Chapter Text
“What the HELL is wrong with you!? I’ve never heard such shit in my life!”
Steve was livid. This entire night had been a bust from start to finish. Certainly not through any fault of his own, or any of the others; their playing had been tight as ever, with perfect transitions and the excellent musicianship they were celebrated for. Everyone had pulled their weight.
Except him.
Bruce was a wild card, there was no denying that. But he was never usually a problem. Sure; he could be annoying as hell and exhausting to deal with with that boundless energy and the never-ending booze-driven tirades in the pub after the shows. But he was a fantastic frontman, and an almost terrifyingly good singer. Bruce didn’t just sing; he BLASTED.
"Air-raid siren”, as written in that hilarious review of their new kid’s screaming operatic tenor, was still the funniest nickname Steve had ever heard; but hell if they weren’t wrong. The guy could be heard sheer across a football pitch. And yet recently, and infinitely frustratingly; Bruce was underperforming. He wasn’t doing a great deal of anything really. Getting him to go back on stage after instrumentals was a chore, he was out of sync, hard to hear and looked as if he wasn’t even on this planet half the time.
A part of Steve was worried, he had to admit; it wasn’t just tonight he had fumbled, this had been getting worse for weeks now. Trying to get answers out of Bruce was like pulling teeth. Constant evasion, vague out-of-character excuses and promises to kick his head in if he didn’t get off his case were all Steve received in return.
Steve wondered if he was just tired? He did look pretty pale. Their tour schedule was punishing, and while it took a toll on everyone, it was so unlike this 20-something little force of nature that couldn’t even stand still for 5 minutes to succumb to just plain tiredness. He lived for the limelight.
The younger man stood there before him now, playing absently with the ends of his long hair as his eyes darted about the place distractedly; suddenly laser focusing on Steve as he closed in on him angrily.
“LOOK AT ME! I can’t believe that's another night you’ve fucked up. When are you going to get your shit together!? There was only maybe an inch between them now, their noses almost touching as Steve leaned in, thick eyebrows knitted together in frustration.
Bruce sucked in a breath and swallowed dryly.
“I’m not going to let you fuck this up for us” he continued in a low tone, “I don’t know what you’re pissed off about and I don’t fuckin’ care. You’re makin’ us all look like shit. We work our arses off for this band, and it’s out of order for you to play your little games and fuck it up for the rest of us. Making us look like twats! Dave, Adrian, Nicko, ME… we don’t deserve that!”
Drops of saliva spat out onto Bruce’s boyish, wide-eyed face; his mouth starting to hang open a little at the tirade exploding at him point blank. Steve was more hurt than he would have admitted. He’d always been fair with him, always supported and helped him, tried to compromise when their egos got in the way. Why was he determined to be such a menace!? Surely all this meant as much to him as it did to the rest of them?
Bruce was stunned. They had their issues, him and Steve, but this was a level of vitriol he’d rarely if ever seen from him. He blinked, and Steve took a step back, clenching his fists as Bruce’s expression hardened suddenly. It was his turn to take a step forward. He let out a weird little snarl as he did so that Steve really didn’t like.
“Right. Get in here.” Bruce spat at him, grabbing Steve’s arm and dragging him sideways into one of the maintenance rooms set up backstage. Steve let out a grunt of protest as he was pushed hard at the wall behind them; for a small bloke he was fuckin’ strong. Bruce’s usually jubilant and lively brown eyes were narrow and dangerous as he stood in front of him, fists clenched and teeth gritted.
“Right, you fucker.” he uttered menacingly; his usual light and playful tone replaced by a strained rasp. Sweat had stuck his bangs to his forehead and his jaw was set in a painfully hard line. His small stature was not usually threatening, but he was sturdily built and Steve knew from experience that he could easily take a punch or three with little issue, and give as much back too.
Steve had never been one to back down from a fight, but something about the younger man’s demeanor was really bothering him. He was staring at him. Like, really staring, with a bizarre and unplaceable expression twisting his soft features. His chest was heaving, and when he suddenly took a step forward Steve pressed himself harder against the wall behind him.
“What the fuck is wrong with him?” he thought urgently, his hands flexing as a fight or flight response began to kick in inside his brain.
But before he could do anything, Bruce had lunged forward, grabbing hold of Steve’s arm as he’d raised it in defence; and with a animalistic hiss that made Steve’s skin crawl, he sunk his fucking teeth into him.
Steve let out a sharp yelping sound he’d never made in his life as Bruce pushed him back into the wall with his full weight, pressing him against the brickwork as Steve’s skin ripped like paper beneath his teeth. Blood started dribbling down his forearm as he struggled against the smaller man, trying to unhook his other arm from underneath the sheer pressure pinning it there.
He tried to kick out, but was met with two stocky but stronger legs pressing their feet onto his. It was suffocating. The pain was intense, blooming all the way up his arm until Steve felt a sharpness bottom out and then retract; obscene sounding slurps emanating forth. A tongue was laving at the wound now, the mouth moving rhythmically against his inflamed skin. Steve shuddered, goosebumps spreading up his back at the sensation and his neck hair standing on end.
Was he… drinking his fuckin’ blood?
Bruce suddenly ripped his mouth away and stood panting, staring Steve straight in the eyes with lips saturated in dark red blood which was dripping languidly from his chin onto the floor below.
Steve was too stunned to say a word. As he was slowly released he wrapped his other hand tightly around the bite, looking down at it as his hand came away soaked in the same blood. Time seemed to stand still for an eternity until Bruce finally broke the silence.
“You wanted - - to know - - what the fucking problem is?” he uttered quietly, shallow breaths wheezing out between his words, “ This is - - the fuckin’ problem.”
He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing thick crimson all over his cheek and jaw. He looked like a beast, worlds away from the silly, happy-go-lucky man Steve used to know. His eyes were trained on the wound he left on Steve’s shaking arm, an undeniable hunger now set into them and definitely not yet sated.
“This.” He gestured animatedly towards Steve’s bleeding flesh which he still couldn’t tear his wide, manic eyes away from, “This is all I can think about.” He paused for a moment and swallowed hard, trying to gauge a reaction as he finally managed to flick his eyes up to meet the other’s. Silence.
“STEVE.” He spat the name with deliberacy. “Listen to me. You want me to sing? That’s all you’ve got to worry about, making sure the punters are happy and your golden reputation is intact? When all I want to do every night is rip into every single person I see in that crowd? Into everyone right beside me on that stage? With so many thrashing pulses pounding in my head and driving me insane?”
He emitted a shaky breath, a defeated grimace starting to occupy his features.
“I’ve been trying SO HARD, Steve. I can’t fucking DO THIS ANYMORE.” He was yelling now, the former power in his voice palpable again, his face red as the blood coating the lower half.
There were voices approaching, finally snapping Steve out of his stupor; and he suddenly bolted forwards, pushing past Bruce and barging unceremoniously out of the door into the makeshift hallway outside.
“What the’ell is goin’ on, ‘arry!?” Nicko and Dave were hurrying towards him, both concern and curiosity on their faces as they caught up. “Hmph, givin’ ‘im what for about tonight I s’pose?”
Dave cocked his head, flicking his floaty fair hair out of his eyes as he glanced at Steve’s tightly held forearm, but said nothing as Steve simply barged past them as well without a word. Nicko started after him, but Steve’s legs were already thundering ahead; he had to just get the fuck away.
What was he supposed to even think? That couldn’t have actually just happened. That couldn’t have happened. That wasn’t real.
The wound stung like a bitch when he lifted his hand slightly as he broke into a jog; he could see the heavy, uneven imprint of Bruce’s teeth, but with two weird deep welts in the bite mark which blood was still seeping lazily from.
What the fuck just happened.
He glanced behind him, half expecting that ravenous weight to crash into him again. The crushing sharpness and the powerless resignation he'd felt before were foreign and horrific to him. But there were only his other bandmates’ concerned faces looking back at him as he disappeared around the corner.
What the fuck was he supposed to do now.
. . . . . . . . . .