Author's Note: Sorry for the long wait, but because it's so close to the end, I wanted to make sure it ended the way I had planned. Just to be clear, this is the second to last chapter.

Author's Note 2: I've gone back and changed the Live Aid thing. It's too early and I want to keep the real timing, even if I'm meddling in things that I shouldn't. I apologize if I've confused anyone with this oversight on my part. The Live Aid thing (or the new angle about the club) is the reason Brian's going back to England.

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Arthur heard Brian getting out of bed that Friday morning.

He sat up, rubbing the sleep from his face, blinking to keep the lithe figure in sight.

Brian wouldn't look at him. He must have seen Arthur wake, must know that Arthur was looking to him to see how this morning's flight to England would affect them, ut if he did see, he gave no sign of it. He concentrated on doing up the zip and button on his slacks, padding barefoot into the bathroom to take a piss.

Arthur went to make coffee.

There was a bag by the door, where Brian had dropped it the night before to sink down in the armchair and help himself to the food on the table. Silent beyond a few words of greeting, ostensibly watching TV.

There hadn't been that much on that Arthur remembered. He'd spent his evening watching Brian. Wondering at the lack of composure.

The tension had been so thick he could taste it on Brian's tongue. Thick and bitter and worse because Brian seemed to spend his time deep in thought, poking it with his finger in morbid fascination.

"Coffee?" Brian asked, emerging with damp skin. Newly shaved. A little red-eyed. A grate in his voice for the early hour.

"Yeah." Arthur pointed to the cupboard. "Get a cup."

They stood around in silence while the coffee brewed.

"When's the flight?" Arthur asked.

"About eleven," Brian said distractedly.

"Right."

"You got work this morning?" Brian continued, almost seamlessly.

"Same as always." Arthur fiddled with the teaspoon. "Why?"

"You could come to see me off," Brian grinned, leering a little from his side of the kitchen, "I'll take you out to breakfast. No? You sure?"

"I'm sure." Arthur smiled but the moment broke when he almost poured the coffee over the tabletop. "Damn! Get me a cloth."

Brian got him a cloth, came over to hand it to him, but didn't retreat again. Stood there, with Arthur brushing up against him as he wiped off the table. Looked up from his shorter stance and contemplated the cast of those features. Put a hand on his arm; just to experiment.

Arthur didn't stop wiping off his tabletop, but he did glance sideways.

Truthfully, his counter was quite dry by this point, and more scrubbing was more likely to take the surface off than do any good. But to stop would be tantamount to indulging Brian's latest little games. Arthur made it a point never to do that.

Didn't think it was wise to like him when he was going to leave anyway.

A good fuck, but Brian couldn't be staying around a lot longer, so where was the point in letting things happen naturally? They had to be regulated. They had to be viewed from all angles and analyzed for their general ability to let his psyche emerge from the experience generally unscathed.

No more guns and fake shootings, basically.

"Art? Hey, man, you okay?"

"What?" Arthur blinked and he was still wiping the counter.

Brian put a hand on top of his, prying the cloth out from under his fingers. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Sure. Yeah. Nothing?"

"Nothing." Arthur fiddled with the teaspoon again.

"You just wipe shit for fun?" Brian needled.

Arthur frowned at him, disliking the word. He said so, going as far as to take a step away from enforced closeness. Swearing was one thing; filth was another. His mother had brought him up right, and Arthur still didn't swear unless he was mad. His dad had never sworn at all, even when… but that was another gun, wasn't it? Best not to think about that. Not like this. Not when he hadn't exactly showered yet and Brian was standing in his kitchen, smelling of his aftershave after spending the night in his bed.

"Did you call a taxi?" he asked, to cover the silence.

Brian's eyes narrowed. "I can call one now."

"I'll call for you. Get th' coffee."

Arthur was halfway out the kitchen door when Brian took his arm, pulled him back a little and kissed him. That easy smile was back, flickering in the high cheekbones. "You going to miss me?"

Arthur relaxed. "You eat too much."

Brian laughed. "I'll stock up again. How's that? When I get back. It'll take two weeks. And then I'll buy you dinner. Okay?"

"I dunno. Someplace fancy, maybe."

"I'm not rich, you know."

Arthur snorted. "Don't even pull that! I'll get Abby on your case so fast your head'll spin. One week, couple of phone calls- I'll have your year's income on paper on my desk- bang! Fancy or nothing."

"Fancy, then."

Arthur nodded, still grinning, taking the conversation in good part. He knew Brian wouldn't be back. There was all this talk of 'later' but there couldn't possibly be a 'later', not with Curt on that plane and Jack Fairy at the other end. The old gang was regrouping and Arthur didn't have a place there. But it was fun to play.

"Fancy."

Arthur called for a cab a half-an hour too early, knowing enough of the New York traffic to overestimate. If worse came to worst, Brian would leave twenty minutes early and that was alright too. It suited him both ways.

"Coffee?" Brian jogged his elbow and handed the cup over. "How's Lou, by the by?"

"Not great. He's drinking again. Not everyday," Arthur explained, "But he's drinking."

"Tell him to get detox."

Arthur shot a contemplative glance at his companion, wondering if Brian could even see the irony. The idea of a drunkard giving anyone else a lecture on the evils of alcohol was profoundly strange.

"I'll tell him," he said.

"Booze made me do the stupidest things. One time I was convinced this guy in Sweden was with the police, and I got really mad. Really pissed! Started shouting and throwing glasses. Half the people couldn't understand what I was saying and they called the cops and everything." Brian rubbed his nose. "It plays hell with your life."

"I've seen the mess." Arthur couldn't help it. "As the kids say it- been there, done that, bought the t-shirt for the tour."

"What, the room?"

"The, er, knife." Arthur touched his own arm.

"Oh, that's show," Brian said. Alarmingly. "I won't really do it. People know that. I just try."

"Yeah, well, I saw blood. That was enough," Arthur dismissed. He put the cup down, his stomach turning at the thought.

They looked at each other, uncomfortable with the topic of conversation. The apartment was so quiet and it was so early. The sun wasn't up yet and the air was stuffy from locked windows and muggy heating. Takeaway cartons littered the table and there were balled up tissues and stained glasses.

Brian was puzzled. Arthur had seemed so relaxed a few days ago and then there had been a sudden return to the wariness that frustrated the singer so much. The cagy restlessness and that childish look that said Arthur had yet another petty objection. Brian was getting more frustrated. He was approaching tired.

"What now?" he snapped, "What did I say?"

"Nothing."

"If you say that one more time, I'll have you," Brian threatened, dropping his head into his hands to hide a groan.

"Nothing." More cold and stony than before. "The cab should be 'ere soon."

The dropped 'aitch'. The sure sign of tension.

"Arthur."

"See," the reporter interrupted, "You're not coming back. We had fun but it's not like we're friends. You don't want that, and I don't want that."

"Who said?"

"Eh?"

"Who said what I wanted?"

Arthur shook his head. "Don't confuse me. It's all just a story, right? Fancy restaurants and stuff? I was joking."

Brian didn't move. Didn't do more than look steadily back at him. "You don't go to fancy restaurants. So what? I'm not asking you to an album launch. It's a fucking meal, Art."

Not an album launch. Not public, then. Arthur felt justified. "Best not to drag it out, huh?"

"Right, right. Of course." Brian nodded a few times. "You know," he said, "Last night you said it was a… what was it? A fucking dream. You said you dreamed of this. Of what? Me? You dreamed of me, Art?"

"No."

"Fine. Just asking."

"It's a stupid question."

"Making a point."

"What point?" Arthur had never felt more like laughing, even though the laugh stuck in his throat. He flung his own hands out, overwhelmed by the sheer egotism he was faced with. "So what, I dreamed a few times. You wander in, you get under my blanket and you suck me off. So fucking what?"

"I can still suck you off."

"You don't get it. This isn't about sucking me off."

"You seem to think it is. I was thinking something different but you want the sex, so fine: it's sex. I'll come back, and I'll suck you off. That do you?"

"Shut up, Brian."

"Don't see why I should."

"I'm asking."

"I'm refusing. A fag can't say 'no' anymore?"

"Fuck off."

"That's it, yeah? You still want the family and the kids and the fucking house with the three bedrooms. You still think men are just for fun, yeah?"

Arthur stared at the wall opposite and wouldn't notice him. Refused to acknowledge any of the mockery that Brian's fertile brain could come up with.

And Brian seemed to have no trouble. He kept up a steady diatribe as the minute ticked away, never once faltering. Feeding off himself and his own anger. Taking his cues from Arthur's silence.

"I was bloody trying. God knows why, you're not exactly what I had in mind," he finished, "Don't get your hopes up. I wasn't that invested."

Arthur picked up the cups, stood up, and proceeded calmly to put them into the sink. He washed them meticulously without saying a word and came back out of the kitchenette, stopping by the counter to lean against it for support. He wouldn't say, but his head was pounding. His legs were so heavy to move. Breathing was too hard and it was a battle to get enough oxygen into his lungs.

"You know what bugs me," he started, pointing a finger at his guest, "People who say that hurting themselves is for show. I don't like that. I know a girl who died in a car accident. I know friends who almost died from a bad hit. I know a girl who was so depressed she cut her own wrists and wrote a poem on her wall in her own blood. But you! You don't even have the guts to be really tragic."

Brian didn't turn around to look at him.

"I saw the gun go off, Brian. I was there. I was at the concert. I saw the man with the gun and I wanted to tell you. Then the gun went off and you went over. I saw the blood. I saw you get shot. Those kids were sitting around outside, the cops were everywhere, and we were crying, praying. We were terrified and you were lying. You ruined everything."

"What did I ruin?" Brian asked, "I'm a singer. I sing songs. I don't control things."

"You don't? You made us. It's like God, Brian, and you made us in your image. Only you killed yourself, so what was supposed to happen to us?"

"My mum would say that was blasphemy."

"You still talk to her? After everything else you did?"

Brian didn't answer that.

"My mum said that too," Arthur continued, pressing his fingers into the sockets of his eyes, hoping to ease the pressure, "What gives you the right to tell me abou' my life, when you don't know the hell you put me through."

"The hell I put you through." Brian got his bag first, slung it over his shoulder and waited by the door. "You don't get it- I died. Maxwell was bigger than me. More. He was driving me mad."

"Maxwell Demon was you, Brian."

"No. No, he weren't. He was different. So loud. I could hear his voice in my head and I'd thing, 'Oh, Maxwell would really like that' or 'Maxwell would think this'. I could feel him sometimes, when I was alone in a room."

Arthur shrugged, not willing to believe this.

"I had him shot and he died. But I died too. I saw the kids, and the guy who broke his leg getting out. I just floated there, over the ceiling. I saw me, Art; you ever done that? Gone out of your body and floated? Jerry thought it was a great act. He kept telling me I was doing great."

"Guilt," Arthur said.

"Yeah. Except Jerry arranged for a doctor and everything." Brian looked up with haunted eyes. "The doctor couldn't find a pulse."

Arthur had nothing to say to that. The sand was tight in his nose and throat but Brian was at the door, looking as though his soul was slipping out from between his fingers. The shadows in his face were deeper, and his eyes were darker, larger. At the moment, Arthur didn't care.

Brian left.