Author's Note: Okay, so this is my very first multi-chapter fic yayy! This isn't actually one of my oldest or on of my most developed fics that I've got planned. In fact, this AU isn't mine at all. I wrote this AU, with permission of course, from an AU they called Rock Star AU. Their tumblr is buttschmidts . tumblr . com . (no spaces) I should totally thank them for coming up with such a wonderful AU. But yeah. Idk how often I'll update since I haven't ever written a multi-chapter fic before but I hope to do at least one chapter every week or two so please be patient. Thanks a bunch. ^_^

Dear Arthur,

I hope that you will receive and read this letter, but I'm not expecting much. After all, you are a famous singer, who probably receives thousands of letters from fangirls, and possibly fanboys, every day, so why would mine be any different? Might as well try, though. It won't hurt me.

Moving on, my name's Francis, and I'm from France. I don't really have any reason to write to you. I just felt like it. I could say that my reason was to tell you how great your music is, but I think you already know that. I guess my reason could possibly be telling you how adorable you are. Except your eyebrows. They look like caterpillars. But your eyes. They shine like emeralds. Or perhaps stars. Either way, they're gorgeous. But I guess I'm still writing to you, for whatever reason there might be.

Don't you love the simplicity of written letters? It's really a shame that they're not really used that much these days. I love receiving handwritten letters from someone. Writing them by hand makes you think more about what you say, so that you don't make a mistake. It's more romantic, wouldn't you agree?

You know, it's raining right here where I live. It's the type of rain that makes you want to just lie with your partner, not talking, just enjoying each other's company. It does get a bit dull though. Rainy and overcast days don't compliment a beautiful city like Paris. But I must say that overcast days certainly do suit London. I hear that it's dull and not beautiful, unlike Paris. But who am I to talk? I've never been to London.

The rain reminds me of that song you wrote, "Heaven's Tears." I have to say that that is one of my favourite song of yours. The line "Now the tears are falling, and you're watching me in silence, The sky's tearing apart as I'm lost, without your guidance," is my favourite without question. I don't know why, it just stands out to me and I love it. In my opinion, these are some of your lyrics that relate to you the best. I haven't listened to all your songs, of course, you have so many after all, but out of the ones I have listened to, these lyrics describe you the best. I don't know why, it just does. No matter, it's just an opinion of mine.

Can you do a favour for me? Doesn't really matter because I'm going to ask you anyway. I hear so many people talking about you, how they hate you, how they love you, how they want to kill you if you stop making music or if you keep making music, the usual. I guess I would fall under the category that doesn't want you to stop singing because I've seen the way you've helped people without your knowledge. Songs are powerful things that can bring emotion to even the most heartless people if it's done right. So the favour, please, for as long as you can, keep creating music. The joy I've seen it bring people is just so magical. Just keep it up, okay?

I guess that's everything important I have to say right now. To be honest, this probably isn't the last letter I'll send to you, but I can't help it. I love writing letters. I've included my address on the back of the letter, in case you do want to reply. So, for now I guess, this is goodbye.

Francis, 18.

Sealing the letter in an envelope, Francis quickly scribbled the celebrity's address on the envelope. He stood up, letter in hand, walked to the front door, grabbing his jacket along the way. Taking a random umbrella from its stand, he yelled to his mother that he was heading out to a postbox and that he'd be back soon.

Francis closed the door behind him, shoving the letter into his pocket so it wouldn't get wet, and opened up his umbrella. There were few people out in the streets since many people preferred to stay indoors when the weather was as dull as it was that day. Barely being able to hear his footsteps because of the rain, he hurried down the streets, hoping he won't get soaked.

That hope went to hell when a car drove past him, drenching him with water. Francis resisted every urge to curse after the driver and instead decided to glare as they drove away. Thanking the lord that he had put the letter in the other pocket and was hopefully safe and dry, he carried on his way down the street to the nearest postbox, which wasn't as near as he had first thought.

Though it seemed like he had been walking forever, he eventually reached a postbox. Balancing the umbrella on his shoulder, he took out the letter and smoothed it out. Taking one last look at it, he slid it into the slot of the postbox. And with that, he turned on his heel and started his walk back home.

0o0o0o0o0

Arthur sat lazily in his chair in his dressing room, slightly spinning himself from side to side. It was just after one of his late shows, and he was tired and just wanted to go to bed. Unfortunately for him, being famous and all, he had the paparazzi to worry about, and he didn't want to deal with them, so he had to wait until they'd left, which again, unfortunately for him, took a hell of a long time. They usually didn't go home until about one in the morning, and it was only eleven thirty, so naturally, he was as bored as hell.

His train of meaningless thoughts was interrupted by a knocking sound, and then by the sound of the door being slammed open. He spun around in surprise, only to find a loud blond, who goes by the name Alfred, casually barging into his dressing room, followed by a much quieter blond, Matthew, who was holding a polar bear plushie that he's had for god knows how long.

"Alfred! How many bloody times have I told you to knock before you enter?! You can't just go barging into other people's rooms unannounced like that!" He yelled once Matthew had closed the door behind him so that no one could hear their conversation. But, considering how loud Arthur was yelling, it wouldn't be much of a surprise if the whole country knew what they were conversing about.

"Dude, we totally knocked! What are you talking about?" Alfred replied, shoving his hand into his chip packet that he had brought with him and grabbing a handful of chips, promptly stuffing them inside his mouth.

"You are supposed knock then wait to get permission to enter, not knock then barge straight in anyway!" Arthur said, still yelling, he continued, "And stop eating in here! You're dropping crumbs everywhere! The cleaners going to have my head for that!"

"Dude, relax. It'll be fine. You're famous, what are they going to do to you?" said Alfred, scrunching up the chip bag and throwing it into the trash can next to Arthur's dresser.

"I might be famous, but that won't stop the cleaners from killing me." Arthur stopped when he heard the sound of slurping. He saw that Alfred had somehow gained a hold of what appeared to be a McDonald's large cola. "Where the bloody hell did you get that?!"

While all this was going down, Matthew, who was leaning against the closed door, watched them with amusement. It always brought him joy, if that didn't sound too mean, to see them fight about such stupid and trivial things. When they fought was one of the few times he didn't mind being invisible because, usually, that's when he'd receive the best gossip.

He would've let them argue, but he soon remembered what they had originally came here for. They had been asked to deliver more fan mail to him. This time there were about twenty or so letters. Matthew, nor Alfred for that matter, knew why they even brought the fan mail to him. He never read it, only telling them to put it in 'The Box,' which had somehow became the name of the box that contained his hundreds of unread fan mail.

Trying to get their attention, he cleared his throat a bit too loudly and spoke, "Arthur," he stepped forward, "we didn't actually come here to annoy you, believe it or not. We only came here because we were told we had to give you more fan mail. Do you want me to put it in the box?"

"More fan mail? That's got to be about the thousandth time I've gotten fan mail today." Arthur said, somewhat surprised. "No, no. I'll do it. I need to take the box back home tonight anyway. I don't want it left here while I'm away on tour. I don't really trust the locks they have on these doors."

"Hm, okay then. Here you go." Matthew handed over the fan mail to Arthur. "That's all we came for, we have to get back anyway. See you tomorrow." He said, heading over to Alfred and dragging him to the door.

"Yeah!" Alfred butted in, "don't just leave without saying goodbye like last time! That was a dick move. You knew I wanted to come with you!"

"Goodbye, Alfred." Arthur said, putting an emphasis on goodbye as he watched Alfred leave the room, "I'll see you both tomorrow." That was the last thing he said as he heard the door click shut and the footsteps grow quieter and quieter.

Sighing, Arthur fell back into his chair and threw the fan mail he had in his hand onto the dresser. If he was completely honest with himself, he would admit that he really didn't want to go on tour. Or rather, on tour tomorrow. He just didn't have the energy to get up early to go to Sydney, his first stop. Don't get him wrong, he loved singing and he saw the joy it brought people, but it does get tiring night after night, performance after performance. But you've gotta do what you've gotta do.

He rolled his head to look at the clock on his wall. Twelve a.m. How time flies.