FicWad

“Anyone who hasn’t experienced the ecstasy of betrayal knows nothing about ecstasy at all.”
-Jeab Genet

Lena Boggs popped in a Nirvana C.D and started jamming to ‘Smells like Teen Spirit’ alongside her best friend, Gracie Moore, granddaughter of world famous Elvis guitarist, Scotty Moore.
She drove onto another road leading to a popular club and turned down the music a little. “Kurt Cobain was such an influential musician as well as a total hottie, I can’t he believe this is the anniversary of his death.” She told Gracie who nodded, still jamming to the song.
“Yeah I know, it feels weird doesn’t it?” She said and then grinned at Lena. “If he was still living, are you sure that you-know-who wouldn’t be jealous?” she teased. "After all, they were best friends"
Lena looked down briefly before turning her eyes back onto the road. Grace smiled a small smile and took her hand. "I'm sorry honey . . . I know you don't like to talk about your past . . ."
Grace suddenly stopped dancing and gazed out the window as they pulled into the parking lot. “Speaking of Kurt Cobain, look!” Lena looked out the window and slammed on the breaks, throwing both of them forward, but that didn’t matter, their eyes were on the Kurt Cobain look alike.
If he wasn’t dead, Lena and Gracie would’ve sworn that it was him walking out of the club, especially Lena. “Holy shit . . . I-its Kurt.” Gracie said her lips barely moving.
“I-It’s impossible; he’s supposed to be dead.” Lena replied, hardly believing her own eyes.
He had the same blue eyes that used to look at Lena with so much love in them. The same shoulder-length dirty blonde hair with brown roots that she would bury her hands in when they kissed. He had the same handsome face and slight brown stubble, but the thing that freaked both of them out was that he was wearing the clothes that they reported him dead in. The Clothes that were burned into Lena’s mind.
“He’s cuter in person.” Gracie said and Lena grinned and rolled down Gracie’s window. Gracie leaned back as she leaned forward, driving up next to a confused Kurt-look-alike.
“Hey cutie, want a ride home?” he asked. He grinned. He even had the same sparkling white teeth and sexy bad boy grin that Lena used to love and still did.
His eyes moved from Grace’s face to Lena’s and a flicker of slight recognition swept across his face when he saw Lena. “Sure but do one thing for me . . .”
Grace smiled. “You name it.”
He grinned. “Don’t call me cutie. Call me Kurt.”
*
“I’ll see you later Gracie.” Lena called as Gracie shut the door, winked at her and then ran up the sidewalk towards her apartment she shared with her Spanish doctor boyfriend, Antonio.
"Yeah sure, just be good . . ." she called back.
Kurt climbed up into Gracie’s now vacant seat and grinned at her when she shot him a playfully dirty look. He laughed a little and leaned up against the door as she drove off down the road.
“So, where do you live stranger?” she asked him, eyes on the road.
“I don’t know.”
She glanced at him. “Okay that’s funny, now really, where do you live?” she asked him again.
“I told you the truth, I don’t know.”
“Kurt, don’t fucking kid me-”
“I’m telling the truth Lena!” he snapped. “I honestly do not know where I fucking live.”
“Well then, great, just great. Where the hell do I take you then?”
He gazed at her and stuck out his lower lip. She shook her head. “Oh no Kurt. No. No way are you crashing at my house.”
*
Lena groaned to herself as she opened the door to her house and walked in, Kurt behind her. He closed the door quietly behind himself as she led the way into the living room and held out her arms.
“Make yourself at home. My home is your home now I guess.” She said rather coldly. “I hope you don’t mind dominating the couch for the next few nights.”
He shook his head as he sat down. “Naw I don’t care, I’ve slept in worse before.”
He looked away, staring off into space, and looking deep in thought. She sat across from him on the coffee table. “You-you really don’t remember anything except your name?” she asked him and he looked at her and nodded.
“Yeah basically.” He said quietly. “Except the fact that I was in a band called Nirvana, and that you look strangely familiar.”
“So you don’t remember Courtney?”
He gazed at her in confusion, his brows furrowed. “Courtney who?” he asked and she grinned.
Yes, he doesn’t even remember his old wife. She thanked silently in her head.
“Uh . . . what about her?” She gazed at him and he shook his head. “I honestly don’t know who the hell you’re talking about but still, what about her?” he asked her, shrugging. She shook her head.
“It’s nothing, forget about it Kurt.” She said, smiling and laughing a little bit, as she looked away. He smiled a little, leaned forward and gently moved her face to where they were staring into each other’s eyes; her brown ones into his amazingly beautiful blue ones. They were almost too beautiful for a human; much less a man.
He hesitantly leaned forward, their lips touching softly, almost shyly. He kissed her lightly, their eyes closing as she allowed him to part her lips with his own. They pulled apart and Lena looked down, smiling a little and biting her lip. He smiled too and kissed her again, this time, she kissed him back.
The kiss slowly deepened and she put her hands on his neck, deepening the kiss considerably. He pulled her onto his lap and leaned back against the couch, kissing her hard and passionately, almost desperately; his mouth seeking hers almost in a silent plea for it to be touched by another’s as he brought his hands to her neck and slipped his tongue into her mouth; making love to her mouth with his.
His hands were then on her thighs and suddenly, she wanted him to not only kiss her, but touch her as well. She wanted him to wrap his strong arms around her and kiss her like he had never kissed another woman in his life. She wanted him to kiss her like any man had never kissed her. She wanted her to be the only woman he ever thought of.
Almost like he could read her mind, he wrapped his arms around her waist, crushing her body to his and she felt the hard bulge pressing against his tight jeans. He moaned into her mouth as she ran her hands up under his shirt and glided over his smooth, sculpted chest, and as she rubbed against the bulge.
“Looks like someone wants to come out and play.” Kurt murmured to her around his kisses and they both grinned.
“Maybe you should allow him to . . .” she murmured back.
He grinned devilishly as one of his hands snaked under her skirt and cupped her through her underwear, making her moan into his mouth as he rubbed his hand against her.
“Yeah maybe I should and while I’m at it maybe I should take off that annoying piece of cloth that’s stuck between us-” All of a sudden, a bell went off in her head and she pushed him away.
“Kurt . . . I’m sorry but . . . I can’t . . .” she said, gently rubbing her lips, not able to look him in the eyes.
They stayed in silence for a few moments before she got off of Kurt and walked to the doorway of the living room. “Um . . . maybe I’ll sleep in my bed. I think you should sleep on the couch Kurt. There are blankets under the couch.” She said and was about to walk away when they heard a voice come from behind her.
“Mommy . . .?” They both turned to look at the doorway as a little boy with dirty blonde hair and Lena’s brown eyes enter the living room. He was clutching at a little stuffed dog’s ear and was rubbing his eye with his tiny, pudgy fist.
Kurt’s breath caught in his throat and his eyes grew wide in recognition as Lena walked over to him and picked him up. “Honey, this is your father . . . Kurt Cobain. Kurt, this is your son . . . Cole Cobain.” she said.
And with that, she walked out of the living room, Cole in her arms; and shut the doors behind her without a word.
*
It wasn't so very long ago that things were normal; if not properly so, then in the relative sense at the very least. She had really been starting to get the rhythm of things. Instability was steady work for her. Now she felt like the journalist for Rolling Stone with no pen or paper. A mother without food and clothing and shelter for her child. No column, nothing to keep things going for her and her family.
She wondered how long this would go on, this sort of free-floating free fall. She goes walking for hours sometimes while Cole is at kindergarten beneath the dead grey Seattle sky with a lit fag in her hand until she feels submerged; indistinguishable from her surroundings, like she could blend in perfectly with the pale concrete walls of the surrounding buildings.
Oh but she's been looked right through more than once, not just as if she wasn't famous, but someone . . . ordinary. Not just some woman that was Kurt Cobain's mistress before he ‘killed himself’; but as though she wasn't there at all. She feels sometimes like she could disappear altogether; fade into the dreary Seattle rain. Its when she begins to feel right at home.
Right now, though, she's at her house, lying in bed, and she can't sleep. She couldn’t remember when she could just lie awake at night and not have to sleep. She's remembering when everything still had color. When everything was red, a glorious red. Red as blood spat up from a torn smacked glob, red blinding lights on a smeared stage; red as her face in those lights from the backstage, reflecting in the eyes of a numberless horde of screaming faceless boys and girls. Red like the Hell the furious protesters had condemned them to, as if they'd ever believed in anything so boring, a fable told by parents to get them to behave. This was how it was. This was how it always had been since the dawn of time. It had been wild, yet right, though maybe not as much as the legends and rumors she knew were already springing up around them might claim.
Jumping on red-spread beds in a dingy apartment in filthy, mud-caked boots and peeling off their rain-soaked clothes and shoes before having mind-blowing sex while floating on a new blend of cocaine imported straight from Cambodia when they were younger. When there were lit fags in hands and seared sore marks on thin wrists alongside Heroin needle-holes. Stealing planks of fence wood for warmth. When condoms were 95 cents but they didn’t buy them anyway because they thought they were ten feet tall and bullet proof and thought that STD’s and unwanted pregnancies couldn’t happen to them. Now that . . . that was real.
There had still been an almost-fresh red series of scratches across Kurt's chest when she'd gone to see him, the last time in her last dream. It had all been about that, somehow, red even in livid lips on a face blank and empty as the morgue. Kurt didn't look all that different dead than he had alive; she remembered thinking with queasy bemusement. They'd had the decency to close his eyes; she'd almost wished they hadn't. There had been a rust-colored floret of dried blood staining the temple of Kurt's head, spattering, flowering out, the hole the bullet left seeming huge, gaping. Even next to all the other little scars Lena could tell exactly which one it was, a neon sign lighting the site of a murder.
She would have to make it all go out with a bang, so to speak. She would be the final nail in the coffin. She wasn't at all certain if the look on Kurt's face, nearly peaceful, was his imagination or not.
"You always had to make things more than they were," she says, pressing her hand to her forehead, trying to massage away the beginning of a migraine thumping in her temple. To the air, to herself, to Kurt; she isn't really sure. Like everything else had been, it had to be swift, a quick, dirty, irrevocable thing. Everything had gone down the drain too fast to blink. Had she caused it in her dream, breaking up the band, or had they been on this path all along? She can almost see the dirty footprints staining the sheets. She'll sometimes put on his leather jacket that she kept and catch a faint whiff of weed, and she'll just stop dead. She would often look into her sons' eyes on the playground, into the wide blue eyes and see the unmistakable joy and incredulity shining in his eyes; and there would be no mistaking that Cole Cobain, was Kurt Cobain’s son.
"Who, me?"
She opened her eyes and saw Kurt sitting on the edge of the bed, shirtless, the tight blue jeans he seemed to always wear was shining dully in the dark. Although the scars were gone, there was none unlike her dreams. His pale chest was gleaming smooth as silk in the moonlight squeezing itself in through the white blinds covering her windows. His shoulder-length dirty blonde hair was hanging in his face, giving him the look of a dead angel sent from God to teach her to love again. He was almost too handsome for a human.
He looked exactly the same way before he died and on the afternoons when they could meet at his mansion in the Hollywood Hills and have their four-blissful hours of nothing but fantastic (unprotected) sex while Courtney was off at a Hole recording session and while Francis Bean was off at school.
"I dreamed that you were dead," she told him quietly.
"Of course I'm dead Lena," Kurt replied equally quietly, leaning forward, and she could see his bright blue eyes gleaming in the darkness. "What'd you expect me to be? I’m an angel."
"This isn't real, then," she says, frighteningly lucid, turning her head to look away and closing her eyes, allowing a tear to leak out from one closed eyelid. "I'm dreaming that I'm dreaming, how relentlessly insane I must be."
"Well, yeah, but don't look at it so negatively Lena baby," Kurt replied quietly as he crawled in next to her in her bed and getting on top of her. He was suddenly and wonderfully naked, his hard body pressing against hers and his skin warming up against her warm skin as he moved her face gently towards his; and as she moved her arms to wrap around his neck loosely; knowing what was about to happen.
Oh how she had missed him.
Oh how she had missed this.
"Think about it like this: nothing we do here matters to the world." He whispered as he kissed her, his hands supporting himself on either side of her body. Her hands were buried in his hair as she kissed him back, pulling his mouth against hers in a breathtaking kiss that left both of them breathless as she wrapped her legs around his lean waist and as his hands gripped her waist as he thrust inside her.
They broke apart long enough for them both to let out a gasp and he buried his face in her neck, kissing the nape of her neck as one of her hands trailed down his back and the other stayed buried in his hair as he thrusted gently.
She closed her eyes, savoring the feeling of the man she loves, body against hers; his ragged breathing against her ear as he bit and suckled at the flesh that made up the nape of her neck, wanting to brand her with his mark.
“Kurt . . .” She said breathlessly and he grinned as he lifted up his head and captured her mouth with his in a passionate kiss as his thrusting grew harder and faster to the point where they were both almost yelling out in pleasure. It felt like a rubber band was coiling tightly inside them, growing to the point of it almost being painful.
Kurt breathed her name and closed his eyes, seeing stars behind his closed eyelids as the rubber band snapped, making him climax. Her hand tightened in his hair and she moaned out his name as she joined him. His arms shook as his tired body strained to hold up his weight. He swallowed as his comfortable weight fell on top of her.
She remembered the first time he ever got jealous of a man. It was when she was dating Pearl Jam lead singer, Eddie Vedder. They got in a fight and Kurt told him that he and her had an affair a short while ago. When asked why he was telling him this, Kurt replied with,
“Because I want you to know Eddie, that every time you fucked her, I fucked her twice as hard,”