Arthur found the bar. It wasn't very hard. He stared at the broken old sign and pedantically prepared himself for what he would find inside- one of those old-fashioned places with the bar on the side and a tiny platform for the next nameless rock band trying to make it big.

The usual place for a re-invented rocker trying to get back to 'roots' work.

He half-smiled to himself, thinking of how much he would enjoy chucking the whole job and going home. Just rebelling. Go home and forget all about Brian Slade or Tommy Stone, about Curt Wild, the chinese girl on the wall, about Lou and Carl and Shelley. He could even catch the next plane back to London if he wanted, to see how the girl reporter was handling Brian's unexpected re-emergence.

He could it, really. Ray would let him in and give him somewhere to sleep. Ray always would. The man was funny like that.

Malcolm was always approachable, even if Malcolm's wife didn't like him.

Or Pearl and Billy were still around. Any of the Flaming Creatures would take him in, no questions asked.

Arthur had the sudden thought in his head that he could pretend to be seventeen again, and do it the way he could have done it back in the glorious Seventies. He could turn up at a club, stay long enough to get invited somewhere, spend the night there, tramp the streets all day and go back to the club in the evening for another round. He'd known people who lived weeks like that.

But he was too old, now. Now, he was the one who was supposed to have the flat and the pills; who was supposed to pay for beer and cheap vodka. He was supposed to approach some brash young thing and ply him or her with enough intoxicating substances that they would agree to go 'home' with him so he didn't have to have another date with his sturdy right hand.

Arthur wasn't in the mood to take random, drug-fuelled drunks back to his apartment so they could perform their payment in exchange for a warm bed and some breakfast. And maybe cab fare if they did well enough.

"Get it over with," Lou had advised.

Arthur was fond of his old boss, he really was, but at the moment there was no love lost between them. He sidled up to the door and opened it and slipped inside.

It was old. That much was very true. Apart from that, it was surprisingly clean. With a large woman behind the counter and a country and western song playing from a jukebox. If the choice of music wasn't strange enough, Arthur locked eyes with a mounted river bass of fearsome proportions.

He blinked at it for a moment and his fingers tightened reflexively on the strap of his bag over his shoulder.

A pair of grey eyes watched him humorously from a corner table, a glass lifted part-ways. Brian Slade took a sip and then set the glass down, getting to his feet in case Arthur backed out again. He slid out from his seat and walked over, reaching out long fingers to wrap around Arthur's left arm.

Arthur saw him before he reached.

Brian saw something shift on the long face but surprisingly enough, the younger man held still. Even let his arm be taken. The most he offered was a civil greeting and then followed docilely enough to sit at the corner table.

"How have you been, Mr. Stewart?" Brian asked, flopping back into his chair. He glimmered a smile at the serious face.

Odder and Odder- Arthur's mouth curved and he shrugged. "Fine," he replied easily, "You?"

"Oh, I've been great," Brian said, running a fingertip around the rim of his glass, "Busy and all that. The usual."

"I guess rock stars don't do holidays, eh?"

"Not exactly."

Arthur looked him over quite openly. "No more hair dye?"

Brian had not expected this. "A little, but to get back my real colour, why?"

"It looks good," Arthur murmured, taking the top off his bottle of beer, "Quite like the old days, Mr. Slade."

Mr. Slade? Brian was almost certain the light tone was from a sense of humour. Indeed, Arthur looked quite comfortable, not at all his usual self, and he looked as though he really didn't mind his companion. But then again, Arthur was prone to strange behaviour. Brian picked bland chitchat.

"Yeah," he said, "Something like that."

"Right, right. 'Cause you're not really going back to th' old days, right?" Arthur continued, perfectly oblivious, "Moving forward. That's what you said in the Folly piece. But you can't really forget the past, right? So a bit of both."

"You've been reading those things?" Brian elected to ask.

"Homework," Arthur excused.

Brian nodded and lifted his glass. He drained it and then caught that brief glimmer again. This time Arthur glanced at the glass in his hand. Brian could almost read the comment.

He held up the glass up. "It's water, Art. I'm on the bloody wagon. Oh, don't laugh. It's my doctor. Seems my liver isn't too happy."

Arthur dutifully didn't laugh but he couldn't help grinning. He sighed and shook his head in amusement, slinging his jacket on the back of his chair while he was at it. He pushed his beer aside and tapped the table. "Wouldn't want to tempt you, now."

Was that flirting? Brian had never considered Arthur could flirt. He had assumed Arthur fell into relationships. The idea of the man unbending enough to flirt- let alone with him- was ludicrous. He discarded the idea as a figment of his imagination.

"It's not the alcohol so much," he told him, "More like the quiet."

"And the hangovers?"

Brian skilfully didn't reply to that. Looking over the black-clad shoulder he spied a game of darts and really considered it for a moment. He hadn't played darts in years. Not since he'd played small clubs in… Los Angeles? Well, that place in New Jersey once, but really, he didn't even count New Jersey. He'd stayed one night and left at four the next morning.

"So, Slade, why am I doing this interview?" Arthur interrupted.

"What?"

"Why me? Folly is a big name magazine editor. Laurel did that expose on the Senator last year so, yeah, I can see why she got it. But me? I'm an investigative reporter on a newspaper. Why get me?"

"You don't know the formula," Brian pointed out, "You won't ask me the awful shite I get sometimes."

"Folly was bad?"

"No, he was fine. Everyone's fine." Brian dismissed 'everyone' with a sneer. "But they're boring, man. Same questions, same attitude. Nothing for me to do but say the same things over and over."

"You should ask the journos. They say th' same. Get Shelley past three scotches and she tells you that she doesn't even bother to take notes any more because the celebs say the same thing over and over. She just records the lot and writes the usual."

Brian looked annoyed briefly and then smoothed the expression out. "Who's Shelley?" he asked.

"Shelley Gordon," Arthur elaborated quite candidly, "Does most of the big celeb articles. Interviews and things. She does those."

"Was I your first, then?" Brian laughed.

Arthur didn't appreciate the snide remarks from Brian. That last encounter was too fresh in his mind. He unclenched his fists and placed both palms flat on his knees so he wasn't tempted to land a couple of good ones.

"No," he said, "The Flaming Creatures got there first."

Too late he heard how those words sounded and he flushed slightly in mortification.

"Oh." Brian looked down at the table and traced patterns with his eyes. "Which one? Ray, I assume."

"Ray?" Arthur looked moody for a second. "No. That's another story." He looked up and said quickly, "I'm not telling it."

Brian grinned and nodded. "Wasn't asking. So, the interview came out good, eh?"

That was a confusing statement. "We haven't done it yet."

"Weekender issue," Brian said slowly, "Came out a while ago, I can't remember the date."

That one Arthur remembered. The last Tommy Stone piece before the news broke. That had come out alright, yes. That one was done with. "I'm here to do another one," Arthur said.

Brian looked as confused as he felt.

"You didn't know?" Arthur demanded.

"I called the paper to get your address," Brian snapped, "Nothing about interviews."

"Why'd you want my address?" Arthur shot back.

"To make sure you didn't take a bloody contract out on me for springing the news on national television! What the hell are you coming here for an interview for?"

Brian thumped the table as he swore colourfully.

The large woman at the bar hollered at him and he waved her off irritably. Apart from that, no one took the least notice. Even if anyone in the bar had been a fan of Tommy Stone, the likeness was so minimal as to be negligible. It was impossible to see unless one knew.

Arthur knew. And even he found it difficult. Surprisingly enough, he began to chuckle, lifting a hand to stifle the sound. The very idea of this tangled skein of who said what and meant what was blackly humorous. Arthur couldn't help laughing.

Brian glared at him for a moment from icy grey eyes before thawing slightly. "I'm sure it's funny," he said ominously, "But you're not getting any fucking interviews off me. I'm done. I'm not doing another one until I've got my gear sorted."

"And when's that?" Arthur asked.

"It'll be a while."

"So why ask for my address?" Arthur prodded. He leaned forward, one arm flat on the table for better leverage. To get closer, maybe, he didn't know. He just wanted to be sure he didn't miss anything. "I'm no use to you." Something else came to mind. "And you leaked the story yourself. Why bother with me?"

Brian shrugged, lighting a cigarette from nowhere. "I thought we could talk."

"We don' have anything to talk about," Arthur reasoned.

"We could fuck, then."

The words were so glib, so level, Arthur almost didn't realize what they meant until they slipped past him. And then they registered. And they made all too much sense. What didn't make sense was that Brian could be so nonchalant about it. Could sit there in his black shirt with no make-up and quite pleasantly suggest that they shag. As though it was something to be discussed.

"Don't even go there," Arthur warned.

Brian lifted his hands in surrender and let them drop. He looked around the bar again and pondered that he hadn't come to meet with the reporter to shag him. He was just… interested. Arthur interested him. Made him feel like there were stories to be told, people to meet.

It was strange, considering the other man's quiet nature, that he reminded Brian of the multitudes and crowds. Made Brian feel a little bit wild.

"It was just a thought," he smirked.

Arthur looked uncomfortable and then folded his arms on the table, moving his feet to find a more comfortable spot. But the knot in his stomach hadn't moved since he entered the bar and it didn't look as though it would leave anytime soon. "Brian," he said, "Why'd you ask me here? I mean the truth, mind."

Brian turned around and looked at Arthur with some surprise. He took a quick drag on his cigarette and then stubbed it out, inhaling and exhaling before preparing himself to answer the question. "You're seductive."

"What?"

The reporter was clearly shocked. Brian Slade leaned back in his seat with a slight smile and watched that pretty mouth open and shut a few times. The gentle eyes were wide and he could see a remarkable resemblance to a goldfish.

"Me," Arthur eventually sputtered, "I'm seductive? Like hell!"

"Oh, hell is very seductive," his companion teased, "But no, not in quite that way. You're… glam. Very glam."

Arthur looked down at himself. He was wearing a dark blue shirt instead of black, that was true, but nothing about his apparel had changed. No sequins or mascara or eyeliner or anything. Not even perfume or feathers.

"Oh, you thought glam was clothing?" Brian laughed. He began to tap out a complex rhythm with the toe of his shoe, grey eyes glittering in the overhead lights. "Glamours and masks are fine things, Arthur, but glam is different. Not glam like Lauren Bacall but glam like the little kids I acted fantasies for. That's you. A fantasist."

Arthur shrugged. "I was," he said.

"When was the last time you took a dream, Arthur?" Brian's voice had dropped to something dangerously low and soft, weaving patterns around the rhythm he was still tapping out. "The last time someone told you to shut your eyes and make a wish?"

A nagging doubt filtered in through the fog but disappeared just as suddenly.

"Do you still make wishes? Do you still wake up in the night and think of the best day you could ever have? The best night? The best lover?"

"You, Slade?"

"No," Brian said considerately, genuinely, "Just the wish. The want. Something…" he searched wildly for the right words, "Something that feels like you waited your whole life for it, and when you get it, it's more than you ever hoped for. You do that?"

Not for the first time, Arthur found himself neck-deep in a personal conversation with a man he told himself he didn't much like. How could he like him when Brian made no secret of toying with him from some arrogant sense of amusement?

How could he like him.

"Do you?" he asked bluntly.

"I've had it," Brian answered candidly, "I never sat around waiting for the phone to ring. I regret lots of things I did. Nothing I didn't."

It was a telling statement.

Arthur tapped out something nervously on the table and realized that he was tapping in time to Brian. The whole world was tapping in time to Brian. And Brian was tapping in time to the music playing around them; Arthur hadn't even noticed the old country song before. But now he did because Brian had tapped it into his pulse and into his fingertips and it was threading along his skin and doing unspeakable things under his ribs.

Higher and higher, spreading tendrils into his bones and bloodstream. A little more and it would reach his neck where the cool air would push and push and there would be warmth sparking into his nerve endings. And those sparks would be dangerous.

Brian suddenly stopped tapping. "Go on, then," he said, "Make a wish."

They didn't say anything more. Just stumbled back to Arthur's apartment and shut the door. Locked it. Brian dropped his jacket into a chair, not caring about the chill that turned to damp on its sleek exterior. He toed off his shoes and Arthur went ahead to open his bedroom door and check that everything was okay for a guest.

The younger man had just slammed the wardrobe door shut when Brian followed on his trail in bare feet and with his shirt already half-unbuttoned.

Arthur turned and looked at him and noticed the mirror just beside Brian that presented him with another image. Both were perfect; half-undressed with pale skin and dark brown hair cut just long enough to hang silky-fine on a long neck. The lips waiting for him, being chewed on in anticipation.

It took exactly five steps to reach him, to put his hands on that slender waist.

Arthur had put his hands on a man's waist before and there was no doubting now that Brian was a man. One could delude oneself as much as one wanted, but Brian's body was not soft or welcoming or curved to fit a man's hand. It was flat, with hard bone just beneath, and the curves were lovely but muscular from regular exertion.

Brian lived by his body- the human face of prostituted rock and roll.

Open-mouth kisses trailed spit-slick and eager, roaming from mouths to chins to cheeks to necks. Dipping down to shoulders and regretfully surrendering chests to fingers because standing was not the right way to do this.

Brian was the one who got them both lying down, took off the rest of both their clothes, and straddled the younger man with his long, dancer's legs. Propping himself up on his arms as he resumed the all-too brief exploration with his mouth.

Arthur had given way to the inevitable since Lou had told him to get it over with. Was it only one day? One morning and now the night? It couldn't be. It felt like a lifetime with a warm, wet tongue ghosting over his sternum, following the hollow of his stomach and playing maddeningly with the little hairs on his skin.

"Stop that," he pleaded, trying to get a grip on the dark hair. But it was too short. Too fine. It slipped right through his fingers and he was afraid of simply gripping the skull. Brian seemed all the more fragile framed in yellow lamp light.

Brian only laughed and teased him some more.

Brian was the one who got the KY, who swore blind that there was no disease either of them were likely to catch since they would have caught it from their times before, and then proceeded to put his legs over Arthur's shoulder when the man faltered.

"What's wrong?" he whispered, reaching up to touch the pointed chin, "It feels good."

"This's happening again," Arthur said inadequately. He didn't expect Brian to understand. He just felt he needed to let him know he could see the gun in his head again, see the way Brian just stood there and let it happen to him. The same look of calculation masked with defeat.

"Hurry up and let it happen," was all Brian returned.

Brian expected it to hurt. He wasn't so used to it anymore. But it gave him a perverse pleasure to feel the pain and hear Arthur's breathe catch. To smell the sweat and sex that wrapped around them.

A car blared on the streets outside and he thought of the wind and the rain and the cold, and it didn't matter because the pain was receding and Arthur was almost there, so close, so close, almost there. Then he shifted and Brian's mind wasn't concentrating on anything so much as the gut-wrenching need for more in his veins.

He moved too, trying to get more, to give more. To make it all better. Because sex could do that for a little while, he found, it could make things all better.

So he arched his back and bit his lip, moaning when the pressure grew more than he could bear. Brian wouldn't close his eyes, even when Arthur did.

And he saw the snap-flick under squeezed shut eyelids as Arthur's orgasm hit. Felt it in the uncontrolled thrust that pushed so deep into him he thought there would be no getting the feeling out again.

That was the last thought before he melted away into hot, white light.