It's kind of funny, the way time can sneak up on you and bite you on the ass when you least expect it. Well, not funny so much as painful and mortifying, but I digress. To Dave, the poor soul, it must have been painful and mortifying a billion times over.
He couldn't pinpoint the exact moment when it had all gone wrong; one minute he and Kurt had been living together, fucking each other like a couple of rabbits and having a gay old time, and then the Bitch had gotten pregnant, and to make matters worse, now, now...
Now Kurt and the Bitch were actually married.
They went all the way to Honolulu to do it, getting married on the sand as the sun set behind them. Picturesque, no? Please. Courtney wore a shimmering gown, apparently once owned by Frances Farmer, and she was surprisingly, stunningly beautiful.
Kurt had worn striped green pajamas and an old pair of sandals.
Rumor had it that Kurt had been too lazy to put on his tux before the ceremony, but that wasn't really the case. In reality, he'd been stoned to the eyeballs on heroin, too wasted to perform such a feat as dressing.
Attending the ceremony was a few of Kurt's friends, a few of Courtney's cronies, and a local drug dealer who'd just happened to be passing through. Not attending the ceremony were Krist and Shelli Novoselic. Krist was furious with Kurt after his latest drug-fueled rave. He'd ranted to his wife for hours, calling Kurt a "stupid junkie asshole" who was "ruining the band" and "hurting his friends". And to top it all off, someone had told Courtney, who in turn informed Kurt...
The bottom line was: The Novoselics weren't taking to the Cobains. The Cobains weren't talking to the Novoselics.
And poor Dave was stuck bringing up the middle.
Oh yes. He was attending the ceremony, all right. At first, he'd been planning not to go, planning to stay in Seattle with Krist, instead. But then Kurt had invited him, Kurt, with his wheedling blue eyes and boyish grin and pleading expression.
"I understand if you don't feel comfortable, really, I do. But, I'd love to have you come with us. I don't want there to be any hard feelings between you and me. Not if I can help it."
"Oh, Kurt. That's sweet of you, and thank you very much, but it's just that..."
"It'll be awkward. You know it will be. So soon, after everything."
"I know," Kurt sighed.
"I want to be your friend. I don't want to fight with you, there's no fucking point. Unlike Krist, I happen to feel that squabbling over nothing is a big waste of time."
"He's right to be mad at me. You should be mad at me too, as a matter of fact. I didn't do it intentionally, but I still treated you like shit. And I'm sorry."
Dave was speechless. "No... it's..."
"If you feel like coming, please, do. It'd be so great having you there, instead of just Cort's friends."
"I, I dunno..."
"Well, it's up to you. Tell me if you change your mind."
And in the end, at the last possible moment, Dave had changed his mind, and joined the couple on a flight to Hawaii. He knew you'd change your mind all along, don't you know. He played you like a naive little fiddle.
Dave sighed, and downed another shot glass of alcohol. It was dusk now, the official wedding was over, and Kurt and Courtney Love were now Kurt and Courtney Cobain. They were married.
The word left a taste more bitter than the strongest alcohol in his mouth.
Kurt had broken down earlier, during the ceremony. He'd cried loudly and openly, and then the guests had started to cry, and by the end of the ordeal everyone had been fucking bawling. Everyone, that is, except Courtney. She'd remained stony until the end.
I can't believe it, he thought shrewdly, pouring himself yet another glass. I can't believe they went through with it. A woman like Courtney shouldn't ever get married; she's like a fucking disaster waiting to happen. And a man like Kurt shouldn't ever marry a woman like Courtney.
He drank. He shivered. The sun had gone down and the wind was cold, carrying with it the salty spray of the ocean. Waves were crashing onto the beach at regular intervals, and the sound was beautiful.
She'll put out his fire. That special little life-fire inside of him. She'll stamp it out with her power. She'll eclipse his light. And she'll domesticate him.
Men like Kurt aren't meant to be domesticated.
Losing track, he poured himself another drink, warm against the cold. It burned and stung his throat on the way down, but he barely felt it.
And what happens when the fire goes out? Why, he'll die, of course. He'll turn to ash, and he'll leave me, Courtney and the unborn baby with absolutely nothing. Not that I'd expect anything different from him.
Dave sat at the bar and pondered, and looked out at the inky black ocean. It looked slick and shiny, like oil.
He poured. And drank.
The guests lingered on the beach, little camp fires dotting the coastline. A couple of people had guitars, and they were playing and singing in drunk, off-key voices. There was the low, quiet rumble of conversation and the occasional laugh, but that was about it.
Dave lingered at the bar. Extremely drunk by this time, and very, very warm. The scotch bottle was almost empty, and the cold couldn't touch him.
The bride and groom were nowhere to be found.
Presumably, they'd snuck off together to begin the "honeymoon" a little early. In reality, this wasn't the case at all. In reality, Courtney had wandered off to a more secluded part of the beach with one or two of her friends to unwind and catch up. Kurt was still ambling around somewhere close by, keeping to the shadows, keeping to himself so he could reflect on all he had gained in a couple of weeks.
His unborn baby.
Yet a part of him, a big part of him, still felt bad.
Felt bad for Dave.
Dave sat at the bar with his head in his hands. Oh damn. I think I may have had a little too much to drink. His head was pounding. His gut was churning as angrily as the waves in the ocean. The aftertaste of scotch was stuck in the base of his throat, hot and sticky. Wearily, he closed his eyes, and willed the scotch to stay down. Don't throw up... don't throw up... don't you dare fucking throw up... He struggled to remember how much he'd had to drink, and groaned, trying to abandon the thought before it was too late.
Was it five? No, no, more than that. I'm no pussy. It was closer to ten than that.
His stomach cried out in low warning. The wind was whipping at his hair, throwing into his face and eyes. There was sand down the back of his jacked. There was even sand in the crack of his ass. He had no idea how it had gotten there, but there you go.
More like seven. Maybe eight.
His stomach gave up the fight, lurching in defeat. He felt it coming up and left the bar, knocking over the scotch bottle in the process. He stumbled down the coastline into the surf.
Here we go.
He bent, almost double, and threw up into the water that was swirling about his ankles. The current quickly carried the liquid gunk away and he fell to his knees, retching again, trembling all over. He sat down heavily in the surf, the water washing over his lap. It was warm, and oddly comforting. He grasped at a handful of sand and let it sift through his fingers.
He sat, waiting for his crying stomach to settle down. But then the water surged, and so did his gorge, and he bent over again.
His throat burned.
His eyes stung.
His ribs ached.
I thought weddings were supposed to be fun.
He gurgled painfully, and retched again.
Kurt was strolling along the coast, letting the surf pull at his toes, when he saw a dark figure huddled over on the sand. He frowned. There wasn't enough light for him to see by, so he walked closer, trying to evaluate what the hell the dark figure actually was.
Wait... is that a person?
The huddled mass glanced up, and now Kurt was close enough to see him He was sitting in the sand, his legs stretched out in front of him, water lapping against him.
"Hi, Kurt," he said, and smiled.
"Why are you sitting in the sand?"
"I threw up." It may have been the singer's imagination, but he thought it sounded as though Dave was actually proud of his accomplishment. "I had way too much to drink. More than five, less than ten. Maybe like fourteen, or something."
"Fourteen's more than ten, Dave."
Dave seemed indignant. "Hey! I knew that..."
"Uh-huh." Kurt hesitated, then squatted down beside the drunk drummer. "Beer?"
Kurt's eyebrows went up. "Really?" He sat down in the sand. "Why so much?"
"Just lost track of the time, I suppose." He glanced sideways at Kurt, eyes red from the salt and the drink. "Congratulations, by the way. On the wife. And the baby." He grinned.
"Why aren't you with Courtney?" His warbly, drunk grin was very charming, and Kurt found that he quite liked Intoxicated Dave. Intoxicated Dave was rather cute. "I thought the two of you would have been gettin' it on by how. I mean, I know if I was her, I would've jumped your bones twice tonight already."
Kurt chuckled. "Really?"
"You're not gonna remember a word of this tomorrow, are you?"
The singer cocked his head to the side fetchingly. The turn of conversation was both fascinating and amusing to him. "Hey, Dave?"
"Yeah?" Dave was wriggling his toes in the sand, entertaining himself.
"I'm glad you came to my wedding, man." Kurt put a friendly arm around his drunk companion. "And I'm glad that you're drunk, so that you can't get all depressed and moody on me."
"I think I drank so much because I got moody and depressed, know what I mean? About you getting hitched, and everything."
"Oh? I'm sorry to hear that," Kurt murmured. "Because... well, I guess you won't remember it, so I can tell you. Get it off my chest, or whatever. I think maybe... if Cort hadn't gotten pregnant when she did, then maybe I wouldn't have married her. Maybe... maybe I would've stayed. With you." He looked out at the ocean. his eyes far away. "I think I love her. But I also think... I could have... oh, what the hell am I trying to say here? I don't care if you're fucking drunk, I shouldn't be saying this shit. It's my wedding night, for fuck's sake!"
Dave said nothing.
"I, I just can't help feeling that... maybe... she's t-taking advantage of me." Unsettled, he glanced at Dave, and snorted. "Look at me. Confiding in a drunk. I must be crazy."
"Kurt..." Dave murmured, his eyes glassy and keen in the dark.
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah... no." He swallowed heavily. "I'd get up now if I were you." He retched, and Kurt scrambled to his feet quickly.
Dave leaned over and threw up for the third time, and Kurt's heart went out to him.
"C'mon." He pulled the drummer to his feet. Both men were soaked from the waist down. Dave was trembling. It was freezing. But it wasn't just the cold making him tremble.
"K-kurt?" Dave's voice was a hoarse croak. His vocal chords felt scrubbed raw.
"Let's go for a walk." Kurt laced his hand with his friend's, and noticed that his fingers were cold and hard. He squeezed. Dave squeezed back, and then it was better between them.
For hours they walked along the coastline, staying anonymous in the midnight darkness, the light from the various camp fires never reaching them. They didn't talk very much, but they kept each other warm as their clothes slowly dried.
They held hands the entire time.
Dave woke up the following morning, with a raging hangover and no memory of the previous night.
However, he felt he could almost remember the dream that he'd had.
He'd been on the beach, and Kurt had whispered secret things to him.
And they'd held hands.