Fic: - - (Velvet Goldmine)
Title: - -
Fandom: Velvet Goldmine
Pairing: Curt/Arthur
Rating: PG
Summary: Inanimate objects, Curt grumbled to himself, have an unsportsmanlike advantage in staring competitions.
In a cluttered but well-kept apartment in Brooklyn, Curt Wilde was having, and steadily losing, a staring contest with his telephone. Curt, whose given name was confined to a number of documents -the official sort, mostly- and which he occasionally had to take a moment to remember, had been playing this game for five -no, wait, what was yesterday?- or six days. His idle mind had started making bets against him, speculating how many times he would pick up the phone before noon, whether he would actually manage to dial by the time the after-school cartoons started. On Tuesday, he’d sustained his resolve long enough to hear the sweet ringing of a completed call until his hand, quite of its own accord, had fallen heavily, dropping the receiver into its cradle with an appropriately despondent thunk.
Ten stark little digits stared mournfully up from where they’d been scrawled on a crumpled receipt for Chinese take-out. Getting them had been dizzyingly simple. Journalists, after all, wanted to be contacted, especially by celebrities, even burnt-out 70s pop innovators like himself.
He picked up the bit of paper and turned it absently between his fingers. He considered throwing it away, letting the little piece of white drift out the window like the ghost of something half-remembered. Not that tossing the evidence would have done any good as the scribbled numbers sat quite firmly in his memory, mostly due to moments, like this, of staring at them, willing some kind of instructions to emerge from the sequence. None ever did, of course, but it was worth a shot.
Then he heard the ringing. When had he dialled? When had he even touched the phone? The receiver was sticky with sweat in his palm, and he fairly threw it back to its resting place.
Somewhere across the city, a dusky Welsh voice cursed fucking prank callers, and its owner ducked out of his apartment for a walk, considering the pros and cons of an unlisted personal number.
Curt gave his telephone a belligerent glare, damning the chunks of plastic and wires for all he was worth. It looked back at him, unphased. Inanimate objects, Curt grumbled to himself, have an unsportsmanlike advantage in staring competitions.
He opened his hand to find the smug little receipt crushed and crumpled in his palm. With a snort of disgust, he shoved the offending slip into his pocket and headed for the door. A walk, he figured, would help clear his head, work off some of this tension. Yeah, that was the ticket. The door was open a good seven inches before he stopped and glanced back at the phone. One more try.
The distance between his hand and the side table on which sat the current bane of his existence seemed to be crossed instantaneously -not that one and a quarter metres is all that far, but it felt like leagues a second ago. He didn’t even check the number as he dialled, fingers more than certain of their destinations. The receiver was clammy against his face, and he held it in both hands to keep from shaking. One ring, then two, and so on, driving spikes of suspense into his chest with each subsequent trill. Five rings. Would this never end?
“’Ello.”
oh damn.
“You’ve reached Arthur Stuart.”
oh fuck.
“I’m no’ in at the moment.”
oh... well.
“Leave a message.”
now there’s an idea.
“An’ I’ll try to’ ge’ back to you.”
fucking machine.
“...or no’.” beep.
Curt sighed and settled the phone back into its inauspicious position of rest. Dusty traces of a sweet Welsh lilt drifted in the ends of his hair and ghosted down the back of his neck when he shook his head. Maybe he’d try again later, or maybe he’d just call and listen to the machine.
Maybe now was a good time for that walk. With a last doleful glance at the phone, Curt closed the door behind him.
~
Fandom: Velvet Goldmine
Pairing: Curt/Arthur
Rating: PG
Summary: Inanimate objects, Curt grumbled to himself, have an unsportsmanlike advantage in staring competitions.
In a cluttered but well-kept apartment in Brooklyn, Curt Wilde was having, and steadily losing, a staring contest with his telephone. Curt, whose given name was confined to a number of documents -the official sort, mostly- and which he occasionally had to take a moment to remember, had been playing this game for five -no, wait, what was yesterday?- or six days. His idle mind had started making bets against him, speculating how many times he would pick up the phone before noon, whether he would actually manage to dial by the time the after-school cartoons started. On Tuesday, he’d sustained his resolve long enough to hear the sweet ringing of a completed call until his hand, quite of its own accord, had fallen heavily, dropping the receiver into its cradle with an appropriately despondent thunk.
Ten stark little digits stared mournfully up from where they’d been scrawled on a crumpled receipt for Chinese take-out. Getting them had been dizzyingly simple. Journalists, after all, wanted to be contacted, especially by celebrities, even burnt-out 70s pop innovators like himself.
He picked up the bit of paper and turned it absently between his fingers. He considered throwing it away, letting the little piece of white drift out the window like the ghost of something half-remembered. Not that tossing the evidence would have done any good as the scribbled numbers sat quite firmly in his memory, mostly due to moments, like this, of staring at them, willing some kind of instructions to emerge from the sequence. None ever did, of course, but it was worth a shot.
Then he heard the ringing. When had he dialled? When had he even touched the phone? The receiver was sticky with sweat in his palm, and he fairly threw it back to its resting place.
Somewhere across the city, a dusky Welsh voice cursed fucking prank callers, and its owner ducked out of his apartment for a walk, considering the pros and cons of an unlisted personal number.
Curt gave his telephone a belligerent glare, damning the chunks of plastic and wires for all he was worth. It looked back at him, unphased. Inanimate objects, Curt grumbled to himself, have an unsportsmanlike advantage in staring competitions.
He opened his hand to find the smug little receipt crushed and crumpled in his palm. With a snort of disgust, he shoved the offending slip into his pocket and headed for the door. A walk, he figured, would help clear his head, work off some of this tension. Yeah, that was the ticket. The door was open a good seven inches before he stopped and glanced back at the phone. One more try.
The distance between his hand and the side table on which sat the current bane of his existence seemed to be crossed instantaneously -not that one and a quarter metres is all that far, but it felt like leagues a second ago. He didn’t even check the number as he dialled, fingers more than certain of their destinations. The receiver was clammy against his face, and he held it in both hands to keep from shaking. One ring, then two, and so on, driving spikes of suspense into his chest with each subsequent trill. Five rings. Would this never end?
“’Ello.”
oh damn.
“You’ve reached Arthur Stuart.”
oh fuck.
“I’m no’ in at the moment.”
oh... well.
“Leave a message.”
now there’s an idea.
“An’ I’ll try to’ ge’ back to you.”
fucking machine.
“...or no’.” beep.
Curt sighed and settled the phone back into its inauspicious position of rest. Dusty traces of a sweet Welsh lilt drifted in the ends of his hair and ghosted down the back of his neck when he shook his head. Maybe he’d try again later, or maybe he’d just call and listen to the machine.
Maybe now was a good time for that walk. With a last doleful glance at the phone, Curt closed the door behind him.
~