New York City: The Center of the Universe. Where a man could rise to the highest heights, sink to the lowest lows, or simply disappear into the throbbing mass of humanity that crowded the streets night and day. It was here, in the city that never sleeps, that Arthur contemplated his own insomniac ways. Ok, he wasn't technically an insomniac – he did manage a few hours sleep per night, as well as the occasional unintended nap at his desk in the office. But in those hours been waking, while the fluorescent hum of the pizza parlors and strip joints sang their unsavory songs, he was gripped with restless dreams. Memories. Flashbacks. Call them what you will, it didn't matter. He had been fine. He had been normal. He had been comfortably numb to the realities of his life, and, by day, gratefully detached from the fairies and demons of his past.
But all that went away. With Curt.
A ten-year-old leather jacket, somehow looking almost like new. Limp blond hair with exaggerated black roots. A bottle of cheap beer. How the man still managed to look like a fucking god, Arthur did not know. Supposedly he'd been a junkie, had a violent temper. Supposedly he had been a poster child for rock and roll bad boy behavior. Supposedly his split from Slade had wrecked his mind, his heart, his career. It all seemed plausible enough, but who the hell knew. Who the hell cared anymore.
Arthur stared at the largest crack in the ceiling. The one he was sure would give out one day and kill him in his sleep. He hoped it was a quick death. Painless. He didn't reckon his life had been worth much, but he thought he deserved at least that.
He'd said, "We just ended up changing ourselves." He didn't seem changed. Perhaps less carefree. Less spontaneous and reckless and… well, not high. Age and sobriety – that alone would do it. And what of himself? What of Arthur? He had never set out the change the world. He had only aimed to ride the wave, to let it carry him as far as it could before breaking into an artful catastrophe upon the cliffs. Catastrophe, sure. Artful – well. That was barely even debatable. An estranged father whose name was signed to birthday cards by his mum. A mediocre position as a journalist at a low budget newspaper in a town already saturated by print media. And let's face it; it wasn't the bloody Times, was it? So he hadn't changed the world either, and yes, to all appearances, he had changed himself. Of that he had been certain. Until tonight.
Jacket, wallet, keys. He wasn't sleeping anyway, so fuck it. If his mind was still sitting in that damn bar, his body may was well join. He paused with his hand on the doorknob. It was stupid. He shouldn't. And yet… Arthur cursed under his breath as he slipped the shimmering green pin into his pocket.