Curt feels stupid buying his ticket. He's sure the cashier at the box office just knows. Knows the whole story, about the record, and how everything happened. She's brunette, non-descript, sort of youngish, looking frazzled and tired. In reality, she probably doesn't care and just wants her shift to be over- Curt remembers what working minimum wage was like back in Ann Arbor. He's aware of this, but it doesn't stop the paranoia and the shame.

He's terrified of the impending possibility of confrontation. Always hated it. Ever since he'd stopped doing heroin he'd been awful at dealing with it. Often times he'd just go away, disappear out of his body and his eyes wouldn't focus when the situation arose. A therapist, who he'd only seen for a month, had told him this was on account of his trauma, i.e. what had happened to him when he was living at home as a kid and the trip to the psychiatric hospital afterward. The funny is, knowing the reason for things doesn't actually make them any easier to deal with. That's why therapy is pointless to him.

He's half hoping Brian won't see him, won't even know he's there. He's hoping nobody will see him. But Curt also knows he can't let the chance slip through his fingers,and that if he can talk to him, if he can get a hold on him, or maybe even just see him again that maybe things will feel resolved. Because making this record hasn't put it in a nice little box in the back of his head. If anything, the dreams, the songs, they'd all just had his head swimming with memories, all burning, growing stronger and brighter the longer he dwelled on them. And every show he's reminded of this, and every show he starts crying in the middle of I Need You and wonders why he wrote such a depressing, pathetic song about the fake assassination for a record he's released in fucking 1985. It's not the 70s, and it's not even the post-Maxwell Demon days anymore. It's been years and years. Thinking of how Brian must see him, pathetic and obsessed, dwelling on the past, makes him nauseous. He quickly turns his thoughts away.

If he's gonna do this shit, he's got to get himself together. It's a good thing he walked to the theater on impulse because they've nearly sold out. What would he have done then? If he wouldn't have had the chance?

Curt absently thanks the cashier and slips the ticket into the pocket of his jeans. He heads back to the hotel, to do what with himself now, he doesn't know- wait for the night to come, he supposes.

He waits as long as he possibly can before going inside. His heart feels like it's going to burst it's way out of his ribcage. He imagines a bloody mess on the pavement in a bit too much detail and figures he should probably go in already.

He hands the attendant his ticket. She rips off the serrated part and hands it back to him without even sparing a glance at him.

There's assigned seating of course, it's a fancy production, but Curt doesn't do that kinda thing. He sits in the furthest row from the stage in the corner, closest to the door. There's no way he's getting trapped in the middle of this.

The weight of his leather jacket is a small comfort, but not enough to keep him grounded. He picks at his fingers, scratching off scabs and digging his nails into newly healed skin. He's so nervous, he's so scared, he wonders why he ever thought this would be a good idea. He keeps his eyes on his surplus store combat boots.

This is Brian's new life and it's not Curt's place to barge back into it this way. He knows that and he has since he'd found out he was living in Paris.

The play begins, he looks up at the stage, and there's no getting out of this now.

The atmosphere, the costumes, the set up in just the opening is so dramatically elegant and so very Brian that he has to smile a bit. He remembers late night rants, sometimes tearful, about the injustice of Oscar Wilde's trial and incarceration. He thinks of the newspaper mention and imagines the Brian he knew, in the old days, reacting to something like that.

He twists the pin on the lapel of his jacket. Twisting it, tightening and loosening, and runs his fingers over the smooth dimensions of the green jewel.

Curt is transfixed. Impressed but certainly not surprised. Every line is purposeful, laced with a meaning beyond the surface. Brian was a genius, always had been. Curt wished he'd had the chance to read more of his writing when they were together. The musician in him was only a small piece, he was an artist in every sense it seemed, and while Curt had always admired him for that fact, he didn't think he'd ever had the chance to really experience it this way.

Then movement in the corner near the stage door distracts him.

Fuck. It's Brian.

He's far enough away that Curt can almost believe he's mistaken, but not quite. He's exactly the same man who'd been standing in the doorway of the diner, only now he's got a suit and a rose pinned to his jacket. There's someone at his shoulder, whispering to him, but he can tell by the expression on his face that Brian isn't listening. Shit.
His eyes are wide, dazed. If he's visible to Curt he must be visible to everyone else, but he still hasn't moved from the stagedoor. Something happens: a vase smashes. Uproarious laughter. Applause.
He'd only glanced away for a second, but when he looks back, Brian has disappeared.

Curt realizes then that he may not have any other options now. He gets up before he can think too hard about it. Quietly, and carefully he makes his way towards the door he'd seen him in front of seconds before.

His boots are too loud in the stairwell, providing a low drone beneath the general chaos. It's much louder than Curt would have thought: a mind-numbing buzz that disorients him, making it even harder to try and figure out where he's going. Everyone is in such a rush that he seems to register as more of a walking obstacle than a human being, which is comforting, though he's not sure how he's supposed to find Brian if no one will even look at him.
He feels like if he keeps going down he'll find a door with a placard reading
BRIAN SLADE in big black letters. It probably won't be that easy now.

"Excuse me, sir?" A sharp American accent breaks through the buzzing, sounding crass and strange against the tumult of French. It's an older man wearing a white dress shirt, which he has sweat through completely.
"Yeah?"
"Are you authorized to be here?"
Curt snorts, but it's hidden by the clamor. One of the actresses comes up the steps, wearing wide, lacy blue skirts and a violent slash of red lipstick.
"I asked if you were authorized to be backstage?"
"I'm a friend of the director. Thomas Stoningham?"
His new friend looks incredulous, his large, weepy eyes set intently on Curt's face. For a second, his chest feels too tight, and the noise of the stairwell closes in on him.
He's going to say something about it. He's going to kick me out.
Curt sees himself back at the hotel, defeated, listening to Malcolm harp on and on about the love that could never be. Jack's face, sympathetic but cool, silently imposing that it was for the best. For the best, for the best, for the best-
"What's your name?"
"Uh-"
"Mr. De Winter," The weepy eyes lift from Curt's face,
"There are other things I need your help with. I gave you a list."
He freezes, but feels too warm just the same. He stares at stupidly at Mr. De Winter as Brian's shoulder brushes his, just for a second.
"Yes, Mr. Stoningham, I was just-"
"I can handle this, I believe."
Brian glances at him, blue eyes hard and dark. His lips are set in a thin, stiff line. Panic creeps up the back of Curt's spine with prickling fingers.
"Yes, Mr. Stoningham."
Mr. De Winter shuffles back up the steps, glancing down at them every few seconds and connecting the dots. Curt watches him open the door he'd come through and disappear.

Brian turns to him as the noise around them dulls: People are beginning to take interest in the scene, their eyes itchy and prying on Curt's face.
"Won't you please accompany me back to my office?"

Curt says nothing. It's easy to follow Brian down a long tiled fluorescent lit hallway. It's much easier not to have to watch his expression, cold, dim, somewhere else.

He had that ability. He could turn it all off so quickly. Curt never could. He has to feel giant and clumsy and out of place and oh so pathetic.

Brian stops in the entrance of a doorway with an official looking name card, printed in dark bold font, mounted on the wall next to it.

T. Brian Stoningham - Director

He waits for Curt to walk inside before he shuts the door firmly behind them.

Brian is quiet, his hand lingering on the knob, his back turned to him. He's breathing slowly, heavily: Sweat shines on the back of his neck.
"So, you found me," He says, very carefully, and Curt realizes that his eyes are fixed on the green brooch pinned to his jacket, "You found me. I'm sure Malcolm is very proud of himself."
"That's not-" Curt says, but Brian cuts him off.
"Please, let me speak."
He becomes aware that he's taller, older, different. There are sad, heavy lines forming around his mouth, and the softness has gone out of his face. He's become a white, dead skull. The way he looks at him is sickening, worse than the disappointment in the studio, or the hateful, bitter mask when Curt had finally left. At least then Brian had cared on some level, when they were fighting or breaking up. Now he just looks resentful, and exhausted.
"I don't care what you say about Brian Slade in the records, or in the papers," He says,
"I don't care what you say about him to Jack and Malcolm. I don't care what they say in England, America, Germany, wherever you happen to go because I know he follows you, and I'm sorry for it. I know he follows everyone."
His eyes are still on the pin, their expression passing between disbelief and rage.
Curt wants to rip it off, throw it across the room.
"I don't talk," He spits, and a sort of flame comes into Brian's eyes, wicked and twisting,
"I don't. I haven't said one goddamn thing about you to the press."
He scoffs and looks away.
"That's the brilliant part, you don't even have to. They all know who you mean, Curt. My dead grandmother must know who you mean."
He can't argue that, so he's quiet, grinding his teeth together. Shame is making it difficult to look at him. Brian is very close: his breath brushes Curt's face. His eyes dart forever downward, towards the pin.
"Why are you here?"
"I don't- Just to talk to you. I just want to fucking talk to you."
He moves silently across the room and takes a seat in a big, worn-looking leather chair, as though he were some government official ordering Curt's assassination. He motions to the loveseat across from him, but he doesn't move.
"If you came to talk you might as well be comfortable." He snaps, propping his cheek up on his palm. His actions seem completely ridiculous, almost insulting.
Curt flushes, and shakes his head, leaning against the door.
Brian glares, cold and impatient. "Suit yourself then."

He taps his fingers against the arm of the chair, making a soft, dull sound on the leather. It feels to Curt like ticking seconds on a clock, like Brian could order him out at any time, like he's just waiting for the right moment.

He crosses his arms over his chest and squeezes himself tightly. Where should he start? What's the thing to say to have it make sense to him?

"It wasn't- I couldn't, I mean-" He sighs sharply, fuming, feeling himself shaking so hard.

Why are you here?

He takes a deep breath, uncrosses his arms and looks down at his hands. He picks at his fingers, they're disgusting, all full of bloody scabs.

"It wasn't supposed to be a big fucking thing. Really. I didn't want to think this hard about any of it. I didn't want to drudge any of this shit back up, for me, for you, anyone."

Brian's stopped tapping, he's eerily silent.

"I know, fuck-I know this is all supposed to be behind us. It was such a different life. It just-it wouldn't leave me alone, I didn't- I mean-it just came back I don't know what to tell you and-I don't-"

He has to stop and steady his voice.

"I don't want you to think I hate you or I'm trying to spite you or get back at you. I feel really fucking pathetic and stupid, I don't want to be an old crazy obsessive ex to you I just started writing and it turned out being good shit, none of it was planned-none of it. Coming here was just a fucking unfortunate coincidence and I didn't find out you lived here until the tour was all booked, planned out, I didn't-fuck,"

His lungs have completely constricted, his throat feels closed up. He crosses his arms again and stares at the floor, petrified.

"It's not my place to be here. I know. And I'm sorry."

Brian swallows hard, nearly choking. He's watching Curt from his place across the room.

Taking the time to look at him now, or rather, being forced to by the closed quarters, the trap he'd set for himself, he sees how vulnerable he looks. Hunched over, eyes downcast, voice weak. He looks like a little boy, and in fact, if it weren't for the faint creases of his forehead, and the shallow sweeps of bags under his glossy eyes, he'd be the same Curt of ten years prior. A soft, unsure version, of course. He knows the Curt he once knew wouldn't show this to him, no matter the circumstance.

The thought makes something sharp twist in his stomach. He can't push it down now, can't even grasp the will to try.

Curt's clawing at the back of his hand, taking quick shaky breaths. He looks like he's trying to disappear within himself. His expression is far away, but it doesn't hide the sheen of panic, the glint in his eyes akin to a deer in headlights.

"You don't have to be afraid of me," He says, and it comes out in a bit of a burst,
"I won't tell anyone you came here. I won't blow this up."
Curt glances up at him, and Brian's face softens further, his lips curving tenderly.
He casts his eyes down to the floor, scuffing the toe of his shoe on the carpet.
"It hasn't all gone away for me either, you know," He admits, eyes on the pin again, "It hasn't gone away."
Curt stutters, then shoves his hands in his pockets, his hair falling across his face.
"I know you didn't come here to hurt me, Curt."

He stands a bit straighter then, like a weight has been lifted off of him.

"Your play was really wonderful," He says, raspy voice barely above a whisper. "What I saw of it anyway, you're a really great writer."

Curt pushes his hair back from his face then, tucking it behind his ear. He looks at Brian again, his eyes kinder, a slight smile tugging at his mouth.

"A great writer I mean, in a way I didn't get to see before."

Brian smiles back, tiredly, but with a smug twist to it.
"Thank you, Mr. Wild. 'It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors.' "
Curt wrinkles his nose, his smile widening,
"What's with all this Mr. Wild shit, Mr. Sla-"
He stops, and the humor drops off of Brian's face with a flinch. His eyes become darting, defensive, as if someone may leap through the door and grab him.
"I'm sorry-" He stumbles, "I'm sorry-"
Brian visibly collects himself, and folds his hands in his lap.
"Please refrain from calling me that in my place of work."
"Yeah- sorry."
Silence falls, heavy and querulous. His fingers resume their tapping on the arm of the chair.
Curt's breathing becomes difficult again, his guilt hot on his face.
"You may call me Mr. Stoningham," Brian says, obviously trying to bridge the gap,
"Or Brian. If you like, I also occasionally go by Thomas now." He sneers, and straightens an imaginary crease in his pants.
"How very wretched," Curt murmurs, and he actually chuckles, his shoulders relaxing.
When Brian glances up, his eyes fall upon the pin again.

Curt's face feels warm. He doesn't know how Brian feels about it-the pin. He'd always just had it on his jacket. When he'd bought the jacket, leather, with orange on the sides, his favorite, back in '78 he'd simply put it on and had never really had to think about it again.

He feels even more shy. Brian seems so professional, intimidating, untouchable. Not cold though, not anymore.

Curt crosses the room and sits on the dark blue floral printed loveseat across from him, and pulls out his pack of cigarettes.

He pulls one out, and then offers the carton to Brian. He meets his eyes, and they're so blue. Bluer than he even remembers.

"You still smoke?"

"No," Brian scoffs, "I've given up all human vice."
"Right," He lights one and hands it to him, "Cool ashtray, by the way."
He grins, and pulls on his cigarette. He's very posh about it, very Brian.
"You know, I stole that pin from Jack."
Curt is startled by how bluntly it's brought up.
"Er-Yeah."
"Why didn't you ever give it back to him?"

He wasn't expecting to have to answer this question. He rarely even thinks about the pin, it's just something that's a part of him now. It really had only been an issue that one time, years ago, when he'd thought he'd lost it. Jack had never even mentioned the pin to him.

"He never asked about it, and I guess I never wanted to." Curt says, and realizes it's kind of a lazy answer.

"What I mean is, it's sentiment means something to me. I don't want him to have it back."

Brian glances from the pin back to Curt's face again, seeming to be processing that concept.

"I see," He says, incredulous. He takes another graceful pull on his cigarette.

Curt watches his lips close around it, and after a moment the smoke flowing out of his mouth. He feels himself flush and he tears his eyes away.
There's a knock on the door: He tenses, but Brian rises calmly, stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray.
He opens it so that only his face can be seen, and says calmly,
"Ah- Mr. De Winter. Am I needed for something?"
"Mr. Stoningham, sir- the show is over…"
Curt sees Brian's shoulders droop, his disappointment evident even if he can't see his expression.
"Indeed. I shall be ready to speak to the cast soon."
"Who have you got in there, sir?"
A small pause, and then quietly,
"An old friend of mine, from England. He'll be pushing off soon."
He shuts the door and turns back to him, brushing a hand through his hair: with a little jolt, Curt realizes his eyes are shining, like he's holding back tears.
"Sorry for making you miss your show," He says, uncertainly.
"That's alright. I'll be seeing it again twice tomorrow." He makes an attempt to smile, but it's pinched. Curt is quiet, picking at his fingers again.
"Should I go?"
"Are you satisfied with this talk?"
A slow, dead feeling starts in the middle of Curt's chest and spreads until his head is throbbing, and his feet feel like they're nailed to the floor. Of course not. Now everything just feels worse, even more unresolved.
"I guess."
Brian looks shy suddenly, a little afraid. He swallows a couple times, then focuses his eyes on the pattern of the loveseat.
"How many more days will you be in Paris?"
"Why?" It comes out harsher than he'd meant it, and louder.
"I thought you might want to talk again."
"Don't feel obligated, Brian."
"I don't- I want to see you." He stops, then, and turns back to the door. Another uncomfortable, strained silence.
"Another day and a half." He mutters, finally.
"Could you see me tomorrow night, alone?" His voice is very quiet and dry, and Curt knows he's being especially careful not to let his tone make promises.
"Sure, where?"
"I have a flat."
"Does it have an address?"
Brian crosses back over to his desk and scribbles it out on a piece of yellow paper, folding it and handing it to him. He takes it, and opens it, just so he'll have something to do with his hands.
"I have to go," He whisks by him and opens the door, and his expression is strange, unreadable, "Do you need me to show you the way out?"
Curt shakes his head, shoving the paper deep into his pocket.
Brian smiles faintly,
"Until tomorrow."