Disclaimer: I own nothing.
AN: Yes, I'm still around despite my health and computer issues. I shall update my other works soon. In the meantime, here's my contribution for the #Hyareth Week 2022.
Many thanks to Djcwrites for the fun prompts that created that madness, and this AU no one ever asked for. And many thanks to my very efficient beta Coeurs_de_Coeurs.💜
The is summary is from the poem Fame Is a Fickle Food by Emily Dickinson, the title is from the lullaby You Are My Sunshine - which I love every cover ever recorded for and that I sing (badly) on a daily basis.
Yes, there's a playlist, check it on ao3. ;)
Happy reading!❤️
Chapter I : Bright Blue Eyes
It was so loud, the sound deafening, and yet still, it wasn't nearly enough.
Not for him.
A smile graced his lips as he took in the crowd, the crying fans, the half-naked girls, and the bored companions. Of course, no parents in their right mind would leave their kids in this place without proper supervision.
The perfect environment for him to thrive.
As he reached for his drink, tossing it off, a shade of blue caught his eye.
He could swear it looked just like-
A shudder went through him. No, surely, she wouldn't be here. He scoffed as he dismissed the crazy thought.
Maybe his crazy mind had finally caught up with him, playing tricks on him. It wouldn't be that strange, it wasn't as if he was that sober. Or at all.
He shrugged easily, it could very well have just been his own reflection.
He could very well be lost in slumber.
Or in some bad nightmare.
A small laugh escaped his lips.
If only it could all be a dream.
If only he had been told that the emptiness lingered despite success.
Gareth poured more alcohol down his throat.
Anything to forget.
The concert had been a blast, as usual. Gareth would have been so much happier if he wasn't supposed to go backstage - and be charming, had warned his agent.
Which definitely meant that Gareth should not be too devilish for this specific meeting. It was too bad, as Gareth had no qualms being a total flirt, since he could get away with it. Part of his success was due to the strange attraction the public held for him and his looks, after all. He would be but a fool not to use them.
"Here Gareth!"
He caught the water bottle with a thankful nod, hopeful to be soon done with this last formality. Journalists.
If he was lucky, he would be able to join the band on their outing. There would be booze, smoke, and plenty of fangirls more than wiling to join him back at the hotel...
As he entered the room without knocking, he saw a couple standing by a window, in a tense conversation; the woman tapping her foot with impatient energy.
"Yes, of course! And his eyes were blue."
Not bothering to answer, his manager turned to face him. "Mr St. Clair, so nice of you to join us!"
Gareth nodded, as the man explained why this interview was important.
But Gareth wasn't listening; everything that he didn't care about always seemed necessary. His gaze fixed itself on the woman's, taking her in as she shook his hand.
She wasn't exactly the prettiest girl; a sour expression on her face, she didn't even seem pleased to meet him.
Her name was written on a tag around her neck, almost hidden by the chestnut curls that fell on her back.
But something seemed to draw him. Perhaps the tile of her eyebrow, the small smirk that lingered at the corner of her lips.
Or the boisterous energy she exuded. God knew that Gareth hated few things more than the silence.
The unsettling stillness he had grown up with, grown used to but for a few months, until he had started studying, living, breathing music.
"I supposed you're not delighted to meet with me either after your show, but bear with me Mr St. Clair, and we'll be done quickly enough," she said bluntly.
Gareth laughed, a genuine reaction he seldom had with journalists.
She was mouthy but a spark of smartness glittered in her eyes, as if she knew it would be the easiest way for them both to be finished here.
It had been quite some time since Gareth had talked with a clever woman, a really intelligent woman. It was refreshing, especially since he wanted nothing more than to rest. Or so he had thought five minutes ago.
His eyes lingered on her bright blue eyes, her rosy lips, the curve of her very kissable jaw...
His manager cleared his throat, as the brunette opened her mouth.
"Mr St Clair," she admonished. "If you would..."
"Does it make you nervous when I stare?"
She threw him a hard stare, her friendly behaviour dissolving.
"It would be better if you didn't presume anything about me and remained focused on the subject- which is your next album, Mr St. Clair."
He shrugged non-committally. It seemed like more work than he cared to bed this one.
"Of course, Miss Bridgerton," he replied smoothly as she frowned.
"Gareth."
He knew that voice. He despised it.
"Gareth, wake up."
The hand on his shoulder was insistent.
"Go away," he mumbled, drowsiness making him slur.
His manager stepped back, happy enough with his answer.
"If only... You're up in 10. Get your ass on stage."
Gruffly, Gareth scrubbed his fingers on his face, trying to remove the sleep, the alcohol, the numbness from himself. To no avail.
"Don't fuck it up, St Clair. You're lucky they wanted you for this gig."
Gareth nodded grimly. Didn't he know it. It seemed like a long time ago that fame, that fickle bitch, had been his.