The Freedom
He sat in the pub for a bit, then stood slowly. Walking out, the girl he'd given his press pass beamed a smile at him, but the others watched with narrowed eyes, as if they could see the past written in his eyes.
Eyes that had long since lost the wide‑eyed innocence, and were now dulled with the weight of memory, the future looming like a web on unmade decisions.
/I found you, and at last I understand. Knowing that you drew me back, that I was meant to find you, I thought no further and so now have no thought as to what to do with that knowledge./
Home, to his flat. Apartment. A small, tidy place, essentially bare.
/I've been here three years, why does it not look more like a home?/
Starting, as if waking from a dream, he found himself standing before his mirror yet again, looking at his own eyes, his own face. Did it show, in the lines of his face? The slicked‑back cool of his unruly hair? Were there any traces of the boy he had been left in the man he had become?
/I haven't had a lover in months. Haven't fallen in love since I met you./
The dark eyes stared back at him, offering no answers, only a growing sensation of weariness.
To bed then. Changing, cleaning, curling up. Sleeping, with tall men in leather and small men wearing fishnets and feathers dancing through his restless dreams.
"Nice piece on the Reynold's speech." Lou spoke from the doorway of his office.
Turning, Arthur accepted the praise with a nod, hands in his lap, sitting still, watching the man come in. His editor looked concerned, but enough so to worry him. After their confrontation on the elevator he'd been half‑expecting to be canned. It would hurt, but he'd survive.
"Look, Arthur ‑ I'm sorry about the Stone thing. A mixup from the money people. The board decided at the last minute that they didn't want that kind of image, y'know? Too tabloid."
"It's alright." He said, in his usual slow‑spoken manner. "I didn't really find anything. Thought I had ‑" he shrugged one shoulder, "‑But I was wrong."
"These things happen." Patting his back in a paternal fashion the editor leaned over his desk. "So what are you working on now? I haven't assigned anything."
"I was thinking. The weekender is always short, I though I would brainstorm a few story ideas and run them past you."
"Initiative. That's good, good. What have you got so far?"
"I thought I might do a review of the pubs in the city. Not the bars, but the British‑style ones."
"Kindof an Englishman's point of view? I like it." Nodding, Lou straightened. "Work on that and bring me anything else you come up with."
"Instead of the death of Brian Slade, I thought I could write about the people around him. The ones who made him what he was." Turning in his chair to watch Lou leaving, Arthur threw it out as an afterthought. "Before he ‑ vanished."
His strove with his eyes to tell the man that he knew, and that the knowledge was safe. Pleaded silently to be given this much.
"I don't know if there would be any interest in it ‑ the anniversary is past ‑ but, sure, if you want to, have a go." Lou spoke, took a step, then paused and looked back again. "The wife, right? And the first manager?"
Noting the probably deliberate omission of Curt and Jerry Devine, Arthur nodded.
"The ones who knew him in the beginning."
"A where‑did‑he‑come‑from piece." The smile was genuine. "I like it. More interesting than where he went, maybe."
Not agreeing, Arthur nodded again, then stood.
"Guess I better start doing research."
"That's the boy." Standing back to let him pass, Lou did not pat him again, but Arthur was content with the concessions he'd won today. "Just research in the pubs, eh, Arthur?" His grin was teasing and the younger man felt a surge of filial affection. Despite the professional nature of their relationship ‑ which neither of them had ever or would ever try to move past ‑ he was closer to this man than he had ever been to his own father, who had died several years ago. Arthur had returned to England to sit at his bedside, but Tim Stuart had never woken up long enough to recognize his only son, and the few words he'd exchanged with his mum had been awkward and painful.
Now he sent her a little bit of money from every paycheck, and flowers on special occasions, wanting to give her that much. She was his mother, after all.
As he took the stairs, wanting to avoid meeting anyone he would be required by politeness to talk to, he wondered if Curt Wild sent his mother flowers, after what she had done to him.
When he thought about it in those terms, he'd gotten off lucky himself.
***
British‑style pubs were popular in New York. He hadn't realized that before. Now he visited the biggest ones, the ones marked in he tourist book as being good ones, and slowly, over the next few days, he worked his way down the list to the ones he was actually interested in.
It had taken a bit of work and a touch of illegal hacking, which he was becoming better at every day, but he had an address. And a phone number. And a list of properties owned, which wasn't that big. But one of them was surprising, and he had looked it up several times before believing it.
It wasn't what he had expected to find. Certainly not what he had hoped.
From the trailer parks of Michigan to a pub in New York. Curt Wild hadn't climbed as far as some had thought.
Giving a report to Lou when he woke late each day, not hungover but sleep‑deprived in a way he hadn't been in a decade, he took tons of notes at each pub, intending this to be a real story, because he liked his job. But at last the night came when he was standing outside the ironically named Falling Star, which had no neon sign, only a small bit of brass with the name carved upon it fading from wear.
Standing, staring at the metal door, painted black, he wondered why this was listed as a pub at all.
Then he pushed his way in, and the smoky interior grabbed at him. Thick blues crooned from a jukebox disguised behind a wooden frame, and thee were tiny little tables covered with bottles of dark beer and pint mugs of warm bitter Guinness.
And there, in the corner, leaning over a tally book, a beer at hand, was the man he sought.
The room was about half‑full, there was a soccer game playing on t he telly but the sound was off, and many of the people there ‑ mostly older men, working class, in their overalls and denims, some with the red hair that declared them Irishmen, others with the accent that meant Scotts, they turned to watch him cross the room. Sensing the disruption, Curt looked up but his hair was hanging in his eyes and his features hidden.
Stopping a foot from the table, Arthur tried to grin, but his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth.
He was wearing dark jeans, a brown pullover, and his black leather jacket, which now had Oscar Wilde's pin clipped to the collar.
"You're Curt Wild." He said, and knew he sounded just as he had a week ago.
"Yeah. So?" The vulnerability he'd seen in that face then was missing now, chased off by something closer to anger.
"I've been looking for you." Taking another step forward, Arthur tucked his hands into his pockets and nodded at the empty chair opposite Curt. "Mind if I sit down?"
"It's a free country." Curt answered, and his face twisted into a sarcastic grin. "I think we've played this scene before."
"We did, but I did not like the ending." Arthur answered, waving away the beer the bartender brought him.
"You think you can rewrite history?" The ex‑punk‑rocker asked quietly.
"No. But I might be able to relive it."
"Which part?"
"The part where I take you home."
Now Wild was looking at him, head tilted back just a bit, a small smile playing on his lips.
"And why would you do that?"
"Cause I want to." Swallowing a gulp of beer, Arthur leaned forward. Unable to grin or lighten the mood, he just shook his head a little bit. "Because I didn't last week, and I should have."
"Why?" The one word was breathed in patented Curt Wild style and Arthur felt the grin coming.
"Because." He stood and set the bottle on the table. "Will you be busy for long?"
"I can do it tomorrow." Shutting the book and gathering the shoebox of reciepts, Wild carried them around behind the bar and had a word with the bartender, who didn't look happy about this turn of events but nodded. Waiting patiently by the table, Arthur felt the eyes of the customers on him and stared stoically at the walls, now wanting to meet anyone's eyes.
"I'm free." Coming up behind him, Curt touched his shoulder. "Ready?"
"I've been ready.'" Grinning at him, Arthur walked out of the pub with Curt Wild by his side.
"My place is only a couple of blocks." Wild said as they walked side‑by‑side, not touching each other.
"That sounds good."
"It feels like a really long time ago, y'know? Sometimes I wonder if it ever really happened, or if I dreamed it. My head was sortof messed up then. Heroin and all."
"You clean now?" Swiveling his head, Arthur watched as he thought about the answer.
"Yeah. In all the ways that count."
"Good."
"Almost a miracle."
"It is."
No more words were exchanged. They walked, silent, down a residential street, lined with narrow single‑family townhouses, some restored, most in the process. The one Curt turned to needed work on the facade, the stairs were cracked and crumbling, but the front hall was nicely done, painted, the tile clean and patched. Not a professional job, but not bad.
"You do the work?" Looking at it while Curt checked the mailbox and unlocked the inner door, he touched the floor curiously, surprised.
"Gives me something to do with my hands." He shrugged, embarrassed, and the door , which had been sticking, swung open with a squeak. Touching it, running his hand over the old wood, the varnish peeling in spots, he watched Arthur rise from the floor. "Guess this should be my next project."
Entering, Arthur didn't answer, just stood looking around. . The room was large and some would have said airy, but to him it was as bare as his apartment. There was a cluster of worn leather furniture and a large television and the kitchen, which was a mess of unwashed dishes and stacked pots and pans. Two doors led off the room, one was open, he could see a glimpse of hallway through it.
The walls here were freshly painted, but the floor was unfinished, bare wood that needed sanding, dark spots showing old stains.
"Don't get a lot of people over, do you?" He asked while Curt shut the door, locked it.
"Want a beer?"
"Yeah." Taking a seat on the couch, he waited for it, still staring around. "Where are all of your posters and things?"
"In a room back there someplace." He handed over the beer and waved a hand toward the hallway. "I don't know why I bought this place, it's too fucking big. Guess I thought it meant I wasn't a washed‑up loser."
"You're not." Setting the bottle on the floor ‑there was no coffee table ‑ Arthur reached for him, grasping his chin gently, feeling several days' worth of stubble. He turned Curt's head to face him as Curt had once turned his own. "You had a gift. It doesn't just go away."
"People stop wanting it." He shrugged. "Put too much of myself into it, and they wanted something less personal. Art, not pain."
"Something like your old friend would've done." Arthur nodded, caressing the bristly cheek with his thumb. "I like things personal."
There was a moment of doubt, shining in dark eyes, and then Curt closed those eyes and pressed his cheek into the hand that touched him.
"Come closer." Arthur whispered, his throat closing, aching. His chest was tight and he wondered why he hadn't felt this way in ten years, it was a struggle to get the words out. Words that were etched into his memory with the acid sting of loss. "Don't be frightened."
"What's your name?" Curt responded, eyes still closed, turning his head to press his lips to Arthur's palm.
"Your favorite color." The word caught in his throat and Arthur has to close his own eyes, a grin threatening to split his face even as tears threatened. Why hadn't he seen this? Why hadn't he understood?
Had he lost so much that night? Or when had the loss occurred? The night of the shooting?
"Song." Curt said, opening his eyes and staring into Arthur's, hair hiding the shadows in them. "Movie."
"Don't be nervous." He breathed the words over chapped lips that sucked the air from him, waiting for him.
Staring at him, one hand wafting through the air in an inherently graceful motion, Curt asked the last question.
"Are you high?"
"Not this time." Sighing with that realization; that he was aware, and an adult, and that he wanted this so desperately he'd been searching for it for ten years, he opened his mouth over Court's and offered him his tongue and his soul, all in one kiss.
"Wow." Curt grinned when they broke for air.
"I've been wanting to do that for ten years." Athur grinned back. "For a while I thought I imagined it. Then I admitted it happened, but I still didn't get my head around the idea that it was important to me."
"So why'd you find me?" Leaning back slightly, Curt pushed his shaggy hair back with both hands, letting it fall into his face again.
"My editor gave me this story....and I found a different one." With a shrug Arthur reached for him, and Curt grinned again, grabbing him around the waist and tumbling them both to the floor, landing on top and straddling Arthur.
"The other night, after the concert, I was thinking about what you said to me."
Arthur spoke up while Curt's hands petted lightly over him.
"About art?"
"No." He answered, a giggle startling him as Curt dug his fingers into his ribs teasingly.
It made his accent seem louder.
"About freedom. How we could allow it to ourselves."
Sitting back on the prostrate man's thighs, Curt studied him, hands still.
"That's why I left when I did. Came to America, got a job, a life."
"Because of what I said?" The grin started small and then spread until it was goofy.
"Yes." Arthur wiggled his legs and reached for the other man. "Do you have a bed in here somewhere?"
"That way." He nodded toward the hall and then, after a minute, got up, extending a hand to Arthur.
After a minute, he took it.
And kept it, which made Curt grin again, looking at their clasped hands.
"I've never actually held hands." He said, and it sounded like he thought that was funny, but Arthur thought it was sad.
"You should try it sometime."
"C'mon. Bedroom's this way." Tugging at him, still grinning, Curt led him down the long, wide hallway. There were five doors lining it, all of them closed, and the floor here had been refinished, the dark wood varnished and silky beneath his boots.
"Nice." Arthur commented when the last door on the right was opened. Stepping inside, ahead of Curt, he paused a moment to enjoy the ambiance of the room.
With walls sponge‑painted in gold washed with some color of red that he couldn't identify, and heavy drapes on the street‑side wall, and a large bed with carved head and foot boards, it looked like something out of a designers' magazine and not the bedroom of a one‑time punk rock star bar‑owner.
"It's my gay side showing." Curt laughed softly.
"It's great." Arthur said, going to the bed, stroking the heavy silk comforter, quilted maroon. The bed was rumpled, as if it had been left recently.
"So try it out." Curt's voice whispered behind him and Arthur sat, slowly, on the edge, legs hanging off, and the other man stepped up between them. "Arthur Stewart." He said, just as softly.
"You're Curt Wild." Arthur replied, feeling a dumb grin spread across his face, wrapping is arms around the man's waist and pulled him closer. The bed was just the right height, their groins pressed together intimately. Closing his eyes, he nuzzled at Curt's neck and sighed before something occurred to him. "I always wondered ‑ is that your real name?"
"They picked it out before I was born." He sounded sad and his hands tightened on Arthur's back.
"I'm sorry..." Tilting his head back, Arthur ran his hands up Curt's back and tangled them in his shaggy hair. "I like this color."
"Shut up and kiss me." Curt rumbled, looking as if he was torn between laughing and crying.
"Make a wish." Arthur whispered and he obeyed.
They hadn't kissed that night. He had wondered why, in the odd moments he allowed himself to remember it, but it hadn't seemed important. It had been a one‑night stand ‑ a fantastic, spectacular introduction to sex with a man he had only dreamed about, a man who carried his pain in the open, where everyone could feel it, right next to his strength, and Arthur had loved every minute of that night, but now he was finding that he *had* missed something, as Curt kissed him, moving only his mouth and tongue, using that physical connection, feeding his heart to Arthur, who accepted it gratefully.
Lips, tongues, teeth ‑ the kiss went on and on, hands tightening and stroking backs, nostrils flaring to suck in oxygen, until at last they parted, and Curt kissed Arthur's eyes and cheeks and lips again.
"Loo?" Arthur panted, suddenly feeling a need to clean up, and catch his breath in private.
"Over there." Nodding at the only other door, Curt stepped away and watched as he got up and padded over, the wooden floor slick beneath his boots. At the door Arthur turned, and his breath caught as he met Curt's eyes.
"You'll wait for me?'
"I'll be here." The other man smiled, something less ferocious than his usual grin, and Arthur felt something inside of him ease. It had taken ten years but he had remembered where he was supposed to be. With this man.
Whether Curt saw it that way would be something else again. For all Arthur knew he was still carrying a torch for the man who had never existed, Brian Slade.
Going into the bathroom Arthur carried the unhappy thought with him. Stripping, he stacked his clothes on the brass baker's rack, and ran a soapy washrag over himself, trying to wash that thought from his mind as easily as he did the sweat from his body.
After only a little while together he felt it ‑ the urge to cleanse the sadness from Curt's eyes, to comfort the hurt little boy he hid inside him. It loomed in importance and he had to tsk at himself, knowing he couldn't push too hard, too fast. If he could just be there ‑ of Curt would let him be a part of his life, then that would be enough. That would give him that chance.
Walking back into the bedroom, he paused, and smiled, at the sight that waited for him.
Curt was in the bed, covers pulled to his waist, not looking seductive, but sexy in a sleepy way. The bright overhead light had been turned out and the two sconces at the head of the bed lit, giving a warm light.
Naked, expectant, Arthur went over and slid in next to him.
They lay quietly, not touching, for a few minutes. Then Curt rolled to his side, reaching for Arthur, and said the words again, the ones that had started this.
"Come closer."
And Arthur went into his arms gladly.
They were of a size, Curt slightly stockier, with broader shoulders and heavier thighs, Arthur thin the way he'd always been, slender but strong the way guys are. Holding each other, moving against each other, friction building to intolerably pleasant levels, they kissed and panted, hands clutching.
"Turn over." Curt urged gruffly, his hands stroking and pulling at Arthur, "Turn over for me." And he did, casually rolling to his side, lifting his top leg and sliding it forward. Every nerve ending was on fire, he felt like he could drown in the heat that came off the other man.
There was some shuffling, as, he assumed, Curt dug under the pillows for the lubricant, and then the sound of foil tearing, which made Arthur sigh with appreciation ‑ no chances taken, not anymore, not ever ‑ and he was having trouble being still while Curt's fingers filled him, slicked him up, opened him.
"Been a while?" The rough voice in his ear made him shiver and he nodded, not wanting to add words to this moment. "Hold still."
It was an effort, but worthwhile, using every once of willpower to hold himself still and let Curt work on a slow, careful entry, filling him past discomfort, but he held still, breath whistling between his teeth as he fought the need to moan, to push back or pull away, to do *something*. Then Curt was pressed to his back, his hands coming around and petting Arthur's chest and stomach, moving to ruffle his mussed hair, one hand dropping lower to gently tease his wilting erection.
"Okay?" The word was breathed into his ear and Arthur shivered, feeling himself begin to respond as he adjusted to the bulk that filled him.
"It's great." Turning his head he asked for a kiss and was given one, crooked but warm and sweet. "I'm ready."
"Not yet." Curt said, both hands playing at Arthur's groin now, rolling his balls gently, stroking the sensitized perineum, kissing and nuzzling the back of his neck, until he felt Arthur actually relax and respond to him. "That's better."
"Yeah." Smiling, Arthur closed his eyes and rocked back against Curt. "Make a wish."
"I did." Curt said softly as they began to move together, the rhythm there waiting for them.
It was like the first time, time stretched and warped, and it was just the two of them, the only people in the world, moving together, visions in their minds.
Behind him Arthur heard Curt gasping for breath as he stroked and thrust, his hands still busy with Arthur's cock.
"Go on." He urged, knowing he was ready, that it would take just that little bit to tip him over the edge. "Go on, come on, give it to me..."
"Yes...Yes!" With several short, hard thrusts Curt tightened behind him, arms clenching around him, and Arthur let himself go with it, shuddering and moaning helplessly, held tightly in Curt's arms.
"Want to clean up?"
Opening his eyes, Arthur saw Curt leaning over him, a grin on his face, his eyes dark and shuttered.
"I don't want to move." Arthur offered with a wide, goofy grin.
"I'll do it." Before he could protest Curt was out of the bed and going to the bathroom, the muscle in his back rippling with the movement, looking more defined than they had ten years ago and not a bit less attractive. Then he was back, with a warm, wet cloth, casually wiping Arthur's belly, rolling him to clean his ass, which was sticky with lubricant, and he tossed the washrag to the floor before climbing back into the bed.
They lay, arms and thighs touching, both thinking their own thoughts.
"Do you want to stay?" Curt asked at last.
Relieved, Arthur rolled over and felt the other man spoon up behind him again.
"Yeah, I'd like that."
The lights switched off and he realized Curt must have done it, but he didn't care. It was nice, to lie in the dark and be held by this man. Sleep stole up on kitten‑feet and he was almost gone when he heard the whisper that tickled his neck.
"Hey. Thanks."
Shifting slightly, he settled more completely into the embrace and fell into sleep, knowing Curt would understand the silent response and feeling very thankful himself. He had to be at work in the morning, but they would have time to talk and he could begin what he had now decided was his mission in life; to make Curt Wild happy. Which, incidentally, would make him happy as well.
The freedom to live the way we want to. Curt had lost it, Arthur had forgotten it...there was time to get it back.
Behind him, pressed close, Curt snuffled in his sleep and Arthur, not awake, moved closer, and the other man settled again, arm tightening momentarily around him.
