Author: Sullen Shadowhawk PM
It's convenient, a little comforting, and a bleak sort of perfect. Arthur's musings on his feelings for Curt. Post film.Rated: Fiction T - English - Angst/Romance - Words: 517 - Reviews: 4 - Favs: 3 - Published: 02-09-11 - Status: Complete - id: 6730006
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Hello fandom, long time no see! I wrote this a long time ago but just decided to post it. This is Arthur's take on his "relationship" with Curt after the film. I want to dedicate this to the wonderful Curt Kenobi, who's stories shred my heart in the very best way.
I hope you enjoy it.
My life has become a study of apathy. I live day to day, a dull inertia in which I am passionate about nothing. I get restless, but I lack the motivation to change. I say my life should be more, and often mean it, but I lack the courage of my convictions. I feel like I am an embodied void, I lack energy and social prowess and willpower and god. The only thing I do not lack is a strange brand of perverse and tender love.
I love a man more far gone than me. We are detached from most things, which somehow attaches us loosely together. Where I feel troubled, he feels numb. We are remote and isolated beings finding minute comfort in one another when one of us breaks down in need for companionship or in a bizarre sort of listless, thwarted lust.
He isn't my boyfriend, though I love him. He doesn't love me, not the way I love him, but I think he loves the way I make him feel. I live my muted, grey days waiting until he wants something from me. Until he does, I am devoid of purpose. That isn't to say I only live for him. To be more correct, I would say that he reminds me that I'm alive.
I don't pine for him anymore. I more or less continue on about my business until I hear from him, secure, knowing that, like an outdoor cat, he'll end up with me again when he's ready.
We are two lumps of unmolded clay, unshaped by the world around us and unimpressed with what we see. We share ennui like others share romance, our apathy is part of our bond. But where I dream of him, he seems to dream of nothing. My dreams are infected with his cool indifference.
So little matters to me, and even less to him. I register this as the way things go. I don't care too much that I'm not his world. It's not the end of mine. He comes to me to play our dirty games and those are the nights that keep us from getting too bored to stay alive. We liven each other up with our perversions, reaching for all the extremes to find something to feel. It's harmless, and it helps. Jaded as we are, it's something that we can share, and sometimes find a bit of wonder in each other.
He's the only real thing that matters to me, and I'll always have a place for him to land when he crashes. It's convenient, a little bit comforting, and a bleak sort of perfect.