#off script

He’s tall, charming in that boyish way that makes you think he’s never had to try too hard at anything. And he’s holding out a hand like the two of you haven’t been sitting in the same holding room for the past hour, like you didn’t just watch him high-five every casting assistant and crack a joke with the lighting guy and befriend the green-screen lady.

You blink, gather your breath, and take his hand. “I’m Y/N—” 

You hesitate for half a second, but it’s more instinct than insecurity. 

“You look nervous,” he says, dropping into the seat beside you without waiting for an invitation.

He doesn’t say it unkindly—it’s more of an observation, like he’s stating the weather or that you’ve got a pen tucked behind your ear.

“I’m fine,” you say, but your thumb is still pressed against the margin of the script, smoothing over the same corner you’ve been folding and unfolding since you walked in.

“It’s the lines, isn’t it?” James leans over, peeking at your script.

“Everyone always gets stuck on that one monologue. It’s a beast. I couldn’t get through it without sounding like I was about to cry. Still can’t, but maybe that’s the point.”

You glance at him, surprised. “You struggled with it?”

“Oh, absolutely,” he says easily. “I’ve been in this industry since I was in diapers and I still choke on the heavy stuff. My parents keep trying to convince me it’s all about breathing and honesty. But I think sometimes it’s just about surviving the scene.”

You try not to look visibly shocked. Of course you know who he is. Everyone does. Euphemia and Fleamont Potter—famous for their string of Emmy-winning series and flawless box office runs—are the brains behind this very show. Stranger Things. The dark, nostalgic, terrifyingly brilliant project that people have already started calling “genre-defining.” The Potters are its creators, directors, and executive producers. And James? He’s practically royalty.

You wonder, briefly, if he knows how impossible it is for someone like you to be here.

Because you didn’t grow up on studio lots. You didn’t take acting classes at age three or have your face printed on casting calls by age six. You came from a town where dreams like this stayed dreams. No famous family. No connections. Just a voice in your head telling you to try.

Now you’re here. Sixteen years old, freshly cast as one of the leads in the most anticipated show of the year, with a role that’s raw and strange and full of psychic powers and bleeding noses. You’re not even sure how you got it.

They haven’t officially announced the cast yet. There’s still one final audition round left, but the assistant told you it’s more of a chemistry read—just to see how you and the others move together. Still, the thought of it makes your heart pound.

This isn’t just a dream come true. It’s a dream with teeth.

James nudges your elbow lightly. “You’re gonna be brilliant, by the way.”

You blink. “What?”

“The scene. The whole thing. I can tell.” His smile softens, less flashy now, more real. “You’ve got this look in your eyes. Like you’ve already lived it.”

You don’t know what to say to that. So you just nod, and for the first time since you arrived, the room feels a little less sharp. The walls stop closing in.

James grew up with cameras in his face and scripts in his hands. This is his normal.

But he doesn’t make you feel small. He doesn’t throw it around like it means more than your quiet, trembling hands or your desperate need to belong.

“Are you nervous?” you ask, half-joking.

He grins. “Always. That’s how I know it matters.”

You smile back, the knot in your stomach loosening just a little.

“You want to run lines?” he offers, already pulling out his own copy of the scene, edges covered in messy ink.

You nod.

And for the first time since you got the call, the weight lifts. A little.

You’re still the only one who didn’t come from a famous family. Still the only one whose name means nothing in a casting room.

But James Potter is sitting beside you, reading your name like it belongs here. And maybe that’s a start.

You and James run lines for what feels like both forever and no time at all.

He reads with an ease that doesn’t feel showy. There’s no smugness, no performance for the sake of impressing you—he just lives in the scene.

He trips over words sometimes, laughs at strange directions, makes faces when something doesn’t make sense. It makes you feel lighter, like maybe this isn’t so impossible after all. Like maybe you don’t have to be perfect to be good.

At some point, your shoulders stop tensing at every noise. The studio hallway grows louder as more crew members shuffle past—assistants with clipboards, stylists with tangled garment bags, someone dragging what looks like a lighting rig across the floor—but their movement blurs into the background. You’ve got a rhythm now. A steady back and forth between pages, voices, breath.

Then a voice cuts through the hallway: “Remus Lupin? Scene ten, take nine—you’re up.”

James looks up and grins. “You’ll like Remus. He’s good. Kind of freakishly good, actually.”

But you don’t really hear James. Because after Remus, it’ll be you.

You try not to stiffen, but your fingers tighten around the script in your lap. You glance toward the casting room door—the one they’ll call you through next—and suddenly it’s harder to breathe.

James must notice, because he bumps your shoulder lightly. “Hey. You’re fine. You’ve got, like, twenty minutes.”

You nod, swallowing hard. “I think I’ll step out for a bit. Get some air.”

“Good idea,” he says easily, already gathering the pages between his fingers. “Don’t go far, and don’t psych yourself out.”

You smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

The hallway is more crowded than when you first arrived, a blur of unfamiliar faces and tangled equipment. You walk briskly, turning toward the exit sign at the far end—except when you get there, it leads to another corridor, not outside.

The studio’s layout is a maze of white-painted walls, steel beams, and swinging doors with production labels. Voices bounce from room to room. The air is warm with stage lights and static.

You try another hallway. No exit. Just more people—tech crew, assistants, actors already in costume. Someone offers you a bottled water. Another brushes past you with a headset and a frown.

Still no fresh air.

You keep moving, further from the noise, until you find a stairwell tucked between two heavy doors. You climb, following the scent of dust and metal, up past the wardrobe floor, past the locked rehearsal studios, up to a plain gray door that hums faintly with the wind behind it.

It opens to the rooftop.

It’s quieter here—distant sirens, a low hum from the city beyond the studio walls. The sky is overcast but soft, the kind of light that makes everything look washed in nostalgia. You step forward slowly, as if not to disturb it.

From up here, the lot looks small. Even the casting room—the one that holds your future inside its four thin walls—seems like it couldn't possibly contain something as heavy as your dream. You sit down against the ledge, script still in hand, the pages fluttering slightly in the breeze.

You close your eyes for a moment, just to remember how it feels to breathe when no one is watching.

You close your eyes for a moment, just to remember how it feels to breathe when no one is watching.

But when you open them again, you realize you aren’t alone.

There’s a figure already at the far end of the rooftop, perched at the edge, his back to you. His legs dangle over open air, casually swinging like the hundred-foot drop beneath him means nothing.

You blink, startled. He hadn’t made a sound—not even the creak of movement on the metal ledge.

Your breath catches. “Hey—careful, you’ll fall off.”

The boy doesn’t move. For a second, you think maybe he didn’t hear you.

But then he sighs—loud and pointed—and turns his head slightly, just enough for you to catch a glimpse of his face.

His eyes are red. Not tired, not irritated—red. The kind that only happens when someone’s been crying for a long time and didn’t have time to fix it before being seen.

“I’m fine,” he says flatly. Not annoyed. Not grateful. Just… blunt.

You take a step closer, slowly, like you’re trying not to spook a wounded animal. “You’re not really supposed to be sitting like that.”

“Then don’t look,” he mutters, eyes flicking back toward the skyline. His voice isn’t sharp, but it cuts anyway.

He’s dressed like someone who was supposed to be somewhere important earlier—pressed shirt, blazer half-slipped off one shoulder, tie loose and crooked. But his hair’s a little messy, and there’s a scuff on one of his shoes, and he looks like he got into a fight with the day and lost.

“I just—” You hesitate, but the words come anyway. “I didn’t think anyone would be up here.”

“Clearly.”

You bristle, despite yourself. There’s a part of you that wants to walk away. Let him stew in his rooftop silence and whatever disaster he’s currently avoiding. But there’s something in his posture—how rigid his shoulders are, how he won’t look at you—that stops you.

So instead of stepping back, you step forward. Right up to the ledge.

And then you climb onto it.

His head snaps toward you. “What are you doing?”

You settle beside him with more stubbornness than grace, gripping the edge for balance as your legs dangle beside his. “If you get to sit here, so do I.”

He frowns, the sharp line of his jaw tightening, a muscle twitching as if caught between restraint and something more volatile. “You could fall.”

“So could you,” you answer without hesitation, your voice calm but firm.

“That’s different.”

“Is it?” you tilt your head, meeting his eyes. “How?”

He opens his mouth like he has the answer ready—like he always does—but nothing comes. His jaw locks again, and for a moment, silence stretches between you, taut as wire.

“Because—” he starts, and then falters. The words catch in his throat. And when he speaks again, it’s thinner, almost like fear is threading through it. “Because I’ve been up here before. I know where the edge is.”

You glance out at the city skyline, the wind brushing against your cheek like a warning, and then back at him. “Then show me.”

He looks at you for a long second, a storm flickering in his gaze. Like he’s weighing the urge to lash out, to say something cold or careless to make you leave.

But something in your expression stops him. Because you’re not backing down. And maybe that’s what makes him pause. Maybe that’s when he sees it—the same quiet storm behind your eyes that mirrors his own. That same mix of anger and aching, of being brave when all you want to do is run.

His shoulders drop slightly, the tension bleeding out in a slow, reluctant breath. When he speaks again, it’s not angry anymore.

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

“You shouldn’t be up here alone,” you say, your voice soft but unwavering.

He huffs, a half-laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes. Still, he doesn’t look away. “You’re impossible,” he mutters under his breath, shaking his head.

“And you’re not?” you counter, the corners of your mouth tugging upward just a little.

His eyes flick to you again, sharper this time. Curious. Like he’s trying to make sense of you, to figure out why you keep showing up in all the places he thought he’d locked away for himself.

“What are you even doing up here?” he finally asks, voice low, frayed at the edges.

You shrug, trying to keep your tone casual even though your hands are starting to feel numb from the wind. “Auditions. I needed air.”

That gets his attention. He turns to you more fully, brows pulling together. “Wait—you’re here for Stranger Things?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

His stare sharpens. “Who are you cast as?”

You hesitate, just for a breath. “The girl. With the powers.”

His mouth drops open slightly. “Fuck.”

You blink. “What?”

He lets out a humorless laugh and rubs a hand over his face. “Just… of course. Of course it’s you.”

You narrow your eyes. “Why? What’s that supposed to mean?”

He doesn’t answer right away, just tips his head back toward the sky like it might answer for him. Then, with a sigh, he mutters, “I’m her love interest, Mike.”

There’s a beat of silence. A breeze cuts through, and suddenly you’re hyper-aware of how close you’re sitting, how this rooftop feels like a stage you didn’t mean to step onto.

“Wait,” you say, squinting at him. “So… who are you?”

He pauses for just a second too long. “Sirius. Sirius Black.”

You blink again, harder this time.

“You’re—Sirius Black?”

He grimaces. “Unfortunately.”

And that’s when it hits you. The name. The face. The headlines.

The Sirius Black. Probably the most well-known teen actor of his generation. Star of a dozen indie films, two major franchises, and one Oscar-buzz drama that made everyone collectively lose their minds when he was fourteen.

His mother, Walburga Black, hosts one of the most watched reality TV empires in the country, her name basically synonymous with Hollywood gossip.

His father, Orion Black, was once a golden boy actor in the 80s, now the executive force behind Black Pictures—one of the biggest production companies in the industry. The entire family reads like a film credits list. His uncles are actors. His aunts are Oscar-nominated. His godfather is the face of an entire perfume brand.

And you… you had to pick this rooftop.

“Oh,” you say faintly, the word barely brushing past your lips. “That makes sense.”

He snorts, bitter and tired. “Does it?”

You look at him again—really look. There’s a glassiness to his eyes, a kind of weight that doesn’t come from call sheets or cameras but from something older, quieter, and heavier. And for a moment, you’re not sure if he’s laughing at you or at himself.

“I mean,” you murmur, gaze steady, “it explains the dramatics.”

That earns the faintest twitch of a smile—subtle, almost like it slips through before he can stop it. “You’ve got guts,” he says, the words curling just slightly at the edges, “I’ll give you that.”

You don’t know who laughs first.

Maybe it’s him—Sirius Black, perched on the edge of a rooftop like it’s just another stage, muttering something dry that slices through the silence and all your tension with it.

Or maybe it’s you—because everything suddenly feels absurd. The audition, the pressure, the hours spent holding your breath, the way the city breathes beneath your feet.

You glance at him. He’s not smiling wide, not beaming, but there’s something there now—something pulled from beneath the stormcloud eyes and sharp cheekbones. A warmth that could almost be mistaken for light.

And then it hits you.

Your entire body jolts with the realization.

“Shit,” you breathe, the word tumbling out before you can stop it.

He glances over, one eyebrow lifting. “What now?”

“My audition,” you murmur, eyes already darting to the crumpled script poking out of your dress pocket. “Your name’s on my pages.”

He stares at you. “What?”

“You’re in the scene I’m auditioning with.” You fumble for the paper, smoothing it open between your hands. “It’s the one with the girl and the boy in the woods—the flashlight, the whole speech about being scared and doing it anyway.”

He leans slightly to peek at the page, and then groans. “Oh, that one.”

You nod. “That’s you.”

He shrugs, utterly unfazed. “Great. You’ve got it covered.”

“No, I don’t. I need to run it, with you.”

“I don’t rehearse,” he says simply, like it’s a personal philosophy.

You blink. “I’m sorry?”

“I don’t rehearse,” he repeats, dragging a hand through his hair. “Never really needed to. I show up, hit the mark, say the lines. People seem to like it.”

You just stare at him.

“Sirius fucking Black,” you mutter under your breath, turning toward him with a look that could split the moon in half. “You are going to rehearse with me.”

He looks almost amused. “Am I?”

You’re already climbing off the ledge, your white dress catching in the wind as you move fast, fueled by panic and adrenaline and something that feels dangerously close to raw determination.

“Whoa, whoa—hey!”

Before you can plant your feet back on the gravel safely, a hand grabs your wrist—tight, steady, pulling you back just enough.

“Fuck, be careful, angel,” he mutters, the words rushed and low like they’ve leapt out of him uninvited.

You pause.

Not because of the nickname (though it sparks something strange in your chest), but because he said it like he meant it. Like for half a second, the idea of you falling scared him more than anything else in this moment.

He’s still holding your wrist when you look at him.

“I’m fine,” you say, softer now. “I’ve got it.”

He lets go, slowly.

And then you square your shoulders, adjust the pages in your hand, and lift your chin. “We’re doing this scene.”

“I just said—”

“You are going to rehearse with me!” you repeat, voice sharper now.

“Because I am going to get this fuckass role. I don’t care how many Emmys your uncle has, or how many magazine covers your face is on.  I didn’t crawl my way into this building to have some nepotism prince brush me off like I’m decoration!”

His eyes go wide, a flicker of something wild and admiring sparking in them.

And then he bursts out laughing.

Full, deep laughter. The kind that echoes off the rooftop walls and makes your blood boil.

“Stop laughing!” you snap.

He just keeps laughing, wheezing now, hands on his knees. “You—you just said fuckass role.”

“I’m serious!”

“No, I’m Sirius.”

You groan, glaring.

He holds up his hands in mock surrender, still grinning. “Okay, okay. You’re terrifying.”

“Good.”

He straightens up, brushing off the edge of his jeans. “Fine. Let’s rehearse. But only because you threatened me.”

You cross your arms. “I did no such thing.”

“You dragged me off a ledge like some kind of homicidal fairy.”

You shrug. “Desperate times.”

He looks at you for a long moment. The wind plays with the edge of your dress, your hair, the papers clutched in your hand. And you swear he softens—just slightly. The edge in him easing, curiosity replacing arrogance.

“All right.” He tugs a folded script from the inside pocket of his leather jacket and waves it in the air. “Let’s see if you’re any good, then.”

Your eyes narrow. “I’m excellent.”

“We’ll see.”

You step back, flipping to the right scene, clearing your throat. The wind tugs at the corners of your script and your dress, but your hands are steady now. He leans against the ledge, eyes half-lidded and unreadable, and waits for you to begin.

The rooftop isn’t a stage. The city doesn’t quiet for your lines. No one’s watching.

But you speak like someone’s listening.

And when you finish the scene—when the last word hangs between you, raw and electric—Sirius doesn’t say anything for a long time.

He just looks at you.

Like he sees something he didn’t expect.

Like maybe, you belong here after all.

Sirius taps the edge of your script with a knuckle. “Alright, angel. Scene 10. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

You raise a brow. “Just like that?”

“Just like that,” he says, dropping into an easy stance like he’s done this a thousand times before.

His posture shifts, the smirk tucks itself away, and suddenly he’s someone else entirely—Mike, the boy trying to hold a flashlight steady while the world around him falls apart.

You take one breath, then another, then step into the moment.

Scene 10. Forest. Mike and Eleven, side by side in the dark.

The lines you’ve memorized a dozen times spill out, but this time they don’t feel rehearsed. Sirius listens like he’s never heard them before, and when he speaks, it’s with a weight that grounds the scene.

The words aren’t magic—but they do something close. The space between you vibrates with the rhythm of shared silence, tension, emotion. It’s short, but by the time you reach the last line—“It’s not about what we lost. It’s about what we’ve still got.”—the quiet that follows feels earned.

Sirius exhales and gives you a crooked smile. “You’ve got timing.”

You shrug, but your heart beats louder than before.

Without a word, he grabs the scripts from your hands and plops down cross-legged on the rooftop floor. “Let me see.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Are you always this—”

“Collaborative,” he cuts in, uncapping a marker from his jacket pocket. “Now sit. We’ve got work to do.”

His annotations are a mess of arrows and looping words. He circles beats, draws dashes for pauses, and jots little notes like don’t rush this or breathe here. His handwriting is barely legible, but the edits are precise, focused.

“Pause here. This line’s too heavy to throw away,” he murmurs. “And this? Keep your voice low. Not scared—just… holding back.”

You watch him, amused. “You always direct your scene partners?”

“Only when they can actually act,” he says, glancing up.

You snort. “Is that a compliment?”

“Don’t push it.”

The corner of your mouth quirks, and he flips to the next page.

Scene 11.

He hums. “Ah. That one.”

You know immediately. The basement scene. The one where Mike—Sirius’s character—fake proposes to Eleven, your role, just to get her to talk again. You’ve read it so many times that the dialogue is practically carved into your bones.

He reads over the first few lines and chuckles. “This is so dumb.”

“It’s not dumb,” you argue lightly. “It’s sweet. In a stupid, manipulative way.”

Sirius makes a face. “Exactly.”

Still, he stands, brushing dust off his jeans. “Come on, then. Let’s get this over with.”

You both take position, scripts half-forgotten at your feet.

He steps into the part quickly, voice shifting into something earnest and awkward—Mike trying to coax Eleven out of silence with a ring made from a candy wrapper and desperation.

“Okay,” he says, kneeling dramatically. “Since you clearly won’t talk to me like a normal person… I guess there’s only one thing left to do. I hereby propose. Like—on one knee and everything.”

You fold your arms. Stay silent.

“Wow. Rejected without mercy,” he mutters, then softens. “You haven’t talked to me in. Do you hate me?”

You look down, breathe. “No.”

“You’re mad?”

“No.”

“Then why—”

“Because I’m scared.”

The words slip out soft, but true. And Sirius looks at you differently this time—more like Mike, less like the boy who called you angel and handed you his marker.

A silence follows that isn’t awkward, only real.

Then Sirius lets out a low whistle. “Damn. You’ve got this.”

You let yourself smile. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

“Please,” he grins. “I’m Sirius Black.”

You roll your eyes, but something in your chest loosens. For the first time, the role doesn’t feel like something you're chasing. It feels like something already yours.

Sirius plucks your script off the ground again, flipping back to Scene 11 like he isn’t still grinning from your fake rejection five minutes ago.

“Well, angel,” he says, stretching out on the rooftop like it’s his living room, “if you’re gonna turn me down, at least let me immortalize it.”

He grabs his marker—still uncapped, still bleeding slightly at the edges—and scribbles something in the margin next to your line: SAY IT LIKE YOU’RE LYING TO YOURSELF.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you ask, leaning over his shoulder.

He shrugs. “Exactly what it sounds like. Don’t act like you’re scared of him—act like you’re scared of what he means.”

You blink at him. “Since when are you an actor and a psychologist?”

He grins, toothy and easy. “Since five minutes ago. I’m multitalented.”

You’re still laughing when the rooftop door slams open behind you.

A crew member stands in the doorway, breathless and wide-eyed. “There you are—we’ve been looking for you for ten minutes! Are you out of your minds? You’re both up next!”

Your stomach drops.

Sirius just stretches, calmly dusting off his jeans. “We got a little carried away. It’s fine.”

“It is not fine!” the woman shouts, already dialing someone on her headset. “Come on, let’s go!”

You scramble to your feet, panic rising like a tide you can’t swim against. Ten minutes. That’s forever in this world—enough time for a casting director to change their mind, to offer your role to someone shinier, someone with the right last name.

You clutch your script to your chest as you follow Sirius down the narrow stairwell, and your thoughts spiral with every step—they’re going to hate me, I ruined it, I lost it, I lost it—

“Hey.” Sirius’s voice cuts through the static, and then—his hand on your wrist.

He stops midway down the stairs, turning you to face him. “Hey. Look at me.”

You do. His eyes are steadier than you’ve seen them all day, quiet in a way that feels almost reverent.

“You’re fine. You haven’t lost anything. Just breathe, alright?”

You shake your head, heart pounding too loud in your ears. “They’re going to be mad. They’re going to say I’m unprofessional—”

“Shh.” He shifts his grip, then with his free hand, pulls the marker from his pocket again.

And slowly, gently, he starts drawing stars along the inside of your wrist—five-pointed, slightly smudged, looping together like constellations only he can see.

It takes you a second to notice that your breathing’s slowed.

The panic eases.

You glance down at the ink-dusted trail of stars blooming across your skin. “How did you… know to do that?”

Sirius freezes for a beat too long.

Then he looks away, tucking the marker back into his pocket. “My brother. Sometimes he… gets like that.”

You want to ask more, but something in his expression tells you not to. His shoulders stiffen, the familiar armor sliding back into place. The charm, the cool detachment—it’s all back by the time you reach the studio door.

But the stars stay on your wrist.

The second the studio doors swing open, chaos swallows you whole.

It’s brighter than you expect—overhead lights casting a sterile glow across the soundstage, voices overlapping as crew members rush to and from set, someone shouting about blocking, someone else dragging a lighting rig across the floor. You blink against it all, suddenly unsure where to look, where to stand, how to exist.

And then—

“There you are!” James.

He jogs over, looking mildly out of breath, strands of his messy hair falling over his glasses. Relief flashes across his face when he sees you, and then it shifts—warms—when his eyes land just beyond your shoulder.

“Sirius,” James breathes.

And Sirius lights up.

Like a switch flipped. The edges of him soften, melt. That cool indifference disappears entirely as he grins, almost boyishly, and throws his arms around James in a way that’s too fast to think about and too real to be scripted.

“God, I haven’t seen you in forever,” Sirius mutters into James’s shoulder, and you swear—for half a second—he sounds like a different person.

“Thought you were ditching the project,” James teases, clapping him on the back.

“Almost did.”

James pulls away, looking over at you. “You met Y/N, yeah? She’s playing the girl with powers. She’s incredible.”

You smile, shy under the weight of his praise. But before you can say anything—

“Hello, darling.”

A voice, smooth and warm and unmistakably in charge, cuts through the air. A woman strides over, sharp black heels clicking on the floor. Her hair is pinned up perfectly, lips a red that looks expensive, and the way everyone parts around her—it tells you everything you need to know.

Euphemia Potter. The director.

She reaches for your hand like you’ve already earned the role and says your name like she’s been waiting to meet you for months.

“I’ve heard about you,” she says, voice honeyed. “And I just want you to know—don’t worry about a thing. You’re here because you belong here. Okay?”

You nod, not trusting your voice. But something in your chest eases.

“And this,” she says, glancing over her shoulder, “is my husband, Fleamont. Producer. He’ll pretend he’s not a softie, but he cried over Scene 9.”

He gives you a polite smile and a knowing wink.

Before you can process any more, a crew member in a headset appears beside you, clipboard in one hand, clapperboard in the other.

He looks between you and Sirius, then lifts the board slowly.

“Alright,” he calls out, voice carrying across the set, grounding the room in sudden stillness.

A spotlight clicks on overhead.

The crew goes quiet. Everyone freezes.

You take your mark. Sirius takes his.

And the board rises. 

“Scene 11, take 1.” Snap.

The clap cuts through the silence, sharp and final.

And in that breathless second after the sound dies—everything begins.

Sirius turns to face you in the darkened basement set, his expression already shifting. The cameras roll, the lights hum, and the line between fiction and reality dissolves like sugar in water.

And just like that, the scene begins.

-

a/n: idk why i cringed so much writing this (i promise pt 2 is much better) anyways, thoughts?