Title: Where is My Mind? (Part Four of Nancy Boy)
Author: mao
Disclaimer: Sing the disclaimer song, everyone! It's not mine, it's not mine. It'll never be mine, oh, it's not mine! Velvet Goldmine characters, likenesses, and plot lines belong to the fabulous Tood Haynes and Michael Stipe. The quote and the title of this part belong to the Pixies, from their song "Where is My Mind?"
Author's Notes: This's much longer than the other ones because there's a lot to get through from Arthur's perspective here. Hope you don't mind. Also: this was written at work, so it will be re-formatted when I have the chance.
Warnings: Slash (duh, nimrod), mentions of drug use, angst, language, lost innocence, and sexual activity.
Dedication: for Katy, may she continue to shine.
***
You wake up to the sun shining through the window onto your eyelids, prying them open with its harsh rays. There's Ray, wrapped around you as you once wrapped yourself around his pillow, the feel of his flesh hot against your own. His arm is draped across the narrow line of your waist, pulling you close against him, his nearly hairless chest pressed against your back, his breathing soft in the early morning light.
You sit up, slowly delicately disentangling yourself from his embrace, and look down at the street below. People walk back and forth men in ugly suits, women in horrific dresses going to their boring jobs. Your head screams in pain as you remember what you had to drink last night there were a couple pints before you ever left the apartment, a bottle on the way to the club, a double shot of vodka, and the strawberry daquiri, which you can tell now, from your aching head, had more then the usual amount of rum in it.
You turn, glance down at Ray, at the white of his skin against the caramel and straw of his hair, and smile softly. You reach out one hand to brush his cheek baby soft, and the eyeliner has bled down it ever so slightly, creating dark smudges in the hollows under his eyes.
You climb off the bed, pulling the ivory satin and heavy cornflower velvet blankets over his body, averting your eyes self-consciously to his nudity, ignoring that taunting voice in the back of your head, teasing weren't so shy last night, were you?
Shut up, you tell it. It was a different time and place and situation and besides, we didn't go all the way. You could laugh at the silliness of that thought; you know it makes you sound like a girl in the fifties, telling herself that she couldn't possibly be pregnant, but as you head to the bathroom to empty your bladder, you know it's true.
You stop to pick up Ray's robe from where it lies, thick on a chair, and wrap around yourself, taking in the scent of him from his clothes. As you pad softly into the bathroom, you can hear the hushed sound of sleeping breaths all over the flat, the sounds of all the Flaming Creatures fast asleep, Malcolm and Pearl wrapped around each other, Billy's body warm against the girl he brought home the night before, Ray's skin glowing in the light of the sun.
When you've finished, you turn on the shower, unwilling to wash away the night before, but the scent of alcohol clogging your pores. Warm steam fills the bathroom, and you pull the robe off of your skinny body, aware for the first time that you're not a boy anymore; you've filled out in places you never knew you had. Your hips may still be narrow, but as you look at yourself climbing into the shower, it's suddenly clear that physically at least, you're a man now.
The hot water envelopes you, and as the thin fingers of it beat down on you, you find yourself thinking back to last night. It was your first time with another person the bruising kisses, the gentle touchesÉyou find yourself shivering in the heat.
He'd brought you back here, to the place you shared, and into his room. You'd fallen back on the bed, pulling him down on top of yourself, crying out for him like the heroine of a bad romance novel and not caring because you wanted him so much, your eyes were full of tears and your hands uncontrollable.
He'd broken off kissing you and the two of you had helped each other undress, pulling pieces of clothing from each other while gently caressing newly-uncovered skin. But when he'd asked if you'd wanted to, indicating a condom that sat on his dressing table, you'd lost it.
You did want to, you insisted, but you couldn't. Not yet; it was too soon. You'd thought he'd be angry, would kick you out, send you away, make your life difficult, but the words were out before you could even think about them.
Instead, he sucked you off for your first time, and after you climaxed, held you as you fell asleep. As you soap your body and wash your hair, you can't help but remember the touches, the kisses, and the hickey that sits on your neck.
As you step out of the shower, you see it in the mirror, in all its purple and blue glory, a circular, strangely beautiful testament to what happened the night before. As you towel your hair and wrap back up in Ray's housecoat, you find yourself shivering in strange delight.
You're setting the robe gently back on the chair when you feel his lips land softly on your back, at the point where the shoulder meets the neck, and you can feel that shiver run back down your spine. You're dressed now, but when he wraps his arms around you, the muscles loose with sleep, you can feel a powerful twinge in places you'd rarely thought about before you came here.
You turn inside his arms, like a ballerina, and run a hesitant hand down his chest, stopping just above the belly button. He smiles down at you, a benevolent queen eyeing his favorite subject. Then, with a chaste kiss on your forehead, he turns, goes to the closet and begins dressing, casual but flirtatious at the same time. He pulls on a pair of tight pants and a thick jumper before sitting on his unmade bed and patting the place beside him.
Hesitantly, you step over to him, sit down on the thick blankets. He smiles softly, and it occurs to you that he feels shy too. You smile back, feeling awkward after the night before, but not wanting to simply say 'no more'.
"SoÉ" he starts, and you turn, anxious, excited, curious. Ray laughs, and you laugh, and suddenly a little of the tension is gone from the moment, and you're both breathing again. And then you know what to say.
"That was nice." He turns and looks at you, and you suddenly feel the need to expound, as if he doesn't know what you're referring to. "Last night, I mean," you say, laughing a little at the stupidity of that last part.
"Really?" He looks at you from under the curtain of his dark lashes, and you can suddenly see that he's not really that much older than you it's just posturing and makeup; now, with the cosmetics removed and the early-morning vulnerability, you see he's only in his early twenties, still lost himself.
And then the two of you are kissing again, falling back on the bed, and you don't know who started it, if he leaned towards you or you leaned into him or if it was a mutual effort or what, but you're kissing and his hands are carressing your skin under your jumper, and you're nipping at his neck and his earlobes and he's breathing heavy and every nerve ending is on fire, but you're sober this time and you can really feel it when he opens your zipper and helps you out of his pants, and when his hands close down on you, you feel like a little boy all over again, and when you hear that loud knock on the door, you think you might die.
"Hey? Ray? Is Arthur in there? I need to talk to him." It's Malcolm's voice, loud and demanding, and completely innocent. You can feel your entire body go cold as Ray stops, helping yourself tuck back in, and opens the door, discreetly wiping his mouth. Malcolm, true to form, bounces into the room, grabbing your hand, telling Ray he's only "borrowing him for a minute for a cup of tea," with an ostentatious wink, and pulls you out of the room.
When he's brought you in the the kitchen, you put on the kettle, trying to avoid his flirtatious eyes, his knowing glances. Maybe he's not so innocent. Perhaps they all know, you think, putting teabags into two cups and waiting for the water to boil.
This thought, somehow, doesn't upset you quite as much as it might, and you find yourself pleased to pour the water into the cups and turn, handing one to Malcolm and coolly meeting his eyes.
But he's very relaxed about the whole thing, taking his cup, blowing on it, and sitting in one of the rickety chairs. He only says, grinning, "Nice to see you two finally got it together, " before launching into something else he feels you need to know. It's only when he says something about Curt Wild that you feel your brain suddenly click over to hear what he's saying, and you nearly spit out your tea when he says that they've secured you a backstage pass.
"Really?"
"Yeah, of course, man. We all like you, you know. You're kind of ourÉmascot," and he downs the rest of his tea. Billy, who's entered the room during this conversation, smiles and nods at you. You can't help it, but a grin is spreading over your face, and you hug them both before Malcolm bounds out of the room, muttering something about needing fags. Before either of you can ask which kind (the smoking kind or the smoking kind and you know the difference), he's gone and you're alone with Billy.
After Ray, he's your favorite. Soft-spoken, funny, and great to talk to, his eyes flick to the bruise on your neck and you avert your eyes as he winks at you. "Good night?" He teases gently, but with him you can think up a response.
"Nice girl," you tell him, remembering the girl he'd seen leaving earlier from the window, the way her skirt barely covered her bum, the holes in her glittering tights. He grins broadly, pulls down the neck of his shirt to show you the mark she left on him, and you nod your approval, both of you laughing quietly.
You've more or less moved into Ray's room, though you still haven't "fucked" as Pearl put it one drunken evening when the others were out. The two of you sleep every night together, comfortable on the double bed, but close as a couple. You haven't discussed your status with him, but Billy has told you that while Ray was quite promiscuous before, since you came around, it's quite clear that he's stopped seeing anybody else. Malcolm was quick to point out that this is a good thing, and so, you continue blindly down the road, to the Death of Glitter concert.
Every night, he asks if you're ready, and every time you say no he doesn't bring it up again the whole night, but does whatever you ask or let him. His kisses are sweet, his touches always gentle, and even when the two of your find your way into an alley to fool around, he never forgets that you are a beginner, and allows you to call the shots.
But you're at the concert now, his kisses still hot on your cheeks as Curt comes onstage. He's silver and gold, his hair gleaming brighter than a thousand stars and his pants oh, his pants silver, tight, like paint on his skinny legs. He's thrashing around, his eyes hollowed by heroin and eyeliner, deeper-set than they were before. And when he comes offstage, his skin shimmering with sweat and glitter, you can't take your eyes off him.
You follow his hints to the roof, where he sits, drinking a can of some vile American brew.
"Make a wish," he tells you, spilling beer on himself and pointing to the sky, where a flash goes by. You make the wish you know will be granted on the rooftop that night just the same, praying it'll be as idealized as it has been. You talk you know you'll remember every word later on and finally, at long last, he kisses you.
And that's where it all goes wrong. His lips lips you've long fantasized about are harder than you thought, more punishing than Ray's. His waist is too small, too bony, and his hair, though glimmering from the stage, is greasy, heavy against your yearning fingers. He lies on top of you, pulsing, fairly gyrating with enthusiasm, but as you run a hand down his arm, you can feel a fresh track mark where he injected himself earlier. He handles you roughly, and you suddenly find yourself wishing for the familiarity of Ray's body, of the gentility of his touch.
You fool around with him though, letting it go on for nearly an hour, before you pull back and tell him you need to stop. Removed from him, without his clammy skin touching your own, you feel starstruck for a moment, but force yourself to think of the callouses on his hands, the roughness of his touching, and remember Ray.
Remember Ray, you tell yourself.
"I'm in love," you realize, and the words are out before you can stop them. Curt smiles lazily, a rock star smile, the smile of a man who's had hundreds of groupies and thinks he knows what'll happen next.
"With who?" He asks, the lazy smile still on his face as you answer.
"My roommate. Ray." And then the smile's gone, but he's not angry, as you might have expected, had you thought ahead. He's intrigued.
"Ray Flaming Creatures Ray?" It comes out in one breath, and he pops open another can of beer, handing it to you. You sip it, nodding as he opens one for himself. He takes a swig of his own, then smiles; this time it's an honest smile, the smile of a father for a particularly prodigious boy. "For how long?" He asks. He's curious, you realize, and that makes you happy.
"SinceÉforever, I guess. I mean, since I met him," you clarify. "I've only just realized though." He nods, his forehead wrinkled in thought, and you suddenly have to grin at the absurdity of this; sitting on the rooftop with your idol, talking about a man you've just fallen in love with.
"Tell me about him," he requests, and you're happy to oblige.