XOXO, Manda (so_pseudogoth) wrote in bowieslash,
XOXO, Manda
so_pseudogoth
bowieslash

Title: Salvation
Author: so_pseudogoth
Pairing: Bowie / Iggy Pop (Explicit)
Author's Note: I don't own, don't know, and I do this for fun, definitely not any money made. Please read and review. Thanks!



Emaciated hands slid over underfed torso, the ribs like picket fenceposts under his callused palms. He’d shot heroin between his fingers again, the tiny track marks when he splayed them sticking out like maps of constellations.

“Jim,” the British voice said from the doorway, sounding tired and frightened all at once. “Jim, get out of the bed.”

“I can’t,” Iggy murmured without lifting his head from the pillow, where dirty bleach-brittle hair straggled over the cheap synthetic-cotton slipcase. “I can’t move my legs.”

“What?”

“You heard,” he drawled, his fingers skating over his belly again. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten, but the ribs jutted and he had bruises, scratches, scars on his pasty skin. Certain nails were painted black to hide the discoloration beneath them, while David kept his a bright silvery blue for the moment. “Can’t move ‘em. Be a fuckin’ doll and throw me my cigs, will you?”

“Jim, we’ve got to get out, our curfew’s eleven and we’ve got to be back in the bus by then,” David said near-desperately, moving into the cheap hotel room to retrieve the pack of cigarettes from the dresser. He handed them to Iggy, who gave him a blank, glassy-eyed stare and then fished out a fag, settling it on his lips.

“Fuck it,” he muttered. “I can’t play tonight, Dave.”

“Fuck what?” David asked tightly, his voice rising a bit. “Fuck the show, fuck the fans, fuck the money, fuck our careers? Fuck the music? Fuck me? Fuck what, Jim?”

“All of it,” Iggy said with an unnerving, high-pitched giggle. He rolled onto his side with much effort, getting his lighter to bring the cigarette to life. He dragged on it slowly and then looked up from the pile of filthy bedclothes and laundry he was nestled upon. Naked, a thin sheet over his obscene regions, he was quite a sight to behold. It wounded David, thinking of this beautiful boy who had so enchanted him only short months before, the charisma and enigma in those lively dark eyes; damn near insane, it had seemed then, as he watched this brassy American boy climb on scaffolding and shout and spit and smear himself with peanut butter and throw glitter and swear and shake his cock at the audience as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

“Really,” David said, his voice as thin and trembling as piano wire stretched to its limit. He closed the hotel suite’s door behind himself tightly, quietly, and moved with infinite calm composure to the bedside. Dressed in platform-heeled boots of glittering red vinyl and tight leopard-skin pants, a loud sequined belt at his hips, he was shirtless and his bright red hair stuck up in mad tufts of hairsprayed chaos. He wanted nothing to do with this scene, the one sprawled on the bed before him, and yet he did. He missed his friend, the lively one that would run through the streets hanging onto his arm and laughing until their jaws ached, the one who would bruise him with kisses backstage and who would pull him out of any funk he could work himself into, the one who would grab a guitar and sit with him for hours at the back of the bus, composing and re-writing and chainsmoking until both of their throats were raw and red with nicotine abuse. This hollow shell was merely a marionette, a puppet who went where David led him, who went through the motions of living only until the next needle sank into his skin. Sometimes, when Iggy was high, that was the only time he was still alive, and Ziggy Stardust was quite at the end of his limits with the entire situation. The drugs had been fun at first, as had the sex; however, enough weeks of it endlessly and David had begun to see what many musicians could not until it was too late--- his music was suffering from his own indulgence, and if it would cost him his career then he would stop it posthaste. He was sick of this nonsense anyway, the entire Ziggy novelty having worn off by now. He was tired of copycat fans in the front row with their facepaint and wild red hair, tired of mincing about in stiletto boots and doing high kicks and talking about space aliens. There was a darkness brewing in him, and he needed to let it out soon or this would never work out another year; he would find himself mad the way his brother was mad, locked away from the public eye as every rock tabloid scrutinized him and claimed they’d always seen it coming.

I’ve become a lad insane, he thought mildly, not for the first time the phrase had been in his head, as he watched Iggy writhe languidly on the bed.

“Get up,” he said with newfound ferocity, reaching over to grab hold of the sheet and yank. Jim protested, but before he could say much David was atop him, straddling, his weight on Jim’s thin thighs and his face very close to the American man’s. He ignored the split-ended blonde hair hanging in the wild bushbaby-bright junkie eyes, the craggy face lined many years before its time. “You listen to me right now, you fucking sod. We’ve got an appointment tonight and we’re going to make it, you hear me? You’d better get the drugs under control, mate, or we’re going to be out on our asses. Tony doesn’t care, he gets half of my takings anyway and he’s not suffering a penny for this, but the label damn sure cares what sort of condition we’re in, and if we keep arriving so blitzed out of our minds that we can’t play, then we’ll both find ourselves like rats in the alleys, you understand?” His voice was a primal snarl, teeth bared, eyes wide as they locked on Iggy’s vacant gaze. For a long time he wasn’t sure if the other man had even taken any of it in, if he’d absorbed a single word of it, but then Iggy drew in a deep breath and nodded. Once. Twice. His head bobbed as if it was attached to a thin piece of string. And then his eyes glassed over and a single tear slid down his cheek. A tear of humiliation maybe, of being called out for his behavior like a child by a friend who had been, until recently, been behaving just as badly.

“You fucking hypocrite,” Iggy began, his voice slurred with the heroin and the immense effort to hold back tears. “You gonna sit there and preach at me, tell me to get straight, tell me to focus on the music, and what the hell’re you doing? Half the time you don’t even know who you are…”

The words were blurry and fuzzed, but they hit David like a load of bricks and he stared at his friend, jaw slack. He knew it was true, of course. How many nights had he found himself drunk and high on coke, smoking hashish, tangled in an incomprehensible snarl of naked limbs and strewn clothing? How many hotel rooms smashed, bars emptied, drugs inhaled in the course of any given evening? How many hearts broken and wishes granted? He drew in a slight shaky breath, then slid his hands down over Iggy’s face. The rough skin there, the stubbled jaw, cupped in David’s elegant white hands.

“I know who I am,” David said softly, “when I’m with you. Just as you know who you are when you’re with me. And it isn’t this. It isn’t Iggy of the Stooges, it isn’t Iggy of the heroin.” He slid his hands down, and pressed an urgent kiss to Jim’s mouth. It unnerved him how cool those lips were, how little resistance they gave him. “It’s you, it’s James, it’s Jim from America, and me, I’m David, it’s me from England… we’re not posh, we’re not fucking glamorous, we’re not anything but Jim and Davie, ‘ey?” There was a desperate edge to his voice, a near-hysteria creeping into it. Iggy just gazed at him with those wide dark eyes, and then he nodded again, tremulous, unsure.

“Yeah, man, sure,” Iggy murmured, those chapped lips forming the words. “Yeah, we’re just… we’re just Jim and Davie, right.” He rose one hand slowly and touched David’s carrot-orange hair, slid his fingers through the spiky bit on top. “I like it better your real color,” he muttered.

“Me too,” David murmured back, and then pressed his forehead to Jim’s. They lay like that for awhile, just sharing breath, both of them scented like cigarettes and the need to shower, last night’s sweat and sex dried on them like musky cologne, and finally David reached down and touched a scar on Iggy’s belly. “Are you feeling any better yet? Bit more like yourself?”

“I guess,” Iggy said unconvincingly, sitting up a little more. “I can feel my feet again, they tell me that’s a good thing.”

David laughed a bit, and Iggy felt his heart stretch. He loved those teeth, slightly uneven, the sharp canines that made David look predatory. The other man was so beautiful and he knew it, but only as a peripheral thing to his musical ability. He dressed up because it was expected of him as a rock star, because it was how he thought rock ought to be. He looked just as beautiful in his bell-bottomed jeans and low boots, in his paisley blouses and bangle bracelets. He was elegant and poised, and yet how many times had he and Jim sat at the back of the bus, laughing at an obscure private joke, sharing bottles of red wine and telling tales of their childhoods and growing-up to each other? He was impossibly witty and quite endearing; likewise, he knew David was in love with Jim’s own savage passion for whatever he was pursuing at the time, his unrelenting love of music and theater and conversation and coffee.

Iggy wasn’t sure he was going to kiss David, but he did, and it was a slow, sort of thoughtful one that tried to convey how grateful he was to the redhaired gargoyle perched on his lap, the man who had taken a weathered American punk singer under his wing and refined him as much as was logically possible at this date. David stiffened just a bit, but the kiss didn’t break, and after a few seconds he melted back into it, touching the snarled, filthy blonde hair with both of those beautiful hands and leaning down into the embrace quite willingly. Iggy sighed a bit, then dipped his tongue into David’s mouth. It tasted of handrolled cigarettes and hash, of sweet-sticky marijuana smoke and some kind of candy perhaps, tart and bitter like red wine when he swallowed the other man’s saliva. He wondered if David could taste the strange flat metallic flavor of junk in his own spit, the heroin-taste lingering behind his molars.

“Could we do it as we used to?” Iggy murmured, his lips grazing David’s like the feathers of a fallen angel.

“I’m afraid to,” David whispered back, his eyes closed, suede lashes lying on his razor cheeks. “I’m afraid I might break you.”

“Can’t break what’s already broken,” Iggy retorted with a crooked little smile, his hand sliding through the orange hair once more.

With a breath, David nodded, and then kissed him again.

“After this,” he murmured, sliding deep into the Holocaust-thin American boy beneath him, Iggy crying out deliriously and clutching at David’s sleek back with his black nailed hands, “let’s just be us again, eh? Let’s run away, just the two of us, and get everything back together… we’ll fix everything we broke, right?” He thrust rhythmically, unaware that there were tears slipping from his mismatched eyes and ruining his immaculate eye makeup, blotching his perfect pallid complexion.

“Berlin,” Iggy gasped as he came, his back arching violently, the junk rushing through him the same way David’s come did. “Let’s go to Berlin, I hear they got a scene there.”

“Berlin will change everything,” David promised as he sank down against Iggy’s form, his arms going so tightly around the blonde-haired singer that Iggy forgot to breathe for a moment. They had twenty minutes until they had to appear on the bus, and when they did show up, bedraggled and hair curly from drying sweat, hands clasped and bitten fingers trailing the back of each others’ knuckles, no one said a word. Angie didn’t even throw a curious look their way. It was in the air around them; they were Jim and David again, for a few moments, not Iggy and Ziggy, and even though it was still months away, the two men were already on their way to Berlin.
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