Chapter Text
“You just need to put yourself out there, Fab!”
The words were replaying themselves in Fabrizio Moretti’s mind as he showed his ID to the nightclub’s bouncer. His bandmate and close friend, Julian Casablancas, has recommended this place as a “good way to pick up chicks.” Despite telling him this, Fab never saw Julian with any girls.
Fab stepped into the dim building, bright colorful lights illuminating the figures of the people on the dance floor. “Girls like to dance,” he figures. “This is likely where they’ll be,” he says to himself, as he steps into the crowd.
The floor is vibrating with the bass of a song playing much too loud. As he starts to dance to the music with the rest of the people, he starts to feel uncomfortably overdressed. It seems that everyone here is wearing much less clothes than he is.
He spends a few hours here, getting far too many drinks, and shooting his shot on women as well as men that look like women. Fab still hasn’t found himself a girl, like Julian said he would. He scoffs. Why would he take dating advice from a man who styles his hair with beer? He shakes his head, muttering his frustration for that stupid guy under his breath. God, he hated Julian. This isn’t the author’s self insert— Fabrizio Moretti hates Julian Casablancas in real life.
He decides to stay a little longer— just to enjoy the music, if nothing else. He’s dancing like an idiot, as well as seemingly everyone else, because suddenly he’s shoved forward by someone behind him. He lands face first in the crotch of the tall man in front of him, and they both tumble to the ground like sweaty dominoes.
“Fuck, sorry—“ Fab apologizes to the man, but stays at his crotch for just a little too long.
Some women like to say “…don’t be picky, pussy doesn’t smell like flowers, it’s an organ!” when discussing the sour smell of their genitalia. Little Fabrizio understood their words until now, when he got a whiff of the man’s genitals and came to the conclusion that it did, in fact, smell like flowers. He assumes that the aforementioned women are likely trying to defend their poor hygiene.
The tall man before him watched him as he got a whiff of his lady bits, and was surprisingly unbothered by it. Fab came to his senses much too late, and when he finally looked up to see who the man was, his face went pale. It was none other than Nick Valensi.
“Fuck,” Fab exclaimed, staring his bandmate in the eyes, horrified by his own behavior.
“…Okay, sure.” Nick replied, interpreting his exclamation as a command. He stands up, grabbing little Fabrizio by the arm and dragging him off the dance floor.
Fabrizio has never been so embarrassed in his life. He tries to think of an apology, an explanation as to why this is all a huge misunderstanding. But he can’t get anything out, and he decides to stop trying after he’s dragged into a bathroom stall.
Nick Valensi quietly works off his horrendous skinny jeans, and an empty pack of ZYN’s clatters on the bathroom floor. Getting those jeans off is probably for the better, considering they make him look like a stick figure with a wish to become human. Again, this isn’t the author inserting their own thoughts into the story— it’s canon in the real world that Nick Valensi’s jeans are horrible and should have never been purchased. Seriously, how could he look in the mirror with those things on, say “Okay, I’m ready!” and then head out the door? Does Nick Valensi even feel shame? Apparently not, because he looks Fab in the eye, points to his own lady bits, and says:
“Tongue please, Fab.”
Fabrizio Moretti is very good at following instructions.
———
When Fab returns to his apartment much past his bedtime, he finds himself horribly ill. He can barely walk, on account that his muscles feel like they’re eating themselves. He knows he should definitely shower, but all he can do is curl up on the floor behind the couch, and give in to his own fatigue.
Little does Fab know, Nick Valensi has taken an entire pack of ZYN nicotine pouches before he got into the nightclub. Why would he do that? Nobody knows. Why does Nick Valensi do anything he does? Example— those damn jeans. God, I hate them. I mean, Fabrizio hates them. Not the author— Fabrizio hates Nick Valensi’s stupid fucking pants. This is canon.
Anyway, every part of Nick’s body likely contains a small percentage of nicotine, including the fluid that little Fabrizio lapped up without a second thought. On Fab’s search for a woman, he had accidentally gotten himself addicted to eating pussy. Who else but Fabrizio?
The next day, at rehearsal, Fabrizio is out of it. He can barely even lift up a drumstick, let alone keep time, or play his instrument at all.
Lately, their band has seemingly fallen apart. Albert has gone to rehab, Julian is really fucking ugly, Nick Valensi wears stupid fucking pants, Nikolai is Nikolai, and now Fabrizio is chemically addicted to box.
“Fab. Fab. Can you hear me? Fabrizio Moretti!”
The familiar agitating voice of his smelly bandmate, Julian, snaps him out of his daze. He tries to say, ‘what?’ but all that comes out is a tired groan.
Nick sighs. He knows what’s going on. Or, at least, he thinks he does.
“Look at him,” Nick says, shaking his head. “He’s definitely an alcoholic. He probably had too much to drink, and now all he wants is another one. Is that right, Fab?”
Nick kneels down to Fab’s level, where he’s currently curled up on the ground. He speaks softly, like he’s talking to a scared animal.
“Do you need more, buddy? Is that what you want?”
Fabrizio looks at Nick, then down at the crotch of his stupid fucking pants oh my god is nothing else clean? Then back up at his face. All he knows is that Nick is asking if he needs more… And yes, yes he does. He nods, getting a small burst of energy that he uses to reach for Nick.
Julian sighs, shaking his head, and setting down his guitar.
“God, now two of us are addicted to drugs. What’s next, Nikolai starts snorting coke?”
Nikolai gives Julian a mean glare before looking back at Fabrizio. God, Nikolai hates Julian. He just can’t stand him. Nikolai thinks this independently, with no outsider forcing this onto his character.
“…Is he going to have to go to rehab, too?” He asks, frowning.
“You know,” Nick replies, “It could be good for him. And Albert. At least they’d have each other.”
This gets a nod from the others, and before they know it, they’re all piled up in Nick’s car, on their way to get little Fabrizio some help.