To be fair, it’s not like I could expect any less.

Tugging awkwardly at the ponytail I tried to reign my hair into, I slide and shoulder my way into the crowd that’s packed to the door. It takes me a few minutes of getting shoved, pushed, bruised and, in a few interesting cases, groped, but I finally get to the front of the arena. The concert is already in full swing. It’s my own fault for wasting thirty minutes pacing in my hotel room, debating on whether or not to come here at all.

The noise in the front rows is incredible, verging on painful as the speakers clash with the sound of the crowd. Lights strobe on and off psychotically, painting everything in shadows and shades of red. Upturned faces stare at their gods, nearly ecstatic. I shouldn’t have bothered to hide who I am. For tonight, they don’t care. They only have eyes for the band; I’m just a fellow disciple.

The brass instruments moan, broken only by the rising scream of the electric guitar. The crowd rises with it, roaring their appreciation. It eases away as someone draws close to the front of the stage. His shadow falls over me, close enough to touch. I close my eyes.

I will not break down for him. I will not feel for him. That lust has died. I’ve got my control. I will not want him. I will not feel.

“I’m so sorry… please forgive me…” His voice, disjointed and broken and beautiful, rises and falls in a twisted rhythm above the crowd. I look up, and I see him in person for the first time since that night in the studio.

All the numbness in me comes crashing down around my head.

The pain comes back with it, so hot and bitter that I can’t even see. All I get is impressions of him. Pale skin, brutally red hair, jaded eyes, long white fingers, long black shadow. A demon in a battered t-shirt and jeans he pulled out of his hamper this morning.

My knees start to buckle, and I nearly go down. The mohawked boy beside me blinks with junkie eyes when I grab his shoulder to hold myself up. It’s not because I don’t want to fall. I can’t lose sight of him. The need grabs me between sharp teeth and shakes me like a dying rat.

Danny doesn’t know I’m here. Music is the opiate of composers. He grips the microphone like a lover, swaying, strung out. He’s flying high, out of anyone’s reach, higher than usual because he knows this is almost the last time. He’ll overdose on this.

“I am a virus, are you the cure?
I am morally, morally impure…”

Spinning and stalking and claiming his stage with a power that goes beyond frail human flesh, he looks upon his disciples and gives them that grin that wavers between predator and mate. Something burns in his eyes, some white-hot madness, when he takes the microphone in shaking hands and croons his gospel like a dark changling god.

“Do you think you’re better than me?
Do you wanna kill me, or befriend me?”

He’s not human. He can’t be human. God help me.

“I love to take you home with me and tuck you into bed,
I’d love to see what makes you tick inside your pretty head…”

Sweat trickles down his cheek, along the tendons of his throat, until it soaks into the band of his t-shirt. The words slide past his lips like blood.

“I wish I could protect you from the wages of our sin…”

The song crawls higher and higher, faster and faster, driving him, forcing him to fly with it. His voice gets stronger, darker, edged with anger even he couldn't explain. He flings his arms apart, an imitation crucifixion, lost in a religious ecstasy of his own, howling the words out, singing the pain out. It won’t go.

And they worship him for it, their fucked-up frightening Messiah.

The end comes like a shock to him. He staggers, then has to steady himself on the mic stand. For a moment, the power tries to stay. It starts to falter on him, leaving flashes of a tired man that doesn’t have the sense to stop. He grins weakly and manages a steady, “Thank you.”

The next song comes, and the game begins again. Man and madness war in him, through him, as he plays with the crowd and bounces like some kid of twisted child from one end of the stage to the other. I watch in the front rows, fascinated and forgotten.

They go through five more songs, pushing themselves too hard. Danny’s voice is starting to crack, and the bassist’s fingers drip slow blood. The fans are still greedy for more. They won’t be happy until one of their gods drops from exhaustion. I can’t blame them for that. It’s addictive.

Finally, when he can’t hide the fact that he’s starting to sway and they’re running out of good songs to play, Danny manages an apologetic grin and waves to the crowd to settle down. They do; they can see their god is fading. Running a hand through his hair, Danny playfully flicks the sweat at the crowd and grabs the microphone in trembling hands to begin his goodbyes for the night.

The memory of why I came hits me like a slap, jerking me rudely out of my daze. Shaking my head, I start pushing my way back to the doors. I need to get backstage.

I get to the mercifully quiet lobby while the pleas for an encore are still ringing out through the doors. Yanking out the ponytail holder and shaking my hair back into its usual disarray, I flash my pass at the security guards. They don’t even blink before showing me through.

It doesn’t surprise me that the backstage is cold and only half-lit. It feels intimate and claustrophobic, somehow both at once. I lean against the wall, feeling awkward and distinctly out of place, and stare pointedly at the floor.

The rest of the band wind their way back, some of them giving me a friendly whack on the arm more out of adreniline than anything else. As they pass, I can hear a loud debate about whether or not to go drinking after this again. A discarded shirt flies past me just as someone accuses them all of being old.

Danny comes back last. He lost his shirt somewhere. There’s a towel slung over his head, blocking his vision while he roughly rubs his sweaty hair dry. He stops just short of walking past me and says, his voice shot from three hours of singing and muffled by the towel, “Be with you in a second.”

“You knew I was there.” I'd like to pretend to be surprised.

“I’m not blind. Unfortunately. Would’ve saved me from a few flashers.” Raising his head, he looks at me. His january eyes slice through so cleanly that it takes a minute for the pain to catch up to me. “Long time, no see, Tim.”

“Two years.” I hold up the backstage pass, feeling my expression stiffen under the weight of his emotionless stare. “Why the sudden invitation?”

With a shake of his head, he turns away and addresses the water cooler. “I didn’t send that.”

“So who did?”

“My agent. Said he was tired of hearing me bitch about working for bad directors.” Tossing the towel at a passing roadie, he adds without looking at me, “I thought about firing him for that one.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No. I didn’t.” With the towel gone, he’s out of distractions. He’s never been one for subtlety anyway. Crossing his arms over his chest, he looks up at me through narrowed eyes. I wait for the razor-edged and profanity-laced rant that’s been building up for the last two years. All I get is silence. It hurts worse, deeper somehow. It's a nasty shock, considering that I’ve been numb for the last two years. Finally, huffing out a breath, he says simply, flatly, “I saw Ed Wood.”

I blink, surprised for the first time in a long while. “You did.” When he nods, watching me with a stony look that would make anyone else back up out of striking range, I ask, “What’d you think?”

He shrugs. “Not bad.”

The vise in my chest starts to slowly relax, letting me breathe. It shows in my voice when I reply, “The score could’ve been better.”

Danny doesn’t miss a beat. “Oh, much. I just wanted you to say it.”

“Was that my apology?”

I don’t notice the familiarity in his smirk until it’s gone again. “No. It’s not.”

No one said I was a patient man. I can feel the anger flaring up when he turns his back on me. It makes me follow him to the dressing room when whatever semblance of sense I have tells me to call his bluff and find myself a new composer. “It was a mistake.”

He snorts. I want to believe that his voice is shaky. “You’re fucking right it was.”

“It won’t happen again.”

“Because we’re not working together again,” he informs me sweetly over his shoulder, and grabs the doorknob. Discussion over.

I don’t think so.

My hand slams down on the door, pushing it shut. Anybody else would be intimidated, or at least decently unnerved. Danny just turns around and gives me a dangerous look from under his eyelashes. It’s a warning I ignore. “I want you to compose for me again.”

“So?”

The word staggers me. I stare at him, my world starting to tilt. “What?”

Biting off each word with sharp white teeth, Danny tears me to pieces. “You want me to come back. I don’t want to go. You’re not going to get everything you want, Tim. I’m not going to lick your boots and suck your cock just because you’re the hottest fucking director in the country." Leaning forward until I could almost touch him without reaching, he grants me a nasty smirk and almost purrs, "You think you've got a good angle going here, don't you? Sweet, innocent little childlike director. You've got control over half of LA and the poor bastards don't even know it. The only reason you came here tonight is because you think that includes me. But you can’t control me. Not like that.”

My mouth opens, then shuts. I can’t speak past the feeling of something fracturing in my stomach. Danny very slowly smirks, twisting the knife, then pointedly gives me his back and starts to open the door.

“Danny…” His name tastes like ashes in my mouth.

“Fuck off.”

“I need you.” The desperation in my own voice makes me shudder, feeling like something slit me open and everything disgusting in me spilled out on to the floor. I feel cold.

He stops.

Looking at me over his shoulder, he quirks one eyebrow, considering me. “Tell me you meant for your movie,” he says finally, and it's not a request.

“Of course.” And the little demons scream in my head.

Another second-long eternity, then he sighs. “What movie?”

“Huh?” His lips quirk, just a little, and I feel redeemed. What the fuck is wrong with me? Shaking it off, I tilt my chin up and try to gather up the scraps of my dignity. “Mars Attacks.”

“Hn.” Tilting his head back and forth, he closes his eyes and considers that. He's so pale I can see his veins through his skin. It distracts me so much that I nearly miss his answer. “Fine.”

“You… what?”

“I’ll do it. I’ve got nothing else much scheduled anyway.” He opens his eyes and adds, “You owe me.”

“I owe you my soul.”

“You already sold that to get out of Disney.”

“Oh, right.” The smile catches me by surprise. It feels out of place after so long. “Thank you.”

He shrugs, uncomfortable, and looks away. The silence stretches on between us, nothing like the easy quiet we had before I... well. Before.

Without thinking, tentatively, I start to move away. I can feel something start to change, like wind bringing in the scent of a kill. I should go before he changes his mind. "I'll call you," I begin, and then can't stop. "It won't start production for a while yet, maybe a year, but I'll get in touch with you so you can see the set and-"

He tilts his head, looking at me oddly. I can see something wild and not entirely human building behind his eyes with each disjointed word, but before I can make myself stop, he moves. Before I can stagger back, he’s in my personal space, close but not quite touching. I can feel his heat, smell his sweat. He’s just tall enough that his cheek can rest against mine, soft and rough, and his breath slides across my ear. I freeze; I can’t help it. There’s a wolf at my throat.

His head tilts against mine, very very slightly, for just a second. My knees threaten to buckle out from under me. He growls something softly, but it’s lost in the backstage noises.

And he bites my shoulder, hard enough to pierce the skin.

The strangled noise jerks out of my throat. I’m not sure if it’s pleasure or pain. I end up kneeling either way. He looks down at me, my blood dotted on his lips, and keeps his eyes on mine as he licks it slowly away. It wasn't a lot of blood, but it was enough to make his point. With impersonal animal eyes locked on mine, he says simply, “We’re even.”

The door slams shut on me. I can feel the blood sliding down, the bruises forming around it, and I want to follow him through. I want to crawl to him.

God help me.