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Although at least seven musicians were working on The Glove's LP, the real core of the band was Severin and Robert. Both saw the project as a way to flee tensions in their own full-time groups, and years of friendship had made it easy for them to work together. Late-night sessions in the studio, mixing tracks and hashing out ideas, would often merge seamlessly with even later-night drinking or acid binges.
Without the pressure of commercial success, the album, Blue Sunshine, was shaping up to be something unlike anything else currently on the airwaves. "It's like someone gave our ids a few instruments and said 'Have at it,'" Severin once joked. Robert thought Steven was embarrassed, afraid of being called self-indulgent, but Robert felt differently: after all, hadn't The Cure gotten where it was today through Robert's commitment to his own vision, despite critical pans and an initial lack of success?
It was for one of their late-night mixing sessions that Robert arrived at the studio, finding Steven more sullen than usual. Putting his friend's reticence down to the aftereffects of their late night--late midmorning, really, if Robert was honest--Robert settled in, queueing up the tapes from their last recording session while Severin slumped morosely on the tattered green and black plaid couch that was the room's one concession to comfort. That ghastly old piece of furniture had seen a lot of late-night sessions, Robert mused while he worked; a lot of catnaps, and probably a lot of other things less savory to think about. Finally he turned to Severin, asking, "You ready?"
Severin's only response was to straighten up, then tilt his head backward and stare at the ceiling, sighing heavily. Recent arguments and tensions within The Cure caused Robert to be instinctively wary of such melodramatic behavior, but Steven was his friend, he was here by choice; Robert could trust him. Of course--Robert bit his lip--Simon had been his friend, too, and look what had happened there. He hated to think of how hard it would be to recover from losing his friendship with Steven, watching all his work with The Glove vanish into thin air, just like it had with The Cure.
Steven persisted in staring at the ceiling. He looked unwell. He was dapper, yes; his personal style was a clean-cut version of the New Romantics' look, all waistcoats and button-downs, but always with some louche touch to indicate that he was no corporate flunky, no gentleman. Despite his neat attire, Severin's color was pasty, the circles under his eyes pronounced. Robert usually let his older friend set the pace for their binges, but Steven looked on the verge of collapse. Robert thought that, perhaps, it was time to slow their near-frantic hurtle towards permenently-altered consciousness. If nothing else, they'd get more done in the studio if they weren't out until four in the morning multiple times a week.
Robert crossed the room and hesitantly took a seat near Severin--just close enough to reach if he stretched out an arm, but not close enough to impose. "Steve?" he asked softly. Steven took off his sunglasses and gazed blearily at Robert, saying nothing. Why Severin had taken to wearing the ridiculous things day and night, indoors and out, Robert couldn't guess; he and Steven enjoyed keeping things simple, a friendship based on mutual love of controlled substances and bizarre music. They didn't talk, not really, Robert suddenly realized. Without the sunglasses, Severin looked vulnerable, years younger; a person, not iconic. Robert wondered for the first time if Steven was really and truly trying to create barriers between himself and the world, and whether the sunglasses were, on some level, part of all that.
"Do you think it's worth it?" Steven croaked. Robert's confusion must have been evident, because Steven clarified: "Do you think the album is worth it? We've been at it for weeks, paying musicians through the nose, paying for studio time...what the hell is it all for?"
"For?" asked Robert.
"This album. It won't get any airplay. It won't go anywhere." Severin paused. "Oh, we like it, sure," he said, "and our fans will buy the records, but you know The Glove will never be a commercial hit."
"You never cared about that with the Banshees," Robert retorted, almost afraid of what Steven was getting at. "Why do you care so much now?"
"How can you ask that, with The Cure--" Steven stopped suddenly.
"The Cure what, Steven?"
"With The Cure...over. Done. You've only got Lol left, you know. Do you really think you can..." Severin struggled for words, something he didn't ordinarily need to do. He was exhausted, Robert realized, eyeing the other man's pallor, watching his lips compress as he decided how to phrase what would probably be a devastating remark. The late nights at the clubs, the Batcave outings where Steven picked up impressionable "goth" girls, the long binges at Steven's apartment--they'd have to slow down for sure. "--Do you really think you can get it all back?" Steven finally asked.
"I don't know," Robert admitted after a short silence.
"It used to be different," Steven continued. "It was us against the world. We couldn't get a contract for two years, you know. Playing shitty clubs, getting our equipment stolen, being spat on by audiences. But there were people even then who followed us," he mused, "people who got it. It didn't matter what the journalists said, it didn't matter that no label would touch us with a stick. Then we got a contract at last, and something changed."
Robert bit off the argument that rose to his lips. He'd known the Banshees in those days; it wasn't so long ago, just 1979, that he'd even done a short stint on tour with them, filling in on guitar when John McKay and Kenny Morris stormed off in a huff. They'd always been raw, strange, and untameable. Success hadn't changed them. But for the first time since forming The Cure, Robert kept his mouth shut and let his friend pour out the kind of misgivings he himself, in better times, would have poured out to Simon.
"Wouldn't it be nice to have something else?" Steven asked, almost wistfully. "What if we could leave them all behind? It's been fun doing this, hasn't it?" he said, pushing himself up on one elbow and meeting Robert's gaze at last. "Just like old times, when we were both just starting out? Not knowing if we would succeed? Us against the world?"
Severin's usual debauched, aloof persona had dropped completely, and Robert was almost frightened by the vulnerability he could read in his friend's face. He leaned forward, invading Steven's space, he knew; they always jostled each other, shared space, sometimes went home arm in arm drunk after clubbing, but they never leaned in close, never came face to face like this. He gripped Steven's shoulder, looked him steadily in the eye. "Do you think people buying the album would make this worth it?" Robert asked. "If the radio stations played it? If we got asked to perform on Top of the Pops?"
Steven laughed wearily and looked away. Robert's cynical aversion to the trappings of commercial success, especially to television appearances, was becoming famous. "I want a way out," Steven said, finally. "And I want something that lasts." It took Robert a minute to realize what his friend was talking about. The Banshees were in fine shape, except for a sudden loss of their best guitarist to date--not like The Cure, scattered to the four winds by infighting. Robert quashed a sudden wave of sorrow at the loss of his friends, especially Simon, but tuned in to Steven's monologue again in time to catch a broken confession of loss. Siouxsie and Budgie had recorded an EP of surprising brilliance, and there were murmurs of another, longer album in the works. It wasn't that he missed being involved with Siouxsie, Steven mumbled; it was just that they weren't--that it wasn't--
"You're not united anymore," Robert supplied, when his friend fell silent. Steven sighed, turned away, rested his head against the back of the couch again. Suddenly everything he had lost--The Cure's dissolving, Simon's leaving...Simon-- Hardly thinking, Robert pulled Steven close in a sudden hug. "What the fuck are you doing?" Steven demanded, but after a long moment, his body lost its tension, and he leaned his forehead on Robert's shoulder and giggled convulsively, unable to stop. Relieved, comforted by Steven's proximity, Robert gleefully joined in.
Robert would debate with himself later whether it was deliberate--who started it, whose expression meant what, whose head tilted just so--but as he finally straightened and pulled away from his friend, their lips, parted with breathless laughter, met in a kiss. How long had it been since he and Simon--Robert shoved the thought away, leaned into Steven, who was surprisingly reticent and pulled away first. "You prickle," he complained peevishly, sending them both into giggles again. It was true: Steven kept himself fastidiously clean-shaven, while Robert could grow facial hair for England. Robert kissed Severin again, gently this time, determined not to prickle, but pulled away when the other man seemed hesitant.
"You've not--surely you've done this before?" he asked. Steven was older, wiser, more cynical, certainly more filthy. It was unthinkable, really, that he'd be put off by kissing another man, something Robert and Simon had been doing on the side for years-- "You haven't, have you?" Robert concluded, almost descending into giggles again, but stopping at Steven's wide-eyed expression, his rapid breathing that might mean arousal, but also...something else. Robert reached out his hand to clutch Steven's, and noted that his friend's palm was sweaty. "It's all right," Robert mumbled, leaning close to Steven once more, initiating a slow kiss, dropping his friend's hand to tangle his own hand in Severin's hair, bleached fine and white as straw.
Severin's breath slowed, deepened, quickened again as he raised a hand to stroke Robert's hair in return, settling his palm at last on the nape of Robert's neck, making little stroking motions with his thumb. Robert murmured encouragingly under his breath and parted his lips slightly. If Steven was so shy--if he hadn't-- Robert was unsure whether to be aggressive, or play the part of the blushing virgin. It's not like fucking other men was so different than sleeping with women--he ruthlessly squashed the surge of guilt he felt when Mary rose unbidden to his mind--but until you've actually done it, you think it's some kind of final frontier...he darted his tongue into Steven's mouth quickly, experimentally, encouraging his friend to reciprocate.
Steven made a soft, helpless sound and parted his lips breathlessly, responding with surprising enthusiasm. His eagerness was almost shocking. Whether Severin was drunk, Robert couldn't tell--his capacity for liquor was almost legendary--but he couldn't smell anything on Steven's breath, couldn't detect anything unsteady in his movements. Yes, they could have this; this was something they both wanted; yes. Robert trailed his fingers along the side of Steven's throat and kissed him again, not forcefully, but deeply, savoring the other man's quickening breath and the little involuntary sounds he made when Robert turned aside to bite his earlobe.
"Do you--" Steven began, and stopped. Robert paused, breathing heavily. "Can I--" Steven tried again, this time sliding his fingers just under the hem of Robert's shirt, just barely touching the skin of Robert's belly, stroking it hesitantly. Robert murmured an indistinct assent but pressed Severin's hand closer and kissed his friend again. This felt too easy; even Severin's renewed laughter when Robert deliberately scraped his stubbled cheek against Severin's throat felt natural, like an inevitable extension of their friendship. People say that women are fickle, thought Robert fuzzily, but men--but Simon--
Severin, getting braver by the minute, had by now rucked up Robert's t-shirt, his hand shoving the fabric aside as he stroked Robert's pale, soft skin. Confronted by Robert's nipples, Steven paused a moment, as if unsure how to continue, but then he ducked his head and nuzzled at one, rubbing his cheek against it gently, then darting his tongue against it until it hardened. 'He may not need help after all,' thought Robert, considerably relieved; he dug his fingers into Steven's shirt and lay down on the venerable and rather musty old couch, pulling Steven's weight down upon him.
Robert let Steven continue in this vein for some time--licking, nibbling, biting his nipples and throat in turn, sometimes breaking for a deep kiss. They had realigned themselves to lie down completely on the couch, and Steven's body rested almost companionably against the entire length of Robert's own. Steven's arousal was obvious, and occasionally his hips had bucked against Robert's--particularly that moment when Robert worked his hand under his friend's waistband and and trailed his fingers along the cleft between Steven's buttocks--but he seemed unsure how to continue. Robert grinned against Steven's neck, grabbed his friend by the shoulders, and twisted their bodies so that he pinned Steven against the couch. It was like the rough-and-tumble wrestling he and his friends had done as a kid, mused Robert as he leaned down to gently bite Steven's throat, but oh, so much better, so much more.
Something from Steven, a caught breath, not quite a sound of protest, caught Robert's attention, and he left off worrying at Steven's neck, raised his weight onto his forearms; he paused, looked at Steven, saw the other man's blue eyes wide and startled. His pupils were dilated, his breath rapid, but his hands clutched Robert's shirt convulsively, and he was otherwise still. "It's all right, it's fine, it's just--" Robert began, but seeing something like panic enter Severin's expression, he desisted. Leaning his forehead against Severin's, allowing the rhythm of their breathing to slow, Robert again pressed his body against his friend's. "We can stop. We can stop, right now," Robert breathed into Steven's ear. Silence. "Just tell me what you want," he told his friend, but gently, reassuringly, pulling away again just a fraction, as if to assure him of choice, of escape.
"I--" Severin began; Robert almost ceased to breathe. "Brand me," his friend continued in a whisper. "Compel me." Robert's brow wrinkled in confusion. Then, remembering Steven's proclivities--there was a reason he'd given himself the surname "Severin," after all--Robert grinned. Well, it would be a change from how he and Simon used to do things, if nothing else. Simon had always gently teased Robert about his delicate physique, his softness, called him girlish; but Steven...Christ, Steven's mouth was beautiful, full-lipped but delicate, something Caravaggio would paint on one of his pretty boys. Robert felt an unusual surge of aggression and bent his lips to Steven's, feeling his friend's shallow, rapid breathing against his face. Suddenly pressing his mouth to Severin's in a rough kiss, he bit the older man's lower lip almost savagely, relishing the other man's whimper of pleasure. Robert threaded his fingers through Steven's hair again, tilted his friend's head back, and bent upon his throat ("How very goth of us," thought a snarky corner of Robert's mind, as he settled his mouth against Steven's jugular), worrying Steven's pale skin with his sharp canines.
Steven was older, wiser, meaner, more cynical, yes, but he was surprisingly thin and so pliant, so willing; Robert was used to playing the pursued, the...feminine...to Simon's thuggish advances, his rough whispers of "How about it, then?" in Robert's ear, their breathless laughter when they'd managed to sneak away from the rest of the group, Robert pinned against the wall in the men's loo in some filthy dive. It was delicious, that feeling of giving over control to someone else; Simon was strong, reliable, loving, trustworthy. But Simon was gone; The Cure itself might be gone, and here was Steven, suddenly fragile and almost young, pale-faced and pale-haired beneath Robert's weight, and--
"Tell me what you want; tell me if you want me to stop," Robert urged, not sure how this was done, not sure what to do with someone who seemed all pliancy and innocence, knowing that Steven was anything but innocent. He could be cruel and sharp as a knife, but gasping, eyes closed, head tilted back, he seemed ten years younger, not 26, but just a boy. A feeling of tenderness caused tears to fill Robert's eyes as he gazed down on his friend. "Tell me what you want," he said softly, gently. Livid marks were forming where Robert had bitten the tender skin of Steven's throat; his lip was reddened where Robert had worried at it. "Show me, then," Robert suggested, when Steven seemed unable to reply.
Wordlessly, Steven took Robert's hand in one of his own, and trembling, brought it up to the buttons of his collar. Cursed dress-shirts--and the waistcoat was still on, too--there were limits to having a sense of style, Robert thought, as he fumbled one-handed with the buttons of Severin's shirt. Each button undone yielded another, gentle kiss on his friend's skin. Robert breathed deeply, taking his time, nearly losing control when Steven's hands skimmed under his t-shirt and along his back, trying to ignore the ruttish frenzy Steven's tiny whimpers and quiet moans inspired. Pausing long enough to roughly pull off his own shirt, Robert finally bared Steven's pale chest and stomach--so smooth, Robert thought as Steven reached up a hand to stroke Robert's chest hair--and soon was busy biting and sucking another deep purple mark onto the older man's belly.
Spurred on by Steven's soft moans and little cries of assent, Robert trailed his tongue down to Steven's waistband and gave an experimental lick. Steven's trousers had slid far enough down his hips that they were almost without purpose, and as Robert placed his hand gently over Steven's erection, the heat and pressure of his arousal was obvious even through the heavy wool. It would be wool, Robert mused; so stylish, so classic, so controlled. He nearly laughed as strangled whimpers escaped his friend's mouth. Severin looked wanton and helpless, nothing like his usual self. "Yes?" Robert whispered. "Yes, fuck, please, yes," was Severin's incoherent reply, as he covered Robert's hand with one of his own, arching up into the pressure on his cock.
Severin's hands combed through Robert's hair, stroked his face, trailed down the back of his neck, and Robert needed no further impetus to quickly undo the hook and zipper on Steven's trousers, sliding them down roughly along with the other man's underwear and working them off completely, tossing them to the floor. He parted his friend's legs with both hands and kissed up and down Severin's thighs, darting his tongue along the crease where the leg met the groin, relishing his friend's frantic vocalisations. Severin bucked impatiently and Robert seized his hip and held him down with surprising strength, laughing under his breath as he trailed his tongue along Steven's pale stomach, studiously avoiding his cock altogether.
"Please, please," Severin begged incoherently as Robert sucked and bit at his thigh, leaving another welt that would be days fading. Robert considered making his friend say exactly what he wanted, but when he remembered that it was Steven's first time with a man, Robert felt affectionate, gentle, and knew it would be cruel to keep teasing. Robert nuzzled the base of Steven's cock, burying his nose in the other man's short, surprisingly dark curls--oh of course, Robert remembered absently, Steven's a bleach blond--and then gently licked his way up Steven's penis, occasionally stopping to exhale gently or leave a soft kiss on his belly. Finally, Robert tenderly flicked his tongue to taste the droplets of pre-ejaculate beading the head of Steven's cock, and was rewarded by a stifled, sobbing moan when he took his friend into his mouth completely.
The convulsive clutching of his fingers in Robert's hair, the thwarted bucking of his hips, all indicated that Steven was close to orgasm. Robert pulled back one last time and gazed at his friend, luxuriated in how he had made Severin's chilly reserve crumble into something new, something yielding and passionate at the same time. Severin's pale hair, showing dark at the roots, was fluffed out and askew; his forehead was beaded with sweat, his mouth still red from Robert's kisses; the little livid marks of Robert's teeth stood out on his creamy skin, dotting his throat, ribs, belly. Stifling a strange urge to sink his teeth into Severin's hip until he tasted blood, Robert instead slowly, gently, enveloped his friend's cock with his mouth and sucked rhythmically, cradling Steven's balls in his palm. Steven bucked--once, twice, three times--and came, screaming.
Hard and shaking with his own need, Robert swallowed and eased his way upward until he was cradling Severin's shoulders, nudging the other man until they lay on their sides, nuzzling and sighing. Steven traced an unsteady hand along Robert's cheek and suddenly pulled him close for a kiss, tasting himself on Robert's lips, in his mouth. Robert thrust involuntarily at his friend's thigh before he could restrain himself. Steven took a deep, nervous breath, and feeling like a kid of sixteen again, raised his eyes to Robert's and admitted, "I don't know where to start."
Smiling a little, eyes full of something close enough to love as to make no difference, Robert kissed Severin almost chastely and took his friend's hand in his own, guiding it to the button of his trousers, whispering into Severin's ear what he wanted, what he needed. "Us against the world," he thought as his friend undid the button, then fumbled carefully with the zipper. It may not be something that lasts, but right now, here, it was good.