Summary: When Alfred F. Jones ends up with a series of rather unflattering snapshots of rising star Arthur Kirkland, the actor will do anything to keep the pictures from going public. And yes, he will do anything. After all, he's shooting a film that could very well get him an Oscar. It's not exactly a great time to take a hit to the ol' public image.

Alfred, on the other hand, is searching for his big break into the art photography world; therefore, he is all too glad to take Arthur up on his offer. The camera loves the guy, so why not make him the subject of a shoot? Alfred won't stand for any fanfare, of course— no massive cameras, green screens, Photoshop. Acting has no right to be near Alfred's camera.

The problem, therein, lies in getting Arthur to open up. Despite what magic he can create onscreen, he's so repressed that his feelings probably drowned in the booze a while ago (along with his liver). Alfred isn't much better.

Booze and photographs are now beyond hiding them. Their lives are twisted together and tied firmly in a knot, and it's their decision where they go next.

A/N: Thanks for picking up this little tale! A warning before you go on, though; in this story, there will be language, incredible amounts of gay, language, angst, language, sadness, language, fluff that will make your nose bleed, and language. Hope I remembered to mention language.

If these things offend you, I wouldn't recommend that you continue reading. If not, I hope you enjoy!

Many people hate their jobs, but few despise them with as much passion as Alfred Franklin Jones.

Alfred has what you would call an all-American charm. He's tall, solidly built, straw-blonde, with a streamlined Roman nose and wire-framed glasses; behind them, eyes as blue as the sky above the mountains. He's a walking folk song.

However, Alfred realized too late that a degree in photography wouldn't help him in real life unless he actually became a photographer. A year after college, Mister Jones became a cynical, jaded motherfucker like everyone else on the planet.

It was also when he picked up smoking.

He sucks on a cigarette now as he crouches at the back door of a classy bar. This isn't a good night to be sitting in some back alley; his bomber jacket (the real deal, it was his granddad's in the Second World War), warm as it is, isn't up to the task of shielding him from New England weather.

How hard could being a paparazzo be, anyway? he had foolishly thought three months ago. He was good with a camera- really good- and he and his brother needed the money. Too bad Boston was a sucky place to find celebrities, and when stars actually decide to show up, Alfred has trouble, you know, actually taking pictures of them.

Long story short, he's still poor.

Balancing the cigarette between his lips, Alfred fiddles with the settings on the camera hanging around his neck. It's a reliable hunk of black plastic he's had for years. Even if he could afford a new camera, he doesn't think he would buy one.

Goddamn it is cold out.

Alfred hadn't even wanted to come to Boston. A spur-of-the-moment cross-country road trip to visit Mom with his twin brother had turned into a my-car-broke-down-in-Connecticut-and-we-can't-afford-repairs-guess-we're-stuck-in-New-England road trip. Alfred missed Los Angeles desperately. It was warm there, for one, and he didn't even mind the smog. Maybe he even longed for it. My lungs are used to the abuse, he laughs inwardly, and takes another pull from his cigarette.

Alfred had started to actually look for a real job— God forbid— when he heard about some big-budget movie filming on-location in Boston. And, as luck would have it, the lead actor was none other than Arthur Kirkland, "Hottest Actor of _Insert Anything Here_."

After a career of obscurity as a small-time character actor, the guy had suddenly sprung into every leading role imaginable, all in the past year and a half. He was said to be the ultimate gentleman, the biggest class act of Hollywood, a throwback to the Golden Age of film with a screaming fanbase a mile wide.

Alfred can hear the screaming fanbase now, in fact, even from behind the building. "Arthur, Arthur!" they chant, squealing delightedly. He can imagine their uniforms, the army-fatigue green T-shirts emblazoned with a giant black 3 KIRKLAND, or something equally stupid.

Alfred complains to no one, "Just let the man enjoy his dinner," smoke flying haphazardly out of his mouth and into the wind. But then he remembers that he's just as bad as them when it comes to the disruption of celebrity lives, so he shuts up.

He hears the clicking of cameras, now, too. Boston is usually quiet, but suddenly paparazzi are springing up out of nowhere in search of a good shot of the British star. Just to think, Alfred could have had a chance for once.

At least the others hadn't found the back entrance. Alfred guessed that Kirkland wouldn't want to brave the crowds when he left- some actors went so far as to use body doubles to distract fans- and he might use the back door instead. In that case, he could steal a shot or two and then run as fast as possible before the bodyguards caught up to him.

For even a bad photo, he might make enough money to buy the good cereal, not the store brand that tastes like absolute shit.

Not that Alfred knows what shit tastes like. Figure of speech.

The cigarette burns to the end. Sighing out one last puff, he throws the stub into a puddle. It's starting to rain now, heavily, and Alfred's glad for the awning above his head, keeping him mostly dry. Rain has always been comforting to him. Rain comes and goes but it always makes the same sound, that pitter-patter that combines with the city noises to make urban music.

Urban Music. Good name for a band.

Alfred's too busy thinking about how great his band Urban Music would be if it existed that he almost doesn't notice when the back door opens. When he does, he shoots to his feet, camera at the ready.

Is it Kirkland?

No, it can't be— there's no bodyguards or anything, and the guy is swaying sort of dangerously, like he's had too much to drink. Not Arthur Kirkland, the gentleman to end all gentlemen.

The guy falls face-first into a puddle with not so much as a moan. He's definitely had too much to drink.

But… no, it has to be Kirkland. The back door is closed now, but in the flash of light from inside the building, Alfred had seen the trademark dirty-blonde hair and high cheekbones, the narrow green eyes and strong jaw line. It's the same face he had seen on countless movie posters.

Dude is obviously wasted, based on the fact that he iss currently snoring in a mucky puddle behind a bar. This is not the polite, genteel actor the newspapers speak so highly of. His suit is rumpled and open, his tie soaking in the filth.

The tie alone had probably cost more than Alfred made in a week.

For once in his life, Alfred isn't really sure what to do. Usually, to fix a situation, he rattles off a joke, adds a crude gesture, everyone laughs, tension = dissipated. People tell him that he should do stand-up, but Alfred doesn't like the thought of that; he can't sit down and write jokes. It takes away the thrill of thinking one up right there and then, and what fun is telling the same old joke every night, anyway? Besides, sitting down and doing something doesn't agree with him.

It finally occurs to Alfred that maybe he should move the guy, so he doesn't drown or something. Can you even drown in a puddle? Supposing that it should be the last thing on his mind, and being careful not to get his camera wet, he leans over and pulls the actor out of the muck. They guy is still fast asleep, and snoring like a baby.

If the baby was hammered, that is.

Kirkland looks like shit, but at least he's out of the puddle.

The girls out front are still chanting. Alfred wonders what they would do if they saw their hero like this. Would they hate him for it, or would it change his persona from the gentleman to the mysterious bad boy?

It was always hard to tell, with Hollywood.

Like a brick to the forehead, something very important abruptly occurs to Alfred Jones. A very famous man, that he has been waiting hours for, is now laying in front of him, passed out drunk. A very scandalous position.

Isn't that the kind of thing the paparazzi are supposed to look out for?

But… it doesn't seem… right.

I mean, the guy's just laying there. Totally at my mercy.

Kirkland mumbles something and goes back to drunken dreamland. He smells like whiskey and tobacco, which makes Alfred really want another smoke.

His camera's never felt heavier.

I mean, the rent is due… like, three weeks ago.

He needs it more than this guy does. Kirkland's probably a bajillionaire.

God dammit.

He has to be the biggest pussy on the planet.

Alfred isn't heartless enough for this paparazzo shit. Maybe it's time to end this chapter in his career.

Hoping that this doesn't count as a kidnapping, Alfred grabs Kirkland (Jesus Christ, he's heavy) and drapes the actor's arm over his shoulder. Prodding him into some semblance of wakefulness, he manages to get the groaning, rambling man to stumble along.

Fuck you, Alfred, he thinks bitterly to himself. You always have to be the hero.

Arthur Kirkland is suddenly becoming very vocal, apparently unaware of his surroundings. He doesn't seem to care that the man helping him along is a complete stranger, so he begins to spew an incoherent life story.

Alfred tries to get him to shut up a bit as they try to sneak away through the alleys— the sounds of the girls (and probably some guys, in that crowd) are fading now— but the guy just won't stop talking. His voice is rough and hoarse, like he's been ranting like thid all night.

"I'ss no' worth it," he moans, his words obscured beneath slurring and his accent, which is thickened by the booze. His tone, usually so refined on screen, has diminished into the "oi guv'nor" speak you see on TV. This would be funny, Alfred thinks, if it wasn't so fucking bizarre. A paparazzo, ignoring what would be a massive scandal, helping an A-list movie star back to his apartment to sleep off some booze.

Christ on a cracker, he's bringing international movie star Arthur Kirkland back to his apartment. What the fuck is wrong with me?

"You hear th', tha', th' screamin', mate? The little birdies out front? Mate, I dun' even like birdies, no' mos' o' th' time. Like, i'ss not worth. Worth. Worth." Kirkland giggles a little. "Cannae even remember!" he screams, in a Scottish brogue.

"Yeah, yeah," Alfred grumbles. "Just concentrate on walking, a'ight, buddy?"

"Me brother talks like this," he says, almost growling, his voice is so low. "And- ha!- my sis, sis, sister—" switching to a high, womanly Irish— "both my sisters, yeah? They talk like this! UP and down and UP and down…"

Alfred Jones, in all his twenty-three years, has never seen someone so smashed. And that counts himself, because Alfred is no stranger to alcohol. He's rather proud of his reputation of being able to drink anybody under the table. Just don't tell his brother. Matt is a worrier, Mom would always say.

Ooh, thoughts of Mom. Not good. Thoughts of Mom always led to drinking more than is good for him. But at least he had some discretion when it came to knocking back a few, unlike Kirkland here.

Well, no, he shouldn't judge! He knows nothing about the guy. For all he knows, Arthur Kirkland could be suffering. He has a few mansions to suffer in, Alfred bets. Maybe even a Lamborghini or two, so he can drive and be depressed at the same time.

Okay, this is impossible. There is no way that he can get all the way home with the man in such a state.

Sighing, Alfred takes his cell phone out of his pocket, hoisting the slouching Kirkland up with his shoulder. He's a bipolar drunk, apparently, because now he's all quiet and angry, muttering curses under his breath. But at least he's stopped with the accents.

Number one on speed dial. Alfred presses the ancient phone against his ear (it's a flip phone, who even has those anymore?), anxiously listening to the ring. He sets Arthur down against the wall on the left side.

Answer tone. Shit fuck motherfucker goddamn shit. He hangs up, not bothering to leave a message, and calls again.

This time, it picks up on the third ring. Sighing with relief, Alfred cries, "Matt!"

There's a frustrated noise from the other end. "Christ, Al, I'm working!"

"Yeah, yeah, I know!"

"And you should be, too!"

Alfred pulls at the collar of his T-shirt, which is suddenly tight. "Well, Mattie boy, that's just the thing."

Silence, for a moment. "Oh my God. What have you done?"

"Nothing bad," laughs Alfred nervously. Kirkland's sleeping again, his head lolling against his disheveled, muck-covered shoulder. The light from a streetlamp leaks into this corner of the alley; the filthy actor looks like just another Boston street bum.

It occurs to Alfred that Kirkland doesn't have anything on to protect him from the rain. Pulling the phone away from his ear for a second, Alfred pulls off his own bomber jacket and drapes it over him.

"If you don't tell me what's going on right now, Al, I swear I'll—"

"Well, I found him. Kirkland, that is."

"W—what? Awesome! Man, that is great! Did you get the picture?"

Alfred runs one hand through his hair. Matt is laughing, celebrating, and Alfred feels like a bit of a dick for having to crush his hopes like this. "No."

"Well, why the hell not?"

Alfred sighs heavily. "Because he's so fucking drunk that he can't even keep his eyes open. He stumbled out the back door and passed out, and I was scared to just… leave him there. You don't do that to people," he says with conviction. "Can you bring your cab 'round so we can take him home?"

"You know where he lives?"

"No. Our home."

"I don't think I heard you right there, Al."

"We're taking him back to our place," Alfred repeats, much louder this time.

Matthew laughs bitterly and says, "Oh, shit, man. I am going to kill you, Al. This isn't funny! I can't believe I actually believed you!"

Alfred wishes he hadn't given his jacket away; he tries to rub some circulation back into his arms. No dice; he's still freezing. "Dude, I swear to God, I am not kidding."

Quiet again. "Wow. Oh God, wow."

The rain is coming down harder than ever. If Kirkland didn't look so peaceful, Alfred would have taken his jacket back.

"Al, we can't kidnap a famous actor."

"It's not kidnapping!" protests Alfred. "You can't see him, Matt. This guy is… man, I... well." English Language, why hast thou forsaken me? "I guess I've just never seen anyone more wasted," he finishes lamely.

"If…" Matthew sighs. "Alfred, If I get caught for this, I'll get fired. A personal errand on company time... We're poor enough as it is."

Alfred grins hugely. "I knew I could count on you, bro!"

"I haven't agreed yet, you fuckwad!"

"I'm in the alley between the deli and that really trashy sex shop, right? You know the place. See you soon!"

"Al—"

Alfred Jones hangs up on his twin brother, and doesn't even feel guilty. I'm just that badass.

The Badass sits and waits, sitting against the wall across from the snoring actor. And not little dainty grunts, either; they're massive shaking snores that could probably break windows.

Alfred doesn't know how Matthew made it there so fast. Maybe he was drawn by the sound?

"Get in, bitch," Matt shouts from the window of his cab. "The meter's running."

"Yeah, yeah," Alfred sighs, and picks Kirkland up by the armpits, carefully draping the bomber jacket over the actor's face (he didn't want anyone recognizing him, okay?) and dragging him not-so delicately out to the sidewalk. Opening the back door of his brother's cab, he throws Kirkland unceremoniously onto the seat.

Alfred himself hops in and slams the door, shoving Kirkland's legs out of the way, not bothering with a seatbelt. "Yo, chauffer! Drive!" Alfred commands.

His brother replies with a weary "Shut up."

Yeah, they're twins, but they are as fraternal as they come. Matthew's taller (which is an accomplishment, with Alfred being 6"1') and chubbier. Alfred's the leaner one, more muscled, much to Matthew's chagrin. Their eyes are blue, but Matthew's have an indigo tint that bright-blue-eyed Alfred has always been secretly jealous of.

"I can't believe I have Arthur motherfucking Kirkland in the back of my cab," Matthew laughs, running a hand through his hair. His is so blonde that it's almost white— long, light, and curly, reaching all the way down to is jaw, unlike Alfred's neat cut. Well, neat except for that one cowlick that cannot be tamed by any hair product known to Man.

Alfred smiles tiredly. "I can't quite believe it either, Matt. What time is it?"

"A little past midnight. You were out there for a long time, weren't you?"

Alfred tries to rest his hands on his chest, but finds his camera there. He had almost forgotten about it. "Four fucking hours, dude, and I didn't have the guts to take the picture," he sighs. "The perfect photo op, too. I bet you wanna punch me."

"No," the Canadian demurs, "I don't. I knew you would have too much of a conscience to do the paparazzo thing."

"I haven't taken one picture in three months, Mattie."

"Mm."

"So I've been unemployed this whole time, huh?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

"Why'd you let me be such an idiot?"

"It's sort of funny, to watch you run around like that," Matt laughs. "Really, Al? Celeb chasing in Boston?" Alfred can see his brother's wicked smile in the rearview mirror.

"Go suck a dick," Alfred says lovingly.

"Sorry, I thought you were the fag of the family?"

Alfred scoffs, "Oh, very funny, brother."

"Yeah, I thought so, too." He runs a red light with the driving skill of a native Massachusettsian. It's impressive, for a boy from Montreal.

Kirkland is still snoring, but at least it's muffled by the jacket, which is still over his face.

They're home in about half an hour, which is pretty good for Boston traffic. Matt knows all the best ways to break traffic laws; it's what makes him such a good cabbie. "Get out and take our famous guest with you," Matt orders. "My shift ends in—" he checks the dashboard clock— "three hours, so I'll be home then."

"Right." Alfred opens the door and shakes the actor awake.

"Piss off," Kirkland groans.

Matthew bursts out laughing. "The gentleman of Hollywood, indeed," he snorts.

Al grins. Saying his goodbyes, he promises that he won't do anything stupid and waves Matt off. He watches his brother drive away before he slings Kirkland's arm over his shoulders once again and enters the building. It's a shitty place, to be sure, but the rent isn't that bad, and the landlady is too stoned most of the time to care if it's late.

His and Matt's apartment is on the top floor, and since the elevator has been broken since 1957, Alfred must somehow find a way to get Kirkland up the stairs. The actor does not seem keen on cooperating, so Alfred does what seems most logical: he sweeps an arm under Kirkland's knees, keeping one arm behind his shoulders, and lifts him bride-style up the three flights, which is quite a feat. The guy is only an inch or two shorter than Alfred himself, and Alfred's arms are stretched and straining rather uncomfortably.

He realizes what this must look like. The jacket had fallen off of Kirkland's face long ago and was now pooled in a grimy pile on his chest. He was up for recognition by anybody.

Thankfully, no doors slam open in excitement at a movie star being carried through the building. They make it into Alfred's apartment with no incidents.

Cursing in the dark, Alfred struggles over to the couch, which is in the same room as the kitchen, the TV room, and the bedroom. He dumps Kirkland on the couch with as little daintiness as he did in the taxi, and then stumbles over to pull at the cord that would turn on the lights.

The room is tiny, crowded, and badly lit, but it is clean,because if the brothers have nothing else, they have their dignity.

Alfred isn't sure what to do with himself, and it's unnerving. He busies himself if the kitchen, washing dishes and wiping down counters. Around two AM, he makes himself some instant ramen and washes those dishes, too.

A thought keeps nagging at him, though: he never got a picture. Sure, he was done with the paparazzo thing, which had been stupid in the first place. But looking at Kirkland— jeez, even when sleeping off booze and covered in city grime, the man was imminently photographable. That old thrill wells up inside him, when he really wants to capture something and keep the image forever. Faces like that could get me into a gallery, he thinks idly.

Oh.

Maybe—

Um.

No, he already said he wouldn't.

But…

It wouldn't, like, be for a tabloid or whatever.

Just a… camera test.

Yeah.

Alfred had shown extreme promise, his professors had always said. He'd stopped believing them a while ago.

But look, suddenly there's a face all cameras love, snoring away on his goddamn couch. It would be unexpected, totally candid.

Just one shot, if he could get just one shot.

The spark of an idea, the first one in a year, flares deep in Alfred's mind. He grabs hold of it, clutches it like a life preserver to a man drowning.

If only…

Alfred grips his camera, hands shaking but ready. Creeping over to the couch, he squats down, camera lens almost directly in the sleeping actor's face.

One press of a button suddenly seems more important than it should be. It feels like he's on a cliff or something, and he can choose to either step back or jump like a fucking madman.

Like all good artists, Alfred chooses the latter.

There's a blinding flash, and the picture appears on the screen, instantly. It came out really good; Kirkland's mouth is slightly open, eyes closed. Even though he's drooling a little, and his face is still covered in filth, he looks strangely peaceful.

Alfred grins at it until he feels a hand gripping his neck.

"Wha—" he croaks, and Kirkland throws him to the ground. Alfred's head smacks rather painfully against the edge of the cheap coffee table. It flips over, unwashed mugs and coasters flying everywhere.

"Who the hell are you and where am I?" the actor cries as he leaps to his feet. He's still a little drunk; it's obvious in the way he still is slurring, swaying a little, but at least he's done with the complaining, incoherence, and accents.

Alfred carefully rights the card table, picks up the fallen items, and pulls his camera off of his neck. He puts it on top of the small TV.

"Did— did you just photograph me?"

"Yeah," Alfred admits sheepishly.

After looking dumbfounded for a moment, the actor laughs hysterically, wiping his hand down his face. "Holy hell. I've been kidnapped by a crazy paparazzo."

"Not kidnapped!" Alfred protests. "Rescued. You were out cold on the street, man. I only brought you home!" He's getting angry now. Jesus, performing a random act of kindness gets you nothing but shit these days.

But Kirkland flops back down, abruptly drained of all anger. "I was out cold," he repeats flatly.

Alfred simply says "Yup."

"You didn't deny that you're a paparazzo."

"I am. Well, I was."

"'Was'?"

"I quit. Tonight, actually. Two hours ago, give or take."

The actor laughs a little, very lightly, like he thinks this whole thing is one big, bad dream; like he's fallen down the rabbit hole and he'll wake up under a tree in a few hours time, safe and sound. Maybe there'll even be a moral.

"Your name is?" Kirkland asks curtly.

"Alfred F. Jones. 'F' stands for Franklin, after the fat Founding Father with syphilis."

Well, that went right over his head. What's that saying, about awkward silences?

"Really," Kirkland says uncomfortably.

"I prefer Al, as you would probably guess."

"Of course you do." The actor rubs his eyes.

Oh, that's the saying. Silence so thick you could cut it with a knife. "I can take you back to wherever you're staying in the morning," Al offers.

Silence.

"You want something to eat? Or whatever. 'Cause I can whip something up."

Alfred is aware that he's rambling, but if this quiet goes on much longer he might lose his mind.

Kirkland rubs his eyes. "What— no. No, thank you."

Al can almost admire this guy for his— what's it called? Oh, yeah. Grace under pressure.

"I will do anything for you not to release that photograph you took," Kirkland says gravely.

Alfred can feel his eyebrows raise. "I wasn't—"

"This is not a good time for my reputation to take a hit, you understand." The actor smoothes his eyebrows with the heel of his palm, deftly, like he does it often. He's self-conscious about it, isn't he?

All Alfred can think is, What does a man with everything have to be self-conscious about?

"I am working on a very large film. One that could potentially get me in with the Academy, so I would like to remain publicly untarnished for a time." The actor stares at Alfred, his green eyes bright even past a haze of booze. "I will do anything to keep those pictures private, Mr. Jones."

He promptly turns over and goes back to sleep, before Alfred can even open his mouth.

Anything, Alfred thinks, his heart pounding. He hadn't planned on releasing the picture anyway, but, well, the actor's offer was too good to pass up on. The idea fermenting in his brain burst open in a flow of infinite possibilities.

Possibilities. Getting his photography out there, for one. Money. Recognition. A dream career.

The key to that dream career is snoring gracelessly on his couch.

Alfred grins. Maybe being the hero had worked out, for once.

A/N: Thanks so much for taking the time to read this! Feedback = love, so if you have the time, please review and tell me what you think. I can't wait to explore these characters more. In fact, the next chapter will most likely be from Arthur's point of view! Hope you stick around for it!