I've done one or two pieces of Bowie art, and wrote this little polaroid, because goddamn, there just isn't enough Bowie/Pop slash happening. It has precedent! It's canon! Why aren't more of us rolling around in it?
Enjoy, and hopefully this will push a few of you into more Bowie/Pop slash of your own, so I won't have to keep it up. :)
Title: Leading The Blind
Rating: call it M for mature
Pairing: David Bowie/Iggy Pop (who shall heretofore be referred to by his Christian name)
Notes: Any historical abberrations are because I'm too lazy for anything more than Wikipedia. But it's short and sweet.
December in Berlin, in a largeish, badly insulated loft was becoming an uncomfortable place for two shivering addicts in recovery. Bowie, built like a greyhound, was not in such dire straits. The flashes of blind panic and the desire to chew the flesh off his own fingers had subsided, but he still found it hard to keep food down, and so he grew even thinner, which was no small feat. He had taken to wearing lambskin boots and a ginger foxfur coat around the house when the radiator misbehaved. Jimmy teased him that he looked like some schizophrenic Arctic fairy, and David would sauce back that he had everything right but the continent.
Jimmy was worse off. He still sweated through the sheets and woke up freezing, muscles clenched. David would be awakened by his fitful jerking and twitching and get up, put a kettle on the stove and throw a tiramisu of blankets over top of his friend while the Earl Grey brewed strong and peppery. It helped David to focus on his friend, helped him ignore the last whispers of various cravings.
They had both lost all innate sense of time; with no agenda but recovery and writing music, Sundays and Wednesdays felt the same. The rows of huge, uncurtained picture windows which had been so appealing in July were like blinding portraits of snowbanks, white winter daylight diffused through a patina of frost, eating up the shadows and projecting cold into every nook and cranny from dawn to dusk.
One morning, as sometimes happened, David came back up the stairs from the kitchen to find Jimmy curled up like a peeled shrimp in bed, the covers kicked to the floor, breath hissing through his teeth as he scratched furiously at the insides of his elbows, his forehead pressed into the mattress. He put the pair of mugs on the floor and ran to the washroom and wet a towel under a cold tap. When he pried Jimmy's arms open, there were swollen rashes and pinpricks of blood walking all the way down to his wrists. Jimmy swore as he wrapped his arms in the towel.
"Fuckin' nightmares all night," he panted. "Like you wouldn't believe. William Burroughs kind of shit."
"I'll make up a bath." David straightjacketed him with the towel, tossed him a contagious smile and left to run the water.
They had slid into it with no preamble at all. Maybe it was the natural evolution of a relationship wrought from shared trauma, a bonding through withdrawal–––because who could possibly understand what you were going through but someone who was fighting the same shakes, and therefore who more deserving of your love?–––but it felt right and good, and under no circumstances would either of them stop to examine it. As long as it saw them through the recovery, it didn't need explanation.
David put Miles Davis on the turntable in the loft and the slow romance of it carried into the washroom where they shared a bath, their teacups on the tile floor. Jimmy sat in front, leaning against David's chest, smoking and reading a week-old copy of the New York Times while David combed shampoo through his hair with hard, slender fingers. Some days they hardly had room between them for all the conversation, stuffed like a sky full of balloons, and some days went by with barely a word, empty and sweet, and always it felt right.
David took the cigarette from Jimmy's lips and smoked it while his friend hooked his knees over the edge of the tub and ducked his head under the water, swishing his shaggy curls between David's legs. He laughed at the flirting, folded one hand behind his head and blew a few self-congratulatory smoke rings. When he was properly rinsed, Jimmy twisted round in the tub like a minnow and pressed their hipbones together, which made David jump, hands at the defensive.
"Ow," he laughed. "Twat. Fill out a bit before you do that." He poked him gently in the belly. Jimmy grinned, dazzling teeth like a light, having forgotten about his burning veins. They kissed until their tea was cold.