I See Your Faces in the Strangest Places

by Silver

Rated PG-13 for profanity and reference to adult themes and drug abuse.
Warnings: sensitive psychological matters; for clearer (spoiling) warnings skip to story end.

"Singer Brian Slade shot on stage!"

The newspaper slipped from his numb fingers. He made no attempt to catch it before it hit the wet pavement. He slumped against the lamppost, slid to the floor and stared into the void. It was as if he could feel the earth underneath his feet grinding to a sudden halt. All the lights and sounds around him disappeared into a vortex of nothingness. There was no reason left anymore. It was all over now.

Yet the people didn't seem to realize that. They walked past him, chatting happily with each other, laughing, holding each other's hands... They had no idea. He wanted to jump at them, shake them violently and yell, How can you smile and go on when the only reason to live is gone now?

The cigarette in the corner of his mouth burnt down to its very end until it went out. Yet he made no attempt to remove it. He continued to stare blindly.

The rain set in again and the people squealed and dispersed into the various pubs and shops along the streets of Berlin-Kreuzberg. The slouched creature took no notice of it. His bleached hair stuck to his face as the rain washed over him, making his eyeliner disappear into a trace of black over his cheeks. He dropped his head, breathing heavily. He never cried. That was a kind of emotion he didn't allow himself to show. He shouted, raged and kicked, but he never cried.

Even now he wouldn't. He remembered the day he had gotten into the car, looking over his shoulder to see the love of his life step back from watching him through the curtains, not saying a word to hold him back. For the first time in years Curt had felt the unused sting of tears in his eyes. He had promised to himself then that he would never let Brian Slade make him cry. And it had worked so well. Even now, it did.

After a while he scrambled to his feet, picking up the soaked newspaper as he got up. He flicked away the butt and shakily walked back home. Home... The place where he stayed would never be a home to him. He'd only been here for a few weeks now, but he was ever so certain that he would never again be able to find a place to call home. After all, home is where the heart is. And his heart was...

"So, you're leaving?"

"Uh-huh." Curt didn't look up as he closed the zipper of his last bag.

Brian was leaning against the doorframe of their bedroom, the arms folded over his chest in a defensive way. His beautiful lips were pressed to a pale, thin line, making the small bruise that split them on the left even more obvious. "You will never forgive me, won't you?" This wasn't really a question.

Curt's hands stopped and he remained completely motionless for a few seconds. When he finally met his lover's eyes, he found a mirror of his own pain in them. "That's not the point," he whispered.

"Then why are you leaving me?"

He could hear the unshed tears in Brian's voice and it tore his heart apart. "You told me to go."

Brian moaned and threw his head back. "What if I didn't mean it?`"

The blonde shook his head sadly. "No. You did mean it. You meant every fuckin' word ya said in the studio. Don't tell me it wasn't like that." He stared at the scab on his lover's lips, wincing inwardly.

Closing his eyes, Brian raised his face to the ceiling. At the sound of Curt picking up his bag, he jerked his head down with a panicked look in his eyes. Yet he didn't say a word when his lover walked past him. When he reached the stairs, he just said, "Curt."

Curt stopped, taking a deep breath and turned back again. He looked at Brian, waiting.

"I'll die without you."

With a choked sob, Curt replied, "No, you'll get along. You always do." Then he turned again and walked down the stairs.

Within seconds, Brian had reached the stairs and cried, enraged, "Fine! Go then!"

"I'm goin' already." It was a mystery how he managed to keep his voice so calm.

"I won't stop you!"

"I didn't expect ya to." Curt's voice was already starting to fade.

From up the stairs, he heard Brian slumping on the floor, sobbing. "Asshole... bloody bastard..." he muttered.

Curt took another painful breath and closed the door behind him.

Leaning against the closed door of his apartment, Curt closed his eyes for a second. The sounds of the door's bang echoing through the empty rooms rang in his ears. His apartment, it had never appeared so deserted to him before. The wet paper in his hand dripped on the worn out parquet, building a puddle along with the water that ran from his soaked clothes. He didn't care.

He sat down in front of a mirror, slamming the paper on the small table. For a few minutes he just stared at his own reflection. It had just been a silly idea to check out the newsstand that sold international papers. For some weird reason he had wanted to read the headlines from the English papers, maybe finding something about the hottest stars over there. Certain stars. But the headlines he had found were the last thing he had expected. Curt shot a glance at the front page, realizing that it was already a few days old. Sure, papers took some time to find their way to West Germany.

With one gentle finger he touched the photograph of Brian, looking over his shoulder with the same vain expression he gave almost everybody. How he knew that disdainful twist on those lips, the cool glimmer of these eyes. It almost was as if Brian watched the world from a distance, turning up his nose at its simplicity and stupidity. But when Brian had laid his eyes upon him, the ice in his eyes had always melted away to a warm glow, his lips had twisted to a small smile. Yes, Brian had been the only one to show him love and friendship in a time when nobody else would.

He could still remember that day when he had met him for the first time. Through a haze of drugs and alcohol he had looked into the out-of-this-world face of beauty: the luscious lips, the fair hair... That was all he had noticed, before finally passing out over the bottle of Tequila he had finished together with that pair of pretty twins that were flanking him.

Then, the next day, the hangover had been bad and he hadn't really wanted to go to that appointment in a fucking snobbish restaurant. Yet there had been this vision of beauty in his head, the only remainder of another night going down the drain. It had exactly been this vision that made him go to the appointment, sipping champagne from a delicate crystal glass and listening to that weasel of a manager.

His glances had been drawn irresistibly to the young man sitting at the table, smiling blissfully. And then he had twisted his lips to this slightly disdainful smile and rolled his eyes upon his manager's endless droning and he had translated the whole lot of it within one line. "What Jerry's trying to say is do you want to come to London to cut a record?" and Curt's heart had flown out to him. Suddenly he had felt as if all this drug withdrawal he was going through actually made sense. As if the methadone would be sufficient just for once and his body would stop craving.

"You could be my mainman," he had mumbled. And he had meant it.

Later in the hotel lobby, Brian had said good-bye to him for now with the promise to give him a call pretty soon. Curt hadn't really expected to receive that call, didn't even know what to think of the whole business. And he had had a horrid headache. But then Brian had suddenly leaned forward and kissed him. Without introduction or explanation. Just a short, serious kiss on his lips. After that, they had stared at each other and then Brian had run off into the crowd of arriving and departing guests. Curt had been left behind with the aftertaste of a sweet kiss on his lips, touching them in mild confusion.

With his fingers on his lips Curt stared at the photograph of Brian. God, he missed him. He had missed him even before he had known he was gone. With a moan, Curt leaned over and ran his fingers through his hair.

"Mmh, I love your hair...." Brian mumbled, as he stroked through Curt's long, freshly bleached hair, pulling his head back into the kiss they'd been sharing before.

The waves licked at the secluded beach where they had found refuge from the world for a few days. They embraced, standing barefoot on the shore, losing themselves in the kiss.

Curt gently stroked over the spiky blue hair that now adorned Brian's head. In a fit of silliness they had bought a set of hair-dye and given each other a nice beauty treatment. Originally it had been their intention to give Curt a color, too, but then Brian had been so enthusiastic about the blonde hair that they had decided to leave it that way.

"Shannon and Jerry will have a fit when they see our new hairstyle," Brian chuckled. "They don't like it, if I don't inform them about such radical changes. I bet half of my wardrobe will clash with my hair now!"

"As if ya ever cared," Curt mumbled languidly, nuzzling Brian's neck.

Brian carefully freed himself from his lover and looked at him with serious eyes. "Of course I care, Curt. A man's life is his image. Without my image, I am nothing."

With a frown, Curt returned the look. "No, you're so much more..."

He shook his head sadly. "No. Art lies in the eye of the beholder. An action causes a reaction. And the reaction determines the message. I am the message. I can only be as long as I can make people react, as long as I'm the person they despise. I need them to despise me."

Curt pulled Brian's head close and kissed him tenderly. "You care too much about what other people think."

"Yeah, maybe I do..." Brian rested his chin on Curt's shoulder and just stared for a while, slowly rocking in the other man's embrace. Then he whispered, "Only when I'm with you it's different. You never react the way I expect you to."

"And is that a good thing?"

Brian shrugged. "Guess so..." He reached into his pocket and brought forth something. For a second the sun reflected in the object and sent a green sparkle over Brian's face. He reached for Curt's shirt and attached the pin to it. "For your image..." he whispered.

Curt recognized the pin that Brian wore so often and accepted it as a sincere, heartfelt gift. He caught Brian's hands and kissed them gently, swallowing thickly. He wanted to tell him how much this gift meant to him, but he just didn't know how. So he merely dropped his hands and muttered, "Um, thanks."

The drawer pulled open violently and all the junk that was in it shot forward, rattling noisily against the wood. The green emerald pin was dropped into the pile of rubbish and vanished as Curt slammed the drawer shut again with a grim expression. He met his face in the mirror, his eyes shimmering with a fierce glow, his forehead clouded with anger. He took a deep drag from his smoke and then carelessly stubbed it out on the table.

A picture at the desk caught his attention and he swiped it away with one stroke, the glass smashing on the floor, tiny pieces of shattered glass cutting into his and Brian's faces. Curt stared at it in dismay for a second before he buried his face in the bow of his arms.

His trembling fingers fumbled at his lapel, searching for something that wasn't there. Staggering, Curt rose to his feet and walked through his scanty apartment, rubbing his neck as he scanned his surrounding. Some boxes piled up against the wall, stuff he had brought with him from the States to London, and now to Berlin, and never really needed. Other boxes with memories that better stayed buried in there. Some of his belongings had been carelessly stuffed into shelves and drawers or were scattered all over the room. All in all it was a hopeless chaos.

Yet, Curt knew exactly where to look. Shaking a bit, he brought forth a small box that had been hidden close to his nightstand. With a fairly brave expression on his face, he opened it, sucking in his breath as his glance brushed over the few memorabilia he had kept of his time with Brian. A few photographs, a concert ticket, a strand of Brian's bluish hair - stolen when he had been asleep, snuggled up against his chest - a plectrum, a short note written by Brian... all sorts of stuff he never would have admitted he had kept. He carefully pushed aside a few items and found what he was looking for.

The pin slid into place easily, as if it never had been removed from where his heart was beating steadily.

Suddenly the silence of his room seemed to be unbearable. He heard whispers in every corner. It drove him mad. He spun round, grabbed his jacket and left again.

"Don't you walk out on me, Curt!" Brian raced after his lover and grabbed his arm, pulling it hard.

Curt yanked himself free and continued to stride forward. When he walked past a chair he slammed his guitar onto the seat, not caring about the possible damage. Before he could leave the room, Brian had overtaken him and blocked the door, glaring at him.

"You can't always run away when things get rough for you!" Brian complained.

Curt laughed bitterly. "I can't? The hell I can't! I don't have to take this shit from you. Or from anybody else. God knows I've had my share already."

"You can't handle criticism! That's the whole point!"

"That wasn't criticism! That was a whiny little monkey in a fancy suit tryin' to talk about things he has no fuckin' clue about!" Curt ground out and tried to get past Brian, but Brian was persistent, despite his slender frame.

When Curt was fairly calm again, he replied with a faint smile, "Just as I said. You can't handle criticism. Makes you miss the point." And with a grin he added, "That suit certainly wasn't fancy!"

Curt stopped for a split second and then laughed. Both men relaxed visibly.

"What a tart!" Brian chuckled.

"Yeah..."

"Come back in again, Curt..." he lured softly.

"Um... okay."

Brian pulled him close and blew a soft kiss on his lips. Then he wrapped his arm around Curt's slender hips and lead him back into the studio where the others were waiting.

Although it was late at night the streets of Berlin-Kreuzberg still were buzzing with life. Young people poured out of the pubs and stood in groups all over the street, chatting with each other.

Frowning deeply, Curt moved along the sidewalk, searching his pockets for his smoke. He was still lost in his thoughts, lost in the past. Languidly, he scanned the crowd. Suddenly his fingers stopped in the middle of their movement and his whole body froze.

In the light of a lantern, in front of a small snack bar, a slim figure stood out against the night. The small hips and long legs appeared so familiar to Curt that it made him catch his breath in fear of chasing away the phantom when he moved. The figure's hair shimmered ghostly blue in the lantern's light.

In breathless tension he watched the figure slowly turn and he gasped as he saw those eyes that haunted him in his dreams, those full lips and the faint smile.

For a second, Curt didn't know what to do. His first impulse was so run over and grab the phantom by its shoulders, gaining reassurance that it was real, to be sure that he hadn't gone mad now. And then he wanted to sigh in relief as the thought echoed in his head: He's alive!

He took one cautious step forward and the figure shifted in front of his very eyes. Those well-known features melted away and became the face of a teenage girl, obviously into Maxwell Demon, who looked at him, confused.

Laughing at his own silliness, Curt shook his head and turned away, sticking the cigarette between his trembling lips and lighting it. He continued his walk into the night of Berlin, not really knowing where it took him.

The streets became less sparkling, less attractive. Spent and wasted figures lined up at the corners offering their service to whoever might be interested. Curt didn't even notice them. A man approached him, looked over his shoulders and then whispered, "Hey old chap! You look like you could use a hit!", but Curt just shook his head, smiling faintly. No, his blood already was full of poison. A very addictive one. He really didn't need anything else. It was painful enough.

He continued to stride through the night. It took him a while to realize that a car was following him already for quite a while. He increased his pace, but the car followed him closely behind. Starting to get annoyed, Curt sped around the corner, only to find himself confronted by the car that had barred his way. He closed his fists, ready to defend himself, almost hoping that he would get the opportunity to vent a bit of his anger and pain.

Slowly, the car windowpane lowered itself.

The car sped past him and disappeared around the corner. Curt wondered if the driver had wanted something, since he had followed him a bit first. He shrugged and buried his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket and continued to stroll along the street. His head was still full of this confusing encounter with the English singer the day before.

His hands touched something in his pocket and he pulled it out. It was his syringe set. The last time he had used it had been two days ago and he still was full of shame about his relapse, but then again, what was he supposed to do? The methadone wasn't doing him any good. He was still craving and it hurt. Yet he really tried to get off this junk, but still he was carrying the set with him, complete with everything he needed for one, relieving hit. For a moment he considered getting another hit, just to ease the pain of withdrawal. Then he thought about getting rid of it right away. Somehow it was important to him to succeed, to be true to what he had said the day before. About his new mainman...

He dismissed the idea again and put the set back into his pocket. He reached the end of the street and turned round the corner, only to stop surprised. On a low wall sat Brian in a casual pose, wearing a violet velvet suit and green sunshades. His crocodile leather shoes were shining in the sun. He smiled winningly.

Curt approached slowly, looking at Brian with a frown.

Brian's smile grew wider, revealing a row of perfect white teeth. "Curt Wild..." he said.

"Yeah... that's the name." He stopped a few steps in front of Brian. "Second thoughts?" He should have known that it all had been too good to be true.

"No. I just wanted to see you again."

"Uh-huh..." Curt scraped his feet.

Brian hopped off the wall and stood in front of Curt, looking at him provocatively. "You're really off the skag?" he asked all of a sudden.

Curt jerked his head, surprised, but then nodded curtly. "Yeah. It's hard, but yeah."

Brian nodded, content. "Good."

They just stared at each other for a while, then suddenly - nobody really moved first - they were in each other's arms, kissing.

After a while, Curt whispered. "Why me?"

Brian just shrugged. "That's a long story."

"I like long stories."

Brian just lifted one mocking eyebrow. "Really?"

"Um, no."

Brian grinned and pulled Curt with him to the parked car, the driver patiently waiting, trying not to look too curious. "Come, let's have a drink and talk."

Curt gulped down the amber liquid in one go, grimacing as it burned down his throat into his stomach. Then he pushed the glass over to the bartender to refill it. After he had emptied that one too, he finally looked at the man sitting next to him on the barstool.

His companion was looking at him with compassionate eyes. His strong eye make-up made his porcelain complexion even more apparent. The shiny leather of his long black coat rustled as he reached for his beer and nipped at it elegantly. His other hand, full of glittering jewelry, was playing with the feather of his hat. Then he absentmindedly touched the mole on his chin with one finger as he gave Curt a cautious smile.

"Oh Jack..." Curt sighed, reaching for his cigarettes once again. He stuck one between his lips and offered the last remaining one to Jack Fairy who declined with a shake of his head holding up his long silver cigarette holder with the expensive French cigarillo in it for Curt to light.

Sweet smoke filled the air in white spirals as both men took a deep puff, saying nothing to each other. Then Curt said, very quietly, "My life's fucked up, Jack. Can't seem to do anything right..." He laughed, without any humor at all. "Damn... I thought I had fuckin' made the right choice. I really did. I thought that if I didn't stop it now, it would destroy both of us, Jack. Both of us. More likely, me first. Brian and I, we both were... fuckin' explosive together. Like nitro and glycerine. Brian is..." Curt stopped, stifling a sob. "... was, fuck..." Wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, Curt took another drag, his fingers trembling. "Brian was a fuckin' tickin' time bomb, I tell ya. Always at the brink of blowing up."

He looked at Jack who was listening intently, full of understanding and comfort. He smiled at him. "You know what's funny, Jack? I was always the firecracker. Still am. I just go off and vent my anger. But Brian... he has... had it in him, buried deep inside. And sometimes, it just erupted." Curt paused again, watching his reflection in a puddle of beer on the bar. "Fuckin' erupted," he repeated bitterly. It was obvious that he didn't want to say anything else about it.

He opened his palm and inspected it thoughtfully. "Artists have to suffer, ya know. We all suffered, somehow, more or less. Me, in the trailer parks, the shock therapy, the drugs... Brian seemed to be different. He always seemed to be on the sunny side of life. It all didn't seem to touch him. But that's not true. He suffered a lot... deep inside. And sometimes... it just burst out of him." Curt closed his eyes, lost in his pain. "Jack... if I had known... if I had know that he would... go this far."

Jack reached out for him and touched the emerald pin at his jacket, just raising his neatly trimmed eyebrows. Curt followed his fingers and sighed. "Oh. The pin, yeah. Brian gave it to me. Not my style actually. But... what else am I left with?" He stubbed out the cigarette and rolled the pin between his fingers, pensively. "Brian said that you've got to give it to someone who needs it more than you." He met Jack's eyes. "Wonder when I'll meet such a person." Then he laughed bitterly again and shook his head, incredulous. "Gawd, what a pathetic wimp am I?"

With a kind smile, Jack touched his hand, inclining his head to the side. "No, you're not a wimp. Brian cast his spell on both of us."

Curt nodded. "Yeah. I fell for it..."

"Damn it, Brian, what do you think you're doin'?" Curt shouted at his lover, grabbing his bared arm. The razor blade dropped from Brian's numb fingers with a chime. "You promised me to quit this shit! You fuckin' promised!" Curt dragged Brian's arm up, shaking it. The blood that emerged from the cut ran in small trickles off the singer's arm, dropping on the paneled floor. Curt stared at it in dismay and let go again, taking one step back, half appalled and disgusted.

Brian, now deprived of all support, stumbled back and fell into the seat behind him. He looked at Curt with dazed eyes, taking out a tissue to wipe his arm. "Relax, Curt. Nothing happened."

"Nothing? Nothing fuckin' happened?" Curt screamed. He picked up the razor blade and waved it in front of his lover's face. "You've cut your fuckin' arm with this. Again!"

With a lax movement of his hand, Brian said, "I told you that I need it. When I see my own blood, it's like a proof of my being alive. The pain brings my mind back to focus. The pleasant sting of the cut relieves my stress."

"God..." Curt moaned and swung round, striding through the room like a wild tiger. As soon as he was calm enough to speak again, he turned to Brian and said, "Look. I just... I just can't deal with that, okay? To see you hurt... I can't take it, man..." He shook his head, running the fingers through his hair.

Brian got up, gingerly walking over to his lover while pressing a piece of cloth on the shallow wound. He touched his shoulder. "Curt. I am sorry. If it's getting you down so much... I promise you won't see me doing it again."

Curt knew that Brian was lying. That he was just saying it to keep him satisfied. But there was no point in arguing. Brian would never change. Not for him or for anybody. He dropped his head again, his shoulder slouching. Then he nodded numbly.

"Cool?"

He only hesitated for the fraction of a second. "Yeah... cool..."

Curt was strolling home again. He was pleasantly drunk and calm. He had said good-bye to Jack in the pub and made arrangement for a later date, maybe to discuss a future project together. Yes, that was a good way to start. Day 1 after The Event.

He reached into his jacket's breast pocket, finding the almost empty cigarette pack. The last smoke of the day. He lit it and crumpled up the empty pack, dropping it on the street.

At a shop window he stopped, looking at his reflection. He felt like laughing at himself, at the sorry image of a rock star he saw. But he couldn't laugh. It was stuck in his chest like a nasty cold. He still looked the same. Could it really be that nobody could see that something inside him had died? That something just cracked, shriveled and died? Already some weeks ago...

"Curt...? Don't do that to me. Don't you leave me! I didn't mean it." Brian stared at him, the whole length of the studio between them. He was chewing on his thumb again, ripping away the skin in tiny shreds, gnawing it nervously.

From the other side of the room, Curt was panting heavily, frowning at the same time. He was still angry from the preceding fight. No, he wouldn't give in. Not this time. Not again. Never again. "Brian, it's not workin'."

"Don't say that!" Reaching into his blue hair, Brian tugged hard, trying to get the pain he needed. "I need you..."

"We're destroyin' each other. I thought I could deal with it. But I can't..." He turned around, resigning, and started to get together his things that were lying around in the recording room. When he was done he looked at Brian again who appeared to be utterly distressed.

They looked at each other for a moment, seeking for answers in each other's eyes. Brian sucked his lower lip between his teeth, chewing on it violently. Suddenly a small trickle of blood appeared at the corner of his lips, running down his chin.

Curt stared at it in dismay. With a gasp, he awoke from his paralysis and tried to run past Brian, but he blocked his way, grabbing his shoulders.

"Curt! Don't go! Please, we can work things out..."

He was getting furious again. "No! We can't! You're always doin' whatever the fuck you want. You don't care a flyin' fuck about me."

"That's not true!" With that he grabbed Brian's head and pulled him into a wild kiss. Their saliva mingled with Brian's blood, making the kiss taste bitter and sweet at the same time.

It was Curt who broke free. Leaning his forehead against Brian's, he whispered, "Please Brian. Let me in... don't lock me out." Then he shook his head, as if he was awaking from a dream. He yanked himself free. "No! You won't bewitch me again!" He wiped his lips, disgusted. "Take responsibility for once in your life!"

Suddenly Brian yelled, "What is it to you? It's none of your bloody business!"

Curt stared at him. "So that's how you see it, yeah?" He raised his hand, shaking his head vehemently. "Okay! Okay! That's it! I'm outa here." His finger darted up, pointing at Brian's chest. "You, Brian Slade, have got some serious issues to resolve. And I'm sick and tired of it!"

With that he turned on his heels and rushed out of the recording room.

"You'll be sorry, if you're leaving! You will never cut a record again in your whole pathetic life, do you hear me?" Brian screamed furiously.

"Fuck you!" Curt stormed off. He rushed outside, grabbing his leather jacket from a hook near the door and putting it on. Mandy was standing near the back door and looked at him surprised when he marched past her, not taking any notice.

Behind him a window opened and Brian stuck out his blue head. He yelled, "Piss off! Go on then! Back to your wolves! Your junky twerps! Your bloody shock treatment! And fuck you too!!"

The springs squeaked when Curt dropped on the old bed in his flat, kicking off his boots. With his arms behind his head he stared into the darkness, watching the colorful, blinking advertisements outside playing on the ceiling.

Sleep wouldn't come.

There had been a time when he never had any problems with sleeping at all. He would just drop on the bed and the next second he would be snoozing away. But that time was over.

There had also been a time when he wouldn't want to sleep for the hell of it. When he wanted to stay awake, just to make sure that he didn't miss a single beat of his lover's heart, that he would be there when he stirred so that he would have another angle of his beautiful face to admire. Of course Brian never found out, because he had always faked sleep as soon as he realized that the other one was waking up. The next day Brian would tease him for looking so whacked.

But now he didn't long for sleep anyway. In a way he dreaded it even, because in sleep there was no pride, no reason. There was just his heart and desire. In his dreams there would be laughter and warmth, a slender hand reaching out for him, a smile on full lips. There would be a stage in the evening and a bed at night, a warm body to snuggle up to when the night was cold and lonely. There would be reason to live, to go on.

In his dreams Brian would be there...

A lonely figure was sitting on a wall, staring at the city lights below him. Next to him was the latest issue of The Sun, unnoticed rustling in the wind as if the wind itself was leafing through the paper, reading the stunning news:

"Slade shooting a hoax!"

Curt was smoking his cigarette, quietly, almost serenely. He felt calm for the first time in months. After a while he flipped the smoke away and picked up the paper again, looking at the front page. Huge, bold letters. News he had longed for to see, again and again. At night, when the nightmares came, when he had been tossing and turning, seeing Brian's face, smiling and whispering to him. When he had woken up, screaming, and found himself begging, muttering incoherently to someone he didn't even know if they existed.

Looks like this someone existed after all. Then again... it all had been in Brian's hands. As always.

Curt started laughing. Holding the paper in his hands his shoulders began to shake, the laughter that had been stuck inside his throat for such a long time broke free, rumbled through his chest and rose to his lips. It echoed through the silence. Soft chuckles followed, short and ragged.

Then the first tears hit the paper, rolling down the headline, taking the black ink with them, drawing lines over the page. Curt stared at them for a second, shocked. More tears followed.

And he cried.

Sobbing quietly, Curt cried, for the first time in years. He cried for his lost love, for the betrayal and for something else... He raised his face, looking into the sky, his eyes brimmed with tears. A faint smile lay on his lips, as he closed his eyes. It all boiled down to one fact: He was alive.

And that was all that mattered...

~ Finis ~

Further notes:
What Brian does is called SI, Self Injury or Borderline Syndrome. It's the habit of causing yourself physical pain and injury in a situation of great stress, emotional pain or distress. Especially creative, artistic people suffer from it. It's a way to let yourself know that you are alive. The vision of your own blood leaking out of your body has something comforting, something peaceful. The pain brings you back to focus and it clears your mind of unwanted feelings. I know this, because I suffer from it myself.

My interpretation of Brian's character is a wild theory based on the line from the screenplay of Velvet Goldmine by Todd Haynes where it says that Brian has blood on his mouth after the fight in the studio and Curt's furious leaving. This scene was cut out in the final version later on. I just couldn't imagine Curt to be the violent type. This is what I came up with.

April '00