A/N: I am so completely devastated by Corey's passing. He was a wonderful person. Always kind and generous. You never hear a bad word about him, because he treated everyone with the respect they deserve. The world has suffered a great loss. But let's not forget his family, girlfriend Lea, and friends; we need to keep them in our thoughts and send our love. It's least we can do, being such super fans of this show. We were given joy and love and laughter, every time he came on the screen; so let's give that back ten fold to his loved ones, and let them know we care.

A/N2: The song used is "Blame It On The Black Star," by Eliza Lumley. This chapter is split 50/50 between Chord and Dave (technically). But I want to make this clear, this is a Mark/Chord endgame story. It's just going to go around the bend and back to where he belongs. I'm also trying to stay in character as much as possible, and I want to say ahead of time "I am not trying to portray Chord as a dick." He's just clueless, but good things come to those who wait. Enjoy!

Chapter 3
Two Weeks Later

~D&M&C~

I get home from work
And you're still standing in your dressing gown
Well, what am I to do?
I know all the things around your head
And what they do to you

Mark swirled his red Moscato in his glass as he stared at the abstract painting on the white wall in front of him, and listened to the soft jazz.

Truthfully, Mark's own inner artist was cringing from merely the use of the neon coloring splashed across the canvas. It was chaotic swirls, reminiscent of the horrid 70s tie-die that was trying (and failing) to give a "Starry Night" look and feel. The musician turned his nose up at it and took a long sip of his wine.

What are we coming to?
What are we gonna do?

Blame it on the black star
Blame it on the falling sky
Blame it on the satellite
That beams me home

In the two weeks since the Texan had talked to his former best friend, he had changed a few things in his life.

Like for one, he picked up a martial arts class, because Jason had suggested it would be a great thing to list on his resume. At his age, he was in his prime for big action movie roles but directors won't look twice at him if they find out that other than high school, he's had no real combat experience. Sure, he may never become a Tom Cruise and do his own stunts, but he does need to at least look like he knows what he doing.

For another, he sat down with his manager and publicist and asked them the tough questions. Like where his career could possibly go now that his stint on Glee was over; how had Glee positively and negatively affected his pool of potential jobs; and finally, how he can patch up the negative and possibly change the public's view of him.

Thus, his days of partying had, for the most part, had come to an end.

No more posts of him in white trash clothing that advertised alcohol, or staying out until the ass crack of dawn giving civilians the chance to take pictures of him living it up. No more taking multiple girls or boys home with him; in fact, no taking anyone home at all.

They explained to him, in no uncertain terms, that if he really wanted to be taken seriously as an actor and a human being than he needed to grow up and act like a serious actor and human being. He's not some college student, and life ain't no spring break. And if he stuck to that then slowly the opinions of public will change; and ultimately, as an added bonus, he'll even help his lawsuit.

If he no longer has a playboy image, than people will be more willing to believe he never touched Roxanne in a means to hurt her. Which he didn't. She's a liar, and most sane people believe she is. But his reputation is against him in the eyes of a judge.

So you could say that is a large motivator for him to turn things around quickly.

Troubled words of a troubled mind
Try to understand what is eating you

He hummed as he turned away from the monstrosity posing as artwork, and moved a little further into the gallery.

He felt very out of place.

There were so many people – famous people – dressed to the nines, chatting and munching on little crackers with fancy cheese and journalists moving through the crowds begging for quotes and pictures…Mark hated it.

He knew Janice got him an invite to this event with the hope that he could begin to reprogram his brain with what was acceptable party behavior, but all he really wanted to do was rip the suit he forced into, into a million pieces before getting a beer and lounging in sweat pants. Shirt optional.

He wasn't mentally designed to rub elbows with the uppity folk. He was a cowboy, pretty much in every sense of the word. He belonged on a ranch with his dog, riding horses, and singing his songs about broken hearts and promises around a campfire at night.

But he needed this image revamp. He needed his career to get back on track.

He needed to admit to himself he'd been doing all this to keep his mind busy, so he wouldn't dwell on the fact that he missed his best friend.

Try to stay awake but it's 58 hours
Since that I last slept with you

He stopped in front of a sculpture made from what looked like marble. It was of a person, no obvious gender specified, standing with sheets wrapped around their body. The Texan guessed it was meant to be the image of a woman; but seeing as there was no breast curved into the stone or definite hair either, it could just as easily be man.

The piece, more than anything else he'd seen called to him. Whispered in his ear the memory of that night that he'd tried so hard to repress.

*"What are you doing?" Chord's voice rumbled into his ear from behind him.

Mark was sitting at their table, in the Caesar's Palace nightclub, staring off into space and pushing the piece of cake they had cut up earlier around the fancy plate.

The music had died down considerably since Chord finished his DJ set – if you could call it that, anyway. Pauly D mostly just let him screw around and laughed at the sounds he came up with, since it was his birthday after all, and they were friends. The crowd wasn't complaining, so all was good. He blushed slightly and smiled shyly as he looked over his shoulder into the other man's clear blue eyes. "Nothing," he answered and put his fork down. "You have fun?" he asked as he gestured to the stage.

Chord grinned, and sat next to his buddy, "A blast!" He reached for his mojito he had left and finished it off with one gulp.

"That's good," Mark said, trying to make sure he sounded extra cheerful. "Happy Birthday," he said and picked up his 7and7, taking a sip.

Chord eyed him critically, "What's up with you?" he asked. "Nicole was totally sending you 'come hither' vibes when we got here, and for the most part you've been sitting here like someone stole your favorite toy."

The Texan withheld his snort, because it was almost exactly like that. But he could never say that aloud. "Not really into Nicole, man," he said with a shrug. "She's Janice's assistant. I really don't want to piss off my publicist for a one off, you know?"

Chord nodded at that. "Alright, alright," he acquiesced. "I get that, yeah." He thought for a moment, "What about Monica? Her friend. She's cute, and totally your type," he slurred slightly. "Small, tan, dark haired. Fits you to a 'T.'"

The older man shook his head, "Not so much anymore."

The Tennessee bred man scoffed, "Oh yeah? Than who? What?" he chuckled. "You are bound to a type, Mark. You like the exotic variety of the spectrum. In both boys and girls. I remember that one dude you ditched me for two years ago. What was his name?" he pretends to think.

Mark rolls his eyes and twists his bracelets, "Rodrigo."

"That's the one," the insufferable man grinned. "The name screams foreign. Hell, I even think he was, right?"

"Rodrigo was from Spain," Mark said with a huff. "And I didn't like him because of that, I liked that he was – "

"Big," Chord teased and began dramatically saying, "Buff, made you feel like your fling could last forever, held you and said your name with a Spanish flourish –"

"Shut the fuck up," Mark interrupted and gave a snickering Chord a glare. "He was not just a fling. We dated for two and a half months, and then his Visa was up and he had to go home. I still Facebook him sometimes, and he was in no way big."

Chord rolled his eyes, "Whatever, man. Point is you need a new squeeze, and I'm going to find them for you."

Mark just snorted and took another small sip of his drink; then he smiled sweetly as an older man and his wife cautiously approached the table and asked for a photo. He nodded and posed with them and then wished them a happy evening as they scampered away excitedly.

Chord just laughed as they walked away, "Dude. No matter where we go, it's always you that gets the fans asking for photos. You or Darren."

Mark scowled slightly, "It's not as if I actively look for them too. I'd rather be left alone, you know that."

The other man shook his head, "Yeah, 'cuz you're a big, anit-social, nerdy, musician; that would rather spend his time blazing trails in the forest and talking to birds, than interacting with live humans." He snickered.

Mark bristled at his friend's comment. He hated that Chord would think of him like that. He knew it was probably the alcohol talking, but it still hurt.

As he dwelled on that, a waitress passed and Chord flagged her down, "Can we get a round'o shots, and another round'o drinks please?"

She nodded eagerly, but Mark looked at his glass and waved the girl off, "I haven't even finished this one – " he tried to say, but Chord cut him off.

"He's talking crazy, we need another round and a couple shots," he winked at her. She was your typical nightclub waitress. Very pretty, blonde, blue eyed, and big breasts.

Mark just looked to the side with a sad sort of smile. The things he'd never be.

"Right away, Mr. Overstreet," she said huskily.

Chord leered back, and then looked to his friend. "Totes hitting that tonight," he grinned.

Mark just nodded, "Good for you, man. Birthday boy's present, huh?"

"You know it!" he laughs.

There was a pause in their conversation as Chord obviously ogled her ass and smirked back at his friend. "You want me to ask if she has a friend?"

He fought the urge to growl and instead just rolled his eyes.

"Aw, come on, man!" Chord slurred, "It's my birthday. Your excuse to get wasted and act like an idiot, so when it's your birthday, I have an excuse to get wasted and act like an idiot. You see?"

"Didn't know you needed one," he muttered and felt his blood boil as the girl approached their table again, having obviously put on more lipstick and unbuttoned another button of her shirt.

She smiled as she set the drinks out and Chord asked for her number, which (shocker) was already written on a napkin. She winks as she sashays away, and Mark suddenly has the urge to puke. But instead he finishes off his 7and7 and shakes his head to clear away any dark thoughts.

His friend was right. He needed to be drunk.

"So," said friend drawls, "You never really answered the question."

At this Mark just blinked, "What?"

"What is your type now? If it isn't Naya or Rodrigo-esque, than what?"

Mark chewed on this thought, "Well I wouldn't say type as in a broad term, more of a singular person."

Chord's eyes lit up, "Dude, it's Janice, right? I so knew it when you passed on Nicole; cause, dude, that chick is smokin'."

Mark scowled at him, "Wrong gender."

"Oh," he drawled. "Huh. Do I know him?"

Feeling anxiety welling up in his gut, he nodded and ducked his head.

Chord grinned devilishly, "Is it Darren? It is, right? I've noticed your eyes lingering a little too long…"

Mark shook his head and ignored the sound of confusion from his friend. He downed his shot. Here goes nothing, "Actually," he coughed slightly, "it's someone a little closer to – "

"Chord!"

They both jump and Mark's heart fell when he saw who it was.

Justing Monroe.

Mr. World Traveler.

Mr. I can do anything.

Mr. Best friend thief.

Mark really fucking hated that guy. Ever since they met him in London for the tour a couple years ago, it's as if the guy has Chord on a homing device.

They met him in a night club. He had introduced himself as the owner and partied with them for the night. He had seemed like an okay guy. But then, chord started like talking to him regularly. It was Justin said this, or Justin did that. Or look at this picture, he's so inventive. Ha ha. Ha ha ha-hah-hah fucking ha.

It was like, the entire time Chord completely forgot Mark even existed!

"What's up, buddy!" Chord yells excitedly over the increasingly loud music pumping into the air.

"Happy Birthday, mate," Justin as he pulls him into a bro hug.

Mark subtly rolls his eyes and just kind of half waves as the man invites himself to sit down. He feels kind of pathetic being jealous of someone, when it's obvious Chord has no idea the other man looks at him like he wants to devour him. He knows he is acting like an immature by giving the guy the cold shoulder, when it's not even his party and he's Chord's friend. And yes, he knows that his emotions switch around on him like a woman who is PMSing. But that didn't stop him from covertly glaring at the guy and wishing the Earth would just suddenly swallow him whole.

"Ah, fuck, man, it's good to see you!" Chord smiled. "Mark, you remember Justin."

'Yes, the man I am totally not thinking about stabbing in the face with the cake knife,' he thought bitterly. But he said, "Yeah, hey man."

"Getting sloshed, mates?" Justin asked and waved down a different waitress than the one from before.

Chord gave his signature grin, "You know it, brother."

Mark just swirled his glass and completely tuned out the undoubtedly smarmy reply from the bane of his existence.

You see, the problem with Chord is also the thing that makes Chord the most amazing person in the world. He's not someone that sees a person's bad side. He sees people for their good qualities, and isn't jaded or biased. He gives everyone (no matter how obviously evil or crazy) a fair chance to be loved and appreciated.

Unlike Mark.

Who is highly suspicious and reserved around people he doesn't know, and even people he does. He's sarcastic and cynical, not to mention judging and very guarded. He doesn't just open his arms and let people into his life or world. He gives the air of effervescence to the cameras, because he knows that what people want to see. But behind the scenes, he the guy sitting in the corner strumming a guitar and not talking to anybody.

But with Chord, he just lets any Joe Blow come waltzing like they've been there the whole time; and it makes Mark nervous for his friend. Because that's how you get hurt, as he's had to learn the very hard way.

A few more minutes pass as the other two kept talking, and before too long Mark's second cocktail is gone. Well, fuck. He hadn't planned on having more than one or two but – screw it. He had a reason now.

He stands and excuses himself, going to the bar to get another. When Chord hears this, he tells him he could just wait for the waitress to come back around but hell if he was going to put up with the man ogling that girl's breasts again. It was more than he could stomach for one night.

But when he was on his trek back to the table, he was surprised to see it empty. Looking off to the crowd, his shoulders sagged as he saw Chord and Captain Fantastic dancing with a group of beautiful women and laughing hysterically. Having left him entirely behind.

He sits down and watches them for a second before shaking his head. He couldn't even believe…no, he could. Because Justin was here.

Well, to hell with both of them. Chord had said he needs to have fun tonight, so that's exactly what he's going to do.

Taking a big gulp of his drink, he pastes a smile on his face and stands up to go join the fold of writhing bodies.

He's getting laid tonight.*

Mark jerked out of his reverie as a person tapped on his shoulder. Looking behind him, he heaved a heavy sigh. "You," he says to none other than David Boreanaz and takes another long sip of his wine.

Has he mentioned he hates wine? It takes like three bottles before you even get a buzz.

What are we coming to?
I just don't know anymore

"Me," the older man grins, and comes to stand beside him. "Aren't you happy to see me again?"

Mark just rolls his eyes in his direction, "Overjoyed," he replies with a snort. "What are you doing here?"

David continues to grin and takes a sip of his champagne, "Enjoying what the world of the modern artists has to offer to enrich my life." He looks at Mark and pushes against his shoulder lightly with his own. "Otherwise known as, my publicist emailed me and said I had to go."

Mark kind of chuckled at that. "They do have a tendency to do that, huh?"

"Yep," Dave drawls. And then looks around him, taking in the sights of the bustling gallery.

Mark looks back at him, feeling awkward and not really knowing what to say to someone he barely knows yet feels attracted to.

There was that off-putting feeling again.

"So, you're an artist, right?" Dave asked and leaned back against the stark white wall behind him.

Mark did a double take at the man. "Yeah, kind of. I mean, I mostly sketch, but…how did you know that?"

"Wikipedia and Google are useful tools," the other man grins slyly.

The musician rolled his eyes, "Stalker," he muttered.

"No, curious," he observed and took another swig of his champagne. "And anyway, it would've been a natural assumption for most, considering from what I've hear you're kind of musical genius."

"Are you complimenting me, Mr. Boreanaz?" Mark ask with a playful note in his voice.

"Maybe," the man said a charm smile sliding into place.

Mark felt a smile mirroring on his own face, his first genuine one in what felt like months. "Natural assumption, eh?" he muses.

David nodded head before finishing off his glass and putting it on the servers tray.

"Well, I guess I can live with that," he chuckles. He looks at him from under his lashes, unwittingly giving the older man a sultry look, "But you have to promise to let me guess something about you."

With a grin, Dave leans forward, "Guess away. I'm an open book," he adds leaning closer.

Mark eyes him carefully, then 'hmm's' to himself. He spends but a moment thinking, when he realizes, he knows nothing of this wildly charismatic man. That troubles him, because in the two weeks in which they hadn't seen each other, the other had the forethought to at least attempt to read an online general bio. He had found Mark memorable enough to go that far, and yet, Mark couldn't have been bothered to return the same courtesy.

So, deciding that going the cheeky route would be the best direction to cover up he ignorance, he gives the bigger man another smile, and said playfully, "You don't particularly care about art, at all."

As expected the other man laughed and shook his head. "No, can't say it does," he laughs. "I'm more of a medieval weapons collector than an art collector."

That piece of info sent shivers down Mark's spine. He should find that disturbing, but yet, he can't get over fascinating it is. Or the slight jolt it gave his nether regions. He clears his throat, "That's…different," he manages.

Dave nods, "Yeah, well, Jamie likes art; and if she buys something than eh, okay. Whatever. But I just find the other so much more thrilling. It holds actual history."

"Art holds history," Mark scoffs. "That's why there's a whole major assigned to it."

Dave makes a face, "Art holds abstract history. It's all about what you think it means and shit. It's not about actual facts. I can pick an Iron Age axe, and know for certain what it does and what it was useful for. But a painting?"

Feeling a little affronted on behalf of his hobby, he defends, "It's because of art that we have visual as to what things like your Iron Age axe did; and the extent of the carnage that all of the wars throughout history caused." He crossed his arms, getting into his debate stance. "It's through art we made pathways to modern science. You're weapons haven't changed all that much over the centuries. An axe is still an axe. But art has not only changed drastically as the times change, it has also changed the face of our generation time and time again."

Dave just smirked at him, and for a second, Mark wondered what the hell he found so funny; but then he remembered how he was standing, and he blushed. Slowly relaxing, he just said, "So, you know…yeah…" very intelligently. There he went again, making people uncomfortable with his big brain.

Chord was right, he was a nerd.

The older man frowned. "Don't do that," he admonished.

"Don't do what?"

"Get embarrassed because you fight for what you believe in, or that you're actually really smart," He stepped forward invading his personal space and Mark fought not to step back. "Someone really did a number on you," the older man observed.

Mark crossed his arms again, this time to slightly withdraw from the closeness. This man just had a way with putting him off balance. It worried him, greatly.

"You're so gifted, but you've been programmed to think that's a bad thing," Dave said with a little frustration in his voice.

Mark looked away, "People don't really like when I show 'em up, so I do my best not to." He sighed, "I mean, not that I was trying to in the first place but – "

"But nothing," Dave finished, and Mark directly into the dark haunting eyes feeling that same chill from earlier pass through his spine. Dave smiled and put a gentle hand on his arm. "Come by my house tomorrow."

Mark laughed, "You're house? Why?"

"Because I think I have something that will be useful for you."

Eyeing him suspiciously, Mark pulled back, "I'll think about it."

Dave smiled. "Text me tomorrow and I'll text you the address."

"Excuse me?" a small voice called from the side of them.

They both looked to the mousy little photographer that was holding a camera that looked bigger than her head.

"Can I get a please?" She asked politely.

Dave immediately gave her a warm smile and wrapped one of his big and rather strong arms around his waist. Mark felt himself begin to blush, but he just tightened his arms across his chest and put on his most convincing smile.

With a squeaked 'thank you,' the girl scampered away and he felt more than heard Dave's chuckle.

"See you tomorrow," he said directly into his ear, and Mark did actually shiver when he felt the older man pull away.

"Fuck," he muttered quietly, and turned back to the statue again. "Yeah," he says to himself, "See you tomorrow."

Blame it on the black star
Blame it on the falling sky
Blame it on the satellite
That beams me home

Thanks for reading! Reviews and Faves are very appreciated!