62.

Dave finally drifted into an exhausted sleep. Martin still holds him tight, listening to his now slow, deep breath. He’s tired beyond words himself yet his brain can’t stop processing all the events the day had in store for him – for them.

“I’m going slighty mad. More and more. I can’t take it.”
Murmuring this he cautiously slips out off the embrace, places Dave’s arm onto the near by pillow and quietly walks over to the desk, opening the lid of his MacBook that was on sleep modus, as usual. Flicking through some directories he finally finds what he was looking for. Opening the drawer he fishes for some of the hotel’s stationary, picks up a pen and starts writing.

***
The rap at the door lets Alan flinch and opening his heavy lids he realizes he’s lying on the carpet, in front of his bed – an empty vodka bottle near by. Oh holy Christ! Holding his forehead, trying to ignore the buzzing pain, he slowly makes it to the source of the noise.

“What the frigg is going on? Who dares to disturb me in the middle of the night?!”
Looking into the puzzled face of a bellboy he tones down a little.
“Sorry, Sir. I shall deliver this letter to you personally.” He checks his watch. “It’s 7.30 am, Sir. Do you wish breakfast service?”
Alan blinks shortly, takes the white envelope with shaky hands and then nods.
“I’m sorry for being uncalled for. I had a rough night. Thank you. Some coffee and toast would be nice.”

Back in the lounge he places the item onto the table, still not really coherent. Rubbing his eyes he checks for the address and it zooms into his conscience that it was Martin’s handwriting. He can’t spend further thoughts on it as there’s another knock and then room service rolls in a cart. The smell of fresh coffee tickles his senses and pouring himself a cup he inhales the aroma before taking a gulp. The awful state he’s apparently in will make the caffeine to take it’s time to kick in so he decides to step under the shower. Opening the valve lousy cold water cascades over his worn out body and he lets out a tiny yell.
I could have chosen the hot one. Why always the tough route?
Adjusting the water temperature his muscles start to relax and the terrible, funky feeling starts to leave his body gradually. There’s just one bad side effect. The water licks down his skin like hot, longing fingers. He can’t help himself to feel this odd sensation. Accordingly he immediately turns hard.
Did I really try to come on Trent?!
One after the other the memories creep back into his conscience. Staring at the cream coloured tiles he sees Martin’s scared eyes, his full, plump lips, the blond, messy curls…Smashing his fists against the wet wall desperately he turns the temperature back to cold and soon jumps, cussing like a sailor.

Having dried his hair, he rummages in his toiletery bag for some painkillers. Finding the soluble tabs he grabs one of the glasses and fills it with water, watching the tablet sizzle up and down. Knowing the taste would be bitter and awful he quickly downs the contents and shakes his head in disgust.

The rest of coffee in his cup is cold meanwhile. Ignoring the fact he empties it and refills it with more hot liquid. Slowly the effect of the painkiller lets him relax and his head feels less like yellow. His eyes meet the white rectangle on the table and he grabs it, tearing it open with the knife that rests next to his plate, the toast still untouched.

It’s just a lenghty poem – written in busy, sort of angry yet desperate letters. His eyes water when he reaches the last paragraphs. He recognizes it well. Edgar Alan Poe.

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting--
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul has spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!--quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadows on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted--nevermore!

Oh, he knows Mart – his sometimes longwinding ways to express his innermost thoughts, the cryptic meanings, the metaphors. Yes, this message hits home – very much. It’s just as if his adored friend would yell it straight into his face.

“This devotion will drive me insane! You and I will both go mad in the end. Do you really want this, Alan?!”

Scrambling the paper unconsciously between his slender fingers he gazes towards the light square of the window, the outlines already blurred, his vision drowning in salty wetess.
Oh yeah, cry baby Alan, cry! The sissy award is all yours again!

***
“I’m sorry, Sir. Mr. Wilder checked out half an hour ago.”
“Oh, thanks for that info. I was wondering…nevertheless. Bye.”

Trent ends the call and scratches his chin. He sits in a fancy little diner, stiring his Latte absentmindedly.
Why the fuck did you have to run, Wilder?!
It’s late afternoon and he isn’t really that keen to return to the studio on his own. What a complicated world! For him things usually work straight. He has an idea – he gives it a face. He needs some rest – he lays down to sleep. He’s hungry – he eats. He has an urge to fuck somebody – he goes for it. Punctum. Recently it’s more like romancing the storm. He likes challenges, yet this one seems to turn out way different than he expected it to be. Dang! Touching the back of his nose, feeling the rough surface of the tape, he rolls his eyes. Stupid bastard! One lesson life taught him so far, one that sank in: Never put your heart on your sleeve! Never be vulnerable!

His thoughts are interrupted by the chime of his mobile. His eyes widen when he sees the caller ID.

“Hi, Martin.”
“Trent, hi. How’s your nose?”
“Could be worse.”
“I’m really sorry, you know.”
“You already told me so.”
A moment of awkward silence. There’s a tiny inkling in Trent’s eyes though.
“Trent, would you mind us all meeting for a drink and dinner? Andy’s just called. They seem to have finished with today’s session stuff.”
“You’re not in the studio?”
“No. A day or two off can’t hurt – you’ve seen the mess.”
“So you really want me around, close to David?” The NIN singer can’t help the sarcastic nuance in his voice. “I can’t promise I won’t accidentally touch him.”
“Argh, Trent! I already apologized!”
The corners of Trent’s mouth curl up when he answers.
“OK. So when and where?”

***
The yellow cab still is stuck in the rush hour. Alan tries to keep up his composure. He already thought about three times to simply excite the car, grab his stuff and walk back. The sound of the engine howling, the angry horns outside, cyclists risking their health snaking through the tiny gaps between the slowly creeping vehicles, people hastily crossing the street despite the lights already long red…he buries his face in his hands and tries to exclude all the impressions from the outside, letting his mind go blank.

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