AUTHOR'S NOTES: Yes, Brian does actually die in this version, rather than killing off "Maxwell." No, Curt doesn't entirely leave before the assassination concert. Contractually, he can't, you'll find out. Few other quirks, but y'know… that's creative license. This is the overhauled version, hopefully free from errors now and with some nice little changes.

DISCLAIMER: I only wish I owned anything to do with Velvet Goldmine other than a copy of the soundtrack and the movie. Everybody and everything belongs to their respective persons, which sadly isn't me.

Chapter One

He was so distracted. I'd like to think it was because of our fight, but I found out it was so much more fucked up than that. Whatever came between us was like the sprinkles on the icing on the cake. And that was one fuckin' huge cake, if you wanna make it like that. Everything with Brian was always over the top, twice as big and grand as it had to be.

He was staring at the mirror when I came in. This glare that was hard and blank at the same time, sitting there radiating anger and perfection.

"Are you ready to go?"

He turned to glower at me, eyes narrowed, undoubtedly at the harshness in my voice. I just crossed my arms and glared back.

"Well?"

The radio had been playing, some woman going on about these stupid assassination rumors and Brian only snapped at his assistant, "Turn it off. And leave."

The makeup artist, for fear of Brian's wrath,quickly did as she was commanded and scurried out, closing the door behind her. Locking me in with him.

"Curt."

He said to me, getting up, opening the case that contained his cocaine.

"Maxwell."

"No."

He started to move closer to me, setting down the coke without having taken any, and picked something up from the table as he came. Two packages, one wrapped in heavy gold paper, the other, slightly smaller, in black and silver.

I sneered at him.

"Brian, you're not making this go away by buying me a bunch of shit. Not this time."

But he still pressed them into my hands.

"No, Curt… take it. For after. When it's all done with."

I can't believe I didn't notice something wrong then, the way he'd said that. Maybe I hadn't wanted to. I hadn't wanted to stop being pissed off at him.

I took the presents, but I didn't open them.

"Fine."

"Thank you," he said, running a thumb along my jaw. I snapped back, but he kissed me anyway, gently. "I'll miss you… and don't hurt him."

And then he just walked off towards the stage, with me yelling after him.

"Brian, you fucking coked-out whore! I'm not going anywhere, you stupid bitch! I can't! Fuck you! Fuck you and Jerry! You've fuckin' lost it!"

He never looked back.

-+-

A minute later, I heard the shot.

Two hours later, they finally let me into the hospital room.

Brian was dead.

-+-

The tour was called off. As if I needed to say that. I wish it hadn't been.That meant I had to return to the flat we had once shared. I had to return to those empty halls, empty rooms, empty bed, empty sheets. There was still his touch, his color choices, the way he ordered and arranged things. Traces of Brian everywhere, but the man I loved nowhere.

I spent hours, days searching for him, going round and round the flat. Not like he was anywhere, or that I was expecting to find him. That's for crazy people. I don't know what I was trying to do, only that for a while, it made me feel better.

After that, it made me feel like shit, and I left. I went to a hotel, leaving all my stuff behind in that apartment. I couldn't bear to move anything. It had been Brian who had set everything up there. Maybe it was the heroin I'd taken up again, but to change anything he had done just felt like I was cosmically screwing with his perception of me. So the only thing I took with me was what Brian had specifically put into my hand- those two gifts, still in that flashy wrapping he had no doubt done himself, even with all those people at his beck and call. It wouldn't have been the perfect way he wanted if he hadn't done it himself. Nothing ever was.

I sat there on the hotel couch, staring at those two boxes on the little mass-produced coffee table. The last things Brian had ever given me, and I hadn't had the guts to open them. I was still afraid to, then. What does a man on the brink of suicide give his lover as parting gifts?

But he'd said to open them. After. So with a rising terror, I picked up the bigger one and tore off the gold paper. Inside was a black velvet jewelry box, which only left me wondering more about his reasoning. So I didn't open it. I set that aside, and picked up the black and silver package and peeled off the paper, more careful this time.

Inside was a copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray. Brian's copy, from the way the pages were folded and certain lines were marked as I leafed through it. How many times had he integrated Wilde's words into his own? How pleased had he been when I'd used them, once? The book was brought to every hotel and vacation house we'd been to. If it got lost, Brian had thrown a fit, and would do so until THIS copy was found. There were no substitutes.

I couldn't take this from him. It wouldn't have been right, even though he did give it to me. Keeping something like that would make you sick.