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The starless, light-polluted night sky, the incessant traffic, the dip of the tire into a pothole—despite his exhaustion, it was invigorating to be back in New York. As he waited impatiently for the cab to reach its destination, though, Curt had no choice but to sit silently with his thoughts. His internal monologue was interrupted by a familiar voice coming through the crackling radio: it was his own.
Satellite's gone up to the skies…
Curt lowered his head into his hands. Perfect timing, he thought humorlessly, as if he hadn’t wanted to get the hell out of the damn cab already. He hated the song—it sounded like stupid naivety and a former self he couldn’t distance himself far enough from. It wasn’t a love song—it never had been—but it had been misconstrued by those too careless to hear the lyrics, into something Curt was painfully unable to escape from.
Satellite of love,
Satellite of love…
He sat in embarrassed silence as the song played out, wincing as an even less welcome voice joined in with his own at the climactic end. He tried not to think of him. The song faded into a much appreciated silence, and was soon replaced by some vaguely familiar Polly Small hit from years ago. With the change of soundtrack, he tried his best to shake off the residual nauseating bitterness from the run-in with his past self, refocusing his mind on the present. He leaned against the window, waiting to arrive home.
After somewhat reluctantly being flown across the country to promote his forthcoming album, his first new release in nearly five years, he felt worn out in every conceivable way. The press meetings, the talk show appearances, the photoshoots: the public figure aspect of his career had gotten old years ago, or perhaps he had never fully gotten used to it in the first place. Either way, he did not miss it in the slightest during his extended absence from the spotlight.
If it was up to him, he would release the album on his own without being dragged into any of the manufactured excitement from his label and simply let the public have their way with it. Whether they loved it or tore it to shreds was none of his business, and he was well past the point of giving a shit about what did to his reputation—it wasn’t like he’d ever had any control over that anyway. But he gritted his teeth and complied this time; it no longer felt worthwhile to put up a fight about it or to let his temper get the best of him. It thrilled his manager, who was just happy to finally see him do something with his career for the first time in what may as well have been forever.
Of course, he could never have done it without Arthur. Curt had dozens of half-written and completed-but-unrecorded songs accumulating in notebooks, scrawled on napkins and hotel stationary lying forgotten behind bookshelves or under couches, and drifting around in his subconscious, and Arthur had given him the motivation to finally make something of them.
They had been seeing each other for several months now, since their chance reunion at the bar where an extended beat of charged eye contact transported Curt ten years into the past to recall a starlit London rooftop and a beautiful, too-earnest boy who, by some cosmic chance, had the same eyes as the journalist who stood in front of him. Their encounter turned into a one-night stand largely out of mutual loneliness and desperation, but quickly became two, then three, then four nights, until eventually, the threads of their lives had become completely entwined.
Curt worried that once the starstruck glimmer faded from Arthur’s eyes after the first couple of weeks, he would realize that there really wasn’t anything special about Curt and make a prompt exit from his life, but that didn’t seem to be the case at all. In fact, he was more than willing to stick around. After a while, Curt started seeing Arthur’s socks and underwear mingling with his own in the laundry, found himself during trips to the convenience store across the street picking up snacks and drinks that he knew Arthur would like, and writing lyrics that for once rang hopeful, all subtly dedicated to the same subject.
It was an entirely new sensation. Suddenly, Curt’s life had been remodeled into something calmer, more grounded, yet there was something technicolor about the mundanity of it all—the thing he looked forward to most in each day finally a tangible someone, rather than a dangerously fleeting high or a brilliant, unattainable star offering an almost-love always just out of reach. It was still strange to be living a life no longer devoted to some glittering falsity, but he realized that maybe, for once, he deserved this. He deserved something good—something real. They had never exactly discussed what they were doing together, what it meant, but the silent agreement they had settled into seemed to be enough for now.
And so, at some point a couple of months into their relationship, the two of them found themselves sitting on the floor of Curt’s apartment together, and over the course of several weeks, they sorted through a sprawling mess of scribbled lyrics as Curt plucked through melodies on his guitar and Arthur listened. Despite not being a musician himself, Arthur had been able to offer a substantial amount of carefully thought out advice on the lyrical side of the matter, clearly pulling from his writer’s background. He was thoughtful and deliberate with words in a way that Curt had never been able to fully actualize himself, and Curt found himself—somewhat emotionally—at the realization that he valued Arthur’s input over practically anyone else’s. Soon, without Curt even realizing it, an album had taken shape around him, and it was good.
Though he did not reveal this to the countless reporters and television hosts who were eager to hear about his inspirations and creative methods for what was now, to his surprise, being called his “comeback album”, Curt answered them with as much honesty as he decided they deserved—which was about half, at any given moment. He didn’t mind it terribly, as being able to ramble uninspired semi-truths about his career meant there was less time for the exceptionally audacious reporters to ask him the invasive personal questions that he dreaded: Have you talked to Brian lately? Are you seeing anyone? Are you still gay? That last question was getting particularly old; Curt hoped that the public would have moved on or simply stopped caring about that aspect of his private life. Bisexual. And yes, he would correct tersely with an eye roll, if he was in the mood to dignify the question with a response, which he often wasn’t.
He was inclined out of instinctual self-preservation to redirect or deny any other prying questions about his romantic life, but during one late-night television appearance, he thought of a particular pair of brown eyes undoubtedly watching from the other side of the screen. With a sly smile at the camera, one which would be broadcasted to T.V. sets across the country but was truly only directed at one man, he decided on a passing yet ardent remark about a significant someone waiting for him back in New York. Curt envisioned Arthur’s reaction, surprise-flushed cheeks pulled up into a soft, private smile, and he longed more than anything to be home.
It must’ve been nearing midnight by this point, Curt guessed, even though Arthur was expecting his return hours ago. The last time he had been able to speak to him was via an airport payphone, where he promised that he’d be back no later than nine and would head straight to Arthur’s place upon his arrival in New York. Even through the static of the phone, Curt could hear the grin in Arthur’s voice as he told him with joking formality that he would be patiently awaiting his return. Curt smiled despite the lack of a recipient, the eyes it would have been intended for still two thousand miles away.
I love you, he almost said.
The words had threatened to spill from his lips on multiple recent occasions, but Curt stopped himself. He couldn’t. Instead, this time, he hung up the phone without another word. He stared at it on the wall, heart beating too heavily in his chest.
Despite his intentions, a surprise delayed layover meant that his prediction was off by nearly three hours, and in hindsight, it was a stupid idea to make a promise on behalf of an airline. He hoped that Arthur didn’t spend too much time waiting up for him.
But finally, Curt was so close to coming home, as he neared Arthur’s apartment. Of course, it wasn’t exactly his own home, but Arthur’s presence had become inexplicably tangled into Curt’s notion of home, regardless of physical location.
Curt was startled back to the present by the jolt of the braking cab which had finally parked in front of Arthur’s place. He flung the door open and grabbed his messily packed bags to rush outside through the brisk late-night air and into the building. He felt giddy, almost nervous, bounding up the steps to the third floor like an excited child. While the reasonable part of him hoped that Arthur had prioritized himself and gone to bed at a normal, human time—it was a Wednesday night, after all—the selfish, lovesick side longed to catch him still awake. Approaching the apartment door, Curt reached into the pocket of his jeans to grab the spare key with which Arthur had bestowed him a few months back. The lock gave a familiar metallic click, and at last, he stepped inside.
The first thing he noticed was the kitchen counter. The only light on in the place was the dim yellow bulb weakly illuminating the countertop, upon which Curt saw the aftermath of what looked to be a baking endeavor: pans and bowls left drying by the sink, ingredients still scattered about, and a cookbook bearing the name of a local library on its spine. Looking more closely, he discovered the final product sitting atop a cooling rack on the stove: a blueberry pie.
Curt was taken aback by the emotion that flooded over him, suddenly finding tears pricking at his eyes. He blinked hard, recalling a recent late night where he and Arthur had laid together in bed in easy, post-coital nakedness, his head on Arthur’s chest, Arthur’s fingers combing softly through his hair.
Arthur had asked him about his childhood, and Curt decided he deserved the truth: this particular truth being the fact that the majority of his upbringing in rural Michigan was difficult; he spent his youth feeling confused and outcasted and angry. Curt, in an effort to lighten the conversation once again, reached back into the electric-current static of his hazy memory in attempt to grasp onto a positive memory, and one of the few he could recover was his mother’s cooking—particularly, he told Arthur, her blueberry pie.
Arthur, as far as Curt could tell, was far from being a natural cook; the task seemed to stress him out, which made it all the more touching that he had gone out of his way to make something for Curt. With a sentimental smile, he imagined Arthur standing over the counter, glasses perched on his nose beneath brows furrowed in concentration to pore over the recipe, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, a trace of flour spread across his cheek. He held the thought in his mind as he continued to make his way through the apartment.
The second thing he noticed was the table. Nestled into the corner behind the kitchen was Arthur’s makeshift attempt at creating a dining area within his tiny space, which contained a small wooden table and two mismatched folding chairs.
Tonight, upon the table was an uncorked, half-empty bottle of red wine and two glasses: one with a hint of burgundy liquid remaining at the bottom and faint traces around the rim indicating the presence of a Chapstick-wearing mouth, and one completely untouched. He picked up the bottle, turning it around in his hands to scan the text on the label. Curt had never been an expert when it came to wine, but this one looked expensive. Before he could ponder about it, though, his attention was diverted by the sound of the television through the adjacent doorway. He placed the bottle back down and quietly treaded into the living room.
The third thing he noticed was Arthur, and his heart swelled. His sleeping figure was curled into the corner of the couch in front of the T.V. set currently droning its way through a commercial break. He was wearing a particularly form-fitting pair of jeans and a plain white undershirt, the sweater he likely had on earlier having been discarded over the armrest by his socked feet. A partially empty bottle of Scotch sat on the floor where his arm dangled off the couch, and Curt wondered at what point he decided to switch from the wine to something harder.
Curt knelt on the floor next to Arthur, running his hand up his arm, across his shoulder, along a partially exposed collarbone and up his neck to rest his hand gently on Arthur’s cheek. Curt paused, taking in the face that he had waited two weeks to finally see again, admiring the curve of his lips, the angle of his jaw. He was beautiful.
Curt stroked Arthur’s cheek and softly poked his face in hopes of waking him up. Arthur mumbled something incoherent, but didn’t stir.
“Hey”, Curt tried again. This time, Arthur’s eyelids fluttered open and he squinted in confusion until his eyes focused on the face in front of him and shone with warm recognition.
“You came home”, he said, words slurred ever so slightly from the liquor or sleep or maybe both, as he brought his hand up to hook around the back of Curt’s neck, gliding it upward to tangle in his hair before he pulled Curt toward him and connected their mouths. He missed his target marginally, instead catching the corner of Curt’s mouth, and Curt tilted his head to center Arthur’s lips on his own. When he pulled back, they were both grinning, but a quiet uncertainty ghosted Arthur’s expression.
“Of course I did”, Curt finally replied, punctuating his sentence with another kiss, hoping to convey reassurance.
“I thought you weren’t coming… or that you’d forgotten.” Arthur dropped his hand from where it had been holding the back of Curt’s head, letting it rest on his lap, and his eyes pulled away from Curt’s. Curt lowered himself to sit on his heels. Guilt washed over him; he had let Arthur believe that he didn’t care, that there could’ve possibly been anything else he was so deeply longing to come home to for the last two weeks. Perhaps he still was not as great at laying out his feelings or intentions as he needed to be—he had never had much practice at it in the first place. He lifted himself onto the couch from where he had been sitting on the floor gazing up at Arthur, to sit beside him and look him in the eyes.
“Arthur”, He began, but any sentence attempting to fight its way into existence died before it could exit his mouth. He really was bad at this. “Shit,” he half-laughed nervously as he ran a hand through his hair, fingers catching on tangled strands where he had definitely neglected to brush earlier. He paused for another beat to gather his jumbled thoughts, and took in a careful breath before speaking again.
“D’you know how much time I spent thinking about you while I was gone? I wanted to be back here more than anything. ‘Cause you’re… you’re the best thing I’ve got, and I just need you to know that.” He leaned closer to Arthur. “I’m really sorry, my flight got delayed and I should’ve tried harder to call, and-”
Curt stopped himself; he was toeing the line of rambling and quickly reaching a level of intimate honestly he was no longer sure he could deliver. To his relief, though, Arthur placed a gentle hand on his thigh and spoke so that Curt no longer had to.
“Curt, I understand. I was worried, honestly, but I’m just happy you’re back, and… that you were thinking of me”, he said, accent lilting softly. Curt loved Arthur’s voice—this thought pulled him away from the purpose of conversation until Arthur broke the eye contact they had been keeping to cast his gaze downward. He smiled faintly to himself before continuing. “I…” He paused, seemingly unable to complete his thought. There was something unspoken lingering in the small space between them; Curt could feel it—it was truth and vulnerability and something that felt like love.
Curt had never trusted love; it was a fickle, dangerous thing, never without some catch in the fine print that he always seemed to miss. It had been years since he’d allowed himself to utter the word to anyone, out of fear of the inevitable consequences that always seemed to come when he let himself fall in too deeply, but he and Arthur had been dancing around it for far too long now. He had never trusted love, yet here it was, laid out honest and bare right in front of him, and this time, he reached out to accept it.
“I love you.”
Arthur’s immediate reaction to this confession was a stare that bordered on incredulous, and for a brief moment, panic jolted through Curt’s body as he wondered if he had made some terrible error of judgement, until Arthur broke out in a wide smile.
“I love you, too”, Arthur said, before straddling his hips and kissing him fiercely—hot and wet and tasting of whiskey. Caught off guard, Curt made a noise that was nearly a whimper, and felt himself flush with embarrassment. This wasn’t exactly the response he had been expecting from Arthur, but it certainly was a welcome one, and any shame he felt was quickly forgotten. He responded with matching passion and swiped his tongue along Arthur’s soft lower lip to deepen the kiss. He slowly ran his hands beneath Arthur’s T-shirt and up his now exposed back, as the other man brought his arms up to rest his hands on either side of Curt’s face.
Just as Curt was becoming breathless and his pants were beginning to feel far too tight on his body, Arthur pulled away, and Curt groaned in protest. Still holding Curt’s face in his hands, he said with a sly grin and words hot against Curt’s mouth, “I made pie.”
Curt laughed, struggling to regain control of his breath in the midst of the disordered flurry of emotions in which he found himself: some coalescence of lust and levity and pure adoration. “For me?” he asked, even though he already knew the answer.
Arthur clearly knew better than to dignify Curt’s question with a response, instead shifting off of his lap to grab Curt’s hands and pull him to his feet. He led Curt toward the dim glow of the kitchen. Curt trailed behind him slightly, watching his lover closely as the light in front of them illuminated Arthur’s body like a halo.
Arthur made his way to the pie atop the counter with a faint flush upon his cheeks that Curt hadn’t noticed in the darkness of the living room, and leaned down to examine his creation. He brought his hand up to hover just above the crust, then frowned.
“I think it’s gotten cold.”
“Microwave?”, Curt suggested with a shrug.
“Good enough for me”, Arthur responded. “I can’t promise anything extraordinary, though.”
“I don’t care”, Curt told him honestly. “I mean, you didn’t have to do anything for me at all. I don’t even deserve this much, showing up here in the middle of the night three hours late. Anything you could’ve given me would’ve been extraordinary. Even if it was nothing.”
“You deserve it. I mean it.”
After Arthur had somewhat messily cut two slices of pie and allowed them adequate time in the microwave, Curt opened the drawer behind him to grab two forks from the sparse silverware collection and handed one to the other man. He shoveled a decently sized portion into his mouth without hesitation, and watched as Arthur did the same. An unexpected wave of sourness flooded over his tongue as his nose crinkled reflexively, and he saw Arthur’s demeanor change: a furrowed brow, a confused pause, and suddenly, Arthur was doubled over in laughter.
“It’s terrible”, he managed between gasps. They were both laughing nearly uncontrollably now, leaning against each other, relaxed and easy. “I have no idea what I did.”
“Arthur—Jesus—it’s so sour.”
“I’m so sorry… I warned you!” They had both managed to calm themselves by this point, but remained grinning at each other.
“It’s perfect”, Curt replied. Arthur quirked an eyebrow at this. “I’m serious! I don’t even care. I love you, and I love your shitty baking skills.”
He was still getting accustomed to saying the word, but it seemed to be getting easier each time. Any skepticism present on Arthur’s face vanished, and he was smiling again, though what currently caught Curt’s eye was a smear of deep purple at the corner of his mouth. Somewhat impulsively, Curt leaned in to clean it off with a flick of his tongue, and in response, Arthur angled his head to turn Curt’s gesture into another impassioned kiss.
Despite the tang of too-sour blueberries mingling on their tongues, the kiss was perfectly saccharine. They remained in their embrace for what felt like nearly ten minutes, until Curt pulled away just enough to whisper, “Come to bed.”
“Curt Wild, are you inviting me into my own bed?”, Arthur asked against Curt’s lips, barely pulling away further.
“Arthur Stuart, yes I am.”
After Curt had pressed Arthur into the mattress with limbs tangled around one another and they had cried out each other’s names in breathless gasps, they settled into each other in absolute exhaustion. Curt wrapped himself against Arthur, his chest against his lover’s back, and felt as his breathing grew steady. He was completely at peace.
Curt had spent the majority of his life brutalized by the world—physically, emotionally, often some fucked up combination of the two. He looked back into his past to see the young boy hurt by parents who refused to accept that they had raised a queer son, the teenaged runaway desperately seeking a place to belong, the addict who didn’t expect to live past twenty-five, the reluctant star wailing on stage in misunderstood agony. All of these versions of Curt had remained within him, taking turns attempting to claw their way back to the surface of his skin, but tonight he knew that he no longer needed to hold onto these fragments of himself. He had figured out how to build a new life around old scars, one that no longer centered anger or betrayal or pain, and Curt intended to stay there—he was exactly where he needed to be. The world hurt, but not tonight.
This time, a different song was playing, if only in his head: something just slightly more recent but a great deal more comforting.
Oh, stars made for us tonight…
Lyrics jumbled together in his nearly unconscious brain as he began drifting off to sleep, but the feeling remained constant, repeating and repeating.
And all of it is yours and mine,
And all of it is yours and mine…
Just as the exhaustion had nearly finished taking hold of him, Arthur turned around in his arms to press a warm kiss to Curt’s temple.
“Welcome home, Curt.”