The Story of Us

THE STORY OF US BY: Julien

This story is 100% fictional and is by no means depictive of the life of any person, place or thing. It contains sexual activities between males and should only be read if it is legal to do so in your area. Read at your own risk. Comments are welcomed and would be very much appreciated. ENJOY!

I would like to thank my editor, Frank, for doing such a great job on editing - thanks a lot man...

RICHIE

It was as if my worst nightmare was coming true. It seemed as if all that I had feared was coming to pass. This had been the third time that this had happened, and just like before, there was nothing that I could do to prevent or even stop it.

"Fuck. Fuck!" Bobby's voice resounded in the small garage and created echoes that seemed to bounce off of every surface.

"Calm down, baby, calm down." I whispered, placing a hand on his shoulder, trying to keep things under control, but all that I seemed to achieve was the opposite effect.

"How the fuck do you expect me to calm down! This is the third time this shit is happening! You know how much fucking money it takes to fix this shit?!?" He screamed shaking my hand off of his shoulder and stalking away from me.

All I could do was stand off to the side, like a lump of coal, and remain quiet. I should have been used to this by now. Used to these bouts of anger he displayed every time his property was vandalized, used to the slurs and threatening phone calls that came in day in and day out, used to the hundreds of hate mail he had received since his coming out announcement. I should have been used to all of it by now, but I wasn't. I would never get used to any of it. And despite my promise to him, and to my myself, I wasn't so sure anymore if I was strong enough to stand up with him and take my share of the backlash.

Don't get me wrong, I had expected a backlash, there's always a backlash, but this...this was a crucifixion. They were out to crucify and destroy Bobby, his music, his self-esteem, his property, anything that made him Bobby. And even though I hated to admit it, it appeared as if they were succeeding. They had managed to destroy his drive to create music, his inspiration, his ever-loving spirit, and more importantly, they managed to drive a big, wide wedge between the two of us. They had inadvertently turned the love of my life against me, and were slowly turning what we had into a crumbling pile of nothing. And no matter what I did, what I tried to do, things just continued to spiral downward.

In the distance, I could only stand aside helplessly and watch as he surveyed the damage to his vehicle. The front, side and back windows were all smashed into the vehicle leaving pieces of glass scattered all around. His driver's side door was dented in and the passenger's side rear door was scraped so badly that the original coating of paint was visible. Inside, the radio was missing and the leather seating was ripped apart, leaving the stuffing visible for all to see.

Now, seeing all of this, I thought that things couldn't get any worse until,

"Fuck!"

I wouldn't be surprised if the entire neighborhood had heard his war cry. I literally ran over to where he stood, and my eyes grew wide as I found the source of his anguish. Etched unto the hood of his SUV were the words: WATCH YOUR BACK, FAGGOT. I was rendered speechless as I read the words over and over again, and all I could think was that this had crossed the line. This had made everything else seem mild and moderate. These hateful words had drawn a line in the sand and had gone too far by threatening harm to Bobby.

"We should call the police, Bobby. We need to call the police, right now," I barely managed to get out. But it seemed as if my words fell on deaf ears.

"Fuck the police!" he cried.

"Bobby..." I started, and stopped as he looked at me, eyes glaring, reflecting pure anger, something that I hadn't known existed till now. This wasn't like Bobby. This anger wasn't like Bobby at all, this wasn't who he was.

"I ain't calling the cops, Richie, and that's that. I'm gonna handle this shit by myself and I want you to stay out of it." It was more of an order than a request and it left me feeling inferior and not important enough to be included in the decision making process.

"What are you going to do, Bobby?" I asked, unsure as to whether or not I really wanted to know the answer.

He didn't look up at me when he answered, but instead walked the short distance to his new Mercedes, opened the front door, kneeled down and reappeared carrying a handgun.

"I'm gonna fuck up whoever did this shit to my car."

My heart rate sped up and I watched him walk through the garage and into the house. I followed closely behind and watched as he walked into the bedroom and slammed the door shut, moments before I reached it. A feeling of dread washed over me as I heard his elevated voice through the door recounting the sordid details to someone on the other end of the line. And I wanted so badly to just burst in there and hold him, comfort him and let him know that I wanted to help him, make all that he was feeling, all that he was going through seem like just a bad nightmare that he would soon wake up from. But I couldn't do that. How could I when he wouldn't even allow me to get close enough to put my two cents in. He was hurting, I knew that, but I couldn't help him, no matter how hard I tried. He seemed adamant to keep me at arm's length and for that, it made the pain I felt deep inside my chest, all the more painful. And I had to wonder if things between us would ever get back to the way they were.

"You want some dinner, baby?" I asked, turning to look at him from my vantage point in the kitchen.

He didn't even turn to look my way.

"Bobby, are you hungry? I can make anything you want. There's some steak in the freezer, or we could order a pizza or some Chinese from MING'S or..." I let my words fade off into the distance as I realized that he wasn't paying me any mind, instead, choosing to base all his concentration unto the blank television screen. He had been like this for almost an hour and a half, and had refused to open up to me about what was going on inside his head.

"Fine," I started, trying to will myself to stay calm, "stay in front of the television. I don't give a damn." That didn't seem to make an impact and it made me all the more uneasy.

"Pretend like I'm not even standing here talking to you." He still didn't respond and it was as if something inside me had snapped.

"Why the fuck don't you answer me! At least have the goddamn decency to acknowledge that I'm standing here!" You would have thought that that would have gotten his attention, but it didn't. Instead, he got up, grabbed his car keys off the kitchen counter and walked through the garage door slamming it hard behind him. I barely managed to keep it together long enough for him to screech out of the driveway and take off down the street before breaking down right there in the kitchen.

BOBBY

I couldn't get my thoughts straight. They were just a mass of jumbled ideas scattered to all corners of my brain and I had the fleeting urge to just take my gun, put it to my head and pull the trigger. Of course I didn't think that I was insane, stupid, or fucking drunk enough to even think about it too seriously, and shook all thoughts of suicide to the back of my mind.

Things had gone from bad to worse in a matter of days after the announcement, and I found myself unprepared for the backlash. Of course I had expected there to be some controversy but this...this was too fucking unbelievable. My shit was all over the place: the media, including television, radio and print, began writing all sort of degrading shit about me, mostly false and misunderstood hearsay. But to my fans, the people who had once looked up to me, viewed me as a role model and had spent their hard earned money on my albums, it was gospel. I was everything from the scum on the street to a no good, muthafucka that was out to corrupt the youth. I had everyone from the ministers who had once praise my singing when I was younger, to the higher ups in management, looking down on me as if I were a walking disease. And there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. Laurence had warned me that this could happen, but I just had to have my own fucking way and followed what was in my chest rather than what was in my head. And now, now I was fucking paying for it.

And of course, through it all, there had been Richie. He had been there with me, by my side as he had promised, and as he had promised, he tried to help me deal with all of this, but all he managed to do was bring out the worst in me. Not intentionally of course, but it happened. It was as if my mind was having a hard time separating him from all the shit I had to deal with. I mean, if it wasn't for him, I would never have realized that I was 'this way'. I would never have realized that I felt 'that way' about him and I most definitely would never have realized that my life was much better with him in it than without. But now, all of that had become a moot point as all I could think about now was that my life, my career and everything that I stood for was turning to shit right before my eyes. It was as if I had this continuous urge to hurt him in anyway that I could. It was as if I wanted him to go through what I was going through and to feel the pain that I was feeling. It was as if I wanted to get deep down into his chest and pull out his heart. For no apparent reason, I wanted to push him as far as I could just to see what it would take to make him crack like an egg. And thinking about his earlier outburst, I knew that to some degree, I was succeeding.

I should have felt some remorse, some inkling of disgust on my part to want to hurt the man that had stood by me and continued to stand by me. but surprisingly, I didn't. And that was what let me know that I had been pushed to my limits. To want to hurt him like that, and not even feel guilty, let me know that I had allowed things to get out of control.

At around one thirty a.m. I made my way home, barely managing to keep from running my car off the side of a cliff or into the guardrail of the N.J. turnpike. I had spent the majority of the afternoon drinking hard liquor in some hole-in-the-wall bar in Hoboken where no one would recognize me as nothing more than another guy trying to drink himself into oblivion. After roughly several hours of trying to forget, I found myself unable to fend off sleep anymore, so I made my way home. Pulling into the garage, I saw that my SUV had been covered with a tarp, and that the surrounding area of glass had been cleaned up. Inside, the house was plunged into darkness except for a single light that illuminated the hallway from the living room into my bedroom. As I walked down the hallway and into my room, I was surprised to find that the bed was empty. And the thought that I would be spending the night alone, after all the day's events, made me more depressed than ever. But I knew I deserved it, after all I had said and thought about Richie, I fucking deserved to be alone tonight, and the next night and the night after that.

"Bobby."

I turned at the sound of my name and spotted Richie standing in the doorway, hands folded across his chest. I couldn't see his face as it was partially covered by the moonlight shinning through the window but I was able to make out an expression. It wasn't one that I was fond of seeing. His usual smiling face was turned into a frown and his usual smooth forehead was filled with temporary wrinkles. His brows were furrowed and the light in his usually bright eyes was gone. And for the first time in weeks, I felt a momentary twinge of guilt at the thought that I had done this to him. I tried to disguise the fact that I was drunk but he wasn't fooled and he let me know it.

"Drinking yourself into a coma isn't going to solve anything, Bobby," he stated with conviction.

"I know."

"And behaving as if the whole world is against you won't either," he continued.

"I know."

"And treating me the way you have been for the past few weeks won't change things or make them return to the way they were. Blaming me for everything won't make things ok again."

"I know, dammit," I finally shouted, unable to keep my cool. I was losing control of the situation and there was not a damn thing I could do about it.

"Then if you know all of that, why are you acting like...like this...like I'm not here.... like I don't fucking exist for you?" His voice was low but that did little for concealing the anger that came through his tone.

And I found myself unable to provide an answer to his question.

"I don't know, ok, so just get off my fucking back about it, cause I just don't fucking know." But the truth of the matter was that I did know. It was crystal clear to me why I was acting like this but there was no way in hell I could relay that information to him. He would have been crushed. There was simply no good way to tell Richie that I blamed him for everything that had gone wrong in my life. It wasn't anything specific that he said or did, but rather his very presence. It came down to the fact that if it weren't for him, my life would have been empty but still unscathed. I would have still been the Bobby that everyone looked up to. The Bobby that the fans called for at every show. The Bobby that didn't fuck around with men, and most importantly, the Bobby that didn't allow himself to fall in love with another man. That's right, if it wasn't for him, I would never have fallen in love, and for that, I not only hated myself, I hated him.

His voice broke my train of thought and I was forced to return to the here and now.

"You never know. YOU NEVER KNOW! I don't know why I even bother putting up with this, Bobby. I just don't know why, because the headaches seems to outweigh any rewards that I could possibly benefit from." He paused momentarily, and took a deep breath before he continued, "and another thing, it's not only you that has to deal with this shit when it happens, ok. My stuff has been vandalized, too, and my personal life has been plastered all over the tabloids as well, so for once, I wish you would just stop being so fucking selfish, and consider someone else's feelings other than your own."

And in a softer, milder tone he added, "it's not only you who has been hurt by this, Bobby. I'm in it with you as well, so stop making me the enemy when I'm not."

"GOD! Why the fuck is this happening?" I called out to no one in particular as I sunk down onto the bed, my head rested in my hands. Moments later I felt a pair of hands on my shoulders, gently kneading my flesh, and Richie's soothing words filling my head,

"I love you so much, Bobby, don't push me away. Not when we've come so close to this. I know it's hard right now but it'll pass and someday...someday we'll look back on this and laugh about it, I promise you that. But right now...you've got to roll with the punches."

A sardonic laugh escaped my throat and I shook his hand off of my shoulder.

"Yeah, fucking right! We'll laugh about it? Please, Richie. Wake up and smell the fucking coffee. This is my goddamn life we're talking about! But you know what, I wouldn't expect you to understand...."

He stopped me in mid sentence and came to stand before me,

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" he questioned.

"Figure it out. You live your whole life in a fucking vacuum, and are so goddamn naïve about what's going on around you, and that annoys the SHIT out of me." And that was all it took to get me to let it all out.

"...And you think that you're going through what I go through? That what you deal with can even be compared to the shit I've had heaped on me in the last few weeks...you actually think that there is a comparison, Richie?"

And at that moment it didn't matter to me that he was standing in front of me, virtually in tears, trying fruitlessly to keep his composure as he responded to my harsh words.

"I never imagined in a hundred years that you'd turn into such an asshole, Bobby.... After everything we've been through, and all that we've sacrificed to make this work...how could you..." his words folded, and were promptly replaced by a mass of sobs that seemed to rack his entire body.

The momentary urge to reach out and hold him gripped my insides, but I didn't, I couldn't. Instead, I blocked his image out of my head, and made my way out of the bedroom, only stopping momentarily at the door to grab my keys off the dresser, not even taking the time to look back at the mess I had created.

"How you holding up, man?" The man in front of me was my last hope, my last stop before I would completely lose my fucking mind. If Laurence wasn't there, I know I would have done fucked with somebody already.

"How the fuck do you think I'm doing, man! I got press on my ass 24/7, the goddamn tabloids printing shit about me left and right, and let's not forget those muthafuckas upstairs that are trying to push me out. That answer your question?"

He didn't even flinch, instead choosing to open his desk drawer and pull out a bag filled with weed.

"Here," he said, throwing the bag my way, "take a hit and see if this helps."

I opened the bag and removed a blunt from it. I hadn't done this in a long time and as I lit the joint and inhaled, memories of days long gone by filled my head.

"Feel better?" he asked, looking across the desk at me, his face still neutral.

"A little," I admitted, closing my eyes, trying for the moment to forget my problems.

"Good. I know this has been hard on you, Bobby, it has to have been hard on you and Richie..."

"It ain't about him!" I said abruptly, in a harsh tone of voice that even surprised me. But as before, Laurence didn't flinch,

"It involves both of you, whether you want to admit to it or not."

I didn't know if he expected a response or not, but I didn't provide one. I don't think I could, even if I wanted to, not with the effect of the weed taking place.

"We made that decision to involve him in this..."

I stopped him before he could continue, "no. No! You made that decision to involve him. I was all against getting him involved in this mess but you...you insisted...so don't be trying to lay this shit on me. You brought him into this fucked up mess so you got to deal with his ass now. I shouldn't have to put up with it. I got enough shit of my own to deal with without having to think about what 'poor little Richie' is going through. Fuck what Richie's going through! This shit...this shit...fuck..."

It was as if I had ran out of thoughts, that, or the weed had completely fucked up my processing skills, either way, I seemed unable to finish my thoughts coherently so I just stayed quiet.

"The only reason why I'm sitting here," he said, "and not on your ass, is because I have no fucking idea what you're going through right now. All I know is that you've been through hell and back, and you're being treated unfairly by a lot of folks. But despite all that, I'm not gonna sit here and allow you to turn this into some fucking pity party, cause it ain't. You are not the only one being affected by this, Bobby, and you need to stop pretending like you're the sole victim of this, cause you're not. This is hurting a lot of folks. Not to the same degree as you, but they are being hurt."

And in all my 'clarity', I made a comeback with, "like who? Give me the name of one person who can even come close to feeling what I've been feeling. Give me one name, man, just one."

He didn't hesitate to say it, "Richie."

"Uh, man, don't start with that shit again. I done told you he has nothing to do with this shit..."

"He has everything to do with this shit. Have you seen the mailroom lately? Richie receives as much 'fan mail' as you do. You want to know what some of them say? Here, I'll read you a few." He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a stack, opening one.

"This one is from a 'friendly' fifteen year old kid in St. Louis, '...I wish your ass would set foot down in St. Louis and try to turn one of us out. We'd strap you to a tree and make a real man out of you. I hear you live in Brooklyn, we should come pay you a visit one of them nights and see how you like being fucked by a bunch of niggas.' You want me to continue, Bobby, cause it goes on and on about the creative ways in which they could mess Richie up for what he supposedly did to you.

Here's another one from a guy right in your own backyard, '...I think they should lynch your narrow, white ass for doing what you did with Bobby Knight. As soon as a black man rises up, there is always one of you to pull him right back down. I don't think Bobby's quote, coming out, end quote, was anything more than a fabrication to get your ass some attention especially since he fired you a while back. A bit of advice, keep your deviation to yourself.' And that's one of the more pleasant ones. Shall I go on cause there are many, many, more of the same shit in here that will make you fucking cringe..."

And despite my condition, I found myself unable to keep from reading a few of the unopened letters addressed to Richie.

"You still think it's all about you, Bobby? Cause it ain't. It's not all about you, it was never all about you. You know how many folks have lost their jobs over this? How many people have secretly applauded you for your honesty and have gotten kicked to the curb because of it. Do you have any fucking idea how much fucking heat I've taken because I ok'd this shit, because I came out in support of you? Do you know how it fucking looks to see your ass being so ungrateful, after all these people have done for you, least of all, Richie?"

I was left speechless at his sudden declaration, and despite my efforts to dismiss it, I just couldn't. Not after reading the letters and hearing a dose of truth from Laurence.

"I'm not here to be your father nor am I speaking as your manager. I'm here on your behalf as a friend. Trust me, Bobby, this is just a bump in the road that will eventually pass. And when it does, you don't want to be left friendless because you got stupid and selfish. You got a lot of support behind you, and you need to recognize and cherish that. You need to especially recognize and cherish what you got at home, cause that boy has put up with a lot, if not more shit, than you realize." He paused, maybe in the hopes that I would agree, but when I remained quiet, he continued, "he cares what happens to you, Bobby, more than you deserve at the moment."

And hearing him put it like that, so straight forward, no sugar coating, it made the smoke in my head clear and my thoughts scramble together again to form one coherent idea.

"I don't deserve him, do I?" It came out more as a declaration of truth rather than a question.

"The fuck you don't. In fact, if Richie asked me today what he should do, I would tell him to drop you, but this isn't my decision to make, it never was, and it never will be. All I know is that you do not deserve that kid, Bobby, not with your attitude. The way you've been treating him these past few weeks has disgusted me, and even though I hate to say it, I will; you're a selfish son of a bitch that needs a fucking reality check."

And I believe I just had it. Laurence's words, coupled with my newfound case of common sense, left me with a heavy feeling of regret.

"What have I done?" I asked myself, my head finding my hands.

"You've fucked up, but so do we all. You think you're ready to stand up to the plate and act like a man?" he questioned, eyes boring into me.

"Yes." I whispered, feeling slightly embarrassed at being called on my behavior.

"Good! Now get the fuck out of my office and go do what you have to do."

As I made a move to walk out his door, he stopped me with four simple words, "I'm here for you."

I didn't respond but I'm sure he could tell by the look on my face that I was grateful.

I wasn't all that surprised to walk in and find that his suitcases were packed and waiting to be moved out, but I was surprised to find that he actually thought enough of me after everything that I had put him through to wait around and let me know in person what he was doing.

"You're leaving?" I asked, even though it was clear that I knew the answer to the question.

"Yeah," he responded, his voice low and hushed as if he were afraid to speak any louder.

"Richie, I...I don't want you to go, please...just stay," I begged.

"No, I won't, Bobby. I've had enough; I don't think I'm strong enough to deal with this. And besides, you've made it clear that this isn't about me. And you're right, it's not about me, it's about you and it's obvious I can't give you what you need right now, maybe I never could. And I know that you blame me for all of this - how can I compete with that? I can't, and I shouldn't have to. So I'm just gonna leave you alone. Since I'm the problem, I'll remove myself from the situation."

He made a move to pass me but I held unto his hand.

"Let me go, Bobby, I'm tried, too tired to do this with you anymore. You were right...ok...this...all of this is my fault...all my fault." And with that he broke down right beside me.

"No, it's not, baby, and I should have never made you feel like I did. This shit is not your fault, it's not anyone's fault but my own. I allowed them to fuck with my head, and I only got myself to blame. I don't want you to go, Richie, I need you!"

"I can't, Bobby...I can't...I...I can't do this...anymore. I love you but I can't deal with this. I can't deal with you blaming me for everything...I can't do it..."

"And you shouldn't have to deal with it, baby. I promise, I'll sort this out. You're the most important thing in my life, Richie, and I can't lose you over this. I need you."

I could see his resolve weakening and I jumped in for the kill.

"I'm so sorry, so, so, sorry for not realizing."

He looked up at me for the first time, his eyes red from crying and spoke, "realizing what?"

"How much you've been hurt by this. By all the letters, the phone calls, everything. I didn't know, baby, and I should have been there to protect you."

"Oh, Bobby..." he started.

"No, let me finish," I cut in, taking a deep breath before continuing, "I've been such a selfish asshole and I've made all of this shit get to me, to us, and for that I'm sorry. I never meant to hurt you. And I promise I won't..."

"Don't, Bobby" he cut in, "don't make a promise you know you can't keep. Don't say what you think I want to hear just to keep me from leaving."

"I'm not! I love you, goddamit, and I'm sorry. I would do anything to take it all back. Don't you believe me?"

I needed him so bad to say yes.

"I don't know. I need time."

"Where?" I asked, hopeful he would want to stay.

"Away from you. I love you but I can't do this anymore, I just can't. I just need some time to think and make up my mind."

"About?"

"Us."

Cautiously I ventured into deeper waters, "What about us?"

"If we honestly belong together."

"Don't say that."

"I need to say that, Bobby. I need to say a lot of things, but now, now is not the time. I just need some time away, please...please give me that." And his pleading had done something to me. It forced me consider an option I really didn't want to consider.

"Time? How much time?"

"I don't know."

"Where will you go?"

"Probably with my brother."

"Can I come see you?"

"Not for a while, I need to be by myself till I can figure out where I want us to go from here. I need to figure a lot of things out and I can't make an objective decision if I have to see your face."

I sighed. This was it. I could tell by the look on his face that he was serious and there was no talking him out of it. There was nothing left to do but to let him go.

"I can't change your mind, can I?" I asked.

He shook his head and looked down, trying to avoid my eyes.

"This doesn't change how I feel about you. I want you to know that. I won't change my mind about how I feel about you, I promise you that, Bobby, I just need to sort out a few things. Please try to understand."

And despite my best effort to try to understand as he put it, I couldn't. But I wouldn't let him know. If this was what Richie needed, this was what I would give him. I owed him that much.

"Fine, take your time, but it doesn't mean I have to like it."

"I didn't expect you to."

"Good."

He picked up his suitcases and began walking past me, and even though I yearned to say something more, words simply evaded me. All I had left were my actions. And actions spoke louder than words, didn't they. I grabbed his arm and spun him around and before he could protest, I pulled him towards me in a passionate embrace.

"I fucking love you so much, Richie. Remember that always, no matter what you decide," I whispered, holding onto his waist as if it were a lifeline.

He didn't answer me but I could feel his reaction as his shoulders shook with each passing moment of silence.

Finally, I let him go and took a step back, putting some distance between us, just enough to allow him to walk out the door.

"Bobby, I..." he started, but stopped as I held up my hand.

"Just go, Richie. Please, just go before I change my mind."

He seemed to understand, and grabbed his suitcases, and walked out without a backward glance my way.

As he disappeared from sight, I slammed the door, trying my hardest to keep my composure, but I couldn't. For the first time in a long time, I found myself unable to be the tough guy in this relationship, as tears began to make their way down my face. And all I could think about was the fact that I had brought this all on myself.

SORRY FOR THE LONG DELAY. AS ALWAYS, I HOPE IT WAS WORTH THE WAIT. THANKS FOR THE CONTINUED SUPPORT!