Title: Sleeping Awake

Author: Silk

Fandom: Velvet Goldmine

Pairing: Curt/Brian

Rating: R

Summary: Sometimes people lose their way. Sometimes they find their way back again.

Archive: If I sent it to you, please feel free.

Email: silkn1@att.net

Series/Sequel: No

Website: http://www.crystalgardens.net

Disclaimer: VG and its characters belong to Todd Haynes and Miramax. This work is not for profit.

Warnings: m/m, AU, angst, hurt/comfort, implied drug abuse and prostitution, bad language, first person.

Notes: This takes place after the break-up. This is from Curt's POV. It's not a death fic. It is, however, pure angst. Please let me know if you think we should hear from Brian.

Special thanks to Sinewa for the beta.


Sleeping Awake
By Silk

I live on the streets. I have no home. I used to have one. But it wasn't a place. It was a person. But I left him. And now I have no place to call home.

I trade my body for pills. Pills to get me up. Pills to bring me down. Pills that make the pain go away. But never for long enough. Nothing short of death could do that.

I think about it. A lot. It's not like I have anything left to do with my life. In fact, it's not like you could even call what I do...living.

There was a time when music filled my head, love filled my heart, and Brian filled my body. That was a good time. Damn good.

Now I can't play. Nerve damage in my hands. Bad dope. Bad judgment. Bad Curt. Always was. Always will be. To the fucking end.

If I can't play...what else can I do but fuck? It's not even like I'm good at it. A junkie gets real thin real quick. Not to mention tired. What little energy I've got...I have to save.

To find the next fix.

I used to congratulate myself for kicking the heroin. What a fuck-up I am. You never kick drugs. They kick you. Till you either give in or die. Or both. Suddenly I'm such a fucking prince cause I take pills? Is there really an advantage to getting high without a needle in your vein?

I need to sleep. Forget. Maybe forever.

But he won't let me. He comes to me at night. In dreams. I know he's looking for me. But he's never going to find me till he realizes just how low I've sunk.

He's looking in the wrong places.

He should be looking in the morgue...or maybe the fucking cemetery.

*****

I wake up with a start that makes my neck hurt. I was leaning against the brick wall of a building a few blocks from where I used to live. But I must have fallen asleep. My ass is numb. As numb as my fingers. They move, but they don't play. Can't caress those old guitar strings anymore. Just the thought of having a guitar in my hands again makes them throb to painful life.

I was dreaming about him. I don't know why he's still out there looking. I wonder if he even knows what to do with me if he found me. Stick me in a hospital? A fucking rehab? Ha. There's no cure for what I've got.

Drugs are just a symptom of what's wrong with me. It's my heart that went bad a long, long time ago. I should have known better than to fall in love with him. He wasn't for me. He wasn't for anyone.

Like me. I'm not for anyone either.

I want to be. God, I want to be. But that's an old pain and an even older hope. One that can't be put to rest before I am.

When he comes...oh, God, if he comes...I don't want him to see me like this. I want him to remember me the way I was.

I was beautiful. For a little while. I don't mean that in a vain way. I never cared about my looks. That's pretty fucking obvious. If I did, I wouldn't have gotten on the junk.

But I was beautiful. Cause for a little while, maybe ten minutes, maybe ten days, I don't know, Brian loved me. Damn, now I've got that back in my head again, I'll never go back to sleep.

I'm not even sure I want to.

*****

"You wanna fuck me, man? Only a dollar." I try to sound like I want it, but I don't. I don't really want anyone touching me anymore. I was always a whore. But I wasn't ever this cheap. Guess that says something about my state of mind, huh?

The man hurries away from me like I've got the plague. Muttering something about a bag of bones. Oh, he means me. Come to think of it, I reckon that wouldn't be too much fun for either one of us.

I've got the shakes. I drop a dollar bill and struggle to get a hold of it, but my fingers refuse to cooperate. Dammit. All of a sudden I realize that someone is standing on the dollar bill. I tug on the end of it, but it just rips away. Shit. Now it's no good.

I look up to give the son-of-a-bitch a good old Curt Wild glare. But it's not that fat-assed stranger. It's Brian fucking Slade.

"Congratulations," I say before descending into a coughing fit that sounds like I have TB. "You found me."

"Yeah."

I start to laugh, but I can't control the jagged breaths I need to suck into my lungs. It sounds too much like sobbing to me, and that scares the hell out of me.

"I forgot what a wonderful conversationalist you were," I manage to choke out. "But then we didn't really talk all that much."

"You look sick, Curt." His voice sounds gentle. Why is he being kind? I don't need his fucking kindness or his fucking pity. I cling to my anger like it's a shield. Cause it is.

It always was.

"Better stand back, man, I might be contagious."

"I don't care."

"Yeah, I get that." It's too much. I can't stand being this close to him after all this time. I've got no defense against him. Pretty boy and his pretty words. I was covered with kisses and lies by the time we got done. Well, some things need to stay done.

So I stand up. Or try to. But my legs don't want to cooperate with the rest of me.

I fall into him, and he fucking catches me. He puts his hands all over me, like we've never been apart, and he's touching my hair. Ugh. That had to hurt. Brian's always been the fastidious sort. It must kill him to sink his fingers into that tangled rats' nest. Hacked off a couple of inches with a rusty razor a few weeks back. But it couldn't smell good. Or feel good.

Why the fuck is he touching me at all?

"I finally found you," he whispers.

"So what?" I start out belligerent, but I can hear the tears I'm holding back. "Thanks for the reunion. You can send me the pictures."

He's holding me now. Too tight to be a trick. It's like he doesn't want to let go of me. "I was afraid you were dead."

"I am. My body just hasn't gotten the message yet."

He kisses my cheek. My filthy dirty cheek. Jesus. I try to get away from him, but he wraps his arms around me. "Don't go."

"I have to," I say, my throat unbelievably dry.

"I want you to come home with me," he begs. I don't get it. I really don't. What does he need me for?

"Please, Curt," he says in that sputtery whisper that used to raise goosebumps on my skin when we made love. We did make love, didn't we, Brian? That's how I remember it. Please say we did.

"Why?" I ask. I can barely form the fucking word, but I have to know. Why?

"I love you." God, he says that like it's the fucking answer to my question. Is it? Can it be?

"You sure about that? I mean, look at me, man."

He's crying. Dammit. I've never seen him cry. "Nothing works without you, Curt. Please come back."

I pretend I'm thinking about it, but the truth is...he's saved me again. It doesn't matter that I can't play the fucking guitar. The music is inside me. Where it's always been.

Waiting for him. So I can fucking breathe again.

"If I do...will things be different?" I ask hesitantly.

"Yes," he vows.

"What if I don't want 'em to be? What if I need 'em to be the same? Can you do that?"

"As long as I have you...I can do anything, Curt." He pushes my greasy hair out of my eyes and kisses me on the mouth. He doesn't care how fucking dirty I am. He wants me. He fucking wants me.

I tell myself my heart doesn't have any reason to sing about anything, least of all this.

But I'm wrong. I've been wrong before. I was wrong when I walked out. I was wrong when I realized that I couldn't live without him, but I didn't go back.

Now I can be right.



End