Disclaimer: Y'all know I don't own it by now, so yeah…

Chapter Three: In the Middle (of)

(Exactly two years later, in front of a crowded television store)

He was popular again and everyone knew it. Teenagers and preteens alike raced to buy his albums, posters, or memorabilia. R.D. was the name on everyone's lips and if you didn't know of him, you knew nothing. He wrote his own music, supposedly deep, soulful lyrics that grabbed you by the heart and squeezed for dear life. Many called him the virtuoso of pop music, regardless of his reported age. His blue spiked hair, pale features, and single earring set girls' lungs afire. They simply couldn't get enough of him.

Mac craned his neck and strained to see him, though why his passing interest continued he hadn't the faintest clue. Perhaps it revolved around their last meeting- he'd searched for him for hours afterwards and came up empty. Fear had shone brightly in his imaginary friend's eyes and it haunted him afterwards. Why would he be afraid of him? Why had he run in the first place? What had he to be afraid of?

Yet his lyrics told a different tale. Mac, who seldom lingered long enough to listen, often heard repetition in his middle school via fangirls. Since he normally paid them no mind, he tended to overlook the dark, disturbing words etched within the innocuous verse. None were shrewd enough to dissect his hidden meanings and, if they were, they threw it aside. Pop music disconnected the brain and thus, desperate pleas for attention.

Well, if he wanted attention, he'd certainly picked the right profession. Thousands of people hung on his every word, usually spoken slowly and through a visible air of fatigue. The idiots considered it part of his show and never thought he might actually be exhausted. And any who did and reported it mysteriously disappeared. Kip simply dispelled of bad press like one would a discarded tissue.

But why should I care? He abandoned me again, just when we were about to connect. He stopped caring about me four years ago- he said it himself. "Who cares about Mac!" Fine, Bloo, if you don't care about me, then I guess you can rot in your dreams.

Yet no matter how many times he repeated this refrain, his eyes drifted to pictures plastered on magazine covers and newspapers. Behind sunglasses, deadened blue eyes lurked. Only a year and a half on top and he already looked like he'd sold his soul to the devil. Nothing flickered in his gaze, no sign of happiness or depression. Mac occasionally thought Bloo was a dead horse, beat until the corpse vaguely resembled its vessel.

"Mac…"

Mac whirled around, frowning. This had been happening all too often as of late. Whenever he halted to watch Bloo's insipid talk shows or interviews, he swore he heard him whispering his name. Then again, he also thought he heard him begging for forgiveness in snippets of songs. More than likely, he imagined the whole thing; he'd been fixated on the motive behind Bloo's fleeing him. Therefore, he pretended he hadn't left him at all and was doing this unwillingly. It made perfect sense to Mac, though he never spoke his theories to Frankie. He held the personal opinion they only made sense in his head.

"Mac, please listen…"

Growling softly, frustrated with his overactive imagination, he sped swiftly away and shoved Bloo out of his mind. He'd dug his own grave and Mac would be damned if he was going to help him out now. Bloo could rot in the confines of a cage, for all he cared. If he didn't care about him, then why should he extend that back? He didn't deserve it.

"I'm sorry…"

"You know," Kip snarled, fists clenched, "It's a good thing you're popular. Otherwise, you'd pay for muttering your creator's name on live television."

Bloo, sullen, said nothing. Instead, he shifted position on the extended window ledge and observed the California sunset. Beautiful oranges, purples, reds, and yellows culminated in a sight most would pay to see. Bloo, however, glanced only because it was not Kip and anything not his producer generally eased his eyes. He rested his clammy forehead against the cool glass and sighed, wishing he were anywhere and anyone else.

"Listen to me, you ungrateful whelp," he hissed, grabbing Bloo's shoulders and shoving his face in his hostage's. Bloo swallowed the large ball of spit he longed to hurl in his face. Though apathy rarely resulted in threats, outward defiance did. The last thing he wanted was Kip to hurt or kill Mac thanks to his own stupid reactions.

Why should I? I hate you and we both know it. The only words I want to hear out of your mouth are- I'll leave Mac alone and you can go home. Since hell will freeze over before you say either, I'll just tune you out.

"Sooner or later, people are going to catch onto your little game. I'm sick your insertions about forgiveness and desperation in normal hit songs. I'm sick of your reaching out to your stupid creator however you can. He-"

Despite himself, fury rearing its ugly head and sending blazing sparks flying from his eyes, Bloo retorted, "Mac isn't stupid. He'll figure out what's going on and come rescue me."

Kip laughed mockingly, slapping him across the face. On Bloo's exceedingly pale visage, red marks stood out strongly. Yet he offered no defense or counterattack. The instant he touched him, Kip would summon his aides, assistants, and fellow jerks to beat him to a bloody pulp. His brilliant make up artists would hide the bruises, black eyes, and swollen lips. They'd done it before.

"And if he does, I'll kill him. We've been over this before, Deo." He smirked broadly, showing all his yellow teeth. Rage swirled his innards and gritted his teeth. How satisfying it would be to beat him to a bloody pulp, to put him through every maltreatment he'd suffered. Then he'd see who was boss. Then he'd bow to him…and let him seek out Mac again.

"You can't stop me."

Chuckling derisively, he shoved Bloo at the window and left him to his own dark, brooding thoughts, mostly involving torturing his producer and hearing him scream. Underneath his fury, though, he fretted. Why hadn't Mac noticed anything yet? Had he really abandoned him? His stomach clenched and, for the first time, Bloo was grateful he hadn't eaten anything in the past three days.

"(He's staring at the wall again)," Coco noted, nudging Wilt with her beak. Mac routinely arrived at Foster's at three o'clock, but now spent most of his time staring off into space. When someone approached him, he'd mutter monosyllabically and whisper his imaginary friend's name. Frankie, Coco, Wilt, Eduardo, and Madame Foster were quite worried about him, but at the moment anyone ventured the topic of Bloo, he'd return to normal. No one was convinced, though- they believed his usual disposition was an act and he really did stare off into space unobserved.

"Yeah, I know… but he won't talk to any of us today."

Wilt shrugged apologetically, sitting gracefully down on the den couch. Another of R.D.'s specials was airing soon and, regardless of Mac's unnerving reactions, they liked catching glimpses of their former friend. Most imaginary friends found it somewhat exciting that someone from this house had aspired to such great heights. Only Mr. Herriman tutted about it, calling his profession a "waste of time" and anyone obsessing over him "weak minded".

"Si, but he has to talk sometime." Ed agreed, motioning to the scrawny preteen to join them. Mac gazed right through his proffered paw and in unison, the three imaginary friends sighed in exasperation. Maybe seeing R.D./Bloo would cheer him up. In the very least, it might get him off the floor.

Frankie, at the doorway's edge, paused. Though she openly abstained from cheering Bloo on in front of his morose creator, she enjoyed watching his performances as well. However, with Mac dazed again, she wondered whether that was such a great idea. He really did worry her- she hadn't seen him smile in months.

"Mac, bud, are you okay?" she murmured, striding over to him. If he heard her, he gave no indication. Instead, he glanced stoically at the marble floor. She sighed, reluctantly lifting him and situating him on the couch beside her. He blushed slightly.

"Mac no speak today," Ed murmured sadly, affectionately patting his head.

"I don't think he's spoken all week," Wilt said, frowning. "He just shows up, stares at the ceiling for a few hours, and then leaves."

"(And when anyone mentions Bloo, he jumps a foot in the air)," Coco added, sitting beside Ed and folding her wings so the side of the couch wouldn't crush them. As if to prove her point, Mac started slightly, opening his mouth and gawking at the blank television set (none had switched it on yet).

Frankie sighed, wrapping an arm around Mac's shoulders. "Wanna tell us what's going on in that head of yours?"

Fortunately for him, Coco pressed the on button on the remote and he was spared a response. Frankie bit her lip, wondering just how she could lure Mac into a conversation. If what they said was true, then she might have more luck luring Terrance to adopt an imaginary friend. The thought induced a shudder- she knew Terrance by reputation and what she knew, she disliked.

"On 'Inside the Rockstar', we take you to R.D.'s dressing room and an exclusive interview with his producer, Kip. All this and more when 'Inside the Rockstar' returns after these commercial messages."

"R.D.'s producer? Why not R.D.?" Mac snapped, causing all four to turn. "He's the star, isn't he? Why don't they ever give interviews with him by himself? Why don't they ever show him without sunglasses or tinted contacts? Why is everything filtered through Kip?"

Stunned, they merely shook their heads, but Frankie, frowning, glanced at Mac thoughtfully. She glanced back at the glaring TV set before responding. "All his songs are about losing someone and missing them terribly…"

She shrugged. "Maybe it's just a show biz thing, Mac."

"No," he said, uncharacteristically cold, "I don't think it is."

I'd like to thank everyone who reviewed (I find myself once again speechless for responses)- MisterBlue (Blue!), Rakal, Mr. Baka, Trixie21, A. Nonymous, and kcbs and hope you keep doing so.

To others who have kept mum, please read and review.

Until we meet again…