Sebastian "Seb" Wood

Performances always ended the same way: Seb's face flushed crimson, sweat dripping from his forehead down to his jaw, tracing the lines of his neck, disappearing under his collar, soaking into the collar of his shirt. His hair—already a disaster—stuck to his temples, dark strands plastered against his skin. He'd be breathing hard, chest rising and falling, still buzzing from the last beat he'd slammed into existence.

Shows and sex. The only two things he gave absolutely everything to. One hundred percent. No holding back. No safety net. Just pure, unfiltered giving until there was nothing left.

But what came after the show?

That was twice as good.

The noise hit first—a wall of sound different from the music, voices overlapping, laughing, screaming, calling his name. Alcohol burned cheap and sweet down his throat, someone had already put a drink in his hand (he didn't remember who, didn't care). Chatter swirled around him like the ocean he loved so much. Fans pressed close, wanting a piece of him, wanting to touch, to talk, to have something of the man who'd just spent two hours making their chests vibrate.

This was his element.

Signing autographs with that lazy grin—the one that said I know exactly what I'm doing. Letting them hand him albums, t-shirts, posters. Sometimes lace. Sometimes skin. He never said no. Never stopped smiling. His fingers—still calloused from the sticks, still buzzing from the rhythm—wrapped around a permanent marker like it was just another extension of himself.

"So your name's Annie?" He scribbled, glanced up through his lashes. "Cute name. Fits you."

The girl—Annie, blonde, nervous, couldn't be more than twenty—nodded, clutching a photo of the band like it was holy. Seb signed it with a flourish, his knuckle tattoos catching the light: B O R Z O I spelled across his fingers.

"There you go, pretty." He handed it back. Then his smirk crawled up one side of his face. "I could sign somewhere else if you want..."

He tapped the marker against his own chest first, then pointed it at her—slow, deliberate, letting the implication land.

"...like, right here?"

The blush that exploded across her cheeks was immediate. Violent. Perfect.

A throat cleared.

Seb's eyes shifted.

Standing right next to her — a guy. Sharp jaw, arms crossed over a chest that looked like it spent time in a gym. Watching. Just... watching. Those eyes — unreadable — fixed on Seb with an intensity that made something in his stomach flip.

Oh.

Brother? Friend? Boyfriend?

Didn't matter. Not yet.

Seb let his gaze drag — slow, deliberate, the same way he'd looked at her — but different. Heavier. Letting it linger on the jaw, the shoulders, the way this guy was just standing there like he owned the space around him.

"Well." Seb's voice dropped, just a little. Just enough. "If your boyfriend's cool with it..."

He let the words hang, teasing, watching the guy's expression for any flicker of reaction. Then — slowly — he locked eyes with him. The kind of eye contact that wasn't accidental.

The girl was still blushing. The guy was still watching. The marker was still in Seb's hand.

His smirk widened into something dangerous.

"You don't mind, do you, big guy?" The marker spun once between his fingers. Clicked. Ready.

The guy didn't look away.

And Seb thought: oh, this is gonna be fun.

"Well, my boss decided I'm irreplaceable. You know, seems like nobody in this city can put together a proper report," the guy snorted, shoving a limp, grease-soaked fry into his mouth. A fleck of salt clung to his lip. He didn't wipe it off.

What was Seb even doing here? Out of all the diners in Chicago, why this one—with its sticky tables and flickering neon sign that read "EAT" like a command? And why this guy? What was his name... Steve? Mike? Bartholomew? Some office clerk in a cheap suit whose dating profile had been mildly interesting—or maybe Seb had just fixated on the Rolexes in his photos. They'd glinted under harsh lighting, promising something this man didn't have. Now, up close, Seb could see the way the gold paint was already wearing off the clasp. Fake. Obviously fake.

The guy's cologne was aggressive—the kind that came in a bottle shaped like a car and cost nineteen ninety-nine.

"And you, Sebastian? Do you work anywhere? Like, a real job? Not just banging on drums?" The man licked the salt off his fingers with an audible, wet smack, his eyes narrowing like he'd just asked a very clever question. Grease shone on his knuckles.

Seb felt something curdle in his stomach.

He rolled his eyes—slowly, deliberately, the way you do when you want someone to know you're rolling your eyes—then wrapped his lips around the red-and-white striped straw, sucking his Coke in loud, deliberate silence. Ice cubes rattled against plastic. He held eye contact the whole time.

"Nope," he said finally, letting the straw go with a pop. "No job except banging on drums. That's literally it. Drums. Bang bang. Very loud. Very un-serious."

He set the Coke down on the scratched Formica table, leaving a wet ring. His gaze drifted—past the guy's over-eager smile, past the ketchup bottle with dried red crust around the lid, past the window where rain had started to smear the streetlights into orange bruises. A truck rumbled by, shaking the glass.

This was a cheap date. The cheapest. And Seb knew—with the kind of certainty that settles in your bones like cold—that if he let this continue, it would end with cheap sex in a cramped apartment he didn't want to see, with a guy who'd text him "u up?" at 2am for two weeks and then ghost.

He wasn't going to let that happen.

Not tonight.

"Gonna go drain the lizard," Seb announced, already sliding out of the booth. The vinyl seat squeaked in protest. He didn't look back.

He headed toward the bathroom—past the jukebox playing something tinny and sad, past the guy in the corner booth nursing a single coffee for three hours, past the waitress with tired eyes and a name tag that said "Darlene"—but he walked right past the bathroom door. His boots hit the tile, then the sticky linoleum near the exit, and then—

Cold air.

The door swung shut behind him, cutting off the diner's warm greasy hum. The night wrapped around him like a wet blanket. Rain, not quite heavy but persistent, clung to his hair, his shoulders, the exposed metal of his septum ring.

He ran a hand through his dark curls, feeling the damp settle in. A car hissed past on the wet street. Somewhere, a dog barked twice and stopped.

This wasn't how he'd wanted the evening to end. He'd put on his good hoodie. The one without stains. He'd even—okay, fine—spritzed on the cologne he saves for dates. And for what? A guy who licks his fingers in public and calls drumming "banging."

Seb exhaled, a cloud of vapor mixing with the rain.

Then—impact.

Something—someone—shoved into his shoulder hard enough to rock him sideways. He stumbled, catching himself on a lamppost, the cold metal biting into his palm.

"Easy, dude," the words tumbled out, sharp and automatic. "You're gonna knock my whole arm off. I've got a show tomorrow—actually need these to like, function." He shook his head, rain flicking from his hair. Water was starting to seep through his hoodie at the shoulders. Great.

He turned, ready to unleash something properly sarcastic—

And stopped.

The words died in his throat.

The person standing there, backlit by the diner's neon glow, was already looking at him. Waiting. Rain traced silver lines down their face.

Seb's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

"You gonna apologize," he managed, his voice coming out rougher than he meant, "or should I just assume you're always like this?"

Seb was tilted so far back in his chair it was a miracle physics hadn't betrayed him yet. His sneakered feet were propped up on the edge of the mixing desk, jeans hanging loose around his hips, faded black t-shirt with some obscure band name printed so worn out it was unreadable. Dark circles sat under his eyes like bruises—he'd been up until 5am trying to beat some boss on his PlayStation, then just... didn't stop. Couldn't stop. Lost track of time the way he always did when the controller was in his hands.

Now he was here. Early. Why was he here early?

"I don't get why you tell me to show up on time when you're just gonna argue for the first twenty minutes anyway," he mumbled, voice rough from sleep he hadn't gotten. His head lolled back, septum ring catching the light as he rocked on the chair's back legs. It wasn't even that he wanted to sleep—sleep was boring. He wanted to be playing. The new level was right there. He could feel it.

But Vic and June had apparently decided that arguing about whose voice belongs on the chorus was a matter of life or death. In Seb's expert opinion? Pointless. Any voice would sound fine. What they actually needed was to fuck the tension out—metaphorically or literally, he wasn't picky.

Rosie was the only one doing anything useful—fiddling with cables, adjusting mic stands, trying to make the space functional while the two vocalists had whatever this was.

"You're useless either way, sweetheart," June snapped back. Vic said nothing—just stood there with that unreadable look, arms crossed like she was holding herself together. "You go boom-boom for five minutes and then you're passed out cold." June added.

"Guys." Rosie's voice cut through, patient but fraying at the edges. "Guys. We're burning studio time. We paid for this. Hourly. Can we please—"

"Don't worry, June's rich daddy's covering it anyway." Seb's grin was pure shit-stirring. He knew exactly what he was doing. "Right, June? Daddy's little trust fund covering the struggling artist lifestyle?"

June kicked him in the knee. Hard.

"OW—" He grabbed his leg, rubbing the spot like a wounded puppy. Seb's chair slammed forward onto all four legs as he doubled over, hands clutching his knee like she'd actually injured him (she hadn't, but he was committed to the performance now). "Uncalled for. That was uncalled for, that's assault, I could sue—"

"You could shut up," June said sweetly.

Vic finally spoke, voice flat but with an edge: "There's a festival coming up. A real one. Can any of you take this seriously?" She paused, then added, quieter: "PANIC's gonna be there. Bands from everywhere. Genres I can't even pronounce. This is our shot to actually matter. I'm not about to embarrass myself."

Rosie nodded, earnest and supportive. "She's right. This is huge for us. We've been working toward this for—"

Seb tilted his head, a smirk creeping onto his face. "Damn. Didn't know we were chasing approval now. Thought we were alternative artists." He wiggled his fingers mockingly. Vic's eye twitched. He knew exactly what she meant—he just liked pushing buttons.

He stood, adjusting his jeans with exaggerated nonchalance. "Cool. You figure out the chorus drama, text me. I'm gonna walk. Legs fell asleep from all the nothing happening in here."

The door clicked shut behind him.

The hallway was worse than the studio. Colder. Dingier. Fluorescent lights flickered like they were having their own argument. Cinderblock walls painted some shade of beige that had given up decades ago. Smelled like cleaning products and despair.

He wandered down the hallway, found a quiet corner, and dropped into a crouch against the wall. Phone out. TikTok open.

Scroll. Scroll. Scroll.

Real cake or fake cake?

Scroll.

Real cake or fake cake?

Scroll.

Real cake or fake—

His eye twitched again.

He wasn't getting a single one right. Not one. And honestly? That was the real tragedy of the morning.

.