OMFG! much, much thanks to The Nameless Wonder AKA NW, as well as Wyndmir, and Billy, m' a leannan. that was so freaking awesome! i think that was the most reviews i've gotten. i lurve all of you. hope i'm still doing it justice. and still glad Tawny's well-liked. he'll be around...(Billy, stop spoiling, you radge daydreamer! ;-P) these chapters have a mind of their own. next one was s'posed to be 2 pgs tops in my notebook. 5 pgs -- and small script. but it's Brian again. well, i'll stop rambling and let Curt take a step forward.

-----t-h-e-y---s-a-i-d---y-o-u---w-e-r-e---h-o-t---s-t-u-f-f-----

Chapter Six: "Crazy Chords"

It had been Tawny's idea, actually.

The smoke from their joints drifted in lazy, majestic spirals. Tawny laid upon the hardwood floor, his golden hair fanned out round his head like an angel's halo, shirtless, wearing a long flowing skirt. He looked beautiful, Curt thought. A smile tugged at his lips at the thought of exactly what Tawny was wearing -- or rather, not wearing -- under that skirt.

Curt himself sat perched upon a stool, playing the guitar. He had steadfastly determined that he would avoid saying his brother's name as much as possible, and keep from thinking about him just as much. It was a hard job, but it seemed to be working. The nightmares had left long ago.

"Man, wouldn't it be fuckin' bonzer if you had a band? I mean, you're awesome on that guitar, and bein' on stage..." Tawny suddenly mused aloud.

"If I could find anybody," Curt replied, almost bitterly. It had been three years. He was eighteen now. And he couldn't really say that he'd done anything really productive in his life past steal stuff. He had done a couple of odd jobs here and there, but that wasn't anything. He knew a lot of people; a lot of people knew him. He just didn't trust anyone past Tawny, maybe Josh on a good day, Abby when he was feeling lonely and he'd had enough of Tawny's crazy tangents. But Tawny was his life. He had done pretty much next to nothing in the three years. But with that realisation, Tawny's idea -- as offhand as it had been -- seemed even better in that light.

"Well, alright, then. All we gotta do is scout out some people, love. Not too hard. Head done to the music shop -- there's always blokes hangin' about there."

Curt put down the guitar and laid down next to Tawny. The twenty-one-year-old wrapped an arm round Curt and kissed him.

"You'll be a star, love. A star in your own right."

"If it works out."

"It will. You are it. Who wouldn't wanna play with you?" Tawny gave him a sly smile. Curt punched him in the shoulder.

"Dirty bastard."

"Can't fault me if I'm right -- which I am. Not my fault you're so damned beautiful. Those eyes, that mouth, that ass, that cock..."

Tawny's idea was forgotten then. It didn't come up for another two weeks.

--------------------

"I wanna show you somethin', love." Tawny dragged Curt down the street.

"Tawny, I was in charge of getting dinner," Curt protested. "Getting" was a loosely used term. "Lifting" was more accurate.

"Bugger it! It's your half-birthday and my bloody birthday and I got you a present."

Damn. Curt had completely forgotten that today was October 1st. He mentally made a note to lift something for Tawny -- or buy something, for a change (he had a meagre stash of cash).

As Tawny charged down the sidewalk, Curt was distracted by a jam-session going on in the music store. His sudden stop brought Tawny up short.

"Hey!"

But Curt had wrested his wrist from Tawny's grip and was ducking into the shop.

"Hey, what's your name, man?"

Curt had momentarily been taken aback by the large assortment of guitars, basses, drums, keyboards, saxophones and other instruments, gear and accessories. He hadn't realised that the session had stopped as soon as he had walked in. He looked over to his right at the question. It was the drummer who had spoken, because as Curt finally showed acknowledgment, he said, "Huh, then?"

"Me?"

"Yeah, you angel. Ain't nobody else I'm lookin' at."

"Why d'ya need to know?"

" 'Cause ya look like a singer," the drummer said, rolling his eyes. "And we need one."

"Wild. It's Curt Wild."

"Sweet," remarked the bassist. Curt jumped at the loud knock on the window. It was Tawny. He motioned with his head for the spaz to come on in, then.

"Curt, man. C'mon. It's gonna be gone by the time your slow ass gets there," Tawny griped. He looked over at the band. "G'day, mates." His eyes went back to Curt. Damn, he didn't need to pout or beg with those big eyes.

"Hey, man!" said the bassist,. "We were discussing a job offer with him."

"Well," Tawny said. He grabbed a flyer off the front counter and a pen and wrote the address of the squat in his backwards-tilting left-handed script. It looked pretty, Curt noted absently. He had never noticed -- he didn't think he'd ever seen Tawny write.

Tawny handed the paper over to the bassist. "You all meet us there tomorrow." He grabbed Curt's arm.

"And just who the fuck are you?" the bassist called after them.

Tawny looked over his shoulder, eyes glinting. "Consider me his manager."

---------------------

"Ta-dah!"

Curt's eyes widened. "Holy shit, Tawny!" He looked at the mongrel in their room with sudden suspicion. "Man, it looks like it'll attack me if I look at it sideways."

Tawny shoved Curt's shaggy head. "Then you'd be dead already. No, I found it wonderin' down the lane -- it looked...like you. So I took it in. Likes devilled ham. I think it's part wolf, man."

Curt looked at him. "Part wolf?" Curt looked back at the dog. It looked so mangy...and so forlorn, deep back in its yellow eyes. It cocked its head to the side. Curt crouched down, and it growled at him.

"Hey. Don't be like that, man. C'mon. Here..." Curt didn't know what the hell to call it. He finally just shook his head and shrugged. "Scruffs." He clicked his tongue. "C'mere, Scruffs."

Tawny was trying hard not to burst out laughing. He sat down on the floor beside Curt and whispered in his ear, "What the hell kinda name is that?"

Curt gave him a black scowl. Tawny shook his head. He clapped his hands.

"Here, boy!"

The dog canted over. "Hey!" Curt scoffed. Tawny ruffled the dog's ears and cooed at it. He smiled at Curt. "Ya can't be wishy-washy with him, mate."

"I'm not wishy-washy. So much for your present."

One of Tawny's golden eyebrows arched, a subdued reaction to the mention of a present that his eyes were severely betraying. They were practically shining at the idea of a present. "Oh, really?"

Curt thought quick. And it was a better idea that buying a present., that was for sure. No cost, no searching. True, it was always available, really, but he could make it special. And like Tawny seemed to enjoy Scruffs, Curt knew he'd enjoy this present, too.

He told Tawny to give him a minute and stuck his head out the door. "Rockie, man!"

Rockie looked up at Curt from the floor.

"You gotta get the food, man."

"Wha'?"

"Yeah, man. Tonight's your night." Rockie didn't know his head was on his shoulders ninety per cent of the time.

"Really?"

"Yeah, man. C'mon. Get up."

"Shiiit." Rockie got to his feet and Curt didn't wait to see how far Rockie got. He shut the bedroom door, turning back to Tawny.

"So where's my present?"

Curt sauntered up to him, pushed him rather hard back against the wall. Tawny smiled.

"It's right here, mate."

"Happy -- happy -- bonzer birthday to me."

------------------

Curt was rudely awakened at eleven-thirty the next morning.

"Fuck. Stupid fucking ass-fuck dipshit fuck." The pounding on the bedroom door almost rivalled the throbbing in his temples. Last night had been a damned marathon. Sex, drinking, more sex, good smoke, more drinking, even more sex. Josh was gonna kill them -- they'd blown through a good deal of the limited alcohol stash. And then there was this beautiful wake-up call.

"Tawny," he groaned, shoving at his lover who was using him as a human pillow. He blew Tawny's hair out of his mouth as all Tawny did was turn his head away. Curt decided to yank a handful.

"What the fuck!" Tawny howled.

And speak of the devil, it turned out to be Josh at the door. "Man, there's people out in the goddamned hall saying they're here to talk to you, Curt!" he yelled though the door.

Curt slapped his forehead. "This is all your damned fault." He glowered at Tawny.

"Sure. Yeah. Fine." Today wasn't going to be fun. And it would not be like this if they'd gotten just...several more hours of sleep. Curt slid on his jeans and shoved an agitated hand back through his dishevelled hair. He kicked Tawny in the back on the way out.

"Took you long enough," Josh said as Curt came out of the room. Dawes was leaned back against the wall beside the door. "I'm surprised you can walk after all that noise I heard last night."

"Guess I did the damage, 'cause he's still asleep on the floor."

Dawes' eyebrows rose and he chuckled. "Way to go, little Drifter." Josh called him "Drifter" not because of just his vagabond status -- still -- but from how he had been when he was on heroin. It had stuck, even when he was off junk, as he was now, though he was seriously considering that getting back on would be a smart decision.

"Who'dah known? Little Curt the Cockmaster. You're enough of a tease, that's for sure. I oughta buy you a baseball bat, man."

"Screw yourself, Josh."

"Hey, man. There's more out there eyeing you than you know, man," he laughed.

"Yeah." Curt was working hard to keep himself in cheque. "Give me a smoke and lemme go talk to these guys."

Josh forked over a Marlboro and Curt lit it as he walked downstairs. That first drag did a lot to calm and almost centre him. At least he wasn't as eager to kick someone's head in for a sideways look.

"Hey, guys," he greeted, copping a squat on the next to the bottom stair.

"Curt, right?" All three of them were there -- the drummer, guitarist and bassist -- but Curt would be damned if he could tell them apart without their instruments. Not because they looked alike, just because he just didn't know.

Curt took another drag. "That'd be me," he said, almost flippantly.

" 'Course," the same guy replied sardonically. "I'm Tom -- play bass. That's Jack; he's our drummer. And Scott, guitarist."

Curt nodded. "So," continued Tom. "Where's your 'manager'?"

"He's asleep for right now. Had a long night last night." Curt kept his expression neutral, but if the guys had been looking closely, they would have noted the mischievous glint in Curt's currently greenish eyes.

"Look," Scott cut in as Tom opened his mouth to talk again. "Love to keep this small talk going, but let's cut to the chase: We are in bad damn need as a band. Hell, we don't even have a name, not to mention a singer."

"I guess you are in bad."

"Right. So, tell us your creds, man -- just so's we know about you; you're already in."

Curt's eyebrows rose at that. That was easy. "I play guitar."

"Have you sung before?"

Curt couldn't help the small, private smile that flitted across his lips. He licked his bottom lip. "I'm told I've got a beautiful voice."

"What you got'll do. We have a gig at the Green Light Bar two weeks from now."

Jack cleared his throat. "Ahem. One," he muttered.

"One?"

"Yeah. It was two weeks when we signed up last week."

"Damn. You're right." Scott snapped his fingers. He turned back to Curt. "So...we got one week. Can you learn five or so songs that quick?"

Curt wanted to do this. "I'll do my damnedest."

"See?" Scott appealed to his bandmates. "Told ya he was the one." Jack gave a noncommittal shrug. Tom didn't react.

"Screw them," Scott said good-naturedly, dismissing their reactions -- or more rightly, their lack thereof -- with a wave of his hand. "Look, Curt. You've got a rocker's name, looks. You've probably got a good voice. Just be down at the music store everyday this week at three for practise and it's cool."

"Done, man. Tomorrow?"

"Right-O. Three, man. Don't forget." The guys left with that and Curt sat back down on his stair, pleased. He took the last drag off his Marlboro and almost pissed himself as Scruffs bounded down upon him as he was smashing his cigarette out against the stair.

"Told you you'd be a star."

Curt looked up to see Tawny on the top stair, head ducked and between his hands, his lion's mane dishevelled, more so than usual.

"Hard night?" Curt cajoled, knowing how close he was to getting his tongue cut out.

"No, ass. I feel right as bloody rain. My bloody head doesn't hurt every time I breathe. My back doesn't hurt from where you bloody kicked me. My legs are fine. My ass -- when the hell did you let your nails grow?"

Curt smiled. "Dunno. C'mon, man. The dog's hungry."

-------------------

He was seven minutes late to his first practise session. "Guess that's not too bad," was the only comment made before a notebook was thrust into Curt's hands. He leafed through it, finding six songs. They were all short, rather simple.

"Ready to try one out, Curt?"

"Yeah."

" 'Kay," Scott said. "Let's take it from the top. First song. Got the mic, Curt? Sound check." The amps for Tom and Scott's guitars were fine, as was the microphone for Curt.

"1...2 and a 1 - 2 -3." The guitar and bass hit into the intro, followed a couple bars later by the drums. Curt entered when it felt right. It worked great. The first rehearsal went awesomely, running until about five.

"So, what are we?" Curt asked as he grabbed up his ratty bomber, preparing to leave.

"You mean like a name? Hell, I dunno," replied Scott.

"We look like a bunch of damned sewer-rats," mumbled Jack.

"Sewer-Rats. Hey, whaddabout that?" Tom -- as expected -- liked it.

"Yeah, man, but we ain't in New York," Curt said, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He cleared his throat. "Maybe just Rats? Huh?"

"That works," Scott said, and Scott was the final say.

And thus Curt Wild and the Rats were born.

(The lyric in the page break is from "Baby's on Fire" by Jonathan Rhys-Meyers and the Venus in Furs)

a/n: hey, does anyone know if that concert where Brian first saw Curt was in London or New York?