VG fic: "Ironic" (1/?)
Okay. So, my first actual attempt at a sequel. Hopefully it can follow in " Cruel"'s footsteps. So here goes.
Title: Ironic
Rating: 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: There may be a twist added in later on...I haven't quite decided. It was Billy a Leannan's idea.
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------h-o-w---r-i-c-h---i-n---c-o-n-t-r-a-s-t--/--l-o-v-e---c-a-n---b-e------
Chapter One: Habits and Addicts
It was something he had come to do -- a habit. It was a subconscious need. And almost every time the opportunity came, he found he did it. Arthur Stuart sat up in bed so he could better continue his habit of watching Curt Wild sleep.
Habit.
The word struck Arthur as ironic. He gently pushed a lock of pale blond hair from Curt's face. Habit. Curt was Arthur's habit. Curt's habit was heroin. It was, more or less, Curt's habit that brought him to Arthur. The drug brought the junky to the addict. Curt's habit allowed Arthur his. It wasn't exactly good, but neither was it wholly bad.
Curt's wiry, sallow milk-white arm had been thrown possessively over Arthur's chest -- that was another thing that Arthur had noted, when he committed Curt's quirks to memory: He was a possessive sleeper -- but with Arthur's shift in position, Curt's arm now rested comfortably across his lover's stomach. Arthur ghosted his finger down the pallid length.
"Mmfph."
A small smile tipped up one side of Arthur's mouth in amusement. He softly ran the back of his hand down Curt's cheek, then smoothed the oddly silky hair. He slipped his hand beneath the fall of Curt's hair and tickled the back of his habit's neck, ever so lightly.
"Mmfph. Fu'ing tea'," Curt mumbled. 'Fucking tease?' Arthur's eyebrows rose. Let's ask me a few inches below you arm about who's the bloody tease. Arthur fluffed Curt's hair, shaking his own head a bit. Curt would stay asleep for at least an hour more -- it wasn't noon yet, and Curt was far from a morning person. It was amazing he was even uttering obscurely cohernet mumbles at this hour.
Arthur smiled. Yet another of Curt's quirks. Complete nightowl. He enjoyed learning all of them, engraving them in his mind. He was a journalist, after all -- that never-quenchable thirst for information. He wanted to know Curt inside and out.
Even when it hurt.
Arthur winced inwardly. It wasn't easy. He understood that nothing ever was when it came to Curt Wild. But bloody hell, he wanted this. He wanted this so bad. And so he had committed himself to it. He blew out a bitter exhalation. Committed himself to it, to Curt, for better or worse. A promise to himself.
Curt hated hospitals. That was the very first thing Arthur had learned. Curt had finally come to, and only second later had all but flipped out. Arthur had rushed to calm him. It was odd. Curt only remembered him as some oddly special journalist, and here he was, at his side, trying to soothe him when he was in the last place he ever wanted to be? It had taken some finagaling, but Arthur had managed for Curt to have him released into Arthur's care. Curt didn't mind at that moment: he just wanted to leave. So they had, Curt far from well.
Curt was stubborn. He had to be a Taurus, Arthur had tried to amuse himself. Or at least an Aries (which he was). But when he had himself in a mind about something, he didn't change it for anything. After one day with Arthur, he had tried to leave.
"I don't want your fuckin' charity. I don't need it. I don't know why the hell you're so fucking interested in me, but fucking stop."
There had been a hint of pain in his eyes as he had spat the words. Arthur had had tears sheening his. Curt worried at his bottom lip and then had started out the door. Arthur couldn't remember how he managed it, but he remembered the utter exhaustion and exhilaration he had felt after he convinced Curt to stay. Curt had gone off and locked himself in the bathroom. (Arthur had stressed after that, mentally reviewing over and over what all was in there. Basically nothing. Curt should be fine, he had finally managed to half-assure himself.) He had gone and curled up in his bed. And he had passed out hard. He had woken up with Curt spooned up behind him. He had taken the limp hand in his own and kissed it, thankful that he had won out. For once.
The next problem had been getting Curt to eat. He seemed to believe in a steady diet of cigarette smoke, liquor (which Arthur didn't have much of) and internalised angst. Arthur at least got him to eat a little meal at least once a day. He was proud of that. They'd actually made it to actual, if meagre, dinners and a small brunch now, considering Curt was never up early enough for the technical breakfast.
But the most serious quirk of Curt's that Arthur had discovered, was that his lover was prone to nightmares. And he pretended not to know, for Curt's sake. Curt would wake, screaming and sobbing, completely oblivious to his surroundings. He'd be on about different things -- usually Brian, sometimes names that Arthur didn't know, and would not ask about, for he knew what the answer would be: that automatic reaction, Curt shutting down on him. Every time it happened, Arthur's heart threatened to break. There would be a flare in those changeable eyes -- they would probably be grey-green (Arthur had been noting what colours Curt's eyes turned with what stimuli for a long while; grey-green meant pain, and anguish, sometimes confusion -- it was the colour they typically stayed, much to Arthur's dismay) -- a flicker of hurt, sorrow, shame -- a momentary glimpse at purely just ruined innocence (which Arthur had deemed the core of Curt), a little boy lost -- and then, it would be like a wall descended. The face would go blank. The eyes...they would still be that shade, but only a shadow of their previous welling of emotion would remain.
One day, Arthur hoped to know what plagued Curt so. Even for all Curt's faults, for everything that he kept buried away, Arthur was still addicted to learning everything he could about Curt. The man was older than he, and had lived through things Arthur was sure he, even though a good journalist, could barely grasp. Arthur just didn't know sometimes if it was as good a decision as he thought, following this fact-magpie nature, going on this private mission of information gathering. Especially when Curt Wild was the target.
But what could he do?
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(The lyrics in the page break are from "Bitter-Sweet" by Thom Yorke and the Venus in Furs.)
--> To Chapter Two: Inside/Out
Title: Ironic
Rating: 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: There may be a twist added in later on...I haven't quite decided. It was Billy a Leannan's idea.
-------------------------
------h-o-w---r-i-c-h---i-n---c-o-n-t-r-a-s-t--/--l-o-v-e---c-a-n---b-e------
Chapter One: Habits and Addicts
It was something he had come to do -- a habit. It was a subconscious need. And almost every time the opportunity came, he found he did it. Arthur Stuart sat up in bed so he could better continue his habit of watching Curt Wild sleep.
Habit.
The word struck Arthur as ironic. He gently pushed a lock of pale blond hair from Curt's face. Habit. Curt was Arthur's habit. Curt's habit was heroin. It was, more or less, Curt's habit that brought him to Arthur. The drug brought the junky to the addict. Curt's habit allowed Arthur his. It wasn't exactly good, but neither was it wholly bad.
Curt's wiry, sallow milk-white arm had been thrown possessively over Arthur's chest -- that was another thing that Arthur had noted, when he committed Curt's quirks to memory: He was a possessive sleeper -- but with Arthur's shift in position, Curt's arm now rested comfortably across his lover's stomach. Arthur ghosted his finger down the pallid length.
"Mmfph."
A small smile tipped up one side of Arthur's mouth in amusement. He softly ran the back of his hand down Curt's cheek, then smoothed the oddly silky hair. He slipped his hand beneath the fall of Curt's hair and tickled the back of his habit's neck, ever so lightly.
"Mmfph. Fu'ing tea'," Curt mumbled. 'Fucking tease?' Arthur's eyebrows rose. Let's ask me a few inches below you arm about who's the bloody tease. Arthur fluffed Curt's hair, shaking his own head a bit. Curt would stay asleep for at least an hour more -- it wasn't noon yet, and Curt was far from a morning person. It was amazing he was even uttering obscurely cohernet mumbles at this hour.
Arthur smiled. Yet another of Curt's quirks. Complete nightowl. He enjoyed learning all of them, engraving them in his mind. He was a journalist, after all -- that never-quenchable thirst for information. He wanted to know Curt inside and out.
Even when it hurt.
Arthur winced inwardly. It wasn't easy. He understood that nothing ever was when it came to Curt Wild. But bloody hell, he wanted this. He wanted this so bad. And so he had committed himself to it. He blew out a bitter exhalation. Committed himself to it, to Curt, for better or worse. A promise to himself.
Curt hated hospitals. That was the very first thing Arthur had learned. Curt had finally come to, and only second later had all but flipped out. Arthur had rushed to calm him. It was odd. Curt only remembered him as some oddly special journalist, and here he was, at his side, trying to soothe him when he was in the last place he ever wanted to be? It had taken some finagaling, but Arthur had managed for Curt to have him released into Arthur's care. Curt didn't mind at that moment: he just wanted to leave. So they had, Curt far from well.
Curt was stubborn. He had to be a Taurus, Arthur had tried to amuse himself. Or at least an Aries (which he was). But when he had himself in a mind about something, he didn't change it for anything. After one day with Arthur, he had tried to leave.
"I don't want your fuckin' charity. I don't need it. I don't know why the hell you're so fucking interested in me, but fucking stop."
There had been a hint of pain in his eyes as he had spat the words. Arthur had had tears sheening his. Curt worried at his bottom lip and then had started out the door. Arthur couldn't remember how he managed it, but he remembered the utter exhaustion and exhilaration he had felt after he convinced Curt to stay. Curt had gone off and locked himself in the bathroom. (Arthur had stressed after that, mentally reviewing over and over what all was in there. Basically nothing. Curt should be fine, he had finally managed to half-assure himself.) He had gone and curled up in his bed. And he had passed out hard. He had woken up with Curt spooned up behind him. He had taken the limp hand in his own and kissed it, thankful that he had won out. For once.
The next problem had been getting Curt to eat. He seemed to believe in a steady diet of cigarette smoke, liquor (which Arthur didn't have much of) and internalised angst. Arthur at least got him to eat a little meal at least once a day. He was proud of that. They'd actually made it to actual, if meagre, dinners and a small brunch now, considering Curt was never up early enough for the technical breakfast.
But the most serious quirk of Curt's that Arthur had discovered, was that his lover was prone to nightmares. And he pretended not to know, for Curt's sake. Curt would wake, screaming and sobbing, completely oblivious to his surroundings. He'd be on about different things -- usually Brian, sometimes names that Arthur didn't know, and would not ask about, for he knew what the answer would be: that automatic reaction, Curt shutting down on him. Every time it happened, Arthur's heart threatened to break. There would be a flare in those changeable eyes -- they would probably be grey-green (Arthur had been noting what colours Curt's eyes turned with what stimuli for a long while; grey-green meant pain, and anguish, sometimes confusion -- it was the colour they typically stayed, much to Arthur's dismay) -- a flicker of hurt, sorrow, shame -- a momentary glimpse at purely just ruined innocence (which Arthur had deemed the core of Curt), a little boy lost -- and then, it would be like a wall descended. The face would go blank. The eyes...they would still be that shade, but only a shadow of their previous welling of emotion would remain.
One day, Arthur hoped to know what plagued Curt so. Even for all Curt's faults, for everything that he kept buried away, Arthur was still addicted to learning everything he could about Curt. The man was older than he, and had lived through things Arthur was sure he, even though a good journalist, could barely grasp. Arthur just didn't know sometimes if it was as good a decision as he thought, following this fact-magpie nature, going on this private mission of information gathering. Especially when Curt Wild was the target.
But what could he do?
-------------------------
(The lyrics in the page break are from "Bitter-Sweet" by Thom Yorke and the Venus in Furs.)
--> To Chapter Two: Inside/Out