the table was a small bag of heroin, a blackened spoon, and a needle. It was pretty clear he'd missed the concert.
Sawyer didn't care as he stepped into the room, moving over to him. Charlie was a gold digger; they all knew it. He had been in a band that had gotten mildly famous, gotten addicted to heroin, to riches, to fame in general, and now was clinging to anyone that would give it to him. Sawyer was the lucky sap. It wasn't like they would go on romantic walks; he knew what Charlie was up to. Hell, he'd been up to it at the beginning of Wreckage's career. It was how they were so popular. But he loved the fucks. Nothing compared.
Sitting on the couch, he pulled Charlie into his lap and ignored the slight protest to trail his fingers down the other's chest, dipping them briefly into his pants. After every concert, he was hard. Boone was too, but he wasn't so sure about Michael. Frankly, he didn't want to know. And Michael didn't want to see as he left, slamming the door behind him.
Boone was busy in another room was Shannon, who trailed with them for the same reason as Charlie but with more attachment. She wanted to be an actress, and was definitely doing a good job getting there.
He grinned at Charlie widely. "You left me some this time."
"You bought three grams. Of course I left you some. I'm not going to overdose."
Rolling his eyes, he held back the comment of 'sometimes I wonder' to tie a piece of cloth around his arm tightly. The veins were getting harder to find, and it took a few seconds but once he located one, he grabbed Charlie's needle, melted down some of the powder, filled it, got rid of the air and injected himself like a pro. He'd been doing it for so many years that by now he could do it in his sleep. He did it half asleep; wasn't that the same?
The rush he got made him collapse back against the couch with a sigh, making him almost too lazy to remove the needle. Finally he did, and with good reason - Charlie's head was lowering, as was his zipper.
The heat that encased him was way too good, and he bucked up slowly, gasping loudly. The heroin always made sex a rush, every nerve in his body heightened to sexual pleasure, numbed to pain.
At first Charlie's tongue circled around Sawyer's head, flicking over the slit before it lowered, taking in so much. Just when Sawyer would think Charlie had reached his limit, the other slowing, he'd take in a bit more, and a bit more, finally making his lips reach the base.
It was an amazing feeling, so much better than old girlfriends who used their hand on half of him because they were afraid of choking, or because they didn't like the taste and just wanted to get him willing to go down on them. He bucked up quickly as Charlie seemed to swallow him whole only to pull his head back and repeat the motion, resulting in Sawyer's head falling back against the couch. Charlie didn't even seem to care as Sawyer gripped his hair and held him there as he bucked up sharply again, just needing more of the heat; it was amazing.
He'd never found a better or more willing cock-sucker than Charlie Pace.
* * *
It was things like this that made Sawyer grin. The concerts were fun, yes, but autograph signings, where people would pay twenty bucks a pop for a signed picture of his face, and fifty for a signed picture of him with the person was beyond anything he'd ever imagined.
Add in the fact that, for the first time in his life, he was doing good and having it go to charity - a cancer foundation as he'd always been at risk himself, ever since his uncle was diagnosed. All of it. So far they were a little over three hundred thousand, and there was still a huge line.
He just wished in the slightest that Charlie was here. Yet as a woman came up to him, looking about his age, possibly a bit older with dark hair, dark eyes and knew just how to wear make-up, he decided Charlie could be a bit late.
"Who should I make this one out to?" he asked as she paid and a photograph was handed over to him. He could see the glance Boone gave him, a slight warning in his eyes, but he didn't care.
"Didn't know you were personalizing them." A small grin, and she placed her hands into the back of her jeans, not noticing or seeming to care that she was making her chest jut out. "Kate. Just Kate."
A brow was cocked a bit, because she didn't seem the type to like Wreckage. They were heavy, with bass that could blow someone's eardrum out (they'd been through the lawsuits), yet there she was, leaning down some to– oh. Yeah, she was definitely flirting.
And he couldn't resist pointing out that the shirt, a Wreckage shirt - he loved this job - was torn in the correct spots to show her cleavage so much. "Want me to sign those too?"
He was still hesitating on signing the picture, which was backing up the line even more than it was. When someone had a chance to have their name on it, something they didn't even offer because it would take too much time, they'd give their first and last, always. That was to prove it wasn't bought from the internet. Or they'd get a snapshot with a camera. Yet there she was, just wanting her first name. Whatever, though. It was her choice to waste it.
A small grin and she noticed the hesitation. "I'm good, thanks. I'd be tempted to have it tattooed on there. And I already told you my name. Last isn't important."
The message and signature was quick - a fast, barely legible 'Kate - keep showing those tits. You might get somewhere around here. Sawyer' - and then it was handed back to her. But just as she went to leave, she stopped, hesitated like he had been doing, and leaned forward to brush her lips against his. A piece of paper was pressed into his hand before security was yanking her away, and he stared in shock.
People making out with him wasn't a big deal. Hot fangirls? Huge one.
A glance down at the paper showed it was a phone number and he smirked, slipping it in his pocket. The look he still was getting from Boone though was definitely a condescending one, with a brow raised and an annoyed, if not disappointed look. "What?"
"You know what. You just got front page in People and about six hundred other magazines. Good job."
"Why's that a bad thing?"
Before Boone could answer, a figure was slowly walking over to them, swaying his hips a bit too much. Sawyer watched for a second before he whispered, "Oh fuck." He signed the next two pictures without looking, not even caring where the signatures went, because this was bad.
Charlie was drugged out of his mind, and by the bulge in his pants, he was extremely horny. Fuck.
Security let him through, but Sawyer wished they hadn't. Charlie moved over to Sawyer, grinning some and sitting in his lap a bit. "Come on," he whispered into his ear, nipping at it while Sawyer tried to sign the next picture. The fact was that it only a distraction because Charlie was not working around him; this wasn't sexy.
Kids were here, for crying out loud. Teenagers were used to this thing - at least he had been by the time he was fourteen. But fucking kids. "Charlie, not now. Go away," he muttered, ignoring him the best he could.
A pout was given and Charlie moved to kiss his neck. "Please? You gotta be almost done."
Boone was even getting annoyed, and that took so much. "Charlie, look at that line. There's three hundred people in here, and another two hundred outside. Go away. He'll call you when he's done." There were dividers between the line and the tables, so no one could take any candid pictures, but there was a slight place where one could see between them that they kept checking the line through.
Apparently no wasn't an answer, because Charlie ground down just as a ten-year-old kid came up to the table, eyes wide at the display. That was all Sawyer needed. Thank god Michael couldn't be here with Walt, since Ana had had to work today and he couldn't find anyone to sit him.
"Charlie, go away," he hissed out before he shoved him away. It proved just how drugged he was when Charlie crashed from a push that anyone should've been able to recover from, and Sawyer almost felt bad.
Almost.
It took a few seconds for Charlie to get up, and about four more pictures, but then Charlie was storming off, probably to go do more heroin. As long as it wasn't to hump him in front of a twelve-year-old and his mother who had came up next for a picture, ignorant to the display, he was fine.
* * *
Sawyer couldn't remember how many drinks he'd had. It'd been well over the legal limit, slightly past the smart limit, and he was nearing the healthy limit. But Charlie kept bringing them, so why would he stop?
He didn't have a reason either as he downed the two offered shots of whiskey, giving a slight shudder but that was it. A grin came and he tugged the other into his lap before he kissed him on the lips, a sloppy one that he knew reeked of beer, Jack Daniels, and cigarettes, but he didn't care. He didn't care about anything right now.
"I love you," he slurred out, saying the same thing he stated every time he'd had more than five drinks. He never said it normally; drunk was a whole different matter. "Love you so much. So hot. You should have my babies." A laugh was given before he kissed the other again, but Charlie turned his head this time so the other's lips hit his cheek, leaving a mark there of whiskey and saliva. Charlie didn't care, and Sawyer rather liked the sharp feeling of his lover's - he'd decided that approximately five minutes ago, whether Charlie agreed or not - stubble on his lips, so he did it again, making an exaggerated 'mwah' noise.
"Can someone bring some of that over here?" Charlie called, having just the slightest slur in his voice. For once he was mostly sober, because he had an idea today. He needed money; Sawyer wasn't giving him enough drugs. He knew if he played this right, he could get so much. He could be higher than a damn kite.
Someone, a random groupie probably but Charlie didn't know or care, brought over a bag of heroin and Charlie pulled out the small leather pouch from his pocket. He placed some of the powder on a spoon, melting it, and had to fight not to spill any as Sawyer tried to feel him up.
They'd been here for less than an hour and a half, and Sawyer was already smashed. He wasn't the only one - Michael had been slapped by Ana for staring at someone's ass for too long, because he'd had at least six beers, and after the fourth one he always stared just a bit too long. Now he was slurring out excuses, while drinking more of another beer, as if it would fix everything. It didn't.
And the groupies, roadies, random people who'd been invited by winning their way here… Well, of course they were drunk. They had a right to be. It was just a random get together, thrown by a radio station that was paying big bucks for the band to show up. And that meant drugs weren't supposed to be there, but of course they'd gotten in. No one monitored anyone but the winners.
Boone watched silently as Charlie shot himself up, and didn't even clean the needle before refilling and offering it to Sawyer who, in turn, just offered his arm, knowing he was too drunk to do it himself. He understood the drugs; Sawyer and him had been using since before they'd gotten famous. Sawyer had been the one to introduce him to them, and Boone wasn't sure how he'd gotten into them. He wouldn't say. But Charlie and him… He acted like they were lovers, like Charlie didn't cheat, like they had gotten tested regularly and knew they were clean for everything.
Even so, he would still never share a needle with anyone. That was just asking for trouble. He'd seen the way Charlie acted with people, the way he'd flirt, the way he'd throw his hips just a bit for someone to follow him into the bathroom. And he also knew Charlie was extremely against condoms; he always boasted that, as if it was a good thing.
Downing the shot of vodka that Shannon brought him, he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and frowned, watching Charlie silently. "What do you think of him?"
"Who? Sawyer? You know what I think of him," she replied without any real commitment to her words; she'd insult him all the time behind his back, but to his face would suck up just for a bit of drugs, a compliment, a bit of money to go away. Anything.
But the resentment came for a reason. She'd caught them more than once fucking, and so it wasn't like she just hated him because he was famous and she wasn't. She surprisingly wasn't that vain.
"No. The other one. Charlie." Another shot of vodka went down, and he knew he should've been slowing down, but he'd already gone to AA once; he was strongly advised to stay away from this stuff. Yeah right.
"Oh. Gold digger." Crossing one leg over the other, her skirt raised a bit, an already high one, and it was clear if it raised any higher, she'd be showing her thong - she never wore anything else - if she even wore one.
Boone frowned, not even noticing. It was so common by now that he'd given up trying to stop her. As long as she didn't cheat, she could flirt. It applied to him too.
"But aren't we all?" Shannon asked before she smirked a bit as he raised a brow quickly at her, before he pressed a kiss to her lips and stood, needing to go over to Charlie and Sawyer.
"I'll be back."
"Take your time. I see someone I want to fuck."
He stopped mid-step, staring at her. "What?"
"That blonde. There." She pointed briefly to where an Australian accent was coming from, and where blue eyes kept drifting over to her. "She keeps looking over at me. Boony, it isn't a guy."
A frown and he added, "Fine. I'm joining though."
"Of course." A smile and then she was off to where the woman stood with a heavy-set man.
The distraction had cost Boone though; Sawyer was now nuzzling Charlie's neck, kissing it lightly and whispering things into his ear that Charlie was responding to by leaning back against him, eyes closed, as if he was actually enjoying it. He was enjoying the drugs, that was all, Boone told himself.
Then he noticed those linked hands, and the way Sawyer was stroking Charlie's, and he promptly sat himself down. Fuck. He wasn't cruel. Sawyer had only loved someone once, and that had ended in her being shot by his father. That wasn't a love like this though, at least he hoped to the gods not, so he stopped himself. He'd intervene tomorrow, when Sawyer was hung over and bitchy, so he could get hurt. Yeah. That sounded great.
A brief glance was given to Boone before it was decided he didn't care about him and kissed Sawyer's cheek. "Love you too," he murmured as he knew Sawyer would never remember it come morning. It just worked better with the plan, he told himself. "I have a question." Now seemed like as good of a time as any.
A small 'mhmm?' was given, and Charlie knew he had him hooked.
"I need some money. Just a bit. My…" There came the problem. He didn't have a car; they traveled too often. Sawyer always talked about one he had, one named Cassidy, a beautiful 1967 Impala that he'd upgraded, putting a new stereo in, so loud it kept his ears ringing if he had it on half-volume, had a spot where he could hook up two guitars if he wanted so they would play out the speakers… He always talked about it. Apparently he'd crashed 'her' one night when he was too drunk and drugged to know his own name, barely making it out alive before she'd caught fire, and they'd gotten signed a month later.
But Charlie didn't have one. He never had had one. Hell; he was pretty sure his license had expired, and he was actually afraid to get behind the wheel even sober. So he shifted some before saying, "I have to pay something off."
Surprisingly, Sawyer bought it. "How much you need?"
"A thousand." That'd get him through the month before he had this chance again.
Sawyer nodded again, stroking Charlie's hand, and Charlie almost felt bad. But as Sawyer took out his check book, writing down the numbers and signing his name, even more illegible than normal, that guilt left. "Here. You can cash it, right?"
"I think I'll find a way." He'd better, because if he didn't, he wouldn't be able to just get cash from Sawyer. He'd already checked his wallet when he was sleeping on several occasions; he never carried more than a hundred, and in fifties, so it was hard to take one and not get caught.
A kiss was placed on the other's lips and he tried not to get nauseated from the smell of alcohol. He could feel eyes on him though, so he whispered, "I have to use the bathroom, okay?" A nod was given and he got up, heading for it, only to be followed by one of the roadies a few seconds later.
Boone let his head fall to the bar with a sigh, not able to bear it. Sawyer wasn't even noticing, just taking a long drag from a cigarette with swaying hands. Great. But he looked so happy that he couldn't ruin it.
* * *
"You can't go on stage!"
They'd been having this fight all night. Sawyer wasn't even sure when it was going to end which was something he almost always knew, but his head was aching. He'd drank the night before, just by himself and Boone, and he couldn't remember the things he'd done. All he knew was that he'd woken up shirtless, and Boone naked, both of them wide-eyed at the fact.
That time of their life was supposed to be behind them.
The worst part was when he'd told Charlie, all sheepish and scared, he'd just gotten a blank stare and then a shrug, like it didn't matter. That had almost hurt. He wanted a reaction. He wanted yelling, screaming, tears. He wanted what he'd get if the allegations that Boone had told him about Charlie cheating, that he'd thought he knew all along, were right.
But he was too far in to back out now so he knew he'd just live with it.
"I want to, Sawyer!" Charlie shouted, stomping his foot and crossing his arms like a child. It would've almost been cute, if he wasn't so stoned out of his mind that he was swaying everywhere, making Sawyer so scared he was going to topple over and slam his head on the dresser of the hotel room.
"You can't play bass! That's Boone's job! And I've never even heard you play! Plus the next fucking concert? That's tonight! Are you insane!? Like you know the god damn songs!"
"You have heard me play!" Charlie grabbed the CD he'd brought, a very scratched one with Liam, him and Kenny on the front, grinning and giving the photographer a piece sign. He then threw it at Sawyer, nearly hitting him in the face.
Oh, bull shit. If that was how he treated his CD of his single, the only one that had gotten him a few hundred thousand, then he didn't want to hear him play. "Yeah, and I also know that the recording studios play with the music. They play with ours. Not a lot but enough. Plus, if you've scratched it up that much, you really don't care about it, do you? Just fucking get back with Driveshaft and your great ol' brother!"
He wasn't expecting Charlie to hit him. Maybe to curse, maybe to tell him to die, maybe to pull what his old girlfriend Christina had and try to kill him by throwing things at his head - he still had the scars, along with the ones from his uncle and his father - but not to hit him.
It was a hard punch, too. He didn't know the runt had it in him. Damn. He stared for a second at the ground, not even realizing he'd fallen over. Whoa. Just as he got up, the door slammed, and he went to yell Charlie's name, wanting to run after him only to realize the drugs were gone. They'd been sitting there right in view.
He had money too laying there, two hundred dollars. That was gone also. At least that'd been taken. Charlie could get himself a good hotel room, calm down, and meet him before they left. He hoped to god he met them before they left, because he couldn't leave without him. He'd cancelled concerts before because of this.
* * *
It'd lasted long before, but never this long. Sawyer had known something was up long before he'd gotten the call from the hospital - they'd had to cancel two concerts, and Michael was about ready to go on without them.
That was the major thing, other than the lyrics, that was getting critiqued about Wreckage. Their instability. More often than not, venues were warning them that if they cancelled a show, they had to pay for all the tickets that were being paid back.
It came out of Sawyer's money. It always did. There was so much though; ten thousand were going to one concert and fifteen thousand to another, both sold out. Some seats, lawn seats, were five a pop while others, the closest seats, were forty-five. Roughly, it was costing him three quarters of a million dollars. He'd pay ten times that amount though just to get Charlie back.
He'd give up fifty times that not to be in the taxi cab, riding down to the hospital.
He'd give up his whole fucking fortune not to be heading down to the morgue without a word, having to deal with the stares of random fans, and even having to tell one random person to "fuck up" who wanted an autograph. He couldn't get a good insult out there; he'd meant to say 'fuck off' and 'shut up' and it had blended. The person had gotten the hint though as he'd turned a corner for the morgue, the sign in plain view.
No one spoke a word as he was brought through the cold doors and up to one of the metal handles, a number reading '048' above it. He wished it said 'Pace, Charlie' or 'Bloody Rock God' like Charlie used to call himself, because he knew it was him.
He just knew, before the thing was even opened.
But the man, a man about thirty-five with a shaved head and a name tag reading 'Dr. Jack Sheppard' - what a stupid name - spoke, snapping him from his trance. "The police had to call you, Mr. Ford."
Ford. He hadn't been called that in a while, but he just let it slide, waiting for it to open. Why was this guy doing it now, speaking here? Didn't he ever hear of bed-side manner? Then again, this was the morgue. Maybe it didn't apply.
He wished it did. Just this once. He was a celebrity. It should've.
When he got no reply, Jack continued. "The presumed body's parents are out of country, too far to contact and fly in in a timely fashion. His brother has passed away several months ago from an unsolved murder–" Sawyer frowned, never having heard of that. Maybe that was why Driveshaft never made it; maybe he never should've yelled during that fight about getting back with his brother. "And your name is in his pocket on a credit card."
How the hell… Sawyer ignored the urge to check his wallet, nodding slowly. "Can I just… see?"
He thought he was ready, but as the tray slowly opened and Charlie's lifeless body laid there, eyes closed, Sawyer felt sick. His skin was so pale but besides that, he looked normal. "Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He overdosed. No. He just… He just had a small bag."
Before Sawyer knew what was happening, Jack had a tape recorder out and was recording everything he was saying, but Sawyer didn't care. He was too much in shock for this. "It was just a small one. Like, a gram. Heroin, y'know? And there ain't any bruising and he had… Oh god. He took my money."
He'd never felt so sick in his life.
* * *
The funeral had been so nice. Flowers and tuxes and priests and Sawyer couldn't remember much more than that. He'd been sober for the first time in days there, with Boone at his side, clutching his hand for support while Charlie's mother sobbed, Charlie's father stood by her side silently watching with a bit of distaste - he'd always heard stories but never believed them - and had just felt the last of his sanity leaving him.
That was why, hours later, he'd had so much he couldn't move from the bed he was laying on. Heroin, coke, crystal, weed, Jack Daniels… Only the best. He was pretty sure he'd even found a bottle of Vicodin and had swallowed the entire thing; at first glance he'd thought it was Viagra but he wasn't hard yet and he wasn't hurting, so he was guessing it was Vicodin.
He just wanted to stop hurting. It was awful. Charlie was gone, the one person he'd actually thought he was going to be happy with. Laying inside the tour bus as it rolled along, he took another swig of whiskey and watched a concert, one of their first popular ones, and couldn't help grinning.
Charlie was there on stage during it. Sawyer had pulled him along, and back then, Charlie had been normal. It hadn't been all about fame and fortune; Charlie had been in it for the rush of things. They'd been friends then, having met at a random music festival. Charlie had been coming down from the rush of everything at that point.
And he looked so happy, jumping about to the music, on stage with ten thousand people watching him, not a care in the world. Boone didn't even seem to mind, though he knew he had later on.
Of course he had. After everything, Charlie had begun to just want money, drugs, fame. And he'd gotten it, through the wrong ways.
He'd gotten it after the concert too, because Sawyer watched as he on the screen kissed Charlie, and he could still feel the other on his lips. He grinned some before letting his head rest back against the pillow, chugging a large portion of the liquid.
It went down like water, but he still had a good fourth of a bottle left. The praise he could hear from the video sounded like it was in the room, and he was so gone. But that was where he wanted to be - at that concert.
"Little babies are crying, pretty ladies are crying. To bring some order to the world, the Lord is with you little girl," he slurred, his voice so slow that it didn't match the beat of the song at all.
He finished off the bottle and chucked it at the wall, grinning some. It shattered, making a loud noise, yet he didn't realize someone might come. Instead he took a slow breath, the first one in a long while. It was harder and harder to breathe.
It took several minutes, it seemed, for someone to come in. In reality it was just seconds, but Sawyer was too busy slurring out more words to the songs. "And I don't know what to do, but sit here and wait for the end of the world."
His body was beginning to slow down, and he found his vision doubling. That left him seeing two Boones as the door opened, yet he just grinned. Two was better than one. Four would've been even more better, though.
But still, he saw all of the Boone's eyes widen as he saw the amount of drugs laying about - it wasn't just a needle with heroin. There was a bag of heroin, a bag of meth, the remains of a line of coke and a rolled up dollar bill with the powder on it, the end of a joint, and as he turned to his side, he saw the broken bottle.
He shut the door, only to notice the empty Vicodin bottle on the night stand. Fuck. Just as Sawyer began to sing the sentence again, he shut off the television and then raced over to his side, kneeling down next to him.
"Hey, Sawyer? Sawyer?" he asked while at the same time taking out his cell phone, dialing 911. "Sawyer, can you answer me?"
A soft 'nnn?' noise was given as Sawyer glanced over slowly and squinted at Charlie. He grinned, moving to run his hand lightly over the other's face, but as he blinked a few times, he realized he was wrong. Charlie didn't have dark hair, or thick eyebrows, and he had stubble.
"I want Charlie," he said with such a slur that Boone couldn't even understand. But that was okay; he couldn't understand the words Boone spoke into the phone.
A hand was placed to Sawyer's hand that almost comforted him, and Boone ignored the woman on the other end of the line who told him to stay on the phone. They had the address, the details, and had given him the confirmation someone would be here soon. So he hung up and quickly frowned. "Fuck. You're burning up." It was only when he placed his hand to Sawyer's neck that he could feel his racing heart beat, and his eyes widened.
"Sawyer, I can't believe you," he said, trying to sound angry. All that came out was worry, so he just gave up and stroked the other's hair.
The seconds ticked by like hours, and Boone was too busy cleaning up the best he could to notice Sawyer's breathing getting slower. It'd already been so slow, but he had his back turned, throwing out the needles and bags, just needing to get rid of them.
The glass could be dealt with later, he'd decided, not wanting to deal with it now. "You made a real mess," he complained as he turned around to look at the bed, a small smile on his face because he had to cheer himself up. But Sawyer wasn't responding.
"Sawyer?"
Nothing.
"Hey. Sawyer. Talk to me."
Still, nothing, and by now Boone had gotten to Sawyer's side, shaking his body slightly. Still nothing. He was panicking now but he felt for a pulse, and the racing one was gone, replaced with nothing.
No. No.
* * *
It was all over the news - because of Charlie's death, Sawyer was dead. Because of Sawyer's death, Boone had tried to jump out the window, getting caught a second before doing so by the ambulance crew. Wreckage was over with, and Boone was being evaluated by psychiatrists.
But it wasn't like she had time to check the newspapers. She moved around too much, just taking a few suitcases, her car, a bunch of license plates, and her cell phone.
And he still hadn't called. So that was why she'd done it.
That stupid British kid. He'd been all over Sawyer. She deserved to be with him, or at least someone better than a gold digger, and yet there he'd been, all over him. She would've never treated him like that.
She'd seen it, after escaping from security. She'd hidden in a corner and watched the display and it'd been sickening. So she'd decided to help Sawyer out.
Every day she'd watched him, and then she'd seen her chance. A random fight, and he was gone. She knew just how to do it, sticking him with a needle and running, shooting him not with much heroin but enough to read on a tox screen. It would've been enough to make him happy, if there hadn't been a large air bubble planted there.
It'd done the trick, and as she opened the paper in the small diner, taking a few bites every so often of her bagel and cream cheese, she was expecting to read a story about that.
Instead, she found something that made her sick enough to cover her mouth.
"Famous Rockstar Dies at Twenty-One After Losing Lover Over Quarrel"
Prompt: #60. AU - Sawyer as a rock star. Who fangirls him?
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 6725
Summary: AU - Sawyer's the guitarist of a band called Wreckage, with his best friend Boone and his buddy Michael. He knows Charlie's a gold digger but he can't help but fall for him.
Author's Notes: Written for hiatus_stories. Thanks
toestastegood for betaing. And yes, I used Smile Empty Soul lyrics for Wreckage's songs; it fit. Also, there's a big Supernatural reference because I suck at cars."…And here's who you've been waiting all night for. Wreckage!"
An almost natural scream, a moment's pause, a grin around the small group of three, and then running onto stage. That was how it always was. The story of their lives - their introduction, and then the praise.
Sawyer didn't know what he'd do without it as he slid to his spot, having decided to go on stage without shoes that night. It was things like that, simple things that made the crowd love him. Sometimes he would jump around if he had a bad day, scream if he had a good day, or jump into the crowd half naked (though only once while wearing his boxers, which got a very strong warning by the techies to stop disrobing) because he'd had a fucking awesome day.
The first song started right away, and it was nothing like what he was feeling. But how could anything be like what he was feeling? The screams, the shouts, the people ready to sing along. He could remember playing in bars, in garages, at random parties for twenty bucks, just to get their name known. It'd worked.
Of course it'd fucking worked. Twenty thousand.
Sold out.
All loving him.
Maybe he was getting a bit ahead of himself, but it wasn't his fault. As they shouted the words along with him, as he heard Boone playing the bass with his voice, as he played the guitar along with it, as he heard Michael slam the sticks down on the drum set so hard he was expecting it to break, he knew he could get ahead of himself for once. A garage band, thought of with Boone while high with the other going down on him out of boredom turned into something like this, before his nineteenth birthday. He thought that he had a bit of fucking right to get ahead of himself, thank you very much.
"Say the right things all the time, I've heard it all before and I don't need another asshole in my life right now. Try to be my everything, my everything and more but everything in my life holds me down and keeps me bored."
He consistently terrified everyone, sometimes even Boone and Michael. It was spur of the moment things, like holding his microphone ut to the crowd so low that somebody could grab it, that maybe the band think he was going to get stabbed by someone who hated him eventually. There were threats, considering he wasn't one of the singers who kept himself quiet in the news.
But he still leaned down with the mic, keeping it almost mouth-level with the crowd. He couldn't help but grin widely as they sang back the words he'd written one day when his grandmother had been trying to get him to continue with school, to not drop out after he'd failed ninth grade for the third time.
"So open your fucking ears and listen to my words; there's nothing you can ever say to change my mind. I need to make this clear, these words, they must be heard. I'm only me and I don't care if you don't like it."
Jumping back up, he was just in time to yell, "I don't give a fuck if you don't," into the microphone, and then started jumping. But with socks and a very slippery, stained hard-wood floor, it could only lead to disasters.
He was glad he hadn't fallen gracefully. People always tried to. But that was a contradiction of who he was. Instead, his feet went up, and he slammed on his back. It knocked the wind right out of him which surprised him, as it was something he didn't know was possible from the back. From the amount of fights he got in, he knew it was possible from the front but wow. It might've been the fact that his guitar had nearly decapitated him, a random item he half the time forgot to play (which had gotten them to finally resort to using taped recordings of the songs, so it sucked when he wanted to play things out of order, techies needing to scramble, sometimes just giving up, throwing their hands up at the sides of the stage especially when he would take requests. But it helped if he kept in sync in case he ever randomly forgot to play for half a second, just so it sounded almost normal), but still. Damn.
Boone was ready to run over but just as he stopped playing, Sawyer croaked out, "Like it... Fake it..." to the music, making Boone falter and start playing again, slowly but surely.
Sawyer decided Boony was quite good as he tried to get his breath back. It didn't work, so he continued singing, proving he at least didn't lip sing. He wasn't that pathetic; he wasn't going to be the next Ashlee Simpson. "Love it... Hate it..." Then he began the chorus again, getting up to jump around again while ignoring stagehands at the side trying to throw him shoes.
Going Shoeless was fun. It meant it was going to be a long night, and so he'd definitely enjoy it.
Sawyer knew he was going to get yelled at by Michael as they headed backstage but he didn't care. It'd been such an awesome concert. Michael was always such a drama queen, bitching about the stupidest things. He could hear him now. 'Sawyer! The guitars aren't plugged in!' 'Sawyer! You're going to puke from drinking so much and we need to leave tomorrow at seven!' 'Sawyer! Why do you have drugs?!' 'Sawyer! The building's on fire and you're holding a lighter and lighter fluid!'
So the last one had only happened once, and he'd really hated that place. Could he really be held responsible? The cops had never even found out.
It was all besides the point. He always complained, and as they headed back to the dressing room, he could tell Michael wasn't happy. Screw him.
"Sawyer. For once in your life, can you do a gig normal? Like a human being? With shoes, pants, and preferably a shirt?" Michael snapped, turning into the dressing room.
"I like him without his pants and shirt though," came a British accent, belonging to a man laying on one of the couches situated in the room. In front of him on the table was a small bag of heroin, a blackened spoon, and a needle. It was pretty clear he'd missed the concert.
Sawyer didn't care as he stepped into the room, moving over to him. Charlie was a gold digger; they all knew it. He had been in a band that had gotten mildly famous, gotten addicted to heroin, to riches, to fame in general, and now was clinging to anyone that would give it to him. Sawyer was the lucky sap. It wasn't like they would go on romantic walks; he knew what Charlie was up to. Hell, he'd been up to it at the beginning of Wreckage's career. It was how they were so popular. But he loved the fucks. Nothing compared.
Sitting on the couch, he pulled Charlie into his lap and ignored the slight protest to trail his fingers down the other's chest, dipping them briefly into his pants. After every concert, he was hard. Boone was too, but he wasn't so sure about Michael. Frankly, he didn't want to know. And Michael didn't want to see as he left, slamming the door behind him.
Boone was busy in another room was Shannon, who trailed with them for the same reason as Charlie but with more attachment. She wanted to be an actress, and was definitely doing a good job getting there.
He grinned at Charlie widely. "You left me some this time."
"You bought three grams. Of course I left you some. I'm not going to overdose."
Rolling his eyes, he held back the comment of 'sometimes I wonder' to tie a piece of cloth around his arm tightly. The veins were getting harder to find, and it took a few seconds but once he located one, he grabbed Charlie's needle, melted down some of the powder, filled it, got rid of the air and injected himself like a pro. He'd been doing it for so many years that by now he could do it in his sleep. He did it half asleep; wasn't that the same?
The rush he got made him collapse back against the couch with a sigh, making him almost too lazy to remove the needle. Finally he did, and with good reason - Charlie's head was lowering, as was his zipper.
The heat that encased him was way too good, and he bucked up slowly, gasping loudly. The heroin always made sex a rush, every nerve in his body heightened to sexual pleasure, numbed to pain.
At first Charlie's tongue circled around Sawyer's head, flicking over the slit before it lowered, taking in so much. Just when Sawyer would think Charlie had reached his limit, the other slowing, he'd take in a bit more, and a bit more, finally making his lips reach the base.
It was an amazing feeling, so much better than old girlfriends who used their hand on half of him because they were afraid of choking, or because they didn't like the taste and just wanted to get him willing to go down on them. He bucked up quickly as Charlie seemed to swallow him whole only to pull his head back and repeat the motion, resulting in Sawyer's head falling back against the couch. Charlie didn't even seem to care as Sawyer gripped his hair and held him there as he bucked up sharply again, just needing more of the heat; it was amazing.
He'd never found a better or more willing cock-sucker than Charlie Pace.
It was things like this that made Sawyer grin. The concerts were fun, yes, but autograph signings, where people would pay twenty bucks a pop for a signed picture of his face, and fifty for a signed picture of him with the person was beyond anything he'd ever imagined.
Add in the fact that, for the first time in his life, he was doing good and having it go to charity - a cancer foundation as he'd always been at risk himself, ever since his uncle was diagnosed. All of it. So far they were a little over three hundred thousand, and there was still a huge line.
He just wished in the slightest that Charlie was here. Yet as a woman came up to him, looking about his age, possibly a bit older with dark hair, dark eyes and knew just how to wear make-up, he decided Charlie could be a bit late.
"Who should I make this one out to?" he asked as she paid and a photograph was handed over to him. He could see the glance Boone gave him, a slight warning in his eyes, but he didn't care.
"Didn't know you were personalizing them." A small grin, and she placed her hands into the back of her jeans, not noticing or seeming to care that she was making her chest jut out. "Kate. Just Kate."
A brow was cocked a bit, because she didn't seem the type to like Wreckage. They were heavy, with bass that could blow someone's eardrum out (they'd been through the lawsuits), yet there she was, leaning down some to– oh. Yeah, she was definitely flirting.
And he couldn't resist pointing out that the shirt, a Wreckage shirt - he loved this job - was torn in the correct spots to show her cleavage so much. "Want me to sign those too?"
He was still hesitating on signing the picture, which was backing up the line even more than it was. When someone had a chance to have their name on it, something they didn't even offer because it would take too much time, they'd give their first and last, always. That was to prove it wasn't bought from the internet. Or they'd get a snapshot with a camera. Yet there she was, just wanting her first name. Whatever, though. It was her choice to waste it.
A small grin and she noticed the hesitation. "I'm good, thanks. I'd be tempted to have it tattooed on there. And I already told you my name. Last isn't important."
The message and signature was quick - a fast, barely legible 'Kate - keep showing those tits. You might get somewhere around here. Sawyer' - and then it was handed back to her. But just as she went to leave, she stopped, hesitated like he had been doing, and leaned forward to brush her lips against his. A piece of paper was pressed into his hand before security was yanking her away, and he stared in shock.
People making out with him wasn't a big deal. Hot fangirls? Huge one.
A glance down at the paper showed it was a phone number and he smirked, slipping it in his pocket. The look he still was getting from Boone though was definitely a condescending one, with a brow raised and an annoyed, if not disappointed look. "What?"
"You know what. You just got front page in People and about six hundred other magazines. Good job."
"Why's that a bad thing?"
Before Boone could answer, a figure was slowly walking over to them, swaying his hips a bit too much. Sawyer watched for a second before he whispered, "Oh fuck." He signed the next two pictures without looking, not even caring where the signatures went, because this was bad.
Charlie was drugged out of his mind, and by the bulge in his pants, he was extremely horny. Fuck.
Security let him through, but Sawyer wished they hadn't. Charlie moved over to Sawyer, grinning some and sitting in his lap a bit. "Come on," he whispered into his ear, nipping at it while Sawyer tried to sign the next picture. The fact was that it only a distraction because Charlie was not working around him; this wasn't sexy.
Kids were here, for crying out loud. Teenagers were used to this thing - at least he had been by the time he was fourteen. But fucking kids. "Charlie, not now. Go away," he muttered, ignoring him the best he could.
A pout was given and Charlie moved to kiss his neck. "Please? You gotta be almost done."
Boone was even getting annoyed, and that took so much. "Charlie, look at that line. There's three hundred people in here, and another two hundred outside. Go away. He'll call you when he's done." There were dividers between the line and the tables, so no one could take any candid pictures, but there was a slight place where one could see between them that they kept checking the line through.
Apparently no wasn't an answer, because Charlie ground down just as a ten-year-old kid came up to the table, eyes wide at the display. That was all Sawyer needed. Thank god Michael couldn't be here with Walt, since Ana had had to work today and he couldn't find anyone to sit him.
"Charlie, go away," he hissed out before he shoved him away. It proved just how drugged he was when Charlie crashed from a push that anyone should've been able to recover from, and Sawyer almost felt bad.
Almost.
It took a few seconds for Charlie to get up, and about four more pictures, but then Charlie was storming off, probably to go do more heroin. As long as it wasn't to hump him in front of a twelve-year-old and his mother who had came up next for a picture, ignorant to the display, he was fine.
Sawyer couldn't remember how many drinks he'd had. It'd been well over the legal limit, slightly past the smart limit, and he was nearing the healthy limit. But Charlie kept bringing them, so why would he stop?
He didn't have a reason either as he downed the two offered shots of whiskey, giving a slight shudder but that was it. A grin came and he tugged the other into his lap before he kissed him on the lips, a sloppy one that he knew reeked of beer, Jack Daniels, and cigarettes, but he didn't care. He didn't care about anything right now.
"I love you," he slurred out, saying the same thing he stated every time he'd had more than five drinks. He never said it normally; drunk was a whole different matter. "Love you so much. So hot. You should have my babies." A laugh was given before he kissed the other again, but Charlie turned his head this time so the other's lips hit his cheek, leaving a mark there of whiskey and saliva. Charlie didn't care, and Sawyer rather liked the sharp feeling of his lover's - he'd decided that approximately five minutes ago, whether Charlie agreed or not - stubble on his lips, so he did it again, making an exaggerated 'mwah' noise.
"Can someone bring some of that over here?" Charlie called, having just the slightest slur in his voice. For once he was mostly sober, because he had an idea today. He needed money; Sawyer wasn't giving him enough drugs. He knew if he played this right, he could get so much. He could be higher than a damn kite.
Someone, a random groupie probably but Charlie didn't know or care, brought over a bag of heroin and Charlie pulled out the small leather pouch from his pocket. He placed some of the powder on a spoon, melting it, and had to fight not to spill any as Sawyer tried to feel him up.
They'd been here for less than an hour and a half, and Sawyer was already smashed. He wasn't the only one - Michael had been slapped by Ana for staring at someone's ass for too long, because he'd had at least six beers, and after the fourth one he always stared just a bit too long. Now he was slurring out excuses, while drinking more of another beer, as if it would fix everything. It didn't.
And the groupies, roadies, random people who'd been invited by winning their way here… Well, of course they were drunk. They had a right to be. It was just a random get together, thrown by a radio station that was paying big bucks for the band to show up. And that meant drugs weren't supposed to be there, but of course they'd gotten in. No one monitored anyone but the winners.
Boone watched silently as Charlie shot himself up, and didn't even clean the needle before refilling and offering it to Sawyer who, in turn, just offered his arm, knowing he was too drunk to do it himself. He understood the drugs; Sawyer and him had been using since before they'd gotten famous. Sawyer had been the one to introduce him to them, and Boone wasn't sure how he'd gotten into them. He wouldn't say. But Charlie and him… He acted like they were lovers, like Charlie didn't cheat, like they had gotten tested regularly and knew they were clean for everything.
Even so, he would still never share a needle with anyone. That was just asking for trouble. He'd seen the way Charlie acted with people, the way he'd flirt, the way he'd throw his hips just a bit for someone to follow him into the bathroom. And he also knew Charlie was extremely against condoms; he always boasted that, as if it was a good thing.
Downing the shot of vodka that Shannon brought him, he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and frowned, watching Charlie silently. "What do you think of him?"
"Who? Sawyer? You know what I think of him," she replied without any real commitment to her words; she'd insult him all the time behind his back, but to his face would suck up just for a bit of drugs, a compliment, a bit of money to go away. Anything.
But the resentment came for a reason. She'd caught them more than once fucking, and so it wasn't like she just hated him because he was famous and she wasn't. She surprisingly wasn't that vain.
"No. The other one. Charlie." Another shot of vodka went down, and he knew he should've been slowing down, but he'd already gone to AA once; he was strongly advised to stay away from this stuff. Yeah right.
"Oh. Gold digger." Crossing one leg over the other, her skirt raised a bit, an already high one, and it was clear if it raised any higher, she'd be showing her thong - she never wore anything else - if she even wore one.
Boone frowned, not even noticing. It was so common by now that he'd given up trying to stop her. As long as she didn't cheat, she could flirt. It applied to him too.
"But aren't we all?" Shannon asked before she smirked a bit as he raised a brow quickly at her, before he pressed a kiss to her lips and stood, needing to go over to Charlie and Sawyer.
"I'll be back."
"Take your time. I see someone I want to fuck."
He stopped mid-step, staring at her. "What?"
"That blonde. There." She pointed briefly to where an Australian accent was coming from, and where blue eyes kept drifting over to her. "She keeps looking over at me. Boony, it isn't a guy."
A frown and he added, "Fine. I'm joining though."
"Of course." A smile and then she was off to where the woman stood with a heavy-set man.
The distraction had cost Boone though; Sawyer was now nuzzling Charlie's neck, kissing it lightly and whispering things into his ear that Charlie was responding to by leaning back against him, eyes closed, as if he was actually enjoying it. He was enjoying the drugs, that was all, Boone told himself.
Then he noticed those linked hands, and the way Sawyer was stroking Charlie's, and he promptly sat himself down. Fuck. He wasn't cruel. Sawyer had only loved someone once, and that had ended in her being shot by his father. That wasn't a love like this though, at least he hoped to the gods not, so he stopped himself. He'd intervene tomorrow, when Sawyer was hung over and bitchy, so he could get hurt. Yeah. That sounded great.
A brief glance was given to Boone before it was decided he didn't care about him and kissed Sawyer's cheek. "Love you too," he murmured as he knew Sawyer would never remember it come morning. It just worked better with the plan, he told himself. "I have a question." Now seemed like as good of a time as any.
A small 'mhmm?' was given, and Charlie knew he had him hooked.
"I need some money. Just a bit. My…" There came the problem. He didn't have a car; they traveled too often. Sawyer always talked about one he had, one named Cassidy, a beautiful 1967 Impala that he'd upgraded, putting a new stereo in, so loud it kept his ears ringing if he had it on half-volume, had a spot where he could hook up two guitars if he wanted so they would play out the speakers… He always talked about it. Apparently he'd crashed 'her' one night when he was too drunk and drugged to know his own name, barely making it out alive before she'd caught fire, and they'd gotten signed a month later.
But Charlie didn't have one. He never had had one. Hell; he was pretty sure his license had expired, and he was actually afraid to get behind the wheel even sober. So he shifted some before saying, "I have to pay something off."
Surprisingly, Sawyer bought it. "How much you need?"
"A thousand." That'd get him through the month before he had this chance again.
Sawyer nodded again, stroking Charlie's hand, and Charlie almost felt bad. But as Sawyer took out his check book, writing down the numbers and signing his name, even more illegible than normal, that guilt left. "Here. You can cash it, right?"
"I think I'll find a way." He'd better, because if he didn't, he wouldn't be able to just get cash from Sawyer. He'd already checked his wallet when he was sleeping on several occasions; he never carried more than a hundred, and in fifties, so it was hard to take one and not get caught.
A kiss was placed on the other's lips and he tried not to get nauseated from the smell of alcohol. He could feel eyes on him though, so he whispered, "I have to use the bathroom, okay?" A nod was given and he got up, heading for it, only to be followed by one of the roadies a few seconds later.
Boone let his head fall to the bar with a sigh, not able to bear it. Sawyer wasn't even noticing, just taking a long drag from a cigarette with swaying hands. Great. But he looked so happy that he couldn't ruin it.
"You can't go on stage!"
They'd been having this fight all night. Sawyer wasn't even sure when it was going to end which was something he almost always knew, but his head was aching. He'd drank the night before, just by himself and Boone, and he couldn't remember the things he'd done. All he knew was that he'd woken up shirtless, and Boone naked, both of them wide-eyed at the fact.
That time of their life was supposed to be behind them.
The worst part was when he'd told Charlie, all sheepish and scared, he'd just gotten a blank stare and then a shrug, like it didn't matter. That had almost hurt. He wanted a reaction. He wanted yelling, screaming, tears. He wanted what he'd get if the allegations that Boone had told him about Charlie cheating, that he'd thought he knew all along, were right.
But he was too far in to back out now so he knew he'd just live with it.
"I want to, Sawyer!" Charlie shouted, stomping his foot and crossing his arms like a child. It would've almost been cute, if he wasn't so stoned out of his mind that he was swaying everywhere, making Sawyer so scared he was going to topple over and slam his head on the dresser of the hotel room.
"You can't play bass! That's Boone's job! And I've never even heard you play! Plus the next fucking concert? That's tonight! Are you insane!? Like you know the god damn songs!"
"You have heard me play!" Charlie grabbed the CD he'd brought, a very scratched one with Liam, him and Kenny on the front, grinning and giving the photographer a piece sign. He then threw it at Sawyer, nearly hitting him in the face.
Oh, bull shit. If that was how he treated his CD of his single, the only one that had gotten him a few hundred thousand, then he didn't want to hear him play. "Yeah, and I also know that the recording studios play with the music. They play with ours. Not a lot but enough. Plus, if you've scratched it up that much, you really don't care about it, do you? Just fucking get back with Driveshaft and your great ol' brother!"
He wasn't expecting Charlie to hit him. Maybe to curse, maybe to tell him to die, maybe to pull what his old girlfriend Christina had and try to kill him by throwing things at his head - he still had the scars, along with the ones from his uncle and his father - but not to hit him.
It was a hard punch, too. He didn't know the runt had it in him. Damn. He stared for a second at the ground, not even realizing he'd fallen over. Whoa. Just as he got up, the door slammed, and he went to yell Charlie's name, wanting to run after him only to realize the drugs were gone. They'd been sitting there right in view.
He had money too laying there, two hundred dollars. That was gone also. At least that'd been taken. Charlie could get himself a good hotel room, calm down, and meet him before they left. He hoped to god he met them before they left, because he couldn't leave without him. He'd cancelled concerts before because of this.
It'd lasted long before, but never this long. Sawyer had known something was up long before he'd gotten the call from the hospital - they'd had to cancel two concerts, and Michael was about ready to go on without them.
That was the major thing, other than the lyrics, that was getting critiqued about Wreckage. Their instability. More often than not, venues were warning them that if they cancelled a show, they had to pay for all the tickets that were being paid back.
It came out of Sawyer's money. It always did. There was so much though; ten thousand were going to one concert and fifteen thousand to another, both sold out. Some seats, lawn seats, were five a pop while others, the closest seats, were forty-five. Roughly, it was costing him three quarters of a million dollars. He'd pay ten times that amount though just to get Charlie back.
He'd give up fifty times that not to be in the taxi cab, riding down to the hospital.
He'd give up his whole fucking fortune not to be heading down to the morgue without a word, having to deal with the stares of random fans, and even having to tell one random person to "fuck up" who wanted an autograph. He couldn't get a good insult out there; he'd meant to say 'fuck off' and 'shut up' and it had blended. The person had gotten the hint though as he'd turned a corner for the morgue, the sign in plain view.
No one spoke a word as he was brought through the cold doors and up to one of the metal handles, a number reading '048' above it. He wished it said 'Pace, Charlie' or 'Bloody Rock God' like Charlie used to call himself, because he knew it was him.
He just knew, before the thing was even opened.
But the man, a man about thirty-five with a shaved head and a name tag reading 'Dr. Jack Sheppard' - what a stupid name - spoke, snapping him from his trance. "The police had to call you, Mr. Ford."
Ford. He hadn't been called that in a while, but he just let it slide, waiting for it to open. Why was this guy doing it now, speaking here? Didn't he ever hear of bed-side manner? Then again, this was the morgue. Maybe it didn't apply.
He wished it did. Just this once. He was a celebrity. It should've.
When he got no reply, Jack continued. "The presumed body's parents are out of country, too far to contact and fly in in a timely fashion. His brother has passed away several months ago from an unsolved murder–" Sawyer frowned, never having heard of that. Maybe that was why Driveshaft never made it; maybe he never should've yelled during that fight about getting back with his brother. "And your name is in his pocket on a credit card."
How the hell… Sawyer ignored the urge to check his wallet, nodding slowly. "Can I just… see?"
He thought he was ready, but as the tray slowly opened and Charlie's lifeless body laid there, eyes closed, Sawyer felt sick. His skin was so pale but besides that, he looked normal. "Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He overdosed. No. He just… He just had a small bag."
Before Sawyer knew what was happening, Jack had a tape recorder out and was recording everything he was saying, but Sawyer didn't care. He was too much in shock for this. "It was just a small one. Like, a gram. Heroin, y'know? And there ain't any bruising and he had… Oh god. He took my money."
He'd never felt so sick in his life.
The funeral had been so nice. Flowers and tuxes and priests and Sawyer couldn't remember much more than that. He'd been sober for the first time in days there, with Boone at his side, clutching his hand for support while Charlie's mother sobbed, Charlie's father stood by her side silently watching with a bit of distaste - he'd always heard stories but never believed them - and had just felt the last of his sanity leaving him.
That was why, hours later, he'd had so much he couldn't move from the bed he was laying on. Heroin, coke, crystal, weed, Jack Daniels… Only the best. He was pretty sure he'd even found a bottle of Vicodin and had swallowed the entire thing; at first glance he'd thought it was Viagra but he wasn't hard yet and he wasn't hurting, so he was guessing it was Vicodin.
He just wanted to stop hurting. It was awful. Charlie was gone, the one person he'd actually thought he was going to be happy with. Laying inside the tour bus as it rolled along, he took another swig of whiskey and watched a concert, one of their first popular ones, and couldn't help grinning.
Charlie was there on stage during it. Sawyer had pulled him along, and back then, Charlie had been normal. It hadn't been all about fame and fortune; Charlie had been in it for the rush of things. They'd been friends then, having met at a random music festival. Charlie had been coming down from the rush of everything at that point.
And he looked so happy, jumping about to the music, on stage with ten thousand people watching him, not a care in the world. Boone didn't even seem to mind, though he knew he had later on.
Of course he had. After everything, Charlie had begun to just want money, drugs, fame. And he'd gotten it, through the wrong ways.
He'd gotten it after the concert too, because Sawyer watched as he on the screen kissed Charlie, and he could still feel the other on his lips. He grinned some before letting his head rest back against the pillow, chugging a large portion of the liquid.
It went down like water, but he still had a good fourth of a bottle left. The praise he could hear from the video sounded like it was in the room, and he was so gone. But that was where he wanted to be - at that concert.
"Little babies are crying, pretty ladies are crying. To bring some order to the world, the Lord is with you little girl," he slurred, his voice so slow that it didn't match the beat of the song at all.
He finished off the bottle and chucked it at the wall, grinning some. It shattered, making a loud noise, yet he didn't realize someone might come. Instead he took a slow breath, the first one in a long while. It was harder and harder to breathe.
It took several minutes, it seemed, for someone to come in. In reality it was just seconds, but Sawyer was too busy slurring out more words to the songs. "And I don't know what to do, but sit here and wait for the end of the world."
His body was beginning to slow down, and he found his vision doubling. That left him seeing two Boones as the door opened, yet he just grinned. Two was better than one. Four would've been even more better, though.
But still, he saw all of the Boone's eyes widen as he saw the amount of drugs laying about - it wasn't just a needle with heroin. There was a bag of heroin, a bag of meth, the remains of a line of coke and a rolled up dollar bill with the powder on it, the end of a joint, and as he turned to his side, he saw the broken bottle.
He shut the door, only to notice the empty Vicodin bottle on the night stand. Fuck. Just as Sawyer began to sing the sentence again, he shut off the television and then raced over to his side, kneeling down next to him.
"Hey, Sawyer? Sawyer?" he asked while at the same time taking out his cell phone, dialing 911. "Sawyer, can you answer me?"
A soft 'nnn?' noise was given as Sawyer glanced over slowly and squinted at Charlie. He grinned, moving to run his hand lightly over the other's face, but as he blinked a few times, he realized he was wrong. Charlie didn't have dark hair, or thick eyebrows, and he had stubble.
"I want Charlie," he said with such a slur that Boone couldn't even understand. But that was okay; he couldn't understand the words Boone spoke into the phone.
A hand was placed to Sawyer's hand that almost comforted him, and Boone ignored the woman on the other end of the line who told him to stay on the phone. They had the address, the details, and had given him the confirmation someone would be here soon. So he hung up and quickly frowned. "Fuck. You're burning up." It was only when he placed his hand to Sawyer's neck that he could feel his racing heart beat, and his eyes widened.
"Sawyer, I can't believe you," he said, trying to sound angry. All that came out was worry, so he just gave up and stroked the other's hair.
The seconds ticked by like hours, and Boone was too busy cleaning up the best he could to notice Sawyer's breathing getting slower. It'd already been so slow, but he had his back turned, throwing out the needles and bags, just needing to get rid of them.
The glass could be dealt with later, he'd decided, not wanting to deal with it now. "You made a real mess," he complained as he turned around to look at the bed, a small smile on his face because he had to cheer himself up. But Sawyer wasn't responding.
"Sawyer?"
Nothing.
"Hey. Sawyer. Talk to me."
Still, nothing, and by now Boone had gotten to Sawyer's side, shaking his body slightly. Still nothing. He was panicking now but he felt for a pulse, and the racing one was gone, replaced with nothing.
No. No.
It was all over the news - because of Charlie's death, Sawyer was dead. Because of Sawyer's death, Boone had tried to jump out the window, getting caught a second before doing so by the ambulance crew. Wreckage was over with, and Boone was being evaluated by psychiatrists.
But it wasn't like she had time to check the newspapers. She moved around too much, just taking a few suitcases, her car, a bunch of license plates, and her cell phone.
And he still hadn't called. So that was why she'd done it.
That stupid British kid. He'd been all over Sawyer. She deserved to be with him, or at least someone better than a gold digger, and yet there he'd been, all over him. She would've never treated him like that.
She'd seen it, after escaping from security. She'd hidden in a corner and watched the display and it'd been sickening. So she'd decided to help Sawyer out.
Every day she'd watched him, and then she'd seen her chance. A random fight, and he was gone. She knew just how to do it, sticking him with a needle and running, shooting him not with much heroin but enough to read on a tox screen. It would've been enough to make him happy, if there hadn't been a large air bubble planted there.
It'd done the trick, and as she opened the paper in the small diner, taking a few bites every so often of her bagel and cream cheese, she was expecting to read a story about that.
Instead, she found something that made her sick enough to cover her mouth.
"Famous Rockstar Dies at Twenty-One After Losing Lover Over Quarrel"
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