I hated concerts.

I don't care how many people came, how many people were screaming my name, how much money I got out of it, I hated concerts. My own concerts, I hated doing them, I hated seeing all those people, I hated the rush of getting ready. I hate the way I was lip syncing most of the time. It was absolutely awful, but this was my brother's life, not mine. I could not control what I wanted to do, it was all up to him, if I were free I'd be curled up watching an episode of Doctor Who. But no, I'm sitting here freezing cold back stage, chugging water, wrapped in a blanket after a concert. Yay for me, what a life. A life of riches and fans, and lip syncing and wearing big heavy leather jackets isn't as fun as it sounds.

I'm exhausted. I'm sick, and was in no shape to do that concert, but I did it anyways. I can still hear the cheers in my head. I'm thankful, somewhat, that teenagers go through this much trouble to listen to my music, but why? Why can't they be a little calmer? I sighed, wrapping the blankets around my freezing cold figure tightly. Shit, I feel like throwing up.

Well, anyhow, my name is Arthur Kirkland. I'm a, well, a music artist, and quiet a famous one at that. I sing Indie music, but all of it is written for me before I go on. Yes, I do lip sync, but it really is me singing the original recording. I don't like lip syncing, but I guess I needed it tonight, my voice sounds like shit because of my cold.

"Nice job fellas, we got a ton of cash tonight! And some happy little screaming fans!" I could hear some of my brother's comrades talking outside the door. I frowned, jeez; did they even care about my output on this?

I started to shake more. Seriously, I requested a hot chocolate fifteen minutes ago, it should be here by now! I huffed and lay down on the couch I was resting on, wrapping myself up in a cocoon of blankets. I closed my eyes, giving them a rest from the bright lights that were previously shone in my face. I wasn't going to sleep, I still had work to do after this sadly, but I could take a small break for now.

"Mister Kirkland?" Someone's voice interrupted my resting period. I moaned slightly, opening my eyes.

"Ah, yes, what is it, love?" I said softly, being polite as possible to the young lady in front of me. She must be new; I've never seen her around her before. I looked up at her, she held a small mug in her hands. Ah, finally.

"Hot chocolate," she said quietly, then shaking her head quickly, "I mean, um, your hot chocolate is here."

I smiled, "Thank you." Took long enough. Ah, don't be hard on the lady, she's new. I sat up, taking the warm mug.

"Be careful, it's hot," She murmured while handing it to me. I expected as much as I set down the boiling hot mug on the table in front of me. She quickly left as I did so. I sighed, my sigh quickly turning into a sneeze, my shoulders slouching.

The door creaked open again, my eyes looking lazily at the source. Mister big brother Francis stepped in, a smile on his face. "You look terrible."

"I feel terrible," I muttered, resting my head in my hands with an eye roll.

"Well, look who made the most people happy tonight?" Francis said, walking in to sit next to me on the couch. I huffed and rolled my eyes as Francis said; "Man, people love you! We got tons of money!" His accent purred, since Francis lived in France for a while until I became famous, he still has a French accent.

"Can we maybe spend it on something I want?" I hissed, "Like, um, let's see, maybe one of those Japanese heated blankets? Those look nice and cozy."

"Is all you think about sleep?" Francis laughed, patting my back. "Well, I got some bad news for you, Arthur."

"Bad news," I growled, "I'm already in a horrid mood, what else could be worse?"

"Well we fired you're song writer."

"Excuse me?" I shouted. I normally wouldn't care, but I needed a song writer. I was not creative what so ever, no song writer, no job. I hated my job, but I depended on it. "Why the hell would you do that, without my permission?"

"Arthur," Francis growled, "He was tired of being un-credited so we fired him."

"Well, what's so wrong with giving him credit, hm?" I hissed, the blanket falling from my shoulders, I could feel my voice strain, "I'm hardly doing anything! All I'm doing is being the stupid idol of this scam!"

"You sing," Francis said, "That's a lot."

"Well I don't do anything else," I murmured with a sigh, trying to calm myself down. Damn, what's so wrong with giving people credit? Can't we just be a team? I don't understand my brother, I don't understand why I have to seem like the one doing everything when I'm not. It's not fair to the others.

"Don't worry, we've got another writer on the way," Francis said, getting up from the couch, its springs creaking, "He's a newbie, but he still has good songs."

I sighed sharply as Francis left, shutting the door behind him after saying "We're leaving to go home in a few." My lips pursed into a frown as he left, damned bastard. I got up after sipping some of the hot chocolate on the table and started to pack up my guitar. I had been given this guitar by my mother when I was thirteen, still works like a charm. My mother is well, no longer with me. She died when I was fifteen, my dad went to jail and my brother came home from France to take care of me. We now live in a huge house that houses ten or so stagehand that work on my concerts. Who knew this would have happened to the nerdy British boy who got A's on all of his papers. I'm seventeen now, but still; this whole music thing is a lot of pressure. I feel like I'm a thirty-year-old sometimes.

After a long night, we packed up and my brother drove me home. You don't know how glad I am that this concert was around my home, sometimes I have to stay overnight at hotels and travel back in the morning. Maybe when I get home I can take a long bath or something that would be nice.

I slept in the next morning, cuddled up with a body pillow. I don't know why, but I really liked sleeping with something. I would sleep with a stuffed animal or something, but that's childish, right? Anyways, my brother would laugh. A trail of spit leaked out of my mouth as I got up, and I grimaced and cut it with my finger. I slipped out of bed, putting on my slippers afterwards. I yawned loudly, my back cracking quietly as I walked over to my dresser. I fixed my hair somewhat and whipped off my face a bit before leaving my room.

"Good morning," I croaked to someone who was walking through the halls of my home as well. He was a stage hand; I think he was set design. Yao, I think his name was. Yao turned to wave at me, his long brown hair that was normally pulled back into a ponytail whipped around his shoulders. He had nice hair, it was wavy like my brothers, but the length of it made it look better.

I walked into one of the two kitchens, yes, two, and poured myself some cereal. No milk, milk makes it soggy and gross. I sat on the couch in the living room and ate the cereal with my fingers out of the bowl, my shirtless body shivering slightly. I stared at the front door for a while, like something was about to happen, something important. Nothing ever did though, so I finished my cereal and curled up on the couch. I should go swim or something.

I got up after a while, wanting to go take a bath. I shuffled out of the living room and through the halls, I could feel my messy hair bounce slightly as I did. My brother caught me on the way down, "Arthur, where you going?"

"None of your business," I hissed, my lips parting into a frown. Francis stared at me for a little while until I gave in, "God Damnit I'm taking a bath, Francis, my secret mission has been destroyed." I huffed and countuied walking.

"Wait just a second," Francis purred, following me and tapping on my shoulder, "Guess who came today while you were sleeping your lazy little ass off?"

I gasped, getting images of my father, "dad? Dad's here?" I smiled wide as Francis frowned.

"No." My excitement died with the simple word. My lips pouted slightly with the new information, "Your new song writer! You have to meet this guy, he's the weirdest thing!"

"Oh goodie," I muttered as Francis dragged me down the hall, the opposite of the way to the bath. He eventually let go of my arm when we were far enough away from my original destination. Damn, doesn't Francis get that I hate this stuff?

Whoa, wait, that can't be right…

He was about my age. Blonde, tall, and tan. He had really bright blue eyes that were covered by topless glasses. He was shuffling around inside the sound room, probably putting his stuff together, until he noticed Francis standing at the door. He jumped up, running awkwardly over to the door and opening it.

"Hey mister Bonnefoy!" He chirped happily while opening the door, his blonde hair swaying in front of his face. I cocked my head to the side slightly, damn he was happy. Normally someone this stupidly giddy would make me annoyed, but he handled this bounciness in such a way it didn't irritate me. But, my allowance quickly turned into irritation once he saw me. His blue eyes widened as well as his smile, as he quickly glided across the floor to hug me tightly, "You're Arthur Kirkland! Oh my god!"

"Ah, um, yes," I muttered, pushing him off of me gently, "That's me." I heard Francis giggle quietly as the other stepped away from my body and put his hand on his neck.

"Well I'm Alfred," He said with a smile, "I can't wait to start working with you! This is gonna be so cool!" Alfred smiled brightly like a child, his hand fisting in the fabric on his blue T-shirt. I frowned slightly as Alfred smile faded as well, "Is… Something wrong?"

"Ah, no, lad," I muttered, shaking my head. I wasn't going to enjoy this, was I? I could already tell Alfred would be very clingy, which was in the least what I was like. At least the last song writer was older and calm, but Alfred seemed like a child. I could tell almost he would be childish, the way he walked, the way his smile grew whenever I spoke to him.

"Oh, um, okay," Alfred nodded softly, even though his frown disappeared his smile didn't come back, "So, I'll be writing songs for you, I guess."

"Yeah, I'll be," I took a pause, the small little lie slipping out of my throat as if acid, "I'll be looking forward to it."

Yeah, really looking forward to that…

I basically spent the rest of the week sleeping, my life isn't all exciting. You would think it is, famous and all, but nope, not really. Things were usually bought for me, so I didn't go out much. Just eat, drink, and sleep. I sung to myself to keep entertainment rich in the air, but, it didn't help much. But now, whenever I went to go get my morning tea, Alfred already stood there with the mug in his hands before handing it to me, wishing me a good morning. Nobody does that, but then again Alfred is new here. He'll understand soon enough that this place isn't fun or exciting, and that almost all of us hate each other.

"Good morning Arthur!" The voice made me want to groan as I watched his legs step in front of my body that was lying on the couch. He bent down and smiled. "I got you your tea, like normal."

"Thanks," I murmured, sitting up. I obviously sat up to fast, my eyesight becoming dizzy for a few moments as I took the cup. Alfred smiled at me again as he sat next to me on the couch. Goddamnit, just go away, I'm tired.

"So," Alfred said, his voice sticking in the air. I glared at him.

"So what?"

"How'd ya sleep?" Alfred put his feet on the coffee table, "I ask you these things every morning, think you'd expect them by now!"

"Okay," I murmured, ignoring his previous sentence.

"I've just started working on a new song," Alfred said, leaning closer to me, "I'm not sure what to call it yet, maybe you can help me once I'm done."

"Hm, yeah," I thought of how to get away without being rude. Maybe I should just get up and leave, but he'd probably follow me. Alfred was like a puppy, a really annoying puppy. He did this to a lot of others to, not just me, thank god. "Hey, Alfred-."

"Oh, call me Al."

"Oh, um, okay, Al, I gotta go," I stood up, the mug still locked in my hands, the heat from it making my hands sweat.

"Oh, okay," Alfred frowned slightly, but then said, "See you around."

"Yeah, see you later," I said, walking off. Where do I go now? This house is so big, but I normally sit in the living room for hours before I start to do anything. I wound up in my swimming trunks walking over to the pool, I have no idea how it happened. I pushed open the door to the backyard and walked carefully against the wet cobblestone. It was a nice day out for New England, maybe around ninety degrees. This was the hottest it got in New England, most of the time. I let out a quiet sigh as the sun hit my pale skin, in which I hated, but I didn't like the outdoors much so I lived with it. I made my way against the length of the pool and to the hot tub that was separated from the pool only by a foot long piece of marble. I dipped a foot in, testing the warmth before climbing in the rest of the way in. This was the only thing good about being famous, I had stuff. A lot of stuff, too much stuff, but the hot tub was nice. I sunk down into the hot water so it went just above my lips. I felt like I was sitting there for hours, letting the hot water loosen up my worries as I got used to the heat. My life really wasn't that bad, I didn't hate my life, I just hated a lot of the occurrences in it. If I could turn it around and live simply I would be much happier. Get a house along the country, get a cat, and maybe even get a boyfriend. That would be better, not the everyday rush of life. Well, I do like the hot tub and pool, I'll keep that.

But, despite the hot water, I'm still stressed about one thing; Alfred's ability to write songs. He seems to bouncy and nice to be a good song writer, I'm worried about what songs he'll throw out. But, Francis is pretty strict on song choosing, so either he'll fire him or pick the good ones. I don't mean to sound like a jerk, but I hope Alfred doesn't stay here long. I don't know him very well though; maybe he's a gentleman under all that? Or, maybe he's still excited about meeting me and living here, all this stuff does make one very happy.

"So, Kiku, um, how much do you get paid here?" I heard the faint familiar voice of my new song writer in the distance, I frowned, but I don't think Alfred was going for a swim. Kiku was one of my instructors, we were friends though. Kiku was nice, and quiet, and very mature. He's like me in a sense, not to sound racist, but a more Asian form of me. He's into all the ancient Asia stuff, some of the stories he has told me are very interesting. It's like Greek Mythology but, more dragons, ninjas and kites.

"Ah, I get around two thousand a month," I heard Kiku say from a distance, "But with rent it's not much, I believe you get paid more than I, though."

"Damn, that's a lot!" Was the last thing I heard before the voices disappeared, the sound waves no longer able to reach me. After a good thirty minutes I decided it was a good time to get out. I stretched after stepping out of the hot tub, while doing so almost tripping back in. But I caught myself, looking around to make sure no one saw my miss step. I laughed softly and countuied inside, the air now freezing compared to the heat of the hot tub. I hugged my body for warmth as I made my way inside.

A week later the new magazine came out. Who knew one of the new 'shocking articles' was about me, Arthur Kirkland, having anorexia. Well fuck.


Authors Note-

look a story not about zombies

Okay, heres the realistic one you all have been waiting for

I deleted this because I didn't feel it was long enough, I added more to it now and its back within 3 hours wow

Oh man new story, jeez i'm working on five right now (the others I won't be posting, they're my own OCs). Well, here is an insanely short first chapter that took me way to long. I'm planning on this story being much longer then Ups and Downs, maybe at least fifteen chapters (and I usually write very long chapters).

This was more planning then writing. At first Alfred was going to be a random fan, but how would that work? So, he's his song writer hooray.

This is rated M for language, suggestive themes, alcohol use, and of course smut.