A blur of motion, deep blue and streaks of emerald, flecks of gold. The scene spinning.

And then it stops, abruptly.

The world around him is crystalline, and he's standing on the edge of what looks to be a cliff, an edge, but it's all shadow, like he's standing on fog shaped like rocks.

The sky above is vast and dark, stars with bright halos fill the black. It doesn't look like the sky should look, it's blended with brush strokes like a painting, and flickering like a tv screen.

He's reaching out an arm, towards the stars, and though just a moment ago it looked to be far away, his hand goes right up and passes through it. The sky ripples like it's been water all along.

In the dim blue light of this technicolor night, his hair looks to be deep violet. It's long, in waves, just past his shoulders. Though his face can't be seen now, it's clear that it's him. He's saying something but it's too soft to make out. Then he turns around. The stars reflecting in his eyes, mouth parted, he's crying. The will to move closer is overwhelming but he's cemented to where he stands, observing. He tries calling out to him, but nothing comes out. It all blurs again, spins and spins, and then disintegrates.

Curt opens his eyes. White ceiling. No more stars. No more night sky. His head is fogged, he tries to grasp reality and real time. He blinks. He shifts. And an increasingly uneasy feeling quickly sets in.

The thought creeps into his head before he can stop it, before he can violently shove it away, beat it to death before it can have any bearing on him. That was Brian. That was long auburn haired, young pre-Maxwell Demon Brian Slade, a version he hadn't even known, only ever seen in photographs. That was what he remembered at least, though the vision had been clear, familiar, as if he'd seen it with his own eyes before. Curt rubs his face, his hands feel tingly and dirty. He's always felt real emotion physically, in the tips of his fingers, in his knees, his shoulders, his stomach. He doesn't want to think about this now. Brian's long gone, he's not here and he hasn't been for ten years. Yet still the ghost of teary blue eyes hangs in Curt's head like a tapestry. The more he tries to rip it down the stronger the image grows. It's been years. It's been years and he doesn't want to think about this anymore. He doesn't have to. It's over. It's not something he has to deal with anymore. His hands feel dirty.

He rips the bed sheets off, gets up and goes into the bathroom connected to his bedroom. His legs are stiff. He scrubs his hands with soap and cold water, in an attempt to ground himself. He has somewhere to be, he has shit to work on and this is a dumb thing to be this out of it over. This isn't what he should be spending energy on.

"Ground control to Curt Wild."

He's startled and feels himself jump, almost knocking his guitar off of his lap.

"What?"

"You've been sitting there staring off into space for ages." Malcolm says, mockingly. "I don't know what's wrong with you but if we're not gonna work on the record you should at least let Jack and I go home."

It's the 80s now, and times have changed, but musically Curt and Jack Fairy still work together from time to time. Of course, now Jack and Malcolm O'Hara, lead singer of the Flaming Creatures, are a package deal. He's mean, annoying, and snarky a lot of the time, but he's a good musician and an even better creative addition to the record they've been in the studio working on for the past few weeks.

"Is something wrong? You really haven't been present at all today." Jack asks, voice soft and gentle.

Things had been a lot easier between them since they'd decided they were better off just friends and business partners. Especially since Jack had gotten with Malcolm.

Now that Curt lived in Seattle and the two of them were usually back in Berlin, they had enough space that when they were together they had a nicer time together. Well, at least Curt and Jack that is.

"No, sorry," He finally answers. "Just had a weird dream. Been kinda-"

"So have a joint and get over it." Malcolm interjects.

"Darling I really don't think that'll help much in this situation…" Jack tries, but he's already lighting up, taking a drag and passing it to Curt.

He takes it between his fingers, and brings it up to his lips, taking a quick inhale and handing it back over to Malcolm.

"What, that's all?"

"If I have too much I'll just get more tired."

"Pussy."

"Do you want to get work done or not, asshole?"

"I don't much care, you asked us to help you. It's your record-"

Jack clears his throat.

"Sorry," Malcolm says, sighing and taking another drag. "I'm calm. I'm serene. I'm not going to argue anymore."

"Thank you."

Curt's moved on already, he's strumming a few chords on his sticker-covered acoustic and humming under his breath.

"Got something new for us?"

"Maybe."

He doesn't actually finish the song until later that day, sitting in his regular spot at Arlo's, which is a shitty little diner with burnt orange walls and olive green cracked booth covers. He adores the owners, an older couple, both very grandparent-like. The husband, Curt, is rather fond of him, and he's pretty sure it's because they share the name and that's all it took.

Curt Wild is in the corner, sitting leaned against the wall with his legs across the bench, crossed at the ankles, his battered composition notebook half sliding out of his lap. He tunes out the current hits radio as words flow from somewhere above him into his hand and onto the lined paper.

He's smoking cigarette after cigarette, things coming to him that he didn't know he still cared about. The waitstaff ignores him, save for occasionally refilling his coffee.

Lines come around about the St. James hotel, crashing waves, coarse sand, a green pin and tears about the stars. He knows he's letting his dream fuck him with, but he hasn't dreamed about Brian in ages. Maybe not since they were together. No. After the assassination-or, the fake assassination. Not since then.

That was a long time ago. He keeps telling himself that. Why is he trying to convince himself of any of that like it's not true? It wasn't an issue anymore, he was over it. They'd both disappeared, changed. Last he'd had heard of him, Brian had gone back to Birmingham. He'd found that so strange. Why would he want to go back to a home that was never home to him, with all the stories he'd told about his parents?

And why does Curt care?

Yet, here he is, writing a stupid reminiscent song about a trip he'd taken ten years ago, and wondering about him, where he is now, and what he's doing.

The song is done, lyrically, at least, and he wonders if Jack and Malcolm will be able to tell who it's about. He dreads having to explain.

They both despise Brian. With good reason, he supposes.

Why doesn't he feel that same anger, that same resentment?

Maybe the grief, the panic, the sadness, and then the blinding anger faded over time. Because maybe that wasn't the important part about knowing him.

With that thought, Curt collects his notebook, lighter, and carton of cigarettes, gets up from his seat, throws a few dollars onto the table, and heads home.