What's wrong with me? I don't even like USUK and here I am writing it! The plot bunnies are rabid. RABID, I TELL YOU!
Did you know that I'm terrified of rabbits?

185cm translates to 6"2. Please excuse my amateur attempts at lyricism.

The United Kingdom of Republics. It was an odd name for a band, but the fans didn't seem to mind in the slightest. In fact, they worshiped the leather-clad shock-rockers. And what do most bands use to shock? Sex.

Gay sex.

Even the most liberal of equal-rights activists called the pair exhibitionists and condemned their actions. The words tossed around by the newspaper entertainment pages were hardly complimentary; licentious, base, crass, crude, salubrious, immoral, uncultured. You couldn't play a single one of their songs on the radio without causing a riot.

But like every band that has a bad reputation, they also had a cult following, and a large one at that.

"'The United Kingdom of Republics (The UKR to its fans) will be extending its tour to give the United States the dubious pleasure of listening to their explicit, elicit, Placebo-meets-the-Sex-Pistols punk-rock live. The tour will start in Washington DC on the first of March and end in New York on the 23rd of May'-"

"Alfred, you know I don't listen to that trash. Get to the point," his brother sighed, trying to focus on the sports section of the paper; the Vancouver Canucks had played the Maple Leaves, he had watched the game of course, but he still wanted to read the overview.

"See if I bail you out after the next hockey match," the American snipped, straightening the newsprint with a flick of his wrists and continuing to read, "'In addition to this, the band has announced that one, and only one, lucky American fan will have the privilege of receiving an all-access backstage pass. Matthew, do you know what this means?"

"That your favourite band read Charlie and the Chocolate Factory way too many times?"

"You're just pissy because your team lost. I could meet the UKR!" Alfred jumped up and down excitedly, alternately fist-pumping and playing air-guitar. Matt sat up and leant over the back of the couch so that he could look at his brother over his spectacles. It was the kind of look that disapproving mothers gave their misbehaving toddlers; the look that made the children fear for their lives.

"Al. Al. Alfred. Alfred! Will you calm down and listen to me? There are hundreds of thousands of UKR fans in the States. There is only one ticket and you are only one person out of legions. You have a one in a million chance of winning a lucky draw. The odds are astronomical."

"One in a million chances happen nine times out of ten," the other sang cheerfully.

"I'm a number-cruncher, Al. You have no chance whatsoever of winning that pass. Go buy yourself a ticket."

"Jesus, Matt. Don't be such a kill-joy," Alfred said, flipping him the bird as he walked to his room singing, "I'm a bad boy, misbehaving; Another soul not worth saving~!"

Matthew shook his head and when back to his article.

~====o)0(o====~

"I put a thousand fathers in the ground; Won't be saved when the saints come 'round. Mother, Father, help me please; Can't see the forest for the trees. Fuck you all to kingdom come; You won't love me when I'm gone! I'm a bad boy, misbehav-"

"I always knew you were an egotist, but singing along to your own music? That's low, even for you, Francis," a black haired man snapped venomously, using a baby wipe to remove the black makeup around his eyes – which despite his efforts remained smudged and determinedly on his face; the exact consistency of semi-congealed pancake batter and superglue.

"Our music, sweetheart," the Frenchman drawled, leaning back and propping his feet up on the arm of the couch he was presently lounging on.

"Piss-poor excuse for music if you ask me."

"You have the artists eye, darling. It's a perfectly adequate piece of music and you are quite capable of writing a catchy jingle. Even if you are an ungrateful, uncultured, unmannered heathen."

"Better an unmannered heathen than a slovenly whore."

Francis quipped, picking up a glossy and flicking through the pages until he got to a two-page spread of two men in black leather, red and blue strobe lights frozen in the act. They were practically copulating on stage; the slightly shorter man - the one now attempting to remove essence of the Lau Brea tar pits from his face – had his leg hooked around the other's hips and his head thrown back in ecstasy, guitar clutched to his chest. The Frenchman twirled the magazine in his fingers to show his companion the spread,

"You weren't objecting last time. Now go wash that shit out of your hair."

"Fuck you," the other said, flashing the French musician his middle finger as he turned to go.

"Only onstage, darling. You know that."

~====o)0(o====~

There was a two week break before the last leg of the tour, mostly to allow the artists to recuperate and partly to let the crew set up for the grand finale without working themselves into the ground.

A blonde man was sitting in a Starbucks, drinking his tea (the bag was non-biodegradable, but it was silk) in sullen silence. He tapped the nib of his mechanical pencil angrily against the staves in front of him. He had the melody down, but he didn't quite have the lyrics. He needed a hook. . . He hated to use them, but that was what sold, unfortunately.

Through the explosions can't you see-

"Hey, Becky!" a voice a couple of hundred decibels above comfortable listening volume assaulted the Englishman's ears, "I need caffeine stat. Today's been a catastrophe."

Catastrophe? That was a distinct possibility, but what could it-?

"Sure thing, Alfred, what's up?" the alleged Becky asked, tipping strong black coffee into a cup. The blonde man strained to listen, keeping his eyes firmly fixed ahead of him.

"There was a big fire up at the chemical plant and we had to get that sorted. I've just finished my third straight shift and I'm wiped."

Through the explosions, can't you see? We're a chemical catastrophe.

The blonde man smirked to himself as he jotted down the words. That was a hook. That was a good hook. That could even be a title. Chemical Catastrophe. There was a definite hit tucked away in there somewhere-

"Hey, man. Sorry to barge in on you like this, but I really need to sit down a minute," the lyrically inclined blonde looked up to see another blonde man sit down on the other side of the dainty glass table.

The stranger had golden blonde hair, a glowing tan and bright, sky-blue eyes that were blinking owlishly behind smudged spectacles. In fact, the man overall was rather grubby looking. He had varying hues of black, brown and grey smeared liberally across his face and forearms – which were bare and well defined. His clothes were in no better shape, and bore signs of having been rolled in dirt.

He stank of smoke.

"I can hardly turn you away now that you've sat down, can I?" the other said. It was most definitely a loaded question.

"Nope- Hey! You're British!"

"And you reek; can we please refrain from pointing out the obvious?"

"Sure. Oh, hey, I forgot to introduce myself; Alfred F Jones. The F is for Fire-fighter," the blue-eyed blonde grinned a Hollywood smile and offered his hand. The other man took it.

"Arthur Kirkland, pleased to meet you," though he quite obviously wasn't.

"Nice to meet you, too, Artie. What instrument do you play?" Alfred smiled sleepily. Arthur frowned, partly in shock and partly because he just hated being called Artie,

"Arthur. Do you start all your conversations like this?"

"You've got sheet music in front of you," the bespectacled blonde said, pointing to the staves which Englishman scrambled to cover, feeling embarrassed and put-on-the-spot. He sighed,

"I play the electric guitar," he admitted grudgingly, shuffling the papers so that a procrastination piece – a gothic remix of Baa-Baa Black Sheep – was on top. It wouldn't do well to have his latest compositions leaked onto the internet by some idiot American who didn't even know who he was dealing with.

"That's awesome, me too! Can't write music for shit though- Whoops, 'scuse my English."

Arthur couldn't hold back a chuckle, "You're excused. But if you had said French, I wouldn't have been able to."

"Hmn? And why not?" Alfred asked, steadily drooping over his half-drunk cup of coffee.

"I have a terrible French acquaintance- Are you alright?" he said as the American snuggled into the pillow he had made with his arms. He looked endearingly childlike, his spectacles half-fallen from his face, his arm pushing his lips into an adorable pout.

Alfred made an affirmative noise, and made a passable attempt at nodding, which mostly ended up as him rubbing his head against his arm like a particularly affectionate cat.

Then he started to snore softly.

Watching his sleeping table-mate warily, he walked up to the cash-register and leaned in, speaking conspiratorially to 'Becky',

"Hello. Er, look, the two of you seemed quite friendly earlier, so I'm going to assume that you're the person to talk to; Alfred has fallen asleep at the table. Is this normal behaviour?"

She giggled and waved a hand at him, "Only when he's been working overtime, which has been a lot lately. You can take him home. Apartment 302, two buildings over. The key is above the door, or his brother will let you in. His room is your second left." The Englishman's formidable eyebrows shot up in surprise,

"What? I don't even know him, I can't take him home! Why did you just tell me his address? I could be a mass murderer for all you know!"

"Alfred is a great judge of character," she said simply, shooing him and turning to the next customer.

Arthur walked back to the table at which the large American was slumped. 185 centimetres tall, well-muscled; this was not going to be easy.

~====o)0(o====~

Arthur Kirkland was no weakling; he was strong and remarkable flexible. But despite his strength, moving a mostly-unconscious fireman who was probably twice his bodyweight in muscle and about ten centimetres taller from point A to point B when point B is up three flights of stairs, was not an easy task.

He lowered Alfred to the (unmade) bed and stood up straight, his hands on his hips, panting lightly, and looked around the messy room.

The walls were plastered with posters. Very familiar posters. Posters with two black haired figures in provocative poses. Posters with a red crest and three letters in stencil script.

U K R

Oh, dear God. He was a fan. Horror sank its icy claws into Arthur's chest. There were UKR t-shirts thrown over chairs, UKR CDs piled next to the battered Walkman. Shaking slightly – he had never really had a brush with the groupies before, although Francis had – he turned to leave, only to let out an embarrassingly high scream.

There, on the back of the door, which had swung shut behind him, was another poster. It was of a man with black hair, thick eyebrows, a nose ring, at least six earrings, studded leather jewellery and a cocky sneer. Celtic green eyes sparkled in a camera flash long since passed, made all the brighter by the excess of artfully smeared eyeliner. He was wearing only a pair of obscenely tight leather trousers, a large, ornate tattoo of a climbing rose up his side and a St George's Cross guitar.

The words King For President were emblazoned in large, red font across the bottom of the poster.

Himself, in all his glory, life-size and laminated.

"Mnhg? 'Rth'r? Wasisit?" Alfred slurred sleepily, face down in his sheets.

"Nothing!" the Englishman squeaked. He slapped himself in the chest, "Nothing, sorry," he repeated, this sudden change in pitch reminiscent of puberty, "Your poster gave me a fright. I thought there was someone else here."

"Mhe? UKR? King fer Prez!" he launched his hand into the air before letting it fall heavily to his side once more, "Mngna get y'coffee tom'ro. Sm time sm place."

Like it? Love it? Dislike it? Want to curse it and its ancestors until the end of time? I want to hear from you!

All lyrics in this chapter are by me (made up band needs made up songs, right?) please don't be mad at me.

~RutheLa