A/N I'm sorry for the long wait with this! I ended up getting an injury and having to wear a brace on my arm for two weeks that really kept me from writing at all - the very short amount of time I did have on the computer had to be spent doing homework x.x But here! The next chapter - Idk how many ppl are reading from here, but those who are reading, I hope you enjoy!

Winslow desperately wanted to go to bed after arriving back at the Swanage. He wanted to swallow as many pills as he safely could (which, he realized now, was probably as many as he wanted...), bundle up, and sleep for an eternity. And he hoped deep down that when he woke up he would find that all of the information he had just been given, his entire conversation with Swan, was all some horribly nightmare. He was beyond the point of hoping to wake up and have his face be restored, or waking up and having never been to prison, or even waking up and no longer being in the Swanage. He did not have it in him to hope for such extravagant things anymore. If only this past conversation, this horribly revelation could be undone…

But Swan refused to hear it. Rather than let him go to bed Swan dragged Winslow down the hall to the kitchen once more, where he promptly ordered Winslow to sit down at the table. Winslow defeatedly did as told, for he did not have the will to argue with or undermine Swan's orders anymore. Swan walked to the cupboard.

"Any tea preferences, Winslow?" Swan asked casually as he rummaged through the cupboard. Winslow did not say a word; he was presently staring at his own hands, trying to convince himself they were indeed his own hands, that they belonged to him, that he had complete ownership of them. Swan hummed. "Chamomile it is, then."

Swan got to work preparing the tea, but Winslow was not paying attention. He continued to stare at his hands. He felt broken and weak and hopeless. There was no freedom from this. Escaping would mean a life of immortal misery, unable to show his face in public, living a life of shame with the name of a convicted, dead criminal. And living here was no better - in some ways it was worse - but at least there was a bed, and people who were willing to interact with him at all. And death itself, the ultimate escape, was impossible. Winslow could not even bring himself to be suicidal.

Winslow was not drawn from his thoughts until Swan placed a mug beside him, causing him to flinch, startled, and turn to look at it curiously. "I hope you don't mind milk and honey." Swan said calmly as he sat down across from Winslow. He hummed softly, watching Winslow for a moment, before saying, "Now, Winslow, let's get down to business."

"What?" Winslow looked up, glaring at Swan, hating him with a rage that was subdued only by his own feeling of intense, debilitating defeat.

Swan sighed and took a sip of tea. "You heard what Beef is capable of. You also heard the frankly tragic reality I'm facing: We're out of new music for him to play, and the tour starts in just a month." He set the mug down and looked at Winslow with seriousness; there were no games now, there was no playfulness or mockery in his tone. His eyes never left Winslow's as he said, "There's a prison cell in Sing Sing with your name on it, Winslow. If you don't want to spend the rest of your miserable existence behind bars, I suggest you make me an offer I can't refuse." Now he allowed a small smile to twitch onto his lips, and his cold tone softened into an cool, taunting one as he added, "I would hate to spoil the good name of Death Records by being caught harboring a criminal in my home! So give me a reason not to send you back."

Winslow froze, his eye going wide. He stared at Swan in disbelief; even after all this time, he could not quite believe the absolute cruelty Swan possessed. Winslow attempted to respond to this but found that the horror of the reality he faced had left him in a state of mind where he could not properly formulate words, let alone fully comprehend Swan's horrible words. As the reality of the threat began to slowly dawn on him, he felt himself grow pale and a sudden wave of nausea came over him. A life sentence in prison for him was a true eternity. An eternity locked away for a crime he never committed.

Swan, still waiting for an answer, took another sip of tea. Then he pointed to Winslow's untouched mug. "Why don't you try the tea, Winslow? Chamomile is supposed to calm the nerves, you know; it might help you!"

Winslow was still panicking, but at least this request made sense, and did not have an apparent threat or consequence to it. He shakily reached for the mug and brought it to his lips and took a very small drink. Winslow had never been one for tea, and he found the drink tasted a little too sweet for his liking, and left an odd aftertaste on his tongue. Swan watched from the other end of the table still, silently waiting. After a moment Winslow set the cup down on the table and nodded slowly.

"I can write music for Beef." Winslow said softly.

At that, Swan's smile instantly widened and he gave a nod. "A compelling offer indeed! I think I might just accept it." He stood up and walked to the sink, where he dumped out the rest of his tea and placed the cup down. Turning to face Winslow and leaning against the counter, he said, "Now, you won't be going by Winslow Leach anymore, of course. To the world you're my brother, and Winslow is a dead man. I'll have to put together an identity for you - I quite enjoy the name Spectre, do you think that would suit you?"

Winslow did not reply. He could feel his heart racing as he continued to think over what it was he had just agreed to. He was a composer; of course he could write music. This was an easy task for him, all things considered, and Beef was a talented enough performer that Winslow felt confident that he could pull off whatever he wrote for him. But now Winslow had a consequence if he failed to please - A fate worse than death. He drew in a deep breath and closed his eye, trying to come up with song ideas and feeling his fear and worry rise only higher and become even more intense when his mind drew a blank.

"Or maybe Dorian," Swan continued on, seemingly unconcerned by Winslow's silence. "I considered going by Dorian for a short while, when my career first took flight… Ah, Philbin, you've arrived!"

Swan's sudden greeting made Winslow look up in surprise. Sure enough, Philbin had just walked through the doorway. He looked tired, and he gave Winslow only the briefest of indifferent glances before wearily walking to Swan and saying, "His shirt was in Harold's shit… Don't ask me how the fuck it got there. Beef is claiming the Undead are trying to sabotage the tour, but if you ask me, I'd be willing to bet Harold just put it there by mistake. The man's a damn psycho when it comes to cleanliness. Next to godliness my ass; it makes my life a living Hell!"

Swan smiled and nodded slightly, and Winslow thought it looked like he was only vaguely paying attention. His arms were folded and his eyes were on his own shoes; he seemed lost in thought. Then, suddenly, he lifted his head and said, "And where is Beef now?"

"Oh, he's gone upstairs to shower. Between you and me, I think he might go back to bed afterwards. D'you have any idea how whiny he is about early rehearsals?"

"Never mind that now, Philbin, let him sleep if he wants. He worked hard today and has a busy night tonight, and besides, there are more urgent matters at hand." Swan looked at Winslow. "Our composer friend here has generously offered to write Beef's music for the tour! Isn't that exciting?"

Philbin's eyes went wide and he pointed to Winslow, who was so surprised by the sudden movement in his direction that he tensed for a moment and closed his eye. "You, Leach!" Philbin said. Winslow slowly looked at him once more. "Uh, Beef told me to tell you that he liked your makeup."

Winslow blinked,silently thinking over that. "Oh."

"He was real adamant about me saying something." Philbin explained, rolling his eyes and then immediately changing the subject as he turned to Swan and said, "So what else did you want me to do today, boss?"

Winslow was lost in thought as Swan replied to Philbin's question, too distracted to care about a conversation that had nothing to do with him. Beef liked his makeup? He thought back to the few times he had seen Beef, and he supposed it made sense he would point it out; after all, Beef himself wore makeup, although of a much different nature. His was lighter, made not to hide features but accentuate them, eyeshadow made to make his dark brown eyes shine brighter and lipstick that made his lips just a little redder and fuller. But still, the compliment remained on Winslow's mind and he continued to dwell on it, to think it over and process the kind words. He could not remember the last time he had heard a genuine compliment…

"Winslow!"

Winslow jumped and turned. Swan and Philbin were both looking at him. Once Swan saw that Winslow's attention was on him he smiled and said, "Winslow, I have some work to attend to. Philbin is going to show you around the Swanage, alright?" Philbin turned to Swan with wide eyes, but did not say a word. Swan chuckled a little. "Once you're back in your room, I expect you to get to work on that music right away! A month may be more than a week, but it's certainly not enough time to dawdle. Get up, get up!"

Winslow reluctantly stood up. He glanced to Philbin, and their eyes met in a moment of painfully awkward silence. Then Philbin reached up to rub the back of his neck, looking uncertain and uncomfortable, and gave a nod to the door. "Well, come on, then, Leach…" he said slowly. "Let's make this quick."

Winslow should have been insulted, but in that moment he was simply grateful that Philbin seemed just as unhappy with these orders as he was. They both walked to the door of the kitchen, and Winslow waited behind for Philbin to go through first so that they would not be too close to each other. Even as they began to walk down the hall Winslow kept a good distance from him. Truthfully, Winslow did not like or trust Philbin. He was a sneaky, cruel little man who did not seem to have any qualms with hurting and manipulating other people, almost to the same extent as Swan. In fact, the only thing that made him different from Swan, Winslow thought, was that rather than being a power-hungry egomaniac who craved leadership and authority and fame, Philbin seemed to worship the ground Swan walked on, and be nothing but a follower at heart.

"So you're… you're gonna be writing music, huh?" Philbin asked as he and Winslow walked down the hallway. Winslow glanced to him with his one good eye, but said nothing. Philbin snorted. "Your last music was a real hit, you know."

"I know."

Philbin went quiet again, immediately aware that small talk was not something Winslow was going to humor him with. They walked in silence into the main entrance room of the Swanage. Philbin pointed to the other direction, opposite to the way they had come. There was another hallway down there. "Uh, there's another guest room and the dining room over there." Philbin explained. "We don't really use that room, uh, Swan-"

"Doesn't eat." Winslow interrupted stiffly. And neither did he anymore, apparently.

"Er, sure, yeah." Philbin gave a shrug and began to walk upstairs. Winslow followed behind him still, and his eye darted curiously around the interior of the Swanage. He had been up here twice before - Once, he had been trying to shove his way through a long line of singing girls, disoriented and confused as it slowly dawned on him that it was his own cherished music that was ringing in his ears. The memory of Phoenix made his heart sink and he thought back to the other time: Again, he had been sneaking in among a crowd of girls, but that time he had been in a long red dress himself.

Both memories were unpleasant now, as they only served to remind him that ten minutes later he was being horribly beaten and shoved into the bushes, only to be framed for selling drugs and sent to a life behind bars. Winslow shivered and walked faster, quickly hurrying up the stairs. At the end of the stairs was a hallway and at the end of the hallway were two closed doors. Winslow remembered those doors… Phoenix had entered them, and then very, very quickly left. Philbin had been there… Winslow's stomach twisted and his skin crawled in disgust.

"I don't want a tour anymore," Winslow said, going still. Truth be told he had not wanted a tour to begin with, but as the memories of just how disgusting Philbin was returned to him he grew even more determined to get away from him. "I want to go back to my room and sleep."

Philbin groaned and turned to face Winslow. "Well, that's too bad. Boss wants me to show you around, at least let me finish showing you the top floor. That's where the important shit is you know- We don't do much downstairs except host parties. Up here is where the action happens." He snickered and shoved a thumb in the direction of the two doors at the end of the hallway. "Especially in there"

"I remember." Winslow said weakly, once more thinking back to the very foreign feeling of the long red dress that seemed to barely cover his body, being tugged forward roughly by Swan's men, trying to keep his face hidden so as not to expose himself, biting his lip to stay quiet. He remembered being shoved into the little room surrounded by mirrors with the big round bed in the middle, and all of the auditioning girls on it, all wearing their own silky red gowns and touching and giggling and fawning over Swan. Again his skin crawled and he looked down. That had been so long ago now, Winslow thought. Over half a year. And yet still he could remember the night so vividly and perfectly, like it had happened only yesterday. He could remember every sense, even the distinct smell of cigarettes and flowery perfume that had permeated the air. "That's the… the big round bed where Swan takes the girls."

"We call it the Sex Bed, Leach."

"I would've called it the Swannery,"

"Well, now that you work for Death Records, maybe you can become the Official Sex Bed Name Changer, huh?" Philbin spoke gruffly, sounded genuinely angry and frustrated and annoyed with Winslow, which honestly cheered Winslow up just a bit (a sensation that was rare indeed). He turned away from the hallway that led to the Sex Bed (or, perhaps someday, the Swannery), and began to walk to the left, where yet another hallway lay. "Down here is a few more rooms and another bathroom. Beef's room is the one on the right, Swan's is the one way at the end." Philbin now let out a great sigh of what seemed to be relief and raised his hands as he gave another shrug. "That's it, I think! The Swanage ain't that interesting of a place once you've lived here for awhile, kid. The only people that give much of a shit are the reporters trying to get into Swan's mind and the girls trying to get into Swan's pants. For Death Record employees, it's just a lot of walking."

Winslow shifted uncomfortably, not liking the way Philbin had referred to him as an employee twice now. He was hardly an employee - He certainly was not being paid with anything but a bed to sleep on and freedom from prison. He turned away and suddenly his eye went wide. "What's down there?" he asked. He pointed in front of him: There was another hallway to the right with a door at the very end that Philbin had not said a word about.

Philbin turned to see what Winslow was looking at, and his brow furrowed. "Oh, uh, nothing, really. It just leads to a study… Kind of like an office, I guess. Swan keeps his paperwork in there. Not the really important shit, though, so don't think snooping around will do you much good… All of that stuff is locked up in the Paradise. He just has, like… calendars and legal documents and singers' contact information in there."

Winslow's eye widened as those last few words left Philbin's mouth. Contact information? He felt his stomach tighten with anticipation. Phoenix had, at least for a short while, worked for Death Records. She had been a singer. Did Swan have her contact information still? He knew it was better not to ask. Philbin would surely report the question to Swan, and then even if Swan did still have the information he would undoubtedly destroy or hide it from Winslow.

But if he could just get into that room… Winslow's heartbeat had picked up and he stared down the hallway that led to the study. He had to get in there, somehow. He had to find a way in and he had to see if Phoenix could be contacted, and if she could he had to call her or write to her or… something. Winslow was not sure what he would do, but he knew now that he had a new goal. He had to get into that room and see if Phoenix's information was there. He turned to Philbin and said briskly, "Thanks for the tour, I'm going back to my room now."

Winslow could see that Philbin was watching him as he walked back to the steps and down the staircase to his room, but he said nothing. He walked hurriedly to the door of his room and ducked inside, and quickly slammed the door shut. He closed his eye for a moment and leaned back against the door, sighing in relief as he rested there for a moment - His heart was still pounding and the image of the long hallway with the study at the end of it flashed in his mind. He just had to get to it without Swan, Philbin, or anyone else noticing.

When Winslow opened his eye again he gasped. In the corner of the room was something that had not been there before: A little desk with a chair. This must have been moved in while he was getting the tour from Philbin, he thought. He walked over curiously, and although Phoenix and the room upstairs still weighed heavily on his mind he could see a notepad on the desk and he was curious to know what it said. Reaching the desk, he recognized Swan's handwriting on the note, and he picked it up to read it.

Spectre!

I've had some things brought to your room. In the drawer beneath the desk are music sheets and pencils, and I can provide you access to a piano as soon as tomorrow morning. As I said before, get to work immediately, we haven't time for delay. I can't wait to hear what you come up with! You've already signed a contract with me, so I figured it was pointless to give you a new one.

Your brother,

Swan.

Winslow felt sick as he read the note over. Swan had been serious about all of this, then. He could feel his hand trembling a little; the whole situation made him nervous and uncomfortable and terribly worried. Nothing that came from working with Swan was good. He had learned that the hard way. Allying with Swan meant setting yourself up for doom and disaster. But what choice did he have? If it was between working for Swan and returning to prison, there was little decision to be made.

And besides, Winslow reasoned, as he sat down at the desk and pulled open the little drawer beneath it to inspect the contents, as least this time the project was not something he was so passionate about, so devoted to. He was passionate about all music and all of his work to some extent, of course, but not to the same intensity as he had ever been with "Faust." "Faust," which had been his life's work, his magnum opus. He had spent so many long days and nights locked away working tirelessly on song after song, and all he had wanted was to share it. And Swan had destroyed all of that hard work and all of that passion just like he had destroyed so much else.

Winslow reached up to touch what was visible of his scar. He thought back to Phoenix again.

He looked up to the ceiling. For all he knew, Phoenix's contact information was right above his head. If he could just apologize, just tell her what had happened and explain himself and make sure she knew that he had never planned to let this happen, that he was not the insane criminal the media had made him out to be…

Filled with determination, Winslow stood once more and walked back to the door. He opened it slowly and glanced out. No one was around. Was Swan in his room? Still in the kitchen? He knew he did not want to run into him while on this mission. He did not know how Swan would feel about him contacting Phoenix, but he likely would not want it. Carefully, Winslow crept down the hallway, back to the staircase. Still he saw no one. It was bizarrely still and silent throughout the whole Swanage. Beef was probably napping, as Philbin had predicted, but that did not explain the absence of everyone and everything else.

But Winslow took this as a sign; if fate had decided he would get this job over with without a single obstacle, he was not going to complain. Quickly Winslow snuck to the main hall and up the staircase. He practically held his breath as he reached the top, still expecting to run into someone, formulating an excuse in his head as he looked around. I was just looking for a bathroom. I was trying to find Swan. I ran out of pain meds and needed more.

Still there was no one. Winslow drew in a soft breath, careful not to make a sound and have his voice box pick it up and translate it into the loud electronic growl that would surely catch attention. He ran swiftly down the hallway to the right and as he reached the end, he prayed to every god he could come up with off the top of his head that the door would be unlocked, the room would be empty, and Phoenix's information would be there.

Then Winslow grabbed the doorknob and turned it.

Just as any door should, it promptly opened.

Winslow felt his heart all but stop, anxiety making his stomach twist and tighten itself into a great big knot. He drew in another weak breath as he stepped into the room. As Philbin had promised, it appeared to be a study. Books lined shelves in the corners of the room and there was a huge desk in the center. There was paperwork of all sorts scattered on the desk, as well as a phone in the upper corner. The desk had filing cabinets for legs, and Winslow had a feeling that if Phoenix's information was in here, it would be within one of those.

He shut the door carefully and walked to the filing cabinets, beginning to rummage through them. The first one he opened was full of what appeared to be contracts. None like the one he had signed (Winslow shivered thinking back to it, knowing what he had done, what the contract had meant), but simply legal contracts of different sorts. Phoenix may have had one, he was not sure, but he did not particularly care to find out. Thinking about contracts at all made him feel a bit nauseous and there was little he could do with this information anyway.

The next two drawers had complicated paperwork that Winslow could not make out. Documents about lawsuits, complicated legal documents, long and detailed descriptions of partnerships that had been made with other companies. Swan was the CEO of an internationally famous, agonizingly successful company, Winslow knew that, but he was still surprised to find him as organized as he was when it got down to the legal matters. Still, this information told Winslow little except that Swan was a decent businessman, which was information that did not benefit him in the slightest.

Still not losing hope, Winslow went to the second set of filing cabinets on the other side of the desk and opened it. His eye lit up at what he saw. The top drawer was arranged alphabetically. For names, perhaps? Was this what he had been looking for? To test it he skimmed through the B files, looking for Beef. He saw many names, but when Beef's name did not appear he began to wonder if perhaps he had the wrong cabinet yet again. Then he noticed that just behind where he was searching, on the paper at the front of the C files, the words CAPTAIN BEEF were printed. Winslow snatched it and skimmed it over. There was Beef's mailing address, his number, his mother's number and address (emergency contact information), as well as a number of other bits of personal information (Beef was twenty-four years old, apparently).

Winslow was shaking with excitement and anticipation and suspense and his heart felt like it was ramming into the front of his chest with each heartbeat. His fingers trembled as he shoved Beef's information back where it belonged and began to eagerly rummage through the P section. Anxiety mixed with ecstatic excitement and hope made it hard for him to think or function, but he remained determined as he searched.

There she was.

In big letters right at the top, the most beautiful seven letters Winslow thought he had ever seen in his life. Relief and joy washed over him as his trembling fingers reverently pulled the paper from the drawer and lifted it to read. Printed clear as day was the word PHOENIX.

Winslow took only a moment to skim over the information and check to make sure it was there. Then he looked to the phone on the desk. He ran to it and grabbed it, clutching the phone like it was the most important object he had ever been in the presence of, like his very survival and existence relied on that phone being in his possession. He hastily, eagerly dialed the number, and then pulled the phone to his ear and waited, fingers tapping on the desk, body still trembling and heart still hammering.

It felt like he spent an eternity there, just waiting. The phone humming softly as it dialed. What if she didn't answer? Oh God, what was he going to say? His hand rested on his voice box and he swallowed; she would think he sounded so awful. And yet… he had to try. He had to talk to her if he could, just once…

"H- Hello?"

The voice that came through the speaker suddenly made ecstasy (with a hint of nervousness) burst within Winslow. Phoenix… Even muffled by the phone, he could recognize the soft, gentle, silky alto of Phoenix's voice and he let out a soft sigh of joy and relief.

"Phoenix! Phoenix, it's m-"

"Winslow!"

Winslow cried out in shock and dropped the phone as Swan's voice, sharp and angry, suddenly echoed through the room. Winslow turned to see Swan standing in the doorway. Panic replaced relief and terror replaced joy and he scrambled to slam the phone down and shut it off, hanging up on Phoenix without a word. He stared at Swan for a moment, and then Swan took a step forward.

"Winslow, I'm so very disappointed in you; I-"

Swan did not get to finish his sentence. Winslow scrambled desperately, instinctively, and grabbed hold of the first thing to catch his eye - the metallic gleam of a pair of scissors. He grabbed them off the desk and threw them with thoughtless, reckless desperation directly at Swan's heart. With a dull thump of a sound, something similar to a knife being shoved into a mattress, the scissors hit Swan's chest and sank in. But they did not go deep, and they did not spill even a drop of blood, and Swan seemed unfazed save for grimacing and taking a step back. Winslow stared, shocked, his eye wide and his mouth hanging open, the realization of what he had just attempted to do dawning on him. It had happened so fast, he had not even had time to think… No judgement had been involved, simply a desperate, panicky attempt to avoid the consequences of his actions.

Swan huffed and grabbed the scissors, looking down at them for a moment before tugging them out of his own chest and tossing them to the ground. As they landed with a clatter on the floor Swan looked back up. "Winslow, don't be ungrateful," he spat. Winslow took a step back, feeling sick and horrified, knowing there was no way to talk himself out of whatever punishment Swan had in store. "I've given you so much, and how do you repay me? Scissors to the heart? Pathetic." Swan huffed and walked forward. Winslow backed up again. "Stop trying to get away, Winslow, come here."

Swan was immortal too. It seemed obvious now; he had said it himself: Winslow was alive as long as Swan was, and Winslow would live forever. Surely that implied Swan, too, had managed to achieve eternal life. Winslow felt like a fool for ever thinking he could stop Swan so easily. As Winslow walked to Swan he felt his stomach tighten and horrible dread wash over his entire being, and although Swan was so small compared to him, he was the most powerful, imposing, horrifying being he had ever laid eyes on in that moment.

"I've done so much for you, and this is the second time now that you've undermined my trust." Swan drummed his fingers on his desk. "I imagine you're feeling very ashamed right now, is that right? You certainly should be. No ordinary human would be so ungracious. But…" He looked up now, his eyes landing on Winslow's masked face, and Winslow felt like his gaze could pierce right through his metal and he could see directly inside of him, "you're hardly human at all anymore, are you?"

The question felt like a sharp tug at the knot that Winslow's stomach had coiled itself into. He drew in a weak breath and struggled to swallow even air, and he looked away, his head lowered.

"Look at me, Winslow."

Winslow very reluctantly looked, but he refused to let his eye meet Swan's.

Swan hummed, drumming his fingers still, incessantly, on the desk. Winslow was sure he would be driven mad by it, but he was also certain that total silence would not have been any better, and would have been equally maddening. Everything was wrong and uncomfortable, the air felt too thick to swallow and his mask felt heavy on his face and despite the nerves having been horribly burned and seared off he was certain he could feel a dull, throbbing sensation where his scar was.

"Do you have anything to say for yourself?

Winslow did not.

Swan let out a breathy chuckle through his nose and suddenly his tapping ceased. "I should hope you do, because you're one strike away from prison, and I'm being generous giving you even that." He stood up. "Why don't I give you some time to think on it? If you're so adamant on staying silent, I'll give you silence." His voice was gentle, but Winslow knew better than to trust Swan's benevolence. "Give me your voice box."

"What?!" Winslow's eye widened and he shook his head, stepping back instinctively.

"Ah, now you can speak!" Swan laughed. "You heard me, Winslow, you may lack integrity but you certainly don't lack comprehension." He held a hand out. Winslow did not move for a moment, every inch of his body resisting the order, begging himself not to do as told. Without his voice he was reduced to a squawking, snarling monster. The memories of when he first came to his senses enough after the accident to even realize he had lost his voice - the terror and disbelief, the desperate, hysteric denial, the mantra of this isn't real, this hasn't happened, this can be fixed, there's no way I can never speak again - resurfaced. He blinked and touched his own throat, and Swan hummed again as if quietly telling Winslow not to keep him waiting. Slowly, hands feeling weak and numb, Winslow removed the device and very, very gently set it down on the desk.

Swan nodded and took the box. "Good, good." He was smiling, and he looked up now to watch Winslow from where he sat with smug delight. Winslow felt horribly exposed, horribly vulnerable and powerless against Swan. He touched his own chest; although it was covered by his shirt it felt completely bare without the box in front of it now. "I'll be holding onto this for awhile. Why don't you head back to your room? Your music won't write itself, you know."

The moment he was given permission to leave, Winslow darted for the door, desperate for isolation. Just as he reached it Swan called, "Oh, and Winslow? I've invited some guests over this evening. I suggest you lock your door; I doubt you want to put any unsuspecting people through the trouble of seeing you. And staying in all night will give you a great opportunity to get a head start on your music!"

Winslow's heart stopped at Swan's words. People were coming here? He drew in a nervous breath. Who was coming? Girls? Reporters? Other people in the music industry? He had no idea, but he had no way to ask, and he did not want to dwell on it. Without another word (not that he had much of a choice), Winslow turned and hurried out the door.

xxx

"Hey, kids, shake it loose together,

The spotlight's hitting something that's been knowing to change the weather.

We'll kill the fatted calf tonight

So, stick around…"

How Swan had expected him to work under these conditions was an absolute mystery to Winslow. "Some guests" had been an outrageous exaggeration. Not that he had dared step foot outside his bedroom, but from the sound of it alone - if the constant talking, blaring music, and frequent footsteps both outside his door and above him were any indication - it sounded less like the small gathering Swan had implied and more like a full blown party.

It was utterly intolerable. Winslow, terrified of being locked in, had refused to heed Swan's advice and lock his door, but luckily keeping it shut kept most people away. Most other people knocked, to which he would respond with knocking back even louder, for he could not yell out that the room was not for public use. The few who did open the door typically left quickly upon seeing that the atmosphere within the bedroom was much different than the chaotic party going on in the rest of the Swanage, and if they did not it did not take more than Winslow turning to look at them with his one good eye and growling to get them to quickly leave.

Those particular people probably had questions for Swan and Philbin. He would let them deal with that; it wasn't his problem.

"You're gonna hear electric music,

Solid walls of sound…"

Interruptive disturbances was only one of Winslow's problems, however. The music itself, thundering through every hallway and blasting out every window and smashing its way through every wall, was ceaseless and unbearable. He had never been one for loud music, even music he enjoyed, and when he had work to do, it went from annoying to nearly entirely unendurable.

"Say, Candy and Ronnie, have you see them yet?

Oh, but they're so spaced out-"

"Fuck off!"

The door suddenly flew open, only to slam shut again so quickly that Winslow, startled, jumped in surprise and nearly fell out of his chair. He clutched his chest, where his heart was beating hard from his sudden fright, and stood up and turned to face whoever had just entered. When he saw who it was his nerves relaxed a bit, no longer afraid, but he only grew more confused and bewildered.

Beef was standing with his back pressed to the shut door. He was all dressed up for the party - He wore a glittery silver tank top and tight black pants to match, his hair sparkled with silver glitter, and he wore a shiny, metallic collar around his neck. In his hands was a glass bottle of Coke. He was looking around the little bedroom wildly, clearly confused and disoriented by his new surroundings, and he was panting fast and heavily. Winslow wondered if he was high, drunk, or both.

Beef's eyes finally landed on Winslow and his eyebrows rose in surprise. "Winslow!" he turned and locked the door, and Winslow could not voice any complaint, before walking all the way to the other side of the room and to where Winslow stood in front of his desk. With his free hand he grabbed hold of Winslow's forearm just below his elbow. "Is this your room?" he asked, speaking loud enough that his voice was clear over the music.

Clearly Beef had not caught onto his inability to speak. Winslow tugged free of Beef's grip and, keeping his mouth shut, replied with nothing but a nod.

Beef was too distracted - or too intoxicated, maybe - to notice his silence. "Can I hide in here?" He walked to the bed and sat down at the foot of it before getting a response (not that Winslow would be able to give one, anyway). "Jesus Christ, I'm sick of those girls." he groaned, then reached over to set his Coke down on the edge of the bedside table, nearly knocking over a bottle of sleeping pills, before laying back on the bed and closing his eyes. "They're so damn clingy and demanding, like I fucking owe them for getting up on stage to sing a few times a week… Like, holy shit, fuck off, I'm gay!"

Winslow, unsure of what to say, walked back to the chair at his desk, turned it around so that it faced the bed, and sat down to stare at Beef.

Beef suddenly sat up, looking at Winslow with wide eyes. "Shit, shit, um- Um, don't repeat that." Winslow could not have repeated it even if he wanted to. Beef gave an awkward chuckle and fidgeted with his collar, and Winslow noticed that his face had become very red. Then he groaned and rubbed his forehead. "Dammit, I'm sorry, I, I-" Beef, who clearly was not totally capable of keeping track of his own train of thoughts, or perhaps had managed to make some connection in his head that Winslow - nor anyone else - could ever follow, suddenly punched the bed angrily and growled before snapping, "I can't believe I'm going on tour with those assholes."

Winslow blinked. The suddenness of the topic change was emotional whiplash; he was still just beginning to process Beef drunkenly coming out to him. Not that he had particularly assumed Beef was straight - it would take a fool, or maybe a very desperate and blindly optimistic young female fan, to think that - but the actual confirmation that he was indeed gay had left Winslow deep in thought.

"We shall survive, let us take ourselves along,

Where we fight our parents out in the streets

To find who's right and who's wrong…"

Beef huffed, "Six months, Swan said. Six months all over the planet, with the goddamn Juicy Fruits." Winslow did not know how to reply. As Beef rambled on he looked around, zoning out just a little, and his eye landed on the notepad Swan had used to communicate with him before. Getting an idea now he opened the desk and found a pen, and tore the top note from the pad. He quickly began to scribble a message on the new top of the notepad.

"She's got electric boots, a mohair suit,

You know I read it in a magazine-"

"-B-B-B-Beef and the Undead." Beef interrupted the song, singing over it bitterly and sarcastically. He huffed a little laugh to himself and then looked up at Winslow. "The only thing I'm really looking forward to about the whole thing now is hearing your new music for it. Swan mentioned earlier you offered to write some."

Winslow stood up now and walked to Beef, sitting down beside him, which made Beef's eyebrows raise in surprise. He held out the note to Beef, showing him what he had written:

"I'm sorry I can't talk right now. Literally."

Beef blinked, and then looked up at Winslow. He opened his mouth to speak and then stopped suddenly and gasped. "Oh, that… the box you always wear… What happened to it?"

Winslow very sloppily scribbled down a single word:

"Swan."

Beef frowned. "Oh." He clearly did not understand, and he looked a little uncomfortable, perhaps even guilty, now. Winslow hoped he would leave. As much as he tended to like hearing people compliment his music, he felt horribly exposed and uncomfortable right now, unable to say a word, Beef drunkenly complaining about his upcoming tour while he sat on his bed and hid from girls at a party. The whole situation was very much for Winslow, who was beginning to consider kicking Beef out. The last thing Winslow expected was for Beef to reach out and grab the bottle of Coke off the table and hand it to Winslow. "D'you want this? Um, you can wipe the lipstick off the top, I only took a few sips, I swear."

Winslow, baffled, set down his notepad and accepted the bottle.

Beef snickered. "Philbin said no more coke, so I switched from the powder to the fizzy brown stuff."

Winslow looked at the rim of the bottle. There was silver lipstick on it, as Beef had warned. Unsure of what else to do he used the edge of the bedsheet to wipe off the worst of the lipstick (there was still a smudge of light grey which he chose to ignore) and then take a hesitant sip of the soda. Beef was watching; for some reason the realization made Winslow's cheeks feel warmer as he lowered the bottle again. Being stared at had always made him a bit flustered (even when performing, there had always been a hint of stage fright, and he did everything he could to remain totally fixated on his music so as not to think too hard on the audience he very rarely had), and now that he was the masked, scarred freak that he was, it was an even more stressful experience. He looked down at the bottle once more: The silver of Beef's lipstick was now hidden beneath a layer of Winslow's black lipstick.

"It's the least I can give you after you let me crash in on you like this... " Beef said, causing Winslow to look up again. He was still staring at Winslow Winslow quickly looked away when Beef's eyes met his own, and he ended up letting his eye rest on his own feet, which hung off the side of the bed. Both him and Beef were silent for a moment. Winslow had no idea what to say, and even if he did have some sort of idea, he knew he could not say it. He still felt exposed, weak and powerless and helpless.

Desperate for Beef to start talking again so that he would not have to dwell on his own muteness, Winslow took one more sip of the Coke and set it back on the bedside table before picking up his notebook again. He quickly scribbled out in his sloppy, scratchy handwriting that he personally felt had become even worse since becoming blind in one eye, "You really hate the Juicy Fruits?"

He handed the note to Beef, who read it over for a second before letting out a loud laugh of amusement. "I'm not too good at hiding it, huh? Philbin keeps saying I better learn to shut up before the tour or all the tabloids will just be about my vendetta against 'em." He sighed and set the notepad down. "I don't… I didn't hate them at first, okay? We were buddies, we got along… I really liked them, and… well, I think they liked me too. I thought they did. Er, I dunno." He looked down at his hands now, and Winslow frowned, watching Beef curiously. He had not seen him like this before, so subdued and quiet.

Beef continued with a little, weak laugh. "It was… It was nothing. I… well…" Winslow watched now as his face grew red, and Beef grabbed the bed sheet, holding it tight. He was silent for a moment, and Winslow almost wanted to try to push him into continuing, intrigued and wanting to hear the rest of the story. Winslow himself had a personal dislike of the Juicy Fruits, partly stemming from pure pretentious haughtiness. The pop garbage that they sold out with every year just about drove him mad. And there had been jealousy there, too, admittedly. The fact that he had locked himself away for years pouring his soul into his cantata while they could sing about whatever fluff they pleased and it would play on every radio station for a solid month straight made him bitterly envious, to say the least. But Beef seemed to have a more personal issue with them, and Winslow was eager to hear what it was.

"It was Archie," said Beef now. And he looked up at Winslow. "D'you know which one Archie is? He, uh, he's the lead singer in 'Goodbye, Eddie'..." Winslow gave a little shrug; he could not be bothered to tell them apart "But I mean… it wasn't just him, because those three defend each other to fucking hell and back. But Archie started it - The bastard led me on." He squeezed the bedsheet. Winslow heard how the anger that had started to build in his voice suddenly faded, replaced with embarrassment and hurt, emotions Winslow himself knew all too well. "We started to get closer, y'know? Us two, specifically, and I thought there might be something there, between us, I dunno. Whatever it was, it was cut short. Turns out he likes both boys and girls…"

Winslow's attention was suddenly tugged out of Beef's story and he furrowed his brow. He reached for the notepad in Beef's hands, tugging it free of his grip. Beef's eyebrow rose as Winslow began to hurriedly write out another message:

"Me too."

Beef blinked, his anger and hurt subsiding now as confusing took their place. "You too… what?"

Winslow's face was very red and he suddenly regretted this. Cursing his impulsivity and quickness to anger and constant need to prove himself, his hand trembled a little as he thought over how to word his next message. Not having the courage to write out what he wanted to tell Beef in words (in fact, he did not really want to tell Beef this at all anymore, and had been simply spurred by impulsive spite, and now was beginning to deeply regret his actions), he very quickly sketched the Venus and Mars gender symbols and circled them both. Then he all but tossed the notepad back to Beef and looked away, embarrassed.

Beef was silent for a moment. Then Winslow heard him mutter, "Oh, shit." Then he felt a hand reach out and tug the end of his shirt, and Winslow reluctantly turned back around to face Beef, grateful that his mask hid the worst of the flush on his cheeks. "That was stupid of me Winslow, I- I don't have a problem with bisexuality, I swear to God-" He brushed some of his own hair from his face and shook his head. "I should have been more clear, uh… Fuck." He had really caught him off guard, Winslow thought, almost feeling bad now. Beef was absolutely at a loss for words, and if Winslow's face was red from his awkward confession, Beef's was positively on fire. Winslow did not even realize that Beef was still holding onto the end of his shirt. "I- I should've been more clear, sorry, I… He already had a girlfriend, is what I meant. I don't even know if he actually likes men. It all seemed like a joke to him in the end, so who… who knows…" Beef was still blushing horribly, but the look of surprise and interest that he been on his face upon Winslow's coming out to him shifted to one of embarrassment and irritation.

Winslow realized that he was still taking in quick, nervous, shallow breaths of air, his heart still beating a little faster than usual after his confession. Beef's blushing wasn't helping, and the silence that had fallen between them was only filling Winslow with more and more dread. It was hard to think, and he made a desperate attempt to help Beef relax and cheer up - hoping it would make him more talkative again - by reaching for the Coke on the bedside table and offering it to him.

Beef did not bother to try to wipe Winslow's lipstick off as he took a drink of the soda. Winslow tried not to think about it.

"Um… thanks, uh…" Beef set the bottle in his lap, clutching it by the neck and staring at the door now. He let out a sigh. "I dunno. Maybe it's petty of me to be so mad at them. I mean, it's not like I'm not used to it." He rolled his eyes and huffed. Winslow noticed that he was gripping the bottle even tighter now. "I guess that's what feels so shitty about it, though. That I gotta deal with this shit so often… Can I tell you something, Winslow?"

Winslow gave a little shrug, still partly wishing Beef would leave and let him spend the night sulking alone but also finding himself curious to know what he had to say. Come to think of it, he hardly ever had conversations anymore, save for his dreadful talks with Swan and the occasional interaction with Philbin. His moments with Beef were some of the first times in months that he had spoken with someone who did not want to hurt him. He had typically stuck to short responses in prison, terse, one or two word answers, in order to avoid interaction as much as possible. Deep down the part of him that had still been in denial, that had been completely and utterly incapable of comprehending that he was sentenced to spend the rest of his life locked away, had believed that if he isolated himself enough, if he refused to associate with anyone or allow himself to belong, he would somehow never truly be like them and one day be allowed to walk free.

And his short life as a homeless person had not been much better; save for the rare, brave person who tried and failed to strike up a conversation at the soup kitchen, Winslow had spent the time in total solitude, not interacting with a single person and certainly not having any pleasant conversations.

"I worked my ass off to get to where I am and I still have to deal with the shittiest managers and colleagues who treat me like a joke!" Beef said, throwing a hand up in the air. The Coke almost fell over, but he rushed to grab it again before it could. "It gets so tiring; I gotta spend my whole damn life in the closet if I wanna make a name for myself and I still end up dealing with this shit. Would you believe Philbin is one of the nicer managers I've had?" He paused and chuckled incredulously, shaking his head. "The Juicy Fruits are just the newest issue; it's just the latest in a series… I'm always a goddamn target. If it wasn't for my mother encouraging me I dunno if I'd have kept going in this shithole industry at all; sometimes it feels like it isn't worth it."

Winslow watched Beef in silence. He was almost relieved for his own inability to speak now, for he had no idea what he could possibly say. He reached out to nervously place his hand on Beef's shoulder, the bare palm of his hand touching the bare flesh of Beef's arm, and while there was not much to the gesture it was one of the more intimate touches he had experienced in awhile. He wet his lip and looked at the bottle, keeping his eye off of Beef.

But he saw from the corner of his good eye the way Beef glanced to Winslow's hand before speaking again. "She and I weren't too well off when I was little. But I always knew I wanted to become a famous rock star one day… And maybe it's stupid of me to have kept clinging to that dream after being insulted and mocked and attacked for existing so many damn times… But I just want it so badly, you know?" He snorted. "That's what I get for being young and poor and crazy.

"But… I think I finally might have a chance." Beef turned to look at Winslow with a smile. "The tour is coming up so soon, and people… people really like me. My concerts sell out and I hear my own music on the radio… I don't have to change anything and as much as he complains even Philbin doesn't try to force me to be anyone I'm not. Working with Swan has really saved me, I think…"

"No!" Winslow tried to say, but what came out instead was a distorted growl. He covered his mouth, humiliated by the horrible noise that had left him, and felt his stomach tighten with worry and fear and embarrassment. Beef trusted Swan… Beef did not know who Swan was, what it was he would do to people…

Beef jumped in surprise. "What?!" He stared at Winslow, looking nervous and confused. "Wh- What was that sound?"

Winslow's face burned red under his mask and he refused to let his hand leave his mouth. He shook his head, looking away, heart racing. When his eye landed on the notepad he reached for it eagerly and wrote out a fast message, so quick and desperate, letters sliding together and running into each other in sloppy half-cursive, that it was nearly illegible:

"swan did this to me and he'll do it to you too"

Beef had a look of concern on his face when he took the notepad back from Winslow. Winslow watched, his hand still over his mouth, as Beef read over it. His eyebrows furrowed and his face paled and after a moment he looked back up at Winslow with shock in his deep brown eyes. "What the hell does this mean?" he asked. His tone was sharp and accusatory and angry, and Winslow felt like ice was being plunged into his chest as the words left his mouth.

Winslow reached out with the hand not covering his mouth and grabbed the notepad from Beef's hand with trembling fingers. He started to hurriedly scribble out more words, "he'll ruin you, he only cares about himself you can't trust h-"

The pad was suddenly ripped from Winslow's hand. He gasped against his mouth and looked up to see Beef standing in front of the bed now, holding the notepad. "Stop it." he said. He didn't look angry anymore; Winslow couldn't tell what his expression was. Was he hurt? Upset?

Drunk, Winslow's mind supplied. He felt frustration rising within himself now and he, too, stood, stubbornly, and grabbed the notepad, yanking it free of Beef's grasp.

He promptly pointed to the door, expressionless.

Beef huffed. "Fine." he said. He placed the Coke on the bedside table, gave Winslow one last unreadable look, and walked to the door and unlocked it. He then walked out of the room, shutting the door behind him just hard enough that Winslow winced in surprise.

And then Winslow was alone. The music outside was still blaring - he had almost forgotten it with Beef in the room, it had been so easy to drown everything out when he was listening to him speak… - and people were still talking and footsteps still echoed around him. Nothing had changed; there was no evidence of Beef's presence save for the notes Winslow had written on the notepad in his hand and the half-drunk bottle of Coke on the bedside table. Winslow sat down on the bed and tore the notes off of the pad and crumpled them up, not wanting Swan to find them later. Then he glanced back to the desk. All that time he could have spent writing music had been wasted…

And the anger that had briefly flared up was beginning to leave him now, and be replaced with anxiety that he could not place the cause of. His conversation with Beef? The unfinished music that he had only barely begun to work on? The ceaseless noise coming from outside of his room? The fact that he was still in the Swanage at all, and at this point in time that was a good thing? Winslow was not sure if he even wanted to know exactly what the cause of his emotions was. There was too much to process in the conversation he had just had and the world around him; even thinking of Beef, who until now had been a source of… positivity, now left only bad feelings. Anger and frustration and embarrassment. Winslow sighed and lay down.

He should get back to work, Winslow thought. Swan was expecting music from him, and he did not have much time to get it done. He had to produce some passable music soon or he would be sent back to prison and locked up for eternity. He had a job to do that his entire life depended on.

Winslow used the Coke to down a handful of sleeping pills.

xxx

Winslow was woken very suddenly by a knock at the door. He sat up and looked around. "Swan?" he called out, only to promptly gasp as the sound that left his mouth was a distorted snarl. He fell silent and listened, waiting for the door to open. Instead, there was another knock, and then Winslow heard the sound of footsteps echo down the hallway. Still he sat quietly, listening. Swan was horrible, but he was not the kind to ding dong ditch, Winslow thought with confusion.

Although he was tired still and a bit disoriented, having only just woken up moments ago, curiosity got the better of him and he stood, walking to the door. Cautiously Winslow opened it, and he gasped aloud at what he saw.

His voice box sat on the ground in front of the door.

Winslow rushed to pick it up, grabbing it and holding it against his chest, clutching it as if he had just been reunited with a long lost, dear friend. Swan must have decided to return it to him. He carried it into the room, shutting the door behind him. It was not until he sat down on the bed to reattach it that his eye caught the little yellow sticky note on the side of the box:

"Sorry."