Title: Bitter-Sweet

Author: Alex

Archive: Anywhere, just ask first

Pairing: Curt/Brian

Rating: R? NC17? Who knows?

Warnings: Angsty. Some day I'll write something fluffy...not today,though.

Summary: Curt leaves the bar, and goes home. Events occur.

Notes: Not the happiest ending, and not precisely sad, either. I thought Brian needed to justify himself somewhat, and so this short, dialogue-heavy piece is the result of my dissatisfaction. I haven't read a lot of VG fanfic, so this may be a repeated theme...read on....

BITTER SWEET

By Alex

Curt stepped out of the bar and leaned against the wall, half-glancing at the door.

It stayed firmly shut.

Shrugging, he walked toward the Avenue A subway entrance.

****

He dropped his keys at the door. Bending to retrieve them, he saw light coming out of the vertical crack of the door.

Shit, he thought. Did I leave the goddamn door unlocked and the lights on?

He didn't think so.

Cautiously he straightened, put one hand on the knob, pushed the door open.

"Jesus Christ," he gasped.

Brian was sitting in his living room.

"How the fuck did you get in here?" Curt demanded. His heart was skipping, and he'd near pissed himself.

"The door was open."

"The fuck it was."

Brian shrugged. "I had to talk to you, Curt."

"So you broke into my fucking apartment?"

Brian smiled. Gleaming white teeth, probably thousands of dollars of dentistry.

"Did you enjoy the show?"

Curt shook his head, slammed the door. "You scared the shit out of me, asshole."

"Sorry."

"Sure." Curt stalked to the couch, sat down, and stared at Brian disbelievingly.

He still looked great. Style, always style. Not the slender beguiling boy he'd once been, this Brian was different...still stylish, but harder, more polished. Black sweater and trousers, expensive-looking. Black leather jacket. Black suede loafers. His blond pompadour had been dismantled and his hair was combed back.

"So what do you want to talk about, Brian?"

"It's Tommy." Softly.

"Right."

"Did you like the show, Curt?"

"It was...pretty big."

Brian exhaled, gave Curt a look of pointed patience. "I didn't ask you about the size of the show. I asked if you liked it."

"No. But thanks for the ticket." Curt smirked at the expression on Brian's face.

"Oh. You're welcome. Sorry I couldn't invite you backstage. Security is really tight."

Bullshit. Brian could have had Charles Manson backstage if he'd wanted to.

"No problem."

"You've always been honest, haven't you, Curt?"

Curt frowned, looking directly into Brian's eyes.

"Yeah. And you've always lied."

Brian dropped his eyes.

"Curt--" he began pleadingly.

"Why don't you say what you have to say, Brian," Curt snapped, "then get the hell out of here. I'm really tired."

"Fine," said Brian. "Tonight, after the show, some reporter asked me if there was a connection between me and Brian Slade. Caught me off guard. Thank God for Shannon."

Curt snorted. "Shannon. Your watchdog. The little bitch glued herself to you from day one."

"That's enough, Curt," Brian said warningly. "That really pissed me off tonight. I can't help thinking that it wouldn't have happened if you hadn't been so...indiscreet."

Curt smiled then. Good choice of words, Brian, he thought. Eight years too late, but still...

"Who was it?"

"Who was what?"

"Who was the reporter that cornered you?"

"I don't know. I couldn't see him," said Brian, annoyed. "But I know it's your fault, Curt. You were supposed to keep your mouth shut."

"I haven't said anything to anyone. Oh, and by the way, thanks for sending those fucking lawyers around to see me. Real subtle."

Brian shook his head despairingly. "What am I going to do with you, Curt? I can't have you talking to reporters..."

"Why don't you shoot me in the back of the head?" Curt said, taunting him. "Then I'd never open my mouth again."

"Actually...I was thinking about having you picked up tonight...just to scare you."

Curt gaped at Brian, who looked absolutely serious.

"You're shitting me."

"Not at all," replied Brian. "You don't seem to realize how important this is to me, Curt."

"Fuck," whispered Curt. He glared at Brian. "And what were you going to do if I didn't cooperate, huh? Throw me in the East River? Jesus, is there anything your money won't buy?"

"Don't." Brian looked desperately unhappy. Curt didn't care.

"Everything, Brian. everything, right? I see you all over the place. I can't turn on the goddamn TV without seeing you. Those stupid entertainment shows, you and some bimbo with fake tits. You do charity concerts. You go to movie premieres. Fucking Pepsi commercials. The fucking President, for fuck's sake! You're a sellout, Brian,a joke, but you're filthy fucking rich, aren't you, so you do whatever the fuck you want."

"Shut up, Curt," said Brian, standing and walking to the couch, glaring down at Curt.

"You shut up, Brian. Have you seen Mandy lately? Have you?"

"No."

"Well, I have. She's drinking herself to death in that shithole of a nightclub. Have you stopped by, caught her act? It's so fucking sad. You did that to her--"

"Please, Curt, don't hand me that."

"Why not? You did it to her. She's still trying to milk the last name, Brian. I was at an art show, and I saw her trying to get in at the door. They wouldn't let her in."

"What were you doing at an art show?" Scornfully.

"I went for the beer."

Brian smiled faintly. "Did they serve beer, Curt?"

"No." Ghost of a smile. "They served white wine. In glasses."

Their eyes met, blue and green, and they smiled, real smiles this time.

Brian dropped into the couch beside Curt.

"You want to hear some truth, Curt?"

Curt said nothing.

"Why don't you think about what you are? You sit there and wrap yourself in that stupid New York arrogance, your deliberate poverty. We both know that you'll never starve,so don't give me that wealth-is-bad bullshit. You sneer at anything that doesn't fit into your narrow little world. You have to change, or you'll shrivel up and die."

"Change like you, you mean? You change identity like clothing."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"You know." Blue eyes bored into Brian. "You became...Tommy Stone. Before that, you were Maxwell Demon. Brian Slade. Thomas Stoningham. I don't need to change like that, Brian. I don't need to drop people when I can't use them anymore."

"Are you saying that I used you?"

"You use everyone, Brian."

"Why don't you think about how you used me for a change, Curt? You pushed and pushed, you and your fucking smack and your girls and boys and your neuroses, and I couldn't take it any more. I tried to be happy with you, but you threw it away! Not once or twice, but all the time. And you fucked it up. You couldn't be happy. And I was wrecked when you left...I had to end it."

"Yeah? Cry me a river," Curt said irritably.

"Fuck you, Curt! Fuck you! You've never been unsure of yourself, never! Do you have any idea how I felt? Everyone hated me. They fucking hated me! All my so-called friends, all those fucking sycophants...Jerry...Mandy...they all abandoned me. After my bust, it was just me, Shannon, and my coke. Best friends." He smiled bitterly.

"I had to change things, had to start over," Brian said, folding his arms. "Don't you see? You...I almost let myself be dragged down, Curt. You were my old life.

"I've got a new life now. I have to keep it. I have to."

They sat silently.

Brian drew his legs up, hugged his knees. Curt watched out of the corner of his eye. It was an old gesture, petulant, needy, classic Brian.

Goddamn.

Curt put a tentative hand on Brian's shoulder.

Brian looked over at him.

"You still love me, Curt?"

Curt closed his eyes.

"Yeah. I do."

Brian leaned forward, his mouth fastening on Curt's.

God, that mouth, still the same after so long, sweet, warm, lush, tasting of...some heathery liquor...was it Drambuie? Maybe...Curt pressed against Brian , hungrily, returning the kiss, his tongue questing, twining round Brian's, teeth grazing. His cock was starting to throb, trapped in his jeans.

Brian half rose, pinning Curt against the couch. He twisted, straddling Curt, his own erection pressed against Curt's thigh. His hands ran covetously over Curt's shoulders, his arms, up to his face, through his hair.

Curt pulled away. "Christ, don't," he murmured.

"Curt...come on...it's good...it'll be good...trust me."

Trust me.

"Oh, fuck," Curt gasped, as Brian's hand slid down to his jeans and closed over his erection. Brian slid off the couch onto his knees in front of Curt, unbuttoning his jeans, descending on his cock, enveloping it in warm wetness. Curt dimly heard the rustling of fabric as Brian undid his own trousers. He moaned.

Brian began to press against his own cock rhythmically, making a low noise in his throat. The vibration hummed through Curt's body, and Curt cried out and thrust his hips forward, deeper into Brian's mouth. Brian pulled back until his lips just teased at the head of Curt's penis, tongue flicking at it. Curt moaned again, grasped Brian's head and guided it forward, frenzied, and Brian took the entire shaft into his mouth, gagging slightly as the head touched the back of his throat.

The slight constriction fueled Curt's arousal and he came with a loud cry, throwing his head back, gripping Brian's hair tightly. Brian's free hand came up and pressed against Curt's chest, and he came a moment later, a strangled groan escaping his throat. Breathing hard, he pulled back, swallowed, and threw an arm across Curt's knees, resting his head there.

Curt wanted to curl up and sleep. He was utterly exhausted. But Brian stood, shook his shoulder gently.

"Curt."

"What?"

"Come on. Walk me out."

"What?"

"I have to go. Walk me out."

"Why, you afraid of getting beaten up or something?"

"Come on, just get up." He tugged at Curt's hand. Curt let himself be pulled up. He buttoned his jeans and followed Brian out to the h all. They stopped at the outer door.

"I have to go, Curt. Don't forget...don't say anything to anyone."

Curt almost laughed.

Same old Brian.

"Don't worry, Tommy," he said. "Your secret's safe with me."

"I still love you, you know."

"I know."

Brian didn't quite smile. He turned and walked out the door. Curt watched as he trotted down the steps and into the back seat of a big black Mercedes.

Brian didn't look back.

And now, as you turn to leave
You try to force a smile
As if to compensate
Then you break down
...and cry.

END

Liked it? Hated it? Let me know at splix1971@msn.com