Author's Note: Thanks to everyone for being so patient with me. I know it's been slow going, but I hope you can forgive me that.

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"It's funny how beautiful people look when they walk out the door," Brian Slade said.

Arthur started, wide-eyed as he heard a wistful female voice echo the exact words. But he shook his head and refused to take it as a sign. The man sitting in the chair opposite him was not the same man he had worshipped in the magazines a lifetime ago.

Brian lifted the wet towel again and stared morosely at the brown and rust stains. He felt better without his make-up. And he was getting very tired of having to apply it every morning, touching it up every few hours. It had been so enjoyable in the beginning, so furtive and fun. To play a part. To be famous again, even if he couldn't do it as himself.

"They seem to like you very much," he said, tossing the towel onto the low table between them.

"We're friends."

"Friends don't always have to like you," Brian muttered, "Sometimes they just want something you can give them."

Arthur shifted and thought of the paper in his pocket. The one Malcolm had given him with his number on it. The singer had insisted he give them a call so they could meet properly- for old time's sake, Malcolm had laughed. They usually kept in touch with the occasional letter and phone call. But they hadn't met in eight years. Arthur didn't want to think it, but he wondered what they had in common now that they moved in different worlds. He wasn't a teenaged music fan, any more. What would they talk about?

"I'm going to bed," he said abruptly.

Brian thought of the look the tall guitarist had given his reporter when they'd finally left the club. There was a history there, of that he was certain. But evidently not a great one because Arthur was more depressed since they had come back to the hotel. The man was actually swaying on his feet, eyes turned down to his shoes, hands stuck deep inside his pockets. He fairly crackled with energy.

"Sure, sure," the rock star said, waving a vague hand at him, "Be my guest." He waited until Arthur was almost at the door between their rooms before clearing his throat. "You know, it would be a shame if you left tomorrow. The concert's in two days and I was looking forward to seeing what you think of the pandemonium backstage." He grinned disarmingly, even though Arthur didn't turn around. That dark head seemed to drop even lower.

"I have to get back to work," Arthur mumbled.

"Lou gave you a few more days."

"I can go home and…" Arthur stopped and thought about it as best he could. He could go home, certainly. But there was nothing to go home to- an empty apartment and a lingering sense of wanting to take everything inside and turn it into something great.

"Go home and?" Brian prompted. Softly, he cautioned himself, gently. Loud noises frightened the tentative trust away. Loud noises would wake up the sleeping guards that kept Arthur locked away from the rest of the world. And Brian liked to dig into mysterious people and hear their thoughts tick.

"Sleep."

"Are you tired?"

Arthur shrugged again and put a hand out to turn the handle. It felt too cold and too heavy. His fingers almost slipped right off the metal. But his sluggish brain got itself together for long enough to get the door open.

Brian watched the other man leave the room. But the door stood open and he was faced with the dilemma of turning away politely or staring unashamedly. He looked down at his hands and then looked back up again. Arthur wasn't in view, but then the bedside light was on.

Brian got up and walked over to the door, unable to stifle his curiosity.

Arthur looked up but his mind couldn't register that Brian Slade was standing in his doorway. And it was Brian. That horrible make-up was gone, leaving only pale skin on shapely bone, full lips resting softly together as those steady grey eyes levelled a curious stare at him. So he looked away disinterestedly and got on with the business of changing his clothing. That finished, he went to the bathroom and stared at his reflection in the mirror for a while.

"Art? Are you okay?" Brian was worried now. The reporter looked so small, hunched into himself as if his bones were crumbling away inside his skin.

"Fine." It was more of an automatic response than a reassurance.

Brian nodded and let the man brush his teeth in peace. He moved around the bedroom, searching for something to occupy his rambling attention. After that interesting trip to the club, the singer was in something of a restless mood. He couldn't sleep, and he couldn't sit quietly in his room and drink himself into a stupor.

Arthur came out, his hair slightly damp. He didn't look at Brian but slipped straight into his bed, curling up with his knees to his chest and the blankets pulled up almost to his nose.

Brian raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Are you sure you're alright?" he asked hesitantly.

Arthur stared blindly ahead, not responding.

"Arthur?" Brian sat down cautiously on the edge of the bed and reached out a hand. The blankets were cold under his hand. "Art?"

The man turned over effortlessly. He blinked his dark eyes and opened his mouth to say something.

Brian leaned down and kissed him.

Arthur held still. Then he shut his eyes, gasped a little, and opened his mouth wider.

Brian pulled away and looked back down at him.

Arthur blinked again. "What the 'ell was that?" he asked thickly.

Brian bit his lip and tilted his head. He waited for Arthur to move, to tell him he was sick for even thinking such a thing. He waited to hear denial and outrage or even just disinterest. But Arthur just looked at him and those lips were slightly parted for breath.

Arthur reached up and caught the rock star by the back of his head, pulling him clumsily back down. He growled and cursed briefly when it didn't quite work, angling his head and propping himself up on an elbow. Then he attacked again.

Brian managed a small sound of amusement before an insistent tongue pushed into his mouth. Slick and warm and sinuous and he was pleasantly surprised by how aggressive his partner was. He kissed back just as hard.

And just like that it was easy. There was no question of past or future or imaginary wrongs or rights. It didn't matter about Brian Slade's music when he keened softly in just way when Arthur sucked on his neck. It didn't matter about the shooting hoax when Brian's fingers dug viciously into Arthur's back and Brian's hips rocked against Arthur's hips.

Arthur didn't believe it. He lifted his head as the fire in his blood ebbed briefly, and he couldn't understand quite who it was in his bed. But Brian wasn't similarly afflicted. He knew who it was. Some part of his brain was already engaged in planning for the morrow. When Arthur finally succumbed with a hoarse groan, the rock star followed soon after, silent and thinking about how the next morning should be handled.

Arthur went to sleep.

Brian didn't.

He got out of bed and reached for his hastily discarded clothes. He pulled on his trousers and did up the buttons of his shirt. He told himself that they hadn't had sex. They had only touched each other- sexual pleasure shared between acquaintances. They'd been carried away by the night's happenings.

Arthur mumbled when the door clicked shut. He did open his eyes, but he sank back again into sleep without a whimper.

"Shannon?" Brian knocked on the door with all the rising panic beginning to fluctuate in his head. "Shannon! Open the fucking door!"

"What?" She was in her dressing gown and clearly annoyed. "What now?" She took one look at him and pulled him in, slamming the door shut. "What did you do?" Shannon demanded, blue eyes hard and snapping.

"Get rid of the reporter," Brian ordered, "He's interfering with my work. I can't concentrate with him tagging along."

Hands on hips, Shannon surveyed the wreckage of her client. It was the middle of the night- or the early morning, depending on when one had to be awake again- and she had been in the middle of some much needed beauty sleep. She spent her days and frequently her nights making sure Tommy Stone was pampered and petted and stroked well enough to do what he had been born to do. But once in a while she wondered if she couldn't just leave him to fumble his own way through life.

"What did you do?" she asked quietly.

The rock star stopped pacing and looked at her. From the look on her face, Tommy Stone knew better than to make vaguely outraged noises. He sat down, settled himself and said, "We had an episode."

Shannon knew what 'an episode' meant. Tommy Stone had had a few 'episodes' with a few other young men. The reporter from the Herald wasn't quite his usual type, but Shannon had suspected something would go wrong since Arthur had turned up after the concert with his disconcerting news. Dark hair, dark eyes and a pale, long face that didn't seem to smile very much. Very interesting. Brian liked interesting things.

Tommy Stone, however, knew better than that. Drunkenly having sex with some nameless stagehand or crewmember was alright. Shannon could deal with it. A little bit of warning and a lot of money made most of them slink back into nowhere. But a reporter from the Herald? Not possible.

She sighed and sat down opposite him. "Alright," she murmured, dragging a hand through her blond hair, "Alright, relax. I'll think of something. Where is he?"

"Asleep."

She raised an eyebrow. She'd have expected a reporter to be typing up the scandal immediately. Then again, she wondered if Arthur would be quite so free with his news if it meant having to explain his part in it.

She could see the headlines: 'Superstar Singer Not So Straight' would be the most amateur of them all. But it would be suspect if Arthur wrote it in the first person. What could he say- "And then this reporter was blown by the Rock God himself"?

"I might have an idea," she said slowly, tapping a nail against her chin, the wheels of her mind clacking merrily, "How far did you go?"

"No sex."

Shannon knew the code. No sex meant no penetration. That was good; Arthur couldn't claim rape. "Good," she reassured, "The first thing we have to do, is get him away from you. We change his room, Tommy. Tommy? Tommy!"

He looked up again with a start. "Yeah. Of course."

"Focus. You got into this mess and you can bloody well listen to me while I get you out of it." Shannon reached automatically for her purse, clicking her tongue in irritation when she had to get it from her bedroom. "Was he drunk?"

"No."

She came back, lit cigarette in hand and a guarded look on her pretty face. "Drugged?" she said expressively.

Tommy Stone self-consciously rubbed his nose. "No," he swore, "He didn't take anything."

"Did you?"

The itch was intensifying and his skin was beginning to crawl. "Bloody hell, what is this- the Spanish fucking Inquisition?"

"I'm covering your arse, Tommy, so just tell me," Shannon snapped. She sucked in another lungful of nicotine.

"No, I didn't fucking get high. I don't do that any more." He rubbed his nose again and felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. "Christ!" Bounding to his feet, he made straight for the liquor cabinet.

"Ah-ah!" Shannon shouted, intercepting him on the way. "No more alcohol. You're drunk too much, Tommy, and you've got to stop. I can't keep the bills hidden any more than I already do. Stay sober for a few more days. Just a few."

She gave him her cigarette and he took an absent-minded drag before handing it back with a long, slow exhale.

"Alright," he said. "Fuck, I need a break."

"You haven't even done the show, yet," Shannon said severely, "And tomorrow you have that television interview. You'll have to play, of course. I told you we should have scheduled a practise today. Can you manage it?"

"Yeah, sure," he muttered, "We can do 'Veronica'. It plays well live."

"The band knows it?"

"They'd better. We've played it often enough. Do we have a run-through tomorrow?"

Shannon nodded.

"That will do." Tommy Stone took a deep breath and concentrated. "Okay, so I have the show tomorrow. And this thing with Arthur Stewart?"

"I'll handle it," Shannon assured him reluctantly, "Like I always do. Go sleep in my room. I have a few calls to make."