December of 1974, London.

A small, but tightly packed club is holding a concert - a tribute to the "Death of Glitter," as they call it. The end of an era, the end of glam rock. It isn't really the end, though; it may be fading from the public eye, but there are still plenty of people who appreciate the music, the musicians, the crowd, the aesthetic of it all. The publicity of glam rock might be waning for now, but there are still many people who, though they might not look it anymore, could be sucked back into that feeling, that mindset, if they only just put on a record, a favourite from the early '70s. Not the first show they’ve done like this, anyway; not the first that he’s been involved in, either. Must mean something in the scene is still hanging on, right?

Still, Curt’s shaking, a cigarette held tight between his lips and his thumbs are stuck in his belt loops, pressing, tugging them down some unintentionally, though they don't fall farther than his hipbones and he might be thankful for that if he could think straight.

He moves a hand away from his belt loops, takes a long drag off his cigarette, and exhales. Eyes with heavily-dilated pupils watch the smoke curl up and disappear into the stars and he sometimes wishes he could follow it. Maybe he would, one day.

A woman touches his shoulder, breaking any thoughts he'd had, and guides him back inside the venue, out of the chill night air, hiding the stars and replacing them with the neon glow of bar signs and the harsh, bright stage lights. He just follows, glad he's got a distraction.The woman is his friend, Mandy. He's known her for a few years, not too many, but they've gotten much closer recently than they had been before. She used to be his wife; not Curt’s, but the man who's had Curt’s head all fucked up for what seemed like ages now. He's got her head all fucked up, too, and she and Curt are just happy that they can deal with that together.

The set that's on is almost over and soon enough they're packing up the gear that he won't lead and heading off so they can enjoy the sets to follow. Curt’s on next, and he's glad for it. Music can take him out of a bad headspace, can give him some relief, can let him vent, depending on what he's singing.

He shrugs off his jacket and hands it to Mandy, asking her to set it aside, which she does as he steps out on the stage, sauntering up to the microphone, his hips swaying, silver pants glinting under the stage lights. The band starts up once they're in place, and his hand is on the microphone. Something is strange about his stage presence tonight, but it doesn't affect his singing; it doesn't affect the crowd's reaction to it, either. He lets him lose himself in the words and in the movements, the energy and the hot lights making beads of sweat pool on his forehead, chest, and lower back.

His eyes are scanning the crowd, somewhat, barely. He catches a flicker of light in a high window, nestled among the stars outside, but he doesn’t let it distract him.

The show is over before he realizes it, and soon enough he’s said goodbye to Mandy and grabbed his jacket and made his way back outside, a lit cigarette stuck loosely between chapped lips. He was aiming on going home, but even with the chill of the wind biting into his skin, bare beneath his jacket, he kept walking, eventually finding himself standing in Regent’s Park. His head tilted to the sky,  Curt collapsed to the ground, somewhat tired, and laid back in the grass, his eyes fixed on the stars hanging in the dark sky overhead, occasionally catching a glimpse of a funny looking airplane, with its interspersed blips of light, making its way across the cosmos.