Blair slammed the door shut and pressed his back against the wall beside it, trying to convince himself that he had imagined the scene he found in Roger’s room. He felt his heartbeat in every inch of his body, and his breaths kept getting caught in his throat. His eyes burned with unshed tears that he ignored as he stood back up, gripping the doorknob in a sweaty hand.
“R-Roger, please, I’m so fucking sorry,” he said, fumbling the knob. “I had no idea, I- I didn’t think he’d- it wasn’t me-“ He got the door open again and the rest of his words died in his throat.
Because there was Roger, still hanging from a noose in the middle of his dark room, his head facing downward at such an unnatural angle, his hands looking such an unnatural color-
Fuck. Blair closed the door again. He was distantly aware of the tears rolling down his cheeks, but the rest of his face stayed in a look of shock. This couldn’t be happening. Not to Roger. Not now.
“Okay,” Roger had said just hours earlier. “This is a good night. Let’s not ruin it.”
Let’s not ruin it, he said.
And then Blair fucking killed him.
Blair opened the door one more time, and this time he felt different. He found himself just gazing at Roger. He was so beautiful. Blair had always thought Roger was so beautiful, and now that beauty was all twisted and grotesque and wrong. This was all so wrong!
Blair shakily grabbed his mobile phone out of his coat pocket and started to dial 911- shit, his mobile was out of battery. He looked around Roger’s room and grabbed the telephone off the bedside table, dialing quickly, having to redial a few times due to how much his hands were shaking.
“Uh, hello, my name is Blair Pfaff,” he rambled quickly into the phone. “Um, I have an emergency- somebody just hung himself in this hotel room-“ He rattled off the address and room number to the operator and hung up. Then he looked back up at his lover.
“Roger, I’m so fucking sorry.” Blair ran a hand through his hair. He slowly turned off the TV, which was still showing that goddamn fucking video. “I am so…”
I am so…
“I am so sick of this relationship being on your terms,” Blair had said to Roger. “You call when you want. You disappear. You snap at me. You use me.”
Jesus fucking Christ, what Blair wouldn’t have given right now to be snapped at and used by him again.
For a moment, Blair considered staying for the ambulance to show up. Then he decided that that was a horrible fucking idea, so he made his way to the door.
He turned back toward the room to shut the door, catching one last view of the man he thought he had a future with. The man he ruined.
“I don’t know who you are. I don’t know if I ever knew you.” Blair could still hear Roger’s last words to him.
“Who are you, Blair?”
Looking back, Blair thought that that was the moment his heart broke. And this moment right now? This was the moment his heart shattered.
Blair shut the door. He dropped his key to the room and walked back down the hall. He only hit the button to summon the elevator once, contrasting ten minutes ago when he was jamming it over and over, desperate to get here immediately. And as he stepped into the elevator, he thought it over once again.
“Who are you, Blair?”
Who was he?
He was the whiz of Wall Street. He was the face of TBD and Pfaff Fashion. He was the guy who took down Mo. He was the guy who got the fucking bank bailout. He was the guy whose dad literally died of a heart attack while beating him.
He was Blair fucking Pfaff.
“In life, when something breaks, you can’t always put it back together, but you can use the pieces to move forward,” Blair’s mother had always said after his father was finished beating him.
He couldn’t put his heart back together. Not after this. Not ever. So…
…so he’d just have to use the pieces to move forward. To use his newly empty soul to get ahead of everyone else.
Because Mo was right all along about one thing:
Fuck ‘em all.