Perfect Day
A/N: I've decided plot is bad. When I work with actual plot, terrible stuff happens. So, no more plot para mi. Vignettes only. This particular one is inspired by Lou Reed's 'Perfect Day', which is a gorgeous song, IMHO. It's pure Curt/Brian fluff. I don't own Brian or Curt (Why not? Oh, the humanity…); I'm just playing with them. I won't get them dirty (ahem), so don't sue me.
Hammersmith. The word polluted the air, heavy and foul. It hung between them, a wall, a silence, unbearable and unbreakable. It was the shadow that hung over them, the chain that bound them to the clock thundering on the wall.
Curt spoke first. "It's too soon."
"It's sold out. I have to be there- we have to."
They lapsed into silence again. "I don't want to leave," Curt said a few moments later, eyes staring out beyond Brian, to the rocky beach behind the small cottage they'd rented for the week.
Brian turned; followed his gaze to the beach. He smiled suddenly and stood. "Come on."
In the days they'd been there, they'd been too distracted to venture too far from the house. Mostly it was to get food and not to enjoy the scenery around them. But as they headed out to the beach, it seemed the rest of the world disappeared, and all that was left was the sky, the sea, and them.
Curt had never seen anything so beautiful. The sky looked like a painting, hanging high above the stormy sea. Amber tones colored the heavy clouds, a reflection of the dying sun. Dim rays glinted off the choppy waves as they walked along the beach, bare feet sinking into the wet sand. Birds flew above them, their calls a mournful wail that pierced the perfect silence, echoing off the rocks and surrounding them.
Brian's bare torso glinted in the pale sunlight. He shivered as the winds came, and Curt draped an arm across his shoulders. "Should have brought a jacket. Or at least a shirt."
"Giving me a lecture on dressing appropriately?" Brian asked, smiling. "You're the only person in the world who would wear leather to the beach."
"You wore makeup."
"I have to keep up my image," Brian replied, stepping out of Curt's embrace. Curt moved to reach for him again, but Brian held him off with a shake of his head. Brian reached into his pocket. When his hand emerged, it held something tightly. "Curt, a man's life is his image. When that fades… There's nothing." His hands moved to Curt's lapel. Deft fingers pinned the object to his shirt.
Curt caught his hands before he moved them. "It's beautiful."
"It belonged to Oscar Wilde. Or so they say." Brian's eyes lifted from the glowing jewel to Curt's eyes. "Appropriate that it belongs to you now."
Curt slowly kissed Brian's hands, loving the salty sweet taste of his skin. "When I'm with you I want to be more than I am," he whispered against the pale knuckles.
Brian's hands moved, tilting Curt's head toward his. "That's not possible."
He closed his eyes as their lips met. The touch was feather light at first, Brian's dry, smooth lips brushing over his. Then their lips parted in unison and Curt's arms wrapped around Brian's thin frame. Brian's hands clutched at Curt's newly blond hair, pulling his head closer to his own. Curt responded in kind, drawing Brian flush against him. The kiss deepened, consumed, embers of desire rousing into a blistering fire.
They moved apart moments later, only half aware of the fishermen down the beach gawking at them. Curt's eyes closed as his lips brushed the top of Brian's head. He held him tighter, willing time to stop. It didn't and the moments ticked slowly by, dim sun sinking lower. "One day, this will change," Curt whispered into Brian's hair.
His lover turned his head up, quizzical look coloring his beautiful face. "Why?"
"Because I don't deserve this."
Curt's words heavy hung in the air until Brian relaxed in his arms again, head sheltered under Curt's chin. Only then did Brian murmur, whispered words that echoed though his ears like a shout. "Maybe nothing lasts forever."
*Maybe,* Curt thought, stroking Brian's hair with loving hands, *but memory does.*
A/N: I've decided plot is bad. When I work with actual plot, terrible stuff happens. So, no more plot para mi. Vignettes only. This particular one is inspired by Lou Reed's 'Perfect Day', which is a gorgeous song, IMHO. It's pure Curt/Brian fluff. I don't own Brian or Curt (Why not? Oh, the humanity…); I'm just playing with them. I won't get them dirty (ahem), so don't sue me.
Hammersmith. The word polluted the air, heavy and foul. It hung between them, a wall, a silence, unbearable and unbreakable. It was the shadow that hung over them, the chain that bound them to the clock thundering on the wall.
Curt spoke first. "It's too soon."
"It's sold out. I have to be there- we have to."
They lapsed into silence again. "I don't want to leave," Curt said a few moments later, eyes staring out beyond Brian, to the rocky beach behind the small cottage they'd rented for the week.
Brian turned; followed his gaze to the beach. He smiled suddenly and stood. "Come on."
In the days they'd been there, they'd been too distracted to venture too far from the house. Mostly it was to get food and not to enjoy the scenery around them. But as they headed out to the beach, it seemed the rest of the world disappeared, and all that was left was the sky, the sea, and them.
Curt had never seen anything so beautiful. The sky looked like a painting, hanging high above the stormy sea. Amber tones colored the heavy clouds, a reflection of the dying sun. Dim rays glinted off the choppy waves as they walked along the beach, bare feet sinking into the wet sand. Birds flew above them, their calls a mournful wail that pierced the perfect silence, echoing off the rocks and surrounding them.
Brian's bare torso glinted in the pale sunlight. He shivered as the winds came, and Curt draped an arm across his shoulders. "Should have brought a jacket. Or at least a shirt."
"Giving me a lecture on dressing appropriately?" Brian asked, smiling. "You're the only person in the world who would wear leather to the beach."
"You wore makeup."
"I have to keep up my image," Brian replied, stepping out of Curt's embrace. Curt moved to reach for him again, but Brian held him off with a shake of his head. Brian reached into his pocket. When his hand emerged, it held something tightly. "Curt, a man's life is his image. When that fades… There's nothing." His hands moved to Curt's lapel. Deft fingers pinned the object to his shirt.
Curt caught his hands before he moved them. "It's beautiful."
"It belonged to Oscar Wilde. Or so they say." Brian's eyes lifted from the glowing jewel to Curt's eyes. "Appropriate that it belongs to you now."
Curt slowly kissed Brian's hands, loving the salty sweet taste of his skin. "When I'm with you I want to be more than I am," he whispered against the pale knuckles.
Brian's hands moved, tilting Curt's head toward his. "That's not possible."
He closed his eyes as their lips met. The touch was feather light at first, Brian's dry, smooth lips brushing over his. Then their lips parted in unison and Curt's arms wrapped around Brian's thin frame. Brian's hands clutched at Curt's newly blond hair, pulling his head closer to his own. Curt responded in kind, drawing Brian flush against him. The kiss deepened, consumed, embers of desire rousing into a blistering fire.
They moved apart moments later, only half aware of the fishermen down the beach gawking at them. Curt's eyes closed as his lips brushed the top of Brian's head. He held him tighter, willing time to stop. It didn't and the moments ticked slowly by, dim sun sinking lower. "One day, this will change," Curt whispered into Brian's hair.
His lover turned his head up, quizzical look coloring his beautiful face. "Why?"
"Because I don't deserve this."
Curt's words heavy hung in the air until Brian relaxed in his arms again, head sheltered under Curt's chin. Only then did Brian murmur, whispered words that echoed though his ears like a shout. "Maybe nothing lasts forever."
*Maybe,* Curt thought, stroking Brian's hair with loving hands, *but memory does.*