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thegirlwiththemouseyhairTitle: Days in Summer
Pairing: Curt/Arthur
Part: 4/5
Part 1 is posted here.
Part 2 is posted here.
Part 3 is posted here (and was originally posted as a separate, one off piece, entitled Give and Take, before I realized it was actually a part of a longer narrative – i.e. this one).
Words: ~ 3200
Rating: R (mentions of drug use, sex)
Warning(s): Very brief mentions of past drug abuse. Some angst as well, if that counts.
Disclaimer: Velvet Goldmine and all associated characters and trademarks are the intellectual property of Todd Haynes and Miramax. This is a work of non-commercial fan fiction commentary on the film; no ownership is being claimed and no profit is being made.
Author’s note(s): In keeping with the unifying theme of Oscar Wilde references in this movie and this story, this part is peppered with several quotes/paraphrases from The Picture of Dorian Gray. (If you want the complete spotter's guide, just ask.) As well, this story has not been beta read, but feedback/concrit are absolutely treasured.
April, 1985
Arthur has never meant anything to anyone in his life, but sometimes, he really thinks that’s changing. Curt treats him like the centre of the world when they’re together. Maybe that’s just the way Curt is; he had been much the same when Arthur was nothing more than an anonymous groupie on a rooftop ten years ago - but Arthur’s pretty sure that it’s more than that, now. For one thing, he and Curt have been spending so much time together over the last four months that they might almost be living together, a situation which neither has had any complaints about. Curt has even hinted that really living together is a viable option. Arthur is slowly progressing from being too stunned to respond to considering the idea seriously.
Even more telling is the way Curt seems so obviously needy with Arthur, sometimes. It had taken Arthur maybe two or three weeks to go from seeing Curt as idol and hero to seeing him as a person, with a real life to which Arthur can actually contribute. Now, he is learning to accept being part of Curt’s life more easily than he would have believed possible. I can believe anything, he thinks, provided it’s quite incredible...
Curt alternates between being surprisingly quiet when he’s at home, in private, and wanting someone to talk to about anything or everything. Arthur can do that. Maybe there’s just something about him that makes people trust him, which would explain why he’s done well enough at his job despite having precious little interest in most of the research he’s had to do. If he can use whatever knack he has to support Curt - the best thing in his life - then that is far more important.
Arthur knows he might be really stupid for thinking that way. Even Curt has as good as said so, once or twice. After all, Curt’s biggest challenge, and the area in which he has most needed support and understanding, has been staying off drugs. Arthur’s proud of his discipline, usually. He tries not to imagine the ride he might get taken on if Curt were to lapse. So far, so good.
“It’s a little easier now,” Curt said once, articulating what Arthur had been hoping to hear. They had both had a bit much to drink that night - unusual, as Curt is generally good about not fucking up his brain with any more chemicals, as he says, and Arthur paces himself to match Curt. Curt had opened up about some of the close calls he had faced at the height of his addictions. Arthur had said little - what could he say? - but had gone to sit beside him. Curt had cupped his face in his hands in that gentle way that always makes Arthur’s heart skip a beat.
“It’s never really over,” he had continued, “but it’s easier to forget, with you. I live - better now.”
“Good,” Arthur had said, prompting a bitter half-laugh from Curt.
“Yeah, well, the question is what the hell do you get out of it? If you were smart, I mean, smart for yourself, you wouldn’t even be here.”
Arthur had been struck by the rare admission of vulnerability. In a way, of course he was right; there was bound to be more to Curt than the gentle, generous man who had finally succeeded in overcoming the horrors of addiction. There was bound to be so much risk.
Arthur knows all that academically, but can’t bring himself to care. Never in his life has he felt as important or as alive as he does with Curt. He tells himself that no matter how soon or how badly this may end, he’ll be better off for having had it.
“Well, I’m not going anywhere,” he had said, revealing more of himself than he would have had he been more sober. Then he had leaned in to kiss Curt.
They had spent a long time making out like teenagers on the couch before progressing to sex.
* * *
Curt works more productively with Arthur around, too. He has said as much, and Arthur is learning not to doubt his sincerity. It’s funny how these things work out - this is almost exactly the position and the future Arthur had dreamed of years ago, when he was still young enough to hope for ridiculous things. Better, maybe. He would never have expected to be welcomed into Curt’s life so completely, yet here he is. Curt works better with an audience, if not a collaborator, and that’s something else Arthur can do. In fact, he has seldom been happier than when he is sitting beside Curt as he plays through a new song, or as he is when Curt finishes and turns to him with that expectant look, hoping for his feedback.
Well. Curt usually works more productively with Arthur around. Sometimes, of course, they end up distracting each other. Once, a couple weeks ago, Arthur had come in late from work to find Curt sitting in his studio with his guitar and his ragged pile of notes for a new piece. Arthur had watched him for a while. The sound of his voice and the fierce look on his face had sent shivers down Arthur’s spine, overthrowing whatever self-control he had around Curt. He had gone over to Curt then and put his hands on his shoulders. Curt had paused, then stopped his playing, letting Arthur know that the distraction was a welcome one.
Arthur had taken the guitar from him, and ended by sucking him off, reveling in the feel of Curt’s calloused hands in his hair and the small moans Curt made deep in his throat. That had been memorable.
When he had finished, Curt had taken a moment to collect himself. Then he was thrusting Arthur to the floor to return the favour, unbuttoning Arthur’s shirt and trousers so he could kiss his way down to Arthur’s upper thighs. In doing so he had run his fingers over that place below Arthur’s ribs that always made him laugh a little. The feel of Curt’s hand there, almost tickling him, and the shocking cold of the wood floor beneath his bare skin had actually forced Arthur to stifle a laugh and jerk away involuntarily. Naturally, his ankle had caught the table, sending sheets of lyrics and Curt’s water glass flying.
“Shit,” he had said, turning his head to survey the damage. “I’m sorry.”
Curt had looked away for a moment before turning his attention back to Arthur.
“We’ll fix it after,” he had said, grinning, “and I’ll make you squirm now.”
Then he had taken Arthur in his mouth, teasing him with lips and tongue and teeth (oh, God), and Arthur was no longer thinking about anything else at all.
They had cleaned up the mess afterwards, Arthur mopping water off the floor with a towel while Curt stood by the fan, trying haphazardly to dry out his papers, half-dressed and half-laughing at each other. Happy.
* * *
Arthur is thriving on this relationship. It’s as if there’s finally some colour in his grey, meaningless life – colour and music and passion, for the first time in years. He’s certainly been having more and better sex than at any time in his life. Being with Curt is just so different from the fumbling, unsatisfying experiences he had grown used to. He’s actually sleeping better at night (even when he’s staying up late fucking or just wasting time watching TV with Curt), actually smiling for no reason at work.
He’s having more fun than he has in years, too. Curt insists on taking him to concerts, his own (and he is every bit as extraordinary as he ever was) and, sometimes, new bands (a mixed bag, really). Arthur had forgotten how much he missed this. He’d hardly been to any shows in five or six years, and certainly hadn’t been backstage – until the last few months. Curt had even insisted on introducing Arthur to his band.
“What’s better,” he had asked, beforehand, “‘this is my boyfriend, Arthur’, or ‘this is my lover, Arthur’?”
The answer didn’t matter. What matters is that Arthur thinks he might actually achieve what he always wanted, and push his way into this world that he loves. He’s trying to, at any rate. Maybe, with Curt, and with his Brian Slade piece attracting the attention that it has, he really can make a meaningful niche for himself in life.
Not that Curt has been particularly helpful from any practical or professional standpoint. They never even did that interview Curt had promised him, a fact that makes Arthur smile now, though it had left him scrambling for material at the time. But none of that matters, either. His second piece on Brian Slade had gone over well anyway, well enough for him to pursue the idea of a full book on the subject – even start thinking about doing this sort of work full time.
More importantly, he has found something even better in Curt. He doesn’t want or need any favours from him; what they have is more than enough.
He had been a little worried that his writing and Curt’s discomfort with the past might come between them, but so far that hasn’t been the case. They’re surprisingly on the same page, as if they really understand each other.
“You raise hell in your way,” Curt had said to him once, “and I’ll keep doing it in mine.”
Arthur had laughed at that.
“Not quite what I was thinking,” he had murmured, glancing up from his notes to Curt.
“You know it is,” Curt had said. “Just don’t get yourself sued or assassinated or something.”
“That bad?”
Curt had shrugged. Arthur had watched his face closely, looking for any sign of pain or bitterness. But he had met Arthur’s gaze evenly enough.
“Worse,” he had answered, in that teasing tone. Arthur had breathed a sigh of relief to hear how relaxed he sounded now. How easily the words had come, compared to their first few months together.
It’s the little things like that that seem almost too good to be true, even when they are.
The small triumphs add up. Once, on an evening when Arthur had tried to surprise Curt at his apartment, he had instead found himself waiting for Curt to come in. When he did, he had been raging over some tabloid article he had found about himself - about both of them, really. Curt Wild was still famous enough to be worth writing about, at least in certain circles, and it seemed that one of those cheap papers Arthur would not be caught dead working for had gotten hold of some pictures of the two of them at a concert. They’re standing a bit too close together in the photos, a bit too suggestive; Arthur vaguely remembers that Curt had been about to take his hand to drag him out of the venue (the band was pretty terrible).
Arthur had needed only to glance at the headline to see why Curt was so riled. He had frowned, bitten his lip. New gay love for “bisexual” rocker Wild? Tacky, insensitive, of course, though Arthur supposed it could have been worse. Beside him, Curt was muttering about the pathetic fucking son of a bitch who had written it.
“Like it was just a fucking act,” he was snarling, “like you’re just an act-”
“It’s all right,” Arthur had said, tensing a little as he always did in the face of conflict. Somehow, through sheer luck, he had not yet had to deal with one of Curt’s scenes; he could feel his heart rate increasing, but reached out to put a hand on Curt’s arm anyway.
“It’s really fucking not all right,” Curt had said.
Arthur had taken the paper from him, looked down at it again, and found himself trying not to smile, of all things.
“You think this is funny? You’re the one who’s not out to everyone, and actually has more to lose – ”
That was true enough. Arthur had tried to control himself, but could not keep the grin off his face, now that the absurdity of the situation had struck him. He did have more to lose; he still started whenever someone recognized him from the headshot that accompanied his articles, and he was at least dimly aware that being seen with Curt could harm his claims to objectivity. The author is biased in favour of Curt Wild, whom he was obviously shagging… But that’s a good problem to have - the sort of problem he had dreamed of having, without ever really expecting to.
“Actually, it’s fine,” he had said. “For one thing, some people could say the same about my writing.”
“That’s not true. You’re not a self-serving, prying piece of -”
Arthur had pulled him close and kissed him.
“Let me finish. Some people might disagree with you about me, and anyway – d’ you really think I mind being seen with you?”
For a moment even Curt had smiled, just a little.
“I’m still calling the bastard tomorrow,” he had said. And he had; Arthur had come in on his lunch break the next day to overhear the last part of the confrontation. It wasn’t half as bad as he expected. Arthur chalked that up to whatever calming influence he seemed to have on Curt.
The little triumphs like that add up. Slowly, Arthur is learning to speak up to Curt when he has something alcoholic in his hand and can’t quite stop himself as he normally would, or learning to give Curt a meaningful look when his voice starts to rise as it does before an outburst. Of course Arthur’s gotten a few sharp responses for his trouble. But he has also gotten a lot of real gratitude, usually a day or so later when the heat of the moment has cooled. Then Curt may just raise the issue again with a sad or sheepish or grateful smile.
For the first time in his life, Arthur is beginning to think that he might really be valued by someone.
* * *
Then there are the low days, when Arthur can’t accept his good fortune, and finds himself just waiting for the other shoe to drop. Maybe if something seems too good to be true, it is. After all, Arthur has never really meant anything to anyone in his life – not to any of the members of the Flaming Creatures, who abandoned him when they broke up for all they had considered him such a good friend before, not to any of the men he had been involved with since, not even to his own family. He had certainly been nothing to Curt years ago. Would that really have changed? Curt is good to him, usually, yet there are times when Arthur can’t help wondering if he’s misreading his signals. Sometimes, Arthur will try to respond to something Curt says only to be met with such coldness that all he can do is walk away.
“What the hell would you know about it?” Curt will say, sometimes, throwing away Arthur’s sympathy when they try to talk about the past. “You were never addicted. You were never in that place…”
Or, when Curt is in one of those sad, self-deprecating moods, he may laugh harshly and say “I wouldn’t even want to be with me, you know. I’m lucky you’re still just this adoring fan who doesn’t know better.”
He has only used that line a couple times, fairly early on, yet each incident had left Arthur with a sinking feeling in his stomach that took a long while to ease up. What the hell is that supposed to mean? he had thought. As usual, though, he had said nothing.
It’s the fault lines like that that have kept Arthur from accepting Curt’s offer to shack up with him. For all their relationship has been exquisite and satisfying and so hot, he knows he needs some exit strategy, just in case. Arthur has, after all, spent enough dark moments hoping that he’s not losing his heart and soul on someone who sees him as just an accessory to his own ego, a bit of decoration for his vanity. An ornament for a summer’s day.
Then, too, he has seen Curt when he’s drinking and can’t seem to stop himself as he says he will, or when he’s panicking over running low on cigarettes, or reminiscing about getting high with a longing in his voice that’s painful to hear. Painful and frightening, too. Maybe nothing Arthur says at those times really gets through to Curt. He’s not sure. Worse, he doesn’t know if all his pride in Curt’s sobriety – all his reliance on it – has been horribly misplaced and pathetically overly optimistic.
The basis for optimism is sheer terror.
* * *
Curt is playing some gigs in the Midwest. Arthur has been going home alone at night for the first time in he doesn’t know how long. He would have given just about anything to be with Curt now, but couldn’t take that much time off work. Tonight, like nearly every night this week, he has found himself almost getting off the train at the wrong stop, as if he were going to Curt’s apartment instead of his own. His own place is emptier, lonelier and more cramped than he remembers. He can barely remember what he used to do with himself in his spare time, before Curt came into his life, either. Pathetic, he thinks.
He tries to write, then tries to watch TV, but can’t seem to concentrate on anything. He wishes Curt would call; they’ve hardly spoken this week – just a few minutes, most every day – and when they did, their conversations were unsatisfactory and shallow. He hadn’t been too concerned up until now, though. Arthur knows that Curt hates talking on the phone and anyway, just hearing his voice had been enough to set Arthur at ease for a bit.
But it’s getting harder as the week goes on, as he’s growing more and more restless. He tries not to look at the phone. It’s seven thirty, anyway; Curt’s show (Cleveland, tonight) starts at eight. Too late to hear from him, at least for a few hours.
Arthur fidgets in his chair. He glances at the phone again, then forces himself to turn away, reminding himself that he is being ridiculous. That’s the problem with love, though: it makes you too fucking needy.
It’s going to be a long week. Arthur could kick himself for not taking the time off to be with Curt. Like this, he can’t stop wondering if Curt is drinking too much, or using again, or inviting some attractive young fan to slip away after the show, up to the rooftop, and –
With an effort, he pushes that thought away. It’s too nauseating for him to imagine; this is his narrative, no one else’s, or so he would like to think. He doesn’t really know, though. Maybe he could be replaced that easily.
The hours crawl by. At one point Arthur reaches for his jacket, thinking he’ll go out for a walk to pass the time. The green glow of the pin on his collar reminds him of Curt. He unclips it and shoves it in his pocket, suddenly resentful.
When he gets in, it’s finally late enough to go to bed. But sleep is a long time coming.
Pairing: Curt/Arthur
Part: 4/5
Part 1 is posted here.
Part 2 is posted here.
Part 3 is posted here (and was originally posted as a separate, one off piece, entitled Give and Take, before I realized it was actually a part of a longer narrative – i.e. this one).
Words: ~ 3200
Rating: R (mentions of drug use, sex)
Warning(s): Very brief mentions of past drug abuse. Some angst as well, if that counts.
Disclaimer: Velvet Goldmine and all associated characters and trademarks are the intellectual property of Todd Haynes and Miramax. This is a work of non-commercial fan fiction commentary on the film; no ownership is being claimed and no profit is being made.
Author’s note(s): In keeping with the unifying theme of Oscar Wilde references in this movie and this story, this part is peppered with several quotes/paraphrases from The Picture of Dorian Gray. (If you want the complete spotter's guide, just ask.) As well, this story has not been beta read, but feedback/concrit are absolutely treasured.
April, 1985
Arthur has never meant anything to anyone in his life, but sometimes, he really thinks that’s changing. Curt treats him like the centre of the world when they’re together. Maybe that’s just the way Curt is; he had been much the same when Arthur was nothing more than an anonymous groupie on a rooftop ten years ago - but Arthur’s pretty sure that it’s more than that, now. For one thing, he and Curt have been spending so much time together over the last four months that they might almost be living together, a situation which neither has had any complaints about. Curt has even hinted that really living together is a viable option. Arthur is slowly progressing from being too stunned to respond to considering the idea seriously.
Even more telling is the way Curt seems so obviously needy with Arthur, sometimes. It had taken Arthur maybe two or three weeks to go from seeing Curt as idol and hero to seeing him as a person, with a real life to which Arthur can actually contribute. Now, he is learning to accept being part of Curt’s life more easily than he would have believed possible. I can believe anything, he thinks, provided it’s quite incredible...
Curt alternates between being surprisingly quiet when he’s at home, in private, and wanting someone to talk to about anything or everything. Arthur can do that. Maybe there’s just something about him that makes people trust him, which would explain why he’s done well enough at his job despite having precious little interest in most of the research he’s had to do. If he can use whatever knack he has to support Curt - the best thing in his life - then that is far more important.
Arthur knows he might be really stupid for thinking that way. Even Curt has as good as said so, once or twice. After all, Curt’s biggest challenge, and the area in which he has most needed support and understanding, has been staying off drugs. Arthur’s proud of his discipline, usually. He tries not to imagine the ride he might get taken on if Curt were to lapse. So far, so good.
“It’s a little easier now,” Curt said once, articulating what Arthur had been hoping to hear. They had both had a bit much to drink that night - unusual, as Curt is generally good about not fucking up his brain with any more chemicals, as he says, and Arthur paces himself to match Curt. Curt had opened up about some of the close calls he had faced at the height of his addictions. Arthur had said little - what could he say? - but had gone to sit beside him. Curt had cupped his face in his hands in that gentle way that always makes Arthur’s heart skip a beat.
“It’s never really over,” he had continued, “but it’s easier to forget, with you. I live - better now.”
“Good,” Arthur had said, prompting a bitter half-laugh from Curt.
“Yeah, well, the question is what the hell do you get out of it? If you were smart, I mean, smart for yourself, you wouldn’t even be here.”
Arthur had been struck by the rare admission of vulnerability. In a way, of course he was right; there was bound to be more to Curt than the gentle, generous man who had finally succeeded in overcoming the horrors of addiction. There was bound to be so much risk.
Arthur knows all that academically, but can’t bring himself to care. Never in his life has he felt as important or as alive as he does with Curt. He tells himself that no matter how soon or how badly this may end, he’ll be better off for having had it.
“Well, I’m not going anywhere,” he had said, revealing more of himself than he would have had he been more sober. Then he had leaned in to kiss Curt.
They had spent a long time making out like teenagers on the couch before progressing to sex.
* * *
Curt works more productively with Arthur around, too. He has said as much, and Arthur is learning not to doubt his sincerity. It’s funny how these things work out - this is almost exactly the position and the future Arthur had dreamed of years ago, when he was still young enough to hope for ridiculous things. Better, maybe. He would never have expected to be welcomed into Curt’s life so completely, yet here he is. Curt works better with an audience, if not a collaborator, and that’s something else Arthur can do. In fact, he has seldom been happier than when he is sitting beside Curt as he plays through a new song, or as he is when Curt finishes and turns to him with that expectant look, hoping for his feedback.
Well. Curt usually works more productively with Arthur around. Sometimes, of course, they end up distracting each other. Once, a couple weeks ago, Arthur had come in late from work to find Curt sitting in his studio with his guitar and his ragged pile of notes for a new piece. Arthur had watched him for a while. The sound of his voice and the fierce look on his face had sent shivers down Arthur’s spine, overthrowing whatever self-control he had around Curt. He had gone over to Curt then and put his hands on his shoulders. Curt had paused, then stopped his playing, letting Arthur know that the distraction was a welcome one.
Arthur had taken the guitar from him, and ended by sucking him off, reveling in the feel of Curt’s calloused hands in his hair and the small moans Curt made deep in his throat. That had been memorable.
When he had finished, Curt had taken a moment to collect himself. Then he was thrusting Arthur to the floor to return the favour, unbuttoning Arthur’s shirt and trousers so he could kiss his way down to Arthur’s upper thighs. In doing so he had run his fingers over that place below Arthur’s ribs that always made him laugh a little. The feel of Curt’s hand there, almost tickling him, and the shocking cold of the wood floor beneath his bare skin had actually forced Arthur to stifle a laugh and jerk away involuntarily. Naturally, his ankle had caught the table, sending sheets of lyrics and Curt’s water glass flying.
“Shit,” he had said, turning his head to survey the damage. “I’m sorry.”
Curt had looked away for a moment before turning his attention back to Arthur.
“We’ll fix it after,” he had said, grinning, “and I’ll make you squirm now.”
Then he had taken Arthur in his mouth, teasing him with lips and tongue and teeth (oh, God), and Arthur was no longer thinking about anything else at all.
They had cleaned up the mess afterwards, Arthur mopping water off the floor with a towel while Curt stood by the fan, trying haphazardly to dry out his papers, half-dressed and half-laughing at each other. Happy.
* * *
Arthur is thriving on this relationship. It’s as if there’s finally some colour in his grey, meaningless life – colour and music and passion, for the first time in years. He’s certainly been having more and better sex than at any time in his life. Being with Curt is just so different from the fumbling, unsatisfying experiences he had grown used to. He’s actually sleeping better at night (even when he’s staying up late fucking or just wasting time watching TV with Curt), actually smiling for no reason at work.
He’s having more fun than he has in years, too. Curt insists on taking him to concerts, his own (and he is every bit as extraordinary as he ever was) and, sometimes, new bands (a mixed bag, really). Arthur had forgotten how much he missed this. He’d hardly been to any shows in five or six years, and certainly hadn’t been backstage – until the last few months. Curt had even insisted on introducing Arthur to his band.
“What’s better,” he had asked, beforehand, “‘this is my boyfriend, Arthur’, or ‘this is my lover, Arthur’?”
The answer didn’t matter. What matters is that Arthur thinks he might actually achieve what he always wanted, and push his way into this world that he loves. He’s trying to, at any rate. Maybe, with Curt, and with his Brian Slade piece attracting the attention that it has, he really can make a meaningful niche for himself in life.
Not that Curt has been particularly helpful from any practical or professional standpoint. They never even did that interview Curt had promised him, a fact that makes Arthur smile now, though it had left him scrambling for material at the time. But none of that matters, either. His second piece on Brian Slade had gone over well anyway, well enough for him to pursue the idea of a full book on the subject – even start thinking about doing this sort of work full time.
More importantly, he has found something even better in Curt. He doesn’t want or need any favours from him; what they have is more than enough.
He had been a little worried that his writing and Curt’s discomfort with the past might come between them, but so far that hasn’t been the case. They’re surprisingly on the same page, as if they really understand each other.
“You raise hell in your way,” Curt had said to him once, “and I’ll keep doing it in mine.”
Arthur had laughed at that.
“Not quite what I was thinking,” he had murmured, glancing up from his notes to Curt.
“You know it is,” Curt had said. “Just don’t get yourself sued or assassinated or something.”
“That bad?”
Curt had shrugged. Arthur had watched his face closely, looking for any sign of pain or bitterness. But he had met Arthur’s gaze evenly enough.
“Worse,” he had answered, in that teasing tone. Arthur had breathed a sigh of relief to hear how relaxed he sounded now. How easily the words had come, compared to their first few months together.
It’s the little things like that that seem almost too good to be true, even when they are.
The small triumphs add up. Once, on an evening when Arthur had tried to surprise Curt at his apartment, he had instead found himself waiting for Curt to come in. When he did, he had been raging over some tabloid article he had found about himself - about both of them, really. Curt Wild was still famous enough to be worth writing about, at least in certain circles, and it seemed that one of those cheap papers Arthur would not be caught dead working for had gotten hold of some pictures of the two of them at a concert. They’re standing a bit too close together in the photos, a bit too suggestive; Arthur vaguely remembers that Curt had been about to take his hand to drag him out of the venue (the band was pretty terrible).
Arthur had needed only to glance at the headline to see why Curt was so riled. He had frowned, bitten his lip. New gay love for “bisexual” rocker Wild? Tacky, insensitive, of course, though Arthur supposed it could have been worse. Beside him, Curt was muttering about the pathetic fucking son of a bitch who had written it.
“Like it was just a fucking act,” he was snarling, “like you’re just an act-”
“It’s all right,” Arthur had said, tensing a little as he always did in the face of conflict. Somehow, through sheer luck, he had not yet had to deal with one of Curt’s scenes; he could feel his heart rate increasing, but reached out to put a hand on Curt’s arm anyway.
“It’s really fucking not all right,” Curt had said.
Arthur had taken the paper from him, looked down at it again, and found himself trying not to smile, of all things.
“You think this is funny? You’re the one who’s not out to everyone, and actually has more to lose – ”
That was true enough. Arthur had tried to control himself, but could not keep the grin off his face, now that the absurdity of the situation had struck him. He did have more to lose; he still started whenever someone recognized him from the headshot that accompanied his articles, and he was at least dimly aware that being seen with Curt could harm his claims to objectivity. The author is biased in favour of Curt Wild, whom he was obviously shagging… But that’s a good problem to have - the sort of problem he had dreamed of having, without ever really expecting to.
“Actually, it’s fine,” he had said. “For one thing, some people could say the same about my writing.”
“That’s not true. You’re not a self-serving, prying piece of -”
Arthur had pulled him close and kissed him.
“Let me finish. Some people might disagree with you about me, and anyway – d’ you really think I mind being seen with you?”
For a moment even Curt had smiled, just a little.
“I’m still calling the bastard tomorrow,” he had said. And he had; Arthur had come in on his lunch break the next day to overhear the last part of the confrontation. It wasn’t half as bad as he expected. Arthur chalked that up to whatever calming influence he seemed to have on Curt.
The little triumphs like that add up. Slowly, Arthur is learning to speak up to Curt when he has something alcoholic in his hand and can’t quite stop himself as he normally would, or learning to give Curt a meaningful look when his voice starts to rise as it does before an outburst. Of course Arthur’s gotten a few sharp responses for his trouble. But he has also gotten a lot of real gratitude, usually a day or so later when the heat of the moment has cooled. Then Curt may just raise the issue again with a sad or sheepish or grateful smile.
For the first time in his life, Arthur is beginning to think that he might really be valued by someone.
* * *
Then there are the low days, when Arthur can’t accept his good fortune, and finds himself just waiting for the other shoe to drop. Maybe if something seems too good to be true, it is. After all, Arthur has never really meant anything to anyone in his life – not to any of the members of the Flaming Creatures, who abandoned him when they broke up for all they had considered him such a good friend before, not to any of the men he had been involved with since, not even to his own family. He had certainly been nothing to Curt years ago. Would that really have changed? Curt is good to him, usually, yet there are times when Arthur can’t help wondering if he’s misreading his signals. Sometimes, Arthur will try to respond to something Curt says only to be met with such coldness that all he can do is walk away.
“What the hell would you know about it?” Curt will say, sometimes, throwing away Arthur’s sympathy when they try to talk about the past. “You were never addicted. You were never in that place…”
Or, when Curt is in one of those sad, self-deprecating moods, he may laugh harshly and say “I wouldn’t even want to be with me, you know. I’m lucky you’re still just this adoring fan who doesn’t know better.”
He has only used that line a couple times, fairly early on, yet each incident had left Arthur with a sinking feeling in his stomach that took a long while to ease up. What the hell is that supposed to mean? he had thought. As usual, though, he had said nothing.
It’s the fault lines like that that have kept Arthur from accepting Curt’s offer to shack up with him. For all their relationship has been exquisite and satisfying and so hot, he knows he needs some exit strategy, just in case. Arthur has, after all, spent enough dark moments hoping that he’s not losing his heart and soul on someone who sees him as just an accessory to his own ego, a bit of decoration for his vanity. An ornament for a summer’s day.
Then, too, he has seen Curt when he’s drinking and can’t seem to stop himself as he says he will, or when he’s panicking over running low on cigarettes, or reminiscing about getting high with a longing in his voice that’s painful to hear. Painful and frightening, too. Maybe nothing Arthur says at those times really gets through to Curt. He’s not sure. Worse, he doesn’t know if all his pride in Curt’s sobriety – all his reliance on it – has been horribly misplaced and pathetically overly optimistic.
The basis for optimism is sheer terror.
* * *
Curt is playing some gigs in the Midwest. Arthur has been going home alone at night for the first time in he doesn’t know how long. He would have given just about anything to be with Curt now, but couldn’t take that much time off work. Tonight, like nearly every night this week, he has found himself almost getting off the train at the wrong stop, as if he were going to Curt’s apartment instead of his own. His own place is emptier, lonelier and more cramped than he remembers. He can barely remember what he used to do with himself in his spare time, before Curt came into his life, either. Pathetic, he thinks.
He tries to write, then tries to watch TV, but can’t seem to concentrate on anything. He wishes Curt would call; they’ve hardly spoken this week – just a few minutes, most every day – and when they did, their conversations were unsatisfactory and shallow. He hadn’t been too concerned up until now, though. Arthur knows that Curt hates talking on the phone and anyway, just hearing his voice had been enough to set Arthur at ease for a bit.
But it’s getting harder as the week goes on, as he’s growing more and more restless. He tries not to look at the phone. It’s seven thirty, anyway; Curt’s show (Cleveland, tonight) starts at eight. Too late to hear from him, at least for a few hours.
Arthur fidgets in his chair. He glances at the phone again, then forces himself to turn away, reminding himself that he is being ridiculous. That’s the problem with love, though: it makes you too fucking needy.
It’s going to be a long week. Arthur could kick himself for not taking the time off to be with Curt. Like this, he can’t stop wondering if Curt is drinking too much, or using again, or inviting some attractive young fan to slip away after the show, up to the rooftop, and –
With an effort, he pushes that thought away. It’s too nauseating for him to imagine; this is his narrative, no one else’s, or so he would like to think. He doesn’t really know, though. Maybe he could be replaced that easily.
The hours crawl by. At one point Arthur reaches for his jacket, thinking he’ll go out for a walk to pass the time. The green glow of the pin on his collar reminds him of Curt. He unclips it and shoves it in his pocket, suddenly resentful.
When he gets in, it’s finally late enough to go to bed. But sleep is a long time coming.
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Date: 2013-04-09 03:57 am (UTC)