Archive of Our Own

Sustained Flight
by Dr Squidlove
September, 2002

He'd wanted to go home, close himself in his bare apartment and lie on his bed to pick Curt's words apart, like he'd once picked apart lyrics in search of pieces of Maxwell Demon, pieces of himself. But he hadn't visited John in a week, and as he climbed the stairs the present began to reclaim him, and he was glad he'd come.

Arthur shook the rain out of his hair as he pushed his way into the apartment, wiping his shoes and dropping his bag on the couch. The Carl Sagan novel was here; he'd forgotten he'd left it. Now there was a second marker just past his own. John must have picked it up in the last few days, no doubt filling the margins with dry notes questioning the economic value of space exploration.

He followed his nose down the hall to the kitchen, where he knew he'd find the broad back of his lover, bent over the stove. There were floury handprints on his dark slacks and his collar was loose, his sleeves rolled up, but his shirt was crisp, grey-touched hair still neat. John glanced over his shoulder, eyes creasing with his wide smile.

Arthur moved close and slid his arms around John's waist, heard the dull ring of the wooden spoon on the pot and then John was turning in his arms, leaning down for a kiss. "Mmm." He tasted of stew.

"You're wet."

"It's raining." A brush of rough cheek, but Arthur dodged the kiss to lean around him and inhale the rising steam. "Do I smell a successful bid?"

"Rumours are good. We'll have Barings onboard within the week. You're getting me wet."

Arthur slid his hands over John's back, up his chest, squeezed his shoulders. Relishing the solid weight of him, a real lover, no phantom from the past. Dry and warm under his own cool fingers. "How long do we have?"

"The bread will be twenty minutes. Maybe a half-hour."

Plenty of time. Arthur reached around to drop the lid on the pot and quirked a smile as he pulled away, walking backwards, slowly undoing his belt and unzipping his jeans. John's smile widened and he followed eagerly, wiping his hands on a cloth and dropping it on the floor, catching Arthur as they crossed into the bedroom and taking his mouth, filling Arthur with the taste of potato and gravy, squeezing his ass roughly. Oh, yes, this was what Arthur wanted. He groaned around the invading tongue, hands wringing in John's clothes, leaning back a little so his lover stood over him, holding his weight.

"Is that how you want it?"

"Yes." And with that Arthur was shoved on the bed and John was pulling off his own shirt, the muscles of his chest flexing, trousers dropping straight to the ground, and he was reaching to pull off Arthur's jacket.

"Interesting pin."

"I bumped into an old friend-"

"Tell me later." Arthur let John yank his shirt off and cover his mouth. Let John's huge hands squeeze his arms, his body, possess him. John always kissing, demanding submission until he broke off to pull away Arthur's jeans. He paused, then, eyes tracking across Arthur's face, down his body to his wide-spread legs. John ran a thick finger up the length of his long, dark cock. "You make me hard, Arthur."

The words chased over Arthur's skin, words that meant 'I love you,' and 'I missed you,' and 'You make me hard,' even after all these years. Arthur stretched blindly back to the side table for the lubricant, unable to tear his eyes from his lover kneeling over him, the broad, pale body, sparse hairs that dusted his nipples and trailed down to his long, swinging balls.

Metal between his fingers, Arthur snatched up the tube and gently took John in hand, let his fingers linger on the hot, hard flesh and slowly made it slick, loving this ritual, loving what it promised, loving this moment of control, of making John gasp and tense. And he slid one hand down to cup the hanging balls, wire hairs rough on his palm, leaned up to bury his nose and breathed deep, John's musk, dizzying.

Strong hands pushed him onto his back, pushed his thighs wide, and John stared longer, tracing a single finger slowly down the line of his chest, tickling past his cock, to push gently at his ass.

His eyes soft, blue ringed around black as he met Arthur's gaze, tenderly brushing his fringe out of the way. "So fine, Arthur. Fine face, fine body, fine hole. I wish you could see my fingers pushing inside you." Another finger, another moan, the fingers twisting inside him a little rougher now, and there was a stinging slap across his thigh. Arthur cried out, his cock throbbing, ass clenching around the thick fingers. "That's what you want?" Another slap, over the first. "More of that later." The fingers gone, another sweet, burning slap, and then two hands were stretching his cheeks wide apart and weight poked at him. "You want it hard?"

"Yeah." That would pretty much rule this out later, damn his sensitive ass, but he wanted it hard now. Wanted to feel John's desire loose inside him and around him. Pressure, until John popped inside, and then his hands tightened on Arthur's hips and he simply shoved deep. Arthur gasped, his own hands clenching on the hard muscles of John's arms. A moment to recover, and then he nodded, gasped again as John pulled and thrust again.

"So tell me about the pin."

They'd pulled on their trousers and gone back to sit (Arthur a little gingerly) in the kitchen to tuck into the stew. It was amazing, as always, John an Irishman to his core. "Lou put me on a fluff piece, looking back at Brian Slade's fake assassination. It's been ten years."

John paused, fork halfway to his mouth, that wary look in his eyes. "The gay singer, Brian Slade? Why you?"

Arthur waved off John's frown. "I'm English, the right age. That was enough."

John relaxed slightly. "You were into all that crap, weren't you?"

Arthur poked at his meal, fishing out bits of potato. "Yeah. I guess."

A soft snort. "I can't imagine you mixed up in it."

Arthur lifted his eyes at that, but kept his voice casual. "Why not?"

John smiled, disbelieving. "Lipstick and platforms? Hardly the Arthur I know."

And it wasn't. It was another person altogether, one Arthur hadn't thought of in a long while. One he'd known he didn't need to share with his conservative lover. "You didn't like it."

John shook his head, waving his fork. "They all hated us well enough before Slade and the rest of that pack went parading around like bloody freaks."

"There was more to it than that."

"It doesn't matter what there was. It's how it's seen."

Arthur lifted his chin. "At least it was seen."

An eyebrow raised at Arthur's defensiveness. "Why the hell does it have to be seen? And to be seen like that, for heaven's sake? I'm not some half-woman and I'm not a whore. They have enough trouble with us sticking our pricks up each other's arses without having that shite shoved in their faces."

Words failed for a moment, but Arthur gathered himself together. "Don't you wish you could stop making up excuses about not being married? That we could go out for drinks after work?"

"And you think Slade's antics helped that cause? Him and that trailer trash he cavorted with? What was his name..."

"Yes, I do." Arthur dropped his fork in his bowl. This was why he'd never shared that life with John; he didn't know why he was tempted to argue about it now. He certainly didn't want to hear what John thought of Curt Wild, so he circled to sit on the table by John's bowl, commanding his attention. "It helped me."

"Generations worked it out without having debauchery plastered through the tabloids. We didn't tell and nobody asked."

"Maybe some of us wanted more than that."

John looked at him strangely, shaking his head. "Do you still?"

Arthur dropped his head, letting his hair fall forward. Did he? "I don't know. I haven't thought about it in a long time."

John leaned back, stretching out his legs, curious now. "So if not for glam, you'd be unhappily married to some dissatisfied woman..."

A joke, but not so impossible to imagine. "I bumped into an old friend writing the story. He gave me the pin. Now stop talking and come up to the roof."

John quirked an eyebrow as he let himself be dragged from the chair, grabbed his keys on the way out to the stairwell. "An old fuck?" Amused.

Arthur smiled, relieved at the shift in mood. "I tell you, I was a virgin when we met." He cast back his most innocent face, which John suitably ignored.

"Yeah, you and bloody Brian Slade, and you learned that trick with your tongue in the seminary."

Arthur poked his tongue out and wiggled it. "The boy scouts." He pushed through the door onto the roof, smiling up to see that the rain had stopped and a few stars were peeking through. The air smelled wet and cool, more rain to come but not just yet.

"You didn't tell me what we're doing up here."

Arthur reached up to take a kiss, holding his lover still and demanding entrance, kissing him deeply until John pushed him to arm's length, lips red, eyes dark in the gloom. "Arthur?"

"Take me. I want you to fuck me, up here, under the stars."

"Arth-"

Fingers pressed against lips. "No one comes up here. Please."

John's face softened, but he didn't move.

Arthur sighed, impatient. "I want to remember." He looked out across the skyline. "I don't want to grow old."

A last hesitation, as John accepted the tube pressed into his hand. "You're not too sore?"

"Take it slow." Whispered against lips; Arthur pulled closer to the edge, opened his jeans and then John's slacks, pushing them down to their thighs. They were exposed just far enough, cool air on burning skin, and John's cock was hardening against Arthur's crack. He could protest all he wanted, but his body was sure.

For a moment they were still, John's hands rubbing Arthur's arms, then a shift; John was on his knees behind him, thumbs pressing his cheeks apart. "You're red."

"Of course I am, after a fuck like that."

Sweet hell, John's tongue was soothing him, and he was outrageously sensitive, couldn't breathe as wet heat touched and gently pushed, John's great hands twisting and turning his hips to better taste him. Arthur moaned, closed his eyes that he might better see John's tongue slipping inside, feel him sucking himself from Arthur's body.

By the time the caresses became hunger, there was no pain, just the thrusting tongue and grazing teeth and Arthur was desperate to bring John up to share the view, to feel him pressed against his back, chin on his shoulder, desperate to feel John's hands wrapped around him, making him come. "Please."

Two fingers, thick with lube, as John stood, and Arthur was pushed forward to lean over the edge, the ground dizzyingly far below, and then suddenly John was pushing slowly inside him. Inch by inch, not so bad as he expected, but it hurt, and he had to close his eyes, grit his teeth tight against the sharp invasion, until John's hands rubbed up and down his arms, soothing him, waiting until he was ready to breathe.

There were people down on the sidewalk, hurrying along between street lamps as Arthur watched and was filled, John's cock thick inside him. Hands gathered his body and pulled him up in a tight embrace, and John was nuzzling through his hair, breathing him in.

"I don't want to move."

Lips touched his ear, John's voice was strained. "Then don't."

And they stood there, John deep inside Arthur as they stared across the skyline. In the distance a line of lights of planes coming in to land, closer the lights of other buildings winked on and off as people moved about their apartments, below the yellow sweep of headlights.

Hair tickled Arthur's crack, his lover's body stretched around him, arms wrapped about his chest. Arthur closed his eyes and lifted his chin; he could almost feel the luminous drug-stretched clarity, could almost remember how it felt to be seventeen and in the arms of a rock star. Finally John shifted, Arthur turned his head and his ear was caught between lips. Gentle pulls, teeth grazing the sensitive skin until Arthur's breath shook, a tongue tracing the curve, making him shiver as it tucked in the crease behind and then swept inside and Arthur jerked.

Hands caught his hips. "Don't move."

Arthur made a noise, disbelief. He could keep control through anything, but not his ears. John's tongue swept in again, slick and hot, chasing patterns, steamy breath penetrating where it passed. Hands locked him still but he clenched and clenched again, and he couldn't help the keening noises in his throat. Hot wet breaths blowing deep in his ear, a broad hand sliding up his spine under his shirt, and then John pulled out and pushed back in, taking him before all the grey-closeted world, and that pushed him to the crest, waiting, waiting with every thrust for the push that would send him crashing over, a fist on his cock had him shooting hard, crying out loud. He slid bonelessly forward, until John placed his hands on the wall for a brace and continued, one more stroke, two, until he grunted and his body stilled.

They waited, catching their breaths, bodies close; John's hands slid around to hold Arthur gently as he mouthed Arthur's neck, stubble grazing the sensitive skin. Arthur rested his hands on John's arms, arching back into the sweet touch.

"Is that what you wanted?" whispered in his ear.

Arthur nodded shortly. "Thank you."

"Anything for you." Arms tightened. "You know that."

"I know."

Eventually, John pulled Arthur's jeans to rights and then fastened his own. "Do you have time for a shower before you go home?"

Arthur smiled. "Yeah."

Reynolds' trip copy dropped on Lou's desk, grazing the deadline but done, at least, and this way Lou would have less time to cut the meat out of it. Arthur trod down the stairs, out of the Herald building into the biting wind. Stopped.

Curt Wild pushed off the wall. Shaking his head to flick his hair over his shoulder, blowing out a stream of smoke, the thumb of his cigarette hand tapping against his thigh and the other stuffed in his jacket pocket. "You said you were from the Herald." It came out like an accusation, and Curt paused, glancing around, took another puff before locking his gaze on Arthur.

Arthur looked back at the Herald doors; he was a little late but there would be others behind him any minute. "Yeah, the story's been-"

"Dropped. Yeah. Even after you screwed him."

"What?"

"That was a fucking asshole thing to do."

"He blocked the story."

"So fucking what?" Curt pressed forward, one finger pressing Arthur's chest. "He's got a right to his life. He doesn't owe you a fucking thing."

Arthur stepped back, an apology crawling up his throat under Curt's tight anger, but he bit it back and glared defiantly. He wasn't an awed teenager anymore. He was a reporter, and a bloody good one. Long seconds staring into flashing eyes, and then Curt relented, taking a couple of steps back. "I wanted to tell you that."

"Fine. You told me."

"Look..." A lost moment, as he changed gears, covering the pause with a long drag. "You want to get a drink?"

A drink? "Uh. Yeah."

A quick nod, as Curt turned to glance up the street. "Is there a bar around here?"

Just Darcy's, where the all the Herald journalists could turn their curious eyes on Arthur and his companion. "No," he lied.

Curt's eyes narrowed, but he threw down his cigarette and scuffed it out. "I know a place."

They walked to the subway in silence, four stops and Arthur followed Curt up into an area he didn't know. Abandoned-looking and seedy - a little like Curt. There was a bar on the corner, more a pub, and Arthur followed Curt in.

"What are you having?"

"Whatever you're having."

Curt turned away, a motion to the barman and two bottles appeared. One passed back, and Arthur was led to a rear table.

German beer, not bad, but Arthur was getting antsy for whatever story Curt had. "You said you wanted to talk?"

Curt looked up from his half-lit cigarette, eyebrows drawn together in faint surprise. "I said I wanted a drink."

"Oh." Arthur looked around the pub, hoping he was hiding his confusion, as his companion exhaled and leaned back in his chair, perfectly relaxed.

Suddenly Curt leaned forward, rested his fingers on Arthur's lapel. "You're wearing it."

The pin. Arthur shrugged. "Yeah."

The fingers stayed, just a moment, then grabbed his jacket and pulled him forward and he was being kissed, beer and ash pushing in Arthur's mouth, tongue working his and if he remembered Curt Wild's kisses taking his breath away then his memories did no justice to this. Curt could have shoved his hands down Arthur's pants with slower results.

Arthur jerked back and stared around the bar, but the few other patrons hadn't noticed and Curt was pulling him forward, fist still gripping his collar. "This place is cool. Vic's cool."

He was leaning in to kiss Arthur again, tongue tripping over his parted lips in the bar, the public bar, and Arthur barely remembered to resist. "I- I have someone."

One eyebrow rose, disbelieving, as his mouth twisted. "You got a girlfriend, Arthur Stuart? A haircut and a future and a serious life, like all the rest of them?"

"No. Not a girlfriend." He had the rest perhaps, but he'd chosen...

Curt's hard-edged bitterness faded into disappointment, poorly hidden.

Curt Wild was disappointed? Curt Wild wanted him? Now? It was...

Arthur's breath caught. He could take just this night. Abandon this creeping common sense that was making him old. Just... Curt could kiss him again, here, in the bar. Hell, Curt could do anything Curt wanted. Anywhere he wanted.

He'd never cheated on John. He'd been tempted, offered, but never like this. He'd never found himself trying to guess how far he could go before it was a betrayal.

Curt drained his bottle. "Maybe I'll see you around."

Arthur dropped his hand on Curt's, halting him before he stood. "I don't..." I can't. I wish. I want. He wanted a damned kiss that wasn't locked away like a fucking perversion. So he took it, reaching with both hands to pull Curt closer and taking his mouth like this was the only kiss.

Curt was still, startled or unsure but then he was kissing back, sex in a kiss. No one kissed liked this, like you had your cock in his mouth instead of your tongue. And he did it here, in the bar, shamelessly.

Suddenly Curt was pulling away, lips bruised and wet, eyes intensely green, reaching into Arthur's jacket for his notebook and pen. He scrawled an address and tapped Arthur's pin before he dropped them on the table. "Whoever he is, he's not what you want. It's not who you are."

And then Arthur was alone.

He downed another three beers before deciding it was best to go home. He wanted to track Curt down and fuck him until they hurt. He wanted to go straight to John's and whisper apologies into his sleeping ear for even imagining it. He was buzzed and slightly stupid, in no condition to be dealing with any of this, but his stop came and went and he didn't move. Curt's kiss was still burning on his lips.

John lived further down the line.

The apartment was dark, but Arthur didn't need light to find his way to the bedroom. Here dim light crept through the window, enough to see John curled on the bed, naked except for the sheet tangled around his long legs.

Smiling softly, Arthur stripped off and slid in beside him, wriggling close to the hot, familiar body. He brushed his fingers lightly down the pale skin of his arm to clasp the thick-fingered hand, and John's eyes fluttered, opened blurrily. "Arthur?"

Arthur pressed closer, wrapping one leg over John's to pull him tight. "I want to spend the night."

"We've talked about that-" A hand over his mouth silenced him.

"I'm staying."

For a long time John only stared at him, chiding, and then he lifted Arthur's chin and kissed him. Pressed Arthur's mouth open and his tongue swept through, and he went still.

Arthur kissed back, and suddenly John responded, deep and hard, rolling them over and pinning Arthur with legs and an iron grip on his wrists.

Arthur submitted, boneless, but John pulled back and there was no burn in his eyes. They were cold. "Who?"

"What?"

The grip on his wrists tightened, beginning to hurt. "Who were you with tonight?"

"I was following a lead."

"Must have been some investigative journalism, was it?" He pushed off and suddenly he was walking away.

Arthur bounced to his feet to follow him, found him in the kitchen, leaning his weight on his hands on the counter, shoulders hard with tension. "Don't tell me lies, Arthur. Don't ever tell me lies."

"John-"

He whipped around. "Everything we have aside, how dare you fuck with my health? I'm not going to die of some bloody queer disease. Did you not think I'd know?"

"I was following a lead. He kissed me. I told him I had someone. That's all." Arthur waited, resisting the urge to touch, to try to catch the emotions that were sliding over John's features.

"Was it the one who gave you the pin?"

"Yes."

John hissed as he swept past Arthur, back to the bedroom. Yanked on his trousers. "Get out."

"John-"

"Jesus, Arthur. What do you want me to say? What do you want from me?"

"I want you to detest this life! He kissed me in a bar. Do you realise, that no one has ever seen you kiss me? We could walk away tomorrow and no one will ever know the difference. Not my friends, no one from work, not even my mother. Aren't you tired of being ashamed?"

"Then perhaps you could have him fuck you in that bar. The pair of you can put on a right show for the patrons, prove to them all that you're gay and cheap." A moment, Arthur too stunned to respond while John gathered back his anger. Finally John looked away, pained. "You want to come out? Are you going to tell Lou you like to suck men's pricks? Are you going to tell your mother exactly why it is your father threw you out?" He picked up Arthur's jeans and gave them over but Arthur only clutched them in front of him, deflated.

John sat on the bed, caught Arthur's arm to pull him until he stood between John's legs, and settled his hands on Arthur's hips, gently. Thumbs caressing the hollows.

"I was full of good Catholic shame when I was young. I used up all my energy hating myself, until somewhere along the way I stopped. I don't need to repeat my follies. I keep my personal life personal because I love my work and I love my peace. I could never be ashamed of you."

Arthur smiled, tentatively, but John didn't return it, only leaned forward to lay his head on Arthur's belly.

"Can you say the same, Arthur?"

Outrage surged; he almost pushed him away but John's voice was so soft, so sad he found himself stroking his hair instead. "How can you ask that?"

"I won't give over my life to reassure you, Arthur, and I won't stand to play second while you look for that in someone else."

Stubble scratched Arthur's stomach, hair fell like silk in his fingers, but anger was a solid weight in his chest. It hurt. "You won't even consider it."

"You have to choose your freedoms." A touch on his skin, so light Arthur wasn't sure it had been a kiss at all. "Go home. I don't want you lying beside me, wondering what I'm worth."

The walls of the building seemed to be pulsing, the thick bass beat the only thing that escaped onto the cold, wet street. Tyres hissed down the road, heading somewhere far from this scummy corner, and Arthur wrapped his arms a little tighter around himself. This was the address Curt had given him. Not a home or an office, or a bar, just a club in an area Arthur had always avoided.

"You after someone special, mister?" A boy, glazed and blond and hungry-looking; Arthur should have put this off and taken him home to his mother, but he only shook his head. The boy slid off with a glare, to try some of the other wandering dregs.

Enough. Arthur propelled himself across the street and entered the pulsing club.

Smoke, heat, noise, bodies, the place seemed to be bulging with everything but air. Men of every kind, leather and denim and sweat and sex. Not like straight clubs: the smell of sex here was heavy and thick, it was more than pheromones, it was beer and come. The music thumped in Arthur's skull, too loud for conversation, but there was none of that here.

How in hell would he find Curt in this place? If he was even here, and there was no reason to believe Curt was here every night. He began to push his way through, trying not to touch anything compromising, trying not to notice the predatory looks and occasional gropes until he made the bar, squeezed between a spindly pair deeply entwined and a heavyset bear of a man in a leather cap who dismissed him with a glance.

The barman shook his head at Arthur's mouthed 'Curt Wild?' and served him a bottle of beer, leaving Arthur to press through the living beast of crowd once more, in search of a man who mightn't even be there.

Synthesisers poured in, Tainted Love, and the bodies shifted impossibly closer, bouncing and grinding as one, hundreds of men mouthing soulless lyrics, sweat-dark hair and sweat-dark clothes revealed under flashing lights.

Is this what he was searching for? No secrets here, no closets, no token women, but Arthur wasn't aroused at all. Sex leaked from this place but it didn't feel like the world of his youth, hadn't that wild freedom of the kiss in the pub. This place weighed on him; he wanted to find Curt and drag him out into the cool, wet night.

Arthur pushed up along the wall, where the patrons didn't pretend to dance, tripped over a foot and looked up to see bleached hair, hands he knew on sight clutching some man's hips as Curt Wild sucked the stranger's cock from barely-parted leather pants.

Arthur stared. Curt's lips were tight around the base of the man's cock, his tongue slipping out as he drew back over the thick, wet sex, hair slowly falling forward. Arthur was instantly, totally hard.

"What are you staring at?"

Arthur's mouth opened, wordless, panicked, and Curt's hair swung as he looked back over his shoulder. Dark eyes took in Arthur without emotion. "He's all right." And then he turned and went back to work, doing something that made the stranger gasp and forget his audience. The man's beefy hands caught Curt's hair and pulled his head forward, and Arthur could see Curt's throat bob as he swallowed.

The man had yet to fasten his pants when Curt stood, licking his lips clean, to face Arthur. His eyes were lined black, mouth red and wet. "I didn't expect you this soon."

Arthur shrugged, feeling ridiculous, like a virgin.

The man grabbed Curt's shoulder, gesturing in offer but Curt waved him off, stepped up to Arthur and kissed him.

He tasted of the stranger's come, filled Arthur's mouth with it. Hell. Arthur drew him close, wrapped his arms around Curt's body so their cocks rubbed together, encased in leather and denim.

Hands caught his head, turned him so Curt could growl in his ear, "I want to fuck you."

Just a nod, and his jaw was bitten and then he was being led by his hand through the crowd, so much easier with Curt to part the way, until they reached the toilets.

A man pissing unsteadily in the sink, three making out in the corner, one cubicle door wide open as its occupants snorted coke from the shelf behind the bowl. Curt thumped each door until one swung open, and then he dragged Arthur in and pressed him against the partition as he kicked the door shut, sliding his t-shirt up to his armpits and taking his mouth, sucking in his tongue like he was repossessing it, and Arthur just let him, gasping as Curt squeezed his ass for just a moment, and then his jeans were being pulled open and his cock squeezed and Arthur moaned.

"That's it, baby."

Curt was kicking off his shoes and stripping his pants off faster than Arthur believed was possible, faster than Arthur got his own jeans off. Barely bare and Curt turned him, face to the cool partition, inches from 'for a small cock call Sam,' the sound of spitting and then fingers pressing in him. Arthur clung to the wall and spread his legs more so Curt could go faster and deeper, never just spit at home, safe home with John, Arthur banished the thought of that unreal other life and pushed his hips back, pressing onto Curt Wild's fingers, the silence that had gripped him since he entered this club holding his throat, until he was pushed to his knees and Curt dropped behind him, moments waiting as Curt fumbled through their fallen clothes and then there was a foil crackle. Arthur hadn't thought of that, eighties caution in his childhood fantasy and it annoyed him, strangely, but Curt's knees pushed Arthur's wider and then one hand pressed at the cheek of his ass, the other undoubtedly guiding the plump dark head of Curt's cock into Arthur's hole.

Fuck, it hurt, but it was good and Curt was making tiny noises of pleasure as he stretched Arthur open. He'd forgotten that; the breathy sounds Curt made. He'd thought the memory was perfectly preserved, but now everything was coming back, the sounds, the smells, the hand on his ass sliding up to his shoulder, pushing him to bend a little further, a final push and Curt's body was pressed to Arthur's, still.

Curt Wild, holding him close, and for just a beat, no time had passed at all. He could close his eyes and feel the lingering comedown of mushrooms, the dusky veils of dawn lifting from his face to show a world that had changed completely. This was what he'd been searching for. Arthur twisted his head to find Curt's mouth, growled his discontent as Curt only licked at his lips, hot wet licks over his mouth and brushing his teeth, glowing eyes bent at the edge in amusement until Arthur squeezed down on the delicious shaft inside him and then the moan was Curt's. A moment, Curt shifting behind him, and then short, wild strokes, stretching and burning, a hand on his shaft squeezing a beat and Arthur choked off a cry as pleasure shot through his cock, sheer fucking heat pumping through him, out onto the bathroom floor.

"Fuck yes, oh fuck, so fucking good," breathed in his ear as Curt held still, hands sliding over his chest, waiting out his tremors, still hard and deep inside him. "Can I keep going?"

"Yes."

Barely said and Curt was taking him hard, Arthur's head bounced on the partition until he braced himself against hips that slammed him over and over until suddenly Curt clutched him tight, shuddering, teeth pressed sharp into shoulder.

Soft lips soothed the mark and then trailed up Arthur's neck as they caught their breath and calmed their hearts; Arthur let his forehead drop against the partition. Hands slid up his sides, almost tickling, then a voice in his ear. "Come back to my place?"

Arthur was nodding almost before the question was voiced, but a few more moments passed on the hard tiles before they climbed to their feet and pulled their clothes to rights.

The cool night washed around them as they left the club behind. Arthur wrapped his hands around his goosepimpling arms, wishing he had his jacket.

Curt seemed oblivious as he threw his cigarette butt into the wet gutter, was reaching for his pocket before the ember went dark. He quietly cursed when his hand came out empty, looked around and tipped his head towards the next corner. "This way." He pushed the blond hair back off his face, pointlessly, because it fell forward as soon as he looked back down at the pavement.

They walked in silence, apart but close enough to brush elbows. Paused at the kerb, Arthur's shiver lit by a turning car, and a hand fell on his back, briefly rubbing warmth into his spine before they stepped onto the road. "It's not far."

And then Curt would heat him up again. What in hell was he doing? Arthur looked at his companion, who felt the gaze and offered a predatory smile. This was more than a fantasy. It was a real man, leading him back to his apartment, and it wasn't his lover.

"This way." Keys produced from somewhere, clinking as Curt bounced up to the door. After a moment, Arthur followed him into the building and up the stairs.

He shut the door behind them, glanced around the cluttered flat. Half-unpacked boxes that looked like they'd sat there for years, a wall covered in sagging shelves of records, trails between the junk to the couch and kitchen. A couple of guitars stored safely in an uncluttered corner, a recent photo tacked by the phone of Curt with his arms around an older woman, his lopsided smile on her face.

Arthur leaned back against the front door and watched as Curt bent to push his pants off his feet, shoes already flung somewhere in the junk. His t-shirt followed, leaving him naked, bleached hair falling forward to modestly hide his face as he posed, hips canted like the rentboy outside the club. Arthur hadn't had time to examine him in their hasty encounter; now he could see that his chest was still bare, that thick dark hair trailed from his navel down to his cock but barely touched his balls, that he had a guitar tattooed on his hip.

That soft, lop-sided smile danced on Curt's lips at the attention, and then he turned and, hips swaying, led his way through the junk to the bedroom.

Arthur slowly opened his eyes, to find Curt watching him from the doorjamb, glass and a cigarette in one hand, the other lightly tracing his half-hard cock.

He stretched against the bedclothes, squinting as harsh sunlight peeked around the blind, noticing Curt get a little harder. "You're older than me. Shouldn't I be wearing you out?"

A flash grin, and Curt flicked a shoulder to push himself off the wall, wandered over to drop on the bed and take a deep kiss, rubbing Arthur's stubble until he purred.

Arthur tried to pull him closer but Curt drew back, leaned over to fish through the drawer until he found a small plastic bag of white powder. "You interested?"

Wow. It had been an age. Something else he'd given up for other things. A career. A serious life. John. John, the only man he'd touched since Ford was in office.

Curt lowered the bag back in the drawer, awkwardly. "If it's not your-"

"No. Yes." Suddenly filled with the wild desire to live. "Yes, I want to."

Curt brightened and bounced to his feet, tying his hair back as he led the way bare-assed out into the main room. Arthur hung back to watch him, kneeling gloriously naked before the one clear spot on the coffee table, one leg drawn up with his penis resting softly between his thighs as he absorbed himself in cutting the lines.

Finally he paused and picked up the cigarette he'd left burning on the edge of the table, drawing deep and blowing the smoke high. "You first?"

Arthur took the offered note and knelt beside him, shivering as Curt's hand slid down his spine to rest lightly against his lower back. Hurtled back in time... Two lines, and then he handed back the note, chuckling shyly as he sniffed and rubbed his tingling nose. Oh, it was good, iron taste touching his memory like long-forgotten lyrics.

Curt's two lines were barely gone before he was pushing Arthur onto his back on the carpet between the piles of junk. "Fuck."

"What?"

"Condoms in the other room."

"We could move."

"We'll make do." He slid down to take Arthur's cock in his mouth.

Curt flopped on his back with a hum of pleasure, reached without looking for the Marlboros on the edge of the table. "Arthur Stuart."

Arthur turned his head, waiting while Curt lit up. Too comfortable to do more, well-fucked, covered in come.

"I didn't remember your name. Probably didn't know it at the time." He met Arthur's gaze, eyes disconcertingly green.

"But you remember me."

"Another fan, trying to be Brian Slade." A soft laugh, and a long drag. "Like anyone could be Brian Slade when he was so fucking busy trying to be everybody else."

Brian Slade. "Why do you still care about him?" Curt's anger at the outing had been nagging at Arthur, the folded guest pass. "The way he treated you..."

Curt smiled, shook his head. "We split. Happens every day."

Arthur pushed up on one elbow. "But everything he stole from you?"

"That's Brian. A real artist. Never put himself in anything." A trace of bitterness, there and gone, as his fingers traced over the guitar. "I meant it, you know. He doesn't owe us a thing." He reached up to touch Arthur's face, as though he might brush the protectiveness away. "You think I spend my days bleeding for him?" Voice all smoke and grit. "Think I lived in a bubble until you found me?"

Well. "I guess."

"Don't. Don't treat me like your personal fantasy. I'm not good at being what other people want me to be."

There was anger and real fear in his eyes, and Arthur's stomach twisted in guilt even as his skin tingled that Curt Wild would care what he thought. "Do you miss it?"

"What?"

"Glam."

Curt chuckled, deep from his belly, cigarette shaking between his lips. "The music? The stage? Like smack." He rubbed the bend of his arm, and Arthur wondered if he realised he was doing it, letting his fingers trail a line up his arm like a lover's caress.

"Do you think about going back? Performing again?"

"It's like smack. Didn't make me happy." A puff of smoke. "I don't miss the attention. The stares. The press."

Arthur plucked the cigarette from Curt's hand and took a long drag, wincing as the hot smoke hit his throat. As bad as he remembered. Another puff, before he gave it back. "The press aren't so bad."

"They're fucking assholes. You should know, 'what is your connection to bisexual pop singer Brian Slade?'" Lightly said, but Curt wasn't smiling.

"You do still care about him."

With a snarl, Curt sat up. "I don't grill you about past lovers, so why don't you leave mine the fuck alone? You think you know about us because you saw a staged kiss in a newspaper?"

"I know what he did-"

"I'm nobody's victim, especially not Brian's."

"How long did it take them to tell you the shooting was a hoax?"

And for that Arthur won the hollow victory of seeing pain tear through Curt's face before Curt turned away, rubbing his arm again. Cold, awkward silence. Suddenly Arthur wondered what he was doing here. Trying to go back? Forward? What was Curt getting out of this?

Curt stood, suddenly. "How long did it take you to crawl back into your closet?" There was a sharp cruelty in his voice that Arthur had never imagined, and his insides curled. It hadn't taken long at all, and not much longer to find someone who mattered more than old dreams. "Build your nice grey life so you could tear down someone else's. You're not angry because of what he did to me. You're angry because of what he didn't do for you."

And maybe he was. He'd barely found his place in London when Maxwell Demon killed his ideal, and Jack Fairy toasted its death. "You're right." He offered a tentative smile. "We're fucking assholes."

Curt snorted, softly, shaking his head as he looked away, and suddenly Arthur wanted to confess more, wanted to fix the imbalance.

"None of it suited me, anyway. I was trying to be him. Or you."

"You were trying to be you." Serious eyes. "That's what mattered. For just a while, everyone was trying to be themselves."

Tingles over Arthur's skin. "I looked a twit."

Curt dropped to his knees, suddenly determined. "You up for another couple of lines?"

"Yeah."

"Then we're going back to the bedroom. I'm gonna make you up."

"What?"

"I'm going to redden your lips, darken your eyes, add a little glitter. I'm going to prove it's still you, and then," a hand settled on Arthur's belly, making it flip, "I'm gonna make you remember."

Endless fucking. They'd fucked, and they'd showered, and fucked, paused to accept a home-delivered pizza and fucked some more. Curt fucked like he sang, peeled himself open and bled his passion, trusting Arthur completely without knowing him at all. It was exhausting.

Arthur rubbed his eyes, gritty and itching from the thick eyeliner Curt had painted on. It had looked good, strange, he'd felt like the rock star he'd longed to be but it hadn't looked right. Not quite. He longed to stand around a stewing pot and argue about politics or sports or spices, but after the argument over Slade, every conversation dug into his mind to ask who he was, who he could be, what he'd wanted all those years ago. Curt had started to tell him the ugly details of his addictions, the long years on methadone, the things he'd never been able to pour out through song. And then they'd have incredible sex, but then Curt slept, and Arthur was lonely.

He always felt closest to John in these moments of drifting, bodies pressed hot together, sticky with sweat, but Curt simply slid away, not needing the company while he had the peace of sleep.

And for all this gloriously charged screwing, the world knew Arthur no better than before. Strangers had seen him kissed and groped, but he would still be the quiet, reliable one at work, and he still wouldn't bring Curt to meet his mother. The only friend who counted was John.

It was late; John would be sleeping by now. Spread across the bed, snoring if he was on his back. Or awake and wondering why Arthur hadn't called.

Curt twitched in his sleep and Arthur reached out a hand to calm him, slid his palm down the curved spine. A moment, two, and he calmed.

Arthur slid closer to drop kisses that barely grazed the bony shoulders. All this time, Arthur had wondered how Brian let go of something so precious, so vulnerable. Curt Wild, whose world revolved around Brian, shamelessly for all the world to see. Who didn't want that kind of love?

Arthur let one finger slide between Curt's cheeks, trace back and forth over his entrance, still slick and a little loose from earlier. Curt murmured in his sleep, rocked his hips as his dreams followed.

Arthur pushed up on an elbow so he could lean over and watch his face, more worn than the hazy rooftop memory but doing well for all his hard living, the frown lines smoothing away at Arthur's caress, curved lips parting wider with a heavy breath as Arthur slipped two fingers inside. Just barely and Arthur continued the rhythm until Curt's neck was too tempting and he had to nuzzle the blond hair aside, take that soft skin in his teeth, bringing him awake with a moan. Arthur pulled him onto his back and climbed on top, pushing his knees to his chest, wanting to stop and taste the bare skin of his balls, the red taut skin of his cock, but most of all wanting to be inside.

Moments fumbling on a condom and then one hand to keep Curt's legs high, as he guided himself to that sweet dark hole. Curt stretched up to grip the headboard, eyes still closed, groaning as Arthur breached him, his body clamping down, forcing whimpers from Arthur as he resisted the urge to push inside.

"Do it." Curt's eyes slitted open, challenging him. "Hard, like you want to."

Arthur looked down, the head of his cock pinched inside Curt's body. Pressed his lips tight and shook his head. "I want it like this." And he took Curt's bare balls in his hand, fondled them and lifted them gently away to watch himself slide slowly in, inch by inch until Curt was filled with him, and then he leaned forward to kiss him as softly as he could. Tongue tracing inside lips, lips barely brushing, and when Curt tried to move he nudged his hands back up to hold the headboard. "Shhh."

He wanted... something else. He wanted to slide his hands down Curt's arms, feel the muscles shift until he rubbed his thumbs in the hair of his pits and he groaned. He wanted to know, by instinct, how to touch Curt, what to say, what to do. To return the disarming tenderness of an idol sliding a fan's shirt over his head, of black-nailed hands touching him softly, of sweet kisses that would capture him completely.

He held still, let his hands slide over the whipcord body, the lean muscles, the stubble-rough jaw as he stared into Curt's eyes. There was a new sweetness growing there, almost confusion, a mystery for Arthur to decipher with touches, to read in the furrowing brow as he pulled out and rolled his hips back in. Breath falling from Curt's lips. Arthur stopped again, turned his fingers to the guitar etched in black on his hip, spanned his fingers across it, scratched his nail over the strings as though he might hear it play and Curt's body trembled.

Arthur looked up to see Curt watching him, leaned forward but only tasted Curt's smoky-sweet tongue before he drew away. He could love this man. He was certain of it. Surely he'd already started, ten years ago.

He slid his hands into Curt's pale hair, cradling his head, wrists pinning his arms, and Curt's eyes closed, mouth slackening, a sigh of pleasure as Arthur rubbed his scalp gently. The tensions that seemed to hold him together were slipping away, his body given over into Arthur's hands.

"Curt Wild. Tell me what you like."

Curt shook his head so Arthur held him still, touched their lips softly together, rubbed their cheeks.

"Tell me what I can do."

"Anything. You can do anything." Curt's eyes were wide with the need, the vulnerability that Arthur had always envied of Brian. His tongue flicked out, his throat bobbed with a swallow. "Do anything you want to me. Please."

The word turned cold in Arthur's belly.

Curt's knuckles clenched white on the bed head as he waited for Arthur to fill him. Like an empty well, waiting with absolute faith for more than Arthur had inside himself. Arthur pulled Curt's arms until he let go of the headboard and then Curt's arms were around him, clutching him tightly, pulling him into his body, fighting to kiss him more deeply.

Arthur broke the kiss, buried his face in Curt's neck and his skin turned cold where Curt touched him, and he was drowning, a drowning man around his neck.

"Arthur."

John was sitting on the couch by the window, whisky glass in hand, bottle well-drunk on the table beside him. "I didn't expect you."

"I'm sorry I didn't-" -call you.

Arthur closed his mouth as John's chin drew back, just barely but enough for Arthur to see the brewing fury.

"Is it now you've come to tell me it's over?" Lightly asked, like a comment on the weather, though he didn't look up from his glass. "Or were you still hoping to slide back into our bed, like I'd be fool enough that I wouldn't know where you'd been all weekend?"

Arthur stood awkwardly in the doorway. He'd hoped that he'd know what to say when he arrived, hoped to have some idea what he wanted when he stepped into the apartment, but he just felt lost. It *hurt*, to be here.

"Our bed, John?" Softly asked, and he waved off John's reply, not wanting to argue again. "I don't know what I want." He winced at the whine in his voice, that he would dare ask for pity, but it caught John's attention, a studying gaze with a shred of hope.

"I want you, Arthur. I haven't doubted that in eight years."

Arthur's chest tightened, that he'd even needed to hear the words. And it should have been that easy, but Arthur had never felt certainty like that. "Did you know what you wanted when you were twenty-seven?"

A beat, and John pushed his hand through his hair. "I wanted to get the hell out of Belfast."

Arthur struggled to explain it. "I want..." You. Him. My childhood back. Freedom. Nothing could say it, but John finished his glass and set it aside.

"I *know*, Arthur."

And he did.

He stood, a little unsteady, and made his way over to cup Arthur's face in his hand, thumb brushing over his cheek. Whisky on his breath. "I *know*. But that doesn't mean I'm willing to share you."

"I'm not asking-"

John's fingers tightened painfully on his jaw. "Did you enjoy your weekend? I spent it sitting here, imagining another man touching your body. *Inside* your body. Did you think, Arthur, to wonder how it feels to imagine another man's prick in this mouth?"

The heady taste of Curt's cock on his tongue and the smell of the curling hair in his nose as hips shuddered against his face. Arthur's cheeks burned.

And then he was released and John was moving back, face pleading. "Don't go to him tonight."

Arthur had extracted himself from gropes and promising kisses, told Curt he had just a few things to do at home, not sure at the time if he would return or not.

John's eyes closed as he swallowed, and opened. "Please, Arthur."

And he couldn't refuse. "I'll stay."

With a rush of breath, John kissed him, thick and wet and drunk and needy, one hand clutching the back of Arthur's neck to hold him close, and Arthur sank against his broad body. John's other arm around his waist, cradling him as the kiss lingered, sweet with alcohol and hot shared breath. Fingers sliding up into Arthur's hair, cupping his skull as though he might flee, dragging him deeper into the desperate kiss.

Fumbling hands pulled at Arthur's clothes, more hindrance than help, but soon Arthur was naked and he had a sudden flash of memory to their first night, both a little drunk, Arthur not even twenty when the stranger he'd met in the bar brought him home and had him stripped and sprawled on the carpet barely three steps inside the front door. He hadn't spared a thought for the rooftop that night, or many nights since.

John lifted his head, caught Arthur's distant look and the groping halted, and his face fell. He pulled back, rubbing his mouth. "You'll never be happy with this, will you?"

With John. Beautiful and devoted and ...content. "Are you?" Arthur traced the line of John's jaw with a finger. "Is this enough?"

Moving away with a sigh, John dropped on the couch and waved a hand for Arthur to join him. "It seemed enough for you, last week. You seemed happy, until Lou gave you that damned story."

Arthur approached slowly, perching on the edge of the seat. He reached for the words to explain but he didn't even know where to start, only managed a hollow laugh. "Ah, I have lived since then."

John leaned forward, shoulders hunching. "Is he enough for you? Do you miss it that much?"

Another puff of laughter. Like smack. "Yeah." He raised his eyes. "But it didn't make me happy."

"Then what-"

Arthur reached a hand to cover his lips. He thought of the moment Curt offered the pin, gold twist around cut green glass in his outstretched hand. The past, or the future?

Time spent in the past made it easy to forget that choices made had been the right ones. Leaning forward to replace his hand with his mouth, take the clean taste of John. "I miss you." A kiss for the frown lines on his forehead. "You make me happy."

"I can't give you that. Whatever it is-" John's eyes were soft, full of apology and longing. His brown hair was flecked with grey, lines cut deeper into his face than usual because he wanted Arthur to be sure, wanted Arthur to be happy.

"Neither can he." And this time when he reached, John pulled him close, and the kiss was gentle and undemanding.