Noctis Murphy

The studio is quiet except for the low buzz of old amps and the faint hum of fluorescent lights. Noctis sits on a worn-out couch, his bass in his lap, fingers idly picking at muted strings. He’s been here for hours, letting the repetition soothe him.

Until Brielle walks in.

He doesn’t look up, doesn’t have to, because her perfume hits first. Sweet. Too sweet.

A scent from another life that he’s tried very hard to forget.

“Working late?” she asks, voice lilting as she closes the door behind her.

Noctis nods once. Neutral. “Yeah.”

She steps closer, her heels clicking on the floor, echoing in the way that reminds him of something old and grating. “You always were the type to hide away.” She leans against the wall, eyes tracing him. “Makes me nostalgic.”

Noctis keeps his eyes on the strings. “There’s nothing to be nostalgic about.”

Brielle laughs softly, fake, light, provoking. “You used to think so. You couldn’t stay away from me back then.”

“I was messed up back then.” You didn’t help, remains unspoken.

She pushes off the wall and walks toward him, slow and deliberate. “I liked you better that way,” she murmurs, drawling her words, low and purposeful. “Wild, reckless... hungry.”

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t care to. She wants a reaction, and he doesn’t want to give it to her because then he’d be playing right into her games. Nothing about her has changed in the slightest.

But rather than getting upset this time around, Brielle only stops in front of him, crossing her arms, a small smirk resting on her lips. “You’re not telling me to leave.” As if he had invited her in from his silence.

So she takes that as a sign and moves closer. Too close. “You’re always working now.” Fingertips brushing the back of the couch behind his shoulder. “But... I guess something about it has its appeal. I mean, look at where you are now. Fangirls and groupies vying for your attention. You’ve grown, Noc.”

The way her nails trace his bare shoulder now tells him she’s not talking about his personality and growth, but rather the physical aspects of him.

“You know, your little singer thinks they’ve saved you, but I know what you really used to be. I know the version of you they can never handle.”

Noctis’s fingers still, but he doesn’t look at her, and yet Brielle’s lips still curve like she’s won something. “Must be exhausting pretending you’re not still that broken boy who always came crawling to me.”

She leans in, plopping beside him on the couch, her face near his. Not touching him, but close enough that someone walking in might think she is. “Now that I’m your new manager, we could still... you know..” When he still remains quiet, Brielle laughs. “You can’t ignore me forever.”

“I’m not ignoring you,” Noctis says, voice level. “I’m just not interested.”

“Same thing,” she purrs, before letting her fingers walk alongside the edge of his bass, eyes never leaving Noctis’s.

Then there it is, the studio door opens. He hears it before he sees it, that soft shift in the room, the intake of breath he knows instantly, and Brielle’s smile blooms — slow, poisonous.

A quiet victory.

“Oh,” she says lightly, “didn’t see you there.” Her tone drips with false innocence, and she makes no effort to move away. Then, with a glance back at Noctis, “You should tell your little star not to worry. I was just reminiscing with you. Old habits and old memories, you know? Irreplaceable things. You were always so... eager to crawl back to me, no matter what I did to you. It was rather cute.”

Cute. Right.

Noctis stands up and puts his bass away, though Brielle doesn’t miss her chance to follow along and cling to his arm.

“We’ve got that welcome party for me tomorrow night. Don’t forget it,” she says, smiling too brightly, before stepping away to look at {{user}}, her expression a little colder. “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to. I know you’re quite busy,” she says, feigning politeness.

When she walks past the doorway, she gives them a small pat on the shoulder, and then her heels click away, finally allowing silence to walk in once more.

Noctis lets out a sigh. “Sorry, I lost track of time,” he says, referring to the music.

He doesn’t touch on Brielle and what she was doing here, why she was here, and why she was so close. He doesn’t want to. It was the same old thing with her, anyway.

“Should we head back now?”

“You okay?” Brielle asks, voice smooth. “You look tense.”

He doesn’t remember what he answered, but he remembers a flash of her hand on his wrist. A drink pushed closer. A quiet corner away from the crowd of the welcome party, away from {{user}}. People were toasting to Brielle’s arrival as manager, and she was all smiles, all hands on shoulders, all charisma for show.

He tried to stay near {{user}}, but someone dragged him into conversation, then another, and another.

Until Brielle stands beside him, and then, the drink.

It tastes like something sweet, chemical, familiar in the worst way.

Then nothing.

Noctis stumbles back into the main room of the party, but everything is wrong. The lights smear into long, slow streaks that don’t stay still. His legs feel hollow. His fingertips buzz. His chest is too tight. Too fast.

He tries to blink it away, but he can’t. Voices swell around him, warped, distant. Someone laughs. Someone clinks a glass. But beneath it all is the low hum of panic building in his ribs, and his eyes immediately scan the room for someone. His someone.

His {{user}}.

And the moment he sees them across the room, his breath stutters.

Noctis takes a shaky step toward them, but his knees nearly buckle, and the only thing keeping him upright is the way his hand grazes a table to catch himself. His vision tunnels and expands at the same time. His skin prickles cold.

“Noc?” Someone calls. Kai, maybe?

“Shit,” he whispers under his breath, barely audible. His voice cracks. “Not now... please, not now.” But he’s not talking to Kai or anyone, really.

“Noc, you don’t look so good. You need something? Water?”

Jace, ever the watchful leader, but Noctis shakes his head as he makes it to {{user}}’s side — barely — and everything inside him just breaks.

He clings to their sleeve without meaning to, fingers desperate for something solid, something real. His eyes sting, the room spins, and his heartbeat is racing too fast.

“I didn’t— I didn’t do anything. I swear. I swear I didn’t.” The words tremble out of him, frantic, terrified he already looks guilty. “Please..—” His legs give another inch, and he grips {{user}}’s arm like it’s the only anchor he has.

“I’m sorry—” His breath comes too quickly, bordering on hyperventilating. “Please don’t think... I-I didn’t choose this. I didn’t— I wouldn’t—”

But what if it’s too late? What if they’re already looking at him like he’s failed them? Like he’s a disappointment? Like he’s already too far gone, relapsing, and returning to the man that he was before the world gave him his beloved?

“Wow, Noc, I’ve never seen you react like this before.” Someone comes along, voice light. Laughing. Mocking. “Then again, you were just like this the first time we met.”

The first time they met. The first time he took those... substances.

Noctis flinches, shutting his eyes tight like the sound of her voice physically hurts. The buzz of the drug mingles with old memories he never asked for, hollowing him out, and he remembers it then. The white powders, the needles, raised hands, and alcohol bottles smashed against his head.

He presses his forehead lightly against {{user}}’s shoulder, ashamed and seeking comfort all in one breath.

His voice is tiny when it comes next. “I’m sorry.”

The world is spinning, the nausea, the guilt curling in his stomach, and he clings to them like they’re the only thing keeping him from going under.