brutal_priestess | VG fanfic outtake

So right, I wrote thing as a sequel to "Rock and Roll Sweetheart" as kind of a middle of a trilogy, but realized after a couple days that it was really just head canon wool gathering masquerading as a story. In short, I think it's boring and just old not-so-great writing habits cropping up. Still, it's a decent exercise in getting to know the characters and filling in some interesting time gaps in the canon.

Edited mostly just for formatting and coherency, though it's a bit rough and sloppy in parts. Really, I'm just posting it for myself to peruse and keep my shit straight.

disclaimer: Characters created by Todd Haynes. No infringement intended.

The Passenger is actually an Iggy Pop song, off the album Lust for Life

content warnings: Language, references to gay sex and drug abuse.

"Heart of Glass"--Though written as a second story for a trilogy, I kinda find this story rather boring from another person's standpoint. I guess they could be considered head canon notes or just my getting to know the characters some more. Whatever.

London, 1979

Arthur noticed his boss coming toward him as he was putting the finishing touches to a review of the new Blondie album.

She was a pretty woman who was well into her thirties but was often mistook for much younger. The office was a casual affair, and she wore black jeans and a battered Black Sabbath band tee. Her black hair was in it's usual artful disarray. Despite her rather morbid appearance, she was smiling broadly.

"Abby," Arthur returned her smile warmly. "You look in good spirits."

"I am!" She exclaimed happily. "Come to my office. I have fabulous news for you! Only..." Her pretty smile faltered a bit and she wrung her hands anxiously as she trailed off. "...you must promise not to be sore with me."

Arthur narrowed his eyes. Smart as she was, Abby could be terribly impulsive. The last time she'd looked so nervous, Abby had confided to him that she had scheduled two interviews with two different artists within hours of each other. She'd begged him to take her place and Arthur had ended up spending an afternoon with a fey, pretentious poseur who'd imagined himself the next Andy Warhol. As he followed Abby to her small office, a wave of dread broke over him.

She closed the door behind him and leaned on the edge of her desk. "Can I get you anything? A drink, maybe roll you a joint?"

Arthur quelled the sudden, unbidden memory of a joint shared in another time, another place, amid his most private memories. Now was not the time. Instead he sat down in the chair in front of her and showed her as bland an expression as he could muster.

"Right then," Abby muttered. "So I won't beat around the bush. I sold one of your articles to the New York Harold."

"You did what?" Arthur exclaimed, trying hard not to shout. While in truth the news was extraordinary, Arthur was deeply hurt that she'd not asked his permission.

"Listen, I'm sorry I did it without asking you first, but I knew you'd say no. They offered an outrageous sum to reprint it and...and I couldn't refuse it. Surely you must understand!"

Arthur sighed heavily because he did understand. The magazine was constantly struggling with their finances. There was nothing wrong with their accounting, merely the fact that their competition was stiff between Rolling Stone, NME, and countless others.

"Which article?" Arthur asked.

"One of your opinion pieces," Abby replied vaguely.

"I've written quite a few" Arthur remarked dryly. "Which one?"

"The one detailing Curt Wild's early influence on the punk rock scene," Abby confessed so quickly that it took Arthur a minute to register what she'd said.

He groaned softly, remembering it well. In fact it was one of his best written articles. At the time, Curt had just released his seminal Some Weird Sin LP, his second collaboration with Jack Fairy. It had been strange and wonderful and brilliant, even if the last track had made him cry. He'd been inspired, and secretly had penned that story as just as much a love letter to him as to his music.

"I'm sorry, but they practically begged me," Abby continued, her face a mask of contrition. "Curt made a surprise appearance at CBGB a couple days ago to promote his new album, no one had time to get press in there, so I guess they started casting around for something to reprint."

"How did a copy of an article I wrote nearly two years ago end up across an editor's desk in America?"

"I don't know. Honestly, I was too stunned to ask."

Arthur closed his eyes and sagged in the chair. "Tell me you have a bottle of scotch in your drawer."

Abby snorted indelicately as she walked around the office and sat behind the cheap desk. She rummaged around until she produced a bottle of McClelland's and two shot glasses. With the practiced ease of a seasoned bartender, she poured out a shot for both of them.

They did not toast, just each knocked the liqueur down as fast as they could. Arthur grimaced as it scoured his throat. He swallowed thickly and fixed a watery gaze on Abby.

"You said there was good news?" Arthur asked.

"How does a £150 cut sound to you?" Abby drawled as she poured herself another shot.

Arthur was speechless. That was nearly his month's entire rent! "Wow," was all he could muster.

"Thought you'd change your tune," Abby grinned.

Arthur chuckled despite himself. "Yeah, yeah, but next time ask me first."

"I promise," Abby replied.

Arthur accepted another shot. As it went straight to his head, Abby began to prattle on a bit. Her tone was light and airy and only somewhat softened the impact of her words.

"To be honest, I've always been surprised that you're such a fan of Curt's. I was under the impression that you didn't much fancy punk rock," Abby mentioned.

The slight change in subject made him uncomfortable. Lately he'd been trying to bury those memories. As sweet as they were, he couldn't hang on to them. They made him sadder with each passing year.

Arthur could only shrug. "Never said that. I just don't like the scene."

"Hmm..." Abby hummed. Her expression was sly. "C'mon, you can tell old Abby. I'm not stupid. Every time someone mentions his name you get this look. Like someone's walked across your grave."

Arthur scoffed. "You're seeing things."

"I'm not!" She protested. "What's the big secret?"

"Are we done?" Arthur snapped. What could he possibly say, after all? The truth sounded like any groupie's dream come true, but to them it had meant so much more. Even if it would be so easy to tell her that Curt had seduced him, there were much fewer words to describe how tenderly he'd done so.

"Yeah," Abby murmured, seemingly dumbstruck by his ire.

"I'm sorry," Arthur sighed regretfully.

He couldn't stay in her office a second longer. Though no longer angry with Abby, Arthur wanted to get away lest the whiskey decide to loosen his tongue further.

***

New York

Curt Wild padded across his kitchen, feet bare and eyes only about half open. He wore a threadbare pair of pajama bottoms that rode low on his hips, his bleach blonde hair was a mess, and a day's worth of stubble was making his face itch.

Curt was not hungover or recovering from a crazy afterparty. Those days were long gone. Quite frankly, he didn't miss them much.

He turned on his coffee machine, having loaded the grounds and water the night before, and ambled over to his front door. On the simple mat outside was the Herald's thick Sunday paper. He took it into his large apartment and tossed it on the dining room table for later perusal.

While he waited for the coffee to finish brewing, Curt turned on the TV and mindlessly flipped channels. He ended up half asleep watching a news program until the coffee machine beeped its completion.

The first cup he drank down quick as he could. He was almost instantly awake. The second he took with him to the dining room with a banana. He unfolded the paper and scanned the front page headlines. It was more of the usual and for not the first time, he wondered why he bothered keeping up the subscription. There was always going to be some smiling politician lying, war in some far flung country, and wet blanket social interest stories.

Curt almost put the paper straight into the dustbin, but then a smaller headline in the upper right hand corner caught his eye.

~Curt Wild: Godfather of Punk?~

His brow furrowed as he pulled out the section of paper the article with in. He usually avoided the media's attention these days. Curt had tasted quite enough of that circus when he'd been with Brian. Maybe his records didn't sell as well they used to but he didn't miss the scrutiny.

He skimmed the article and was surprised to find that it was a lovingly penned piece detailing his influence on the punk scene. It was only about the music, a love letter to the raw emotional power of his stage shows, and Curt smiled a little.

He glanced up at the byline curious over who had written it. In small, italicized lettering it read: Arthur Stuart. Reprinted from London Underground. Curt swallowed hard and tried to quell the swell of affection.

He'd been trying not to think much about Arthur since he'd sent his clothes back to him a couple years ago. It was for his own damned good, but he often wondered why the things he did for his own good aways hurt in the end. Curt sighed softly as he began to read the article more thoroughly, secretly hoping to find some kind of private message buried in the prose.

***

London

The phone rang in the silence of his apartment. Arthur startled. He'd just had it installed and only a couple people had the number. He eyed it suspiciously before finally answering its shrill call.

"Hello?" He asked guardedly.

"Is this Arthur Stuart?" A man's voice asked. He had an American accent, and sounded to be well into middle age.

"Yeees," Arthur drawled.

"I'm Lou Davidson, the editor in chief of the Herald," the man introduced himself. "I just wanted to personally compliment you on the piece about that Burt Wild fellow."

Arthur winced. "Curt. It's Curt Wild."

Lou laughed heartily, "Of course, of course. I don't really keep up with the crazy music kids listen to these days. Let me just cut to the chase, how would you like a job?"

Arthur nearly dropped the receiver. He was utterly gob-smacked. "E-excuse me?"

"Listen, I'm gonna be honest with you. You're far too talented to be writing for some rag that no one gives two shits about," Lou continued.

"Are you...poaching me?" Arthur asked, incredulous.

"That's such an ugly way to put it, Mr. Stuart. I'm offering you the opportunity of a lifetime."

Arthur sighed wearily. He passed a hand across his eyes, and tried to ignore the small voice inside that helpfully reminded him that Curt lived in New York. "You're very generous to offer Mr. Davidson, but I must decline."

"That's too bad, kid, but let me give you my direct line, just in case you change you mind," Lou replied good-naturedly.

Arthur rolled his eyes but told him to hang on anyway. He quickly located a pen and legal pad.

"I'm back," he announced as he returned the receiver to his ear.

"Great," Lou said happily and rattled off a phone number along with his extension.

"Got it," Arthur mumbled.

"Good man. Well, I hope to talk to you soon."

"Yeah."

Arthur hung up the phone. He looked at the number and considered ripping up the page. London was his home...sort of. He had no intention of leaving it or the magazine.

The next day, Arthur approached Abby in her office. He leaned in the doorway with hands in his pockets. She was looking over the latest issue for any last minute typos and errors before sending it to print.

"Have you got a minute?" Arthur asked.

She glanced up. Her kohl rimmed eyes were either tired or stoned. He could rarely tell the difference. "For you, I have 1,440, my dear Mr. Stuart."

Arthur rolled his eyes. At least she was in a good mood. He closed the door behind him and sat down across from her.

"The chief editor at the Herald rang me up and offered me a job," Arthur told her.

Her eye brows raised considerably and her large green eyes became almost comically round. "Are you serious?"

"Dead," Arthur replied. "Don't worry. I turned him down."

"Why?" Abby asked. She looked genuinely curious and just a little bit surprised.

"I work for you," Arthur stated simply. "Anyway, I don't want to work for some big paper."

"I wish you would at least consider it."

"I'd have thought you'd appreciate my loyalty."

"And I do," Abby sighed as she lifted a glass ashtray out of a desk drawer and a pack of French cigarettes. "Arthur I'm going to be perfectly honest. If you stay with us, you'll be out of a job within the year."

He didn't mention that he still worked at the record store every weekend. It was kind of a moot point anyway. Arthur didn't want to be a counter clerk any more than he'd wanted to sling amps for the rest of his days.

"Why are you telling me this?" Arthur asked.

"Honestly?" Abby mused as she stuck a cigarette between her lips and lit it up. "You're good, Arthur. Bloody brilliant, in fact. I'd always kinda figured you'd have moved on by now."

"Brilliant?" Arthur scoffed softly. "I really think you're giving me too much credit."

"No, I'm not," Abby shook her head.

"Well is there any way I can help?" Arthur asked desperately.

"Go to New York."

"Abby--"

"I'm serious."

Arthur sighed wearily. "Alright, I'll think about it."

***

New York

Curt was always working on some kind of music project, even when he wasn't in the studio. It kept him sane. He had dozens of simple, raw tapes. Sometimes they were just guitar riffs and compositions.

Others were snatches of lyrics, sung or spoken. It kept him sane and busy. If he was always working, he didn't have time to think about scoring, Brian, or Arthur.

Curt still struggled with his desire for heroin, especially since he'd moved back to New York last year. Though Jack had begged him to stay with him in Berlin, he'd had to cut the umbilical cord. They were still close and corresponded via letter writing and the occasional phone call.

Curt had slipped up a couple times, but had been clean of the junk for six months now. He still drank and smoked a lot of pot, but he considered those things petty compared to sticking poison in his veins or up his nose.

In the wake of glam rock's demise, a gloom had fallen over the scene. Music was darker and meaner or more mindlessly derivative, depending on who you asked. Curt didn't know where he fit in. The punks loved him, but so did the folks more into experimental rock.

He hadn't heard a thing about Brian since his failure to reinvent himself as some disco queen and string of drug charges. Though he'd been publicly dismissive of him in the past few years, he hoped he'd found some measure of contentment. Wherever he was.

Curt had loved him, though he would never be sure if Brian had really loved him back. He'd loved the idea of him, the crazed performer on stage and his bad boy image. Yet had he loved the man Curt was when he wasn't playing up an audience? The secret romantic with the vulnerable heart pinned on his sleeve? The struggling intellectual who was woefully undereducated and had poor memory retention due to the shock treatment in his youth? The bitter realist who should have known better than to get tangled up with such a man as Brian? Curt would never know for sure.

In the end, Brian had made his fantasies a reality. His meteoric fall from fame became the stuff of legend and a cautionary tale told to ambitious young musicians. It made Curt sad sometimes. Brian had been such a brilliant artist. Yet his legacy had been reduced to gay stunts, a bitter ex-wife, and a flock of bitter fans who had never quite gotten over his faked assassination.

Curt had been much more fortunate. The albums he'd done with Jack Fairy had solidified him as a solo artist. He'd proved that he could do it without Brian. This year's release, I'm Bored, had proven he didn't need anyone.

It had taken awhile, but Curt had eventually managed to make that true for his personal life as well. Though no priest, Curt had cut down on his promiscuity and hadn't had a serious relationship aside from the curious years he'd spent with Jack. Their platonic love had been deeply fulfilling, but unlike Jack, Curt had a considerable sex drive.

The life he was building in New York was a lonely one, but necessary. Curt was finally comfortable with the voices in his head and the silence in his bed.

***

London

Calloused fingertips stroked along his chest as Arthur took off his shirt. His voice murmured in his ear, smoky and warm like good whiskey.

'We'll see the bright and hollow sky and the stars that shine so bright.'

Arthur turned to face him and saw the desire writ upon Curt's face. He drew Arthur into his arms and kissed him deeply. Arthur melted away on his tongue.

'The sky was made for us tonight,' Curt whispered against his lips.

Arthur woke to the sound of the radio. It was blaring one of Curt's songs. He half sang words that seemed to beckon him:

And everything was made for you and me

All of it was made for you and me

'cause it just belongs to you and me

So let's take a ride and see what's mine

Arthur groaned and slapped at the radio. Maybe he should start waking up to a buzzer instead. It wasn't as though he didn't listen to Curt's music anymore, but it made him too vulnerable.

He laid in bed as silence enveloped his small bedroom. The half remembered dream had left him vulnerable enough. Arthur was aroused and full of unwanted longing. He couldn't keep living like this.

It had been a month since Lou Davidson had called him and offered him a job. He'd scarcely thought of it, even after Abby had begged him to go. Instead he'd tried to live his life like nothing was different.

The seed has been planted. He couldn't escape the feeling that Abby was right. Was he wasting his talent? Maybe. Perhaps he should take a portfolio to The Times or Guardian. He'd tried to sell some articles to them a couple years ago, but had been rejected. They hadn't been interested in hiring on another music columnist and had even less interest in printing articles about obscure American bands and the strange sounds coming out of the underground.

...or maybe he should just call back Lou and say yes. What was really keeping him here? Since the Creatures had moved on and Arthur had begun the next chapter of his life, he'd been feeling like he was living on borrowed time. Heart and mind had splintered. Arthur had followed his heart to London, but it had been stolen from him. Plucked out of his chest by black lacquered nails.

Arthur scowled and forced down his maudlin thoughts. If he made the choice the move it wouldn't be on account of some ridiculous fantasy. For god's sake, he wasn't some dumb kid with stars in his eyes anymore.

So what was the grown up choice here? Stay in London with his integrity intact or go to New York and take a chance on success?

He glanced at the time and thought about calling his mum. It might be early enough to call her without the risk of his father picking up. He and his brother had disowned him when he left home. Though his mother never claimed to understand his choices, she'd never had the heart severe their relationship. Unfortunately she had to keep their continued communication a secret.

Arthur rolled his eyes and went to the living room. So what if his father answered? He had nothing to be ashamed of.

Despite his bravado, he held his breath after he dialed his family home. Much to his relief, his mother answered.

"Hi, mum," Arthur murmured.

"Arthur!" She gasped. "It's been too long!"

"Can you talk?" Arthur asked.

"Oh yes," she said. "Your father left an hour ago on an fishing trip."

"How is he?"

"Oh he's good, he's good. Are you still working at that magazine?"

"Yeah," Arthur replied as he fidgeted with a ratty quilt. "I got a job offer, though and I don't know what to do."

"Where is it?"

"New York. It's for the Herald."

"That's wonderful, Arthur. When are you leaving? Perhaps I can arrange a daytrip to London to see you off."

Arthur shifted uncomfortably. "I haven't taken the job. Honestly, I'm not sure what to do."

"Will they pay you more?" His mother asked, predictably pragmatic.

"Probably," Arthur admitted.

"Do you have a...gentleman suitor?"

Arthur laughed despite himself. He imagined a handsome man in an impeccable suit offering him a bouquet.

'I do hope you don't think me bold if I say you're the most handsome man in London,' He'd say with a rakish grin.

'Don't be silly,' Arthur would reply with a shy grin. 'In fact, I wish you'd be more bold with me, Sir.'

"Are you still there, luv?" His mother's voice dragged him out of his strange reverie. It was just as well. His gentleman caller was looking increasingly like Curt in his mind's eye.

"Yeah, sorry," He mumbled. "I'm not quite awake. No, mum. I don't have a boyfriend at the moment."

"I really think you should consider it," she said gently.

"I am, but it's so intimidating," Arthur sighed. "I'll have to get a work visa and citizenship."

"Yes, I know, dear, but was it any better when you left home?"

"I suppose not," Arthur admitted.

"There comes a time that you need to put away childish things, Arthur. You're a good boy and I'm proud of you, but you need to start thinking about the future."

She was right. He didn't have a future if he stayed with the magazine. Maybe in New York, he could start over. London was too full of ghosts, after all.

***

New York

Curt was in his home office. He was bored out of his mind. For the umpteenth time since moving to New York, he wondered why he didn't hire an accountant. If only he hadn't left Berlin. Jack had taken care of all that shit. It wasn't the math that was the issue, but Curt's memory and attention span.

He groaned as he marked where he was leaving off for the afternoon with a brief notation. It helped his recall. Curt stared at the ceiling as he felt a migraine coming on. Wonderful. He felt the sense of foreboding that this day could only get worse.

Right on time, the phone rang. Curt swore sharply and snatched the receiver off its cradle.

"What?" Curt snapped irritably.

"You never change, do you?" A vaguely familiar voice asked. He sounded amused.

"Who the fuck is this?" Curt asked as menacingly as he could.

"I'm insulted that you'd forget the sound of my voice."

He recognized the cold tone. Curt slammed the phone down angrily. He glared at the device as though it were possessed by a demon.

Of course it rang again and of course Curt picked it up. He was so angry he couldn't think straight.

"What the fuck do you want, Brian?" Curt snarled.

"Please, call me Tommy," Brian replied smoothly.

"What's that? Your new persona?" Curt scoffed. "Why don't you just try being yourself?"

"Are you still angry with me, Curt?" Brian/Tommy asked with a small laugh.

"Fuck you," Curt snapped. "Tell me what you want or I'll rip this phone out the wall. How the fuck did you get this number anyway? It's unlisted."

"Oh Curt," Brian clucked his tongue at him. "I still have many contacts. Have it your way then. I was just hoping we could bury the hatchet over all these years."

"Yeah well, we ain't getting back together," Curt scoffed.

"Oh come now. I've put that time behind me," Brian chuckled. "Surely I don't need to bugger you for us to be civil to one another."

Curt felt sick. His head screamed with pain and his eyes burned. "Brian, I don't know what the hell you're talking about."

"Look, I made a lot of stupid decisions back then and I want to make it up to you."

Curt narrowed his eyes and scowled. He rummaged around his desk for a bottle of Exederin.

"Whatever man. I really don't give a shit," Curt sighed wearily.

"I'm planning a come back. Wouldn't you like to get out of those filthy clubs again? You'd have to make a few changes: Cut your hair, buy some suits, and of course you'll have to keep your predilections to yourself. Are you clean, Curt?"

"Bri-Tommy, stop. Just stop it. I like those dirty clubs and having long hair," Curt replied as he rubbed his temple. "And if getting my brain fried didn't make me straight, I really doubt anything you have to offer will do the trick."

"I see," Brian murmured. "It's a shame, though I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. You never saw the big picture. That's why I let you leave. In the end you were never anything more than a junky queer."

In the past, his words would have incited an argument. The fact that he was only mildly annoyed was a great testament to how far he'd come.

"So what? At least I'm not some washed up queen with a deviated septum," Curt retorted. "Are we done?"

"Fine, but stay out of my way," Brian snapped. "If you make any trouble for me, I will make your life a living hell."

Curt snorted, "I told you, I ain't taking you back."

The line went dead and Curt moaned softly. He went to the bathroom and found the Exederin. Curt popped three and went to lie down. He wondered what Brian had up his sleeves.

Curt laughed softly and the more he thought about it he laughed harder. Who the fuck did he think he was anyway? The goddamned queen of England? No one was going to take him seriously, not after the mess he made of his career. He could change his name and play straight all he wanted, but he would never escape who he was.

End

Post Script

New York Herald

November 6,1981

In the entertainment section, a review of Tommy Stone's sophomore album, Stars Don't Lie. Credit to: Arthur Stuart.

Tommy Stone's meteoric rise in the charts continues with the release of second full-length album. Like his debut, every track is polished to the sheen of a diamond. One can't help but be impressed with the over-all production quality. They say that Stone is the future of rock music, and if so, I only hope there's sufficient noise from the underground to drown it out. Though each song is undoubtedly flawless in design and Stone's voice never fails to please the ear, the music has little depth. Stone can inject as many socially conscious themes he wants in his song lyrics, but it's hard to hear the sincerity over the slick, radio ready sound. There is nothing particularly offensive about this album. You could play it in any household across the country and it would be tolerated if not enjoyed. However, is that what we really want out of rock and roll?

Short version: Effervescent pop rocker Tommy Stone continues to delight fan with this latest album, but fails to challenge the listener.