Title: Junkie
Author: mao
Disclaimer: Velvet Goldmine belongs to Michael Stipe, Todd Haynes, and a lot of other people, most namely not me. The clip at the beginning comes from Ani Difranco's "Gravel." 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: Inspired by actual events in my life...but set for them.
Warnings: Crude language, mentions of drug use and sexuality.
"You're my favorite drug," he murmers, running his slender guitarist's fingers in my hair. Those strong fingers, and the magic they make when they run over my skin. His lips are soft against my ear, sending shivers down my spine, chills deep into the dark reaches of my body.
"Am I?" I'm using my playful tone, hoping he won't tease me further by running his other hand farther down my leg. But he rises to the bait just the same, and I arch my back slightly as those chills increase in measure, running inside me, through me, into all my parts and racing through my brain like smack.
"Yes," he whispers so softy that I have to strain to hear him, even though his lips are touching my ear and his breath is hot on my overheated neck. "You're better than coke -" he's slipping above me, his hair falling towards me like a copper waterfall. "Better than smack," and his hands are running down my body slowly, lighting my skin on fire where his nails scratch me, ever so slightly, ever so gently. "Better than all the drugs in the world," and then his lips are down, massaging mine, and we're speeding up - his tongue is in my mouth, his teeth pressing heavily against my lips. He's ravishing me suddenly, and as we come, I hear him, softly but distinctly, in my ear, "I love you."
And then the phone's ringing. I'm suddenly, painfully awake, and wishing I could have stayed asleep longer, though I know how the familiar scene ends - even in my dreams, he always leaves me. I know, even asleep, that in the end, he'll leave me, that I'll be alone like Mandy, wondering with a sense of sadness what I could have done to change the outcome of this.
Sad part is, he hasn't left me. Not yet, anyway. Not formally. There was that horrific falling out at the studio. And I'm in my own room for now, at another fancy hotel across town. He even arranged it for me.
But it's not actually over yet. We've cussed and we've screamed, but we haven't just dealt with it yet. And that's the worst part...I want to hold it together, to fall back asleep and be warm in his arms again.
It's like waiting for a goddamn nuke to fall. My only choice is to wait, with my head between my legs, my eyes held shut like a little girl.
I fumble and pick up the phone, mumble something that's intelligible even to me. It's too fucking early, I think is what I say, but it also could have been something about bacon.
"Mr. Wild? A Mr. Slade. Shall I put him through?" It's the middle-aged desk clerk, and I must have an interesting call ahead of me. I wipe my eyes and sit up, trying to decide if I want to let it end this way. It's almost a relief, really. Once it's over, it'll just be over. I won't have to think about it anymore.
With this thought in mind, I mutter, "Yeah, put 'im on."
"One moment, please," and a click. Then another click, and Brian's breathing on the other end. We're both silent, waiting. Will I be the first to break, or will he?
And we wait.
Fuck it.
"What do you want, you tosser? You called me, remember?"
I can hear him sigh. If he were here right now, he'd be making the expression a parent does when they don't want to have a painful discussion with their unruly offspring.
I hate that look.
He's still not saying anything, though, so I glance at my pack of cigarettes by the clock. Seven fucking thirty in the morning. Ugh.
There's a strange sound at the other end of the phone. Sniffling. Sounds like he's got a cold.
Serves him right, the bastard. Hope he suffers.
I pick up the pack and my lighter, slowly pull out a cigarette. He's still breathing quietly on the other end. It's really grating on me now.
"Look, Brian, what the fuck are you calling me this early for?"
Another deep sigh, and then he speaks. When he talks, the image of his lips - bee-stung, a reviewer once called them - comes to my mind, and I shake my head to relieve it.
"This isn't working anymore, Curt."
Well, no shit. I never would have guessed it. I light up my cigarette, take a long drag, and let it out.
"Really? Amazing. Guess what else, Sherlock? Sky's blue."
He gives me that sigh a third irritating time, and I know he has that parental expression on his face. God, I fucking hate that.
"I tried, Curt, but it's just not there between us anymore."
As if I hadn't noticed.
"Something...well, something changed in me, almost overnight. And I just - I don't love you. I never did."
It's as if someone has socked me in the stomach. I knew it was coming - the inevitable breakup had been just around the bend for a little while. But this - this just fucking kills me.
"So you lied to me." It's a statement, not a question, and the fucker better be ready for it, after a line like that. But it gets better.
"What?" He's...shocked? Why the fuck does he get to be shocked? And that note of hurt in his voice as he continues seems immensely unfair as well. "I never said I loved you, Curt."
I shut my trap for a minute. Seething, I am utterly seething. I want to rip his head off and toss it like a football over fifty yards.
"You goddamnn fucking...wanker!" The words are out before I can stop them, and I doubt I would have if I'd thought about them first. He's silent for another moment, then laughs.
"This from the junkie."
Fucker. I'd been clean almost a year and a half when I broke. And guess who got me back into that shit?
Yeah, that's right.
Bastard.
"You fucking cunt rag. That's not fair. Like you ne-"
"The point is, Curt, it's over. It's been over a long time. I don't love you, and this can't go on. It's all bigger than me, bigger than you...bigger than either of us can control. Bigger than we could control together."
What the fuck is he talking about? I take a long drag off my cigarette as he continues.
"It's bigger than the music, even. It's about fame and sex and living! Don't you understand?"
No, I don't, you tosser. I'm still stuck back at the part where you've never loved me.
"You sound like a lunatic."
He's on a roll, excited as a small child now. Enthusiastic. Brian, as a rule, avoids enthusiasm. Something's up, and I have a feeling it's going to piss me off more. What a great fucking start to my day.
"That's because the world got you first. I tried to set you free, Curt, but you're too tied down. You don't see it right. You're stuck in all the rules and regulations they gave you...you don't see that I'm more than that now. I'm more than you, than the music, than the silly fans with their posters and -" here he stops abruptly in his madman's rant. And then I hear that sniffling sound again. Up, pause, sniff. Repeat.
He's snorting while he's on the phone, breaking off with me.
He's snorting cocaine. On the phone. With me. Breaking up. With me.
He's snorting cocaine.
He's fucking higher than helium.
Fucking bastard.
"Don't you see?" He sounds kind of manic now. "I've broken through! It's you or the world, and frankly Curt, the world wins!" He keeps talking, babbling on and on about me versus the world and how he's finally getting somewhere, but I've tuned it out.
Instead, I'm thinking about that time he murmered that he loved me.
After we made love, we'd lain on the bed, wrapped in the silken sheets and warm in the afterglow. He'd smoked a cigarette and I'd stolen hits from him here and there. We stared at the mirror on the ceiling, full of ourselves and of each other.
"I want to go to California with you."
This took me by surprise.
"I want to ride a motorcycle out to California with you. Across the U.S. We can stop anywhere you want, and ride as fast as you want. I just want to hold you the whole way." And he lowered the cigarette to those wonderful lips, and I thought I would die if he ever wanted to end it.
I leaned over and kissed him, and we made love again.
But the bloom's off the fucking rose now.
I want, on one hand, to plead and beg him to think about this more carefully. When he's sober. To decide if this is a good idea or if we can - oh please! - try again.
And on the other hand, I want to tell him to go fuck himself.
Second option sounds better.
"Fuck off and die," I tell him. I hear him cackle happily on the other end, but my hand's already putting the phone down of it's own accord.
Guess California's out of the picture.