A/N: Not a real magazine cover. Just one I made up, so don’t go lookin for it👇

Mr. & Mrs. Fletcher

“Didn’t peg ya for a Cosmo reader.” she exclaimed halfway through the interview, noticing the magazine lying on the floor next to the pile of David Bowie and Queen albums. He grunted in reply, picking at the strings of his electric guitar. “Wow! They make a cute couple, eh? She’s lucky to be married to such a handsome bloke! An’ he’s a billionaire too! ” she exclaimed in awe and jealousy, picking it up to examine the cover photo of the Celebrity couple of the year 2008- Thomas and Sylvia Fletcher. “Oi! Quit touching my stuff! ” he snapped all of a sudden, putting aside his guitar before snatching the magazine from her hand and tossing it away. “S…sorry.” she stuttered apologetically, taken aback by his outburst. “Now, are ya done with yer interview? Jotted down the names o’ all the monuments I pissed on, about the booze-up I had with Bon Jovi? ” he asked, impatiently. “Yup. I’ve got a ton o’ material. The fans are gonna eat this up! ” she replied, proudly. “Good. Now, get out! ” he ordered. “But…I’ve still got to ask ya how ya began yer musical journey? Who inspired ya? Ya must’ve had a muse. ” she began to ask. “Bugger off! Come back tomorrow or somethin. I’ve got far more important things to do. I’m meetin someone.” he revealed, showing her the door. “Is it Bon Jovi? ” she prodded further. He shot her an irate look. “Alright, alright…I’m leavin. No need to shoot daggers at me! ” she muttered, leaving with a frown. He shut the door behind her, before proceeding to pick up the fallen magazine. “Why’d ya have to go an’ marry im, Sylvie? ” the sorrowful rock star whispered, sighing as he ran a finger over gorgeous Sylvia Fletcher’s glossy photo. “She left early, didn’t she? ” he heard Mick’s enquiring voice behind him. “Who? ” he asked, absent-mindedly. “The journalist. I heard ya snap. What’d she do? ” Mick asked. “She started askin me personal questions.” he replied. “An’ ya withdrew into yer shell again, did ya? ” Mick guessed. “Speakin o’  shells, we’ve got leftover taco shells in the freezer. Any beans left o’er? ” he tried to change the subject. “You’ve gotta talk to someone about this.” his concerned manager suggested. “I don’t need help. I’m not a loon, ya crow. Now, if you’ll excuse me…I need a smoke.” he excused himself through gritted teeth, letting the magazine drop to the floor before reaching into his back pocket to pull out a pack of cigarettes. “Not sayin ya are a loon…or barmy or completely mental, for that matter…” Mick began to explain, but instead ended up hurling insults at him. “Where’re ya goin with this, crow?” the impatient rock star interrupted, lighting the cigarette in his mouth. “Just that, yer still heartbroken an’ not o’er er yet.” he finally came to the point. “If yer not gonna have a smoke with me, ya can bugger off! ” came the order from the agitated rock star. Mick sighed, shaking his head in exasperation as he exited the bus, leaving behind the lonely rock star who slumped back onto his throne chair and turned his attention back to his beloved guitar, smoking and strumming away.

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