UPDATED!!!! Ironic, T, (3/?)
Saturday, 7 June 2008 15:43![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
curtkenobiRating: T for now. Most likely will be raised.
Summary: It's a rocky path, but Curt and Arthur are traversing it together now. Tommy Stone's fame is astounding, almost comparable with his past -- and Curt plans to take him down a notch.
Disclaimer: Just playin' in the post-glitter with the boys.
A/N: Here's a trip into Curt's head. And things being set into place. Oh, translation on the line from Bittersweet. "Stranded [between] life and art." Appropriate, I thought.
Chapter One: Habits and Addicts
Chapter Two: Inside/Out
Chapter Three: Breathing Under Water
--g-e-s-t-r-a-n-d-e-t--a-n--L-e-b-e-n--u-n-d--K-u-n-s-t--
Curt looked like he was actually contemplating the question. He wasn't; it was all for Arthur's benefit. He wanted to seem like he didn't go against the boy at every turn. To be honest, he would never eat anything after waking up: he just didn't work that way. But Arthur was so worried over him, and that -- while mildly annoying, at some times more acutely so than at others -- was endearing. He cared. And even though it had stung that Arthur hadn't expected an answer from him, was prepared to accept that Curt wouldn't tell him what was going about in his head before he would tell him, Curt appreciated that. Arthur...took him for what he was -- who he was. He was fine with Curt being obstinate, or withdrawn, or spazzy, or bitchy, or needy. No one had ever really done that before, accepted him for who he was. Everyone always said they understood him, but they always expected more of him, better of him. What they wanted of him. Arthur let it go as it would. There was only ever one person in his life that had accepted him like that, but that person had been just as fucked up as he had been, which Arthur definitely was not. And they'd been far more insubstantial, though they had most definitely been as consuming as Arthur now was for Curt. Even more so, maybe...
"Just say it, Curt. I'm not going to be upset."
Curt sighed, a tired laugh mixed within it, watching as Arthur laid across the bed, the better to see his lover's face. "I'm sorry, Arthur. I really...I mean, I try, y'know? I just...I can't fuckin' do it."
"You do it just fine," Arthur said cheekily, finally getting a half-smile. "As long as you keep eating at least once a day, I'm happy. Two meals, and I'll be ecstatic." The younger man brought Curt's face down to his own to kiss him playfully. He was smiling brightly as he pulled away. Curt loved that smile. That smile made Arthur look young as he truly was. "I'm going to get me something, though. Want a drink...anything?"
Curt looked into those soulful eyes. He shook his head and looked out the window. "I'll be about."
Arthur shrugged and the way he seemed almost loath to leave the bed made Curt's heart clench, just a bit. This was definitely something good.
And he was terrified he was gonna fuck it up. Eight months, and he still was that scared he'd do something, just one little nothing of something, and it would all be gone.
As he heard Arthur's bare feet pad down the stairs, Curt counted to ten, then headed from the bedroom himself. He lightly went downstairs to the spare room there -- the spare bedroom upstairs was Arthur's office: This was his place.
The place he hadn't been in since they moved in, three months ago. He'd dropped his gear in there, they had locked the door, and he hadn't been back to it.
Curt fished the key from its spot above the lintel and opened the door to his impromptu studio. Like a moth to flame, he headed through his scattered items straight for his Fender, up in the corner, shrouded in its black gig bag. Organisation of the place would wait. He had some things he needed to exorcise, and the only way he knew to help with it was his guitar.
He eased the instrument from its soft case, hands caressing it gently, lovingly – almost afraid of touching it. The body was cool, sleek, familiar – dark blue flecked with metallic twinkles of silver and white, as familiar to him still as Arthur’s body was to him now. He tucked it up under his arm as he grabbed out the cord and set up his amplifier. He plugged the cord into his guitar and turned the bass and treble almost all the way down. With a satisfied smile, he plucked a string, pleased with the small sound that emitted from the amp. And with that, he slid his marbleised-red pick from beneath the strings and set to his self-appointed therapy.
There is a belief that one's life flashes before their eyes before they die. And surprisingly...Curt was inclined to say it was true. Because he'd had it happen, right before and as he had thought he was truly dead this last time. He’d wanted to be dead….
Curt's life was...like a badly edited movie. Violent. Impacting. Snatches and flashes. Vivid in detail, in what there was, but no names, save a few of merit (Arthur, Brian, Arik, Mandy...). Sometimes whole scenes would play out…sometimes, just clips from here and there. Always though, was overwhelmingly intense emotion, almost pervasive in its clarity.
He preferred not to remember. Because remembering was like those damned shocks – they affected him far too much, and never left him feeling right. But they gave him reason to indulge in the vices he did, or had. The problem with outrunning ghosts and the past is that they don’t work on the same playing field; they’ll always be ahead of you, as well as behind.
The one place that brought the most memories back for Curt was hospitals. He’d always hated them – from the time he was small and his grandmother had been in one. The old bitty was about to bite it, and all he could do was try not to hyperventilate from the sensation of being pressed in upon, from the stale air and stark antiseptic smell. Then, a few years later, he’d had his stint at Scourleigh, the fucking mental bin. That brought its own disturbances to add to the pre-existing dislike.
But that was where he had found himself, in a hospital, eight months ago.
He woke up in a hospital bed, dreams of angels and demons in all too familiar forms fogging his head. Slowly, his senses started to come back. Vision. They weren’t clouds above him, no – a whitish ceiling…threaded with perpendicular grey lines. It still came in and out of focus. Smell and taste. It smelled…sanitary – like disinfectant, and the air was stale, his throat almost painfully dry. Sound. The light panels faintly hummed. There was a methodical beep…beep…beep coming from somewhere.
His hands curled into fists against cool sheets. Touch. There was a light pressure about his wrists…like restraints. Being held down, against his will.
NO! Curt started to struggle, realising where he was: hospital. He started to panic, an uncontrolled whimper falling from his lips. He looked around, squinting, trying to focus. There was a face above him, fair skinned with dark eyes and limp dark hair. It shocked him at first, then he was frustrated. Why was he here? Who was this person? Why hadn’t they gotten him out of here? Why was he being restrained?
“Hush. Calm down. It’s alright, C—Curt,” the voice of the kind-eyed stranger hesitated and stumbled upon his name. Somehow the stranger’s tentativeness made his (Curt hoped to hell that soft voice and strong hands belonged to a guy, or else maybe he was in one fucked up limbo hell) presence reassuring. It wasn’t the formal “Mr Wild” he’d learnt to detest all those years ago in the loony bin, and even more so in recent years. It wasn’t his first name said firmly, as an acquaintance or managing authority would. The voice was quiet, warm. Wanting acceptance as it gave reassurance, but knowledgeable of the fact that it might not receive it. A friend.
Feeling unsure and blind as he ever had, Curt desperately wanted to latch onto something stable. If only temporarily. If only because he was over his head and out of his depth and scared to death. Though he’d never admit to it.
He calmed down, just a little, and as he did, he realised that the hands that thrown him into a flashback had long since been removed. Courtesy. Concern. Such foreign concepts…. The beeping of the infernal monitor regulated somewhat, slower now, no longer the almost-frantic discord it had reached.
“You’ll need to stay calm,” the young man said. “What’s the matter, anyway?” He took a step back, giving Curt room to breath, but never stepping away.
Speech. Curt had almost forgotten that ability. He’d gone very long without speaking verbally. After those stupid interviews, back when he thought he had a chance to still make it…there’d been a long spell where all that was needed was the right look, the right sounds, never a word needed…and then “Tommy Stone’s” fucking goonies… the most he’d talked in the longest while was to that reporter kid. The reporter kid who knew it all, who understood, with those big dark eyes, knowing eyes – eyes that said he was younger than they’d lead one to believe, that he’d grown up before his time, like Curt’s own did….
The reporter kid.
Curt squinted. He’d been in the shadows and dark for too long. He’d not been able to make much out of the kid in the gloom of the pub. Just those wise eyes and tight smile. Curt gave up. Fuck, he was weary. Shame, because he knew the cold, harsh light of the hospital would light up details like a football field.
“You’re…you’re shaking again.”
Oh, yeah. The kid had asked him a question. Fuck it – the guy was here. And he was beyond caring. “Hospitals,” Curt croaked out. His throat was dry and sore…but he wasn’t really bothered…he was drifting back off.
“I’ll be here.”
Sure.
“It’ll be alright.”
Curt scoffed weakly. Fuck it’ll.
--------------------
The next Curt came to, he freaked out. That much he sort of remembered. He hadn’t really expected for the reporter to stay about – no one ever stayed about, and he was used to that.
He didn’t realise that his heart hadn’t gotten the message from his sensible head. …Or was it that his head hadn’t gotten the message from his jaded heart?
Really, all he could grasp was panic, a whirlwind of incomprehension and hurt and despair. And…overload. But a voice.
“I’ll be here. It’ll be alright.”
Like he used to hear Brian’s when he spun down, telling him flattering things that meant nothing at all. But this meant something – or at least it sounded more convincing….
He clung to it.
--------------------
Arthur was there when he came round again.
“You scared –!” he had begun to start in on Curt after Curt had rolled bleary grey eyes in his direction. Go on, Curt thought. He…really wanted him to. It was communication. It would be conversation he could understand. But the reporter had clammed up; he wasn’t going to go on. Not without being provoked. That was Curt’s conclusion, anyway.
“What?” Curt forced his voice to work. As he waited and hoped for Arthur’s answer (realising at this point that he really didn’t know the guy’s name), he thought himself a twisted fuck – because he wanted to get bitched out. Not told what to do – he’d always hated that. But ripped into. Scolded. Taken down. It was something he could understand. It was interaction.
The boy’s face coloured. For a second, Curt felt a déjà vu kind of moment at the sight. But it left.
“You scared the hell out of me,” he whispered softly – surprising the hell out of Curt. Before Curt could form some cynical, smart-ass comment, he continued: “I saw the nurses and ‘em scramblin’, and then I heard it as I ran in….”
Curt arched an eyebrow a bit. He still couldn’t remember what happened, just panic and a downward spiral. He swallowed. “What?” he prompted.
The eyes Curt took comfort in found his, sorrowful dark pools. “You died…. Again.” The next and last was almost imperceptible, almost said under his breath, breathed out as it was on a sigh: “On me.”
Curt didn’t know how to react. Especially at the tears that pricked his eyes. He looked to the ceiling. His fucked up heaven sky with the grey stripes.
Apparently, neither did Arthur. He dismissed himself. Curt never recalled the reason, if one had been given.
--------------------
Arthur was his anchor, his reason. Arthur. He vaguely remembered the name when he finally asked the boy what his name was, like hearing an echo in his head as it passed the boy’s lips. “Arthur Stuart.” In an unnervingly short time – basically no time at all, it seemed – this stranger had become Curt’s everything. Arthur’s strong hand was there, unresisting as Curt squeezed it tight when the nurses and doctors came in. His calm voice with its almost jaunty British accent soothed him after a nightmare.
Curt remembered holding Arthur’s hand, eyes closed tightly through a check up, willing himself not to freak out and cause harm to himself. Arthur squeezed his hand reassuringly. Curt didn’t want to hold on for his own sake – but he saw Arthur cared, and he was important to Arthur.
He didn’t want to hurt Arthur.
But he wasn’t sure how much he could keep himself held together the longer he stayed in hospital.
He had looked pleadingly with blue-silver eyes as the nurse left. He knew he was close to slipping, so close to just going with what would – sanity, health. “I can’t –“
Arthur didn’t need him to finish his admission. A callused thumb smoothed over Curt’s hand. Arthur’s hands were so smooth, save for the calluses on his right thumb and middle finger. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said softly.
--------------------
Curt remembered staring at the wheelchair in disgust when they brought it to wheel him out – to release him, thanks to Arthur. He could see his almost fourteen-year-old self in one, the day he went home, shaking hands curled about the vinyl-covered metal arms, the vinyl of the seat flat and almost uncomfortable, cool and slick. The creak of the metal wheels as an orderly pushed him forward towards the door.
The fact he was shaking worse than his childhood tin-can trailer in a storm notwithstanding, he refused. Screw procedure. “Snap both my fucking legs and I’ll still drag myself out the door on my goddamned elbows. No. Fucking. Wheelchair,” he’d protested.
He’d staggered out with Arthur’s arm around him.
--------------------
He remembered despair as he sat in the back of the cab, leaning heavily on Arthur, the cloying smell of cigarette smoke and leather reminding him he really would want a smoke if he could be bothered to give a damn and lift his arm. He couldn’t, currently. He wasn’t even keeping his eyes open.
He wondered what would happen to his shit – he hadn’t chosen to hole up in the best part of town, though he’d been relatively left alone and unbothered his stint there. He didn’t have much, not anymore, but there were papers of importance and a few valuables.
He wanted his fucking guitar. And with a sick feeling in his stomach that didn’t help the nausea already present, he feared it was probably already pawned or bartered with.
He couldn’t help the tears. He took a deep breath, feeling himself drowning as his mind raced. Arthur smoothed a cool hand across his face, curled his hair behind his ear for him.
“Hush, Curt. Breathe.”
For Arthur, he’d try. Before, he’d always let himself be swept away, let himself be forced over his head, breathing barely manageable. But back then – back then he’d been invincible. Back then, he’d been damaged and not worth repairing. Back then…
Back then was a different time. A different life.
Curt took a deep breath, and calmed.
A bit later – a stumble up a few flights of stairs and stagger into a cool room – not reeking of booze and nicotine, so it wasn’t his room – hanging – quite literally – off of Arthur. “Got a couch?”
He’d woken up in a bed, Arthur’s warm body curled beside him.
Curt stilled his hand over the strings of his guitar. All that. All that he considered Day One in his new life, his life with Arthur. Day One of not letting life drown him anymore, though it did had, initially, for a while. Day One of a trial to come. Of discovery and adjusting. Of more hurt, and hidden apprehension, and guilt and love – of acceptance, for them both. The lesson still continued, even now.
Curt had been a recalcitrant fucker for the longest, but he remembered when a part of him finally, truly and wholly, gave in a bit. It was the part that knew now that Arthur was safe to hold onto, that even if he drowned, Arthur would be there. That he truly, maturely, loved Arthur Stuart, and could accept the fact that Arthur loved him. There hadn’t been a moment of clarity and cosmic revelation like that with Brian. It all had been mad, consuming – just another eddy in his swirling, overwhelming life.
He found the stability Arthur offered…perplexing, but welcome.
He lay in Arthur’s arms, shivering and sweating, sick and miserable – exhausted, and only relenting to the arms about him because he was so (or at least that was the line he told himself). As Arthur laid his head against Curt’s clammy shoulder, holding him tight, Curt recalled the last time he’d felt this…content. This right.
They were few and far between.
With his first boyfriend, when he wasn’t dodging swings, he had felt this way. Laying with Brian (though usually it was him curled about Brian… He didn’t want to dwell on the metaphor or irony or foreshadowing in that). In the end, he’d been left alone, kicked away, feeling empty, but still the same Curt. Given Curt had been stripped of any true worth long ago, it didn’t matter.
He felt that if Arthur was gone…he’d lose part of himself. Which was saying something profound.
Sometimes Tawny’s abandonment of him hurt more deeply than Brian’s outright dismissal. But at least Tawny had the decency to completely vanish. Brian had never gone away, but made it clear he got on just fine without Curt. For a time, recording with Jack Fairy, Curt had tried to say the same. It had just all gone downhill. The Death of Glitter had been the death knell of the time that had made him, and thus the Curt he’d been had started to die. He’d had one moment of life before that – one brief experience on a rooftop, making him feel as if maybe there was something real within him somewhere – but then it had ended, and it had all just slid down.
Arthur had said a couple months ago that that had been him, on the rooftop. It had been a passing mention, like their passing encounter. Arthur didn’t speak of it – Curt hadn’t brought it up, mostly because it was a memory more of emotion than any true visual. A memory he had treasured, even if he kept it at bay.
Brian had made it seem as if his past meant nothing, in a way Curt could almost envy, even as if pissed him off.
Fucking high and mighty Tommy Stone. Maxwell fucking Demon in human flesh.
The conflicted, crashing sound that elicited from his guitar matched his conflicted, disjointed thoughts, startling him. Shit. He looked to the door, but the polite knock and inquiry into his well-being (Arthur was sometimes painfully proper) never came. Neither did the alternate reaction of an anxious flinging open of the door, even though Arthur must have heard that.
Arthur was giving him space.
Curt sighed, leaning over and turning his amp up, just the slightest. What had he done to deserve this boy? Everything he could think of said he didn’t deserve a pot to piss in, let alone Arthur Stuart. But he had him.
Curt smiled, picking at his guitar again, much more melodically and focused this time. It was time to get back to being something. He could sing. He could play. He could write songs. He couldn’t do much, but he was a musician. He could make a song just for Arthur. And he could maybe go on to making music again.
He wasn’t sure about that last, but the former he was. He couldn’t ever find the words to express himself, but he could when he put it to music.
He thought bitterly for a moment about the dizzying wonder he’d felt when Brian had presented him with “Satellite of Love”.
“It’s a song for us. Want to record it with me?”
Damn him.
Curt swore whatever issued forth from him on this guitar for Arthur wouldn’t be devalued for fame. It would be a song for Arthur, and Arthur alone.
He may not have many morals, but he did believe in respecting the person he was with. It wasn’t an oft-realised fact, but it was true.
He put down his guitar at the sudden flush of hot anger – at Brian, and at himself, though he couldn’t tell why – and went over and punched a wall. The anger centred in on Brian with the blow. Bastard. Brian was a heartless, emotionless bastard. If there’d ever really been a Brian. Curt wasn’t even sure anymore. The man he once loved seemed to be nothing but a trail of throwaway personas as he looked at him more objectively, and in hindsight
Part of him wanted to pay the new person Brian was now a visit – this Tommy Stone – just to see if he truly threw away all of his old memories when he threw away the physical accoutrements of a personality he’d grown tired of.
That was a thought….
There was a rap at the door, interrupting his thoughts.
“Curt?”
He pushed away his dark thoughts of Brian. He had someone a hell of a lot better right now. He gave a short chuckle as he pushed a hand back through his hair as he turned to the door. “You heard that?”
Arthur’s head appeared about the edge of the door. “Heard what?”
Curt knew he had. “Nothing. Just me fucking about.”
“Yeah,” Arthur said blithely, but he was smiling happily. “D’you want some tea? I made the spearmint you don’t mind.”
Forget Brian.
He strode forward, opening the door the rest of the way. Arthur slipped an arm about him.
Even though Brian didn’t matter (and that’s what Curt kept telling himself), the little passing thought was planted firmly in the back of his mind.
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