Author: Farther
Rating: PG13
Pairing: Curt/Arthur
Archive: sure.
Summary: trying to repair a limping relationship.
Coming Clean
by Farther
Morning. Waves like thunder. Two days past the sickness, still feeling like shit but better. Two days, strange town in Maine. Arthur had rented it in a hurry, feeling that all things considered, it was time to get the fuck out of New York. He had been too sick at the time to object. Arthur had driven up with him in the backseat, crying shivering seeing things.
Puking every time Arthur pulled over. Arthur had practically carried him into the house, nursed him through it, and started bringing him pounds of candy. Everyone craves sugar coming off it. There must be some reason for that.
Arthur is still asleep next to him, breathing slow and even. Arthur is inhumanly forgiving. Not everyone puts up with constant relapses and withdrawals. They expect to turn things around, to save someone. And maybe they can take it once, but twice and they're gone. Arthur promised he'd stick it out no matter what. But he's at the end of his rope, and they both know this time has to be the last. Arthur's growing frustration is obvious to them both. Arthur is getting restless, tired of nursing, tired of worrying. Thus the rented house, a change of scene, a last ditch effort to get clean, and stay clean. At this point it couldn't hurt to try; anything is a step up.
He didn't know places like this still existed. In Manhattan any supposed beach is crowded with hotels and apartments and buildings and drunks. In Maine, beaches are deserted, pristine. Revolutionary war cannons nestle into the hillside. Ballast from ships sunk by the British wash to shore. This town is so tiny that it doesn't have street addresses. There is one cop. He can see the water from his bed. It's boggling.
He kisses the back of Arthur's neck. Arthur stirs, but doesn't wake up. He slithers out of bed, puts on a pair of jeans and slips out the screen door with his shirt under his arm and an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth. Need, need, need. The desperate crunch of the id. His whole life: a story of desire spun out of control. Pathetic.
Two days clean and holding steady. Counting up. He's been here before. This exact moment, when you want it so bad you're dying. There's nowhere to go here, though. He doesn't know anyone. There probably isn't anyone. Forget it, forget it.
He walks barefoot on the sand along the waterline. The water is freezing and every wave tosses it just over his toes. He likes the feeling of the sand disintegrating, of the land being tugged out from underneath him with the pull of the tide. It's so blatantly symbolic he smiles. Fog rises off the ocean.
Ahead, a little girl plays with a golden retriever in the sand. She's building sandcastles and the dog is knocking them down and scampering around in the water. He pauses on a dune, wondering if he should turn back. Parents are probably watching from the porch, and a strange shirtless man with a junkie's twitchy walk wandering up to their daughter might unnerve them a little. He puts his shirt on. He isn't ready to go back yet. He can walk right past her with a neighborly hello and then be off. Without incident.
The girl shields her eyes to watch him approach. "Hi," she calls when he's still a ways off. "Hey," he says.
"Wanna play?" she asks.
"No," he says, glancing up the beach to the cabin, looking for anxious parents leaning over the rails, wondering if they should call the police. It's empty. "Where are your parents?"
"They're asleep," she tells him. "Help me make a sandcastle."
He kneels down beside her and helps her pat sand into her bucket. He never made sandcastles when he was little, because he was never around any beaches. It is more complex to get them to stay up than he would have thought. They start to break apart, sand cascading down the sides. The dog skips out of the water and shakes off, spraying them both. The girl shrieks with laughter.
"What's your dog's name?" he asks.
"Lucy. And I'm Puck. What's yours?"
"Curt."
"That's a funny name," she tells him.
"Puck is a funny name."
"Do you live here?"
"I'm just visiting."
"You could stay, you know. You could live with me."
He laughs. Children are always offering their houses, totally trusting. He can't remember ever being like that. He was always the kid asking to stay with someone else. Arthur told him that children have to invite everyone to spend the night because childhood is a desperately lonely time. He answered that it never ended. That people always said no, so you just stopped asking. Arthur smiled sadly and patted his head, like a puppy.
"I don't think your parents would like it," he tells her.
"They'd like you," she insists
"I have a friend I live with. He would be sad."
"He could stay too," she says.
She talks a mile a minute. He nods occasionally, content to listen. He is making a moat for his castle. He is trying to make it at exactly the right level that water will come in and fill the moat but not wash away his castle. Easier said than done. She tells him that they have been there a year, but that they don't own the house. They are squatting because the real owners live someplace else and rarely come back. The town knows, of course, but no one much cares. She is five and will be starting kindergarten next year. Her best friend is Anna who lives down the street. But Anna has a brother who is mean. She and Anna tried to pick the blueberries across the street but an old lady owned them, and she came out dragging an oxygen tank behind her and screaming. Maine is full of colorful characters, eccentrics. It is exactly like a movie and twice as picturesque.
A mother appears. "Puck! Who are you talking to?" Dredlocked hippie. Curt hates hippies.
"This is Curt!" she grabs him by the hand and yanks him up the embankment, eager to show off her new friend.
"Hi," he says, embarrassed. He is acutely aware that little scabs and bruises from needles are still plainly visible in the crook of his elbows. "I'm staying up there," he explains apologetically, nodding in the direction of the little cabin.
"Oh," she says. "I saw you come in. You looked pretty sick."
"I had the flu."
"Some flu," she says, and asks no questions. Curt feels like he has his crimes tattooed on his face. She doesn't seem to notice; she's too busy keeping the dog from knocking her over. "Did Puck talk your ear off?"
"Naw, she's cute," he says. Puck is tugging at her mother's skirt.
"Yeah, she's great, isn't she? How long will you be staying?"
Curt pauses. No idea. "My friend sort of made arrangements. Until his money runs out, I guess."
"Well--" trying to gather Puck and the dog. Both are squirming, squealing with delight. "Feel free to drop over anytime. We're neighbors now."
"Maybe we will," he says.
"You could have breakfast if you want," she offers.
"No thanks. But it was nice meeting you," he says. He is trying to give off his best not-a-pedophile vibe.
They say goodbye politely and he walks back over the dune, the way he came. Hoping he can remember what house is his. He's not sure he can recognize it from the outside. But Arthur is standing on the beach, anxiously peering around. Curt waves. It's all okay, look how normal this all is.
"Where'd you go?"
"I was walking."
Arthur says, "You're sort of sandy."
"I made sandcastles."
Arthur cocks an eyebrow. He is very good at cocking one eyebrow and looking dorky and sexy at once.
"There was an overly friendly kid making sandcastles. She wanted me to play with her."
Teasing: "Well, how nice of you."
"She had a dog too. It wanted to frolic with me."
"Frolic?"
"Yep."
"There's a big word for you."
"Yeah, two syllables. Must be some kind of record."
Arthur laughs, relieved and trying to hide it. Curt hates when he worries. But he can never remember to leave notes telling where he's going, can never seem to get home when he says he will be.
"And the dog attacked you with its frolicking?"
"Yep."
"I'm sort of tempted to frolic with you too."
Curt laughs.
"I love when you smile," says Arthur, and then he stops laughing, because neither of them have had much to be happy about lately, and it's sad to think about it. He scuffs sand for a moment before squinting up at the sky.
"I love frolicking," Curt offers, to lighten the mood. But he's sincere in it, and wraps his hands around Arthur's waist to prove it. And then Arthur is smiling again.
"Do you want breakfast, or skip directly to frolic?" Arthur mumbles into Curt's neck.
"Breakfast after. It's important to have priorities."
"All work and no play..."
Arthur takes Curt's hand and turns around. Leads him up to the house. Curt sighs, can't tell if he's happy or sad. Arthur lets the door bang shut behind them and kisses him hard, slamming him against the wall. They laugh at their own intensity, not allowing themselves to think of the possibility that this is the end. Arthur slips one hand through Curt's hair, slides the other into his rear pants pocket, kissing him till their lips are bruised. Then he lets go, grinning, and yanks Curt into the bedroom.
There are bad days, and there are good days. And Curt believes it makes a big difference if you start the day off on the right foot.
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END