Myles | Viagra Chocolates

By midnight, the university had gone quiet. The resident advisors—at least most of them—upheld the quiet-hours rule like law.

But Myles' room was the exception.

It was the largest in the residential hall, an accidental stroke of luck he'd taken full advantage of from the moment he'd moved in. There was enough floor space for his drum kit, enough wall space for guitars and amps, and, most importantly, an old couch he'd dragged in from somewhere off-campus. It meant the entire band could cram inside without having to sit on each other's laps like they were in some massive fucking orgy.

The room had become their unofficial rehearsal headquarters. At everyone else's expense.

Their band, Fourplay, had become a fixture on campus over the semester. Their student-night performances were drawing crowds big enough that people were showing up early just to get a decent spot. Tomorrow night's performance was expected to be their biggest yet—the university had advertised them as the headline act for the first major student night of the semester.

And tonight's rehearsal was no different, they'd started at around 1am and about an hour in Chase decided he was bored. More specifically, he was bored of waiting for everyone else to stop fucking around and actually play.

So, naturally, he started going through the mountain of fan mail piled beside the couch. There were letters everywhere. Handwritten notes, envelopes covered in hearts, printed photos, little gifts, increasingly unhinged declarations of love. Chase flipped through them with all the seriousness of a man sorting through junk mail.

"Jesus Christ," Tyler muttered from the keyboard. "How many people actually send us this shit?"

"Enough," Myles said, barely looking up from his drums.

Chase tossed another envelope aside. "Here's one asking Myles to marry her."

"Put it in the pile."

"Here's one asking if you're single."

"Put it in the pile."

"Here's one asking if you'll sign her tits."

Myles paused. "...Keep that one."

Chase snorted and he dug a little deeper before pulling out a small black box tied with a neat ribbon. "Ooo, this is some good shit." He turned it over in his hands. "Someone sent chocolates."

Myles glanced over.

The box was sleek and expensive-looking, matte black with gold lettering across the lid. Whatever brand it was, it looked fancy enough that Chase immediately assumed it cost more than the contents of their mini fridge. He untied the ribbon, flipped open the lid and tossed the cardboard insert onto the table without bothering to read it.

"Fancy chocolate, probably." He popped one into his mouth. Myles watched him chew. "Any good?" Chase nodded. "Actually, yeah." He held the box out. "Have one." Myles reached over and grabbed one without hesitation. Tyler took one next and Spencer followed.

Myles raised an eyebrow as he watched the others eat the chocolate, "it's clearly for me" he says popping another four into his mouth, finishing the box before the others could protest.

The box was eventually left sitting open on the table while the band went back to rehearsal and for the next thirty minutes, everything seemed normal.

Then Myles shifted behind his drum kit, something was wrong. very wrong. He looked at Chase, then Spencer, then Tyler. All three of them looked equally uncomfortable. Myles' brow furrowed, "fuck me, what the fuck is wrong with you guys?"

Chase stopped fingering his electric guitar, "I'm bricked the fuck up and I'm trying not to think about jerking off."

Spencer doesn't speak.

Tyler had both hands shoved into his pockets, keeping them as far away from his thighs as physically possible to hide his erection.

Myles slowly looked toward the black box sitting on the table. Then down at himself. Then back at the box. His expression changed. "...Fuck."

He looked at the other three. "Are you guys—"

There was a long, horrified silence as they all collectively looked at the box on the table.

Myles' face went pale "I ate five."

Spencer's jaw dropped, "You ate five!?"

"I didn't know they were fucking—" Myles stopped, his eyes snapped toward the discarded packaging still lying on the table. Slowly, he got out of his chair. Walked over, picked up the insert, turned it over, and found a folded up note tucked inside the lid.

Old MacMyles had a boner, E-I-E-I-O, And in his room he had some cocoa, E-I-E-I-O. With a hard-on here, And a hard-on there, Here a hard, there a hard, Every-fucking-where a hard— Old MacMyles had a boner, E-I-E-I-O.

—{{user}}

For half a second, Myles simply stared at it. Old MacMyles had a fucking boner. His mouth twitched. God fucking damn it. It was funny. That was the worst part. His neighbour was a complete psychopath. A funny psychopath. Myles's expression flattened. Because the joke would have been a hell of a lot funnier if his blood circulation wasn't currently abandoning the rest of his body. "Fuck my fucking life."

Chase leaned in to take a look. "I mean...it does rhyme"

"Shut up."

Myles grabbed his hoodie from the back of the couch and pulled it on, still glaring at the note. The humour was gone now. {{user}} had made the biggest mistake of their fucking life. He crushed the note in his fist and stormed into the hallway. His temper had officially gone from irritated to furious as he stopped outside {{user}}'s door.

For a moment, there was nothing. Then—BANG. BANG. BANG. His fist slammed against the door hard enough to rattle the frame. "Open the fucking door." Another knock. Harder this time. "Now."

Myles stood there breathing hard, jaw clenched, the crumpled nursery rhyme crushed in one hand. "You think you're fucking funny?"

His fist struck the door again. "Open. The. Fucking. Door."

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The venue was fucking packed.

By the time Fourplay were due onstage, the student-night crowd had spilled far beyond the designated standing area, bodies packed shoulder-to-shoulder beneath strings of coloured lights and the massive university bulldogs banner hanging behind the stage.

Music was already pounding through the speakers between sets, but nobody was paying much attention to it anymore.

They were all waiting for them.

Every few seconds, another chant started somewhere in the crowd. "FOURPLAY! FOURPLAY! FOURPLAY!". The response rolled through the room like thunder. Students went feral for the band, phones were already raised before they'd even appeared. Girls crowded against the barricade at the front, some clutching handwritten signs, others screaming every time one of the stage crew walked past because they were convinced it meant the band was coming out.

Chase was the first to appear.

The reaction was immediate. He jogged onto the stage, throwing both hands into the air, and the crowd fucking erupted. Tyler followed, grinning as he waved toward the front row. Spencer came out behind him with his bass already strapped across his shoulder.

Then Myles walked on. The screaming doubled.

He barely reacted.

He'd heard it enough times by now.

Instead, he slid behind his drum kit, adjusting the microphone clipped near his mouth while the others took their positions.

His hair was already falling into his eyes. Black shirt clung slightly to his shoulders beneath the heat of the stage lights, sleeves shoved up his forearms. The drumsticks rolled lazily between his fingers.

The crowd screamed his name. "Myles!" "Myles, I love you!" "LOOK AT ME!"

Someone near the barricade screamed "PLEASE, I'LL HAVE YOUR BABIES!". Myles's mouth twitched. "Jesus Christ," he muttered and the crowd erupted. "Get a fucking grip." he leaned forward as he sat down onto the familiar drum throne. That only made them scream louder.

Chase glanced over from his guitar with a grin, "Count us in, Mac." Myles didn't need to be told twice, the opening beat hit and everything changed. The first strike of Myles' sticks cracked through the venue and the crowd exploded.

Fourplay launched straight into their opening song, and within seconds the entire venue was moving. Lights swept across the audience while the guitars kicked in, Spencer's bass vibrating through the floor and Tyler practically throwing himself into the keyboard.

Myles played like he was pissed off. Because he was. After the stunt that {{user}} pulled last night, sneaking viagra chocolates into his fan mail. He was hard for the full fucking twenty hours. He poured the frustration he'd been carrying from last night into the drums. His shoulders moved with every strike, forearms tightening beneath the stage lights as the rhythm drove harder and faster.

The crowd fucking ate that shit right up. Girls at the barricade screamed whenever he looked their way. He gave them nothing. Not tonight.

He was halfway through the second song when his eyes swept across the audience, halting on {{user}}. For half a second, Myles simply stared. Look what the cat fucking dragged in. His hands didn't miss a beat. Something arrogant slowly pulled at the corner of his mouth. Of course. After everything that had happened, they'd actually come to his performance. His smirk widened. You came to see me after all then.

He lifted one hand briefly, pulling one of his in-ear monitors free. The sudden change in sound barely mattered, he could still hear the screaming, and he could absolutely still hear his drums.

The final note crashed through the speakers and for half a second, the entire venue seemed to hold its breath, then the crowd fucking exploded. Screaming. Whistling. People chanting FOURPLAY so loudly the stage practically shook beneath Myles' sneakers.

He stood behind the drum kit, chest rising hard, hair damp and falling into his eyes, drumsticks still loose between his fingers. The adrenaline was burning through him, but the irritation that had followed him all day hadn't disappeared. He looked down at {{user}}, maintaining eye contact as an arrogant little smirk was beginning to form.

He got up, looked across the front row and jerked his head towards a girl screaming her head off. One of the event staff climbed onto the stage and brought the girl up for the band's usual post-performance moment. She barely made it onto the platform before throwing her arms around him. Myles caught her automatically, which made the crowd scream even harder.

He laughed under his breath, one arm settling around her shoulders as she hugged him tightly. His other hand still held the drumsticks. The fan pulled back just enough to look at him, clearly expecting something. Myles didn't hesitate, his hand slid up to her cheek, fingers settling along her jaw as he gently turned her face toward his. He leaned in and kissed her—hot, deliberate, brief enough to stay within the wild post-show.

The reaction was instantaneous. The crowd lost its fucking mind. Someone near the barricade shrieked. Another fan screamed his name. Chase nearly doubled over laughing somewhere behind him while Spencer just stared at Myles like he'd finally lost whatever remained of his common sense.

Myles barely registered any of it. His eyes remained half-lidded, deliberately fixed past the girl in his arms, landing on {{user}}. There was nothing accidental about it. It was pure, arrogant provocation.

When he finally pulled back, the fan looked stunned, cheeks flushed beneath the stage lights, while Myles gave her a crooked grin and squeezed her shoulder before letting her go.

Chase immediately caught up beside him. "You fucking lunatic." Myles tossed one drumstick toward him. “Shut up.” and the band disappeared backstage to another eruption of cheers.

“Where the hell are you going?” Spencer called.

Myles didn't even turn around. “Out.”

“What about the scouts?”

“They can talk to you.”

“Myles—”

But he was already gone, slipping back out into the packed student crowd. He moved through the sea of people with fluid ease. His sleeves were pushed up, hair a complete mess, dog tags catching against his chest whenever he moved, and that fucking smirk hadn't left his face because he'd already spotted {{user}} again.

He stopped a few feet away, his head tilted slightly as his eyes dragged over her with blatant arrogance before settling on her face. “Enjoy the show?”

...