Who: Gideon Crumb and Essery Oakby What: Gideon is a jealous nutcase Where: A dive bar followed by Essery's home When: Wed. Evening Rated: TBA/More then likely R+
In his house. In HIS fucking house. In his fucking house in the fucking bed he'd shared. Fuck him. Fuck him and his stupid fucking guitars and his refusal to acknowledge the last six years as anything but casual fucking. Fuck him and his fucking slag, whoever they were.
When Gideon read the note Heath left, it would be a bit of an understatement to say he lost his cool. He had been, frankly, only sixty seconds or less from tossing Heathcote Fucking Barbary's belongings out on the fucking roof for the goat to chew on, especially his precious guitars. Only the fact that they seemed to be out of liquor and Gideon's desire to not be the fucking WOMAN in this thing kept his Irish temper in check long enough to scribble an angry reply, and slam his way out of his own house- HIS OWN FUCKING HOUSE, to leave for the evening, rather then face watching Heath play tonsil hockey with some fucking wanker.
It had better not be a damn Weirdie, either, he thought viciously to himself as he apparated away to a nice loud pub he knew of in Edinburgh, after making sure the house wards were set especially strong. Gideon worked hard to keep his private life private and he deeply resented the fact, on top of his raging jealousy, that Heath was bringing some fucking stranger to his house.
Gideon proceeded to, for the first time since he was fifteen, get rip-roaring, smashingly drunk on good Scotch and loud music and his own miserable company for the next hour. It wasn't nearly as much fun as he'd remembered it being then, and he was old enough now to recognize that he was getting ridiculously, and maybe a bit dangerously maudlin about the fact that he wasn't enough, would evidently never be enough and that being a rock star did not, in fact, guarantee happiness, if anything it seemed to make it something impossible and out of reach. He nursed his final double Scotch for another half hour while he berated himself for never bothering to make any real friends outside of the band, because he'd be damned if he'd go cause problems and cry on the shoulders of any of his other mates about this. Not that they'd believe it anyways. Gideon Crumb, worrying about monogamy. Worrying about a relationship. Ha. Gideon Crumb didn't have relationships. He sure as hell didn't have an arsehole of a best friend who was determined to smash his heart into bits. In fact, Gideon Crumb didn't need any such friend. Or fuck buddy. Or whatever. Gideon Crumb could have any damn person he wanted.
As soon as he sobered up.
Which reminded him.....
About fifteen minutes later, after soaking his head in the grimy bathroom sink at the back of the pub and managing to walk upright into the night, he was knocking, rather loudly, on one Essery Oakby's door.