(no subject)
Thanks to Silk, who gives me a boost when i most need it.
Part three
***
Three short raps punctuated the final chord Curt had been trying to build for the last twenty minutes, though the tune had haunted his mind for days. Hastily catching the notes which finally fit with names, he penciled them onto a sheet of music already filled with strains of melody, harmony, and snatches of lyrics written in the margins.
The knocking sounded again and Curt smiled to himself, thinking Jess had locked himself out downstairs. Again. The kid had already gone through four sets of keys and Curt couldn’t help being amused that such a brilliant sound technician was so absent-minded.
But considering his own tendency to get lost in music, Curt couldn’t say anything even if he wanted to.
"Hang on, Jess, I’m coming."
Scrambling up from the floor, he gently set aside the six-string and made his way to the door, already reaching for his spare set of keys.
"Kinda early tonigh--"
The half-smile he’d been wearing died out slowly, leaving his mouth hanging open and eyes gone wide with shock.
The figure shrugged sheepishly and said, "Sorry...not Jess."
"Brian."
One word. So much meaning tied up in one word. When the bastard changed his name, Curt readily adapted to calling him Tommy when the subject infrequently came up. Infinitely easier than dealing with the explosive feelings associated with ‘Brian’. Curt actually flinched when he was introduced to a balding middle-aged Southern gentleman simply because his name was Brian. He couldn’t hear it, say it, or especially think it without needing music, alcohol, or sex to put that one word back into its room inside Curt’s heart.
It usually took an excess of one or all three to succeed.
Voluntarily saying his name was more than just shocked recognition of the figure who huddled nervously inside his doorway. It was fact. Somehow the perfectly coiffed blond pompadour in the expensive suit had disappeared and been replaced by this stunningly adorable man-child.
Curt did not possess copious amounts of self-control. He’d learned to curb certain impulses in order to avoid complete self-destruction, but only just. So Curt stood, immobile, unabashedly staring at Brian from indecision, not self-restraint. Too many options to consider.
Land a hard right cross on that delicate cheekbone and close the door in his face, slam Brian against the wall and devour those lips with nibbles and licks and bites like the starving man he was, or pull him inside, hug him, pet him and wrap him in a warm dry towel.
So far, the drowned puppy look was winning.
Brian shifted uneasily, waiting. Just being this close, closer than a picture, or a back row seat at a concert, taking in the way Curt’s clothes still clung to his body and revealed the lightly muscled figure underneath, seeing the rhythmic inhale and exhale encased in a tight black tee...there was no room for speaking as he drank in the wonderfully real vision of Curt.
Staring into those eyes that haunted his dreams, Brian watched them change color from gray to blue and his stomach flipped as his lungs fought to draw in enough air.
"You’re dripping," Curt said.
Brian looked down at the puddle forming around his shoes. "I, uh, I walked. The rain..." he shrugged, the leather jacket squeaked.
Curt shook his head, as if trying to clear it, and retreated back inside the apartment, tossing over his shoulder, "Shoes and socks off. I’ll get a towel."
It took a minute for the words to register but when they did, Brian almost ran inside, afraid the roundabout invitation would be withdrawn if he didn’t comply quickly enough.
Curt was nowhere to be seen, so Brian stripped off said clothing, his feet already warming up on the soft navy blue carpeting. He looked around, surveying the place Curt called home, and found it eminently comfortable if a bit Spartan. The kitchen off to his left had the clean look of something rarely used, and the extended living room was loosely furnished with sofas and chairs, the telly and stereo shoved into the farthest corner. An open door drew Brian’s immediate attention when he spied a bright green electric and plain wooden acoustic guitar lying in their cradles against the wall. Since no other lights were on in the flat, Brian was curious to know what his arrival had apparently interrupted.
But those thoughts rapidly fled when Curt emerged from a room behind him, carrying the promised towel.
"Jacket, too."
Curt couldn’t make sense of the picture in his head. Jacket in one hand, shoes and socks in the other, dripping water on his living room floor, Tommy Stone, known to a select few as Brian Slade, looked like nothing more than little boy lost. Sad, nervous, hopeful, shaking slightly...
"Here."
Curt wrapped the blanket around Brian’s shoulders and pulled back, taking away the wet clothes and temptation. Hard to remember why he should be angry.
Brian dried off as much as he could, trying not to smell Curt mixed in with the dryer sheet. He let the towel hang from his fingertips and Curt took that too, dropping it carelessly on the couch next to the wet leather. Brian waited for Curt to speak, shout, anything. Sparkling conversation on his part, but Curt didn’t seem to mind so far, and Brian counted it a victory that he was on this side of the door.
"Brian." God, the way Curt said his name, that honey-dipped combination of whiskey and cigarettes...he shivered. No one had called him ‘Brian’ in years, not even Shannon, his name a secret almost as closely guarded as his heart.
"What happened to Tommy?"
Politely curious tone, but frustratingly neutral face. Not what he would normally associate with Curt, which made it even more difficult to know how he was supposed to respond.
"I think he took the night off."
Curt snorted. "Sneaking around the watchdogs?"
"I think I lost them, yeah." Curt looked puzzled by that, so Brian changed the subject. "You look...good, Curt."
"I look like shit, Brian, but thank you for lying."
"I’m not lying, you...you’re beautiful," his voice trailed off into a whisper, belatedly realizing this comment might offend Curt.
But Curt wasn’t. Confused, yes, offended, no and he fought the ridiculous urge to blush. "Just getting over two weeks of the flu," he said gruffly.
"Oh. You’re okay though?"
"Yeah."
Brian looked again and saw the recent signs of illness: slightly gaunt as opposed to a more natural leanness, a little pale from lack of sunlight, faint shadows under his eyes. But he still looked, well, fucking gorgeous to Brian, though he didn’t say so. He’d already embarrassed himself enough.
It seemed neither of them could stop looking at the other. So far, Curt had been running on automatic, reacting instinctively, reflexively. The reality of Brian’s presence was slowly sinking in and that room he tried not to open, tried not to think about cracked open against his will. His voice was softer than he intended when he finally asked, "Why are you here, Brian?"
***
tbc
Part three
***
Three short raps punctuated the final chord Curt had been trying to build for the last twenty minutes, though the tune had haunted his mind for days. Hastily catching the notes which finally fit with names, he penciled them onto a sheet of music already filled with strains of melody, harmony, and snatches of lyrics written in the margins.
The knocking sounded again and Curt smiled to himself, thinking Jess had locked himself out downstairs. Again. The kid had already gone through four sets of keys and Curt couldn’t help being amused that such a brilliant sound technician was so absent-minded.
But considering his own tendency to get lost in music, Curt couldn’t say anything even if he wanted to.
"Hang on, Jess, I’m coming."
Scrambling up from the floor, he gently set aside the six-string and made his way to the door, already reaching for his spare set of keys.
"Kinda early tonigh--"
The half-smile he’d been wearing died out slowly, leaving his mouth hanging open and eyes gone wide with shock.
The figure shrugged sheepishly and said, "Sorry...not Jess."
"Brian."
One word. So much meaning tied up in one word. When the bastard changed his name, Curt readily adapted to calling him Tommy when the subject infrequently came up. Infinitely easier than dealing with the explosive feelings associated with ‘Brian’. Curt actually flinched when he was introduced to a balding middle-aged Southern gentleman simply because his name was Brian. He couldn’t hear it, say it, or especially think it without needing music, alcohol, or sex to put that one word back into its room inside Curt’s heart.
It usually took an excess of one or all three to succeed.
Voluntarily saying his name was more than just shocked recognition of the figure who huddled nervously inside his doorway. It was fact. Somehow the perfectly coiffed blond pompadour in the expensive suit had disappeared and been replaced by this stunningly adorable man-child.
Curt did not possess copious amounts of self-control. He’d learned to curb certain impulses in order to avoid complete self-destruction, but only just. So Curt stood, immobile, unabashedly staring at Brian from indecision, not self-restraint. Too many options to consider.
Land a hard right cross on that delicate cheekbone and close the door in his face, slam Brian against the wall and devour those lips with nibbles and licks and bites like the starving man he was, or pull him inside, hug him, pet him and wrap him in a warm dry towel.
So far, the drowned puppy look was winning.
Brian shifted uneasily, waiting. Just being this close, closer than a picture, or a back row seat at a concert, taking in the way Curt’s clothes still clung to his body and revealed the lightly muscled figure underneath, seeing the rhythmic inhale and exhale encased in a tight black tee...there was no room for speaking as he drank in the wonderfully real vision of Curt.
Staring into those eyes that haunted his dreams, Brian watched them change color from gray to blue and his stomach flipped as his lungs fought to draw in enough air.
"You’re dripping," Curt said.
Brian looked down at the puddle forming around his shoes. "I, uh, I walked. The rain..." he shrugged, the leather jacket squeaked.
Curt shook his head, as if trying to clear it, and retreated back inside the apartment, tossing over his shoulder, "Shoes and socks off. I’ll get a towel."
It took a minute for the words to register but when they did, Brian almost ran inside, afraid the roundabout invitation would be withdrawn if he didn’t comply quickly enough.
Curt was nowhere to be seen, so Brian stripped off said clothing, his feet already warming up on the soft navy blue carpeting. He looked around, surveying the place Curt called home, and found it eminently comfortable if a bit Spartan. The kitchen off to his left had the clean look of something rarely used, and the extended living room was loosely furnished with sofas and chairs, the telly and stereo shoved into the farthest corner. An open door drew Brian’s immediate attention when he spied a bright green electric and plain wooden acoustic guitar lying in their cradles against the wall. Since no other lights were on in the flat, Brian was curious to know what his arrival had apparently interrupted.
But those thoughts rapidly fled when Curt emerged from a room behind him, carrying the promised towel.
"Jacket, too."
Curt couldn’t make sense of the picture in his head. Jacket in one hand, shoes and socks in the other, dripping water on his living room floor, Tommy Stone, known to a select few as Brian Slade, looked like nothing more than little boy lost. Sad, nervous, hopeful, shaking slightly...
"Here."
Curt wrapped the blanket around Brian’s shoulders and pulled back, taking away the wet clothes and temptation. Hard to remember why he should be angry.
Brian dried off as much as he could, trying not to smell Curt mixed in with the dryer sheet. He let the towel hang from his fingertips and Curt took that too, dropping it carelessly on the couch next to the wet leather. Brian waited for Curt to speak, shout, anything. Sparkling conversation on his part, but Curt didn’t seem to mind so far, and Brian counted it a victory that he was on this side of the door.
"Brian." God, the way Curt said his name, that honey-dipped combination of whiskey and cigarettes...he shivered. No one had called him ‘Brian’ in years, not even Shannon, his name a secret almost as closely guarded as his heart.
"What happened to Tommy?"
Politely curious tone, but frustratingly neutral face. Not what he would normally associate with Curt, which made it even more difficult to know how he was supposed to respond.
"I think he took the night off."
Curt snorted. "Sneaking around the watchdogs?"
"I think I lost them, yeah." Curt looked puzzled by that, so Brian changed the subject. "You look...good, Curt."
"I look like shit, Brian, but thank you for lying."
"I’m not lying, you...you’re beautiful," his voice trailed off into a whisper, belatedly realizing this comment might offend Curt.
But Curt wasn’t. Confused, yes, offended, no and he fought the ridiculous urge to blush. "Just getting over two weeks of the flu," he said gruffly.
"Oh. You’re okay though?"
"Yeah."
Brian looked again and saw the recent signs of illness: slightly gaunt as opposed to a more natural leanness, a little pale from lack of sunlight, faint shadows under his eyes. But he still looked, well, fucking gorgeous to Brian, though he didn’t say so. He’d already embarrassed himself enough.
It seemed neither of them could stop looking at the other. So far, Curt had been running on automatic, reacting instinctively, reflexively. The reality of Brian’s presence was slowly sinking in and that room he tried not to open, tried not to think about cracked open against his will. His voice was softer than he intended when he finally asked, "Why are you here, Brian?"
***
tbc