Author's Note: I really must thank all my reviewers and all my audience. It's been a very long journey and I'm aware that most of the people who came on board at the start have been compelled to move on. Nevertheless, all the support was appreciated. I only hope that this story- and particularly this end- was worth the wait. Once again, thank you all so much.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Arthur was very happy to see Brian go. He missed him, that was true, and the apartment was too empty without him, but that in itself was maddening. The very idea that Arthur had let himself into this, had seen it coming with both eyes open, and then stood and said not a word in his own defense.

So he went to work and he did what he did best- he put things from his mind.

He strode down cold streets and thought of snow from the year before and how cold it was in alleyways when bright limousines appeared behind faded bars. He thought it, and philosophically put it from his mind.

He stopped at the store to buy cards, awkwardly aware that this was the time for memories. He dipped his hand into the stacks and thought of Lipstick Traces. He methodically found what he wanted, paid for it, and put it from his mind.

No, the world did beat in time to Brian. At least, his world. But music wasn't infallible. It was too easily replaced. The same eight notes could always find another tune, another alteration to break the spell. Arthur was counting on that.

He counted ten days and ten nights. The eleventh day was a Sunday and he found some measure of peace in writing out Christmas cards. It was such a tacky thing to do, really, but his mum had brought him up right. He chose something blatantly religious for them, knowing that God was the only comfort they had in their old age, what with their son turning into a pervert. He found something commercial for his brother.

It occurred to him that he'd never heard John's opinion on the matter. John had come home after, when he was ready to leave. John had always known, just as John always had. He'd taken one look at the bag and Arthur's sullen face the night before and said "Christ Almighty" and "Where the 'ell are you gonna go, you stupid kid". Then he'd said "Here's th' name of a club. Stick around there and you'll find this guy I know. He'll help you out" and Arthur had gone to the club and Ray had been all too happy to help him out.

He sent something appropriately funny for the Flaming Creatures. Something they could laugh over, like the reindeer organizing a union strike. Pearl came from a dockhand family; he'd probably crack a rib over it.

The cards had envelopes and he was mostly legible with a pen. Nothing wrong with his writing. Happy, snowy stamps got stuck on, leaving the acrid sting of cheap glue on his tongue. He went out and got gently sauced to make up for it.

By the time the twelfth day came, he had both a hangover and a thoroughly disgusting level of self-awareness. He had the little suspicion that somewhere in a dark, dank, strobe-lit gay club he'd had a personal revelation.

Of course, the revelation had told him to quit his job and go back to England, but there was no sense in that. Arthur quite liked his job in his own unimpressed way. And what was there for him back in England? An apartment with another man so defeated by the world's rejection of him that he was permanently frozen? An old, two bedroom house with parents who would prefer to think their youngest and brightest was dead? There were a few others, some of whom were perfectly normal people now.

But Arthur wasn't normal.

He looked at himself in the mirror in his bedroom one morning before dressing for work and he wasn't normal. He didn't look normal, he didn't sound normal, he didn't feel normal. He felt… rather strange.

No, England wasn't the answer. It wasn't material things, basically, because Arthur knew all about the ridiculously inept ability of material things to provide happiness. A bed was only a bed when he was the only one in it, after all. So it was 'other'. Was it him? Because Arthur was willing to believe it was all his own fault. It would explain a lot of things. Namely why he woke up to the sound of a gun shot, muffled by music and screaming fans, with the disturbing belief that all he needed to do was turn over and Brian would be grunting at him to stop being so restless.

Brian had no patience with his dramas. It was a singularly unique experience.

Arthur did wake up, and he did turn over, but put the thought from his head and instead pretended he was looking for his digital clock winking sickly green in the not-quite-darkness of his bedroom.

He looked down and he was in warm flannel pyjamas that were so ancient the waistband was fraying. Not a patch of bare skin anywhere. Until he looked at the mirror and the sickly green winked his pale, heavy-lidded face in and out of focus. Like the girl in the club.

Arthur wondered inadvertently if Brian had finished what he had gone to do, whether he and Curt were back to the way they had always been and whether Brian had progressed on to the next stage of his musical development. It was only fitting! Arthur wouldn't have expected anything less for an ending to this eerie saga.

One day he'd write a book about it, he told himself, and then he lay down and comfortably went back to sleep.

The next morning- the fourteenth day- he sorted through some of his old notes for that one elusive contact number. Cecil was the only one who Arthur felt could be a little bit helpful. He might not tell him, because Cecil would only think him an imbecile for not heeding the unexpressed warnings, but Cecil was an old man in a nursing home who couldn't walk. Arthur felt pathetically lucky compared to him.Shelley found it for him.

She was always there, Shelley. Arthur was growing more alarmed every day to see her plain face waiting by his desk on the pretext of some message or note or another. He considered asking her but Shelley didn't work that way. Her mild, timid voice were deceptive; she had a mind like a sewer and he guessed she already knew more than was good for her. If anyone did.

Arthur put that resolutely from his mind too.

On the Tuesday that he called, Cecil was very happy to talk to him. "I read the interview," he said in his precise manner, "I thought it quite good. Thank you for the copy. I didn't make the connections until I heard the, er, news."

Arthur waved it off and smiled into the receiver. "I couldn't say it out loud, but I thought you might guess," he demured.

"It took me a while. He was really very good. A whole new voice, if you know what I mean."

"Yeah."

"But then Brian was always talented that way. He could turn his mind to anything. Well, anything that interested him, I suppose. He was no good with figures and practicalities. I remember when he was determined to hold a concert. He was hoping to drum up some publicity or some such thing. Two weeks before the concert I asked him what the details were only to find out he hadn't arranged a single thing. Not a thing! The hall, the musicians- nothing. He hadn't even sent the invitations to the proper reporters. I spent the next two weeks trying to get things settled."

Arthur chuckled. "It sounds like Brian," he said.

"Yes. Yes, it was just like Brian. He got rid of me very shortly after that."

The humour was no longer so funny. Arthur felt some sympathy stir for this old man in the wheelchair, bound by his memories as much as his illness to the weakness in his bones. It never failed to strike him that Cecil's world seemed to end and begin with Brian.

"But that was a long time ago," the quiet voice continued, a little stronger, "He went on to become a star. I wished him luck, and I am happy for him. He seems to have the life he always wanted, you know. Strangely enough he never saw any interest in being simply himself. He had a fascination for the superhuman. I suppose you noticed it?"

"Yeah. I noticed."

"May I give you a piece of advice," Cecil broke in, "I don't know you, Mr. Stewart. I don't know if you will let me say this, but I get so terribly tired these days I like to be straightforward. Excuse an old man his rudeness. I know from the article that you have spent time with Brian. I don't presume to know what your relationship is, but I can understand how magnetic Brian can be. If I'm wrong, tell me so; if not, just listen."

Arthur held his tongue.

"Brian has no concept of people beyond himself. He is vain, selfish and egotistical. He cannot help who he is. Perhaps because people like myself have let him get away with it for all his young life, but he is far too old to change now. I wouldn't look for a change if I were you. You see, Brian is a free agent. He doesn't believe in monogamy, not for people, ideas or interests."

They spoke for a few more minutes and then Arthur wished him a Merry Christmas and left him alone. The man was coughing, obviously tired and panting lightly with every three words he spoke. Arthur turned the conversation over in his head and then calmly put it from his mind. He was decided- he wouldn't think about it again.

The phones were ringing off the hook in the office that frigid Wednesday morning. Everyone was still around, working overtime what with the holiday season in full-bloom.

Shelley was the one who came over, said "I thought you'd want to know" and left a freshly typed article on his desk. It wasn't one of theirs'; it was from England. And it quite plainly glowed with admiration for the revolutionary charity single that was making waves in the country.

Arthur laughed so loud people actually covered the mouthpiece of their phones and glared at him. Carl bellowed at him to shut up or get out of the office and some people really needed to get their fucking work done so could everyone shut the hell up? Arthur shook his head, flipped the older man off behind his back and put his feet up on the desk so he could read the article from top to bottom. It wasn't very long- maybe four or five paragraphs- but it was solid. Good prose, good writing style. And damned good news!

Arthur felt the tiniest twinge of frustration. Brian had asked him to go; he'd have had a first-hand vision into the hype- Boy George getting in straight from a flying dash across in the Red Eye, Status Quo and their drinking games. It would have been something to see Phil Collins hammer out those drums. Arthur was a fan, of a sort. He'd stuck around London long enough to see Quo and Genesis sidle around the scene. He'd dodged a dozen Peter Gabriel up-starts too.

But it would have been something!

He'd expected to see two very familiar names, what with the way Shelley disappeared so fast, but neither Brian nor Curt were mentioned in the lists of artists who played out that little single. Arthur was somewhat disappointed.

Shelley found him at lunch idling the minutes away before he could safely abandon his sandwich as inedible. She generously passed him a second fork and he dug around in her cold, leftover bake for chicken bits. She seemed happiest eating the crust.

"So?" she prompted.

He didn't look up, just nodded. "It was a good article. Nice to know those guys can afford to make a little money for someone else."

"You were disappointed, weren't you?" she pressed.

He changed the subject. But then she poked him in the arm with her fork and said, "I'm not done yet. Let me finish."

"Shelley, I'm not gonna argue," he sighed.

"Who's arguing? I'm just going to say this, and then I'll go away. You can even have my lunch."

"Thanks."

She grinned at him and shyly put her fork down, flustered at the thought of having poked someone so off-handedly. "Sorry about that. I didn't think it would hurt. Did it hurt?"

"The point, Shelley?"

"Hmmm? Oh! Just in case this thing with Brian is a little more than you're telling anyone about, you should probably make sure this guy's on the level," she said, "Go talk to someone who knows him."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Yes, mum. That all?"

"And you should probably stop trying to be the strong, silent type. It always makes me think of Abby. You know how loud she is and she just keeps saying men are always so dense. I don't think you're dense, but I don't think you think very much. Well, you try not to."

"That was a compliment, righ'?" Arthur teased. He pulled he ponytail for good luck and got up, smiling down at the woman. "Thanks, Shelley. Anything else?"

"Nope."

"Then I'll go, eh?"

"You can go," she said softly.

He patted her paternally on the head and plodded away. Plodding seemed to be about all that the snow was good for these days. Plodding and kicking. Arthur found himself automatically unable to resist kicking at random piles of snow lying scraped up on the pavements. People shot him death-glares but he still kicked at them, grinning a little to himself like some maniac.

Oddly enough, it was four days before Christmas that he got to his front door and opened it to find a blanket, a bare tree, junk food, beer and a rocker who lay under the blanket fast asleep.

Arthur stared stupidly. It was repression, his brain decided. All that insistence on not thinking about it and he had finally gone mad. So here was Brian asleep on his couch, and Arthur's brain was short-circuiting.

"Bri?" he called gently, walking in and sitting down in the other chair. En route he stuck a finger out and prodded the fast food. It felt real, but then that was the art of the delusion, wasn't it? "Brian."

Brian merely mumbled something and shut his mouth, licking his lips for good measure as though in a nervous habit.

Arthur got a good look at him in the blaring overhead light.

The man was thin, dark, and peaceful. Two of three things were new to Arthur. Brian was never peaceful, and Arthur was certain that certain patches of Brian were more brown than black. An arm was out from under the blanket and curled up to provide a pillow, the sleeve white and the cuffs rolled back.

Still the same delicate wrists, Arthur noted.

He reached out and poked it, just in case.

Brian jerked and tumbled off the couch.

Arthur just stared.

"Bloody hell, don't do that!" Brian shouted, "What d'you want me to do, break my bloody neck?"

"You're here."

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm here. Help me up."

Arthur stayed where he was. "You were in England."

Brian resolved himself to moving under his own steam. Really, this was not the reunion he'd been expecting. Knowing Arthur, he'd have expected either outright rejection or silent passivity to continue in the same old, useless way. "I flew back two days ago," he groaned, one slender hand going to his back, "I think I broke something."

Arthur chose to ignore that. Looking back around at the front room of his apartment, he frowned, more to himself that anyone in particular. "How'd you get in?"

Brian was sitting on the floor, bent almost double to reach the 'something broken' in his back, and he still managed to look as though conversing with a slow witted child. "I got a key made for your door," he said.

"What?"

"A key," Brian said again, enunciating perfectly with his fluid voice, "Made for your front door."

Arthur blinked. "Why?"

"I had to get in," Brian explained.

It felt a little bit like too much effort on Brian's part.

The rock star seemed to be reading his thoughts again, because he said, "It didn't cost as much as I expected."

"You're rich," Arthur agreed, "You can take it."

"Yeah, I'm rich." Brian flipped up one limp wrist, squinting at his gold watch, "It's late. How long was I asleep?"

"Dunno. I just got home."

"Great. Want to get me up?"

Arthur stood and held out his hand. With the utmost non-commitance, of course. Just for protection. Brian could take it or leave it, but that was all Arthur was offering. A hand up. That was all. Just a hand. Not a smile, not a welcome, not a possible invitation to think that breaking into his home was alright. Curt had already broken into his home once before and really, were all rock stars quite so rude? Arthur couldn't possibly give more, nor could he forgive so easily and Brian was so utterly high-handed, so egotistically impetuous! What the devil did he mean by breaking into someone's home? How dared he…

Brian grabbed his hand, pulled himself up and didn't seem to notice the slight. He brushed himself off and adjusted the hippie vest hanging off his shoulders. "I bought dinner," he announced, looking proud of himself.

And just like that Arthur deflated.

He didn't mean to. He was angry, he really was. But Brian was standing there with dyed black hair and no make-up, grinning as though it were a very normal day in their lives that he broke into Arthur's home and brought food and alcohol along for the ride.

Perfectly, irreconcilably male.

Men didn't talk. Arthur talked sometimes, he knew he did. He remembered saying things throughout the year that he wasn't proud of, and some things he was downright ashamed of.

Once again, Brian cocked his head and the gentlest smile Arthur had ever seen flickered briefly over his sharp face. "Don't think so much," Brian whispered. And then considerately left him alone.

Arthur considerately didn't answer. If he opened his mouth he would deny everything. He didn't have very much to deny so that could be no use. No, better to eat first and then see what happened. See what Brian wanted.

"You, er, really died?" he called out.

The sound of rustling plastic halted for a second too long. "I didn't. I'm here, aren't I? I wouldn't be standing here if I was alive."

Perfect sense.

"But you thought you died?" Arthur insisted.

Brian came back with two beers. "Art, you don't want to talk about this. Don't be so suspicious, yeah?"

Suspicious? Since when had he ever been suspicious? Arthur couldn't remember ever being suspicious. He remembered being naïve and inclined to falling helplessly into situations, blind chance pointing the way. When had he changed that?

"Look, luv, it was a mistake," Brian said. He handed one bottle over. "I made a mistake. I was messed up. I was tired, I was angry, I was drugged, I was drunk… I was a lot of things."

"And you were dead," Arthur put in.

Brian dropped his head to stare at Arthur's shoes. Very sensible shoes, too. He had a sneaking preference for shoes that weren't so sensible. "I thought I was dead. I wanted to be dead. That's all I'll say about it. You want to eat now or later?"

Arthur shrugged and sat down. He shoved the blanket a-ways down the couch, settling in and watching to see where Brian would fit. The world he had created was small, meant only for himself. How could someone like Brian ever…

Brian curled himself into the armchair and switched on the TV. Someone was laughing and the flickering light lit up his long neck, touched the shadows just under his cheekbones. He even swung a leg erratically up over the padded arm.

Arthur smiled to himself and raised a silent toast to the silent figure in the armchair. It fit perfectly.

"So," he said, "That shooting."

"Arthur, stop it."

"Fine. What about Curt?"

"Curt's in England," Brian returned, all casual grey eyes.

"Waiting for you?"

"He's got his own life. Probably snorting it away; I don't know. Jack's looking after him, like Jack always does."

Arthur nodded. "And the pin?" he asked.

Brian hesitated and for the first time looked as though he didn't have a ready answer. "I gave it back to Jack. He asked for it."

"I see."

"Curt wasn't supposed to give it to you," Brian muttered, gulping at the warming liquid in his hand.

Curt wasn't supposed to have done a lot of things, Arthur calculated silently. But he still did them. They all did. Nothing they could do about it.

"By the way," Brian added, "I've got a set of dates to play at the club in a week. I'd like you to come with me. You got some vacation time?"

He really did have all the time in the world, even if he did have to quit his job and move to England. If only to finally see Brian Slade play live.