Ficlet: Shine (Velvet Goldmine)
May. 6th, 2003 03:06 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
keelywolfeHere it is! For ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kimberlite, who requested a Velvet Goldmine ficlet with Curt and Arthur. Lord, I haven't written those guys in years, and this ficlet is a little weird for it, I think, but this is how Curt wanted to play, so that's how we did it. Enjoy. :)
Shine
by keely
Disclaimer: I don't own Curt, Arthur, or VG. I am only playing with it a little and making no money while doing so. :)
~~*~~
He almost asked him to come home with him, in that moment their eyes met. The words were on the tip of his tongue, flavored sharply with cheap beer and tobacco. Would have been easy to ask and maybe he'd have even come, this journalist from the Herald and for once he'd be fucking with the press instead of the other way around.
But he'd already fucked with this one once, hadn't he. Too fucking vague of a memory, time and drugs smearing it into a pallet of pastel images that were more 'maybe' than anything. The only thing Curt was sure of was it was real, and that was good enough.
It was those eyes, maybe. Hadn't changed that much, still had a little too much of the glittery tinfoil awe of a fan in them, and Curt'd gotten tired of that ages ago, hated how much he'd needed that kind of bitter worship, a more addictive drug than any he'd shot into his shriveled veins. It always covered the greed and he'd already poured too much of his own soul into the chipped, unfillable cups of others, only to have them dump it into the gutter after barely a taste.
Only the cheap shine of this guy's eyes should have dimmed ages ago, after one night when he found out his idol was only human after all; he didn't piss flowers and he didn't come honey, and he'd never had anything worth sharing but his own pain. That it was still there, clean and bright as ever, was something he'd never have expected.
He wondered suddenly what would happen if he did invite this guy home, pulled him into his too-small, too-dark apartment and kissed him, and maybe he'd taste just as cool and soothing as he looked, and maybe he could push him down on the tile floor and they could fumble their pants out of the way, and he could suck him off right there on the dirty linoleum in his front room. Curt could almost taste the sharp, clean flavor of come on the back of his tongue, and maybe he could whisper things in the dark to this guy, things he might have already said once before and couldn't fucking remember through the moldering curtain that was his memory. And he might just listen, and he'd run his hands over Curt's back, hold him gently and whisper sweet, dark things back.
And then the guy looked away, towards the jukebox and the moment passed. He brushed it away from his thoughts like the cobweb that it was and quietly set the pin on top of the guy's beer bottle. He needed it more than Curt did, something to glitter that other people would see and recognize, even after the shine in his eyes finally dimmed.
Everyone needed an image.
-Finis-
kimberlite, who requested a Velvet Goldmine ficlet with Curt and Arthur. Lord, I haven't written those guys in years, and this ficlet is a little weird for it, I think, but this is how Curt wanted to play, so that's how we did it. Enjoy. :)Shine
by keely
Disclaimer: I don't own Curt, Arthur, or VG. I am only playing with it a little and making no money while doing so. :)
~~*~~
He almost asked him to come home with him, in that moment their eyes met. The words were on the tip of his tongue, flavored sharply with cheap beer and tobacco. Would have been easy to ask and maybe he'd have even come, this journalist from the Herald and for once he'd be fucking with the press instead of the other way around.
But he'd already fucked with this one once, hadn't he. Too fucking vague of a memory, time and drugs smearing it into a pallet of pastel images that were more 'maybe' than anything. The only thing Curt was sure of was it was real, and that was good enough.
It was those eyes, maybe. Hadn't changed that much, still had a little too much of the glittery tinfoil awe of a fan in them, and Curt'd gotten tired of that ages ago, hated how much he'd needed that kind of bitter worship, a more addictive drug than any he'd shot into his shriveled veins. It always covered the greed and he'd already poured too much of his own soul into the chipped, unfillable cups of others, only to have them dump it into the gutter after barely a taste.
Only the cheap shine of this guy's eyes should have dimmed ages ago, after one night when he found out his idol was only human after all; he didn't piss flowers and he didn't come honey, and he'd never had anything worth sharing but his own pain. That it was still there, clean and bright as ever, was something he'd never have expected.
He wondered suddenly what would happen if he did invite this guy home, pulled him into his too-small, too-dark apartment and kissed him, and maybe he'd taste just as cool and soothing as he looked, and maybe he could push him down on the tile floor and they could fumble their pants out of the way, and he could suck him off right there on the dirty linoleum in his front room. Curt could almost taste the sharp, clean flavor of come on the back of his tongue, and maybe he could whisper things in the dark to this guy, things he might have already said once before and couldn't fucking remember through the moldering curtain that was his memory. And he might just listen, and he'd run his hands over Curt's back, hold him gently and whisper sweet, dark things back.
And then the guy looked away, towards the jukebox and the moment passed. He brushed it away from his thoughts like the cobweb that it was and quietly set the pin on top of the guy's beer bottle. He needed it more than Curt did, something to glitter that other people would see and recognize, even after the shine in his eyes finally dimmed.
Everyone needed an image.
-Finis-
