art thou feeling it, mr. krabs?

When Mickey asked about slices, Maverick hesitated, then finally spoke. “Two…I guess,” he said, but didn’t sound all that focused on the food. His eyes flicked toward his brother instead, lingering there a little longer than he meant to. “That’s not really why I asked you over though.” The words came out careful, like he’d been rehearsing them in his head and still wasn’t sure they would land right. “I know things are off between us and I know that’s my fault.” A faint shrug followed, awkward and self-conscious. “You’re still my twin, Mick. I don’t really know how to do this part.  At least not since I got back from the military.  I don’t know where to start, but if you’re willing to stay and listen.  I’ll try to be open and honest with you.”

Seeing as he was the cause of most of it. The least he could do was turn a blind's eye, give Maverick the time and space to figure things out.

by the time his hand slid lower, settling in that intimate place between her hip and thigh, valentina let out a soft breath she hadn’t meant to. she kept moving against him anyway, slower now, more deliberate, letting the roll of her hips answer him. when his other hand flattened over her stomach and started its slow climb upward, her head tipped back just slightly, enough to expose more of her throat to the heat of his breath. she could feel how hard he was getting behind her, and that alone nearly made her lose her rhythm. nearly. his hand at her throat was what did it.

not rough, not enough to truly cross a line, just heavy enough to make her imagination immediately betray her. valentina’s pulse jumped beneath his palm, and for a second she forgot about the people around them, the lights, the music, the fact that she had every intention of being somewhere else later. all she could think about was the way he was holding back. the way he was clearly tempted and still being careful with her.

that, more than anything, made her turn. she twisted in his hold, one hand sliding up his chest until her fingers caught lightly at the side of his neck. her eyes found his, dark and bright all at once, mouth parted from the effort of breathing through it. “you’re very good at this,” she murmured, and then, because she wanted to and because she could, she kissed him. it wasn’t shy. valentina kissed him like she’d been halfway to doing it for the last several minutes, slow at first and then deeper when he tasted as good as she expected. just enough tongue to make it filthy, just enough restraint to keep it from becoming a promise. her fingers tightened slightly at his neck before she finally pulled back, lips brushing his one last time as she lingered there in his space.

“mm,” she breathed, the faintest smile curling at the corner of her mouth. “that felt overdue.” then her gaze dropped briefly, knowingly, before lifting back to his. playful, smug, and just a little flushed. “but i did warn you,” she said softly, fingertips trailing down his chest, “i have plans for later.” she let that settle between them for a beat, long enough to make it sting a little. then valentina leaned in just enough for her mouth to brush near his ear. “if our timing were better, gray,” she murmured, “you’d be in a lot of trouble.”

Crazy, yet thrilling, to consider a perfect stranger could already hint to so much. This was what Grayson enjoyed when meeting other people. The pieces and ways they fit and suited together, or didn't, and how they navigated that complicated threshold.

As she twisted, turned to face him, his touch was as fluid. One hand easily coursing from her throat to the side of her neck, fingers gently wrapping the nape of it, thumb tracing the line of her jaw. The other traveling to rest nicely on the swell of her ass, because that's just where it naturally came to land when she turned around, and he simply didn't bother to move it. "Look who's talking," he returned the sentiment, voice just as low and intimate, knowing they were on her chessboard and yet, he knew how to play. To others, meeting someone and finding themselves in a position where they were liplocked and draped on each other like some old, reunited lovers, might be a little fast or strange. For Grayson, it was par for the course. He had always been the type of man that found himself in these kinds of situations, with people who matched his vibe like Valentina, when they were all just a little more willing to simply go with it for the experience. He was his own little storm that blew in to cause a little chaos and then always left things smelling a little nicer, shining a little brighter, a little more fresh start.

Grayson sought more from the kiss, while the moment presented itself, drinking her in and committing that taste of her shade to memory automatically. But he'd known the second she had chosen to kiss him, it was only a tease of what more he wouldn't get, and that only caused him to smile into it. Damn, did he love that. There was always something so satisfying to be left wanting, even as much as it was frustrating. Sometimes the imagination was all one needed.

Still, knowing she was scheduled, planned for someone else, understanding that kiss was just a free sample of something he couldn't afford, Grayson put in the try. Not a hearty one, not a true fight, but enough to show the interest was there, if she wanted it. "You could always cancel them," he suggested lightly, thumb now tracing the shape to her bottom lip as his brain was still processing how nice they'd felt on his. Valentina already knew that, though. She'd known before she decided to dance with him, knew when she'd kissed him, that she had no plans to cancel anything with the other man waiting on her. Grayson didn't consider anything by it— she didn't know him, had no idea if he was worth the cancelled plans and this other guy, he was the safer option. The safer options always won out, in the end. Usually. Even with daring, sexy women like her. They always wanted something stable and sure, and Grayson knew he wasn't that. Wasn't sure if he could ever be, either. "Maybe another time then," his smile answered hers, no bother there to let her slip out of his arms to go and find some other man's.

She took the heat of everything with her. Grayson lingered, just to enjoy the sight of her walking off, wondering if that'd be the last time he would see her. He didn't think so, though.

he knew he wanted it to be perfect, which was probably the problem. ashton had told him he could always paint over it. and sure, technically, that was true. paint was forgiving. walls could be redone. mistakes could disappear under a fresh coat, but asher didn’t want to make a mistake here. he wanted the space to feel like something. like good frequency had a pulse. like the studio wasn’t just equipment and soundproofing and wires, but a place people could walk into and immediately know they were allowed to make something real.

ashton had also told him to put on music and let the brush do what it wanted. asher had tried that too. he’d stood there with paint ready, brush in hand, waiting for inspiration to move through him like it always did. nothing. just the music. the wall. the quiet panic of wanting something too badly. then he heard the creak of the stairs. fuck.

asher cut the music immediately, guilt twisting in his chest. had he disturbed claudio? he glanced toward the doorway, already sighing, already half-ready to apologize and pack it up for the night. maybe he should just go home. maybe ezra would still be awake. maybe—

something in the doorway caught his eye.

asher started forward, apology already forming, but stopped dead when he saw them. claudio stood there in their pink ladies jacket from high school. his brow lifted, surprise turning slowly into a smirk as his gaze moved over them. not in a cruel way. not even teasing, really. just… taking it in. the outfit, the posture, the sudden flash of confidence as they walked in like they had decided the night needed to change shape. asher hadn’t seen that on them in a while. it looked good. kind of hot, actually.

he laughed when claudio tossed the jacket at him, catching it against his chest before turning it around to look at the logo on the back. “oh, wow,” he said, grin widening. “i haven’t seen this thing since that production.” he looked up as claudio moved toward the stack of records he hadn’t gotten around to taking downstairs yet, flipping through them with purpose. when they told him to take a break, asher almost argued on instinct.

then he looked back at the wall. then back at claudio. when was the last time he had actually relaxed? not worked. not planned. not tried to turn grief or pressure or longing into something useful. just relaxed. danced around to a silly musical because someone he cared about asked him to. too long. “okay, okay,” asher said, surrendering with a grin.

That simple, innocent touch rippled straight through and down their back, alighting every goosebump of awareness. Claude's own hands slowed in their shifting through of records, briefly, as they glanced back and up at the resumed T-Bird, and the request they be his Sandy. A bunch of lines from plays they read countless times that would have nicely encapsulated the moment of how readily and desperately they wanted to be his Sandy for real ran through their brain at once, one after another.

One from their favorite lingered heaviest; For you, in my respect, are all the world. Then how can it be said I am alone, when all the world is here to look on me?

But then they inhaled, a mistake because Asher's scent was everywhere now, and nodded, managing a simple, "Okay.." instead of the emphatic YES their heart screamed so suddenly. Why did he cause this? Why were they nervous? Why did their heart have to hammer like a war drum? They weren't stupid, they weren't even delusional. They knew Asher didn't mean anything by any of it.

Every day, it got harder for them to remind themselves of that. They thought, foolishly, exposure therapy would help. They thought knowing he was (seemingly?) chasing three (?!) people around, would stifle it. They thought they could repeat the mantra 'he's your friend, he's your friend, he's your friend' and it would make it go away.

"Uhm," their voice came out with the slightest shake of nerves to it, as they plucked up the Grease record and backed away, with it held between their hands like some shield. Like that might make Asher less capable of undoing them. "Did you, uhm, know that I did, actually, toy with the idea of auditioning for Sandy?" they asked, like it was suddenly time to play trivia, to distract themselves. "But then I didn't think a blond wig would really suit me, you know? And honestly, I really connected better with Rizzo? Because she was such a misfit, even in her own group? Like, when you actually consider the girls she's friends with and how different she is to them? And how she was so scared about what people might think of her.. she's actually a really vulnerable character, really complex," they rambled on, and on, until their butt bumped gently into the table where the record could be put on.

too late.

the video started with rustling. the soft scrape of a chair leg against the floor. a quiet little curse under someone’s breath. rowan, somewhere off-camera at first, getting his guitar settled, the tuning pegs clicking as he adjusted them one by one.then his face filled the screen. asher forgot how to breathe.

rowan looked exactly the way memory made him and nothing like it at all. dark hair falling messily over his forehead, sharp cheekbones softened by the low light, mouth slightly parted in concentration as he leaned over the guitar. he had that stupidly beautiful face that always looked like it belonged half on a stage and half in some private dream, all restless energy and soft edges, eyes bright even when he wasn’t looking at anyone. when he finally glanced toward the camera, his smile came easy—crooked, luminous, devastating. alive. rowan was alive on the screen. “i’ve actually been working on this since i met asher,” rowan said.

asher’s eyes filled immediately. he heard his own name in rowan’s voice, warm and casual, like asher was going to walk through the door any second. like there was still a world where that happened. like rowan was still somewhere just out of frame, waiting for him. “jeremy, i think the drums need to build with this one,” rowan continued, glancing into the camera giving the drummer who wasn't there instructions. “nothing too heavy at first. it started from some random rhythm ash was tapping out one day…” his fingers moved over the guitar, playing a few soft chords—just enough to give the shape of it. and there it was. the rhythm. asher knew it before he could name it, because it was his. the little pattern he tapped when he was thinking, when he was nervous, when music was moving through him before he had anywhere to put it. rowan had heard it and had kept it.

asher let out a small, broken laugh, staring hard at the screen. “he always had a specific vision for each song,” he said, voice thin around the edges. he still didn’t look at fitz. he couldn’t. if he looked at fitz and saw pity, or understanding, or anything kind, he was worried he might not be able to keep speaking. on the screen, rowan adjusted his grip on the guitar, cleared his throat softly, and started to play. quiet, at first. just acoustic guitar and his voice.

“you hum like the city after midnight soft electricity under your skin every room bends toward your rhythm like the night is learning how to listen”

asher’s hand came up to cover his mouth. he remembered rowan teasing him about humming. remembered rowan looking over from the studio couch with that fond, exasperated smile and saying, do you ever go quiet, love? remembered asher grinning and saying no, probably not.

“i tried to write silence before you but the chords kept turning your name now every note i follow leads me back to the sound of your breathing again”

rowan’s voice wavered slightly on the last line, not because he was sad, but because he was still finding it. still shaping the song as he sang. unfinished. private. not ready for anyone. not ready for asher.

“and i don’t know where the music ends or where you begin”

asher closed his eyes for half a second, but that made it worse. without the screen, it was just rowan’s voice in the room. rowan’s breath between lyrics. rowan’s fingers moving over strings.

“i learned your frequency slowly between the silence and the strings tuning my heart to your static hearing you in everything”

the tears slipped before asher could stop them. he didn’t wipe them away. not yet. he couldn’t move.

“you laugh like the lights coming on in the back of a crowded bar and the world keeps moving around us but somehow you’re where the songs are”

asher remembered that too. some bar in london, maybe. or berlin. or maybe all of them blurred together now. rowan watching him laugh with the band, rowan’s gaze catching his across a crowded room like a secret only the two of them knew. asher had thought he’d been loved. he hadn’t known he’d been heard like this.

“so if you leave, leave the echo leave the noise in my bones i’ll keep the signal you gave me even when i’m alone”

a sound caught in asher’s throat because rowan was the one who left. rowan was the echo now. rowan was the signal asher kept chasing through old files and half-finished tracks and dreams where his voice still sounded close enough to answer.

“i learned your frequency slowly between the silence and the strings tuning my heart to your static hearing you in everything”

on the video, rowan stopped singing for a moment, the guitar continuing softly beneath his hands. he looked down at the strings, smiling to himself like he knew the next part was too honest and loved it anyway.

“you hear music where the world goes quiet i hear you in everything”

asher pressed his palm harder against his mouth. rowan’s voice softened.

“so if you leave i’ll still be tuned to you”

the last chord rang out, gentle and unfinished. for one impossible second, there was only silence. then a ringtone cut through the room. rowan laughed on the screen, startled and bright, and turned his head toward the sound. “oh, it’s you, ash baby.” asher broke. just a sharp inhale that caved in on itself, his shoulders folding as the nickname hit somewhere nothing else could reach. on the screen, rowan looked back toward the camera, smiling like he was sharing a secret with it. “i’ll show you this later. you know how i am.” his laugh filled the production booth. asher’s heart clenched so hard it hurt. rowan answered the phone, voice warming instantly. “hey, baby. i was just thinking about you.” then the video ended.

the screen froze on rowan’s face, mid-smile, eyes bright and alive and gone. asher stared at the still image for a long moment. he didn’t know when he had started crying properly, only that the tears were on his cheeks now, hot and humiliating and impossible to stop. he wiped under his eyes with the heel of his hand, then sniffed and let out a shaky breath. “sorry,” he said, voice rough. “i guess i should’ve… watched this before you came over so i didn’t—”

His arms folded over the back of the chair and he leaned in, attention on the video, on the person in it and everything they were saying. Of course, Fitzroy could hear the hitched inhale from his friend, and every minute sound that came out of him. Every quiet sniff, every sharp exhale. Each uncomfortable shift in his own seat, as he desperately wiped tears away. He knew Asher was crying, lost up in feels that he couldn't possibly begin to understand because he had never once, yet, been in a position where he lost someone close. That kind of grief couldn't be shared, anyway. It was unique to the individual.

But, the older man kept those green eyes on the screen only. Allowing Asher his privacy, while they both absorbed what this Rowan character played out. Fitz could see why the guy had fallen so hard. Rowan was attractive, but it wasn't just a physical pull. It was everything else, too. The ease with a guitar, even as he occasionally stumbled over notes not fully memorized yet. A way with the words. That voice that came out. There was a certain confidence one couldn't place the finger on, but it all fit together, right on down to the stringy, long curls and sharp, angular features. A person that breathed music, had it injected in their blood. And the smile... That smile likely haunted Asher's dreams, he'd wager.

It went on longer than he expected, too. In Fitzroy's opinion, Rowan had almost been close to finishing it. Not quite, though. There was still room to answer, and close it all out. And honestly, he thought that all suited it rather nicely, for the kind of meaning that underlaid it.

As the video stilled, Fitzroy allowed his attention to shift back to his friend, who was doing his best to get hold of himself. Eyes red, grief still evident. He wanted to hug him, but ultimately, rested a hand on Asher's shoulder, giving a squeeze. "Nothing to apologize over, mate," he assured, as kind and as understanding as ever. Fitzroy had never been someone ashamed by emotions. Better out than in. Vulnerable moments are what made life worth living. As his hand fell away, careful to not linger too long on the comfort lest it embarrass Asher, he nodded. "We can definitely give the man a proper answer." There was no doubt in tone over it. "He's already given us most of it.. now, you just need the last verse, don't you think?"

That.. well, you..

Darcy waited, it seemed their little comment had struck harder than expected leaving the man speechless." Go on, I believe that you can manage a few words." They finish the drink, setting the glass back on the counter.

your delicate features lie.

His face flushed, giving the other a miserable sort of look because he knew there wasn't anything to say in defense of himself there. He was old. And gray. At least, however, he was in better shape these days. Not the best he's ever known, he wasn't a fit eighteen year old, but joining that gym several months back had given him back something of a sleeker build. Not quite as plushy as before, but certainly not ribbed up, either. He'd been perfectly happy with those results, until this stranger had to pick on his grays!

Darcy was taken a back, they hadn't expected such a passionate call out." I'm pretty sure Rude is my middle name." It was prefect for them, this was an open invitation for them to continue on being unpleasant, in fact it humored them, just what they needed for the night.

" What if it is my space? " The professor tilts their head to the side." My name can be carved on this very counter and you wouldn't even know it." They study the man, swirling the drink in their hand in a slow motion, whoever this was interested them." My entire area."

Mateo could have easily walked off, found a different spot where he could drown his miseries in peace... But then, when the other went on about how this might very well be their space, their entire area, he gestured for a second drink and promptly planted his bottom on the stool right there. "In that case, I'm a pirate, and I'm plundering half your space as my own," he declared. Petulantly. Not of a man forty-seven years. Which the other landed a direct hit at.

Darcy had kept themselves mostly at home, work was busy enough and the reception had taken more from them than they first assumed.

What shall he do?!