This rockstar life

3.7 Ray

Content: Angst/comfort. Drunkenness and vomiting, some swearing
(NB: An older version of this was posted briefly last year, this is an edited version now in the right place in the timeline)

----------------------------------------

I listened to the sound of a key scrape around the keyhole while totally failing to find the actual hole for about thirty seconds before putting my book down and going to the door. I had a fair idea of what I was going to find on the other side of it.

Attempting levity, I greeted the man leaning against the doorframe, "Good evening sir, how may I assist you?".

This did not raise a smile, which was not a good sign. I stood back and Steve stumbled in, trailing his fingers along the wall as a navigation aid. He veered right, into the dining room, and sat down heavily at the table. He fumbled in his pockets, pulled out a lighter and, with a great deal of concentration, lit a cigarette from the packet on the table. From the doorway I surreptitiously checked him over for blood, bruises, torn clothing, and missing shoes. No obvious injuries, both boots present, and he'd still had the lighter and his keys. He looked pale and his hair was smooshed up on one side, but overall I had seen worse.

"I can feel you staring."

"I wasn't..."

"Stop lookin' at me like that." This came out plaintive and slurred.

Without replying I turned and went back to the living room.

"I can hear you thinking."

"Then I must have fucking superpowers," I shouted back. And then regretted it. It was best to just leave him when he was like this, wait for the cloud to pass. There was a scrape of chair legs on floorboards, and he appeared in the living room doorway. I glanced up, trying not to look or think TOO LOUDLY. He was holding on to the doorjamb with one hand, trying to take his boots off with the other, squinting through the smoke from the cigarette held in his mouth.

"Come here." I knelt in front of him and pulled the boots off as he lifted one foot and then the other. Even drunk and bad-tempered he was still biddable.

He slumped back on the sofa and started to pick at the stitching.

"Can you not? We just got that redone and I could not bear to talk to one more person about upholstery."

"'s my sofa, I can do what I like."

"Fine, you can unpick it until you're just sitting on a big pile of string."

He continues to scratch at it for a few more seconds, just to prove a point, then loses interest and stares blankly at the ceiling. He closes his eyes and then quickly opens them again. He looks, if that is possible, even paler.

I'm about to ask if he is okay when he groans and mutters, "Think 'm gonna be sick".

"Oh god, bathroom!" I pull him up by both hands and push him along the corridor and into the downstairs loo. Even after spending half my life around bulimics, I can't cope with other people throwing up, so I wait outside. I sit down on the floor, the tiles are cold even through my jeans, and lean back against the wall. I can still hear what's happening but at least I can't see it, or worse, smell it.

After a few minutes the retching stops and the toilet flushes. I hear the taps turn on and off, and on and off, and on and off. And then silence.

I call, "You okay?"

"Uh huh."

I nudge open the door, "You want me to come in?"

"Okay." It is more of a sigh than a word.

He's sitting on the closed lid of the toilet with his head in his hands. He looks, well, bloody awful really. I lean against the sink and, after a minute or so of silence, stretch out and stroke his socked foot with my bare one.

He groans. "I'm sorry. Oh god. This is..." He rubs his face. "This is bad."

"It's okay. You're okay."

"I'm just... I try... I try to try..."

"I know."

"You don't." He pulls his foot away, folds his arms and rests his head down on them. From behind the curtain of hair he says, "You shouldn't have to." He sounds exasperated, but at himself rather than me. "Why are you here? Why do you let me... why do you put up with this shit?"

"Because most of it isn't shit. I like you."

A snort comes from behind the hair.

"Because you're... special... my... one... my... golden boy." There isn't a word for what I mean, and now I sound ridiculous.

He raises his head slightly and smiles with just the corner of his mouth. "I'm a ray of fucking sunshine."

"Yeah, something like that."

He moves his foot back and wiggles his toes against mine. Tentatively I reach forward and smooth down his hair. He looks up and meets my eye for the first time since he got home.

(September 1990)