|Tiny Diamonds and Giggling Glitter
Author: newyorktopaloalto PM
An introspective piece on Curt, coming clean, and one night on a rooftop. CA, hinted at previous CB.Rated: Fiction T - English - Words: 1,189 - Reviews: 1 - Published: 05-19-12 - Status: Complete - id: 8131647
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
A/N: So I was just writing, and the first few paragraphs came out, and I realized how prefect this would be for Velvet Goldmine. So, uh, in case it's not obvious, the narrator is Curt and the 'other man' is Arthur. Because I feel alone when I say I really, really do not like C/B.
He hadn't meant to— it was the first time that he, in all honesty, could say that it was a complete accident. There was a slight pain, a push that he swore he could feel, and then nothing. Not nothing in a bad sense, however, but nothing in the way you know glorious euphoria feels.
The first time it was an accident, too drunk to think about what he was being offered, head spinning and mouth giggling and saying yes by itself. There were what felt like clouds in his brain afterwards, the pain loosening until he felt the belt slip into his lap, buckle hanging uselessly, clacking together every time he twitched.
It had been great until it had become horrible. Monsters, demons, floating thorough his brain, along with the bright flashes of light he had been smiling at only seconds before. It was everything he had ever wanted and everything he never needed.
After that, it wasn't an accident anymore.
Tiny diamonds were dripping from the sky when he met them. Small, young— too young, and laughing. Not quite the same way he laughed, but similar enough to make his stomach uneasy. He had called out to them, watching them stumble over each other as they giggled, eyes widening the slightest bit as they turned to face him. And all he wanted to do was bring them to his apartment (flat, squat) and put them to sleep until the after-effects wore off. But that would be the pot meeting the fork, or was it the kettle? Either way, it wasn't his place— no one's place really, but especially not his.
Shaking himself out of the musings he knew would do nothing other than depress him even more (another line, another dime,) he smiled balefully and walked away, ignoring their whispered shouts to each other.
He scratched at his arm idly, not noticing the blood the pooled in the already scabbed over flesh, and sighed, heading back to his little hole in the wall, wanting, wanting, wanting, but for the first time, deciding not to give in.
It had taken days, weeks, months, years, hours and minutes— him shaking and sobbing and rocking and a million other things he knew he would be grateful that he was alone for, but wanting someone, anyone, to be there to hold him like when he was little and his mama— but no, she never did that either. Dreams were not reality, no matter how much he sometimes wished it so.
Dreams were dreams were façades were the irony of life were the little hell that he knew he had invented for himself were the things he never wanted to let go of were the things he was letting go of were dreams.
And nothing was beautiful and everything hurt.
Sun touched his skin for the first time in decades and he breathed, air clogging his arteries and freeing his lungs. There was nothing, there was everything. A glance, a turn, and a rooftop he knew was empty. Ever since— it had always been empty. Was that even there? That night, but it didn't go with his dreams which were wasted away in the damp sheets or flushed down the toilet or thrown away, needles scraping up the garbage can as he threw them. It was still there, alight and alive and full of wishes he knew he never made true.
He had never been in love. That was a lie. He had never not been in love. He had always been in love.
Too many years, still hurting, still raw when it shouldn't have been. Still, still, still— and silent. Always silent when he needed sound.
It was a chance, an encounter he never expected again, and he almost made the non-accidental first time, once again.
Because everything was a life— the first time was never an accident, but he wanted it to be. Something that made him fall, unintentional and naïve. But he was never naïve. At least, not in the things that really mattered.
And there was the door and all he had to do was knock and he bit his lip and clenched his fist and, and, and—
A flash of brown, a weight in his pocket, and he fled, running after a mirage, but so grateful for the distraction.
"Have you ever been in love?"
"Now that's a funny question, isn't it?"
He sighed and looked at the man across from him, stubbing out a cigarette— one vice for another, both of which would kill, but this one slower.
And he smiled, because there was the question he knew was coming. It always did, because it was what everyone remembered. Sometimes he wished memories could just fade away, well, most of the time he wished that. His wishes never really came true.
"Wasn't everyone?" And it was flippant, but oh so true, and the way the other man quirked his lips up wryly only cemented the fact that his answer was the one he he shouldn't have given.
"I suppose you're right."
"There was a rooftop."
"A rooftop— a boy— a shooting star. And I remember it so vividly but so dimly at the same time."
The other man got a slightly strangled look, and he took a puff of his cigarette, letting the wave subside.
And the other man just nodded and took a drag from the dwindling cigarette, wincing slightly as the hot ashes brushed against his bare arm. He laughed, leaning his head back, and he could almost see the stars once more.
Sighing, he walked the alley up to the apartment, fist hesitating the slightest bit as he knocked. A smirk and a little bag, and he took off, no thought in his brain except 'now, now, now.'
He got back, vaguely hearing the other man humming against the water running and splashing, dishes scraping together as they entered the wash. And he went into the bathroom and looked.
Looked and stood there for a few moments, before opening the bag and smearing some powder— his life, between his fingers. And, smiling faintly, a giggle almost escaping his throat, he let it upturn and turned the water on.
"What are you doing?"
"What I should have done years ago."
And the other man watched, the radio playing in the background— a song they both knew too well, but bitterness finally leaving their bodies. And they watched it wash itself away, the song fading its final note as the white finally disappeared down the drain.
"With him?" the other man asked again, voice content— knowing the answer but wanting to hear it anyways.