Update: Ironic (2/?)
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: Here's a taste of that "diet of internalised angst" Arthur mentioned Curt being on.
Chapter One: Habits and Addicts
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-----y-o-u-'r-e---s-o---p-e-r-c-e-p-t-i-v-e-----
Chapter Two: Inside/Out
Curt finally fully awoke at half one, about two hours after Arthur initially had (and still too damned early). The young journalist had lapsed into a semi-dose, so Curt looked up at him through his eyelashes, observing -- it was rare that he ever got to watch Arthur sleep -- and mentally noting every rise and fall of the solid chest his head was pillowed upon.
Arthur's appearance as he slept...was hard to describe. Part of it was angelic -- that face, with those high cheekbones and those lips softly parted, and those thick, dark lashes flickering as the dark hair waved down into his face boyishly... It made Curt feel like a dirty old bastard for even being near anything so youthful-looking. He shuddered as memories of his brother threatened, and even though a malicious little voice tried to whisper, Curt resolutely shied from and tuned out any further contemplation down that route. Not for the first time did he wish any memory of his family would just disappear from his mind. He'd done a lot to fuck himself up, actually now had gaps in his memory, but those strong memories -- those fears -- were ingrained deep. Burnt in. Scarring him where no one saw. He also wished that along with memories of Arik, memories of Brian would just vanish as well, no matter what good went along with them. And as his chest clenched as, for a fleeting moment, Brian's otherworldly beauty overlaid Arthur's, he wished harder. Of course, Brian wasn't looking that pretty anymore as Tommy Stone, at least not publicly. Curt snorted to himself. He had vague memories of Brian appearing to him in that thick haze that followed the moment after he'd shot that overdose of liquid oblivion into his veins...eight months ago (he'd really been with Arthur for eight months; the mind boggled). But he had thought he had seen Brian for a moment, talked to him, the elusive angel-demon reappeared in his life, come to escort him to Hell. Curt closed his eyes, dispelling the notion. It was a silly thought. He'd been fucked up. Brian had left his old life without a second look back; he damned sure wouldn't show up at Curt's side as he tried to kill himself, especially just out of fucking nowhere. His next memory after hitting up for what he had hoped was the mortal last time, was Arthur.
Which brought him to the other part of how Arthur looked in repose. It was wrenching. The young features, while beautiful, were also so tired. So worn. Too weary now to even keep the vaguely haunted look he had had before. To keep the brightly sunny but ever-anxious look Curt remembered -- he hoped; he still wasn't quite sure -- from their first week together.
It killed Curt to notice, for he knew he was the cause. He knew he caused the shadows that hadn't really left those hazel eyes. He was the one that made the young man so harried, his face drawn. Sure, long nights and hard legwork for articles for the Herald contributed to that, but having to deal with a fucked up, recalcitrant former rockstar didn't help matters any. He got days off from the paper; Curt was a full-time, twenty-four hour, seven days a week job.
Arthur was on holiday, right now. It was Day Two. "We can be together full-time," he'd said with a smile. "Just lay around together. Watch each other sleep. Maybe even wake up together for once." He had laughed, and blushed in that cute little way that made Curt vaguely remember a hazy vision of Arthur as a boy, come to him after the concert ending his livelihood, ending the Glam era. Arthur had told him about it. Curt finally had a name to go with the memory. The memory of the small burst of happiness in an increasingly dark time. He'd been happy that night, that morning. So had Arthur. And then Curt had gone his way. He closed his eyes, knowing that after that night Arthur hadn't completely let it go. Fuckin' hindsight's always fuckin' twenty/twenty. All the pieces and the nuances fall into place to complete the tapestry...after the fact. He sighed.
Curt didn't want to watch Arthur sleep. It hurt too much.
Not for the first time, he thought that maybe it was better for Arthur if he left. But he knew the boy (Curt couldn't help but ever think of Arthur but a boy) wouldn't let him. Arthur knew that Curt needed him. Not even Curt could deny that. He was the anchor Curt needed within the tumult. He was the reason that Curt needed -- to live, to cling to. Arthur had become everything Curt had thought he didn't need, but realised he needed more than anything.
And he was hurting him.
With a sneer of disgust at himself with the remembrance of the fact -- for he never let himself forget it all that often -- Curt sat up and turned away, putting his face in his hands. He furiously raked his hands back through his long, tangled hair, blowing out a frustrated breath. Frustrated with himself. His dysfunction. He glared at the section of hair that decided to hang in his face.The brown was starting to grow out now, he reflected abstractly. He hadn't redone the colour in a while.
Behind him, Arthur stirred, realising that the warmth he had gotten so used to was gone, and roused himself back into full wakefulness. Curt looked back at him and Arthur gave him a little smile. Little, but holding so much. It was an Arthur trait. Little things were laden with emotion. How can he fucking do that? Curt wondered to himself. How can he looked so fucking pleased when he looks at me? Curt knew why looked happy when he saw Arthur. Arthur was an amazing, yet amazingly ordinary boy, with an overly-caring heart he shouldn't have -- shouldn't waste on fuck-up let-downs like Curt. What could Arthur see in him?
What he'd never conclude was that Arthur Stuart saw -- beneath the mystique of an amazingly influential, experienced rockstar, beneath the grittiness of a drug addict with a tough attitude and a harsh past -- he saw a hurt boy in a grown man, with a shy, loving heart. Mirror to his own self, though Curt was abused and bitten and burned, and skittish of ever going through it again.
But Arthur was glad that, maybe unwittingly, Curt was going through it again. If only because it made them even more equal. Made them more so two of the same playing at this game neither of them had quite gotten yet, but wanted -- and needed -- to find -- together.
But Curt didn't know, and wouldn't think to ask. He knew what he thought, and he would wonder the motive, but he wouldn't ask. He just never did. And Curt would always see and think the worst before the better even thought to pass his mind.
"Hey," Arthur said, in that endearing way he had of dropping his "h"s. He placed a warm hand on Curt's shoulder, then curved it about the side of Curt's neck. Somehow, it always made Curt look up, look him in the face. Arthur leaned forward and kissed him softly, asking as he pulled back, "Where were you?" Arthur sighed as Curt looked away. No answer, then. He had expected it. That question was just the first of many that had always gone unanswered when posed.
"Where I shouldn't have been."
The answer was grated out, Curt's voice even more rough still from sleep, and surprising Arthur. An answer! Sort of cryptic, but an answer. Arthur smiled brightly. He pushed back part of the fall of hair curtaining Curt's face, like peeking under a blanket. "Thank you," he said softly, quickly letting it pass, saying before Curt could even react to the thanks, "How about something to eat?"
--------------------
(The lyric in page break is from "Dead Finks Don't Talk" by Brian Eno.)
--> To Chapter Three: Breathing Under Water
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: Here's a taste of that "diet of internalised angst" Arthur mentioned Curt being on.
Chapter One: Habits and Addicts
--------------------
-----y-o-u-'r-e---s-o---p-e-r-c-e-p-t-i-v-e-----
Chapter Two: Inside/Out
Curt finally fully awoke at half one, about two hours after Arthur initially had (and still too damned early). The young journalist had lapsed into a semi-dose, so Curt looked up at him through his eyelashes, observing -- it was rare that he ever got to watch Arthur sleep -- and mentally noting every rise and fall of the solid chest his head was pillowed upon.
Arthur's appearance as he slept...was hard to describe. Part of it was angelic -- that face, with those high cheekbones and those lips softly parted, and those thick, dark lashes flickering as the dark hair waved down into his face boyishly... It made Curt feel like a dirty old bastard for even being near anything so youthful-looking. He shuddered as memories of his brother threatened, and even though a malicious little voice tried to whisper, Curt resolutely shied from and tuned out any further contemplation down that route. Not for the first time did he wish any memory of his family would just disappear from his mind. He'd done a lot to fuck himself up, actually now had gaps in his memory, but those strong memories -- those fears -- were ingrained deep. Burnt in. Scarring him where no one saw. He also wished that along with memories of Arik, memories of Brian would just vanish as well, no matter what good went along with them. And as his chest clenched as, for a fleeting moment, Brian's otherworldly beauty overlaid Arthur's, he wished harder. Of course, Brian wasn't looking that pretty anymore as Tommy Stone, at least not publicly. Curt snorted to himself. He had vague memories of Brian appearing to him in that thick haze that followed the moment after he'd shot that overdose of liquid oblivion into his veins...eight months ago (he'd really been with Arthur for eight months; the mind boggled). But he had thought he had seen Brian for a moment, talked to him, the elusive angel-demon reappeared in his life, come to escort him to Hell. Curt closed his eyes, dispelling the notion. It was a silly thought. He'd been fucked up. Brian had left his old life without a second look back; he damned sure wouldn't show up at Curt's side as he tried to kill himself, especially just out of fucking nowhere. His next memory after hitting up for what he had hoped was the mortal last time, was Arthur.
Which brought him to the other part of how Arthur looked in repose. It was wrenching. The young features, while beautiful, were also so tired. So worn. Too weary now to even keep the vaguely haunted look he had had before. To keep the brightly sunny but ever-anxious look Curt remembered -- he hoped; he still wasn't quite sure -- from their first week together.
It killed Curt to notice, for he knew he was the cause. He knew he caused the shadows that hadn't really left those hazel eyes. He was the one that made the young man so harried, his face drawn. Sure, long nights and hard legwork for articles for the Herald contributed to that, but having to deal with a fucked up, recalcitrant former rockstar didn't help matters any. He got days off from the paper; Curt was a full-time, twenty-four hour, seven days a week job.
Arthur was on holiday, right now. It was Day Two. "We can be together full-time," he'd said with a smile. "Just lay around together. Watch each other sleep. Maybe even wake up together for once." He had laughed, and blushed in that cute little way that made Curt vaguely remember a hazy vision of Arthur as a boy, come to him after the concert ending his livelihood, ending the Glam era. Arthur had told him about it. Curt finally had a name to go with the memory. The memory of the small burst of happiness in an increasingly dark time. He'd been happy that night, that morning. So had Arthur. And then Curt had gone his way. He closed his eyes, knowing that after that night Arthur hadn't completely let it go. Fuckin' hindsight's always fuckin' twenty/twenty. All the pieces and the nuances fall into place to complete the tapestry...after the fact. He sighed.
Curt didn't want to watch Arthur sleep. It hurt too much.
Not for the first time, he thought that maybe it was better for Arthur if he left. But he knew the boy (Curt couldn't help but ever think of Arthur but a boy) wouldn't let him. Arthur knew that Curt needed him. Not even Curt could deny that. He was the anchor Curt needed within the tumult. He was the reason that Curt needed -- to live, to cling to. Arthur had become everything Curt had thought he didn't need, but realised he needed more than anything.
And he was hurting him.
With a sneer of disgust at himself with the remembrance of the fact -- for he never let himself forget it all that often -- Curt sat up and turned away, putting his face in his hands. He furiously raked his hands back through his long, tangled hair, blowing out a frustrated breath. Frustrated with himself. His dysfunction. He glared at the section of hair that decided to hang in his face.The brown was starting to grow out now, he reflected abstractly. He hadn't redone the colour in a while.
Behind him, Arthur stirred, realising that the warmth he had gotten so used to was gone, and roused himself back into full wakefulness. Curt looked back at him and Arthur gave him a little smile. Little, but holding so much. It was an Arthur trait. Little things were laden with emotion. How can he fucking do that? Curt wondered to himself. How can he looked so fucking pleased when he looks at me? Curt knew why looked happy when he saw Arthur. Arthur was an amazing, yet amazingly ordinary boy, with an overly-caring heart he shouldn't have -- shouldn't waste on fuck-up let-downs like Curt. What could Arthur see in him?
What he'd never conclude was that Arthur Stuart saw -- beneath the mystique of an amazingly influential, experienced rockstar, beneath the grittiness of a drug addict with a tough attitude and a harsh past -- he saw a hurt boy in a grown man, with a shy, loving heart. Mirror to his own self, though Curt was abused and bitten and burned, and skittish of ever going through it again.
But Arthur was glad that, maybe unwittingly, Curt was going through it again. If only because it made them even more equal. Made them more so two of the same playing at this game neither of them had quite gotten yet, but wanted -- and needed -- to find -- together.
But Curt didn't know, and wouldn't think to ask. He knew what he thought, and he would wonder the motive, but he wouldn't ask. He just never did. And Curt would always see and think the worst before the better even thought to pass his mind.
"Hey," Arthur said, in that endearing way he had of dropping his "h"s. He placed a warm hand on Curt's shoulder, then curved it about the side of Curt's neck. Somehow, it always made Curt look up, look him in the face. Arthur leaned forward and kissed him softly, asking as he pulled back, "Where were you?" Arthur sighed as Curt looked away. No answer, then. He had expected it. That question was just the first of many that had always gone unanswered when posed.
"Where I shouldn't have been."
The answer was grated out, Curt's voice even more rough still from sleep, and surprising Arthur. An answer! Sort of cryptic, but an answer. Arthur smiled brightly. He pushed back part of the fall of hair curtaining Curt's face, like peeking under a blanket. "Thank you," he said softly, quickly letting it pass, saying before Curt could even react to the thanks, "How about something to eat?"
--------------------
(The lyric in page break is from "Dead Finks Don't Talk" by Brian Eno.)
--> To Chapter Three: Breathing Under Water