A/N: Thanks again for the reviews; they really keep this going. I am trying some new stuff with this chapter, a little romance, a lot of action, and so on and so forth. I hope it comes across well.
Warnings: Violence, language, and some references to drug use. None of it is that bad, though.
Disclaimer: I do not own Curt, Brian, Arthur, Jerry, or Tommy Stone. Those characters belong to Todd Haynes and Miramax, and this story is not written for profit.
Ready...and ACTION!
Curt opened the door to find all the lights still on, but the apartment was cold and quiet. He tossed his jacket aside without even noticing the absence of a shattered wine bottle. He remembered the incident when he saw a broom standing in the corner. I have a broom? he thought sleepily. The stillness of the apartment offered no evidence of the turmoil from earlier in the evening, but that was the effect Arthur usually had on a place. The great peacemaker, Curt sometimes called him.
Curt then spied Arthur fast asleep on the long plush couch, drawn up against the chill of the room and still in his jacket and shoes. Curt smiled. He eased over and knelt down, smoothed back Arthur's dark hair and kissed him softly on the forehead.
Curt suddenly felt a little silly...he wasn't an unaffectionate person, but such displays usually struck him as a bit maternal and contradictory to his usually rough nature. What had he become, a mother cat with her favorite kitten? Still, the liberating effects of alcohol combined with the way Arthur's face took on such a boyish innocence while he slept inspired a gentleness that Curt thought he had long since buried. It resurfaced more and more these days.
Brian had a similar effect once.
But theirs were just stolen moments in shadowy hotel corridors or the backseats of limos, tiny respites in a daily assault of flash photography and stares by a greedy public. Invasions into their warm little world provoked Curt's rage time and time again, and the situation worsened when he noticed that Brian did not always share his contempt for the publicity machine Jerry had so skillfully devised. As Curt grew more desperate for the connection he forged with Brian, the more he tried to steal his lover out of the spotlight. Brian responded with confusion, resistance, and spite. "Don't you think people need to see us?" Brian once asked Curt. "We're are stars, Curt! Without us, think of how dreary and dull the world would be!"
Starlight can cross the universe and fall on every planet in its path. Brian wanted to touch and feel everything. Curt just wanted a light for his own. The black hole that opened between them turned Brian cold. It left his lover, the reckless boy from a Michigan wasteland, bitter and angry.
And here in the soothing quiet of his apartment, usually at the edge of the couch, the foot of the bed, or across the bar, Curt had rediscovered what an addiction intimacy could be, and it had never tasted sweeter. He felt the softness of glossy dark hair under his skin.
Arthur stirred under his touch and opened his eyes. He jerked up as if he had been caught napping on the job. Blinking groggily, he tried to rouse himself to full attention.
"Hey...sorry...what time is it?" Arthur whispered.
"Quarter of three." Curt grinned in amusement as Arthur attempted unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn.
"Man, it's freezing in here. Why didn't you just go to bed?" Curt placed his hands on Arthur's knees and ran them slowly up to the tail of his shirt. Arthur shivered and took Curt's cold hands in his own.
"I dunno...I thought I might leave... I thought maybe you wanted to be alone to think or something." Arthur looked around absently to avoid Curt's gaze. Brian's phone call again became a near tangible presence in the room.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Arthur was definitely awake now.
"Nah. Not tonight." Curt suddenly felt exhausted, too tired even to think about the call and all of its implications. It was as if mentioning it again had a tranquilizing effect instead. His mind devolved into one equation: Arthur plus bed plus sleep equals good.
Curt didn't want to talk, but he sure as hell didn't want to be alone.
"I can't believe you were going to split," he said, mock-accusingly, "that's fucked up. If I wanted you to leave I'd tell you."
Arthur winced a little and then shrugged sheepishly. "Well, that's good...I think. But if it ever comes to that point I hope I would have sense enough to leave on my own."
Curt pulled himself up to eye-level with Arthur and slipped his arms inside Arthur's dark blue jacket. Arthur tilted his head slightly as Curt brought his mouth as closely to his partner's as he could without making contact. The heat between them pulsed softly with each breath.
"Your problem is you never stay long enough," Curt murmured. He moved just enough for his mouth to shore up the sliver of light between them and seamlessly drove his tongue in for a deep kiss. Arthur responded hungrily until Curt finally had to break away for breath.
"C'mon, let's go to bed," he sighed. He grabbed Arthur by the wrists, hauled him up off the couch and the two retreated to the back of the apartment. He was grateful that Arthur didn't press the phone call conversation or pester him about where he'd been. Arthur had learned to expertly read Curt's signals and how to accommodate them, so when Curt said "bed" all discussions for the night were closed...to their mutual relief.
Within fifteen minutes, clothes lay scattered across the hardwood floor and both were warm and asleep.
Arthur roused awake in discomfort. More than discomfort, in fact—he was burning up and suffocating. As his senses slowly clicked back into place, he realized that Curt was all but laying on top of him.
To say that Curt was a temperamental sleeper would be an understatement. Some nights he thrashed and tossed uselessly over the covers, other times he slept like the dead. Many nights he simply didn't sleep at all.
Arthur didn't want to wake him, but he nevertheless shifted slightly out from under the sinewy figure that had claimed him as a body-sized pillow. As he did, Curt wallowed lightly and unconsciously turned his head to the opposite wall, flipping a hank of smoky blond hair right over Arthur's face.
Arthur piffed and blew Curt's hair out of his mouth. He stifled a small laugh. He must be out cold.
He stared down the curved landscape of Curt's back. The faint moonlight gave the impression that he was carved from marble. Something underneath Curt's firm abdomen stirred.
Jeez, not now, Arthur chided, but only the top half of himself listened. He decided instead that he was thirsty and in need of a stretch. Disentangling himself from the limbs of his bedfellow, however, proved to be a task.
For every small, quiet move Arthur made to the edge of the bed, Curt constricted, completely oblivious to the attempted escape of his captive. The more he tried to get away, the more Curt's body hardened in instinctual protest.
Arthur looked over at the sleeping Curt and smiled. Get off me you wanker! Arthur could now barely keep from laughing at his predicament. It's a king-sized bed for fuck's sake, and the only space you want is over here. As swiftly as he could without being too clumsy, Arthur heaved Curt on his back and to the side. Phew, he's still asleep. He carefully removed Curt's arm from his chest and folded it over its owner. Finally, now to the kitchen. But just as Arthur started to move, Curt stretched and his arm flopped over again, smacking Arthur sharply right on the bridge of his nose.
Ow! That's it! Arthur silently cursed, far more amused than angry. I don't bloody care if you do wake up! He sat up roughly now and seized Curt's arm for the last time to throw it back to his side of the bed.
But as he did something made him pause.
Arthur felt the smooth underside of Curt's wrist give way to a strange coarseness. In the pale light he gazed at the jagged edges of a vicious scar and remembered the wound that left it.
Curt left the bar in a sad daze. He still felt the dull surprise of seeing his young conquest again, but his face brought with it memories of the Death of Glitter concert and his last days with Brian. The night of the Tommy Stone show had been shitty enough without having to dredge through those memories yet again. As he pulled out his cigarettes and started down the street, Curt consoled himself with hazy recollections of a moldy striped mattress and the laughing protests of an attractive stranger who had landed on the receiving end of his busy hands.
His name was Arthur. Curt watched the cracks of the sidewalk pass under his boots. The further he walked, the thinner the crowds became until he was walking alone, save for an occasional body ducking into a building or getting in or out of a car.
Everything was falling into place: the concert, the rooftop, the phone call with Reynold's goons in his office, the daring question fired during the press conference, and finally Arthur standing before him in the bar. Curt wondered at the strange cyclical nature of it all. It seemed little poetic. Or destined perhaps. He smiled in spite of himself. Arthur. We both made it through and look where we are now.
Curt couldn't help but feel a warm attachment to this long lost stranger. Maybe the pin said enough, maybe it told him that I remembered, he thought, maybe now I can look on that night as finished.
"Hey Curt!" A voice dashed the quiet of Curt's musing. He stopped at the street corner and looked around.
"Curt, over here!" A nasally voice called from the wall to his right. Curt turned around to see two men passing back and forth a fifth of Jack Daniels. The one who called him, a young man in denim who stood with a slight hunch, grinned crookedly. His friend had removed a glass pipe from his pocket and was making preparations to light up but stopped when Curt turned around.
"Aw, c'mon, don't you remember me, Curt? It's Rick! Remember your buddy Rick?" Rick scratched through his greasy black hair.
Curt eyed the two warily. He did remember a Rick, though only vaguely. He was once a regular customer of a Rick, for everything from pot to heroine to pharmaceuticals. After having finally (and very painfully) dragged himself off methadone, Curt was largely drug-free, barring of course the casual joint now and then, thousands of cigarettes, and copious amounts of alcohol. At one time, of course, Curt lived slavishly under the control of chemicals. He burned through money, time, and energy to arrange for his next fix, and experienced a wide variety of degradations and indignities in the process, as both instigator and victim. Now, with his music respected and money in the bank, Curt couldn't imagine falling back into the sewer. And not tonight, not after seeing Brian...Tommy...whoever. He just wanted to go home and go to bed.
"Hey." Curt said flatly. He started off the curb and across the street, past the seedy pair.
Rick's friend, a large, balding man in khaki coveralls, followed Curt with empty eyes.
Rick socked him lightly on the arm. "Check it out, this is my old buddy Curt Wild. THE Curt Wild. The rock star. Fucking unbelievable, man!"
"I don't listen to his music." The large man stated indifferently. Curt shuddered imperceptibly in relief.
"Curt, seriously, you lookin' for some smack or what?" Rick asked excitedly. His voice was all jitters.
"No thanks." Curt replied and kept walking. He heard Rick leave his corner and trot up behind him.
"C'mon man, I've got a line on some premium stuff, remember...like you used to like. I can give it to you for real cheap. A discount, ya know, for all the past business. Remember how we used to hang out on Reed Street? The place is still up and running, ya know. We could all go there and have some fun." He skuttled in front of Curt.
"We never hung out. And I don't want anything. Now get out of my way." Curt was growing impatient. The quiet man appeared in the corner of his eye.
"Okay, it's cool, no problem." Rick squeaked. He stepped forward, forcing Curt to back up a couple of steps, back to the dingy building on the corner.
"But before ya split, Curt," Rick said, "Why don't you help an old friend out, ya know. Just lend me enough for cab fare. Cab fare for me and Sam here."
"Sorry, I'm fresh out." Curt replied shortly, his eyes starting to blaze with anger. He made to move forward again when a thick hand landed on his shoulder and shoved him against the wall. Rick stepped into Curt's personal space as Sam planted his hand on the wall behind Curt.
"C'mon, man, just lend me a little. I know you got it. Just give me whatever is in your wallet...it's gotta be at least a couple of hundred, right? Curt Wild the rock star." Rick continued to grin like a jackal.
The truth was that Curt really was out of money that night, but Rick's assumption was not far off the mark. Curt had come back into his own as a solo artist, and his finances were again showing proof of it. He had just bought a beautiful new apartment across town.
Curt sniffed the reek drifting off Rick's clothes and made a face. He met Sam's glare and spat.
"Fuck off." Curt started around Rick when Sam grabbed the collar of his jacket. He slung Curt backwards and into the wall again and belted him hard across the jaw. Curt's knees buckled somewhat but he corrected himself instantly. His head, however, was spinning. Sam seized the lapels of Curt's jacket and pinned him roughly against the wall, his stinking hot breath choking Curt.
"Just take whatever he's got. And, ya know, I like that jacket too." Rick ordered from over Sam's shoulder. He was pacing nervously and his hands were shaking. Curt could tell he was high on something, probably coke.
"I'm not giving you shit," Curt sneered. Sam pressed in harder against him and stared at him with round, hollow eyes.
"Don't be like that, Curt," Rick stuttered, "Sam's got a mean streak in him and if he get's started I don't know if I can call him off." He lit a cigarette. His drags were shallow and quick.
Sam's grip on Curt's jacket tightened and he leaned in close now, his fists pressing sharp bruises along Curt's collarbone. Curt pushed back with all the energy he had left, but Sam was simply too strong for him.
"I hate queers," Sam rasped lowly, his eyes now vacant and insane. A dread fell over Curt as he realized that while Rick was looking for a quick paycheck, this other man was looking for sport. He lusted for someone, preferably a gay someone, to beat senseless, and tonight was his lucky night.
Well, all I need now is for a piano to fall from the sky and land on me, that would really top off tonight, Curt thought sardonically. Oh well, maybe I'm going to get beaten, but not by this smelly piece of shit bigot. He flashed a reckless smile at Sam, the kind an inmate would flash at his executioner, and rammed his knee as far as it could go into Sam's groin.
The larger man gasped in pain and bent at the waist, but he maintained his grip on the jacket. Curt attempted to twist himself away but Sam recovered too quickly. He slammed Curt into the wall again, knocking the breath right out of him. Curt now didn't have enough room to try and swing. Sam's left arm was pinned across his chest, his right forearm was now crushing into Curt's throat.
He could hear Rick chirping from behind, "I told ya! I told ya! Smash his face in, Sam!"
Sam landed a swift punch in Curt's side. His boots scuffed against the pavement. Sam hit him again. And again. Each time harder than the first. Curt was smothering under the bulk and stench of his attacker. Only vaguely did he realize that Rick's cheers had stopped. Before he could see why, Sam coughed, jerked violently off of Curt and stumbled backward, his blank eyes now widened in surprise. Curt blinked and tried to focus. Arthur had ripped Sam away by his collar and had spun him around to face the street. Before Sam could collect himself, Arthur threw several tight, fast, and powerful blows into his face and stomach. Sam swung widely and Arthur dodged easily, matching Sam's next swing with a sudden block and catching him instead with an uppercut to the jaw. Blood poured from Sam's mouth.
Curt suddenly heard glass shatter against the light pole, and he saw Rick, broken liquor bottle in hand, lunge toward Arthur. Curt jumped in his way and the two struggled back over the curb and to the wall. Rick thrust forward with the bottle, which caught the cuff of Curt's jacket and was forced into his upper sleeve. Curt gritted his teeth in pain but used his free arm to backhand Rick viciously. The drug dealer fell back and stumbled over himself, dropping the bottle in the process. Curt strode forward, his eyes now steely and shining, and grabbed Rick's shirt, heaved him off the ground and belted him. Rick wrenched himself out of Curt's grasp and staggered backwards. He spat an ugly curse and then broke into a run.
Curt spun around. Sam stood faltering on his feet, a tight wad of his shirt's collar twisted in Arthur's fist. He cocked his arm back to deliver a final blow.
"You've got three seconds." Arthur said cooly. His body was tense and hard, his arm raised like a switchblade ready to spring. He released his grip just enough for his opponent to worm away. Sam blinked stupidly and stumbled away, the madness in his eyes replaced by a dumb disbelief. A chain link fence nearby rattled as Sam scrambled over it and into the darkness.
And the air was quiet again.
Curt watched as Arthur relaxed, his muscles releasing the tension that dominated the fight. He breathed deeply.
"Where the hell did you come from?" Curt asked.
"I just left the bar and started walking. Then I saw you and these guys and thought..." Arthur shrugged.
Curt broke into a smile. His soft-spoken reporter had just beaten the shit out of a lunatic and instantly reverted back to his shy, unassuming demeanor.
"My God, you're bleeding," Arthur stepped forward and pushed up the sleeve of Curt's jacket. Rivulets of blood were leaking from a horrid gash on the underside of his wrist, draining into the palm of his hand and dripping from his fingertips. The sight of it produced a tiny stabbing pain in Arthur's chest.
"Oh yeah, fucker took a bottle after me." Curt said flatly, trying to sound unconcerned. He felt a small twinge at Arthur's touch.
"You really need to have that sewn up. Can I take you to the hospital? I mean, uh..." Arthur felt himself blush. He didn't mean for it to sound so much like a date invitation.
"No way, man. Fuck no. I don't do hospitals." Curt suddenly became tense and standoffish.
Arthur paused and then remembered Curt's history. He felt a little guilty for having that kind of advantage over Curt, of knowing so much about him, so many of the ugly truths and trials.
Arthur smiled sympathetically but didn't reveal that he knew what Curt was referring to.
"Okay, well, then let's at least go to my place. My neighbor is a med-student and he's all the time practicing this kind of stuff at home," Arthur offered. Curt sighed in relief that the hospital option was dropped so easily.
"But first, here..." Arthur removed a handkerchief from his back pocket and wrapped it around the wound. Curt smiled. Who still carries handkerchiefs with them?
"What the fuck was that, anyway?" Curt asked.
"What was what?" Arthur looked up innocently.
"That... you. You completely waled on that guy. I've never seen anything like it. Do you box or something?"
"I just, uh..." Arthur focused intently on Curt's wrist. "I sometimes get a little physical when I'm angry, I guess."
"I guess." Curt laughed.
The only sound in the room was Curt's deep, measured breathing. Arthur ran his thumb over the scar, feeling the raised tissue under his touch, the difference between the smooth and the textured. He bent down kissed Curt's wrist gently, letting his tongue move warmly over the scar as if covering it with his mouth now might heal it completely, even as Curt slept.
He delicately placed Curt's arm back on the sheet and slipped quietly out of bed.
A/N: What's to come? Brian's return, a confrontation, shifty business practices, a new character, more violence, and good mushy romance. Please let me know if you like it!
