Bruise Pristine

Bruise Pristine - Chapter two

"I was never grateful, and I was never one to trust,

borderline bi-polar and guaranteed to cause a fuss."

--'Black-eyed'

Draco woke up with an almighty hangover. It was the day of the first British gig and he was already knackered. He detangled himself from his forest green cotton duvet and grimaced as his feet touched the cold wooden floor. He sat on the edge of his bed, attempting to recall last night's events; there was an empty vodka bottle and a half empty packet of fags at his feet. He slowly picked up the packet, the rush of blood to his head making his headache increase ten fold, and leaning over to his bedside table he located a lighter, knocking over a few empty poppers bottles while he was at it. He lit up and took a few slow drags. The smoke burned his lungs as he inhaled.

"I really should give up," he told himself, knowing full well he never would.

Draco thought hard. He recalled going out on his own, he always did, he drew less attention to himself that way. He always managed to pull, be it male or female, within at least ten minutes. Last night he was in a particularly good mood and remembered cocktails, dancing on tables at one of Soho's many gay clubs, oh, and a bloke with scruffy black hair.

Draco concentrated harder; the black haired boy, he forgot the name, had left earlier that morning, work or something, and Draco had slept afterwards. He remembered watching the other man while he slept, musing, as he always did when slightly intoxicated, on how much his latest conquest looked like someone he used to know. He had noticed that over the years he had definitely developed a 'type' when it came to men which, for someone who prided himself on his wide ranging and diverse conquests, was slightly annoying. Draco attempted to recall the colour of his new friend's eyes; he imagined that they had been green.

Getting shakily to his feet, Draco cursed to himself, although not as much as he did when he took a look at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Steve is going to kill me! He looked like hell; his eyes were puffy and had dark circles underneath, his grey eye shadow had been smudged across his cheeks and he looked pale and tired. Steve was already annoyed with him for his behavior in Amsterdam, and here he was, getting wasted on the first night back in London, right before an important show and, oh shit! The Kerrang photo shoot!

He checked his watch, ten am; the shoot was at half past eleven to finish at three pm then off to the Astoria for sound checks. He jumped into the shower and was ready in half and hour, pulling on a pair of low slug, figure hugging faded blue jeans. He grabbed a tight black, long-sleeved, top which was slashed from the inner elbows down and had 'EVIL' written across the chest in fake diamante studs. He left his black hair tousled and grabbed his long black coat and a pair of impenetrable black Gucci sunglasses to hide his tired eyes. He was supposed to meet Stef at a café on Chalk Farm road at eleven. The photo shoot and interview were taking place at Camden lock, next to the canal, only a few minutes away from the cafe, but Draco didn't really like turning up to these things on his own. He grabbed his keys, some money, and a spare packet of fags before leaving his flat, planning to grab a cup of coffee when he met Stef; he very rarely ate breakfast.

The bitter air outside made his cheeks glow a little red, which he was grateful for; it made him look less pale. He pulled his coat tightly around him and put on his sunglasses, black was his colour of choice. He knew that going to Camden was a bit risky if he wanted to stay incognitio because it was full of Goths and grebes. There was nothing wrong with that in itself, Draco himself had caused an army of male and female fans to dye their hair and copy his unique style, paint fingernails in glitter and eyelids in black (or occasionally a smokey grey). It was just that Placebo had a lot of fans in those communities, and so Draco was very rarely left alone, constantly being pounced upon by people who loved Brian Molko and thought he was gorgeous. Not that Draco didn't like being a sex symbol, but he also liked his privacy and would've liked to be left to his own devices. Stefan loved the area, however.

He turned the corner and the café came into view. Stef was there, sitting by the window, typing a message on his mobile phone, all six feet-three of him looking out of place with his bleach blond hair and Vulcan frame. Stefan lived in a converted warehouse in Camden, he didn't seem to have the problems Draco had when going out, which was strange considering that he didn't exactly blend in. Stefan looked up and smiled as Draco passed the windw and came into the café, he watched as the small lead singer bought a double of the strongest coffee he could and made his way over. Stefan got up as Draco neared and, bending down, kissed him lightly on the cheek and said 'hi', Draco sat and took a few sips of his hot drink, not saying a word.

"What's with the glasses? What's wrong," came Stefan's slightly anxious voice. Draco smiled ever so slightly, he was thankful that Stef sounded worried, Steve would have just told him to grow up and stop being a drama queen.

"Nothing Stef, I'm fine."

"No you're not. I called you last night but there was no answer so you must have been out."

"How do you know? I just wasn't answering the phone that's all."

"So why the sunglasses? Come off it, I know you're not so far up your own arse that you have to wear sunglasses all the time, even indoors!"

There was silence, and then Stef said, with amusement, "so, what was his name?"

Draco looked up, lips curled into the smallest of smiles. He shrugged. "I dunno, it might have been Alex, I can't remember."

The amusement vanished from his bandmate's face. "What do you mean, 'you don't know?"

Draco got annoyed at this, he hated being questioned, but he hated people questioning his lifestyle even more.

"It means I can't remember, alright!" he stared angrily down at his cooling coffee; he knew what was coming next.

"What? Malfoy!" Stef always called him Malfoy when he was annoyed with him. Actually, Steve and Stefan were the only ones who knew his real name, even then they only called him Draco in private, and Draco only let them because of something someone had once said about the importance of first names. But Stef knew that Draco hated 'Malfoy' with a vengeance.

"Keep your fucking voice down!" Draco hissed, "I can't remember alright! Who cares! So I screwed some bloke, big deal! I'm old enough to look after myself, Stefan! I'm old enough to make my own choices."

Stefan took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair. "I'm sorry, you're right, I'm just worried about you, you can't live like this forever." Draco scowled and downed the rest of his coffee.

"I can if I choose to, or until it kills me, so let me do what I want while I still can."

There was silence. Draco got up to leave and stood by the table until Stefan got up, then he left the coffee shop and headed towards the lock, his bassist easily matching his pace.

"Did you take anything?" Stefan suddenly asked.

Draco carried on looking straight ahead. "Only poppers."

He could feel the tension rush from Stef's body, it was touching really, then there was a chuckle.

"You must feel like shit! Those things are fucking awful! Steve's not gonna be too impressed with you, you do know that right?"

"Steve can suck my nob."

Stefan started laughing again. "He doesn't know where it's been! But then neither do you," he added as an afterthought, grining in an attempt to deflect Draco's anger when Malfoy turned to scowl at him.