Curt Wild was amused. Ever since he'd heard that song, Brian's song, he had not been able to stop laughing to himself. He hadn't even been able to look Brian in the eye quite yet, although he'd been hiding that fact with a string of artful hairstyles and blowjobs.

The thing was that, once the drugs had worked the whole way out of Curt's system, that Brian Slade was the least subtle person on the face of the earth, even if you threw in that British queer he was always on about. And they could write liner notes all day long, but everybody and their tarted up sister knew that Brian was singing "Come and Curt me" when he was batting his lashes like he had some vicious glitter stuck in his eye.

That Brian fancied himself quite the wit worked in Curt's favor more often than not anyway, and Curt liked being wined and dined, liked being seduced, even when the seduction was the blunt effort of Brian's painted and sharp nails.

So what the hell, then, he didn't mind singing Brian's tune for a little while; it was something new and the old shit hadn't been doing him much good. Brian was on the other side of the flat, plucking at his guitar with a pinched, "don't bother me, I'm creating art" expression, and Curt was content to let him stew for awhile longer, get himself good and worked up before knocking him off his chair for a tumble.

Maybe they'd even make it to the bed. It had happened, once or twice.

Curt drew his eyes away from Brian's pretty, pouting scowl and let his gaze wander across the flat. It caught on the glossy cover of a cheap paperback laying on the table, and Curt scooped it up, smoothed guitar-callused fingers over the cover.

The Brit queer again? Curt felt maybe the cosmos were giving him a sign, the gods of Rock N Roll, or the Queens of Glam, whichever, but laughed it off. That was Brian's shtick, destiny and fate and all that shit. Curt was just here for the free booze.

Still, when in Rome...still laughing, Curt let the book go limp in his fingers, to fall open wherever it chose.

"Nothing makes one so vain as being told one is a sinner."

Curt was tipping back his head to laugh, laugh at all this crazy fucking shit, but it caught in his throat when he found Brian suddenly standing over him, eyes burning with fanaticism for a religion that Curt didn't completely understand yet, but thought that Brian himself might be the Holy Savior it centered around.

"You understood," Brian breathed, fervent and bright, his edges blurred by the smoke rising from the cigarette bent between his fingers. "I knew you would."

Curt didn't, and he wasn't sure he wanted to, but the hands tugging his shirt off and pulling him towards the bed, he understood that shit all right. Being wanted, yeah, there was nothing secret about Brian's message so far as that was concerned.

"Falling star," Brian gasped against Curt's neck as his knees bump the edge of the bed. His head was tipped back to Curt's lips against the throb of his pulse, eyes distant across the London fog.

"Yes," Curt agreed, as he planted a hand in the center of Brian's chest and shoved.

fin