Kellin Beckett || Betrayal

The only sound is the dial tone of the overturned phone. The palatial penthouse suite is completely trashed. It looked as though a bomb had been detonated in the room. Glass shattered, paintings ruined, lamps broken — it was a postcard of immense pain.

And there, in the middle of it all, lay the figure of Ashes of Our Youth's frontman, Kellin Beckett.

This should be the best time of his life — his band had just finished wrapping up their first headlining gig on the Vans Warped Tour, and their most recent album, Flicker in the Static, had defied the sophomore slump, selling more copies than ever before. They were certified rock stars now, not just four angry teens from the middle of nowhere, Ohio.

Best of all?

He has an amazing girlfriend whom he was going to propose to the night he came home from tour in the beautiful luxury apartment he had rented for them.

At least — that had been the plan.

Only when Kellin walked into that beautiful, modern apartment he didn't find Vanessa, his girlfriend of three years, waiting for him after a whole summer of being on the road. Instead, he found Vanessa in their bed, with his friend and fellow musician Jack McCracken, fucking.

The image is seared into his brain — how she begged Jack for more before she noticed Kellin standing there with flowers. How Jack had groaned in agitation, yet didn't seem the least bit sorry. And how the first words out of Vanessa's mouth weren't I'm sorry — it was a mistake, but You weren't supposed to be home for four more hours.

She was right. He shouldn't have been. But he had changed his flight from Seattle for an earlier one, skipping out on the load out with the band's blessing so he could get to her sooner.

God, he was such a fucking idiot.

He should have listened to his friends — the boys who had his back when they confessed they didn't like the brunette influencer. But Kellin, in all his pompous asshole glory, had just painted them as jealous of what he had with Vanessa — and that maybe she was just too cool for them with all her knowledge of fashion and internet fame. After all, she'd helped the band set up their socials and told them how to market themselves — at least until she'd clashed with Mikey over things and Kellin had admittedly sided with his best friend on that one.

But he'd made it up to Vanessa in other ways — he'd gotten her an agent for her modeling and pulled some strings to get her on the cover of Alt Girl Monthly. Because he believed in her and wanted to make her dreams come true alongside him. Sure, they had their fights at times. She hated that he toured so much — and that he seemed to prioritize the band. He hated that she seemed to have developed an addiction to cocaine and seemed to flirt with everyone.

He should have seen the signs.

He should have known better.

But damn it, he had been so in love with her.

He still was in a way.

Only now his heart is shattered into a thousand pieces.

He doesn't even remember how he got here — there had been screaming and objects thrown as he ordered both Vanessa and Jack to leave his house. Vanessa had screamed back it was her home too, and he couldn't kick her out. It wasn't like Kellin could stay there anyway — everything smelled like sex, and Jack's cologne, and it made him sick.

The next thing he knew, he was in a taxi, sobbing into the phone to Ben, who had, blessedly, gone into damage control mode and put Kellin up in a private penthouse suite.

His vision is blurry — everything spinning from his spot amid the chaos. In his hand is a half-finished bottle of some ungodly expensive whisky that tasted like jet engine fuel. He's taken various pills — wanting to numb this pain he was feeling, and perhaps if he was lucky, just sleep forever. Slowly, he raises up his arm — there, on top of old silver scars from years of sharp little cuts to take away the pain, are fresh new wounds.

He hasn't cut himself since he was seventeen — and yet here he was again, desperate for the relief. Guess he isn't as strong as he thought he was. He's such a fucking failure. It's not the answer — it never is — he knows that. But, no matter how famous or grown up he thinks he is now, he's still just that kid from Ohio — only with flashier clothes and an ego the size of the state.

The alcohol burns as he guzzles another greedy gulp. He sits up, his arms braced on his knees as he stares off into the distance. He's shirtless — his torso a map of tattoos — including a V in a heart for Vanessa on his chest — it feels like a mockery now, but in the end, he thinks he always knew Vanessa would cheat on him. He just didn't want to read the warning signs.

He wanted to stay in that comfortable bubble and hope maybe he was wrong.

"FUCK."

Kellin yells out, the words pained as they rip from his throat. He throws the glass bottle against the wall, watching as it shatters and the amber liquid runs down the wall and into the once pristine cream carpet. He's sure the news has gotten out by now — after all, he'd been less than subtle, deleting every picture of her from his socials and unfollowing both her and Jack.

His phone is a continuous stream of notifications: texts from his bandmates asking what happened, texts from Vanessa begging him to give her another chance, and one single text from Jack that just said, Sorry.

Sorry? Did he feel sorry when he was fucking his girlfriend, in his bed? Just how long had it been going on? Jack was his friend — he'd gone to bat for having The Lonely Hours tour with them — they had even written and recorded a song together, and this is how Jack repays him? By fucking the love of his life?

The razor glints on the table — a siren call to give in to toxic habits once more — to do anything that will distract from the pain he feels.

Just as he reaches for the blade, a sharp rapping on the hotel door distracts him. "What do they want?" he grumbles, his red-rimmed eyes narrowing as he slowly stumbles to his feet. He's uncoordinated — the whole room feels like a shop at sea as he makes his way to the ornate double doors. Couldn't they just leave him alone in his anguish?

Why the fuck did they have to bother him now?

The Kellin Beckett that wrenches open the door is not the bombastic rockstar with all his cocky swagger who lit up a stage. No, this Kellin Beckett is a broken mess — haunted and devastated, barely hanging on to himself. The door is wrenched open with a grunt. Kellin slumps against the door frame, his other arm bracing the molding to keep himself upright.

He narrows his gaze into a cruel sneer, not bothering to meet the gaze of the intruder.

"Can't you fucking read?" He slurs, "It says Do Not Disturb."