Title: Shiny

Summary: A package through the years. Shiny stuff. We all know the rest.

Author: Gala-Granger

Disclaimer: None of this is mine. It's all property of Todd Haynes, or at least I think so.

Language: English.

Category: Angst/Romance.

Beta: Mosca.

Note: this fic contains minor slash and some use of strong language.

This fic hasn't been betaed, so please forgive the more obvious mistakes. Hope you enjoy!

Shiny

I knocked on the door softly. This wasn't going to be an easy delivery. There would probably be shouting, screaming and flying objects involved. But my mission was clear: get the package in his hands, he had said, and don't let him throw it away without looking at it's content first.

"Who the hell is it?" an angry and hoarse voice shouted from inside the apartment.

"There's a delivery for you, sir. And I'm to stay here 'till you take it, so, please, to make it easier for us both, open the door," I answered calmly.

I heard someone moving around the apartment, a thump and the voice cursing. Its owner had obviously tripped over something. The door finally opened to show a blond man wearing black leather pants. He didn't seem to be able to focus on the person standing in front of him (that would be me), so I assumed he was high. Not weird at all. Since he didn't make a sign or a move, I just gave him the package.

"There's no sender. Who the fuck's it from?" he seemed a bit puzzled. Perhaps he was expecting a delivery, but not exactly this.

"Just open it. You will understand," I said flatly. I had even been told what to say. Everything had to be perfect.

The man stood there for a moment, perhaps trying to figure out what to do. He, then, started to open the package by tearing the shiny paper apart. The box had a small note. He read it and, for a moment, a faint smile appeared on his face. Or maybe I'd just imagined it, for his expression turned to anger immediately.

"Send it back. I don't want it," he said fiercely, handing me the box.

"Look, let me be honest with you. He was very specific of what he wanted. He even wrote the lines I had to say. This is off the record, just between you and me; I'll have to keep coming until you see what's inside this box. Please, don't make me waste my time and just open the damn thing!" I was practically out of breath when I finished talking.

I seemed to have accomplished the desired effect, for he opened the box, looked at it's content for a second and then put it in my hands.

"Take it back to him. And tell him I don't want to have anything to do with him or with his fucking delusions of grandeur!" he merely inclined his head and was about to close the door, when he saw me, for the first time apparently. He recognized me.

"I know you, don't I?"

"Yes, you do. Thanks for being so cooperative. Have a nice day," and I turned to leave.

I didn't look back, but it wasn't until I was climbing down the stairs that I heard his door close. I knew he felt the urge to follow me to where he was.

"What's the thing you want the most?"

"I already have that."

"No, seriously Curt, what is it?"

"I told you, I want you and I have you. You're mine and only mine, no matter what that manager of yours preaches or all those damn fans say."

"Okay. Let me rephrase. I want to give you something, what do you want?"

"In that case, I would like something real shiny. I've always had a thing for shiny stuff."

"That's because you're high all the time and everything sparkles. But I'll give you something shiny anyways."

A couple of days later, Brian appeared with a rectangular package wrapped in a really shiny pink paper.

"Open it," he said excited.

Curt ripped the paper for luck and opened the box. Inside it, he found a beautiful pair of tight light blue-gray metallic leather pants.

"Brian, they are perfect."

He promised himself he would only wear them for very special occasions.

The blue-haired man stared at me with a melancholy look on his face.

"Again," was all he said.

So I told him how the blond man had opened the package and given it back with a simple, but very accurate NO. I kept wondering if I should leave the details of the note and the recognition out. Perhaps that kind of information was better kept to one's self.

"Was he high?" his question was tainted with sadness and desperation.

"He seemed disoriented, perhaps he was on the later effects of something," I said not really sure if it was the right thing.

"I thought..." he started, but stopped abruptly.

Just as he turned to leave, I saw a few tears wanting to fall from his sad eyes.

"Thanks for the delivery," he said, fighting the urge to cry.

"What shall I do with the package?" I asked.

"Keep it. Perhaps you'll like it better than him..." his voice cracked. He left the room.

I looked at the note on top of the box:

A shiny thing for my shining star.

Inside the box there was a jar filled with glitter.

Brian took a small pin out of his pocket and pinned it on Curt's jacket.

"Curt, a man's life is his image. Take care of yours. And never forget to shine."

As I looked at the blond man on stage, I knew as well as he did that he had seen him there, that blue-haired man standing by the door. I listened to his afflicted voice and knew that he wasn't singing for the audience, but for someone else. That someone else was gone, out of both our lives. Our love for him had been a drug and we were experiencing withdrawal symptoms. He was almost out of our systems, but there would always be some residue left.

As I saw how that beautiful man on stage broke down and cried, I couldn't help but look to the door. He was gone. And suddenly I remembered that day, so long ago. I tried to shake it off.

Curt Wild entered the backstage and hugged me.

"He was there, wasn't he?"

"Yes, he was. You were great, honey."

"Thanks."

We parted and I gave him the package I had kept for so long.

"It was you, wasn't it? You came with it."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I already knew I had lost him, but still loved him very much. Seeing him happy was all that was left for me. Now he's gone and it's time we both let go of him."

He nodded and muttered a heartfelt "Thanks."

That night, Curt Wild forgot about Brian Slade for good. And so did I. But deep inside we knew we would still follow him wherever he went.

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