Arthur was having a really bad day.
His boss was off the wagon and his boss' wife and his boss' hangover were making the office miserable. That, and Arthur's head was playing tricks on him.
Tricks were fine, for the most part. Arthur liked tricks. He used to play tricks on people when he was a boy. Kid stuff, really- caterpillars down people's backs and tin beetles in glasses of milk. Things like that. But Arthur's mind was conjuring up thoughts and scenarios other than the ones he needed to produce credible work.
He found himself thinking of warm country rain on the outskirts of Central Park. He had flashbacks of (the big store that had to shut down in London; Glam Rock era) when he passed a women's clothing boutique. Twice he thought he was being followed and actually concocted espionage stories complete with names to amuse himself while he was racing towards a deadline.
Still, Arthur could handle his mind. He had experience where his mind was concerned.
It was Brian Slade's little trick that was causing the most damage.
Arthur had almost thrown his half-empty beer glass across the bar when a reporter friend of his presented his new piece- the story that Curt Wild had recently done a show in downtown New York and invited a friend named Brian to share the stage. Arthur didn't need to discuss who this mysterious Brian was. He knew. First-hand.
He knew that Brian had a tiny birthmark on his right shoulder and that the hair on his body was sparse and fine. He knew that those long legs were deceptively thin and those thighs could squeeze around a man's waist with gratifying vigor. He even knew that Brian had a choice selection of raspy curses that he let fly when he was in the middle of sex.
So, yes- he knew who this 'friend' was and it was the cruelest trick of all. That Brian could traumatize his personal life was one thing. Brian was now sabotaging his career, and that was unacceptable. That was poison in his veins.
Al hadn't taken it well. Arthur had been summoned to his editor's office when the story broke and the moment Al sniffed out the truth that Arthur had always known, the old man had hit the roof. Arthur had never been treated like that before and contrary to his later frame of mind could do nothing except stand there with his eyes wide as his pride took a severe beating.
He left the office and grabbed his bag, not even stopping to look his colleagues in the eye. Everyone had heard. He knew they had heard because the whole office was silent and he could feel their stares burning into his back.
The one thought in his head was that he could get fired for this. The word 'fired' pounded in his temples in time with his feet. But he made it out to the streets before he felt physically ill.
The shock wore away as he got into the subway. The shock was gone by the time he got out again.
Clattering up the stairs to the City version of fresh air, Arthur was tearing himself apart for this, pointing out to himself that he had known this would happen. That he had known something like this would go wrong. He had taken that risk. He couldn't blame Lou and he couldn't blame… well, no, he did blame Brian. Brian was always to blame! But he had been stupid to trust the ego of any rock star; stupider to imagine that the rock star had any notion of finer feeling.
He pounding up the stairs to his apartment and flung open the door hard enough to have it rebound on him. He locked his front door, dumped a plate left out on the counter in the sink and then marched into his bedroom. He stripped. And then caught sight of himself in the mirror.
His anger deflated.
There was nothing special about him. Arthur had accepted that a while ago. He wasn't handsome and alluring. Girls didn't look at him and see romantic dinners and fairytale lives. They saw a man who worked at a job that was sometimes interesting, sometimes exciting and otherwise mundane. They saw a man who wasn't given to lots of public appearances, who preferred to stay home and sketch or read. Arthur didn't even want to know how the men saw him- how Brian might have seen him.
Nothing deceptive. Nothing complicated. His life was easy and open. His face was easy and open. His work was easy and open.
He found himself sitting in a chair with a smashed record in his hands and the crushed feeling of breathlessness in his chest. For a moment he didn't know where he was. He didn't recognize his apartment. He didn't even recognize his own body. All he could feel was his fingertips pressed into the two main halves of the broken record.
Someone took the record out of his hands and tossed it to the carpet. Someone was saying something very soft. Very blurry too. Arthur squinted and tried to focus but he couldn't. He wanted to slip away again, go away where it didn't matter if he was breathing or thinking or just living.
"Hey, man, you okay? Kid? Can you hear me?"
He could. He really could. But he couldn't place the voice and he couldn't respond to it. The sand was suffocating him again and he thankfully let it into his lungs and went away again.
Curt Wild was getting truly worried by this time. He'd knocked on the reporter's door for a solid four minutes before finally picking the lock. It had taken a while, since he was rusty and maybe a little worse for wear, but he'd managed. And found Arthur sitting in a chair with that broken record in his hand.
He'd called out to him, told him he was a hard man to get a hold of and laughed a little. The man hadn't even looked up at the sound of his voice.
And then this- with the dilated pupils and quick, shallow breathing.
"Alright, buddy, let's get you lying down." Curt grabbed him by the front of his dark shirt and hauled.
Arthur wasn't as light as he looked. Curt was shorter by a few inches and thinner by a few pounds; he almost went over backwards. But Arthur was standing on his own, looking absolutely bewildered, absolutely vacant.
Curt didn't like it. Brian hadn't said anything about a catatonic reporter.
"I'll call a doctor, okay?" he said, though he didn't expect Arthur to answer, "Let's get you in bed, first. Maybe that's it, eh? Got any sleep last night?"
Arthur hadn't gotten any sleep the night before. He'd taped the interview and he hadn't been able to stop watching it again and again, hearing his job at the Herald smashing around his ears louder every time. He shook his head once and then followed docilely to his bedroom.
"Go on," Curt advised, "Just, er, lie down. I'll get a doctor. Ambulance or something. Shit, what do I tell them?"
"Not," Arthur said, still standing but leaning against the wall, "Not doctors. Can't."
"Can't? You can't go to a doctor?" Curt didn't get it. He gnawed at his nails. "You got a phobia or something?"
"No." Arthur shook his head and raised his hand to his face, pressing against his eyes. "No." He gave it another try, struggling to surface again in spite of himself. "I'm… fine. Just tired."
Curt dropped his hand and looked disbelieving. "Tired," he echoed.
"A minute. I need…"
They stood in silence for a while and when Arthur finally looked up, the world was still sparkling at the edges but not so badly that he couldn't focus. He focused on the other person in the room and almost gave up his mind altogether.
"Wild?" he said, blinking a few times in shock.
"Yeah. You're Arthur, right?"
The grin was familiar. The lines in that face were not. But not so different from the bar. Or the rooftop. Or the poster. Not so different at all.
"What do you want?" Arthur asked, knowing enough to take it for granted that Curt hadn't just come back to repeat any of their former little trysts. He didn't feel like one and wasn't in the mood for the other, anyway. "How'd you get in?"
"Yeah, about that," Curt looked sheepish, "You weren't answering, mate. I picked the lock."
"You did what?"
"Well, it's an easy lock and I thought I'd leave a note."
"You broke in to my house." Arthur didn't want to question any more. He was too drained and he couldn't take much more of the disembodied feeling. "Why?"
"Brian wanted me to tell you…"
That name. Arthur had heard that name far too many times in the past week and he was so tired of it all. He wanted to sleep- needed to sleep- and Curt Wild was standing in his bedroom and talking about Brian Slade. Arthur wasn't even listening to what the musician had to say. He could only wonder where Brian was, and if Brian had gone back to Curt, and if he could be allowed to be angry at the both of them and jealous of the both of them even if the feelings were entirely irrational.
"Arthur? You're slipping off again, man."
"Get out of my house," Arthur pleaded, "I don't want to talk about this now. Fuck off back to Brian and tell him to fuck off too."
"Arthur, I'm trying to tell you…"
"Don' tell me anything. Just go. I've 'ad a shit day and I need to sleep."
Curt sighed. "I know, man, I know. But I really need to just talk to you…"
"Curt. Leave."
"Arthur…"
"Curt, I'm not interested in anythin' Brian sodding Slade has to say to me. He fucking promised me the exclusive and I'm up shit creek because he's let the story out and my editor is busy dangling my balls on his keyring 'cause I didn't get the fucking story. So no, I'm not in the mood to listen. Get the fucking hell out of it."
Arthur was angry. Very angry. And while Curt Wild looked as though he was not the sort of person to get in a fight with, he was also looking very bewildered.
"An exclusive?" Curt repeated, "Brian promised you that? Hey, I didn't know. I just came to talk."
"Fine. Talk to someone else."
"Kinda hard. This is about you. And Brian. But then everythin's always about Brian, isn't it?"
"Not any more."
Curt held up his hands in surrender and let himself to pushed to the door. He dug his heels half-heartedly into the floor a few times, hoping Arthur would let him get a word in edge-wise. But everything he said Arthur interrupted. Finally, when the door loomed close and Arthur was reaching for the handle, Curt turned around and said, "I need the bloody pin back. That's all."
The hand stopped. "The pin you left in my beer."
"That's the one. See, I knew you'd get it." Curt smiled again.
Arthur shook his head and pressed at his eyes again. He felt as though he were coming apart. Slowly tearing apart from the bones outwards. He looked up tiredly and nodded. "Wait here. I'll get it."
He went inside and picked it out of the little box he'd put it in and came back.
Curt held out his hand and Arthur put the pin in it.
Curt slipped it in his pocket, nodded his thanks, and slipped out the door.
No, Arthur decided, he was not having a good day.