Birdy_Anne

Fridays were usually side gig nights. Every now and then, his buddy who worked sound would call, asking him to set up audio in some impossible location.

Like last night, a warehouse where a dark trap lineup was supposed to play. Not exactly his scene, but he respected the originality.

Remus closed his eyes for a moment. He wanted to sleep off not just last night, but the last six months.

Finally, he forced himself to get up. Apparently, he'd sleep when he was dead.

Now he knew two things for sure: that there was no point wasting time on fake relationships, and that no voice message ever sounded as good as a well-played loop with a trumpet assist.

That was his plan for the evening. Yesterday, he'd just set up someone else's sound. Tonight, he was going to play a set with Regulus, for people who didn't come for a show, but for music that would take them apart piece by piece.

He dragged himself to the kitchen to grab something to eat. He wasn't expecting Reg to be up yet. But he was.

He was sitting at the table, wearing that green hoodie he treated like armor. In front of him sat a mug of tea, his laptop, and his phone with the metronome app running.

Pure calm, in human form.

Reg didn't even look up when Remus walked in, eyes still focused on the screen. The corner of his mouth twitched slightly as he said quietly:

"Who got in your head this time?"

Remus rolled his eyes, raising his eyebrows in mock offense.

Of course Reg noticed. He always noticed. He had a radar for people trying to hide something.

"No one worth the effort," Remus muttered, turning on the kettle. He felt his shoulders sag in resignation. "One of those who takes longer to say goodbye than hello."

Reg didn't comment. His mouth just pressed into a thin line. He nodded toward the chair across from him, his gaze softening a little.

"Sit down. Eat something. Look over your sheets before the kids tear you to pieces."

Remus sighed. The lines on his forehead deepened, but he sat down. He ran a hand over his face, his eyelids heavy.

He didn't need to say he was exhausted. Reg could see it in every move he made.

They'd lived together since the start of college. First, a tiny shared dorm room, then an apartment with two bedrooms, and when Reg managed to sell a few of his compositions to musicals and films, they rented a bigger place.

They paid the rent with Reg's royalties. Remus insisted he wouldn't be a freeloader living off his only friend and at least covered the bills.

The arrangement worked for them.

Reg had never been careless with money, even though he could've been. Half an inheritance from some super rich uncle sitting in his savings account.

But Reg was practical. He always said that money could stay where it was, just in case the producers stopped buying his work one day.

Remus, without that kind of financial cushion, was still paying off his student loan with his job at a private music school. What he earned from side gigs went straight to cables, mixing gear, and bills.

They split the cost of the rehearsal space.

Remus started eating his oatmeal, and Reg went back to his notes like there had been no pause, no "what happened?" between them, because there hadn't.

The kitchen smelled like tea and calmness. On Reg's phone, a note lit up:

9:00 PM – set at The Ego

Remus glanced at it, nodded.

The plan was simple: kids first, music at night. Life in between.

"I'll be home tonight on schedule, and have some pasta on the way."

Reg didn't look up, but his fingers paused for half a second over the keyboard.

"Good," he said quietly. "You'll need something decent after yesterday."

It sounded casual, almost dismissive, but Remus knew him well enough to hear what sat underneath, a reminder, a quiet I'm here, even if you won't talk about it.

Regulus didn't look up when Remus left the kitchen, but he knew exactly when the door clicked shut behind him. He heard the soft tap of a mug on the counter, the rustle of keys in a pocket. Then the echo of footsteps down the hallway.

He closed his eyes for a moment.

In his head, he added a new phrase to his morning rhythm: Today, Remus is half a tone lower.

He looked back at his laptop. Melody lines from yesterday. A few sketches that didn't have a shape yet, but had a mood, the same one Remus carried when he pretended nothing touched him.

Reg took a sip of cold tea. He didn't need to ask what had happened. Remus was transparent when he tried to act closed off.

It wasn't hard to guess. He'd probably started seeing someone again, someone who mistook a couple of nights and half a conversation for something more. Someone who wanted a name for whatever it was they were doing, who asked too many questions, who thought they could make Remus stay.

And Remus, as always, had let them get close just long enough to pull away.

He did that.

Opened the door halfway, then shut it when they started asking if they could come in.

Reg wasn't sure if Remus knew he did it. If he realized how quick he was to disappear the second something stopped being simple.

It wasn't about the person on the other end. It never was.

Reg had seen it a hundred times, how Remus didn't know what to do with people who wanted to hold onto him. How he folded in on himself when someone asked for more than he was ready to give.

That's why Reg never asked.

He knew that tonight, when the lights dimmed and the set kicked off, Remus would play exactly how he felt right now, no words, but loud enough for Reg to know when to come in.

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

In everything they played, the silence between them was always the most important note.

He leaned over the laptop, fingers sliding the faders, adjusting the sound levels. On the screen, a scene from a cheap rom-com played. Two lovers desperately running through a crowded train station. The dialogue was so predictable he could recite it with his eyes closed.

"I can't live without you," the actress said, her words hanging flat and hollow in the studio air.

It was his job to make someone believe it.

With watchmaker precision, he layered sounds one by one. First, the soft hum of a distant train, not loud enough to drown the voices, but enough to create a sense of urgency.

Then he amplified the sound of their footsteps on the concrete floor, adding a touch of reverb, as if the whole world was resonating with their run.

Finally, he layered in the almost inaudible sound of breathing, that distinct intimacy when someone speaks too close to a phone mic.

He hit play and closed his eyes.

A faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips when he heard how that cliché love confession suddenly sounded desperate and real.

One sound layer, then another, then a third, and out of the cynical "I can't live without you" emerged something the audience might finally believe.

A little more of the string arrangement he'd written yesterday, and he could move on to the next scene.

He stretched and saved the project.

He had the whole day to polish the soundtrack before they'd step on stage at The Ego tonight.

He loaded the next scene, the main character crying in the rain. He still needed to add reverb, boost the rustle of raindrops hitting the umbrella, and thicken the rumble of distant thunder.

He glanced at the empty apartment and at Remus's bass resting against the wall in the corner. Tonight, he'd trade all those artificial emotions for something real.

But first, there were eight hours of working on other people's love stories. And then, Remus's lasagna, the best thing that could happen before a show.

"Five minutes!" someone from the tech crew shouted, knocking briskly on the door.

Remus didn't like crowds.

But the crowd at The Ego wasn't a regular crowd. It was a patchwork of familiar faces he could recognize instantly: the girl by the wall who always cried during the third track; the guy swaying to the rhythm, never looking at the stage; the handful of people here for the first time, unaware that this wouldn't be an ordinary concert.

He knew them all.

As always, he started with a loop.

Something simple, repetitive, enough to steady his own pulse. He let in a bit of noise, carefully measured, sounding like a breath you couldn't quite let go.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Reg to his left. Still, like always at the start. He knew Reg wouldn't look.

He also knew he was listening.

The first entrance of the trumpet was short, almost unnoticeable.

For Remus, enough.

This wasn't a performance. It was a conversation without words.

He moved with the rhythm, layering one element after another: a beat, a shifted echo, a fragment of an old sample that sounded like rain tapping against glass.

He built it all with precision, careful not to say too much by accident. He knew exactly when the loop stopped being enough.

It was that moment when the room fell quiet, conversations fading out, phones being set aside.

When Reg's trumpet said something that had no ending.

That's when he reached for the bass. He didn't need to look at Reg to know he was watching.

He plugged in the cable in one smooth motion, as natural as lighting a cigarette. Before anyone noticed, he slid into the loop he'd set up earlier, soft, quiet, slipping beneath the beat.

He didn't play flashy riffs. The bass was meant to pulse somewhere deep in the chest. Like a breath that didn't belong to anyone.

His fingers instinctively found the melody line, perfectly locking in with the trumpet's sound. It felt like they'd been having this conversation forever. When Reg pushed the key higher, Remus went lower, keeping them anchored.

At the end, he left everything hanging, one open chord, unresolved.

Because they didn't play to finish anything. They played so they wouldn't have to say anything.

Halfway through the set, he picked up the tempo. Not according to plan, but because of how Reg had played the last three notes, soft, like an apology.

He watched the crowd. He knew they were listening.

But this set wasn't for them.

It was for themselves.

So they wouldn't have to say anything when the lights went out.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a boy in the back row.

He stood out from the rest, didn't quite fit. Remus was almost sure it was his first time here. The boy kept running his hand through his hair, and though he seemed nervous at first, now Remus could see he'd completely sunk into the music.

Good.

Maybe he'd catch him after the set.

Remus lost count of how many cigarettes he smoked after the show.

Too many, as usual.

The air in the backstage room grew thick with nicotine, sweat, and exhaustion.

The conversations reached him like through a filter, fragmented and irrelevant. Everyone wanted something: to congratulate him, propose a collaboration, pat him on the back in recognition.

Reg had disappeared the second the last note faded out, like he always did. He avoided crowds and praise. Remus understood that perfectly.

That's why, when the boy from the back row (the same one who had stood off to the side all night, nervously running his hand through his hair) came up and offered to buy him a beer, Remus didn't overthink it.

He just answered with a small smile and a nod. He was too drained to analyze the details.

They talked for a while. About nothing in particular. About music, but not the kind they'd just played. About the noise at the bar and the relative quiet backstage.

The boy had elegant hands and restless eyes. Remus didn't ask for his name. Not because he wasn't interested. He just didn't want this moment to turn into anything more than a temporary shelter from the world.

At some point, he realized they were alone.

He walked over to the door. He pulled a key from his jeans pocket, the one Mary, the club owner, had once given him "in case you ever need some peace."

He wasn't sure if this was the kind of peace she'd meant, but he wasn't about to complain.

He looked at the boy.

The other one didn't say a word. Just stared at him, intently.

In the dim light, he couldn't quite make out his eyes, but he could feel the weight and promise in that gaze.

So Remus closed the door.

The boy was still standing by the wall, hands in his pockets, tense in his shoulders but steady in his stare. Remus saw him swallow hard, but he didn't back away.

Remus stepped toward him, narrowing the distance between them, but stopped deliberately, leaving a small space between them.

He didn't lean in to kiss him. That wasn't the intention tonight.

Instead, his fingers slid slowly under the leather jacket the boy was wearing, gripping the collar firmly and pulling him closer, closing the distance almost entirely.

It was a brief gesture, almost fleeting, a test, to see if the boy would pull away. There was no fun in doing something the other person didn't want.

He stopped, lips close to his ear.

"If you want me to stop, say so now."

No answer.

Just a quickened breath.

Remus let his mouth trail along the boy's neck, leaving a mark where the skin was warmest.

His teeth grazed the boy's earlobe, and he felt the shiver run through him, the tension in his muscles unmistakable beneath his fingers.

His hands slipped out of his pockets and grabbed Remus by the shirt, as if he needed something to hold on to.

Remus smiled under his breath. He slid his thigh between the boy's legs, pressing him harder against the wall.

"Look how good you are," he murmured into his ear.

The boy sucked in a breath through his teeth, running his hands over Remus's arms.

Remus grabbed him by the hips, sliding his hand down without breaking the rhythm, not letting him catch his breath.

"Tell me if you want me to stop," he whispered, brushing his teeth against his neck.

The boy shook his head, tilting it slightly to expose more skin.

Remus pressed him back against the wall, fingers digging into his hip, the other hand holding him by the nape of his neck.

He could feel the boy was hard.

When he let out a soft moan, Remus pressed him harder, whispering in his ear:

"Just like that. Only for me."

"You're shaking all over," he murmured again, gently biting his earlobe. "That's what you wanted, hm?"

The boy swallowed hard, nodded briefly, and gripped Remus's lower back, grinding their hips together firmly, without asking.

He wasn't passive anymore. He knew what he wanted and he was taking it.

Remus felt his own body betray him. How his hips moved without permission, how the tension settled between his vertebrae. He clenched his teeth. Not yet.

He turned the boy to face the wall; the other reached out his hand, bracing himself against the wall to counter Remus's pressure and grind his ass back against him.

"Be a good boy and don't move," he growled into his ear. "Unless you want me to stop touching you."

The boy froze, but his breathing was even faster than before.

Remus ran his hand down his chest, over his stomach, until he found the waistband of his trousers. With his other hand, he pulled him by the hair, just lightly, just for a moment.

Just to remind him who was in charge.

He could feel his own erection pressing against the boy's ass. He had an incredible ass. The tightly fitting trousers left very little to the imagination.

He ran his teeth along his neck, leaving a mark, not strong, but clear enough that he'd feel it tomorrow.

"Good boy," he murmured. "You listen better than I expected."

The boy let out a short, broken sound, something between a sigh and a moan.

Remus took his hand off his nape and grabbed him harder by the hip, pressing him closer. He kept him there, pinned, leaving the trace of his breath on his neck.

"You're not getting more until you ask for it," he murmured into his ear, in a tone that brooked no argument.

The boy sucked in a sharp breath, threw one hand back and grabbed Remus by the back of the neck.

He sighed quietly, tilting his head back, lips parted, back arched under Remus.

He undid his trousers and slid them slightly off his ass. He wrapped his hand around his cock and squeezed gently.

He could feel him trembling under his touch, starting to thrust his hips forward involuntarily. Remus grounded him again with his free hand, his mouth sucking at the skin of his neck.

Another souvenir for tomorrow.

The boy was moaning louder and louder, writhing under his touch, but Remus deliberately didn't pick up the pace.

He wanted him on his terms tonight.

He knew the other wanted it that way too.

He wanted to make him squirm and beg for more.

And he got it.

The dark-haired boy was panting, hissing, making those sweet little sounds that made Remus feel he might lose control himself.

He was perfect in every way and fucking intoxicating.

He worked the boy's cock with firm and steady strokes. Remus could literally feel the boy fighting with himself not to come. And Remus was eager to give him this little torture for the next few moments.

He wanted him to melt and see the fucking stars when he was done.

"Come on, be a good boy and come for me," he breathed into his ear, then slid his tongue inside.

He picked up the pace a little more and pressed the boy against him at the same time as he thrust himself into the boy's ass even harder.

He pressed against him rhythmically with his hips, as if he were entering him, and the boy bent his head back and laid it against Remus's chest.

The reward was sweet.

He felt every muscle in that beautiful body first tense under him and then fall apart.

He heard those wonderfully arousing moans and, for a moment, silently thanked the loud music outside the door.

Now he really wanted to penetrate him, or at least get the boy on his knees to give him a blowjob, but he held back. He knew the boy would come back for more. They always did.

He turned him back around and brushed his fingers over his cheek.

The boy was really beautiful. He had sharp, elegant features: high cheekbones, a straight nose, full lips still swollen with excitement. In the dim light, Remus could even make out the faint blush on his pale cheeks.

And those eyes. Fucking hell, those eyes, he couldn't shake the feeling he'd seen them somewhere before, even though that was impossible.

He couldn't tell their color, but he recognized the way the boy looked at him.

He should've walked away by now.

Everything was done.

This was supposed to be quick, meaningless, leaving no marks for the future.

But when the boy looked at him through half-lidded eyes, lips parted, hands still resting on his hips, something in Remus cracked.

Before he could stop himself, he grabbed the boy by the back of the neck, pulled him in, and kissed him.

Hard.

Messy.

The boy didn't hesitate for a second. He wrapped his arms around Remus's neck and pulled him closer, like he'd been waiting for this all night.

Remus felt the weight of that decision settle in his chest.

It was a mistake.

And he knew he'd be thinking about it long after the boy disappeared.

He adjusted his shirt, ran a hand over the back of his neck like he could wipe away what had just happened.

The boy was still standing by the wall, breathing hard, hands resting on his hips like he didn't know what to do next.

Remus glanced back at him over his shoulder, already at a distance.

"I'm playing here again next week. In case you're around."

He didn't wait for an answer. He grabbed his sweater from the chair, switched off the backstage light, and stepped out into the hallway.

The music in the bar was still pounding, people still shoving their way to the counter, the world carrying on like nothing had happened.

He walked through the crowd without looking back.

Outside, he lit the cigarette he'd had in his pocket since the start of the set.

Only now did he notice his hands were trembling slightly.

He smoked slowly, staring at the city lights, thinking about nothing in particular. He knew the thoughts would circle back to that backstage room anyway.

He stubbed out the cigarette on the curb and started walking home.

The light in the stairwell was flickering, like always. He opened the door quietly, careful not to make any noise.

Reg was sitting in the kitchen, at the table, laptop in front of him and a mug of tea by his side. Headphones on.

Remus tossed his sweater onto a chair, glancing briefly at Reg.

He wanted to say something, but there was no need. Reg looked up for a moment, long enough for Remus to feel completely read, like he was an open book.

But Reg said nothing. Just went back to work.

Remus poured himself a glass of water and leaned against the counter. For a moment, there was only their shared silence in the kitchen.