TM Prompt 02
3 AM.
"Fuck."
It was three in the morning.
"Ow, goddammit, that was my toe."
Or... not three am exactly, but at least it was four minutes of three. Which to a kid who's been staring down the minutes passing with every flip of the clock's dial for at least four straight hours now, it's... close enough.
"Brent, what the hell are you doing?"
It's times when Curt watches his brother stumbling across the room, knocking a few things askew when his foot catches on the one, sole, giant suitcase that had been standing all simply in the middle of the room, that Curt maybe starts to understand where his parents' paranoia has been coming from for the last few days. There's been a lot of separating Curt and Brent from the same room, ever since their father walked in on them last Thursday. Maybe or maybe not mid-fellatio. His folks had gone a little crazy, this he realized, but Curt didn't blame them. It must have been pretty weird, walking in on one of your sons kind of sucking off the other.
Needless to say, there'd been a lot of 'Leave the door open when you go in your room's, and 'Brent, sit on the other end of the couch's. Even the memorable 'Curt, stop looking at your brother' when Curt had peered up at the guy over his dinner plate, picking at burnt shepherd's pie and jumping when, yes, he had just, in fact, been told he couldn't even make eye contact with his brother. And now there was Brent tripping over shit into the room, taking advantage of Becky's sleeping over a friend's to ditch his current fold-out sofa bed and reclaim his old room.
"What, a man can't visit his own brother? How come you're not asleep?"
"Because there's a big lug tripping over shit in my room?"
"Okay, rephrase, why haven't you been sleeping?"
Curt shoots Brent a look he's not entirely sure the guy can see in the dim of the room.
Maybe because tomorrow's going to utterly blow chunks, he almost says, cross look on his face. Today, he corrects, then, after a second, thinking back to the two fifty-six - fifty-seven - still visible on the flip clock face. Maybe because it's Doomsday. Maybe because the end of his fucking life is now, so far as Curt is concerned. ...Maybe because his parents have got it all wrong and they've been referring to it as 'the beginning' instead.
Brent sits on the edge of the bed. Curt turns over to face the wall.
"Curt."
Curt doesn't answer right away.
"Talk to me, bro."
"And say what?" Curt shoots back, without bothering to look over at the other male for a few long seconds. When he does, he's glancing over his shoulder and there's a cross sort of look to his eyes. "I'm going to a fuckin' mental hospital tomorrow, Brent, you can't exactly kiss that better. You shouldn't be in here."
Whether it's not in Brent's character to give up on anything or if he's just choosing now to be a stubborn little shit at best, Curt doesn't really know, but there's a quiet kind of way Brent doesn't answer for a few seconds, just stirs for a bit before he finally peels back the sheets and slides in behind Curt. And Curt tries, really hard, to make the effort to realize how wrong that is, how normal people don't do shit like this, but right now all he can concentrate on is how warm Brent feels up against him, hands easing up his chest and idly playing at the collar of his t-shirt.
And it's quiet, the two of them together. It's quiet, as Curt's breath evens out, even with one of Brent's thumbs circling a nipple through gray cotton. It's quiet, as Brent ducks his face into Curt's shoulder and inhales deep the smell he's not going to get to experience for a hell of a long time now. It's quiet, as Brent's hand glides downward, then, scoots up the hem of Curt's t-shirt and takes a few surreptitious intentions to crawl under the waistline of his pajama pants.
It's quiet, when Curt grabs at Brent's wrist and doesn't quite turn around yet, breath hitched as he stares off at the wall and shifts that much closer to his brother. "They're gonna give me shocks and shit, aren't they?" Horror stories, Curt's heard about that shit, spines cracking on the table because patients are thrashing so much from the force of everything, and Brent never had the heart to mention the whole Fry Out the Fairy approach he overheard their parents planning with the medical adviser.
He doesn't answer right away, fingers playing with the flannel material of Curt's pants before he nods into his shoulder, and undoes the tie at the front of the pajamas. "Yeah," he admits, quietly. "Yeah, they're gonna do shocks."
Curt is hardly going to protest as Brent's hand slides down his pants, fingers slick with spit and swear as he starts to pump him off. His hips buck back against Brent's and he reaches back with a hand to clamp it against the guy's head, hold him in close as Brent fists down his pants. Tangled limbs and rumpled clothing, and the only sounds for a good five minutes come from Curt's labored breaths into the cool night air, the stifled grunt he bites off as Brent gives that one last tug, and it's not until Brent's hand's swiping at Curt's pants that he even realizes he'd been crying.
"This is all fucked up," Brent mumbles into Curt's t-shirt, and his hands slide back up Curt's front, some kind of possessive protective as Curt's chest heaves a little, tries to catch up with his breathing. "I'm supposed to take care of you, and you're getting shipped off to fucking crazy camp." Curt swipes a fist across his eyes quick; he doesn't want to look like a pussy, no matter how entitled he is right now.
"Yeah," Curt fakes a laugh, shifts in Brent's hold and thinks about how flush they fit together right now as he claps a free hand over one of Brent's own. "Sorry about that."
And then Brent's tilting his head to the side, back to face him, kissing him some rare kind of careful and languid on the lips. Their tongues swirl between each other's teeth and when Brent breaks away, Curt grabs at his hand maybe a little more roughly than he should have.
"Don't."
Brent pauses, frowns. "What?"
"...Go."
And when Brent hugs him tight and buries his face back into the crook of Curt's neck, Curt suddenly doesn't care how much of a little bitch he's being right now - he's going to the fucking mental hospital, he's allowed to be a little peeved. He snags his teeth into his bottom lip and ducks his head, trying not to think of admission papers and strapped restraints and suitcases full of enough socks and underwear to last Curt the minimum six months they say this'll take to 'fix'. 'Fix', like he's something broken, like he's the cracked record needle that rots in the corner because it doesn't play the vinyl like it used to.
Fingers latch and Curt doesn't give a fuck how much his parents freak out when they find him in a few hours, some shit about giving into temptations and being a let-down. Because for the first time, with Brent mumbling a few reassuring 'it's gonna be okay's, that somebody's telling him it's going to be okay... fuck, Curt actually buys it, feels himself start to untense for the first time that week.
Even with the prospect of six-hundred milliamps of electricity flushing his system.
He'd rather have some kind of false fucking hope than whatever else anybody could throw at him anyway.
Muse: Curt Wild
Fandom: Velvet Goldmine
Word Count: 1,287
"Fuck."
It was three in the morning.
"Ow, goddammit, that was my toe."
Or... not three am exactly, but at least it was four minutes of three. Which to a kid who's been staring down the minutes passing with every flip of the clock's dial for at least four straight hours now, it's... close enough.
"Brent, what the hell are you doing?"
It's times when Curt watches his brother stumbling across the room, knocking a few things askew when his foot catches on the one, sole, giant suitcase that had been standing all simply in the middle of the room, that Curt maybe starts to understand where his parents' paranoia has been coming from for the last few days. There's been a lot of separating Curt and Brent from the same room, ever since their father walked in on them last Thursday. Maybe or maybe not mid-fellatio. His folks had gone a little crazy, this he realized, but Curt didn't blame them. It must have been pretty weird, walking in on one of your sons kind of sucking off the other.
Needless to say, there'd been a lot of 'Leave the door open when you go in your room's, and 'Brent, sit on the other end of the couch's. Even the memorable 'Curt, stop looking at your brother' when Curt had peered up at the guy over his dinner plate, picking at burnt shepherd's pie and jumping when, yes, he had just, in fact, been told he couldn't even make eye contact with his brother. And now there was Brent tripping over shit into the room, taking advantage of Becky's sleeping over a friend's to ditch his current fold-out sofa bed and reclaim his old room.
"What, a man can't visit his own brother? How come you're not asleep?"
"Because there's a big lug tripping over shit in my room?"
"Okay, rephrase, why haven't you been sleeping?"
Curt shoots Brent a look he's not entirely sure the guy can see in the dim of the room.
Maybe because tomorrow's going to utterly blow chunks, he almost says, cross look on his face. Today, he corrects, then, after a second, thinking back to the two fifty-six - fifty-seven - still visible on the flip clock face. Maybe because it's Doomsday. Maybe because the end of his fucking life is now, so far as Curt is concerned. ...Maybe because his parents have got it all wrong and they've been referring to it as 'the beginning' instead.
Brent sits on the edge of the bed. Curt turns over to face the wall.
"Curt."
Curt doesn't answer right away.
"Talk to me, bro."
"And say what?" Curt shoots back, without bothering to look over at the other male for a few long seconds. When he does, he's glancing over his shoulder and there's a cross sort of look to his eyes. "I'm going to a fuckin' mental hospital tomorrow, Brent, you can't exactly kiss that better. You shouldn't be in here."
Whether it's not in Brent's character to give up on anything or if he's just choosing now to be a stubborn little shit at best, Curt doesn't really know, but there's a quiet kind of way Brent doesn't answer for a few seconds, just stirs for a bit before he finally peels back the sheets and slides in behind Curt. And Curt tries, really hard, to make the effort to realize how wrong that is, how normal people don't do shit like this, but right now all he can concentrate on is how warm Brent feels up against him, hands easing up his chest and idly playing at the collar of his t-shirt.
And it's quiet, the two of them together. It's quiet, as Curt's breath evens out, even with one of Brent's thumbs circling a nipple through gray cotton. It's quiet, as Brent ducks his face into Curt's shoulder and inhales deep the smell he's not going to get to experience for a hell of a long time now. It's quiet, as Brent's hand glides downward, then, scoots up the hem of Curt's t-shirt and takes a few surreptitious intentions to crawl under the waistline of his pajama pants.
It's quiet, when Curt grabs at Brent's wrist and doesn't quite turn around yet, breath hitched as he stares off at the wall and shifts that much closer to his brother. "They're gonna give me shocks and shit, aren't they?" Horror stories, Curt's heard about that shit, spines cracking on the table because patients are thrashing so much from the force of everything, and Brent never had the heart to mention the whole Fry Out the Fairy approach he overheard their parents planning with the medical adviser.
He doesn't answer right away, fingers playing with the flannel material of Curt's pants before he nods into his shoulder, and undoes the tie at the front of the pajamas. "Yeah," he admits, quietly. "Yeah, they're gonna do shocks."
Curt is hardly going to protest as Brent's hand slides down his pants, fingers slick with spit and swear as he starts to pump him off. His hips buck back against Brent's and he reaches back with a hand to clamp it against the guy's head, hold him in close as Brent fists down his pants. Tangled limbs and rumpled clothing, and the only sounds for a good five minutes come from Curt's labored breaths into the cool night air, the stifled grunt he bites off as Brent gives that one last tug, and it's not until Brent's hand's swiping at Curt's pants that he even realizes he'd been crying.
"This is all fucked up," Brent mumbles into Curt's t-shirt, and his hands slide back up Curt's front, some kind of possessive protective as Curt's chest heaves a little, tries to catch up with his breathing. "I'm supposed to take care of you, and you're getting shipped off to fucking crazy camp." Curt swipes a fist across his eyes quick; he doesn't want to look like a pussy, no matter how entitled he is right now.
"Yeah," Curt fakes a laugh, shifts in Brent's hold and thinks about how flush they fit together right now as he claps a free hand over one of Brent's own. "Sorry about that."
And then Brent's tilting his head to the side, back to face him, kissing him some rare kind of careful and languid on the lips. Their tongues swirl between each other's teeth and when Brent breaks away, Curt grabs at his hand maybe a little more roughly than he should have.
"Don't."
Brent pauses, frowns. "What?"
"...Go."
And when Brent hugs him tight and buries his face back into the crook of Curt's neck, Curt suddenly doesn't care how much of a little bitch he's being right now - he's going to the fucking mental hospital, he's allowed to be a little peeved. He snags his teeth into his bottom lip and ducks his head, trying not to think of admission papers and strapped restraints and suitcases full of enough socks and underwear to last Curt the minimum six months they say this'll take to 'fix'. 'Fix', like he's something broken, like he's the cracked record needle that rots in the corner because it doesn't play the vinyl like it used to.
Fingers latch and Curt doesn't give a fuck how much his parents freak out when they find him in a few hours, some shit about giving into temptations and being a let-down. Because for the first time, with Brent mumbling a few reassuring 'it's gonna be okay's, that somebody's telling him it's going to be okay... fuck, Curt actually buys it, feels himself start to untense for the first time that week.
Even with the prospect of six-hundred milliamps of electricity flushing his system.
He'd rather have some kind of false fucking hope than whatever else anybody could throw at him anyway.
Muse: Curt Wild
Fandom: Velvet Goldmine
Word Count: 1,287