splix | FIC: Instamatics #142

Instamatics #142
Author: Alex
Fandom: Velvet Goldmine
Pairing: Curt/Arthur
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Todd Haynes/Miramax
Feedback: Is treasured.
Thanks: to

kimberlite, for support, friendship, and beta.

*

A dozen times he’d almost picked up the phone to cancel.

It was the wrong time altogether for this sort of thing, worst time of the year in fact. Christmas – a couples’ holiday, a family holiday. No season for the alone, the lonely, the frightened, for those who, like him, somehow lacked the necessary equipment to cope with the annual orgy of (God-bless-us-every-one, thirty percent off all Betamax, and love, cuddle, and teach the world to sing in perfect harmony) Christmas spirit. He felt like a cosmic match girl, forever in the cold, his face pressed against the glass, freezing as he watched the revels.

And yet he succumbed to the whole mess, because it was what one did. He’d called his mum (at a time he knew his dad would be having his nap) to wish her compliments of the season, he’d dropped coins in the red Salvation Army buckets (no Christmas for the chronically hungry), he’d participated in the god-awful Secret Santa exchange at the office (a red glittery scarf for Mimi, a no-brainer there, since the participants wrote their wishes on the exchange cards). But he loathed it all the same.

Arthur wheeled and picked up the phone, then dialed the number he knew by heart already. A headache started to throb in his temples as he waited. Eight rings. Eleven. Fifteen. He gnawed on an already ragged thumbnail as he set the phone gently in its cradle. Too late to cancel; too late to retreat back into anonymity, into safety. Never mind that their single...date, if you wanted to call it that – a hastily shared pizza on Arthur’s lunch hour – hadn’t exactly been the epitome of effortless charm. They’d both been nervous. Neither had discussed the past. But when Curt had called him, Arthur had feigned ease and familiarity, inviting him over to watch television, and Curt had accepted quickly, volunteering to pick up dinner. Now panic was setting in. He wasn’t ready, not ready for any of this.

He went into the bathroom and scrutinized his reflection. His hair was too tidy; he rumpled it a little (hey there, wasn’t expecting you). Was the sweater too dressy? Maybe. At least it wasn’t red or green. He was already blushing, those horrible telltale splotches of crimson on his cheeks. Disgusted, he left the bathroom and snapped on the television. They’d have to sit on the bed (narrow, hospital corners; nobody here but me), or he’d have to offer Curt his single chair (like I said, nobody but me). Or would that send all the wrong signals? Shit. It was wrong, all of it was wrong.

A knock on the door made him nearly leap into the air. He moved to it slowly, put his hand on the knob slowly (if he kept moving at this snail’s pace, maybe Curt would give up and go home). He opened the door, and there was Curt, breathing hard, a poinsettia in one hand, a big bag of Chinese takeout in the other.

“Six flights. I guess I should give up smoking.”

Arthur smiled, but couldn’t drag his eyes away. It was as if jeans, a leather jacket, and a scarf had never been put together in quite that way before, ever.

“You look really good.” Curt tossed his head, flicking an errant strand of hair from his eye.

“Thanks. So do you.”

“I brought you a poinsettia. Plants always die on me, but I thought....”

“That was really nice of you. Thanks.”

Curt waited, then a broad smile spread over his face. “Are you going to invite me in, or should we eat here in the hall?”

Arthur started. “God, sorry. Come on in.” He ushered Curt inside, relieved him of the bag and the flower, and stood silently as Curt surveyed the apartment, seeing with new eyes how dismal it was, how anonymous. He could die tonight and whoever cleaned his place out would have no idea what kind of person he was (not that they would care).

“It’s so clean,” Curt marveled.

“Small,” Arthur shrugged. “Not much to worry about.”

“You should see my place.” Curt’s attention was diverted by the television. “Oh, God. Holiday Inn?”

“White Christmas, I think.” Arthur moved toward the set. “Corny. I’ll change it.”

“No, leave it. I haven’t seen it since I was a kid. I usually hate Christmas.”

Arthur turned to Curt, surprised. “Me too.”

Curt shrugged. “Yeah, it’s all...too much, you know? Too frantic, or something.”

“I know. Maybe it’ll be different this year,” Arthur blurted, then felt his face burn. He’d gathered and spent all his courage at once, and now faced the rest of the evening (an awkward excuse and Curt would leave, a good-manners dinner and Curt would leave, a forced-cheer evening, and Curt would leave. Nobody here but me).

Curt looked at him, as if considering, and then smiled. He’d always been handsome; his smile made him radiant. “Yeah. Maybe it will.” He gestured to the bag of food. “You hungry?”

Arthur felt a shaky grin on his own face, even though the blush remained. He looked at the poinsettia, that little bit of Christmas cheer, then back at Curt. Deep inside, the thin rime of ice around his heart began to thaw.

“Starved,” he said.

End.