disclaimer: don’t own anyone except my own characters, which are far and few, and none of this ever happened. Tim belongs to Cate, and Pelle belongs to himself…hopefully. For people who know Tim (and Cate’s Strokes fic The State I’m In ) this story runs parallel to it in time and space and Ellie doesn’t exist, and for the people who don’t know Tim or Cate or The State I’m In I must be confusing them quite a bit so I’ll shut up now and get on with the fic. Don’t sue me, I have no money, it’s not worth it

A/N for Er, it still isn’t clear to me if we can post fanfics based on real people or not here. This story is at but I wanted to put it on a… well, a site I thought could appreciate it more than the sex-mongers of the underground But if I’m breaking any site rules by posting this here I’ll take it off immediately and there’s no need to give me like a warning or a strict talking to or anything, okay? Just a simple mistake… hehe… um, yeah… well, carry on and happy reading to you!

Chapter One, Please Do Not Go – Violent Femmes

Tim woke up feeling like aliens had implanted pods into his body and the pods were slowly expanding/hatching as they attempted to take over his body. It was one of those hangovers again. He tried to raise himself, but felt like his skin had stuck to the bed-sheets. He felt very sticky. He raised a hand that felt as if weights were tied to his wrist and touched his hair. It was indeed sticky, and stuck to his forehead, with some stuck to the pillow-case. Fuck, he thought. He helped himself up and out of bed. It was like the height or the movement of blood throughout his limbs hurt his head. He practically crawled to the bathroom. Should he look at himself in the mirror? No. even he was afraid of how shitty he must look. He started a shower running and crawled in. Thinking hurt his brain, but he couldn’t help think about the previous night, or at least what he thought he somewhat remembered. He felt dirty, far too fucking dirty. No matter how much he scrubbed, or how hot the water was, he was never scrubbing hard enough; the water was never hot enough. He couldn’t find a way to wash away the filth. He felt that horrible shame and dirtiness that one feels after that kind of stoic sex that is so mechanical, and you’re so shit-faced and fucked up, that you can’t even come. And to add insult to injury, he couldn’t remember who he’d gone to bed with. The dirt seemed to be beneath his skin.

The shower had done little to help, but at least he was clean now. As he stepped out of the shower, he noticed that he was somewhat falling asleep. He looked at the clock in the bathroom. No wonder he could hardly stand up. It was only ten in the morning. Way before the time he was supposed to wake up, especially after a night where he went to sleep at seven in the morning. He staggered back into the bedroom, his long brown hair dripping wet. He noticed that his bed was awfully small to hold two people who didn’t know who the other was. Though that was certainly selfish of him to believe that the other person, cleverly hidden entirely under the sheets, didn’t know who he was. He slid back into bed besides the Mystery Person, trying in vein to hold down some bile rising in his throat. This kind of abuse was far too harsh on such a sensitive poetic soul as himself. He pouted and batted his eyelashes up at the clock on his bedside table as if it were a camera. A press conference. ‘Yes, you, the tall gentleman in blue,’ he said in his head to the water bottle on his bedside table.

‘Yes, Mr. Abernathy,’ the water bottle said. ‘In what light do you see yourself a performer?’

‘Well, I like to think of myself as a poet with a hint of genius. Rather, a Poetic Pan with a splash of Mozart’s musical genius.’

‘Mr. Abernathy,’ an empty pack of cigarettes said. ‘Can you tell us who you’re in bed with now?’

‘I’m sorry; I can’t answer that question at this time.’

But from then on all the questions were about the same thing, so the game stopped being any fun.

Overcome by boredom and finding it a lot harder than he had expected to fall back to sleep, Tim lit a cigarette. Marlboro Blue. Hardly ever see anyone smoking those these days. It must be the advertising… But he always loved the colour, and what better than to make a cigarette in it? He thought it was brilliant.

He rolled back on to his back and glanced at the sleeping lump next to him, breathing lightly. It would be ten times easier to call his personal assistant, have her drive half way across Manhattan, come into his room and find out who Sleeping Beauty was, than for him to lean over and find out. He couldn’t find the heart to do it. If he had his way, he would just have them disappear off the face of the Earth so he would never have to face up to his embarrassment or ever feel ashamed or guilty or this horrid…dirtiness he felt. He just wanted this sleeping mass to evaporate from his life. Better to run from it than face up to it.

All this thinking was making him extremely dizzy. The room had started spinning. He hated when it did that. Why did it always have to be the whole room? Why couldn’t it just be one thing so he knew not to look at it? With one swift movement – minus the slight gagging he provoked with it – he pulled the sheet over his Companion’s head. Surprised, he pulled the cover off a little farther, and then some more, until the sheet was at their waist. Now that’s very odd. He could have sworn he’d gone to bed with a girl. Oh that’s right! Bullocks! He was going to hook up with that girl. He’d gone to see some talented cover band, had gotten stoned, drunk, then stumbled backstage to talk to the band – he was acquaintances with the drummer – he’d started chatting, or at least the closest version of chatting he could muster when in that state, with a cute short-haired brunette, they’d done a line of something, he’d had more to drink, and that’s pretty much where his memories stopped. Not counting of course the blurry bits he had in between of him throwing up on someone, of going to buy cigarettes at a Seven Eleven, and of being unable to come on account of being so fucked up and not really knowing who he was fucking. He was amazed at the fact that he’d been able to make it back to his flat. Not that he had anything against having sex with guys, but he distinctly didn’t remember ever having met the boy, and was quite pissed at the fact that he hadn’t hooked up with cute brunette.

He decided against waking him. At least someone should get some sleep. He snuffed out his cigarette and dressed. Boringly, in his usual clothes, a blazer over a shirt and a pair of jeans; maybe a scarf to keep out a horrible draft that seemed to be present in the flat, though all the windows were shut. He put on a Doors album in the living-room – not too loud, because you know the alien pods in his head would get upset otherwise – and felt a bit better listening to Hello I Love You. Strange how familiar things that usually make you happy seem so much more pure when you feel like shit. He stayed and listened for a bit, wondering what to do with himself, and Sleeping Beauty in the bedroom. He decided he’d leave, and hope Mystery Man would be gone by the time he got back. That’s always the problem when you bring people back to your flat. Usually you’d just casually sneak out and that would be the end of it, but sneaking out of your own flat, there’s always the fear that they might still be there when you get back. Or even worse: you might forget your keys. He left the stereo on and indeed snuck out of his own flat, making sure his keys were safely in his coat pocket. Now what to do… Coffee seemed like a good idea. But where would he get coffee at this hour? Ten in the morning seemed far too early for anyone to be awake.

To his amazement, quite a few people were up, and he dragged his feeble feeling body into a café on the corner of his street that he’d never seen open before - fuck Starbucks. Damn smoking laws. The coffee helped, made him feel a bit more like a human being and less like an alien pod. A thought crossed his mind and he phoned his personal assistant, Natalie. “Hello?” She answered, sounding cheery and fully energized, to his surprise. What a find, everyone seemed to actually be awake.

“Hi, babe, what’s up?”

“Now this is a novelty. Awake this early, Tim?”

“I know! Isn’t it weird? But listen, I’m starving. Could you make one of those special ‘wow-yummy’ sandwiches of yours?”

There was a pause, then Natalie said, “Tim, go back to bed,” and hung up. Now, Tim thought, that’s no way to treat your boss. But they had that sort of relationship, so it was fair. He struggled to remember the ingredients in her special sandwich but failed. He looked at his watch. Eleven thirty. He wondered if Anonymous was still there. Feeling slightly more energized by the coffee, Tim walked briskly – or at least his version of briskly – back to his flat. Before he opened the door, he pressed his ear against it to see what he could hear. He couldn’t hear anything, which was good news. He opened the door, saw nothing out of the ordinary, sighed, and closed the door. Someone came out from the bedroom, apparently to see what the noise had been. Tim and the young man locked eyes. The boy smiled, politely. He was only wearing a pair of pinstriped trousers. His dark hair was a mess, and he looked as bad as Tim had felt when he first woke up. Other than that, Tim could see why he would have chosen him, though he couldn’t remember ever having met the young man before.

“Sorry, I was just about to leave,” the guy apologized. He had a thick accent. Swedish?

“Oh, it’s no problem,” Tim waved the apology away. The young man smiled again, this time sincere, and the effect was striking. The longer Tim watched him, he soon decided that the ‘young man’ was probably as old as himself, and was pretty charming really. Great eyes too.

Tim was suddenly aware that he was staring, and with that thought he was suddenly aware of the fact that his ‘guest’ was still in his flat, and also that he really wanted one of Natalie’s special sandwiches… if only he could remember how to make one…

The kid cocked his head to one side and grinned somewhat, though it looked like his muscles hurt. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

“Honestly, I could have been raped by seven gorillas dressed as Bugs Bunny and I wouldn’t remember.” Tim laughed somewhat, but then stopped, put down by the fact that Anonymous over there didn’t laugh. How dare he be in his house and not laugh at his jokes!

“I’m Pelle,” he stated matter-of-factly. Tim looked at him blankly.

“Um,” he began, “I’m Tim-“

“-Abernathy,” Pelle finished. “Of course. The master in the flesh.”

Under any other circumstances, Tim would have considered this to be a compliment, and it would have made him beam, but coming from this guy it felt a little more like belittling rather than complimenting.

“Um, thanks, I guess…” Tim sort of made himself fade out, hoping that Pelle would get bored with taking to a wall, would gather the rest of his shit and leave. Sure he was charming, sure he was cute, but Tim’s space was his space, and he really wanted one of those sandwiches… and Pelle wasn’t letting him think!

“You still don’t remember!” Pelle barked a laugh. It hurt Tim’s still rather tender head.

“Sure I do. You’re Pelle.”

“You know The Hives?” It seemed like Pelle was enjoying torturing him. Tim tried in vein to remember the ingredients of the sandwich despite him. It was turkey, lettuce, ketchup, mustard, and… umm… cheese, yeah…

Pelle was still staring at him, green eyes intent, so he guessed he had to answer. “Should I?” Pelle glared and Tim coughed at it. “…Sorry.”

It did sound familiar actually. He might have heard something, or maybe read something… But his head was already hurting again from the strain, so he decided to forget about trying to remember. He messaged his temples.

Obviously offended by this, Pelle glared then swung his longish dark hair back in what seemed like a bit of a fit. “I’ll go get my things.” And he went back into the bedroom to do just that.

Bollocks! Tim thought. Now he’d gone and pissed him off. Not that he really cared, but he didn’t want the guy going around spreading rumours to that he was an asshole, especially if he was in a band too… He would leak to the press that Tim Abernathy was a bisexual, insensitive, twat. When Pelle came out of the bedroom, hugging a pile of clothes and things that belonged to him, Tim stopped him in somewhat of a panic.

“No, hey, listen, man,” he stammered. “Don’t like er-“ This wasn’t coming out right. “Sick around or something. We’ll like, eat sandwiches or something.” Sandwiches…Tim thought dreamily.

Pelle smiled, in that cocky, charming way he does. “I make good sandwiches.”

Score! Tim thought.

After sandwiches – were really good, actually - , Tim was really starting to get uncomfortable. He didn’t want Pelle there, he didn’t want him to think sleeping together had meant anything (God do people take casual sex too serious these days!), and more than anything he was embarrassed that Pelle knew about his horrible ‘incompetence’ – but it only ever happened that one time! – or at least he thought Pelle knew about it… If Tim was lucky, Pelle didn’t remember a thing from the previous night. He definitely looked as if a train had hit him, several times. But either way, it was awkward, sitting there, trying to avoid looking at each other, knowing that neither one of them ever remember meeting the other, not knowing anything about each other. For Tim it was positively nerve-wrecking; though Pelle seemed in pretty good spirits, smiling to himself lots, despite the fact that he didn’t say anything.

“Um, dude?” Tim said at last, a bit more shy and self-conscious than he had intended. Pelle raised an eyebrow. “Not to be rude or anything, but…I mean, would you…?” God damnit, why was this so hard? He didn’t know this dude from Adam, and he was terrified of hurting him. Tim coughed. But Pelle just smiled, strikingly and charmingly as always. Tim admired. Pelle looked like one of those kinds of people who had never been down a day in their life, ever. He just sort of seemed to understand and got up, got his stuff, and left.

Tim thought it would have felt good to finally be alone, to have finally won the battle and gotten Pelle to leave. It didn’t feel bad, it just felt… Empty. In his mind he got a flash of Pelle’s smile and the green of his eyes, but not from right then, it was like a memory that just came back to him from the night before. It was really blurry, and didn’t make much sense, but his heart leapt and he knew it was a memory from the first time he ever saw him, and he really knew then why he’d chosen him. But fuck that, Tim told himself. He’s gone now, it’s what I wanted, now lets leave it at fucking that.

So he shook it from his head and found that Pelle had left half a sandwich. Now to dissect it… He coughed and realized his throat hurt. Probably all the cigarettes and snorting stuff from yesterday. So he decided not to smoke again until four in the afternoon.