What a stupid boy you are, Lauri Markkula.
You’re stupid and you’re frustrating and infernal and damnable and sometimes I’m just not sure why I put up with all the worry you put me through.
Allow me to explain, since you probably won’t even remember this at all.
We’re in Russia, the last night of the tour, and you got strung-out early as usual, and somewhere along the way, we lost you.
Your fucking substances, Lauri, it’s going to be the end of us all; how can you be okay with allowing yourself to get so fucked up that you can’t take care of yourself and are extremely vulnerable? In a country that you don’t know, how do you let yourself get so wasted that you get separated from your bandmates and don’t know where the hell you are?
Maybe it’s because you know eventually I’ll find you.
And now you’re not in any of the places we’ve been to tonight and I don’t have the first clue where you’d be, the only thing I can think is that you must be in some ditch somewhere.
I’ve asked probably a thousand people if they’ve seen a curly-haired drunken Finnish bastard come through, and hardly anyone speaks English, even, and my heart’s beating a thousand km a hour because I don’t know where else to look and you’re nowhere to be found, and please god just let me find Lauri in one piece.
This is not a Lauri-stunt, it’s a Kristian-stunt, and I absolutely fucking hate you for pulling it. I don’t want to hate you like this, Lauri – I want to love you. I want to hold you in my arms and keep you safe and love you, but every time I let you close you pull something like this, and I’m just not sure I can do it anymore. I’ll do it long enough to find you, but I’ll be damned if I don’t fucking kill you for it. The way you’re killing me.
Just when I’m about to lay down in the street and cry, I spot you, in an alley outside one of the clubs, slumped against the brick wall. And where the fuck is your coat, Lauri, goddamn it! “Lauri, come on,” I say, shaking you. “Wake up, come on, it’s cold. I need to get you back to the hotel, get up.”
At first you don’t realize it’s me, and you fight like a bastard, kicking and clawing. Finally, your arms wrap around me and I hear you mumble my name, and I stop shielding my face from your blows and ease out of my coat. I felt how icy cold your arms are, and I wrap my coat around you, ignoring the cold against my own skin as I help you walk out to the street and find us a cab. I tuck you into the backseat, and you try to kiss me on the ride to the hotel, but I keep pushing you away.
“Hey, find somewhere else to do that,” the cab driver barks, and I push you away hard enough to hurt, hoping it’ll dissuade you.
“Sorry, he’s drunk,” I say, pinning your hands so that you can’t get at me.
“But I love you, Jonne,” you giggle, thinking this is some kind of game, trying to get your wrists free. “Kiss me, Jonne, I love you.”
I slap you hard across the face, and you look up at me, shocked and hurt, with eyes so wide I actually feel pretty bad about it. “No, you don’t love me. If you loved me, you wouldn’t have gotten so fucked up that you got lost and I had to spend all fucking night looking all over Moscow for you, instead of sleeping, like I should’ve been!” I yell at you, my eyes still narrowed.
You make a soft whimpering sound and try to bury your face in my side, stroking my back clumsily. “I’m sorry, Jonne. I didn’t mean it. I love you, please forgive me.”
“Just shut up, Lauri,” I say, but it’s softer, because you’ve gotten to my heart again, damn you, I hate it when you do that. It feels like an eternity before we get to the hotel, and you pass the time kissing my skin wherever you can reach, softly. I pretend not to notice, try not to shiver, ignore you as much as I can. Toss some money at the cab driver – I don’t even count it, but I’m sure it’s more than enough.
Then I drag you up the steps and to the elevator, and I think by now you’ve realized just how pissed off I am, because we get to the room without incident.
I undress you and tuck you under the covers, and you grab me by the hips and try to pull me into bed with you.
“No, Lauri,” I growl, trying to get away – but you’re strong. “Let me go. I’m going to my room, and you’re going to stay here and fucking sober up.”
“But I’m cold,” you say, pulling me closer, against you. And it’s not a lie – you are cold, but I know that’s not why you want me here. “Please stay with me.”
I sigh, knowing I have absolutely no chance; you’re belligerent, and won’t be reasoned with. “Fine,” I hiss, and you whimper again.
“Please don’t be mad at me. I’m sorry. I was just… I was just lonely, Jonne.” You curl up to me and start to kiss my skin again, and it really is irresistible. In the cab it was easier to fight you off, because I had the excuse of being ‘in public’, but it’s not so easy when I’m alone with you.
“I know, Lauri,” I sigh, closing my eyes, because it hurts, it really does. “I know you’re lonely.”
“Do you think we could ever… go back to the way we were?” you ask me in a sad little voice, fingers dancing on my skin, making me shudder.
“Not until you clean up,” I say sadly, because there’s nothing I want more in the world than to go back the way we were, but it’s you who doesn’t want it badly enough. At least not badly enough to not get wasted every single night, to not be shooting that junk into yourself, and to not put all this unnecessary stress on me, on the band… But then again, you probably won’t remember any of this in the morning, anyway.
“I’ll clean up,” you swear, and a few silent tears start to run down my cheeks, because I’ve heard it all before.
I cry and hold you for a while, because at least when you’re like this, when you’re loving and cuddly, I can pretend it doesn’t hurt me so badly, I can bury myself in your arms and get comfort from you, even though it’s you who’s doing this to me. “Go to sleep, Lauri,” I whisper, wanting you to drift off so that I can really cry, let some of this pain out before it eats me alive.
“I love you, Jonne,” you whisper, and I can’t bring myself to answer.
Eventually, you find sleep, but I don’t – I spend the remaining hours of the night crying, holding you, hating you, loving you, and worrying about what kind of trouble you’ll find to get yourself in once we’re home. Whatever it is, I know I’ll wind up cleaning up the mess. I always do.