Title: Nancy Boy

Author: mao

Disclaimer: Velvet Goldmine belongs to Michael Stipe, Todd Haynes, and a lot of other people, most namely not me. The title for this comes from Placebo's song of the same name, as do the lyrics. I'm just a poor teenager not trying to make any money from this, and if you sue me, all you'll get is some soda bottles.

Author's Notes: Let me say first and foremost that I love the Flaming Creatures. All kinds of cool. Hence: this. You know you saw Ray give Arthur the eye. And they'd be just so damn hot together. I'd like to continue this, but I need advice about where it should go, and how to get there. Any ideas?

Warnings: It's all kinds of dark. Also: sexual content.

Dedication: for Katy. Yes, I'll marry you.

***

kind of buzz that lasts for days

had some help from insect ways

comes across all shy and coy

just another nancy boy

He catches your eye because he's different, isn't he? His hair its natural brown, his pale complection uncaked by powder or makeup, in that woolley vest, the huge jumper to keep him warm. You'd laugh, wouldn't you, if not for that sweet, naive expression of pure enjoyment on his face, for the way he bobs his head to the music, clearly enjoying the bop. He doesn't dance, though, a sure sign that he feels out of place - and he certainly looks it. He's not trampy, like the rest of them.

Like you.

And you like it.

You adore being trashy - there's a sort of freedom in it, in being a libertine. You can shag whomever you like, wear as much makeup as will fit on your face, whichever clothing you fancy, take any drug that comes your way. It's a sort of freedom you enjoy, and it works for you, doesn't it?

But he's different.

Just the way he moves through the crowd, with a look of awe, as if the other people weren't there. Like Moses - the audience just parts for him, though not one of them acknowledges his presence. He's just...something else, entirely.

And he's looking at you.

He's not focused on Pearl's huge hair, which almost always catches the eye, nor on Billy's closed eyes and sexy, half-parted lips as he bangs away at the drums. He's not focused on Malcolm, who gets most of the guys and chicks, just for being the lead, short, and as sexy as the rest of them put together. But as focused as you are on him, he is on you, on your gaudy lips and porcelain face, and the way your carmel hair flies upward into a perfectly held-together coiff.

He's still staring at you - your slender fingers cycling over the cords, your heavily-lidded eyes, your smile. And you blow him a kiss - it's a moment, and you regret it suddenly. But then he smiles back. The sweetest, warmest smile you've ever seen.

A lonely smile.

He has nowhere to go.

Later: you can tell he's entranced through the openness in his face. His eyes are wide as he sips his pint, those thin - luscious! - lips parting, closing, and the throat swallowing. You try to play it off cool, to keep up the cynical banter with the rest of the Creatures, but you would love to slip your foot slowly - as slowly as you know how, to tease him - up his virginal leg.

You don't think he's slept with another man, and you become quickly enamored of that thought, of the idea of unexplored territory, of a pure, chaste conquest.

From the look on his face, he wouldn't argue.

"I don't believe there is much of a future to speak of," Malcolm's explaining, gesturing with his fag, waving the lit end about in a rather dangerous fashion.

"We're in a bit of a decadent spiral, aren't we?" Pearl picks up. Those two were always of the same mind, even when you were giving it to one or the other every night. You should've known they'd take up together, and you're happy for them, really, you are. Honest.

"And sinking fast," Billy adds, finishing his pint in a quick gulp. And then he's looking at you, and you don't know what to say, do you? It's that moment you've been dreading, when you might have to say something reasonably intelligent. Don't look at this boy too closely, you tell yourself. Don't think too much about it; what would you say if he weren't here? If it were someone else, someone who didn't have that saintly air about them?

"Big brother baby, all the way," its popped out of your mouth and gone now - not that you regret that. It was close enough to clever, and certainly true and relevant to the topic.

No, what you regret is that the moment the words are out of your mouth, you find yourself glancing down at his crotch, as if measuring him up. Wondering how big it is. You force your eyes up and smile as gently as you can at him, not realizing that with your trashy makeup - your favorite makeup - you look like an aging whore, grinning at a chaste young lad - something that you could, in fact, pull off quite easily.

And then Malcolm, always the center of attention and high on speed, is off and running at the mouth again. "Which why we prefer impressions to ideas -"

Then Billy, "Sitatuations to subjects."

"Brief flights to...sustained ones," from Pearl.

"Exceptions to types." You realize you've joined them, nearly ganging up on the poor boy, without even thinking about it, just continuing the dogma of the Flaming Creatures, without even thinking. And you see it, the absurdity of the four of you, when, in response to Pearl's "And you," he merely says, looking frightened,

"I'm just looking for a room at the moment."

He's in the (formerly) spare room, and you find yourself walking up and down the hall, as if he might stop putting his things away to speak to you. You go from your room to the bathroom, remove your makeup, go back to your room. You change into something slightly more comfortable, go from your room to the kitchen, where Malcolm and Billy and Pearl and finishing a bottle of wine before bed. You fill the kettle, set it on the stove, light the gas, go back to your room. You're sitting there, thinking, psyching yourself up. You go back to the kitchen - the others have cleared out, but left the lamp on for you, and you take out a mug from the cabinet, place a teabag in it. You swallow, take a deep breath, and hurry to his room.

Although the door's open, his back is turned as he puts some clothing in the closet, so you knock softly on the doorjamb. He turns quickly, almost nervously, then smiles his soft grin at you. You smile back, suddenly all teeth and long limbs.

"I was making a cup of tea. Would you...do you...you want some?" You're cursing yourself for the awkwardness in your question, but he smiles again and nods his assent. You find yourself grinning, almost stupidly, and bounding off to the kitchen, to take another mug and teabag, and pour the boiling water into both cups. You set the kettle back on the cooling burner and lift both of the hot cups, then carry them back to his room.

You hand one to him and he sets it on the antique dresser as he pulls his records out of a box and sets them down. He rifles through them quickly, then pulls one out and places the record gently on the player. He gently places the stylus on the spinning black disk, and after a moment, one of Brian Slade's early songs wafts out.

You've been standing there this whole time, watching his delicate movements, loath to leave now that you feel you've gotten so close to him and his innocent perfection. Your tea is steeped, and you remove your teabag from the mug, then take his bag and yours back to the rubbishbin in the kitchen, where you dispose of them before going back to his room to lean your long frame against the door.

But he doesn't notice you, and finally, you give up and leave.