Chapter Text
The next few weeks were understandably a little tense.
They were in the middle of a massive tour; and no matter how insane the circumstances, Steve couldn't let anything get in the way. That also included having a possibly psychopathic singer. The rest of the band knew something was up, of course.
‘Awkward’ didn't even begin to cover the vibe in the tour bus and backstage.
“What sort of fackin’ lovers tiff is this?!” Nicko had yelled exasperatedly after a few days; he would have knocked their heads together if they'd even sit within 10 ft of each other. He'd taken Steve aside after a gig soon after when they’d finally got a second to themselves.
“That lad’s looking at you like he wants to fackin' murder you” he observed, his tone joking but his eyes were scanning Steve's features for any kind of reaction.
Might be truer than you think, Nick, Steve thought wearily.
“What the fack did you do to piss him off this bad, ‘arry?”
Steve had no idea what to say. He could make up a thousand lies, it wasn't a secret that the two men butted heads sometimes, but nothing seemed to work in his head.
He didn't want to lie; Nicko and the others were busting their guts on this tour and he knew the concern was genuine. But how the hell do you communicate that you think your singer might be a - - god he couldn't even confront the word. It was insane.
“I'll … I'm gonna talk to ‘im.” Steve mumbled, slipping off as Nicko shook his head defeatedly, looking up in exasperation. Bruce had barely said a word to anyone. And he was still performing badly; perhaps even more distracted than he had been before if it was possible. They hadn't addressed a thing between them since the incident had happened. Steve had expected him to disappear maybe; to just run away and never come back. It amazed him when the guy just casually turned up for the sound check the following afternoon.
He grappled with the idea of going to the police and reporting the attack: after all he had just had a chunk bitten out of him. Plus, everything the guy had said was nuts. Maybe it was a mental breakdown or something, or he'd been crazy all along and maybe he’d finally fuckin' lost it.
What gave him pause were the marks on his arm.
He'd quickly bandaged up the wound and made his excuses about a vague ‘accident’, but the shape of the marks he'd been left with fascinated him. They weren't just teeth marks; the only part of his skin that was actually broken were two deep pockmarks located where the canine teeth would be. He'd not really taken a huge amount of notice but he supposed Bruce's canine teeth were naturally a little pointedly angled; though nowhere near long or sharp enough to leave marks like this.
He’d felt something sink into him when that little maniac bit down on his arm; it had to have been his teeth that did it. How the fuck do sharp teeth grow out of nowhere?
Almost like…fangs?
..................
They finally had a day off from the relentless schedule they'd had for months now, and the entire band was fed up. There'd still been no reconciliation, and things were getting to a breaking point. Everyone's performance was suffering now; it was barely worth going on stage, and their morale was really tanking at rock bottom.
They were in Manchester currently, and due to perform 2 nights beginning the following night; they'd arrived that morning and no one really knew what to do with themselves. Steve had become so insular these last few weeks or so that the rest of the guys had stopped trying to ask questions.
Bruce was ill.
It was obvious from a mile away; he was pallid and tired, with bloodshot eyes and hair always stuck to his face with sweat no matter what the temperature was. He brushed off any insistence of him going to a doctor, sometimes so nastily that he'd been lucky to escape being decked once or twice. His temper was uncharacteristically hot, and when he wasn't lying around fatigued during the day with a towel over his face he was being belligerent as hell, arguing and bitching over nothing.
That afternoon Steve finally cracked. He couldn't deal with the unbearable atmosphere anymore, and he thought maybe he was finally ready for an answer. They were staying in a busted little hotel in the city centre, cheap enough to be inconspicuous and close enough to the pubs to keep them entertained. Bruce had slunk off the bus the minute they arrived; they'd always checked in together in the past and had a few beers and a laugh as a kind of hotel warming tradition but lately everyone was just kind of doing his own thing.The mood was sour as hell.
Steve trudged from his room down the dimly lit corridor, hands flexing as he reached the reception desk. He’d decided against it at least 5 times on the way; and promptly told himself 5 times to get over himself and just confront the dickhead like a man.
…………….
“Hmm?” mumbled the bored looking girl at the desk, not looking up from her magazine. As much as Steve preferred rocking up to low-key places where they weren't really recognised, he did nevertheless appreciate people who made an effort. He bristled a little.
“Bru - - Paul Dickinson. I was asking which room he's in. Please” he repeated in as patient a voice as possible. Bruce always used his real first name in hotels to help avoid being bothered too much; he liked to write in his room and got pretty mardy when he was constantly getting knocked up all the time. Socialising was always on his terms; and for such a friendly, outgoing guy he spent just as much time holed up alone, saving his voice and doing his own thing. The rare extroverted introvert.
The receptionist sighed and flipped open the guestbook. Steve chewed the inside of his cheek. She glanced up, blankly taking in Steve's long wild hair and tight Queenstryche t-shirt under his leather jacket.
“Do you know him?” she asked, glancing back down.
“Yeah we’re… we're friends.” Steve answered quickly, surprising himself. Maybe it wasn't always true but it certainly wasn't a lie. He was chewing his lip now. He felt antsy as fuck to get this over with.
Friends, huh…
“213 upstairs.” She buried herself in her fashion magazine again, “He didn't look too great.”
Yeah, he knew.
Steve trudged up the old carpeted stairs behind them, trying to steel himself against the pretty definite shitshow that was about to go down. What the fuck was he going to say?
Room 213. Right. Here we bloody go.
He set his mouth in a line, raised his right hand and knocked loudly, the sound reverberating in the narrow cramped hallway. He winced as the action disturbed the dull ache still lingering in his forearm.
Nothing.
He frowned and knocked again; nervous to be louder and draw the attention of anyone else. He needed to talk to him alone. He quickly tried the door. Locked. He stood back, scratching the back of his head. He's gotta be in there, he doesn't go out before gigs. He rolled his eyes and risked it.
“Bruce?” He hissed up against the faded wood of the door, and he heard a thud from inside, followed by a low expletive in a hoarse but familiar voice. “Can you let me in, mate?” Steve asked in what he hoped sounded like an amiable tone. He opened his mouth again but stopped when he heard a sigh and the slow trudging of feet and the creaking of floorboards beneath them.
The lock clicked and Steve paused before gingerly letting himself in. The thin curtains were closed and the guy’s possessions were slung aimlessly around the room; in the blooming glow through the material Steve could see Bruce's fencing kit dumped in the corner surrounded by a few carrier bags and his sports holdall. Generously turned-up jeans, gym socks and various weird clothing bits were spilling out of the bags, and a few thick intellectual hardbacks juxtaposed with cheap looking battered reporter's notebooks next to them were piled on the small oak desk. There was a thwump as Bruce flopped his stocky weight onto the bed; lying on his face with his long hair spread mattedly across his back.
He was shirtless, and Steve could see the sweat glistening off his skin from across the room.
“Leave me alone.” he mumbled.
“You're not alright, mate.” Steve said plainly, clicking the door shut behind him. Bruce flapped his arms in a sideways shrug.
“I'm just hot.” He replied flatly, his voice muffled into the pillow.
“That’s bollocks. It's November. It's 5 degrees out. It's cold as a witch’s tit in here.” Steve challenged back, “I - we all know there’s something up with you. Obviously there's something fuckin’ up with you.”
He tried to keep his voice level as something bitter rose in his chest. Bruce said nothing. Steve had had it.
“Whatever the fuck is wrong with you, I just need to know, Bruce. You owe me an explanation. We can't just pretend that…that…didn't happen.”
Bruce rolled onto his side and clenched his arms around himself; eyes closed and still silent. “You know how many times I thought of calling up the loony bin to come and get you? What the fuck were you thinking!?”
He strode forwards and stopped at the side of the bed, brandishing the scars on his right arm pointedly at the other man. Bruce made a funny noise and jerked backwards, rolling over and slamming his fist onto the mattress. Steve gritted his teeth. His fists clenched. “Either you explain this properly to me right now or we're fuckin’ through. You're out. I've been so goddamn patient and you haven't even -”
“You. selfish. prick.” Bruce's voice was thick with venom through the hoarseness. “Have you thought for one second what I might be going through? You don't give a shit about me. Outside the band you wouldn't in a million years concern yourself with me. Why would I come to you about anything when you can't even show an ounce of fucking understanding.”
Steve visibly bristled, his mouth hanging open.
“Never heard such bullshit in my life. I've shown you more patience these last few years you ungrateful bastard. You're a fuckin’ nightmare. Everything I could possibly have done for you, helped you with; draggin’ your sorry arse out of pubs when you're paralytic and apologising to the reams of people you've pissed off with your godawful attitude; the list goes fuckin' on.”
He stopped for breath, angrily panting through his nose. He leaned forwards over Bruce and then edged his face closer. “You fuckin’ talk to me. Now.”
Bruce slid sideways off the bed in a lightning quick motion, stumbling and pressing himself against the opposite wall so the bed was between them. His expression was panicked and his eyes darted around, frantically. Steve clocked him and he leapt forwards, thumping across the mattress in two steps and grabbing the guy as he made to bolt out of the door. Bruce was a strong guy for his size, always had been, but the force with which Steve was slammed onto the bed was nearly enough to smash them both through the floor.
Steve wheezed - a stubby-fingered hand pressed his chest with incredible strength into the mattress underneath him, and the tips of lank brown strands of hair brushed over his face as Bruce's own leaned in, a snarl embedded into his pallid features.
“Go on.” Steve croaked out, a small smile quirking his lips, “Go on. Do it. Fuckin’ do it.”
Bruce’s mouth opened and there they were; a pair of angled, very sharp, very real fangs poking out in front of his lateral incisors. He used the thumb of the hand not holding Steve down to tilt the man's chin to the side, his wide round eyes transfixed on the warm, beating neck beneath the long dark curls.
Steve got it now. He should have got it sooner really. But it's a hard one to really process until you're literally about to die, he supposed. He'd written so many songs about stories; fables and supernatural characters that fascinated him. But how do you just accept that vampires are real, even when one takes a goddamn chunk out of you. Really weird way to go but, maybe it's kind of cool too he joked in his head, staring resignedly up at the drenched, twisted image of his friend above him.
It was then he first really saw the suffering in Bruce's eyes. The light was somewhat dim in the closed off room, but a visible sadness had crept into them as the smaller man faltered. His body was trying to lurch forwards, his mouth still bared those teeth, but something was holding him back; somehow restraining himself with pure willpower to not tear into the man's neck below him. His grip on Steve loosened, but Steve didn't move. Partly because he was winded as fuck, but also because he thought he might know what could potentially save the day here.
Bruce went to move backwards, his expression tight and intricately pained; when Steve grabbed his wrist and spoke.
“If you swear. And I want you to listen to me really carefully, Bruce. If you swear you'll do your fuckin’ utmost not to finish me off, you can do it, alright?”
“Wh - what the fuck are you saying?” Bruce spat in surprise.
“You heard. I mean I haven't got a fuckin’ clue about all of this - it's insane - but I have a hunch you might calm the fuck down if I let you do this. I can handle it. Didn't have much choice last time, but I -” he winced and flexed his shoulders a little, “ I trust you, alright? I think.”
Bruce was flabbergasted.
“I could kill you, you twat! I - ever since it happened last time, I've been so…fucking hungry, it's been absolute hell.” He grimaced and let himself lean forwards just a little. “That one taste, it…it really just fucked me over so bad. It's been so hard to.... I…I needed…just….shit….and - ”
Steve smiled a little and rolled his eyes.
“- and you’re gonna give me your word you won't kill me. And then you're gonna do what you need to do. And then we're gonna go to the pub with the lads and talk some shit, alright? I'm gonna fuckin’ need it.”
The familiar light of brevity graced Bruce's face for the first time in weeks and weeks. His brows creased in anxiety but he nodded. He went to dive down onto him, but Steve made a noise and pushed a hand up into the hair of his chest.
"Give me your word, I said"
Bruce pushed forwards slightly against Steve's hand but drew back up, shaking his head dizzily and licking at his teeth. He managed a pained smile.
"I won't kill you, 'arry"
Steve studied the other man's face, wet and desperate, and felt satisfied to let go.
Bruce took a deep breath, rooted a knee into the mattress to steady himself, pulled jacket and hair aside and sank his teeth deep into the crook of Steve's neck.