Thanks to everyone for the lovely reviews! I'm sorry this next chapter covers some very familiar territory...bear with me! I promise some interesting developments are forthcoming! The return of Brian, some unexpected violence, lots of juicy evil stuff. Evil I tell you! rubs hands together devilishly Please stay tuned!

Chapter 2

Curt's boots clicked on the pavement as he walked swiftly down the street. His breath trailed behind him like weak puffs of cloud in the twilight. The chill in the air felt good, clean, clear. He was too upset to register the cold, and he jammed his hands into his pockets more out of frustration than discomfort. After walking for about an hour, he darted into the nearest bar and ordered a scotch. The air inside was heavy but not unpleasant. It was still very early in the evening, and only a few regulars dotted various booths and tables in the parameter. Curt downed his first drink, promptly demanded the entire bottle, and retreated to a secluded booth in a dark corner. As soon as he sat down, every memory he tried to escape settled into the seat next to him, as surely as if they had pulled up a chair.

Brian was back.

Curt studied his drink like a scientist and yet saw nothing. His eyes, glazed and red, were frozen in focus to years past. The bar grew blurry and vague, its sounds muffled and far away.


"I'm leaving." Curt announced. His hands shook as he lit a cigarette. Brian turned away and lowered his head. If Curt hadn't been so upset, he would've commented on how beautiful Brian looked that day—healthy, porcelain, and awash in the technicolor glow of success. Even more beautiful was the overcast grayness that surrounded him, a haze of sadness and anger that made his stillness seem magical in its unlikeliness. It was like seeing a fire through a fog. But Curt only saw his back turned. The only noise was of the car pulling in below.

"Good. I'm glad you're leaving." Brian lied. And yet, when he turned to look at Curt, he winced internally at his lover's appearance. Compared to his own statuesque suffering, the art he made of pain, Brian noticed that Curt wore his emotions in the lines around his eyes, in the pallor of his skin. He looked more like a junkie than when they had first met. Threads of yellow hair hung in Curt's face and his lips were pale. Maybe he was glad to see him go.

Brian's words were like a blow to the stomach, but Curt recovered quickly, out of anger and a stubborn egotism, and stalked downstairs. He looked once more at Brian's window. His stare melted the frost on the pane and yet begged questions that would never be answered. Brian met Curt's gaze note for note and returned it with a silence and resolve that finally broke him. Curt shook his head in rage and defeat and retreated.


The bottle of scotch was near half empty. Curt slumped down in the booth, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes. Arthur had probably gone home by now.

Curt was losing control of his memories. A combination of liquor and stale air lulled him into a stupor, and he lost the energy to sort out the thoughts swirling in his head. This bar, he mused, reminds me of that bar from when...


"You're Curt Wild."

A young man tensed slightly when he heard his own voice. He realized that he had made the statement to himself and yet spoken it aloud, almost as if it were a question. He became suddenly aware of himself, his height, his ungainliness, the cold glass of the beer bottle he clutched, and the man sitting a few steps away turned up his head to glare at him.

"Yeah." He rasped, low and irritated. "Who the hell are you?"

Curt was not in the mood, not interested, not having any of it or anyone. He wanted to nurse the piss-grade afterthought of a beer and be left alone. He felt cemented to the chair, fused into the cheap vinyl and made a part of the dinginess of the space, a calcified hunk of memorabilia that would have to be broken away from its resting place. Oddly content to sit there and soak up the stink of the place, he wondered now who the fuck would care enough or be bold enough to disturb him. And here was this man, this tall, handsome young man who barely spoke above a whisper.

"Just a journalist...from the 'erald." He voice rose slightly. Curt breathed smoke and stared ahead.

"It's just funny...I tried to contact you earlier about a story I was doing about an old friend of yours... Brian Slade."

Curt shot a threatening look but the other man ventured closer, twisting the now warm bottle in his hands and speaking more directly. Arthur never knew his own bravery, he never would have recognized his own subtle way of baiting a subject, throwing out a line of inquiry and jerking back just as someone cracked under his quiet invitation to reveal something. He calmly tossed his lure out to Curt,

"Trying to find out what actually happened to him..."

"Look," Curt interrupted, squirming on the hook.

"Before he became...

The reporter paused.

"Such a mystery."

Gotcha. Curt's head shot up and his eyes seized his interviewer. Fuck you, Curt wanted to say, fuck you and your questions and your advantage over me. And fuck Brian for putting him in situations like this, his battle scars still poured over by bored 'journalists from the Herald.'

And yet he paused before the rant began. The young man paused as well, more out of a strategic courtesy than out of intimidation. Curt was momentarily impressed. An understanding flared between them instead, like the white spurt of a match in the darkness. Nevertheless, he silently waited for the reporter to give him an excuse to bolt.

"Look man," Curt scoffed, sounding less impatient and more defensive, "I don't know who you've been talking to or what you're after but..."

He crushed his cigarette and as he did his bluster fell apart. Who was this guy? Who ever heard of a soft-spoken reporter anyway? Restlessness crept underneath Curt's clothes and he shifted uncomfortably and looked away. He found himself waiting for Arthur to speak, waiting for that skilled voice to lure him back out again.

"What?" Arthur sat down. Every movement he made was careful but not calculating. He eased in like a priest preparing for confession. The unexpected tenderness flustered Curt. He was in this deeper than he initially thought. This guy would need—he deserved—a better response than "Fuck off." Curt twisted around to face him for the first time, and Arthur was struck by how unthreatening the allegedly hard-boiled musician actually appeared. He was slight, his shoulders small and his skin pale.

"Listen, a real artist creates beautiful things and puts nothing of his own life into them okay?" Curt offered. Where in the hell was this justification coming from? Why was he talking to this guy?

"Is that what you did?"

Was that a tinge of resentment in the reporter's voice?

"No." Curt consented, completely dismantled. "We set out to change the world. Ended up just changing ourselves." Brian's image flashed in Curt's mind, but he couldn't tell if it was a an actual memory or a poster he had seen.

"What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing." Curt looked into the crowd near the bar. "If you don't look at the world."

Curt had rarely been pinned down in a conversation so quickly, and he relented gladly. He had been storing these thoughts up for ages and it was a relief to finally let them out, albeit to a total stranger.

Meanwhile, Tommy Stone glowered smugly from his pedestal over the jukebox.


The face of Tommy Stone roused Curt from his dozing. He resumed his former position of shoulders hunched over a glass. Bastard, he thought. Lying bastard. Suddenly he remembered the end of his conversation at the other bar years ago, how he remembered the man questioning him and how that remembrance warmed and amused him. He hated to leave Arthur then, and stalled trying to come up with some reason to continue the conversation. So he gave back the pin...maybe they could take a walk or have another drink anyway? No such luck. Curt recalled his hesitation and how the weariness of that day finally found him and escorted him quietly from Arthur's soft inquiries.

Curt smiled to himself. How that night only got worse, he thought. Much worse. Worse in bruises and blood. He traced a ragged scar over his wrist. After several moments of meditating on his old injury, Curt hauled himself to his feet and started the journey home.

Maybe Arthur would still be there.