Author's Note: Will be a series. Will be slash. Will be Arthur/Brian.
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"Brian Slade, please."
The woman looked balefully out at him through the crack in the barely ajar door, eyes moving slowly over him. "There is no one here by that name."
His palm slammed flat on the closing door, forcing it back with brute force. "Yes, there is. I'm Arther Stewart; from the 'Erald." Damn! He made a mental note to stop slipping on his 'aitches' so much. He'd been doing it far too many times for comfort recently. Hell, he'd stopped doing that in London, about ten years ago! Why he should have started again he had no idea. Unless it was...
Blue eyes paused to peruse him again. Arthur stared back, deliberately adopting his blankest expression. The door opened, a brief nod from a blond head was all the invitation he got. Arthur walked in and the door clicked shut behind him.
"Wait here."
Short command; no courtesy. Shannon obviously wanted no part of him. But Arthur was willing to bet that the man in the other room felt it even more acutely. Irrational anger at the man hiding behind his luxury and bad make-up and Arthur looked distastefully around the room. There were no young, svelte bodies lounging around here. There was no evidence of drugs or alcohol. There was not even a hint of perfume in the air. But the room was as opulent as Brian Slade might have wanted, filled with delicate furniture and china ornaments, porcelain bowls filled with freshly cut flowers in their multitudes. It looked like half of a florist's store had ended up in the room.
Shannon knocked on the connecting door to the other room. A muffled rumble of a man's voice and then she turned to grudgingly beckon him further.
The door opened. Arthur stepped in. The curtains were closed, the lights were artfully dimmed and then there was the now-familiar figure in his white linen suit and thickened blond hair.
"Arthur?" Tommy Stone seemed, to all intents and purposes, surprisingly happy to see him, shaking his hand enthusiastically and waving him to a seat. "What can we do for you?"
Arthur blinked and sat down hard. Shannon glowered and rolled her eyes in irritation. Stone seemed to notice that look because he smiled ruefully and sat down in the chair opposite his guest's.
"Um, Mr. Stone, you called this meeting, not me," Arthur said cautiously, "Or, uh, your manager did."
Stone looked at Shannon for confirmation. "Ah heck! I forgot! You look like a nice kid; you won't hold it against me."
"Mr. Stone, what do you want?" Arthur interrupted.
Shannon put a restraining hand on Stone's shoulder and spoke for him. "It's more about what you want, Mr. Stewart. Those accusations are untrue and slanderous. Now Mr. Stone will be generous enough to not press charges and we're willing to cooperate with you in making these rumours disappear as fast as possible."
Arthur nodded, lips thinning in a mirthless smile as he considered that. "Cooperate, huh? What am I being asked to do?"
Tommy Stone opened his mouth but again it was Shannon who answered- "Tell us how we can make this worth your while, Mr. Stewart. I'm sure we can resolve this satisfactorily."
Price? Arthur tried to think of what his price was. A cool couple of thousands? Hell, Stone could afford to pay him at least half a million! And then Arthur could move into a less crummy apartment- hopefully with heating that worked during winter- and buy some new clothes and maybe a computer if he felt like it, or a new stereo system. Yeah! A stereo! And then he'd buy all Stone's albums and torture himself by listening to them over and over!
"An interview," Arthur said simply, "One hour with no interruptions and no stalling. I get to ask whatever I like and if I'm satisfied, I won't print what I know. I'll even speak to a few mates in other places to get them to back off. Deal?"
"I'm not sure Mr. Stone is quite..."
"And Mr. Stone answers for himself," Arthur added brutally. He was stumped to see Tommy Stone's lips twitch into the beginnings of a smile.
"I think I can handle that," was all the singer said, however, sounding suitable wary but giving the game away with his eyes, "Shannon, my dear, go make some calls for me, eh?"
"Tommy, that doesn't..."
For the second time in too soon she was cut short. "I insist, Shannon."
The blond woman let out a sigh and a muttered expletive but exited the room as commanded. Tommy didn't move a muscle, or even look in her direction. Arthur was only aware of a cool grey gaze probing past his face and darkly nondescript clothes as if looking for something hidden under them.
"And now, Arthur, what would you like to ask me?"
The question was affable enough, but it had the reporter flustered. He hadn't thought this far ahead! Damn! He really did need to stick to investigative reporting and not celebrity interviews; he was shite at the latter.
"Uh, I'm not quite sure..."
Something flickered in those shuttered grey eyes, something hard and desperate and passionate, like a golden canary struggling free of its golden cage. "I'm sure you can think of something." The accent had changed fluidly, more a rusty British than an over-exuberant American drawl. Even the tone was quivery and light, breaking away from the rich deepness all together.
Arthur knew the signs and read the cues and took the hint, plunging in manfully with both feet. "Are you Brian Slade?"
Those lips tilted up at one corner in a way that tugged at a distant memory in both their minds. "Yes."
There was silence in the room as both gazed watchfully at each other. An ornate clock on an ornate table ticked the seconds away, droning on mindlessly as if it were a representative of the world outside, oblivious to the momentous event taking place in the privacy of a posh New York hotel.
It was finally that thought that snapped Arthur's attention. Because surely it was momentous only to him? The rest of the world didn't care a fucking hang; glam was dead either way. And Brian Slade... well, Tommy Stone had been Brian Slade (or vice versa) for long enough that it couldn't possibly be a surprise to him.
"I think that's all, then," he muttered, getting to his feet and suddenly feeling clumsy, "I don't have any more questions."
Stone got to his feet, pushing his chair over in his haste, one hand raised as if to stop Arthur physically. "Wait! You- you said an hour!"
"I'm satisfied, Mr. Stone; I won't tell anyone and I'll keep my part of our... deal." The word was ash in Arthur's mouth but he kept his eyes fixed on that door and God dammit, but he was going to get through it without looking back at that shipwreck of his former idol.
He looked back.
Stone wasn't doing anything. He just stood there, hands in his pockets and face absolutely controlled. The lapels on his white suit were wide and perfectly placed. Not a hair was awry on his carefully coiffed head. But his eyes! Oh God, in his eyes Arthur saw a younger man laughing with manic delight at the destruction of the world as they had both known it.
He came back. And punched Stone in the stomach.
"How dared you? To do this! To become... this! How could you?" Perhaps he needed therapy after all. Malcolm had told him privately to get some help before he'd abandoned the Flaming Creatures for a couple of disinterested American boys in a cheap New York bedsit.
Stone didn't bother defending himself, almost seeming to sigh with relief when the expected temper tantrum came. "I had to," he groaned.
"You had to? Had to what? Make yourself some plastic-souled, platinum haired wanker who wouldn't know a good song if it bit him in the arse? What the hell were you thinking?" Arthur added another blow to the singer's chin without thinking.
The hunched figure staggered back to fall over one of the many little tables that littered the room. Both table and man fell over, a crystal ashtray somehow managing to chip itself on the thick carpet and in turn slashing open Stone's palm.
"Bugger!" Arthur kicked heavily at the carved wooden chair Stone had first over-turned and raked his hand through his hair several times before reaching out to help the grimacing Stone to his feet.
Stone was sitting on the carpet with his fingers curled tight around the wrist of his injured hand. He looked at the hand offered to him and then back up to its owner's face. "Are you going to hit me again? Because then I'll just stay here, shall I?"
Arthur growled but shook his head. "It was all your fault," he huffed awkwardly.
"Mine? You fucking hit me first."
"That's because- because you were stupid enough to do something so... stupid!"
"It got me a career, Mr. Stewart. One that I'm sure your memory will remind you was in the shite for years."
"Well, maybe if you'd gotten your drugged arse out again?"
"As whom? Brian Slade is a liar. Maxwell Demon is dead. Tommy Stone is the only one left and you're standing there and acting like I bleeding betrayed you."
Stone slapped away the proffered hand and got to his feet on his own, unconscious that his blood was staining both his suit and the carpet. He glared at his assailant for a long moment before disappearing through another door. The sound of running water said it was a bathroom.
Fifteen minutes ticked by and Arthur could feel his seething emotions quieten down. Flashes of familiar faces kept haunting him. This man- everything in his life had revolved this man! Arthur had been thrown out of his home because of this man. He'd lost his innocence because of this man. He'd opened his mind and heart and soul to Brian Slade just like so many other poor sods and what did he have to show for it? Was it fair that Curt Wild drank in dives and lived in trailer parks while Brian sodding Slade lived in mansions and dressed like a fashion disaster in designer clothes? Was it fair that the Flaming Creatures took any gig they could no matter how bad while Slade played to sold-out stadiums? Or that Jack Fairy almost overdosed out of depression and debt? Or simply that everyone he'd ever known was made somehow poorer because of the man washing a shallow cut under gilt faucets? No, Arthur wasn't mad any more, but he was well and truly pissed.
Pissed enough that he stormed into the bathroom after Stone and wrenched a towel off its rack. "Clean that muck off your face."
"What?"
"Go on!"
"No, I bloody well won't."
"You're forgetting our bargain, Stone," Arthur murmured, his voice dangerously low, "I have one hour and you won't satisfy me until you've washed that junk off your face."
Two pairs of eyes challenged each other and then Tommy Stone shrugged, turning away and distancing himself from the whole sordid mess. He'd wanted Arthur to come to him, had had a morbid fascination to know what the kid would say if he admitted to it. But now he wanted to run. To hide those knowing, bitter eyes with an unseeing glaze of adoration. Shannon had told him this would happen. So the bitch had been right; she always was.
The water and his hands changed to murky shades of brown. Having gotten the basic surface off, he lathered soap over the wet edge of a towel and attacked the rest of it. God, but his skin felt raw! He'd been doing this for two months now.
The towel came away streaked with red and brown. Like blood almost. Stone distanced himself even more. He'd seen his own blood once in a panic and the recollection of that event was a terrifying one.
Arthur watched silently, watched the carefully constructed mask gurgle harmlessly down the drain like rusty water. And bit by aching bit the memories were rising closer to the surface with the emergence of Brian Slade.
Brian Slade turned coolly away from the mirror, reaching for another towel to pat his skin dry. In actuality, he found cream got rid of the make-up easier, but he couldn't be arsed to get it from his bedroom.
Cool grey eyes watched Arthur's mouth soften and his eyes grow sad. Anger and awe were obviously warring for dominance and Brian Slade could sympathize somewhat. "Enough? Or should I crack out the eyeshadow and lipstick too?"
"It's enough." Arthur couldn't believe it. Everything in his life came under a 'before' or 'after'. You don't look so different."
"I look older, Stewart; even Brian Slade doesn't stay young forever. I'm not bloody Peter Pan."
"You're still beautiful, though," slipped out before the reporter could bite his tongue. He regretted it the instant he said it, but noted the grateful look in Brian Slade's eyes with something approaching a warm glow.
"No, I'm not." Brian Slade promised himself he wasn't going to spill his guts to the first person he'd spoken to in ages. He simply wasn't going to. He wasn't! "You can't be beautiful when you get old." He had just spilled his guts.
Arthur stepped back distrustfully, eyes instantly searching for signs of mockery. That Slade was the past master at acting the victim he knew. Heck, everyone had said so! And so this was how he did it. Damn, the bastard was good! "I guess. I'm going to leave now."
Brian was confused. He'd expected comfort or scorn, not complete unconcern. "Wait. I... hold on a minute."
"You know what, I don't care any more." Once more furious and once more shouting. Only this time, he was actually shouting at Brian Slade. "I don't care. And neither does the rest of the fucking world. Maybe that's why Tommy Stone is such a great guy- because he's big and loud and he fills the world with absolutely sod-all. And the world likes that because then it doesn't have to care!"
Shannon came running in, fully expecting to see Tommy Stone on the floor with a knife between his ribs. What she got, was Brian Slade dressed in blood stained clothes with a stricken look in his eyes confronted by an extremely upset fan who had just given him the worst news anyone ever had.
"Get out of my way," Arthur snapped, striding past and wrenching open the door.
The door slammed shut. The outer door slammed shut. Brian Slade crumpled to his knees.
