Here is the third chapter of a fanfic developed by me and a friend of mine.

Pairing: Khashoggi/Galileo

Rating: N/17 for certain chapters.

Characters: All of the characters from the musical and a few OCs.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters in this story (if I did then all the pairings in my fanfic would true) apart from my OCs.

Author's Note: The story starts during the interrogation scene between Galileo and Khashoggi that took place in the actual musical. I hope everyone likes this story!

Galileo stood numbly at the sink, drying off the cutlery with unsteady hands. He searched for the right drawer and dropped them in with a clatter that echoed through the empty apartment to rattle in his skull.

Oh god, what had he done?

He had to get out of there, grab his laptop and run, pretend the world was still turning beneath his feet. Feet thudding against the pristine floorboards, he returned to Khashoggi's bedroom, making to go for the bedside table where his laptop lay, and froze in the doorway.

The bed. The bloody bed.

Galileo raked a hand through his dark, bed-mussed hair, and moved slowly into the room. As he straightened the sheets and fluffed the pillows, thoughts of what had disheveled the bed so thoroughly danced around his mind despite his best efforts to ignore them, a flush like pinpricks of heat across his face and neck. A sigh escaped his lips as he stared, lost, at the duck-egg blue bedspread, before he grabbed his laptop and spun on his heel. To the door, he just had to get to the door, and it would be easy to step through. ...Or maybe he could have a quick shower before he left.

He emerged from the warm respite of the shower, hair clinging to his scalp and forehead. Catching sight of himself in the mirror, the man reflected looked at him with wide eyes, taking in the image. His bottom lip was a little swollen; a few maroon splashes, bruise-like, on the flesh between his neck and shoulder; a chafing around his wrists where he had been handcuffed during interrogation; bold brush strokes of darkness under his eyes. He wished he felt as wrecked as he looked. Hair roughly toweled dry, Galileo pulled his clothes back on, feeling instantly the grime of the last two days. Resisting the urge to find something else to wear, he forced himself to hang up the towel and make his way back to the front door. He passed the living room, door ajar, and gave it a cursory glance before that too reminded him of why he was leaving. Why he had to leave.

He just couldn't make sense of anything that had happened, and he wanted to leave, he really did. At least, it seemed like a good idea to want to leave, and as always, Galileo listened to his head when all around him told him not to. He grasped the doorknob, laptop balanced in the crook of his other arm, and took a deep breath. He wanted to leave, to return to the solitude of his rooms, to curl up and sleep alone until the ache seeped out of his heart. Didn't he?

He wanted something more than that, needed something more than that, felt it deep in the marrow of his bones. A rooftop to scream from, a love song to cry over, action, emotion, adventure, change. He needed another world.

His hand dropped from the doorknob, and he turned, silently making his way to the study. Khashoggi had said something about books...

The veil of a summer night had long since fallen over the world, when Khashoggi stepped into his apartment, a sigh of relief flooding from his lungs. He slipped out of his blazer, loosening his tie and unbuttoning his collar with one hand as the other searched for the light switch. With a quiet hum, the hallway was illuminated, light and shadow pooling in an open doorway to the left - his study.

So, the boy had stayed after all.

Khashoggi rolled his shoulders, feeling some of the tension melt away. Galileo had stayed. This was an interesting development...

Kicking off his shoes, pausing to put them and the blazer in their places, he padded softly to the study, glancing in, unsure what to expect.

The image of Galileo surrounded by books, leaning against a bookcase as he slept, an open tome resting on his lap, was not what he'd imagined. But there the books sat, in seemingly random piles to either side - books on music history, a biography of the Bohemian prophet Mercury, a few novels ('The Prisoner of Azkaban' looked significantly more dog-eared than he remembered). And still open was a book of Ancient Mythology, the pages bearing an illustration of an object called Pandora's Box. Khashoggi had read it before, numerous times - it was a valuable text in the understanding, and thus crushing, hope. He wondered idly why it had appealed to Galileo, moving quietly into the room.

The reading lamp in the corner cast a gentle glow over Galileo's slumbering face, where the tiniest of smiles was playing out. His cheekbones caught the light, pale complexion giving them the look of being carved, sculpted. Dark hair sat unruly on his head, a little falling over his brow. The calm of sleep had seeped some of the anger and fear from the young man, and it suited him. Kneeling down before his slumbering form, Khashoggi cupped the side of Galileo's face, tilting it towards him. He was, Khashoggi observed, a rather lovely specimen.

Galileo gave an almost-purr, leaning into the touch as his eyes began to open and his mind return from sleep. He blinked at Khashoggi, their eyes meeting for a long moment before he realised his situation, face contorting a little with embarrassment. The older man's hand instantly pulled away a fraction, the contact lost but the warmth remaining. Galileo broke the eye contact, staring intently at a pile of books and mumbling under his breath.

"Galileo."

The dreamer froze at the utterance of his name, eyes flicking back to Khashoggi, who smirked to himself. He stood fluidly, reaching out a hand to Galileo. "Come to bed," he said, more demand than suggestion, and Galileo tensed. Khashoggi rolled his eyes; "I'm exhausted, and so, it would seem, are you. So come to bed, Galileo. I'm sure the bed is more comfortable than the floor."

Chewing his lip, Galileo pushed the book from his legs and took the offered hand, grimacing as he stood. "I-I'll say," he replied, and let himself be led away.