Work Text:
First time I saw you
You were sitting
Backstage in a dress
A perfect mess
You never knew this
But I wanted badly for you to
Requite my love
…
I liked your whiskers
And I liked the
Dimple in your chin
Your pale blue eyes
-- Tearjerker
Los Angeles didn’t have particularly harsh winters, and the heat of an after-show roar almost dulled the possibility of all other thoughts. People, like all other animals, have habitats. Crowds slowly filed out of the venue, aside from a few drunkards who decided to cause excessive trouble for the bouncers, nothing was particularly different. The neon lights had been scuffed for a while, but that was what gave them the uncanny West Coast charm, so no one deemed adjusting them to be necessary. A stale stench of sweat, beer, and weed filled the place to the brim, so much so that it leaked backstage.
LA was a welcoming place by every account, but incredibly cruel and unjust. It never greeted, never turned to look, to watch the fresh-faced kids that shuffled in — it had just been a perpetual state of being, of having to survive under a sea of stars and pray that your day would come. It stomped people dead like cigarette butts, and that had been the charm for everyone that came to challenge whatever beast it had built.
For Anthony, though, it had turned into a habit. Along with the cocaine that would burn into the mucus lining of his nostrils or with the smell of pot radiating off of his long hair at all times, the Californian way of things had also left its mark. He had an eye for things, an ear for things, and a mouth to make sure everyone knew of his prowess in the first two. The Chilli Peppers had grown to something he hadn’t expected at all, and he was able to bask in it like he did the sun. The leverage it brought also meant that he was able to go backstage when he pleased, seek out muses, a speck of anything interesting, find those that he thought were worth his time, worth introducing to a newfound world.
So when he realised he was standing in a room with scurrying gear techs, backstage at a slightly shabby downtown bar, he knew that there had to be something that made him stay. Well, that was a stupid assumption, considering that something was the sole reason he was here. A few months ago, he had heard from his friends up in Washington about a new band, and the vast West Coast held an even more vast stage for music and those who were desperate to be heard. He was here for Nirvana.
He’d heard a few records, and there was no doubt that he wanted to link with the band somehow, maybe just talk, have a drink, smoke, that’s all he needed. Anthony moved through the space, out of the storage area, the clutter shedding itself around every corner as he made sure he was observant while brushing his long hair out of his eyes. There was this sort of promise that gave rise to the belief that he was going to be disappointed, that this anticipation would ultimately doom him. Anthony always had this instinct for things, this understanding of whether or not what he did would get him where he needed to be. He had seen several bands play in the past month, but none of them seemed to emulate what this bright supernova had guaranteed for him. Unfortunately, he had missed most of the show, though he was sure the probability of a post-show conversation wouldn’t be that affected by whether or not he was there.
His eyes told him that he was exactly where he wanted to be, and that he was terribly, utterly wrong.
Neon pink hair that melted into the frizzy, stale air framing a pale face that was ever so slightly gaunt. He didn’t have the patience to look at the features of the nymph in front of him. Instead, his eyes quickly shifted to the laid white lace collar and the smooth, black fabric that gave the dress a subtle elegance. From the slithers of skin that weren’t sheathed by the fabric, everything was oh so pale, so thin, something that seemed to be peeled out of a magazine that had been left on the shelf to fade for a bit. The fabric hid the shadows of the curves, bumps and plains on the body, yet it draped so smoothly over his body despite the odd and awkward tailoring — he had to be reminded by his newfound Aphrodite’s slightly whiskered chin that this was indeed a man.
Playboy bunnies, pin-up girls, magazines he would snort cocaine from and roll blunts on while his dad was passed out on the sofa. Anthony grew up in the haze of American hedonism, surrounded by women who looked like parfaits and sundaes as he lost his mind. This was something else entirely. Anthony wasn’t too conservative, but obviously, this uncharted territory sure as hell is uncharted territory. If he had time to think, to even process what he saw, he would perhaps smile, wave, play it off as just a friendly first impression before they jumped into conversation. He knew who he was looking at, he knew who he was supposed to be looking at, and he was damn lucky that they were the same person. He found it on his lips to whisper some sort of name, some weak excuse of syllables that could represent, define, deliberate what he saw. But he couldn’t. He stared. Like the stupid virgin he had been in middle school, gawking at every senior girl that walked by his lockers. He gawked. He gawked because there was little else for him to do, and for that exact reason, fate had somehow decided to put him in this situation. The limits of his world and his knowledge gave him nothing more than only being determine a value like "LA 10", but what else? It is a sin to encapsulate so much in so little. This ghost of music, of love, of passion, of genius, just sitting there in a black dress. If he didn’t know better, he’d walk away, or point, or laugh, make some snarky comment. Goddamn it, he just couldn’t.
Anthony didn’t know that destruction came in the form of a pink-haired creature that was nothing short of a siren. That much was puzzling, though, considering sirens didn’t sing with grit, didn’t hide, didn’t ever learn to withdraw themselves. His brain was just absolute mush, and he knew damn well it wasn’t because of the drinks he had before getting here.
He must’ve stared for quite a while, long enough for the creature, the man, Kurt, to notice. He didn’t seem to mind, though, and that much was probably even more confusing. Kurt just reached into his pocket, took out a cigarette and softly held it between his slightly chapped lips. He patted his jeans down, seemingly in search of a lighter that was supposed to be present. To no avail. That was some sort of divine intervention, some shit that would make him fatalist for the rest of his life. The air between them was filled with pauses with no dialogue, mystically filled with the thoughts of two men, perhaps thinking completely different things.
It took Anthony a few seconds to blink and realise that he had just quickly dug a lighter from his jacket, and lit it, the gentle click was the cue for a newborn flame. Perhaps this was the one thing that slightly stoked Kurt, though nothing he did gave any tell-tale sign. Brushing loose strands of pink hair away, he leaned forward and met the flame halfway. The flickering orange light briefly lit the man’s slightly gaunt face, his blue eyes were so still as opposed to the gentle light the fire cast on his face. His pale skin and hair only made him ethereal and, in Anthony’s eyes, nothing short of a god. But which god held such grit, such grievance? Which god was perpetually grounded in mud? The curtains of pink hair, so unnatural, inorganic, made his paleness and gruff look sickly. In that brief shadow, he looked impossibly masculine, almost cut from marble. But it was only that flicker of a moment, soon again, Anthony’s eyes floated. Kurt was patient, feline-like in that sense, perched in the same position, his fingers shakily securing the cigarette as the cigarette wrapping paper gently sizzled as it burned away, the sharp smell of tobacco spreading between them. Anthony knew he was staring into those pale blue eyes because as they briefly lifted to meet his dark ones, he almost flinched. This moment had been so delicate that Anthony refused to pull away until the man took a puff of the cigarette, leaning back as his cheeks hollowed ever so slightly to inhale the smoke.
After that long, gratifying drag, Kurt exhales a cloud of obscurity, of ambiguity. Warmth, though initially harsh to Anthony’s senses, was nothing short of enticing. He winced as the grey fog contained only between the two of them lunged at his eyes and nose, but he couldn’t once break his gaze. The pale blue. The pale blue, they glittered. California always contained those sunny days with wide plains of endless blue that were contaminated with little else but the spirit of rain. California may have been where many dreams died along the stretch of Sunset Boulevard, but California never contained such melancholy, such soft, delicate misery. There was simply nothing like it. Washington was certainly different, a strange, unfamiliar land, one that should be familiar, familial, even. The West Coast was an agonising stretch of earth, allowing for saplings that vaguely resemble stardust to grow and fester.
Fester it did. It festered in the spumes of rust and stardust. It burned, burned so fucking bright in this gorgeous creature. Adorned in jewellery was the gentle spread of sweat on his skin, his pink hair that was nothing short of wild, yet organic beauty, and of course, those blue eyes. Anthony, for all he had, simply couldn’t muster further words, nothing, absolutely nothing, to describe this scenery. Time ticked, ticked, ticked, and ticked only in Anthony’s watch and nowhere else. It didn’t matter that the smoke slowly dissipated between them, in the still, stale air of backstage. Roadies still brought themselves around the room like they belonged, and they did. It was an orbit, a circular, repetitive act of subconscious, serving worship that Anthony seemed to find himself entrapped in. His God, if he were lucky, would bring him the greatest gift — Acknowledgement, recognition, anything. Anything.
When his wish is fulfilled, however, Anthony wonders if he should’ve ever pleaded for it. Was he freed of the trance, or indefinitely suffocating into it? Anything except those pale, blue eyes was indiscernible. The slightly parted, chapped, light pink lips seemed to whisper and hiss with something that Anthony was desperate for. Whether it was venom, danger was something that Anthony would forever regret. He leaned in for it.
The thing with Kurt was that you could most definitely tell when he was looking at you, and when he wasn’t. His eyes had this hazy quality to them, perhaps blamed on heroin, perhaps not. They shifted around, glazing every ray of light that reflected through them with this soft layer of delirious reverie. Kurt’s eyes wandered, wondered, and were never lost, that much, Anthony could be sure of. The trail of clouds that was simply the sense of being beheld mapped their canvas on Anthony, then, sunlight beamed into the crevices of his world, through the pink curtains of slightly greased hair. That spark of recognition, that ignition of something more, of interest, of this favour that was attention. Anthony could do nothing but helplessly meet those eyes, and Kurt? Kurt smiles at him. It was a slight curve of his lips, a sliver of amusement in his eyes, the cigarette resting between his slender fingers, temporarily set aside as a second priority, his wrist leaning against one propped-up knee, the denim of his jeans not at all concealed by the hem of the dress. That dimple in his chin and the dips in his cheeks framed him to be more child-like, almost naive in the way he accepted anything he found gleeful so damn easily.
“Thanks,” The timid voice spoke, somehow more elegant, softer, yet grittier than Anthony had expected. There was a whiff of a smile in his voice, and even though he did little but take drags of his cigarette, there was something so deliberate about the way he acted. “You’re Anthony? From the Chilli Peppers?” Every step, every syllable, the intonation of each sound oozed with syrup and a cheap bottle of gin you’d get off the shelf of a dingy store. He spoke just how he sang, so raw, so bare, so filled with his own intentions, yet so different. He created art no matter what prerequisites existed, so much so that he himself had merged with the idea of being a piece, of being something beyond human perception or appreciation. Kurt. Kurt. Anthony could only think of his name, one curt, short, strong syllable. Something cut short, something that demands to be extended, to have more, to own more. Kurt, to anyone passing by, may look like a freak, someone out of his mind, or a pretty thing in a black dress, but to Anthony? Kurt was the Californian sky in July, Kurt was the sense of warmth he got as he walked home in the dimming sunlight, the liminal haze as he woke from piling up lines of crystal white lines in his blood. This was a sign of doom, a sign that Anthony perhaps wouldn’t be able to let himself be anywhere but here at this instant. He forgot about the music, he forgot the negotiations, the conversation that he had planned to initiate for the hour before this. All he could do was take a deep breath, deep enough to ensure that he took in Kurt and the cigarette smoke that coated him, fill his lungs with this contempt for his inability to perceive Kurt.
He exhales. “Yeah, I am. Kurt?” He finally finds himself present at this very moment — exactly where he wants to be. He needn’t be thinking of his past, his future, because he had just seemingly encountered a moment in the cosmic fatal plan that meant nothing else mattered. He mustered great turmoil from absorbing the beauty Kurt exuded constantly, though reductive, the adjective was a measly attempt at framing Kurt and putting him in a deep gallery of Anthony’s head. He also mustered courage. A brighter, warmer mist accumulated within him, between his ribs. He stared, he waited for a reply.
The man takes another drag, this time, swallowing more of the nicotine-swirled smoke into his system before gently puffing some back out. Kurt looked at him. Kurt was looking at him. With a tilt of his head, his face cleared beneath the pink hair that had concealed him for the majority of the chasm that Anthony had found himself in.
“Happy to meet you, heard a lot of pleasant things about you guys.” Pleasant. Pleasant. Kurt was pleasant. Anthony wanted to scream that, to insist on declaring it to Kurt, but he couldn’t. He held himself down with the idea of preservation, of restraint. He burned for the passion, for the need, for the ability to be in the proximity of someone so bright, burning so harshly in the Californian winter day.
Anthony had nothing else to say, so he stared at Kurt for another second, and finally said, “Look forward to touring.” He tried to wear the same smile he always did, but something in him hollowed just too much to let the smile fail. Perhaps this was the only time he looked desperately for the future, for its arrival.
Of course, on that day, he would’ve never anticipated its departure. The departure of his dimming skies, of his sunlight, of this ethereal wind of life, of admiration, of love.