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A/N: This is my first story ever, so PLEASE be gentle. (oh yeah, and it's long. REAL long)

I'm so nervous about seeing him.

It'll be the first time I've seen him in almost a month, don't you know. I hope he doesn't think I've forgotten about him. Or that I don't love him anymore. I wouldn't blame him for thinking either of these things though, Because I've been less than the supportive lover I should have been of late.

I didn't even show up to the intervention they held for him a few weeks ago. Not because I didn't care, mind. It's just the thought of him sitting there, while they each stood and recited all the reasons his heroin addiction was ruining their lives, and threatened to leave him...

Oh fuck, it makes me sick just thinking about it. Stupid fucking intervention.

So I chickened out. Didn't go. And he was left thinking that while everybody else was furious with him, I had flat out forgotten he existed.

Then I tried calling him, but every time I called, Courtney would pick up the phone. And she refused to let me speak to her husband. She says he hates me. She accuses me of turning my back on him, of abandoning him when he most needs his friends. She says I don't care about him, that I never cared.

Stupid Courtney. She won't ever understand.

You know what's really awful? I didn't even know he was in rehab until two days after he'd checked in. Exodus Rehabilitation Center. Or Hell, as I prefer to call it. I had no idea he was there. So much for the supportive lover.

This place, Exodus, it's fucking horrible. A complete nightmare. They treat their patients more like prisoners. Oh yeah, it's run like a fucking prison camp. Rooms that couldn't be more than seven feet across. Bars on the windows. Tiny beds with hardened mattresses that a thousand patients from before have probably pissed and shat and come all over. I bet they don't even wash the sheets properly.

I've done my fair share of snooping, believe me, and I've checked it all out. While he's in there, he only gets two meals a day. No cigarettes. Not even a sleeping pill or something to take his God-forsaken stomach pain away. I've been all around this Exodus place, and I've seen things. They treat him like shit. Like useless junkie rock star shit. They talk to him like he's got some huge attitude problem, but in reality he's got zero attitude. Maybe he needs some attitude. Then he'd stick up for himself instead of letting those shitheads tear chunks out of him all the fucking time. What are they calling that these days? Tough love?

Bull-shit, I say.

Maybe the All Knowing Doctors of Exodus think he's some kind of retard, or psychotic. He's been diagnosed with all sorts of shit. Depression, Manic Depression. Attention Deficit Disorder. Anything they can unload on him, and then medicate. It's so... so fucking awful, man. I can't even describe it. Words are fucking useless in situations like these. Those drugs they make him take, they're worse than the most potent dose of heroin. Change him from the furious, troubled and passionate but sweet and generous man that he is, and turn him into something... else. Into a man technically alive but emotionally dead, and I don't think I can take that. You can't connect with him when he's like that. It's like he's not even human. I wish more than anything that they'd just take the pills away. I don't care if he gets angry or depressed, or if he shouts. I'm not like Courtney. I can take care of him. I just want the man I fell in love with to come back home. Oh God.

I miss him so much. Kurt. I want you back.

Fuck Exodus, fuck those doctors. Fuck Courtney. They're all bastards and I hope they burn in Hell. They took him from me, but I swear I'm gonna bring him back.

I can still remember when I first met him.

I remember getting off the plane, sick with nerves. I had my drum kit with me and a tiny suitcase filled with clothes. No other possessions. No other life. I can remember scanning the crowded airport and hoping I wouldn't miss them, wondering if I'd know them when I saw them.

As soon as I saw him, I knew it was him. There's no denying that face, so small and so perfect. And quiet. We barely spoke two words to each other in that first meeting. Krist made up for the silence, chattering away. I liked him instantly (even if I did think he was a bit weird), but Kurt...

Kurt was something else entirely. There's just something about him. He made me shy, and I hid behind Krist, daring to look at him only when I was sure he wasn't looking back. Even then, I was smitten by him. Him and his silent, humble charm.

Like I said, we barely spoke to each other in that airport. And a couple of weeks later, we were living together.

I love him so much.

And I can't help but wonder how he'll react when he sees me. I'll admit that I'm more than a little worried about it. He's changed. Exodus has half killed him. He flinches all the time now, eyes dart about like he thinks he's being watched. He doesn't smile; the corners of his mouth sort of twitch now and then, but that's about it. He never smiles anymore. Doesn't laugh, either.

Which is a crying shame, because Kurt has a phenomenal laugh. Quirky and contagious. A fucking cackle. Sometimes, a long time ago it seems to me, we would lay together in bed, me with my head resting on his stomach, and I'd blow raspberries into his belly just to make him laugh, to feel the vibrations passing through his body into mine.

The first time I heard him laugh I almost died. His thin, secretive lips broke into a toothy grin and his voice caught in a howl of laughter, and I swear I almost passed out, it was that close. It felt like an orgasm just to hear that sound, like finding gold in a mine shaft, or the sun coming out from behind the clouds.... or something like that. Whatever. I failed poetry in high school, don't you know.

Living with him in the winter of '90 was so fucking incredible, like a dream that just stretched on and on. All day we'd sit around and mess with his guitar and the old eight track he had sitting in the corner. We'd go to the local supermarket and for hours on end we'd argue over which brand of frozen corn was the cheapest. At night, he'd go into his room, and his bedroom light would stay on for hours as he wrote in his journal, and I'd just lay out o the couch and listen to Kurt's turtles in their little tub and watch the sliver of light under Kurt's door until I fell asleep. All the time, it was just him and me.

Sometimes, I liked to imagine that Kurt and me were the only two people in the world, secret lovers, hidden away from the rest of society. Because even then, you see, I was already falling head over heels for him.

It's that Goddamn smile of his, I'm telling you.

But I was so certain that he'd never be even the slightest bit interested in me, so I hid my feelings from him. And trust me, it was fucking hard to do it. We were alone together so much of the time doing absolutely nothing, just sitting and staring at the wall. Him being silent as is his was, me fantasizing over and over about climbing into his lap and kissing the living shit out of him. But I managed to restrain myself.

For the time being.

Somehow, I managed to keep myself under control all through the winter, and later on that year, when Kurt was evicted for not paying his rent and I found my own place, I still hadn't made my move.

Nevertheless, I was totally smitten by him. A school boy crush had become full fledged desire. And whenever I was near him, or about to be near him, or just thinking about being near him, I'd have to tell myself, Get real, David! It's never gonna happen between you two, cos he's this amazing person who looks like an angel and sings like he's possessed by Satan, and he's lovely and quiet and pretty and all that other shit everybody loves about him. And you're just some stupid kid who plays drums in his band, and you're too young and naive for him, and he's never gonna want to be with you, so just drop it!

I never did manage to "just drop it" though. I couldn't. I was infatuated with him. In my mind, he was like the best drug on earth, one I couldn't get enough of. Or some sort of toxic glue. What ever the case, it was painfully obvious to me that I would never be able to get over him.

And it only got worse from there. Whenever we'd get up onstage, he'd become this whole other person. A demon of the music, howling into the microphone. Screaming his soul out between his lips, fingers a mere blur on the guitar. I can recall at least a dozen separate occasions where I've almost fainted right onto my drum kit half way through a gig, and all because of him. The ecstasy of watching him perform is just too much. Nothing turns me on more, in fact I can't remember playing a show and not having a huge boner raging in my pants by the end of it. In the beginning I'd made sure to hide my... er... problem from Kurt, but there's no need to do that anymore. Now he just laughs shallowly and takes me into some dark backstage corner, and we fuck quietly, him high on heroin, me high on his presence.

Or at least, we used to do that. The truth of the matter is we haven't played a show together in about seven weeks. I really miss it. I miss the thrill of the show. The thrill of my cock buried in Kurt's ass, afterward.

In fact, it was just after our first gig in Europe that we slept together for the first time.

I'll never forget that night.

The manic roar of the crowds was so exhilarating. They were one huge mass, screaming for us, screaming for more. The drums sounded so tight, the sticks felt so in-place between my fingers. We were fearless, we were a demonic machine.

And Kurt was perfect.

There's no use being coy about it. He fucked the microphone with his mouth, crooning the lyrics of the softer songs in a whispery moan, mewling through the choruses. His voice was filled with sex, dripping with innuendo, as if he was begging the crowd to fuck him. On the harder songs he threw his head back and howled with tortured release, every single person in the audience hot and on edge and in tune with everything he was, thrashing themselves into oblivion. In my mind I can still see how his hands held the guitar that night. He fucking stroked it, like he thought he could jerk it off or something. And I couldn't help but wish that it was my cock between his hands. It drove me wild, I could almost feel his touch on me, down there where I was hot and throbbing. It was almost impossible for me to concentrate on my drumming, as I watched him write and moan on the stage like in so many of my midnight fantasies.

I still have no idea how I managed to get through that gig, and I hid away immediately afterward, not wanting him to see me in my sex-crazed state.

I fled backstage while everyone else was still congratulating him on the mind blowing show, and I stayed in the shadows, slipping further and further away from the crowds, my hard-on still raging inside my jeans. I was embarrassed and ashamed.

And somehow, he followed me.

I remember how I yelped, embarrassingly so, when I felt a pair of hands touch my shoulders. I remember how nervous and uncomfortable I was when I spun around and saw Kurt standing behind me, a knowing smile playing across his lips. I remember how said nervousness only increased when I realized we were alone.

Completely alone.

Silently, he backed me up against the wall. It was dark, but not so dark as to miss the electric glimmer in his eyes.

Then he kissed me furiously. Open mouthed. Wet.

Then his hand slid down into my throbbing crotch, and I think it was then that my brain sort of melted out between my ears.

I guess it comes as no surprise that we fucked that night. All night long. And it was a mind blowing, pleasure filled mess.There's not really a polite was to put this, So I guess I'll just come right out with it:

Kurt Cobain is the most glorious fuck in the world.

It was better than anything I could have expected, that first time. I came at least three times for sure, but it could have been more. I can't really be sure, because the events of that night have run together to become some kind of sensual haze in the years since. I can however with complete certainty remember how truly amazing that first night was. I know a lot of people say that, say how phenomenal their sex lives are. But I don't care if they're bumping uglies with Pamela fucking Anderson, they can't have it as good as I have it. Nobody even holds a candle against Kurt.

And besides, I bet Pamela Anderson doesn't take it anal.

Anyway, you've probably gathered by now that our first time was something special, but as I laid there afterward, in the arms of my new lover in our darkened hotel room, I couldn't help but worry about the next morning. About how things would be when we woke up together after having sex the night before. It was only after hours of listening to Kurt breathing peacefully beside me that I was able to fall asleep in a kind of uneasy euphoria.

He cooked waffles for us the next morning, dressed in my Led Zeppelin shirt and nothing else, and I decided I had nothing to worry about.

I regret to say that since then, I've had to change my mind about a few things.

Please, don't get me wrong. I love Kurt with all my heart. He's a fantastic lover, and he makes a mean waffle. But I guess it's not secret that he has more than his fair share of personal problems. Some people blame it on the fact that his parents split up before his ninth birthday. Others point the finger at his unbridled substance abuse; binge drinking, heroin, cough syrup, the fucking works. But I believe it may run deeper than either of these things. I think it's something sinister engrave into his DNA, predetermined since before his birth. Sure, being shunted from home to home and living off a diet of tequila and pain killers hasn't helped matters, but that isn't the real issue here.

As much as it hurts to admit it, Kurt is a very sick man.

I'm not just talking about his stomach pains. I mean he's sick in the head. You can see it in his personality. On one hand he's this sweet, generous, caring funny person who I love so much, who's painfully shy and concerned about every little thing, who's a hopeless sap and wouldn't hurt a fly. But then... then he has this other side, like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, or whatever the fuck that book's called. I sometimes think of it as his "Rock Star Junkie" side. And I hate that part of him. It's the part of him that shoots up on heroin, that has a huge ego, and is in real need of an attitude adjustment. It's the part of him that abuses his friends and colleagues, and is hateful towards all human beings in general. And unfortunately, it's also the part of him that the journalists seem to capture in their blaring news articles. Kurt reads those articles, you know, and man, they just about rip apart his heart. He's like that, gets hurt real easily. Sometimes, he hurts other people. He's hurt me... but he's always so sorry afterward.

By the time I realized he was like this, that he was to separate people, it was too late for me to save myself. I was in too deep, too much in love with him. And even if I had the chance to take it all back, I wouldn't. I want to be with him. For better or worse, I want to be with him. Hell, I think I need to be with him. To survive.

I first realized I'd fallen in love with him when he told me he was marrying Courtney Love.

And how did I feel? How do you think I fucking felt? Shocked. Betrayed. That he would marry some stripper turned stalker who he'd run away from for a good year or so. The bitterly ironic part is that I was the one who introduced them to each other. The quiet poet and the Nazi bitch. A match made in Heaven wouldn't you say? I feel so stupid to have done it, I should've seen what was going to happen. Kurt was utterly transfixed by her. She was everything that he wasn't. That he needed to be. Strong. Confident. Sure of herself. He was in awe of her from the get go. And I have my suspicions that he may have been a little afraid of her.

So even though I was scorned when he told me, I sort of understood. In a twisted way, she completed him. She offered him the security he needed. By trying to control every aspect of his life.

But that's not even the half of it. Another cruel twist of fate is that Courtney was terrified of commitment, even though it was her idea that the two of them get married. She hated the idea of being domesticated. I know, because she told me herself.

It was the week before the wedding, and she and Kurt threw a party. She got very drunk, and told me things she probably regrets saying. If she can remember saying them at all, that is. She told me she was only marrying Kurt for the fame attached to his name. Told me she intended to turn him into a "real rock star". Then she told me she wanted me to fuck her.

That was more than I could take, so I left right then and there, furious with Courtney. I wanted to tell Kurt about what she'd said, but he was high off his rocker on heroin, and couldn't understand a word I was saying.

I mustered up some courage a few days later, and confronted him.

He went ballistic.

Screamed at me. Ranted about how I was jealous of his success and now, of his marriage. He threw an empty whiskey bottle at my head, badly misjudging the distance, and it shattered against the wall behind me. I shouted back, shouted things I'm not proud of, and I called him a shitty lover and a shittier friend.

Then he said that he hated me.

And in my hysterical state, I believed him.

That was the first real fight that we ever had, and the second worst one to date. I left in a flood of angry curse words and tears, and according to Krist, when he went up to investigate later on, Kurt's entire room was smashed to smithereens. The man himself was huddled on his bed, sobbing. Krist told me that he was near inconsolable.

Apparently, I'd cut him very deeply. Apparently, he didn't hate me at all.

Two days later, they were married.

The ceremony was horrible. He didn't even invite Krist, they were fighting so badly. I couldn't help but think that Kurt had only invited me so he could rub his marriage in my face. Ha-ha! I'm getting married and you're all alone! You love me but I don't love you! Ha-ha! Complete bullshit, of course, but hey. I was hurting pretty bad,

He broke down during the whole "man and wife" part. He started to cry. He was stoned up to his eyeballs on smack. Everyone could tell. He was still crying later on that night, when he confronted me, and fell to his knees before me and begged me to forgive him. I was angry, but when he reached up and touched the ends of my hair with his fingers, my anger sort of disintegrated. I couldn't be angry anymore. Then he pulled me into a distant corner, and begged me to fuck him. So I did. I fucked him up against the wall, while he sobbed and mumbled nonsensical things to me, delusional with drugs. I wanted to tell him that I loved him, but I couldn't. It wasn't the right time. Not the right time at all.

I did realize something though, that night at Kurt's wedding. I realized that even though he was married, it didn't mean I couldn't get a little on the side. I also realized that their marriage wouldn't have lasted to the end of the month, if it wasn't for the fact that Courtney was already pregnant.

I know that from this perspective, Kurt probably doesn't seem like a very appealing person. But those were tough times for him; the band had blown up overnight, we were expected to be in four different places at once, and everybody wanted a piece of him. He was worshiped, he was scrutinized, and he became the God of hundreds of thousands of fans everywhere. He tried his best to cope with it, he really did.

But the whole thing was messing him up.

A lot of bad things were happening to Kurt, and in turn he was doing a lot of bad things. But you have to understand. He was still the sweet, innocent person his friends loved him for. He was getting lost underneath all the hype and glamor of our band. And he knew it was happening, too. That was the worst part. He would knock on my door at all hours of the night, sobbing, and stumble into my arms, telling me how sorry he was, how he'd fucked everything up, and how he was so afraid the people he loved would get fed up with him, and just leave. And I'd take him in and we'd go to bed, and afterward we'd lay in the dark and he'd promise me he'd stop all the shit, and be good to his friends, and sort things out with her good and proper. One time, in the dry darkness of my bedroom, he even came close to saying that he loved me.

But he was always gone by morning, and I'd wake up cold and alone, and it was like we'd never even talked. Even now, I can't help but think how close he came to killing himself, in those long months of '92. Things were just so terrible for him.

But then, a small miracle of sorts found its way into the world.

And her name is Frances Bean Cobain.

Kurt's daughter. He is so proud of his little baby girl. He worships her. He idolizes her. And she's saved his life countless times, his low point in 1992 being not the least of them. She helps him in a way that I'll never be able to, he lives for her, because while he believes that I would be better off if he were dead he knows in his heart that his daughter needs him to be there for her.

I need him too, for that matter, but he'd never hear a word of it. It was hard enough to convince him that I love him at all. I don't think he'll ever know just how much I care.

But anyway, after Frances was born, Kurt's outlook on life began to change. Don't make the mistake of thinking it was all sunshine and rainbows, though. Far from it, actually. The worst was yet to come.

About two weeks later, it was leaked that Courtney had taken heroin while unknowingly pregnant. And then Frances was taken away from them.

It drove Kurt insane. I remember having to physically hold him back as the paparazzi taunted him; a father consumed by agonizing grief, struggling in my arms and howling death threats to everyone and anyone he'd ever known. Having his baby taken away from him tore away his heart. Oh yeah, Courtney cleaned up her act, and the couple went to court and got their daughter back, but Kurt never really got over it. The pain's still right there in his heart, and the memory haunts him.

Oh, Kurt.

After they got Frances back, he seemed happier, fuller. Richer. He seemed happier with his family life. He and me were still fucking like a couple of rabbits on the side, don't get me wrong, but he was telling anyone who'd listen about how happy he was to have his wife and baby girl. About how he didn't even need to take drugs anymore.

He had everybody fooled. When in reality, it was worse than ever.

Every day we would go to band practice, and he and Krist and I would snarl and bicker with each other for hours. Usually, one or more of us would be in tears by the end of the day. Other times, there'd just be this cold, dead silence, where none of us would be talking to the other two. It was fucking awful, and the band ame close to falling apart.

My relationship with Kurt did fall apart, for the time being. The sex dried up, and for a period of almost two months we barely even spoke to one another. Oh man, it was so horrible. I cried myself to sleep almost every night. I couldn't function; a fear was looming over me. The fear of ending up alone.

So I did something I'm not proud of.

I was so sure there was no hope left for me and Kurt, so I hooked up with this girl I'd been dating for awhile. Jennifer Youngblood. I felt so heartless for doing it. I loved Kurt so much, so fucking much, but I was still sleeping with her instead of him every night. I couldn't help myself. It seemed like Kurt and I were over for ever, and I did have some genuine feelings foe Jen, but the honest truth is that when it boils right down to it... I just couldn't stand the idea of living alone.

So that's how it went. And eventually we even healed the rift in the band. Well, we had help, I guess. Kurt decided to hire a second guitarist, Pat Smear. But Pat wasn't always his name. Get this, he actually changed his name to Pat Smear in high school when he learned what a pap smear was and decided it was the grossest thing he'd ever heard of. Pat's sweet and charming, but unlike Kurt, he's got balls, too. And there's just something about him that has a very soothing effect on the band. He took some of the pressure off, maybe. So me and Krist and Kurt all kissed and made up... metaphorically speaking, of course. In reality, both Kurt and I were still very much into our separate relationships.

We stayed stubbornly, bitterly apart for close to five months. I was sure it was the end. So sure, in fact, that me and Jen got engaged. I was all but ready to give up on him for good. All but ready to try and start a new life for myself, and maybe even get over him.

It just goes to show how very far I've fallen for Kurt, because when the opportunity to pick up the pieces came around, I didn't even hesitate. I didn't stop to think about Jen. I didn't give a hoot about her ( Jennifer who? Ha-ha!). And I know how horrible that must sound, but I'm not gonna lie about it. I didn't stop to think about how much steadier a relationship with her would be than a relationship with a married, drug addicted hurricane, I only acted.

I jumped straight back into bed with the man I'd always belonged to. And it was incredible.

Let me explain how it happened.

We shared a hotel room while we were on tour, him and me alone, just like in the old days when we'd shared an apartment. I still wanted him. So fucking badly. For some reason, he looked particularly beautiful to me that night. A changed man from the agonizing months beforehand. The joys of his daughter and his band reflected warmly in his eyes, highlighting the Arctic blue and making them sparkle. And he was smiling. A true, happy smile, one I haven't seen in a long time since.

It as a struggle, but I was hoping to keep control over my emotions. It became impossible when he stole over to sit beside me on the bed. I didn't look at him, didn't dare look at him, but then he touched my hand with his, and began speaking lowly into my ear. About how sorry he was. About how he'd fucked up, about how he was so glad I'd stuck by him all this time. How I was such a talented musician, and a fantastic friend. And how there was no way he deserved somebody like me.

Oh, man. How do you react like something like that?

I was shocked by his behavior. I wanted to say something, anything, but I couldn't. There was nothing to say. I could only sit, silent and in awe of him. He meant those words with all his heart. I could tell by the tears pooling in his eyes.

Then the hand on mine pulled me close, and he pressed his lips right up to my ear, like he wanted to breathe the words into me. The four words he crooned then still send shivers down my spine to this day. Sometimes, I can scarcely believe it was real.

It was real.

I love you, David.

It broke me completely. After holding it in for months on en, suddenly I didn't have to anymore. The dam broke and I fell into his arms, all pretense gone, and he held me as I choked and sobbed and managed to find his lips with mine. Between one teary breath and the other, I gave him my answer.

Oh God, I love you too. I've only ever loved you.

We made love all through that night, again and again. God, it was wonderful. Fast, and passionate, where he'd chant my name as he ground into my lap from above. Then slow and sweet, and I clothed him with my weight and brushed my hips against his back, barely even moving. Then he pulled me down to him, and held me like he was afraid I'd disappear if he let go. And he buried his face in the crook of my neck and cried softly; him moaning to me that he was sorry, that he'd fucked up, but that he would change and love me forever and ever. Me murmuring to him that it was alright, that everything would be okay. That I'd protect him. He'd nodded, tried to smile, and I thumbed his blonde hair gently and brushed the tears from his eyes. Then we'd made love one last time, no longer two entities but one single being, wrapped in one another, moaning in the midst of pleasure and pain.

He worshiped me that night, with a fire-like intensity I'll never forget. His was of apologizing. His way of proving to me that he loved me. He didn't need to do that, though. I knew. Just from the way he looked at me, I knew.

That night, and many nights afterward, we were pure magic; bouts of lovemaking broken up by long hours of the two of us nuzzling and murmuring, and just existing together.

It was a golden time.

But Kurt was still seeing me behind Courtney's back, and she was beginning to suspect. And the vultures in the paparazzi were still baying for his blood. And the pressures and demands of the band, of the touring and the sessions and the interviews, it was all beginning to wear him thin.

He slowly began to die inside. I saw it, but there was nothing I could do. Sooner or later he was bound to snap. And it came sooner rather than later.

Looking back on the past years like this makes me so damn sad, because it seems like I can only elaborate on the negative things. The fights, the tears, the drugs. Courtney. But there's been good times, too. Loads of good times. Kurt is a wonderful person, we've had so much fun together. Like the time we got locked out of our hotel room, so we raided a linen cupboard and dressed up like ghosts, running up and down the corridors. Just for the hell of it. And the time we filled an indoor swimming pool with ten bottles of shampoo to make our own giant bubble bath. That time we tried to dye Kurt's hair by filling the bathtub with blue food coloring and sticking his head in. The time we shared a strawberry milkshake in bed, naked and laughing. The recording sessions, the feeling I get when we record a harmony together. All the celebratory fucks we've had backstage after a hit show, his way of congratulating me. The food fights. The back rubs. The pranks we've pulled on anyone who was unwary enough to stand still for a second. All the times we've spent together, just curled up in a comfortable embrace as the hours melted away. The times he's cried, and I've comforted him. The time's he's comforted me. The times we've laughed so hard that my mouth has locked up and my ribs have started burning. I live for those moments, and they're the most beautiful moments in existence.

In those moments, Kurt makes me feel beautiful. Coveted. His special little drummer-boy, me made specially for him and him for me.

But then one day, only a few months ago, it all fell apart. And Kurt had his inevitable breakdown. Remember how the fight I had with Kurt about his marriage was the second worst we've ever had?

Well, this was the worst one.

The day Kurt came to me to tell me we were over.

I remember it with gruesome clarity. He knocked on my door and I opened it right away, so glad to see him. He was a mess, looking haggard and old beyond his years. Eyes were bloodshot and hollowed. He looked as though he'd been crying.

I asked him what was wrong, but he could only shake his head sadly and stare at the ground. It unnerved me, it even scared me. And I did the only thing I could think of doing. I reached out to hug him.

He recoiled immediately, and finally rose to meet my gaze. Such a desperate and self-loathing expression I had never seen before.

She knows, he said then, flatly, and I understood straight away. She'd found out about us. Somehow, that bitch Kurt calls a wife had found out about our affair. It made me angry. But mostly, I was just concerned.

So then I tried to convince him, in a rambling, stuttered speech, that it didn't have to matter, that he could leave her and I'd leave Jen, and we could make a life together. But I was becoming more and more disheartened with every passing second, and it didn't help that he was shaking his head at me. I became even more frightened. And the more frightened I got, the angrier I became. Angry at myself for letting this happen, angry at Courtney (the stupid bitch), but mostly, angry at Kurt. Because he just wanted to give up. But I couldn't give up because I loved him. I told him so.

You don't understand. His tortured eyes begged me to understand. I refused to. If I leave her, she'll take Frances away. I'll never see my baby again. And that was it. I couldn't convince him otherwise, because the hurt of losing his daughter was still fresh in his heart, and he'd stop at nothing to keep it from happening again. My pleas for him to reconsider started off soothing, then tearful and desperate, and finally as my control broke, with unbridled fury. I screamed into his grief-stricken face, screamed even as I begged him to stay, spat out with poisonous contempt how his wife loathed him, and would leave him regardless of whether he was seeing me or not. I mocked him, saying he would die alone after years of turning his back on the people who loved him. I called him the secret name out loud, called him a stupid rock star junkie, that it was killing me to have him live the way he did. His face sort of crumpled in on itself, and I realized with horror that I was watching his heart break. I was hurting the man I loved.

Then the screams broke and I was sobbing, groaning to him even as he turned to leave. I thought you loved me! He wheeled to face me slowly, almost dream like, and I'll never forget the expression on his face, not if I live to be a hundred.

I'm sorry, Dave, he whispered, and then with a horrible finality. Goodbye.

And suddenly, I was screaming again. Fine! Get out of here you miserable fuck! I never want to see you again! Go on and live with your Goddamn stripper-whore, and I hope you two are fucking happy together!

He turned his back on my furious rant, and just walked out on me, closing the door softly behind him as he went.

Exactly one week later, he ODed in Rome on a complicated mix of Rohypnol and champagne. Then he lapsed into a coma.

And I was told he was dead.

Most of you probably know the story. Kurt was taken to hospital for emergency stomach surgery, and they removed excess of twenty pills from his stomach. Well, someone who shall remain nameless must have fucked up the news, because they called me and told me he had passed on.

I went insane.

I threw myself on the floor and just went fucking insane. I howled, and screamed at Jennifer, and howled some more. God, I feel sick and weak all over just thinking about it. It took twenty minutes for them to ring back and tell me he was alive after all. I howled again and thanked God and cried with relief, but with anger, too. Kurt had fucked up, and badly. He'd almost died.

And I'm the only one who knows how deep it ran.

Most people were told it was just an accident, that the Rohypnol was to help him sleep, or something. Heck, maybe some people even believed it. Others, the ones closest to him, we knew better. We were shown the suicide note. But out of all of us, I was the only one who read it, and knew that when Kurt wrote you don't love me anymore and you'll be better off without me, he wasn't talking about Courtney.

It was my fault.

I screamed at him that I'd wanted him out of my life, and then he'd gone and tried to make it a reality.

you don't love me anymore

Oh fuck, Kurt. I'm so sorry.

I wanted to go and visit him in the hospital, but I couldn't. I was too consumed by guilt, and scared shitless by what he'd tried to do. "Suicidal" was now added to the long list of qualities of the "Rock Star Junkie". God, I'd called him that. I'd called him a stupid rock star junkie. And then he'd tried to kill himself.

I kept telling myself that I owed it to him to go and apologize, but I kept getting this image in my head. Of a skinny blonde man, clad in flimsy pajamas, with a suicide note stuffed in his pocket. Sitting on the edge of a bed where his wife was sleeping. His wife, who didn't love him anymore. His shoulders shaking, and silhouetted in Roman moonlight. Gobbling pills, one after the other. Chasing them down with alcohol. Crying bitterly.

This image was always accompanied by it's partner. The skinny blonde man lying at the foot of the bed. Blood gushing from his nose. Unconscious, comatose. Dying. Courtney screaming above him, dialing 911.

After about a week Kurt was well enough to leave the hospital. And I never did manage to visit him while he was there. I was just too fucking scared.

Once he got back home, I decided to call him. It was really awkward; neither of us knew what to say, and neither of us wanted to bring up what has since become known as "the Rome incident". I think Kurt was talking about dirt bikes or something, I wasn't really listening. I was just thinking about how good it was that he was still alive. I slipped up then, and told him how I'd been so scared for him. There was a long pause, and I feared that he'd hung up on me. But then, in a voice as subdued as mine had been, he told me that he was sorry for scaring me, and that it'd just been an accident. I knew full well that he was lying, but that's what he told me. Conversation became a little easier, and we talked for a few more minutes before hanging up. No "I love yous" were exchanged. We said our slightly stiff goodbyes, and that was that.

I'm yet to tell him that for twenty full minutes of my life, I believed Kurt Cobain was dead, and to me life just wasn't worth living. I'm not sure if I ever will tell him, for that matter. I don't know if telling him's still a possibility. I don't even know if he'll ever speak to me again. For all I know, he could hate me.

A couple of weeks after he ODed in Rome, they held the intervention at his house. You already know that I didn't go. Hopefully now, you've got a better idea as to why.

Not that I was invited anyway. Courtney still doesn't want me anywhere near her husband. It's kind of funny in a sick, twisted way. She complains endlessly that Kurt's friends have all turned their backs on him, but it's because of her. It's because she's in the way, and we can't reach him anymore. And I hate her. I hate the bitch. I really, really do. She's taken the man I love and broken his spirit and fucking institutionalized him. I want him back so bad.

But anyway, that's about it. That's the story of me and Kurt. Well, the abridged version of it, anyway. With all the sweetest moments sketched over, and the gory details left in. The paparazzi would have a field day if they knew. It's exactly the kind of thing that would appeal to them. Jesus, I even feel like one of them. I shouldn't objectionalize Kurt like this, I shouldn't call him a "Rock Star Junkie" and elaborate on his problems like they're the important bits. Maybe they are the fucking important bits. To them. But not to me.

Kurt deserves better than what this life can offer him. The story of me and Kurt... no, I don't that. It sounds much too final. The story of me and Kurt so far. Yeah. It's not over yet. Can't be. It's just...

It's just I'm so nervous about seeing him, though.

Oh well, enough stalling for time. I'm here, I'm in Exodus, and visiting hours are almost over. But I've signed for a Leaver's Pass, which means I can take a patient out of the grounds overnight.

Granted he'll go with me.

Kurt's staying in room 33B. I should know, because I'm standing right in front of it. The numbers and letters are right there on his door, printed in faded black.

Fuck. I feel like I've been standing out here for hours, trying to psyche myself up. Passer-bys must have been staring at me and wondering if I'm off my rocker.Come to think of it, I can't even remember if there have been any passer-bys. I've been so absorbed in my own thoughts... Damn! I'm stalling again. Oh well, give me a break. I'm scared about this, don't you know.

It takes all my courage to lean forward and knock on his door, and it seems to take an eternity for my hand to make the six inch journey from my side to the panel of wood before me, but eventually, it does.

"Coming." Oh Jesus Mary mother of Christ, that's him, oh God, that's my Kurt and I have no idea what to say to him, I should have prepared better for this and oh fuck but what on earth was I thinking?

Then the door opens, and all of that seems to just... fly away. He's wearing pajamas, the green ones, the ones I love because they're so warm and soft and nice to cuddle up next to at night. His shoulder length blonde hair is mussed and unwashed, but it's his face that I get stuck on. How drawn and pale he is. The bags under his eyes. His eyes themselves, the shocking electric blue that I remember so well, widened in surprise at seeing me in his doorway. I'm struck dumb by him, and he seems equally stupefied by me. I wonder absently which one of us will speak first, or if we'll just go on like this, stupid and silent, forever. Then he breaks the silence.

"David?" he croaks hesitantly, as if he thinks I'm an illusion. His voice is hoarse. How long had it been since he had someone to talk to? I step towards him, but he just takes a compromising step backwards into his tiny room. That stings just a little bit, but I'll try my best to ignore it.

"Hello Kurt," Taking a moment to congratulate myself on how normal my voice sounds. I didn't know I had it in me. "I've come to visit you." Yeah, duh. He just stares, his face is quizzical yet somehow slack, like a dumb man. His eyes aren't dumb though. They're sharp as a razor blade. I think he might be in mild shock. I think I might be, too.

"It's almost nine 'o'clock," he says finally, just when I'm convinced that he's not going to answer me. "Visiting hours finish at nine."

"I know." I take another step forwards, and this time he doesn't flinch away. That's good. There's a puzzle line creasing the skin between his eyebrows, and I know he doesn't understand why I'm here. After ignoring him for so long, he doesn't understand why I'm here. So I show him the Leaver's Pass. "But I got one of these passes, and it means I can take you out of here." Dazedly he takes the card from me, and when our fingers touch, it's something electric. He's moving slowly, but he doesn't seem to be too heavily medicated. His eyes are too sharp for that. Maybe he's just homesick. "There's a hotel just down the road," I continue, and he gazes at me serenely. There's something flickering in his face, now. "A nice hotel. Lots of spare rooms, I bet. If you wanted to, we could go there tonight." I'm biting the inside of my lip nervously. "I could take you there." There. It's out. Kurt turns and looks back at the old, lumpy mattress in the corner of his room, and a spasm of hate crosses his face. I'm just glad that hate isn't directed at me."

"It'd be good to sleep in a nice bed," he murmurs, almost wistfully, and his words are disjointed. Like it's costing him a tremendous effort to speak. Maybe he is doped up on meds, after all.

"Yeah." I'm babbling, but I can't help it. "Yeah. They'll have loads of rooms, loads of nice beds, too. You can get a bed to yourself, if that's what you want. Your own hotel room. I'll pay for it. You don't have to share with me, if-" I choke a little on that. Suddenly it's hard to finish my sentence. "If you don't want to do that anymore."

He stares at me, right into my eyes, and I moan. My soul's being penetrated. The world's going blurry around the edges of my vision. I've got tears in my eyes.

More amazingly, he's got tears in his eyes, too.

"When, when you didn't visit or call," he begins, his voice thick and even more disjointed, and I realize it's not from the medication. He's just trying not to cry. "I thought that you'd forgotten, or gotten fed uo, or-"

That's more than I can stand. With a groan I rush forwards and we meet in the middle, and I crush his little body against my chest and he's hitching and trembling. And I love him, I love him forever.

I moan into his hair. "Oh Kurt. Kurt. I never forgot. I didn't want to desert you. I was just angry and so, so scared."

"I'm sorry." And now he's crying against me; I can feel hot tears wetting my neck. So I stroke his hair and rock him and try to make it better. "I'm so sorry, Dave, for being such a screw up."

Oh, Kurt, honey. You're not. "I love you," is all I can say, and he cries harder.

"I, I l-love you, too." He's clutching at me so hard, and I think he's afraid to let go. I never want him to let go. "And I don't want my own room. Let's share the room, let's share the bed. Let's share each other's space. In fact, forget the fucking hotel. I don't care where we are, I just want to be with you. I want to be with you, Dave, forever. I just love you so f-fucking much!". That's about all he can manage, because he's tired and overwhelmed and relieved, and underneath all that he's still going through withdrawal as his heroin cravings begin to build. But it wouldn't matter if he never said another word to me again. I've heard everything I wanted to hear.

"Kurt." I tuck him under the shelf of my chin and hold him tightly, and he stays against me willingly. Then he tilts his head up to mine, and we kiss, and it's so perfect after so long an absence that I've give anything to just freeze time and stay in this moment forever.

We never do make it to that hotel, but rather fall onto his bed in each other's arms; his body feeling far more comfortable than the stingy old mattress beneath us, but I hardly care. I've got my face pressed up against the back of his pajama top, and it smells like him, smells perfect, and the warmth of his skin radiates through it, and I can feel and hear him breathing, and it's everything I ever needed.

I'm happy because I love him.

And I know that he loves me.

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