"This is inappropriate."

Even though the words are said through a throaty hum you can feel against your lips, you don't stop nipping at Orion's throat. He sits with one arm propped, the other on your back as you straddle him on the edge of the bed. Orion, with all of his complaints, is hilariously compliant. He moves his head to give you more space for his neck, shuddering when your biting turns to salacious swipes of your tongue.

"Should I stop?" you ask through your kisses, your words muffled. The question has Orion's arm gliding over you to hold you tighter, the answer loud and clear.

"Are you trying to give me a hickey?" he asks. His voice trails off when you lick just the right spot, making a small squeak of a whimper leave his lips. You've learned that Orion is a vocal participant, his breathy reactions only encouraging you further. "You know..." His throat bobs when he swallows. "Cameras." He can't even form a coherent sentence, which is the most satisfying part. "I will be on my best behavior."

"I doubt that—" In one swift move, Orion grabs you and rolls you over until he's hovering over you. You're breathless from both surprise and excitement. He has you pinned with his hands on either side of your face, and his cheeks are flushed.

"Can you imagine?" He says, leaning down to brush his lips against yours, featherlight. It makes your body shudder. "Us doing this in a room of executives?" He brushes his nose against yours with endless delicacy, teasing you. So close and yet not quite there. "Forced to watch?" His mouth goes to the hollow of your throat, his teeth grazing your skin until you're swallowing. "Think of the scandal."

Another thing about Orion Quinn? He's a cheeky bastard.

You can hardly breathe, especially not when Orion sits up, towering over you as he begins unbuttoning his shirt. His eyes stay on you, his fingers deft and skilled, your gazes never breaking.

"You—" You swallow, propping yourself up on your elbows. "You would faint if that were to happen."

A low laugh escapes him, but his gaze turns hungry, heated at the thought. Almost as if fainting isn't what he would do at all. "You're right. HR would have me ruined."

"You are HR!" You lift your hand to put it on the last button that remains, fully intending to unbutton it for him. Orion puts his own hand over yours, directing it over the buckle of his belt. Your mouth waters. You know exactly what he wants, and he's not shy about telling you. "Knowing you," you swallow, using two fingers to remove the loop of the belt from the buckle, "you would punish yourself." "Saying that in this context is quite suggestive." He grins, taking the belt off and tossing it aside. Your fingers get to work on the button of his slacks.

"I'm being completely serious." You bite your lip, your body heating when he grabs your hand and plants a chaste, loving kiss to the inside of your palm, removing his pants with his other hand. "Get your mind out of the gutter, horndog."

"Sorry," he says, not sounding sorry at all.

“…Love me and hate me, I don’t mind as long as you take me—”

A low grumble rises in Orion’s throat when the song pauses, the car falling into an unfamiliar silence just as it slows in front of a red light. His large hands tighten their grip on the wheel, and his eyes glide to his co-worker, Marty, just as he’s pulling his hand away from the PAUSE button on the console. 

“Is there a reason you’re touching my stuff?” Orion asks, his voice carrying its usual calm that holds a level of ice that has even his superiors shuddering when they think he’s not looking. 

Marty licks his lips, his face twisting into its usual expression of guilt. Orion softens his face for his friend’s sake.

Orion Quinn knows the impact he has on people. The rumors that plague him have reached his ears on multiple occasions; he’s a shell of what he once was, never having gotten over the one who got away. He’s detached, the merciless worker that the boss goes to when he’s in need of someone who can do the firing.

 He’s the one people are afraid of crossing or talking casually to in fear of letting something slip. People fear him more than they fear the execs. 

It wasn’t always like this, sure. Once, Orion used to smile freely, used to talk openly and wear vulnerability like a favorite coat. But then the divorce happened and sides were taken. Suddenly, the armor he didn’t know he had was reinforced, dented and bruised from a battle he didn’t expect to fight, but reinforced nonetheless. 

Never date your co-workers. 

“The song is terrible, man.” Marty sighs, running a hand through his oily brown hair when he plops back in the seat. The same seat he pushed back at a 120-degree angle. Admittedly, it makes Orion’s nerves flare up. He says nothing;  he has enough self-awareness to know that complaining about his seat is a bit too much, even for him. “I was doing both our ears a favor.”

The light changes and Orion absently drums his fingers on the wheel as he drives on ahead, eyes gliding outside to soak in the densely populated street underneath the rising sun. “Yeah.” The word comes out in a resigned breath. “I was hoping it’d get better.” 

“We were on the bridge,” Marty throws back. “The only way it could get better is if it ended.” Orion’s lip twitches and of course, Marty can’t let it go. ”Oh! That was an almost-smile.” He leans forward to poke Orion’s rib. 

Orion lets out a laugh before his face quickly drops.

Marty grins, plopping his elbow on the ledge of the car door. “All I’m saying is you’ve been listening to demos nonstop this whole month. Not once have I seen you even mildly excited for any of them.”

Orion grits his teeth. “I haven’t had anything substantial to show the team in ages. Our last artist pulled out on signing with us last minute. Our established artists aren’t selling as well anymore. The industry is getting oversaturated—“

“—and we need to be ahead of the curve. Yadda, yadda.” Marty rolls his eyes. “Do you ever just relax? Damn. That stick up your ass is ten-feet lon—“

Marty chokes on his words when Orion’s eyes cut to his. “Say anything else and I’m kicking you out of my car.” 

Marty pouts but relents anyway, choosing to change the subject. “What about dating?”

Orion keeps his eyes on the road but quirks a brow. “What about it?”

“You know…” Marty starts, gesticulating vaguely as he searches for the right words. “Maybe putting yourself out there could help you relax. Or even inspire you—“ 

“No.”

“What? Okay, but—"

“Not interested.”

“You didn’t even know what I was going to sa—“

“Don’t have to.” 

Marty huffs and says nothing for a long moment. Neither of them rush to fill the silence; normal for Orion but unusual for his infinitely more talkative friend. It’s only when he pulls into Carolina Records’ parking lot that Marty speaks again and Orion realizes his silence was really just contemplation.

“I know the divorce was difficult,” he starts, delicate, “but—“

Orion’s jaw clenches.

“— that doesn’t mean you should give up.”

Orion sits there a moment, fingers clenching into fists. “It’s not giving up if I never tried in the first place.” He swings open the door and steps out, the car door slamming with a hint of finality.

. . .

Carolina Records boasts a twenty-floor skyscraper made up of floor-to-ceiling glass windows and sleek, dark marble floor. Orion has been here since he graduated college; going from a measly intern to an A&R representative responsible for finding two of the most promising artists in the company. 

That was a year ago. Since then, the well of new talent has dried up and Orion doesn’t know what to do.

Of course, he was offered higher positions, all of which he quickly denied. Orion always had a knack for numbers and trends, discovering what new genre is going to come to the forefront, seeing what kind of music the general public is listening to. Music: he understands it better than people. His understanding is almost clinical: while people listen to it for enjoyment, Orion seeks the patterns, the feelings that every beat and scale and vocal run they invoke. He takes it apart and puts it together like a surgeon does a patient. It just makes sense to him. 

He could do so much more, he knows that, but none of that interests him.

The music—that’s what he likes. 

Discovering new talent is what excites him. Which is why this odd dry spell has him walking with gritted teeth and tension between his shoulders-blades. He has to do something.

“Mr. Quinn.” 

Orion nods at a woman who passes by the hallway, ignoring the way Marty does a whole spin when he tracks her retreating frame down the hall.

Another one. This time a man from the marketing department. “Good Morning, Mr. Quinn.” 

“Morning.”

Marty scoffs when the man continues walking, not sparing him a glance. 

“Am I chopped liver or something?” Marty complains.

“Mr. Quinn, hey!”

“Hi.” Orion nods his head once and presses the elevator button. When his eyes land on a frowning Marty he says, “You’re just not sociable.”

“Huh?!” Marty then lets out an embarrassingly high-pitched sputter of a laugh. “And you are?”

Orion frowns. “Yes.”

Another laugh. “You’re smart, dude, you know it’s more because of that”— he gestures vaguely at him—“than your social skills.”

The elevator doors open with a cheerful bell and they step inside. “What?”

“You know.” Marty shrugs. “Your face. You look like you should be on a billboard advertising overpriced cologne with your shirt unbuttoned and your hand in your hair talking about your luxurious life or something.”

“That’s…specific.”

Marty shrugs. “I read a lot of GQ.” 

Orion wrinkles his nose when they spin to face the doors. “While it is true I would be considered objectively handsome by societal standards—“

“Oh, fuck off.”

“—I don’t think that’s the case.” This time Orion lets out a small smile. “Or maybe it is?” He quirks a brow at his co-worker. “Should I send a gift basket to my parents? A ‘thank-you-for-the-superior-DNA gift?’”

Marty shakes his head.  “You know, when you do try to be funny you still sound like an asshole.”

Orion hums, the joke tickling him enough for him to let out his first smile of the day. 

The elevator doors sing their arrival and they bid farewell once they part to go to their respective offices. Orion strides to his corner office where another one of his co-workers, Kass, is standing with a box in her hands.

“This week’s demos.” Orion is just putting his arms out when she plops the boxes on them. “You should really stop requesting unsolicited demos. It’s such an outdated way of doing things.”

Orion ignores her and unlocks his office door, turning the knob and pushing it open with his hip. His office is barren but spacious, with high windows overlooking the city. Marty told him once that people would kill to have his office, but really it’s just like any other space. What’s an office without a productive person to work in it? Orion hasn’t done anything of meaning in weeks.

Sighing, he drops the box on the table unceremoniously, picking up the first CD on the top of the pile. GROUNDED IN REALITY reads the title, and it’s so apt that he almost chucks the CD in the trash on that very fact alone. Still, he’s nothing if not fair. Another sigh escapes him and he gets to listening. 

. . .

Helpless.

That’s how he feels.

After hours of listening, the music has long since blurred together in a portrait of uninspired melodies and generic, radio-friendly lyrics. Nothing stood out, nothing made him want to dig into the song in search for more, nothing made him feel.

Is it me? Am I the problem?

Jaw clenched, Orion fishes out his phone, the usual flinch coming to him when he sees the background. He forgot to change it, and it’s always an (unwanted) surprise whenever he sees a picture of them together. 

One year ago. The beach. Happy.

Shaking his head, he sends a quick text to his mother telling her that he’ll have to raincheck on their dinner. He still has half a box of songs left. Looks like he’ll be staying late.

“Yo, Orion!” A knock. “Let’s go! I want to driiink.”

Or not.

Marty strides in without waiting for an invitation, a grin on his face. “Tab is on me.”

“Do you ever work?” Orion asks, eyes half-lidded in equal parts annoyance and indifference. 

His friend frowns. “This is work.”

“I don’t think getting drunk is in the job description.” Orion looks down, absently clicking on the button of his mouse in an effort to busy his hands. 

“Wah, wah. Don’t be a fucking party pooper.”

 “Too late.”

Marty shoots him a look. “A few artists are playing tonight. Call this recruitment.” He uses spirit fingers. “Maybe you’ll even loosen up for once.” When Orion looks at him, a brow raised, Marty drops his hands. “Yes, I do my job sometimes. Don’t look so surprised.”

“It’s not that,” Orion starts. He doesn’t immediately continue. Instead, they simply stare at each other. Marty wiggles his brows as Orion narrows his gaze. “When you say the tab is on you—“

Marty whips out a black card. “Company card, baby!”

Orion palms his face with a long groan as Marty begins to moonwalk across Orion’s office. “I was perfectly fine staying inside.” Even though he says this, a moment later he stands and grabs his trenchcoat from the back of the chair. “And you’re driving.”

“What!” Marty stomps his foot as he follows him out. “Nooooo.” 

. . .

The bar sits in a livelier part of the city, a part that Orion doesn’t often find himself in. It’s less about the scene and more about the memories associated with every damn corner of this place. Orion can pluck a memory from his mind like a petal from a rose garden: the diner they went to and fought for fifteen minutes over who would get to pay the bill, the park they spent their lunches at.

The shop where he bought the ring.

“This place is golden,” Marty says, breaking Orion out of the string of memories he wishes he could erase forever, “it’s like a real gritty, underground hole-in-the-wall vibe.”

“Sounds like fun,” comes out of Orion in a dour tone that has Marty rolling his eyes. 

They stride through the neon glow of the brick hall until it opens up to a dimly lit bar. The space is humble; the sparse crowd is compensated by the energy of the performers on the stage. 

“Stacy, do you remember when I mowed your lawn…?”

“Is the band really covering Fountains of Wayne?” Orion says through gritted teeth.

Marty bites his lower lip, his obvious attempt to stifle laughter only making Orion’s faux horror flare even more. “Maybe.” Marty spins around, shimmying his shoulder. “You don’t agree that Stacy’s Mom Has Got It Going on?” Marty then realizes something and laughs. “You know, I dated a Stacy once. Weirdly enough, her mom wasn’t that bad looking—“

Orion sighs and quickly moves to the bar. “I need a drink.”

Whatever hope Orion had of finding new talent is gone in the face of the line-up. It quickly becomes obvious that the performers are composed of people who aren’t taking the ‘gig’ seriously or patrons that are half-drunk and stumbling on the small stage.

Worse that the place is pathetically empty; it’s only them two and three other stragglers eating stale fries and bobbing their heads to the music, more out of obligatory politeness than anything else. Orion is suddenly regretting taking Marty up on his offer. 

Orion drinks his lager through periodic gulps, his desire to forget this night growing with every person that performs. The memories of this area coupled with his lack of work lately make him dizzy. He wants to escape. Quit. Scream. All of it.

“Get me another,” Orion says, much to Marty’s delight.

More and more people perform until Orion has lost any focus on the stage. Instead, he entertains himself by watching the game on the TV, having long given up on finding any new promising talent in a place like this. 

“Next up we have”—the bartender stops, her eyes narrowing as she tries to read something off an index card—“er, [band]. Yeah. Give them a round of applause.”

With how few people are in attendance, the applause is less applause and more awkward clapping that quickly dies after two. 

The people on stage are younger. Immediately, Orion notices that they’re equipped with actual instruments instead of relying on the karaoke machine in the corner. A decisive point in their favor, he decides.

“You said this was a gig…” He hears one of them say to what appears to be the lead singer. The boy wears a red hat, as well as an assortment of chains on his neck. Three other band members set up their instruments, trying not to look too disappointed by the turnout. Still, even with the lager creating a slight fog in his head, Orion knows that look. The moment when hope dies, burning like a napkin to a flame.

“No,” the lead singer says pointedly as they adjust their mic, “I said this was a favor.” In that moment, the singer nods their head at the bartender, who shoots them an appreciative thumbs-up. “A paid favor.”

The boy shakes his head but snorts. “I guess.” 

Once they’re set up, the singer looks ahead, gazing at the bar. Their eyes briefly settle on Orion as they gaze at the few faces in the room. “Hey!” they say, chirpy. “We’re [band]. Thanks for coming out!”

A chorus of muttering replies.

Marty taps on the bar. “Wanna head out?”

Orion, unable to look away, shakes his head. “No. I want to see this.”

The next few minutes feel like a dream. Orion is in a daze as the song plays, the beats piercing through him. The voice sends goosebumps up his arms, the instruments weave together in a perfect harmony that has Orion’s heart racing. When the song ends, it’s too soon. He wants it to keep going. He doesn’t want it to end. 

He wants more.

“Thanks!” The singer says to a smattering of slightly enthusiastic applause. This is the most energy everyone has had all night. They turn, grab their things, and disappear through the curtain. Orion bursts up….

…spilling his drink on the table.

“Oh!” the bartender squeaks as Marty hisses.

“Aw, fuck.” Orion curses, and then flinches. “Sorry. Uh….sorry.” He doesn’t know what his apology is for. Dropping the drink, cussing, or speeding away before he could help clean it up in order to catch the band backstage?

“Hey!” Marty calls. “Where are you going?”

Orion ignores him. He has a one-track mind right now, one focused on finding the band that just made him feel like he hit the jackpot. This. This is what he’s been looking for. 

The door swings open, and the band stop mid-conversation to look at Orion, who busted through the door without so much as a plan or script in place. Instead, he simply stands there. 

“Uh.” One girl, flaunting bright blue hair, says. “Yeah?”

Orion reveals his card, feeling a bit like a robot. He moves on automatic, working through the many thoughts in his head to utter the rest of his words. “Do you have a manager?”

. . . 

“You want to manage us?”

The din of the coffee shop sings with the sound of plates and aimless chatter. It’s been two days since he heard them perform back at the bar, and Orion has been running through his pitch the way one does before an interview. He’s never been this…nervous? Uncertain? In his life. 

“Yes,” is Orion’s only response. He sits on one side of the table while the band sits on the other; an invisible wall between them. He can see it, their apprehension. He is not one of them. 

Not yet, at least. 

“Wait.” The boy Orion learned is named Rowan leans forward, fingers on the table. “How do we know this isn’t a scam?”

“I’m not asking for money. All I ask is for you to show up to play for my boss. That’s it.” Auditions are a lost art. Nowadays artists are recruited through viral internet songs and connections. Two things that always exhausted Orion. It hasn’t been just about the music in a long time. 

Their eyes widen. They all exchange looks, equal parts excited and wary. 

“Why?” [MC], who he learned is the sole singer of the band, asks.

Because you made me feel something. Because listening to you is the first time I felt human in a long time.

He imagines himself waving off those words like mist. “Because you’re the first band that has caught my attention. And it’s not easy to catch my attention.”

The band member named Iris snorts. 

“I’m not trying to be arrogant,” he says blandly, leaning back in his chair to fold his arms over his chest. “It’s the truth.”

“Where do you work?” Another member, Devyn, asks. 

“Carolina Records.”

Multiple pairs of eyes widen.

“Holy shit.” Jazzy laughs. “The Carolina Records?”

Orion nods, used to this kind of reaction. Starry-eyed artists are pretty much the same when it comes to Carolina. “Yes.” He leans forward, his heart racing. “Just one audition. That’s all I ask.” 

He watches as they all exchange looks; a silent language only they share. After an agonizing moment, [MC] turns to him and nods. “When?”

. . . . 

Orion has been pacing for the last half hour.

He stands outside Carolina’s humble theater space, chewing on his nails as he waits for his boss, Jacob Hill, and a smattering of other executives and shareholders that will be the final word in whether Orion can work with [band]. He hasn’t asked for something this big in so long that Jacob Hill immediately said yes, more out of excitement and surprise than anything else. Orion did produce two of their most profitable artists in the company. 

The elevator doors open and Orion stops in place, head whipping up to see them walking through the hall in a wave of black suits and greased hair. Orion brushes down his shirt, trying to dampen his nerves. Jesus. Nerves? Get a grip, Orion. 

He doesn’t know how to stand as he waits for them to approach. Hands in pockets? Arms crossed? Orion is so indecisive he just resorts to standing straight, arms at his sides. 

“Mr. Hill.” Orion shakes his hand, clearing his throat. He makes his polite greetings to the rest of the team and says, “Thank you for making time for me.”

“Always, Orion.” Jacob slaps a large hand on his back. “You’re one of my best. You should ask me for favors more.”

Orion lets out a small, slightly nervous laugh. “Ah, you know. I like to—“

“—do things on your own,” Jacob finishes, a soft smile on his face. “I get it.”

He slowly looks up, meeting Jacob’s eyes. In them he can see the familiar pity he’s gotten since the divorce. 

It’s Orion’s fault, really. If he didn’t isolate himself and turn into what he is now, people wouldn’t look at him and assume he’s broken inside.

Would they be wrong in their assumption, though? Am I broken inside?

“Shall we?” another executive says, and Orion bobs his head in a nod, pushing away the image of Jacob’s face.

Inside is a small theater, the stage just big enough for one artist. The seats are plush leather, the lights dim but blue. Jacob always likes the spectacle, and he catered this space to feel like a real performance for possible signees. Orion decides against sitting, too nervous to do anything but stand in the back, giving them the signal he taught them in his pep talk before they came.

[MC] nods. “Um. Hi. We’re [band]. I’m [MC] and this is Iris, Rowan, Devyn, and Jazzy. And um…this is [song].”

Orion flinches at the lackluster introduction. Doesn’t matter, he thinks, unfamiliarly optimistic, the music will do the talking.

And it does.

But not in the way he thought.

All throughout the song, Orion peeks at Jacob and his team. He wants to celebrate when he sees them bobbing their heads, wants to curse when they get on their phones. Orion has never worried this much in his whole career. He’s never wanted something so bad. 

He’s never allowed himself to want. Not after the divorce. 

He didn’t think he was deserving of getting what he wanted. 

The song ends, and Orion lets out a breath. There’s muffled chatter between the men, and on stage the band crowd together, hopping in place as they let out their remaining nerves. 

Jacob stands, the rest following. Orion speeds ahead, wanting to see the thoughts on his face. Instead, Jacob simply regards him with thin lips.

“They were…good,” Jacob whispers, putting a hand on Orion’s shoulder and guiding him out of the room and to the empty hall, “but I think we’re going to go in another direction.”

Orion’s positivity leaks out of him like an open faucet. “What.”

Jacob inhales through his nose. “Look, the singer is talented. They all are. I understand why you like them but…” He shakes his head. “I don’t think the guys see it. And plus,” he shrugs, “they don’t have what we’re looking for.”

Orion’s brows furrow. His stomach drops in itself and his mouth dries. “They have another song. They could play it—“

“Orion.” Jacob gives him that pitying expression again. Fucking hell. He wants to smack that expression off his face. “I know you’ve been…off, since the divorce. You haven’t been on top of your game, and I’ve been giving you your space. It’s not easy, especially since you worked together—“

“I’m fine,” he says tightly.

“—but you can’t…fixate on something to get over it. You need to do it the healthy way. The old Orion would’ve brought me someone with pizzazz. With that unique Orion touch, you know?” Jacob pulls him close. Orion is reduced to a scolded child, unable to do anything but listen. “This isn’t the Orion I know. You usually bring me diamonds.” 

“I—“ Orion swallows. “I’m trying.” And it’s the most honest thing he’s said in ages. He’s trying. And it’s not working. He’s been trying the day he signed that fucking divorce paper and signed the only life he’s known away. 

“I know you are,” Jacob says, squeezing his shoulder. “Sometimes we miss, and that’s alright.”

The rest of the group filter out and both Jacob and Orion step back, trying to hide any sign of their tense conversation. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

Orion nods slowly, the lump in his throat growing as he feels multiple eyes on him. His jaw is clenched, his eyes are downturned. He can hardly look at his boss.

He stands there, frozen, forced to listen to their careless chatter as they walk down the hall. The moment they stepped out of those doors, they forgot about the band. The same band that made him feel something, the first time since his divorce. The same band he can’t get out of his head. The same band that proved he is not broken. He can still feel.

And they don’t even fucking care.

“I quit,” Orion says, the words coming out of him before he could even think. Jacob and Co turn around, twin expressions of shock on their faces. Orion looks up, straightening, trying to look even an inch of the Old Him.

“What?” Jacob blurts. 

“I quit.” Orion swallows. “I’ll formally hand in my resignation tomorrow.” He bows, trying to muster up the little respect and professionalism he has in him. “I’m sorry.”

“Orion—“

He spins around, walking back inside. 

The band is still on stage, this time all packed up and ready to go. When the door closes, they all look up, their hopeful and wide eyes on Orion as he walks down to the stage.

He stops in front of it. He puts two palms on the stage, looking at the members of the band he will take to the top. He promised it to himself…two minutes ago.

“I’m going to ask again,” Orion says through his teeth, his heart racing with the adrenaline of his quitting. What the fuck is he doing? And why does it feel so good? “Do you still need a manager?”

When he looks up, the band stares at him in silence.  

He witnesses [MC] look behind him at the door, where Jacob and his team left. As if realizing something, they look back down. “Yeah. You okay with another artist in your roster?”

“Yes.” Orion nods. He’s okay with it. 

Doubt.

You hate that word.

As a singer, you're not allowed to feel it. Doubt means messing up a line, going off-pitch, doubt means ruining everything you worked for.

Doubt means possibly embarrassing yourself in this parking lot.

Sebastian leans against the hood of his car, pale fingers curled around the steaming cup of coffee. Swirling neon lines from the DINER sign blurs in the puddle of water left behind from this morning's storm. It's night now, and if it weren't for the lights that illuminate the lot you wouldn't have been able to see Seb's face.

Which would've been so much better.

He stares into the diner, keeping an appraising eye on the customers inside. You noticed something about him recently; how alert he is. How aware he can be. His eye never remain in one place too long. You wonder if that's a product of being a parent. Even when Maya is safe in the hotel, Sebastian can't help but soak in the world as if waiting to be attacked.

You find it endearing most of the time. Now? You wish he would just look at you.

Look at me, you urge silently. Your eyes narrow just a bit, willing for some hypothetical latent mental telepathy to suddenly work. Don't you want to look at me?

He doesn't.

You stand next to him, your feet in front of you as you absently tap on your own drink. The air is musty, humid from the rain, and you two stand side by side, silent. His arm brushes yours on occasion, and when it does, you feel his eyes flicker to your face in your periphery. If you move your foot one inch to the left, your toes would be touching. If you inch closer, your hips.

So close, and yet.

"I like this," Sebastian says suddenly. You jolt, turning to him just as he hops on the hood of his car, legs dangling. "The silence that doesn't feel like silence.'

You quirk a small smile. After a moment of indecision, you pull yourself up by your hands to sit next to him. The whole left side of your body presses against his, but he doesn't seem to mind. Instead, his offers you a small, lazy smile.

"Silence that doesn't feel like silence?" you prompt, your breath growing a bit thin under his casual stare.

He shrugs, looking out into the empty street. "The world is never silent. You hear the wind, the cars. We're always so caught up in our lives...we never take a moment to soak in the small things. It's nice to just...be." He wrinkles his nose, the blush rising on his face so deep you can see it even against the harsh lights . "I'm sorry. That was cheesy-"

You shake your head fervently. Cheesy or not, you're willing to listen to anything Seb says if it means witnessing the sparkle he got in his eyes when he spoke. It's rare you see this Sebastian; the one who speaks freely, who offers lazy smiles like he has an endless amount of them, the one who just wants to sit next you in a diner parking lot that smells vaguely of cigars and exhaust. The one that says cheesy things without thinking because he's comfortable enough to.

"It wasn't cheesy at all," you say. "I like..." You swallow. "I like just...being with you."

There's a moment of non-reaction, and part of you fears you may have crossed a line. Then Seb smiles a little, keeping his eyes on the lights of the diner. "I like just being with you too. I..." He thinks for a moment. "I like who I am with you."

Your heart races. That familiar doubt rises again when your eyes settle on Sebastian's hand, which rests comfortable on the hood. When you look back up at him, you realize his chest has stopped moving, as if he's holding his breath.

Doubt. You shake it from your mind and slowly, very slowly, let your fingers creep to his until they settle on the back of his hand.

Seb stills and his eyes glance down. You begin to pull your hand away, feeling foolish and a bit pathetic.

"I'm sorry, that was... embarrassing-"

"No!" He grabs your hand in mid-air. His voice is quick and not to mention loud, so loud in the emptiness of the parking lot that he squeezes his eyes shut in embarrassment. When he opens them again, he smiles. "Don't." His movements start off slow: one finger on another, one thumb grazing your knuckles, until he's turning your hand around to hold it completely. In a move that sends you yelping, he pulls you closer and your upper-body practically falls on his lap. "Don't apologize."

"Alright, alright. Stop."

The music cuts off. Your friends groan and you huff out a sigh.

You're going to kill someone.

This night has been the longest in recent memory. The moment you stepped into the studio, the universe has been determined to make nothing work. The sound was off, the vibes weren't meshing well, and the entire band seems to be on their last nerve. Even frustratingly neutral Orion has grown irritated. You can see it in his furrowed brows, the way his voice pitches whenever he notices something wrong.

You put your hands on your hips, trying to keep your voice even. Your patience has been fraying since the first complaint when Orion decided it was appropriate to comment on the fact that you came in wearing pajamas....to the studio. At three a.m. "What now?"

"It's not working." Orion huffs through the mic and runs a hand through his hair before waving you guys away. "Just go home. We'll pick this up tomorrow."

"Thank God," Rowan mumbles. He's practically speeding away, not bothering to say another word. Your bandmates follow suit, mumbling halfhearted farewells before filtering out of the studio.

Somehow the producer is gone too, leaving you and Orion alone. He grumbles something, pacing back and forth, as you open the door of the booth and step out back into reality.

Orion doesn't notice you--or doesn't care, most likely--and continues mumbling. Ah. He's in one of those moods. The one where he hates the world and takes it out on his work.

"It's not that serious." You shrug. "We'll get it eventually. We always do."

"This was a waste of time," Orion groans. "Two hours down the drain."

You step closer. "How was it a waste of time? Work was done-"

"Unproductive work," he grits out, facing you with brows knitted.

You stare at him a moment. His anger can't just be on the work, can it?

"Orion-"

He shakes his head. "Forget it. I need to clean this up." Turning around, you watch as Orion furiously picks up the papers on the table. He seems to be looking for something and he stops. "Did you bring the notes I told you to bring?"

You pause a moment. Then the realization hits you. Shit. "Ah...I forgot-"

"Wonderful," he mutters, shaking his head. "Juuust wonderful."

"Orion." You clench your jaw. "You don't need to be an ass."

"I'm not." He frowns. "Being upset at your mistakes isn't being an ass."

"Mistakes?" you guffaw. "Like plural?"

He makes a sound in his throat. "That's how language works. Yes."

"Don't get smart with me." Your voice rises. "What have I done wrong?"

"What have you not done wrong?!" he says with equal severity. He whirls around to face you, moving too quickly. His elbow hits a shelf with a row of vinyls, everything tumbling to the ground.

Silence.

And then-

"Shit."

Orion bends down to pick it up and you follow a moment later. You two don't say anything a moment before he says: "I'm sorry." His voice is quiet, unfamiliarly soft. "I didn't mean to yell."

"It's okay-"

"It's not okay." He shakes his head. "I've just been a mess lately. Nothing has been going right for me. But this? This is what I'm good at. Work is what I'm good at. And when I fail at work-"

"You think you fail at everything."

He says nothing, face darkening when he continues to pick up the records. "...Yeah."

You stare at him, dropping the records in your hand to touch his cheek. "You don't fail with me."

His eyes land on yours and he smiles a little, but it looks more like a wince. He turns his head to rest his cheek in your hand. "Give it a few days. You'll be sick of me in no time."

"Not likely." You smile.

Something dark crosses his eyes, and you watch the way his hesitant gaze lowers to your mouth. You clear your throat, and Orion leans in, lips parting. He's never tried to kiss you at work before-

"Hey, did you know there's a two for one deal at McDonalds-" The producer stops mid-entrance. You and Orion quickly move away, pretending to be busy with picking up the records. "What's going on?"

"Nothing," you and Orion say in unison.

Maybe you should call someone, it doesn't really matter who, anyone would do at this point, and you wonder briefly where your phone is only to groan again when you remember it’s sitting on the island counter in the kitchen. Just my luck, you think woefully to yourself. No one to hold you, no one to comfort you, to make you laugh - a lousy way to spend to your evening, aching and miserable on your bathroom floor, what in all honesty feels like your last night alive.

You try to think of something to motivate yourself off the floor, something Jordan might've said at a meeting to lift everyone's spirits but your mind refuses to cooperate. Truthfully you hadn't been to a meeting in a while, a few weeks at most, with all of your symptoms piling on top of each other you can barely pull yourself out of bed these days, so maybe that's why Jordan's sage wisdom seems so out of reach. Or it's just the memory loss hitting you like a goddamned truck.

But you know the missing piece you feel isn't because you miss attending the meetings but rather the emotion filled to the brim in your heart, the yearning clouding your chest and making it difficult to breathe, is because you miss just one person. You miss Gabriel, much to your surprise, though simultaneously not surprising at all. You'd gotten to know him intimately well over the past few weeks, sharing stories and facts and secrets, despite him not being at all social, you somehow managed to pull it out of him. You feel tethered to him in a way, as if you're two halves of the same whole, which seems cliché even as you think it but you know it's true. Gabriel understands you in a way no one else ever has. You suddenly wish you'd spent time with him outside of meetings, as you think about it now you don't why you haven't, maybe if you had, you wouldn't feel so alone.

Somewhere in the apartment, you hear the front door. Great, a burglar, you think. Of course this would happen to you on a day when you feel so sick and so awful you can't move, at this point you're struggling to even blink. Eyelids slipping shut, you sigh, the air heavy as it leaves your lungs. "I hope they kill me," you mutter miserably.

The front door is pulled shut, footsteps move around the apartment, slow and drawn out, walking through each room, time spent taking in your, admittedly, poor choice in decor. You just hope whatever going on out there is over soon, if you're going to spend your day wallowing on the bathroom floor, you'd like to do it in peace.

The footsteps enter your bedroom, pausing momentarily before heavy strides cross the room, coming to a stop at the bathroom door. This is it, you think just before the unexpected happens.

A knock rasps against the wood, a voice calls to you from the other side; in a shocking twist of fate, you realise both belong to Gabriel.

"MC?" He says softly, the deep baritone of his voice sending chills down your spine. "Are you in there?"

"Y-Yeah," you reply, forcing your eyes open, another groan leaving you as the pounding in your skull gets somehow even more excruciating.

"Are you okay? Can I come in?" If you weren't feeling so god awful, you might've swooned at the concern in his voice.

Wincing at the waves of agony that toll through your body at the slightest movement, you drag yourself up into a sitting position and drape yourself over the edge of the bathtub, out of breath and vision blurring slightly. "Come on in," you tell him, attempting to sound somewhat jovial, because you are happy to have him here, at your apartment, for whatever reason, but the weakness in your own voice betrays you.

No sooner had the words left your lips than he opened the door, his tall frame and broad shoulders taking up too much space in your all too small bathroom, his grey eyes big and sparkling when they fall on you, and you offer him your best smile - which also happens to be your weakest.

He stands there for a moment, looking lost, handsome face twisted in concern, before clearing his throat, already long exceeding his usual number of sentences a day. "Are you okay?" he asks again.

You'd have shaken your head if it didn't hurt so much. "No," you tell him and he pouts at you as if somehow feeling your pain. "What're you doing here?"

"You haven't been to any meetings," he says simply. "I was worried about you."

Despite how close you've become, you can't help but wonder why. Outside of the meetings, you don't talk, you don't hang out, and you don't even have his number saved in your phone. Which is a shame, you think, because as silent as he is, you could listen to him for hours on end and never get bored. For a man that never talks, he has a lot to say.

That still doesn't change the fact that he's here, in your apartment, towering above you and looking as if he wants to physically help you but can't figure out how. And so you ask him. "Why?"

Thick eyebrows furrow in confusion. "Because, MC," he starts, his voice thick with emotion that almost makes your heart break. "I never realised how much I needed you until you were the only person who wasn't there."

"Oh," you say softly and for a moment, you feel fine, there's no pounding in your head, no pain in every movement or thought, there's only you, Gabriel and that in itself is enough to cure you of anything. You offer him a small smile that he tentatively returns. "I need you too."

He doesn't look away from you as he sinks down onto the toilet lid, his smile melting away into something more concerned, his grey eyes taking in your crumpled form. "Do you need me to get anything for you?"

You try to think past your affection for the man sitting in front of you, past the gratitude for his presence swelling in your chest, but the exhaustion settling in your bones is enough to overshadow everything. Your eyelids feeling heavier by the second, you throw your arm out to him. "Help me stand? I just want to go to sleep."

He's nodding before you even finish your sentence, standing up himself and ignoring your hand as he reaches down to slide one arm beneath your legs and the other behind your back, picking you up and cradling you in his arms as if you weigh nothing. He carries you with ease to your bedroom and in no time, you're deposited back into the warm comfort of your bed, your eyes slipping shut as he pulls the covers over you. You feel him begin to pull away from you and you reach out blindly, clinging to his arm, desperate to not let him leave just yet.

"Will you stay?" You ask quietly, sleep beginning to take hold of you as you sink further into the sheets.