Author's Note: I'm sorry. I know I'm messing about with this for too long. But I just realized that the last chapter (before the epilogue) didn't really say what I wanted it to say. I thought the ending was too abrupt and so I decided to put in this last chapter. The previous chapter and the epilogue are the same as before.
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"We're going to have to talk about it some time," Brian warned.
Arthur glared at him from over the newspaper but said nothing.
"Art, you've got to…"
"First rule," Arthur interrupted, "I hate that name. Don't call me 'Art', right? Second, no. We're not talking about it."
Brian sighed and considered banging his head on the window. Whatever utopia of originality he had thought this relationship was going to be, it clearly wasn't. Arthur was more likely to be idiotic than romantic. Not, in itself a bad thing, but when one has a highly aesthetic appreciation of one's future, one tended to want a little romance now and again. Or at least one wanted less idiocy.
"We're in the car," he said, trying to control his temper, "The car is bloody well moving. So, we're going to talk about it."
"Nope," Arthur said again. And he turned the page.
Brian very kindly stole the paper, ripping it in his haste.
Arthur stared at the little square he had left in his hand and then turned to his lover with the blackest glare he had yet afforded him. "What was tha' for?" he snapped, "I was reading that."
"Talk," Brian threatened, "Or get out of my car."
"Your car? Fine! Open the fucking door and I'll get out!" Arthur had one hand on the car door and the car wasn't stopping any time soon, but it was still in the City hub and it was slow enough to avoid broken bones from jumping.
"Stop driveling," Brian said contemptuously.
He sat back and folded his arms, turning up his nose and looking out of the other window.
They stayed quiet for the longest time, reluctant to break the stifling tension. It had been building since the night before, but Arthur hadn't wanted to talk about it. Brian, naturally, had instantly insisted that they talk because he always got suspicious when Arthur got quiet.
"I don't like not knowing," he said. Often enough, really, and Arthur usually thought it was a reasonable enough request, except on some occasions…
"I don't want to fly," Arthur said abruptly, "There! I admitted it. Was that all?"
"That's all," Brian murmured, still staring out of the window.
Arthur sank back and scrubbed at his face with his hands. "You've got to stop throwing your damned wealth in my face," he sighed, "It makes me mad."
"It is my fucking car," Brian snapped.
Arthur clicked his tongue in annoyed and gave up. By now he knew- two weeks into this strange compromise of lives- that Brian didn't do apologies. Not when it mattered. He could say sorry for the little things with the best of them, like accidentally biting too hard or forgetting to pick up milk.
Brian never had remembered to pick up milk, Arthur reminded himself. For two days he'd wandered into Arthur's flat and said, "Shit! I forgot the milk!" Arthur had got it himself and felt bad for having to nag at the older man to get it in the first place.
"Right," he allowed, "It's your car. You bought the car. You bought the plane tickets. We'll stay at the hotel at your fucking expense. You want me to thank you?"
"You're still pissed," Brian broke in, "Look, I did you a favour. What were you going to do? Stay there indefinitely?"
"Why not?" Arthur yelled, finally exploding enough to slam his hand on his knee and twist around, "Why the hell not? I liked my job. You had no right to do that!"
"You said you wanted…"
"I were joking…"
"… to write and you were the one…"
"… You had no business talking to…"
"… you said you were thinking of…"
"… I couldn't look Lou in th' face!…"
"… I only mentioned it once…"
"… What d' yer think I am?..."
"… Your boss was the one who got it wrong. I just mentioned it," Brian spat. He banged his hand against the door. "It wasn't my fault!"
"It's never your damned fault. Nothing! You can't take responsibility for anything," Arthur said, "Not even for shooting yourself!"
Brian laughed, though it wasn't funny. "Oh, we're back to that," he remarked to no one, "We always come back to that. Go on, then. You're going to think it so you might as well say, yeah? How was it my fault?"
"You got yourself shot! I think it was your bloody fault! You knew, didn't you?"
"Oh, please! I sucked a guitar off but that wasn't an act, was it? I kissed Curt for the tabloids but that couldn't possibly be an act. Everything was a fucking act!"
"Yeah, but we didn't get it until you shot yourself!"
They turned away again and stared out of their own windows. Arthur thought he recognized someone on the streets but the traffic for once was moving too fast and the person was walking in the opposite direction.
They finally reached the airport too late to do anything more than get through the formalities and get on the plane. By which time Arthur was tense enough to strangle Brian if he even opened his pretty little mouth.
There was no danger of that. That pretty little mouth was set in a thin, ugly line, and Brian kept himself to himself. Uncharacteristically, he began to bite his nails.
Arthur did a double take but grey eyes blazed at him and he shrugged and turned away. He was thankful Brian took the window seat without a word. He wouldn't have put it past Brian to maliciously make him sit at the window, just because he knew he hated flying.
The journey itself was uneventful. The stewardess was all kindness and Brian was silent as the grave.
Arthur kept his sanity by shredding tissues.
Brian looked over once, raised his eyebrow at the lapful of shreds and empty hands and wordlessly shook his head.
When the plane touched down, Arthur was once again ready to kiss the ground. If he had been in a better mood he would have kissed Brian but he wasn't. Now that the flight was over, his anger was back. He stalked off fuming and kept a wide berth from the rock star.
It turned out to be a blessing.
Brian was recognized- as he always was- and for some reason a small knot of reporters had managed to hear he was flying in. The cameras were going off before he was ready.
Brian hated cameras.
He put up his hand politely to decline, smiled charmingly and damned them all to hell in his head.
"Mr. Slade, what is the nature of your business in England?"
"Can we expect a new record, Mr. Slade?"
"Mr. Slade, what do you say to the new allegations by Mark Linway that you owe him thousands in unpaid fees?"
"Mr. Slade, we heard you had a new person in your life. Would you like to comment, Mr. Slade?"
Brian shook his head, smiled just as charmingly and thankfully handed his bag over to his chauffeur. He estimated someone had tipped them off. He had a very good idea of whom, but he was more concerned with getting out of the airport than stamping his foot and screaming.
In all honestly, he didn't mind publicity. But publicity when he wasn't doing anything to warrant publicity was a pain in the arse. And speaking of pains in the arse…
Arthur was camped comfortably by the limousine, his long face wreathed in the most evil grin Brian had ever seen. The reporter was leaning happily against the boot, with his battered bags around his feet and his hands nonchalantly in his pocket.
Brian bared his teeth but it wasn't a smile this time. He was seriously considering going for the jugular.
"Mr. Slade, what do you think of the Live Aid concerts? Will you be participating, Mr. Slade?"
Arthur graciously moved out of the way when the driver hurriedly tossed all bags in and went around to the far door to escape being crushed by his lover's over-enthusiastic welcoming committee. He slid in before anyone could notice him and sprawled comfortably on the leather interior.
He was beginning to quite like all the luxury. God help him when Brian decided to dump him, he mused, breathing in the polished smell and warm air.
"Drive, drive," Brian yelped urgently, managing to get in without losing any limbs and more than a little shaken by the avalanche of questions. "Who the hell is Mark Linway? Why do I have to pay him thousands?"
Arthur felt his jaw would break if he grinned any wider.
"I suppose you think this is funny," Brian said coldly.
Arthur shook his head and didn't trust himself to speak without laughing.
"Where were you when I required a little help back there?"
"And spark off a whole new set of questions? Ta, luv, I'll pass," Arthur mocked.
Brian didn't comment and they proceeded to the hotel with very little more than general remarks on the weather. They couldn't afford to shout in this limo; the driver was new.
They got out, they checked in, they followed their bags up to their rooms.
Their rooms. In plural. Separate rooms.
Arthur had shrugged when Brian mentioned it so casually a few days before, content to ascribe it to uncertainties. After all, if they shared a room, it would advertise their arrangements needlessly to the whole world. With everything still on probation, Arthur had overlooked the caution.
At the moment, it made him a little bitter.
He shut the curtains, he had a shower and then he went to bed.
He woke up with Brian.
Not in his bed, though, just sitting down in a chair next to his bed with the lamp on and reading some kind of lurid paperback novel. With a chalk outline of someone on the front, no less.
The sight was surreal enough to make him blink. "Hey," he grunted, sitting up, "Wha's wrong?"
Brian put down the book and shrugged. Then he examined his nails and then he sighed. "I suppose I should be sorry," he said reluctantly, "About the car."
Arthur pushed his hair back and scratched his scalp. "Look, it's not a good time to talk about this," he began.
Brian snorted and got out of the chair, bouncing onto the bed on hands and knees. "Really. And when is it a good time? I'm a little sick and tired of waiting on you, Art. I'll apologize, but if you start on about not talking when I say 'talk', I'm going to bite. An' this time, it won't be so you can get off."
Arthur blinked again. But Brian seemed serious. "You always pick the shite times to talk," he protested, "Not when I'm up to 'ere in tension. Use your head a little. And don't call me that."
"Well, sometimes later doesn't cut it either. I'll call you what I damned well like."
"Tha's just perfect," Arthur retaliated, "Do whatever the hell you like. Say jump and everyone will jump as high as they possibly can and hope it's high enough. Bugger off, Brian."
"Rather stay here and do that." Brian was smiling, now, as though the whole thing was just a joke.
Arthur got out of bed and ignored his audience, searching through his bags for clean clothes. He was in shorts, but honestly, he couldn't walk the streets in shorts.
"Arthur…" Brian said, "Art, I'm sorry."
"Little late, Brian."
"Better late than never, luv. I don't do apologies very well. You'll have to take it when you get it."
Arthur ignored that too and went to the bathroom to change. He deliberately picked black, more to irritate Brian than any need to explore the condition of his mood.
Brian was sitting cross-legged on the bed when he emerged, one hand threaded through his dye-darkened hair and the other flopped casually in his lap. He was hunched comfortably forward and looked as though he expected to spend a while in that position.
"You locked the door," Brian observed, "Why's that?"
"Didn't want you coming in after me," Arthur replied.
"D' you think I would?"
Arthur stopped then, at the genuinely hurt voice, and glanced over at the figure on the bed. "I don't know. If you were in one of your mood, yeah, I think you would."
"One of my moods."
"You've got a strange temper, Brian."
"I do, don't I? Tell me, do I annoy you?"
Arthur gave him a speaking look.
Brian nodded at that answer and continued, "Do I frighten you?"
Arthur laughed, then, and shook his head. "No. Just annoy."
Brian smiled too. And then sobered up. "I'm not going to apologize again," he warned.
"You should. You lost me my job."
"I only said you were thinking of leaving because you wanted to write," Brian groaned, his fingers tightening in his hair, "I didn't think Lou would take it like that."
"He told me to resign," Arthur growled, "Kept sayin' I should go off and write if I wanted. I don' care if you didn't mean it, I didn't know where to look!"
"Okay, I am sorry about that."
"And the car. You keep throwing all this in my face, like I owe you something. Your car; your this, your that. I'm sick of it! You bring it up once more and I'll leave."
Brian nodded, looking non-too-pleased about the lecture.
Arthur knew when enough was enough, and he sighed and let it go, just as reluctantly as Brian; Brian didn't like his nagging. When had he started to nag? Sometimes he even sounded like his mother. He sat down in the chair beside the desk and said, "When do you have to get there?"
Brian looked at his watch. And cursed. "I'd better start changing," he said, getting up, "The boys will be waiting."
Arthur stood up awkwardly. "Do I go with you or shall I wait?" he asked, "I don't know. How does this work?"
Brian seemed surprised. "I don't know, Art. Whatever you want."
"I'll stay here, then. Get some more sleep." He yawned for good measure, even if it was a fake one, and pulled at the buttons on his shirt.
Brian watched him with the smallest smile curving his mouth, his grey eyes gleaming.
Arthur slid into bed and turned on his side, kicking off his socks while he was at it.
The mattress dipped and cloth rustled. A moment later a long, slender arm wrapped around his chest. "How we didn't end up fucking earlier I don't know," Brian whispered.
Arthur laughed and turned, pinning the smaller man beneath him. "I thought you had to leave," he said, and kissed him.
"They can wait," Brian said, licking at his lips, "You never take long." He quirked an eyebrow to take the sting out of the words.
Arthur put a hand over his mouth. "Don't make me shoot you," he advised calmly, and began to kiss his neck.
