Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“No one knew our names.

But in the dark, we were fucking beautiful—

and for one goddamn minute, we mattered.”

September 6, 1968

Camden's rain had been patient all day, hovering in the air like something waiting for permission to fall. Now it slicked the streets, turned the gutters into dark rivers that dragged cigarette butts and torn gig flyers toward the Regent’s Canal. But the alley behind The Gaslight was electric with noise and sweat and the clatter of dreams being hauled out of battered vans.

Azriel wedged his shoulder under the amp, breath frosting the cold glass of the night, feet slipping on the wet cobbles as Cassian barked orders no one listened to, arms flailing like he could will the night into chaos with sheer noise alone. They’d arrived early, but it still felt like they were late for something—something big, even if no one else would notice. Cassian’s grin split his face, manic and wide under the flickering neon. Their drummer thrived in this chaos. He was all elbows and swagger, laughing like they already owned the place.

The amp bit into his shoulder, the ache blooming sharp and familiar down his spine. Azriel let it hurt, clenching his teeth against the cold that gnawed at his ears, the stink of diesel and piss crawling into his lungs. He forced a grin, let it split his face wide enough to hurt. 

They looked like a band that didn't belong in Camden yet. Rhysand had insisted they dress the part tonight, and they'd gone along because it was easier than fighting him. Cassian wore a secondhand paisley shirt stretched too tight over his broad chest, sleeves rolled to show off the ink he couldn't afford to finish. Azriel wore black—always black—a turtleneck clinging to his lean frame, hair slicked back in a way that made him feel like a fraud, like he was cosplaying someone braver. Rhysand, naturally, looked like he'd stepped out of a Carnaby Street catalog in a tailored jacket and silver chain that caught the sick light. Mor had teased them all, but even she played along, draped in faux fur and thigh-high boots that screamed Chelsea rich girl slumming it.

And they were already being watched.

"Oi, look at 'em," a group of men hollered from the curb outside the chippy. Three or four of them, pints in hand, shirts clinging to beer bellies, faces already flushed from drink. "Posh fuckin' wankers. What's this then? Mod night? Where's yer mop tops, Beatles?"

Laughter cracked across the alley, sharp and mean.

Cassian shot them a warning glare but kept moving, until one of them called out louder, meaner, "Jesus, look at the dark one. Christ, love, you get lost on your way to Carnaby? What, you tryin' to pull the birds or the blokes tonight?"

More laughter. One of them swayed on his feet, mimicking Azriel's walk in an exaggerated sway, hips snapping, dragging it out, adding a limp wrist for show. "Look at 'im. Bet he polishes more than just his guitar, eh?"

Cassian froze. The amp nearly crashed into the pavement as his fists clenched, veins popping, face flushed deep scarlet. "The fuck did you say?"

Azriel stepped into his space, pressing a flat palm into Cassian's chest. A silent order. Not now. Not tonight.

"Let it go," Azriel murmured, low and tight.

Cassian's breath came hard through his teeth, but he held.

Azriel turned his gaze to the men, dark and clipped. "Fuck off."

The words landed like glass breaking, sudden and sharp, slicing the laughter in half.

The men blinked, caught off guard, bluster dying on their tongues as Azriel held the stare a beat too long. One of them spat into the gutter, mumbled, "Freaks."

Cassian muttered curses under his breath, but they moved on, letting the dark swallow the jeers. Azriel's skin still prickled where the words had landed, but he kept his mouth shut, head down, jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached. 

Inside, the venue wasn’t much to look at. A basement dressed up as a shrine to bands who’d probably OD’d in these same booths. Low ceilings, velvet curtains stained with god-knew-what, posters curling off damp brick walls. The stage was barely a stage, just a platform that groaned under the weight of the speakers as they dragged them into place.

To Azriel, it was beautiful. Like a mouth waiting to swallow them whole.

Rhysand stood in the center of it all like he’d been born under spotlights, velvet jacket slung careless over his shoulders, hair a slick black halo in the dim lights. He held Feyre’s hand, tugging her into his orbit, and she followed, laughing into his throat, smudging her paint-stained fingers down his lapels in a way that was half playful, half claim. They looked like art, the two of them. Like something Azriel couldn’t touch. Wouldn’t dare.

Feyre caught him watching. “Finally. Thought you were gonna make a diva entrance, Az.”

Her voice wrapped around his name like an old scarf, warm and teasing. She still wore her university ID clipped to her jacket, as if she needed the world to know she was more than Rhysand’s girlfriend. Feyre Archeron, painter. Student at some half-forgotten art college tucked behind Soho. Two years they’d been together, and somehow they still looked at each other like the world wasn’t about to eat them alive.

Azriel lifted his guitar case in silent answer, letting the motion be the only thing he offered, his jaw tight.

Feyre smiled. “You’re gonna break their hearts tonight.”

“He already broke mine,” Rhysand deadpanned, earning a swat to the chest.

Azriel tuned them out, letting the dull ache behind his eyes hum in time with the feedback screech from the speakers. Cassian crashed through them, nearly toppling Feyre as he hauled a case of cymbals over his shoulder, shouting something obscene at the sound tech. His voice cracked with the kind of manic energy that only came from someone who refused to be ignored.

And then there was Nesta.

Azriel found her by instinct now. She lingered at the bar like she owned it, wrapped in her coat like armor, dark lipstick like a threat no one was brave enough to test. She didn’t look at the stage, at the crowd trickling in. She looked at Azriel.

“You gonna play, or just stare at your shoes all night?” Her voice cut through the noise, lazy, smooth, the kind of drawl that turned heads and dared them to try harder.

“I can do both.”

She huffed something that might’ve been a laugh. Nesta didn’t pretend to care about the music, but she was here. That mattered more than she’d say.

“Elain’s not coming,” she added, swirling something amber in her glass, the movement slow, calculated. “Exam season. Oxford’s eatin’ her alive.”

Her tone was too flat. Azriel knew that trick—say it like it didn’t matter, and maybe it wouldn’t.

“I figured.”

Nesta’s mouth twisted. “Figured you’d figure.”

They stood in silence that wasn’t quite comfortable, but it wasn’t suffocating either. Azriel liked that about Nesta. She didn’t fill the air with words when they weren’t needed.

Cassian crashed between them, shoving a beer into Nesta’s hand. “Tonight’s the night, sweetheart. Let’s toast to Camden legends, yeah?”

Nesta took the beer, lips barely brushing the rim. She watched Cassian like he was a kid begging for scraps. “Legends? Babe, you lot ain’t even pub-famous.”

Cassian laughed, but there was a flicker in his eyes. Like he needed her to say it. Needed someone to believe they could be more than boys in a borrowed van.

“You’re not gonna let me enjoy my moment, are you?” Cassian said, grinning wide, but his shoulders hunched like he already knew the answer.

“Not if I can ‘elp it,” Nesta said, all velvet bite. She let him act a fool. That was the game. She wore his attention like a stolen necklace, never letting him forget it wasn't his to keep.

Azriel smirked, watching the way Nesta let Cassian orbit her, knowing full well she’d never let him close enough to touch.

Cassian lingered a beat longer than he should have, eyes darting to Nesta’s mouth like maybe tonight, drunk enough, she’d let him win. She didn’t blink, didn’t give him the satisfaction of a tell, and he wilted just a hair, hiding it behind another too-loud laugh.

Azriel shifted his stance, letting his back press into the sticky wall, watching them like a scene from a film he’d seen too many times. The part where the bloke never gets the girl, and the audience already knows.

Cassian finally peeled off to check on his kit, still tossing boasts over his shoulder, but they fell flat into the dark. Nesta didn’t follow his retreat. She didn’t watch him at all.

Instead, her gaze found Azriel again, heavy-lidded, daring. "Don’t look at me like you know me, Shadows."

Azriel shrugged, biting back the words. He did know her. But Nesta liked to pretend no one did.

Mor crashed into them, bottle dangling from her fingers, her laugh too loud, too bright. “You two look like a funeral. Come on, live a little. First gig’s meant to be messy.”

Azriel didn’t answer, but Nesta flashed Mor a smile sharp enough to cut glass. “Yeah, messy. Like your taste in men, Mor.”

Mor rolled her eyes but laughed, dragging Nesta by the elbow toward the crowd gathering by the stage. Nesta let herself be pulled, looking bored, but Azriel caught the flicker of something else in her eyes—a challenge she hadn’t voiced yet.

Azriel stayed behind, letting the noise swell and swallow him.

He climbed the stage, boots scuffing the battered wood like a ritual, a claim staked with trembling hands and a heart pounding too hard, too loud in his throat. The thrum of the crowd pressed close, suffocating and thrilling all at once, a live wire under his skin. Too many bodies. Too much heat. Thirty people packed into a Camden basement, and it still felt like the universe pressing in. He adjusted his strap, fingers brushing the worn leather like it might anchor him, like it might remind him who the fuck he was supposed to be in the chaos of it all.

Behind him, Cassian was already bouncing, restless, jittery, manic in that way he got before a show—cracking jokes at no one, pulling faces, the hyper energy leaking from every limb like he might combust if he stood still too long. But Azriel saw past it. He always did. Caught the way Cassian’s jaw clenched tight enough to ache, the crack in his mask right there if you knew where to look.

And Rhysand—Rhysand stood dead center, mic in hand, already draped in velvet and silver, like the king of a kingdom that didn’t exist yet. He wasn’t pacing, wasn’t twitching. Just standing still, head bowed, cigarette still dangling from his lips, letting the smoke curl around him like he was carved from it. Azriel watched the way he rolled his shoulders back, slow, easy, like the nerves couldn’t touch him, even though Az knew better. Knew Rhys’s hands shook just as much as his when no one was looking.

Cassian slammed the sticks together, sharp and vicious, snapping them all into it, his grin wolfish, wild, stretched too wide like it might tear him open. Azriel felt it in his ribs—the desperation, the hunger that clawed at their insides, that need to prove they belonged here, on this stage, under these lights, even if the world hadn’t fucking noticed them yet.

Nesta leaned against the bar, queen of detachment, arms crossed like armor. Her face gave nothing away, but she never blinked, never drifted. She watched Azriel like he was something curious. Like she couldn’t decide if he was a trick of the light or a wreck she should be bracing for.

And then they played.

Rhysand let the first scream tear out of him, velvet and smoke turned to glass and fire, dragging them all into the sound, like he could tear the roof off this Camden shithole with just the snarl of his voice. Azriel let the noise swallow him whole, let the guitar bleed out all the things he didn’t have the words for, couldn’t bring himself to admit outside the ache of strings and static. Every note was a fracture, a confession, a scream in the dark he didn’t care if anyone answered.

But when his gaze snagged on the crowd—when that girl in the front row caught him like a punch to the gut—crying, screaming back at them—he felt it. Real. Tangible. Like maybe for three and a half minutes they weren’t invisible.

Rhys caught it too. Azriel saw the way his mouth curled on the mic, like he’d tasted blood and liked it.

They let that sight sink deep, burrow into the hollow places, let it drive them harder, fiercer, until Cassian’s sticks splintered and Azriel’s fingers blistered and the air scraped their lungs raw.

Boys with knives for tongues.
Kings of spit and string.
We’ll make you bleed or make you love us.

Azriel didn’t care if the crowd heard the lyrics that had been clawing the inside of his skull. Tonight they were for them.

The final chord ripped through the room like the crack of something breaking open. Azriel stood, head down, gasping, sweat in his eyes, the taste of metal in his mouth. The roar that came wasn’t polite. It was hungry. It was real. It crawled under his skin, rattled his bones, left his hands shaking and his heart a mess of static and electricity.

Rhys was the first to throw the mic down, grinning, teeth bared like an animal. He stalked to Azriel and Cassian, draped his arms over their shoulders, pulling them into the mess of sweat and smoke and adrenaline, his voice raw from screaming. “Fuckin’ Camden, boys. ”

Cassian’s laugh was sharp, too bright, too close to cracking. “We fuckin’ did it, mate. Camden’s ours now.”

Azriel didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to. He let them drag him into the noise, into the crush of the thirty bodies still buzzing like they’d just seen the Stones in their prime, into the aftershock rattling through his veins like a live wire.

Rhys’s arm tightened around them both, like he could hold the whole damn night together with just the three of them, like if they clung hard enough, they’d never have to come down.

For a minute, Azriel let himself believe it.

For a minute, they weren’t the boys from the orphanage. They were kings.

Even if no one else knew it yet.

The celebration started in the back rooms of the venue, some piss-yellow painted shoebox that smelled like mildew and broken dreams. The walls sweated with old beer and new ambition. Mor popped the champagne with the kind of flair that dared anyone to tell her they hadn't made it already. The cork ricocheted off a sagging ceiling tile, and the cheap stuff frothed over her fingers as she laughed, head tipped back like the queen of everything.

They passed the bottle around, no glasses, letting it spill sticky down their wrists, over their clothes, over the duct-taped amp cases they still couldn’t afford to replace.

Cassian lifted the bottle high, foam dripping down his chin, bellowing, " To Camden! "
"To us, you knobhead," Mor corrected, pinching his ear as she grabbed it back.

They crowded around a sticky table, drowning in noise, beer, and smoke. The air thick with the scent of burnt toast from the pub kitchen that never stopped serving, damp leather jackets creaking like second skins. Someone—maybe Feyre, maybe Mor—scribbled band names on stolen napkins with Azriel's chewed-up pen, every name worse than the last. They sounded like jokes told too late in the night, like the kind of thing that’d get them bottled outside the Dublin Castle if they dared put it on a flyer.

"What about Blood Ivy?" Cassian hollered over the music, cheeks flushed, half his pint sloshing onto the floor.
"Sounds like a posh girl's perfume," Mor drawled, cigarette dangling lazy between two fingers, like she wasn’t nineteen and broke, like she owned Camden.

"S'better than The Banshee Dogs," Cassian argued, slurring now, his grin sloppy, leaning into Mor like he wanted a fight he wouldn’t win. "We can't all sound like yer mum's art club."

Azriel snorted, letting the whiskey coat the hollow ache in his chest. " All of ‘em sound like shite."

Feyre giggled into her pint, cheeks pink, the way she always did when the rest of them got louder than the room. Rhys didn’t say much, lurking behind his cigarette with that smug, untouchable lean he did when he wanted the world to think he was above it all. He wasn’t. Azriel knew that better than anyone.

Nesta leaned over the table, elbows on the grime, lips painted like danger itself. 

"Illyria," she said, soft, like a spell.

Cassian blinked at her, slow. "What? That some book thing again?"

She didn’t even look at him. Gaze locked on Azriel, like he was the only one in the room. "Illyria. It’s where the wild things are."

Azriel let the name roll over his tongue. 

"Illyria." 

Rough, violent, beautiful, like it belonged to them alone.

Cassian grinned like it’d been his idea all along. “Illyria. Fuck yeah, that’s it. We’ll paint it on the bloody van.”

Mor clinked her glass against his, whiskey spilling over her knuckles. “Illyria it is, boys.”

The table erupted—glasses slammed, voices rising, all swagger and noise. Kings of nothing, crowning themselves anyway.

Across the mess, Rhys caught Azriel’s eye. Just for a beat. The others kept howling, drowning in their own bravado, but Rhys said nothing. Just tipped his cigarette Azriel’s way, the smoke curling between them like a question neither of them would ever ask.

Azriel met the stare, jaw tight, throat tighter. No smile. Just a nod.

Rhys nodded back.

That was enough. It always was.

They drank to that. To the name. To the night. To the city that didn’t give a shit about them—but would. Sooner or later.

Outside, Camden pulsed like a second heartbeat. The streets slick with drizzle, neon bleeding into puddles, kids in torn tights and ripped denim smoking in alleyways, mod boys in sharp suits starting fights they couldn’t finish. It was all hips and hunger, a place that chewed you up and spat you out unless you made it bleed first.

Mor dragged them into The Black Dog next. 

One of those dives where the floor stuck to your boots, where nobody asked your name unless they wanted to start a fight. 

The jukebox only played the Stones on a warped loop, Street Fighting Man sounding more like a threat than a song. They drank fast and reckless, shots slammed down hard, chasers forgotten. Bodies pressed tight. The smell of beer and cigarettes thick enough to drown in.

They were fucked . Absolutely, gloriously fucked.

By the time they were six shots deep at The Black Dog, the room tilted at angles that weren’t natural. The sticky floor clung to their boots like the universe was trying to drag them back to earth, but they refused—drunk and defiant, clawing their way higher, louder.

Cassian sprawled over two stools, arms thrown wide, slurring about how they were legends, about how that pounce Bowie would be the one begging for their autograph in six months’ time. "Swear on me mum, Nesta. The Marquee’ll be beggin’ us to headline. Oi, Az—tell ‘er. Tell ‘er she’s lookin’ at the next bloody Mick fuckin' Jagger."

"More like Keith Moon without the talent," Mor snorted, slamming another round on the bar like she owned it. Her cheeks were flushed, glitter smeared into the corner of her eye from when she'd tried to kiss the jukebox. She lit a cigarette backwards, blinked at it, then shrugged and smoked it anyway.

Feyre giggled into her pint, barely upright, cheeks cherry pink as she clung to Rhys's arm, whispering something that made him grin like the devil. Even Rhys looked a bit frayed at the edges now, tie askew, silver chain tangled with Feyre’s fingers.

Nesta still hadn’t touched her beer, perched on her stool like royalty, like the chaos bored her. But her lips quirked every time Cassian stumbled into another fantasy. "You lot can barely afford strings, but sure, legends. Maybe you’ll busk outside the Savoy next."

Cassian pointed at her with a wobbling finger. "Savoy’s next year. This year we own Camden, babe. Own it. "

"Own’s a strong word for four tossers and a van that barely runs," Nesta drawled, but she leaned in when she said it, letting Cassian get too close before she flicked his nose, making him blink like a kicked puppy.

His breath caught. The bravado glitched, just for a blink—pupils blown wide, like that one careless touch set him ablaze. She saw it. She wanted him to know she saw it.

Cassian covered it fast, tipping his head back with a laugh too loud, too sharp, dragging his pint to his mouth like it might drown the burn she left behind.

"Yeah, yeah," he rasped, grin sliding crooked, trying for cool but landing just south of bitter. 

"You’re right." He threw himself back in his chair, arms spread wide like a king of nothing. "We’re Camden boys. Soho’d clock us the second we walked in. Smell the desperation off us like piss in an alley."

Azriel drank in silence, but his smirk curled meaner now, the whiskey making his limbs loose, his hunger for the night sharp and ugly. He let the promises slip over him like oil, slippery, sweet. They wouldn’t last. He knew that. But for now, he let them wrap around his throat.

They howled the words to Jumpin’ Jack Flash as Mor climbed on the bar, bottle in hand, shrieking like she was Marianne Faithfull. Someone threw a pint. Cassian caught it midair, spilled half of it down his shirt, and declared it a "fucking blessing from the rock gods."

Azriel laughed—loud, rare, head tipped back until the ceiling blurred. He didn’t even care if anyone heard it.

They were alive . More alive than they’d ever been.

They made it outside by sheer accident, still roaring lyrics into the Camden night, draped over each other like pirates staggering off a sinking ship. Cassian slung himself over Azriel and Nesta, babbling about gold records, about headlining fuckin’ Wembley , about how he’d buy Nesta a diamond coat when they made it, because that’s the kinda bloke I am, sweetheart.

Nesta rolled her eyes but let him cling, let the weight of him settle on her shoulder like maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t made of stone after all. “You can’t even afford me, Cass.”

Cassian clutched his chest like she’d wounded him. " Oi ! Az, back me up, mate—tell her I’m a fuckin’ catch."

Azriel didn’t say anything. He just let the drizzle soak into his hair, into his skin, into his bones, the cold sharp and real against the burn still alive under his skin.

Mor grabbed Azriel's arm, spinning him like a dancer, shouting, "You looked fuckin’ beautiful up there, Shadows. Like a sad prince from a bad poem. Bet half the birds in the front row creamed their knickers."

Cassian doubled over, howling, "Jesus, Mor—he blushed! I saw it! Az blushed like a fuckin' schoolgirl! "

Azriel gave him a lazy shove that sent them both staggering into the gutter, laughing, breath fogging in the night.

Rhys lit a cigarette with shaking fingers, exhaling like a king surveying his kingdom. "London’s next," he declared, voice slurring at the edges but still managing to sound untouchable. " Fuck Camden. We’ll burn Soho to the ground."

Cassian raised his pint—where the hell had he gotten another pint?—and bellowed, " To burnin’ down London! "

They shouted it into the drizzle, into the night that didn’t give a damn about them.

For tonight, they were gods. Kings. Camden legends in crowns of spit and string.

Tomorrow, they'd wake up in their shitty flat with the radiator groaning and their heads pounding, but tonight? 

Tonight they owned the whole goddamn city.

The streets hollowed as the night burned itself out.

Cassian and Azriel staggered the last stretch together, arms slung over each other's shoulders, their boots dragging through puddles slick with oil and the filth of Camden’s gutters. Their laughter echoed sharp and ragged, daring the world to notice them, to try and stop them.

They were gods tonight. Broken, piss-drunk gods with no crown but the city’s wet cobbles at their feet, breath fogging in the cold, slipping but not giving a single fuck.

Their flat wasn’t far. A squat, crumbling building above the laundrette that always smelled of burnt plastic and wet soap. Cassian tripped up the warped stairs like he meant to murder them, each stomp shaking the rotten wood. The leak in the stairwell still dripped. Cassian swore as the cold splashed on his hair, flipping the ceiling off like it was a personal insult.

"I’m gonna knock the landlord’s fuckin’ teeth in," he muttered for the hundredth time. "Soon as we get a record deal, I’m buyin’ this dump just to set it on fire."

Azriel said nothing. He doubted the rent could go up. No one in their right mind would pay more to live in this hole.

They crashed through the door like they were still on stage, breathless, loud, sloppy.

Inside, the flat yawned back at them like a corpse already gone cold. Two rooms if you were generous, maybe one and a half if the mildew had its way. The air stank of stale smoke, cold grease, damp laundry someone had forgotten in the wash. The radiator groaned like it was trying to confess its sins, dripping in the corner onto warped floorboards that sighed under their boots like old men.

Outside, the city hummed low and bitter through the thin glass, sirens crying like alley cats in heat, drunk laughter peeling up from the street below. Azriel breathed it in—the stink of it, the ache of it. Let it fill his lungs until it tasted like home.

Cassian hurled his coat at the couch—their couch, the one they’d fished out of a skip during last winter’s blackout—and sprawled like he’d just played fuckin’ Wembley.

"Did you see ‘em, Az?"

His voice echoed in the cramped space, thick with drunk joy, slurring at the edges.

"They were fuckin’ watchin’ us.
Like we were bloody gods."

Azriel didn’t bother with the lights. The orange streetlamps bled through the crooked blinds, cutting Cassian’s face into harsh, hungry lines.

"They weren’t watchin' you, mate." Azriel dropped his keys on the floor, letting them clatter. "They were watchin’ the noise."

Cassian hurled a cushion at him. Missed by a mile.

"Fuck off, Shadows," Cassian snorted, collapsing backward, sprawled on the stained carpet like it was a throne. "We’re the noise. We’re the fuckin’ noise."

The silence that settled after was thick. Sticky. Humming with all the shit they wouldn’t say out loud.

Azriel dropped to the floor, back against the wall where the plaster flaked against his shoulders. Notebook open on his knees, pen dragging shaky lines through the margins of overdue bills.

Boys in broken down vans...
Kings of piss and neon...
We’ll burn bright enough to drown the city...
Illyria, Illyria, Illyria...

The words crawled like splinters from his fingers, half-lyrics, half-promises, ugly and raw.

Cassian groaned, stretching like a cat, arm slung over his eyes, voice turned ragged and bitter. "You know we’re gonna make it, yeah? London. The fuckin’ world."

Azriel smiled, slow and secret in the dark. "Yeah. We’ll make ‘em remember."

Cassian laughed, but it cracked this time, split at the edges. "Remember, huh? Like they remembered us back at the fuckin’ orphanage?"

Azriel froze, the words sharp as broken glass.

"Fuck ‘em." Cassian rolled onto his side, eyes bloodshot and wild, mouth grinning but not with joy. "You and me, we been at the bottom so long, Az. We're overdue. It’s our turn now."

Azriel didn’t reply. There wasn’t anything to say to that.

Cassian kept going, drunk and mean now, voice scraping against the low ceiling. "You remember, don’t you? You remember the night they brought you in? Cold as ice, face beat to shit, eyes like nothin’. I remember. I fuckin’ remember."

Azriel’s jaw clenched. "Cass."

Cassian ignored him, waving a hand like he could swipe the ghosts away. "And Rhys? Lil’ king, rich boy orphan—fuckin’ perfect even back then, huh? Always had the fancy watch, the fancy hair, even when he was bunkin’ next to us."

"He was fourteen," Azriel said quietly, voice like steel under the whiskey.

Cassian barked a laugh. "And now he’s still got it all. Fancy flat. Fancy girl." He wiped a hand over his face, smearing sweat into his eyes. "And we’re still here. Stuck in this fuckin’ shoebox."

Azriel didn’t bother correcting him. Cassian always got like this when he drank too much. Mean. Soft under it, but mean first.

"Not for long, though," Cassian slurred, dragging himself up to lean heavy against the couch again. "We get a name, we get a record deal, we fuckin’ get out."

"Yeah?" Azriel tilted his head back, let the ceiling drip on him. "What’s the name, Cass?"

Cassian blinked, the question catching him off guard. "I dunno. Something violent. Something that sounds like us."

Azriel smirked. "You mean broke, bitter, and too pissed to care?"

Cassian pointed at him, glassy-eyed. "Exactly that, mate."

They laughed, breathless, hoarse, leaning on each other like they’d crack apart if they didn’t.

"Nesta said something tonight," Cassian added suddenly, voice softer, almost a confession. "Illyria. Sounded right, didn’t it? Like a place that don’t belong anywhere but still wants to burn the world down."

Azriel’s grin faded. "Illyria," he echoed, letting it roll over his tongue. "Yeah. That’s got teeth."

“Nesta’s got teeth, ” Cassian muttered, half to himself, half to the empty flat. "I’d let her tear me apart."

Azriel snorted. "She will."

Cassian groaned, slumping deeper into the couch cushions. "Fuckin’ worth it."

The radiator hissed, dripping somewhere in the dark.

Azriel stretched out on the floor, notebook abandoned, head swimming. 

We’ll make ‘em remember. Even if we have to bleed for it.
Camden kings in crowns of spit and string.

Cassian mumbled something that might’ve been agreement, already halfway to sleep, but his hand found Azriel’s in the space between them, a quiet, battered solidarity that said they were still in this together, still breathing, still alive.

Even if they were pissed as hell.  

Even if the world forgot them tomorrow.

Chapter Text

“ They ain’t seen us yet—

But they will, yeah they will. ”

September 9th, 1968 

The bell above the door snapped once, sharp and too loud.

Azriel didn’t look up.

He was half-buried behind a crooked stack of new records and dog-eared paperbacks, fingers stained with the black dust of cardboard sleeves, cataloging a shipment that smelled like mildew and mothballs. Lou Reed’s voice warbled faintly from the turntable behind the till, warped from overuse, dragging “I’m Waiting for the Man” into something that barely resembled music—just broken, garbled noise, like the record itself was too strung out to remember the tune.

His hands moved on autopilot. Price, sleeve, shelf. Price, sleeve, shelf.

Three nights back, he shredded his fingertips raw in a Camden basement that reeked of beer, piss, and the ghosts of themselves who still thought they were rockstars.

Today, he was arguing internally about whether to file “The Velvet Underground & Nico” under V or T .

Outside, Camden groaned the way it always did—boots on wet stone, barrow bells, some Cockney boy flogging fake Beatles posters with the grin of a fox and the jacket of a junkie.

Inside, the shop was a cathedral of the forgotten. Narrow aisles crammed with cracked spines and scratched vinyl. The kind of place where time slowed down and the world forgot you were there.

Azriel liked it better when it forgot him.

He drifted through the shelves, hands in his pockets, black jumper hanging loose off his frame. His sunglasses sat crooked on his head, sliding with every step. He left them there.

He hadn’t said a word since he walked in.

Didn't Plan to.

The front door jangled again. Louder this time. Damp air slunk in behind them, sour with canal stink, curling around the paperbacks as a warning.

“Got Are You Experienced ?” A boy mumbled, not bothering to look at Azriel.

Seventeen, maybe. Bad skin. Too much Brylcreem. He looked like he’d tried to dress like Jagger and ended up like Jagger’s mum.

Azriel didn’t glance up. “That’s Hendrix. Under H. Try the alphabet.”

The kid sneered, muttered something about “arsehole,” and disappeared into the stacks.

Ten minutes later, he came back with the record and tried to knock a few quid off. Azriel didn’t say a word. Just looked at him. 

After a few seconds, the kid dropped the cash and walked out.

Eventually, the door rang again. Exit: petulant teen. No sale.

Another customer. A woman in a suede coat with mascara already running from the rain. She didn’t look around. Just made her way to the counter, Revolver tucked tight to her chest, and asked—barely above a whisper—if they had any Tim Hardin. Azriel didn’t answer. Just tilted his head toward the back, where the folk section lived. She nodded once and walked off, not looking back.

Not every ghost wanted to be seen. He understood that.

The next guy came in twitchy, brows low, hands jammed in his coat. “Got anything with teeth?”
Azriel didn’t bother asking what that meant. Pointed him toward the post-punk rack and let him figure it out.

A girl picked up Naked Lunch , read the back like it was a dare, then smirked at nobody.
Later, a man in a crisp suit stepped in, scanned the shelves, and asked for Sinatra like he was testing the room. When Azriel said they didn’t stock crooners, the man scoffed loud enough to hear across the store and walked straight back out.

The light outside dipped in and out, flickering through the frosted glass like a faulty bulb. Inside, the day crawled forward—slow, quiet, and gray.

Then the storm hit.

The door banged back hard enough to rattle the glass.

“Oi, Shadows!” Cassian’s voice cut straight through the ambient hum, sharp and loud enough to turn heads.

Azriel kept his gaze on the counter. “You’re early.”

Cassian dropped onto the stool like his spine had quit. The shirt he had on was hanging off one shoulder, buttons misaligned. His hair looked like it had been styled with a leaf blower. The mix of lager, cigarettes, and something greasy hit Azriel’s nose before the stool even stopped squeaking.

“Bar closed early. Pub was rammed. I woke up with a kebab in my sock.” He scrubbed a hand down his face.

Az finally blinked. “Sock?”

“Don’t.”

Az tilted his head, deadpan.

“I’m serious. Don’t.”

Cassian reached into the crumpled paper bag and slapped a sandwich onto the counter hard enough to rattle the till. “Eat. Or I’ll tell Nesta you fainted behind the till again.”

“I didn’t faint.”

“You sat on the floor with your head between your knees for twenty minutes.”

Azriel picked up the sandwich, unwrapped it slowly. “That’s not fainting.”

Cassian didn’t bother arguing. He was already digging behind the till for a cigarette, even though they both knew Az hated it near the first editions. He lit up anyway. Azriel didn’t say a word.

“You working ‘til six?” Cass asked through a cloud of smoke.

Azriel nodded, chewing.

“Band practice tomorrow,” Cassian added, like he was issuing a decree. “Mor’s got a line on some kid with a camera. Said he’s weird as fuck but cheap. She wants to shoot some promo stuff.”

Azriel swallowed. “We don’t even have a proper setlist,” he muttered.

Cassian leaned back and blew smoke toward the ceiling. “That’s why we practice, mate. So we look like we know what we’re doing.”

Neither spoke after that. The counter hummed under Azriel’s arm, the last of the sandwich gone, the shop ticking along in the quiet like it was catching its breath.

The bell behind the stockroom door gave one hard ring. Not a jingle—this one had weight.

Cassian flinched. “Oh, piss off.”

Azriel didn’t look up. “Ignore it. It’s fine.”

It wasn’t fine.

Then came the voice—flat, clipped, rough at the edges. 

“Morning, lads.”

Azriel was on his feet before his brain caught up.

Cassian stubbed the cigarette into the tray fast, like that would undo the smoke curling in the air.

Mick stepped into view.

Owner of the place. Could’ve been fifty, could’ve been lying. Wore the same coat every day, heavy and always damp. Smelled like forgotten tea and old wool. Face locked in a permanent scowl, jaw set like it’d never learned to relax.

He scanned them both—slow, thorough. The kind of look that measured more than just posture.

“You working or fuckin’ about?”

Azriel kept his voice even. “Working.”

“Doesn’t look it. Look at this place.” He gestured to the leaning stack of LPs Az had already catalogued. “Looks like a bloody garage sale.”

Cassian straightened. “Easy, mate. He’s been—”

“I wasn’t talking to you, drummer boy.”

Cassian’s mouth snapped shut. His hands curled into fists at his sides.

Mick turned back to Azriel. “You clocked in late this morning.”

“The delivery came early. I didn’t take a break.”

Mick sniffed. “You take breaks when I bloody tell you to.”

Azriel stared past him, past the shelves, to the smudged window and the neon hum outside.

Mick leaned in. “You don’t like it here, you can leave. Plenty of boys want to sit around pretending they know music.”

His jaw ticked. But he gave a nod.

That was the game. You nodded. You swallowed. You let the prick win today so you could play guitar tomorrow.

Mick huffed and disappeared back into the stockroom.

Silence, thick as tar.

Cassian exhaled, slow and furious. “Swear to God, one day I’m putting his head through that door.”

Azriel didn’t answer. He just watched the front window, fingers tapping against the wood in time with a song only he could hear.

Cassian ducked out around four, mumbling about sleep, unpaid bills, and maybe setting something on fire if anyone handed him a bar towel tonight. Azriel let him go.

The shop fell back into its usual state—thin smoke clinging to the corners, the air stretched tight with nothing. A slow crawl of time broken only by the shuffle of shoes and the occasional ring of the door.

Three more customers came through. One bought a scratched copy of The Velvet Underground & Nico . She wore a ripped jumper, eyeliner smeared from either rain or hours. She asked what “existential” meant, eyes wide like she wanted a real answer. He gave her a half-answer, and when she nodded like it all made sense, he let it lie.

By six, dust coated his hands like chalk. The register jammed halfway through a sale and stayed there. His stomach groaned under the weight of stale bread.

He killed the lights.

Locked the till.

Flicked the sign from OPEN to FUCK OFF—well, it said CLOSED, but it meant the same thing.

Outside, the sky had gone a dull, purplish grey. The air clung to the skin, heavy and sour. Camden didn’t quiet down at night—it settled into something meaner. The canal stank, sharp and damp, and the chip shop’s fryer added grease and vinegar to the mix. Somewhere nearby, weed smoke curled into it all, and the bins in the alley behind him were starting to turn.

He walked fast, head down, coat collar flipped up, fists buried deep. Two blocks in, something cold tapped the back of his neck.

Like spite.

He looked up. The sky glared back, low and black and ready.

“Fuck,” he muttered.

It didn’t start raining. It unleashed.

A full-on, sideways, biblical, god-hates-you sort of downpour.

Within seconds, he was soaked. Hair plastered to his forehead, water bleeding through the seams of his boots, shirt clinging to him like a second skin.

The cold sank fast. London cold. The kind that whispered, you’ll never be warm again .

He clenched his jaw. Kept walking.

His bag sagged against his shoulder, the strap biting in, the weight of notebooks and lyrics turning leaden with every soaked step. Water dripped from his nose, pooled in his cuffs, blurred the ink on the napkin he’d shoved into his coat pocket—the one with Nesta’s “Illyria” still scrawled across it.

The rain didn’t let up. Not once. Not even a pause to catch breath.

Azriel stomped through the water pooling across the pavement, each step throwing up a sharp splash. He kicked hard, sending dirty arcs flying, boot smacking the surface like he was trying to break it. A lorry hissed past, splashing his entire left side with gutter runoff that smelled like oil and old piss.

He didn’t scream.

But he thought about it.

He hated this city.

He loved this city.

He hated that it didn’t love him back.

Camden was a bastard like that.

Halfway to the flat, he passed their usual takeaway, lights flickering, a single bloke smoking under the awning and watching him with a look that said Jesus, mate .

Azriel ignored him.

He took the long way home, even though it made no sense, even though he was already wet enough to drown. Maybe he wanted the punishment. Maybe he didn’t want to go back to the flat and the draft and the echo of Cassian’s ghosts hanging off the radiator.

Maybe he didn’t want to sit with the silence.

Rain in his mouth. Rain in his eyes.

Azriel walked.

By the time he reached the flat, the rain had soaked through to his spine, water squelching in his boots, collar sticking to his neck like a noose. The stairs moaned under his weight—old wood swollen from decades of leaks and neglect. The third one from the top always gave a little scream. Tonight it went silent. Even the building was tired of him.

There was a note tacked to the door in red biro.

RENT. MONDAY. NO EXCUSES.

Underlined twice.

Azriel didn’t even flinch. Just peeled it off, crumpled it in a wet fist, and shoved the key in the lock.

The flat was a mess of mildew and unkept promises.

Two rooms, nothing on the walls. The kitchenette sat dead in the corner—burner knobs missing, sink rusted out. The fridge buzzed unevenly, loud and low, like it was trying to cover something up. A single gas ring worked if you swore at it long enough. Takeout boxes stacked like relics on the counter. One ashtray overflowing. Two if you counted the chipped cereal bowl on the window ledge.

Shoes off. Socks stripped with a squelch . He left them in a wet heap by the door.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t sigh. Just padded to his room like a ghost in dripping black.

Azriel’s room was small—barely fit the mattress jammed into the corner, the sagging shelves above it heavy with dog-eared books, stray guitar picks, a cracked photo frame of boys in a uniform they didn’t wear anymore. The walls were covered in lyrics scribbled on napkins, bus tickets, receipts. Most were taped up crooked. Some had bled through with water stains, and he hadn’t replaced them.

There was a record player in the corner, speakers fraying at the wires. He hadn’t used it in days.

A coat hung off the bedpost. It was his only one that didn’t leak. It smelled like smoke, like Camden, like the stage. He didn’t take it to the shop. He didn’t want it to forget.

The bathroom was across the hall, lit by a single flickering bulb that made everything feel like an interrogation. Mold clawed up the corners of the tile. The mirror was cracked at the corner, not enough to be replaced, just enough to remind him of the time Cassian had punched the wall and missed.

Azriel caught his reflection as he peeled off his soaked jumper, arms raised slow, fabric clinging to his ribs.

Lean muscle. Too pale for his tanned skin. A spatter of bruises across his hipbone from where the amp dug in. Fingers calloused. The smudge of ink on the inside of his forearm—unfinished, like everything else about him. His hair was darker when wet, slicked to his temple, jaw clenched tight like he was bracing for impact.

He didn’t look like a legend.

He looked like a man unraveling one cold night at a time.

He dropped the shirt. Undid his belt with stiff fingers. Let the rest fall to the tile. Stood naked for a second, the flickering light slicing him into angles and shadow.

Then he turned the tap.

The shower sputtered when he twisted the knob. Pipes clanked. A burst of reddish water shot out, splattering the floor, then cut to a trickle

He waited.

Nothing.

Another splutter. A wheeze of lukewarm hope.

Then cold.

Fucking ice cold.

Azriel locked his jaw, eyes fixed on the weak stream. He didn’t move, didn’t blink, just stood there like the water might shape up under pressure. Like the pipes would catch the hint and do what they were supposed to.

It didn’t.

He swore—quiet, sharp.

Then stepped under.

Teeth bared, fists tight at his sides.

The water stabbed down in icy bursts, each drop like it meant to bruise. A growl slipped out, raw and low.

Still, he held his ground.

No flinch. No retreat.

Let the flat try. He wasn’t losing to a damn shower.

He stayed under the water longer than he needed to. Not for warmth—it never came—but because the cold gave him something to fight. Something to blame. His jaw ached from the clench of it, skin raised with gooseflesh, the burn in his chest sharp and clean.

When he finally stepped out, his feet left wet prints on the cracked tile.

He toweled off fast, not bothering to shave or brush the knots from his hair. Just dragged on the first clean things he found: a faded Black tee soft with age, holes at the hem, and an old pair of track bottoms he’d stolen from Cassian years ago and never given back. The waistband was half-broken, the cuffs frayed. But they were warm.

He walked barefoot into the bedroom, each step pulling a creak from the floor. Nothing moved. No traffic outside, no voices, no TV hum. Just the low buzz of old wiring and the faint tick of pipes cooling down. The kind of silence that made you glance over your shoulder, just to check.

He hit the switch. The room dropped into shadow, lit only by the streetlamps outside. Faint yellow slats slid through the blinds, stretching across the floor. His bed sat untouched since morning—sheets kicked down, blanket half on the floor, pillow dented like he’d thrown a punch in his sleep.

He sat on the edge, shoulders forward, hands opening and closing without rhythm. After a moment, he leaned over and grabbed the guitar from where it rested against the wall.

It wasn’t much—just a battered old thing he’d bought second hand the week he moved in. It was rough. Scratches across the body, a dent near the bridge, the finish dull where his arm always dragged. The neck had gone slick from use. One of the tuners jammed if he turned it too fast.

He strummed once. The sound came out uneven, a little flat. But it stuck around.

Then again. A little louder.

His fingers moved slow across the strings, fumbling through sounds, testing one shape, then another. No plan. No notes. Just whatever came out. Some of it clashed. Some of it hung in the air like it was thinking about staying. He wasn’t trying to impress anyone—there was no one to impress. Just the walls, the hum of the fridge, and the weight he carried like an extra layer of skin.

The pressure built up behind his ribs. Tight. Rising. 

His boss’s voice—sharp, smug, calling him a waste. 

A scream from the crowd, someone shouting his name without a clue who he was. 

Laughter echoing off alley bricks behind the venue. 

That low, raw rush in his chest when the bass hit right. 

Now his hands were shaking with it. Starved for something real.

He grabbed a bill off the table, flipped it over, and scratched down a few words with a pen that kept skipping. The letters came out jagged, uneven, almost unreadable. But they were his.

We buzz in the static and smoke-light glow /

Names scuffed off where the leather don’t show /

Junkyard saints in frayed blue jeans /

They ain’t seen us yet—

But they will, yeah they will.

He ran through it again, dragging the tempo down, pressing harder on each chord. The notes came out heavy, stretched thin.

The guitar buzzed where it rested on his leg.

The window behind him shook once, loose in its frame.

No sound from outside. No voice calling back.

Just the music, low and steady.

And him, still there, gripping the neck like it was the only thing that made sense.

A soft knock pulled him out of the chords.

Not a fist-pounding, landlord-temper kind of knock. A hesitant, tapping sort of knock. Like whoever it was didn’t want to be a bother.

Azriel froze. His hand rested on the strings, muting the last note mid-ring.

Another knock.

He let go of the guitar, set it against the wall, and pushed up to his feet. The floor groaned under his weight. Bare soles brushed across cold wood as he moved, one hand dragging down his shirt to smooth the wrinkles. It was half past eleven. No one decent knocked at half past eleven. Which meant it wasn’t Cassian. Or Rhys. Or anyone he’d expect.

He opened the door a crack.

Mrs. Winfield stood there—three doors down, second floor, lilac dressing gown knotted tight, curlers still stacked neatly in her hair. She looked up at him like she was trying not to look flustered.

“Azriel, love—sorry, I hate to bother you.”

He blinked. “Everything okay?”

She offered a tight, sheepish smile and held up a small saucer with a bit of kibble on it. “It’s Mavis. Slipped out again. I thought she’d come back by now, but... well, you know how she is. She’s a terrible flirt when it rains.”

Azriel stared at the dish. Then at the hallway behind her.

“I’m sure she’s just tucked into someone’s rubbish again,” Mrs. Winfield added quickly. “But if it’s not too much trouble—could you help me look? Just down the corridor.”

Azriel should’ve said no.

Azriel stood there, wet hair clinging to his neck, shirt stuck cold to his back, fingers still itching from the half-finished chord he’d been picking out.

But Mrs. Winfield looked genuinely worried, her eyes kept darting past him toward the hallway, voice tight around the edges. And last week, when Cassian came home swearing about the shop closing early, she’d handed over half a bag of sugar without even asking why.

Azriel sighed and grabbed his coat off the hook. “Come on, then.”

She beamed as if he’d offered to carry her across the Channel.

They searched quietly, padding down the dim hallway with the soft creak of old slippers and Azriel’s bare steps keeping time. Mrs. Winfield kept her eyes low, whispering, “Maaavis,” like the cat would come if she sounded sweet enough.

They spotted her wedged behind a busted umbrella stand by the stairs, paw held up, tongue flicking over it slow and calm. Tail twitching once. She didn’t even look up. Like she hadn’t just given her owner a heart attack.

Azriel crouched and clicked his tongue. “Oi. Trouble.”

Mavis sat still, eyes half-lidded, watching him like he was wasting her time. When he reached down, she didn’t budge—just let him lift her, paws dangling, tail flicking once like it had been her idea all along.

Mrs. Winfield clutched her chest. “Oh, thank heavens. She’d have caught her death in this damp.”

Azriel handed the warm, damp bundle over carefully. “She’s fine. Bit smug.”

The older woman hesitated. “Would you… would you stay for a cup of tea? I’ve got the electric on. And some ginger biscuits, if Cassian hasn’t bullied you into eating yet.”

Azriel opened his mouth. Closed it.

He wasn’t good at people. Especially not soft ones. But the flat was cold and full of ghosts, and Mavis was already purring like a broken engine in Mrs. Winfield’s arms.

“Just a quick one,” he said, voice low.

Mrs. Winfield nodded, lips pulling into a tight line. She turned without a word, started down the hall at a steady pace, checking once to make sure he was following. Her steps didn’t hesitate like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Mrs. Winfield’s flat smelled like rose soap and old paperbacks. The wallpaper had yellowed at the edges, curling like the pages of the books stacked on every surface. A floral teapot sat steaming on the tiny table by the kitchenette, a dish towel draped over the lid to keep the heat in. Mavis slinked off to curl herself into a tartan-lined basket near the radiator, purring like nothing had ever been wrong.

“Sorry about the mess,” she said as she bustled around. “I wasn’t expectin’ company. Not this late, anyway.”

“It’s all right,” Azriel muttered, standing stiff by the door until she waved him toward a worn armchair that swallowed him the second he sat. It smelled faintly of talcum powder and faded perfume.

She tipped the pot slowly, steam rising as the tea hit the cup. The rim clicked against the saucer. She held it out with both hands, steady and careful, as if it might crack if she moved too fast.

“How d’you take it, love?” she asked.

Azriel hesitated, then nodded. “Just one sugar.”

Mrs. Winfield smiled, pleased, and fixed it for him without another word.

They sat in a quiet that didn’t ache. Just the tap of rain on the windows and the distant hum of some wireless in the flat above, probably stuck on BBC Light Programme again.

“You look like someone who doesn’t get many hot cups,” she said, taking her own seat across from him.

Azriel huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh. “Guess not.”

“That flatmate of yours—Cassian? Loud bugger. Always belting it in the stairwell like he’s at the bloody West End.”

Azriel’s lips twitched. “He’d headline the Palladium if someone dared him.”

She chuckled. “And you’re the quiet one. Always with the guitar. That’s yours I hear sometimes, isn’t it?”

He nodded. “Sorry if it keeps you up.”

“Oh, don’t be daft. I like it.” She sipped her tea. “Reminds me of when Tommy used to play. My husband. He was Navy. But he had this old Spanish guitar. Couldn’t play for a pence, but he’d strum the same song every Sunday like it was the only one he knew.”

Azriel glanced at the photograph perched on the mantel — a young sailor with a cigarette tucked behind one ear, arm slung around a grinning brunette in a white tea dress. The woman in the photo looked like trouble. Looked like Mrs. Winfield before she’d grown soft at the edges.

“How long ago was that?” he asked before he could stop himself.

“Twenty-one years this October,” she said, not missing a beat. “Still can’t sleep right without his snoring.”

Azriel looked down into his cup.

Mrs. Winfield gave a small sad smile. “We were your age when we legged it to Liverpool to tie the knot. Just us and the war and a lot of stupid dreams.”

He nodded slowly. Let that land. “We’ve got the stupid dreams, at least.”

“Good.” Her gaze turned sharp. “Don’t let the city beat it out of you.”

He didn’t answer.

They sat there a while longer, sipping tea that warmed him better than the shower had, not speaking unless they had to. It was the kind of quiet that held space for grief and youth and everything in between.

When Azriel stood to leave, she touched his arm gently.

“You tell Cassian I’ve got more biscuits if he ever stops shouting long enough to knock first.”

Azriel gave the smallest of nods. “Thanks for the tea.”

“Thank you for finding her,” she said, glancing at the now-snoring cat. “You’re a good boy, Azriel.”

He didn’t say anything. Just slipped out into the hall with his shoulders a little less hunched.

When he returned, the radiator was still making that useless rattle in the corner, air just as cold.

But when he reached for the guitar again, his fingers held steady.

A fist pounded the flat’s front door—three quick booms, like a drummer calling time—then blew open on its hinge-squeal.

“ AZ! ”

Cassian’s voice ricocheted down the hall a split-second before six feet of half-drunk muscle did. Boots thudded, chairs scraped, and a moment later Azriel’s mattress dipped, tilted—and was buried.

“Up an’ at ’em, Sleeping Beauty!”

Azriel came up choking, nose full of beer breath and sweat, Cassian’s full weight pressing him into the mattress. He sucked in air that didn’t help. Cassian just locked his arms tighter, rolling them until Az’s ribs groaned against the pressure—arms like rope, chest solid as stone.

“Gerroff,” Az rasped, voice shredded from sleep and lack of air.  “You weigh a bleeding ton.”

“All fifteen stone of love, mate.” Cassian nuzzled his hair with mock tenderness, then mussed it worse. “Oi, you’re older but I’m taller—hierarchy’s clear.”

Azriel thunked the back of his head against Cassian’s collar-bone. “Jesus, Cass, you smell like the pub floor had a baby with an ashtray.”

“Compliments this early? I’m flattered.”

Azriel twisted hard and shoved with a final squirm. Cassian slid off with a grunt, hit the floorboards with a thud, and didn’t bother getting up. “Rent’s paid. Got a shilling to our name,” he announced triumphantly, legs still tangled in the duvet he’d ripped off the bed. “Landlord can bite me.”

“You counted wrong. We owe him our souls next month.” Az swung his legs over the edge, hair in his eyes. “What time is it?”

Cass glanced at the window, then back at Az. “Six. Sun’s not even sober yet.” He shoved himself upright and draped an arm around Az’s shoulders, already dragging him toward the kitchen. “Chef bloody Cass. Brace yourself.”

The kitchenette looked worse by dawn—yellow bulb flickering over chipped mugs, condensation crawling the cracked windowpane. Cassian rooted through the icebox, emerging with two eggs, the heel of bread, and a single sad tomato.

“Gourmet,” he declared, thumping the lot onto the cooker. “Shift was murder. Half of Camden decided to brawl after Spurs lost. I’m tellin’ you, Az, pint glass to the face—bloke didn’t even spill his bitter. Art, that is.”

Azriel leaned on the counter, weight slouched into one elbow, lids heavy. Across the kitchen, Cassian banged a pan onto the burner, twisting the knob until the flame caught with a dull whoomph. Azriel didn’t say anything—just tracked the motion, the sound, the clatter. His head still swam with sleep, but Cass’s voice kept breaking through, steady enough to keep him tethered.

“There I am, pouring pints like a saint, when Paddy says, ‘Oi Cass, break that up.’ Break what up? Four skins and a mod bootin’ each other over the jukebox—‘Street Fighting Man,’ fitting, yeah? Anyway, I step in, one swing, and suddenly they’re mates . Bought me a round for the trouble. Hence—” he tapped his temple, grin lopsided—“the lingering glow.”

Oil hissed. Egg whites spat. The smell of frying chased the night from the room. Cassian hummed off-key while he scorched the tomato halves.

“Practice at Rhys’s, seven sharp,” he reminded, plating the results. “Wear something that doesn’t look like despair.”

Azriel snorted, accepting the plate—two overdone eggs, toast charred at the corners, tomato leaking seeds like blood. “We own one shilling. Despair’s in fashion.”

Cassian raised his mug in salute. “Then we’ll be bleedin' trendsetters.”

They ate standing, shoulders bumping the narrow walls, trading scraps of story: the cat rescue, Mick’s tirade at the shop, the song lines Azriel had scrawled on the gas bill. Cassian listened, brow furrowing at the mention of Mick, but didn’t interrupt, just nudged another crust toward Az when he paused too long.

When the last bite was gone and the kettle hissed dry, silence settled—soft, companionable. Cassian rinsed plates, Azriel dried: routine older than the flat, older than the band.

“Seven tonight,” Cass repeated, voice low now, already halfway out the door. He moved like his body was running on fumes, ready for the three-hours of sleep that was waiting for him just past the hallway. “We’ll make ’em remember.”

Azriel didn’t answer right away. Just watched him—watched the slow blink, the red rims around his eyes, the way he still meant it. Still believed it. He saw the same raw faith that had dragged him out of bed in the orphanage dorms years ago.

“Yeah,” Azriel said, throat tight, tone all grit. “We will.”

Cassian flashed a grin, wide and reckless, then turned and staggered down the hallway, humming under his breath—half-melody, half-memory. A door slammed shut. The old bed creaked behind it.

Azriel stayed in the kitchen. One hand around a chipped mug, steam curling near his face. Morning light crept through the dirty window, catching dust. The radiator clicked but didn’t heat. One coin left on the counter. Rent scraped through.

Seven o’clock sat in his head like a pin. His fingers twitched around the mug, already remembering the fretboard. That was enough.

The bus rattled off, coughing exhaust as it turned the corner. Azriel and Cassian stood in front of a narrow door wedged between a tailor’s window full of faded mannequins and a basement café with burnt coffee on the air. The building leaned a little, bricks weathered, the nameplate long gone.

Soho didn’t smell like Camden. Less traffic grit, more clove and damp concrete. Cleaner maybe, but not friendlier.

Cassian hit the intercom. Hard.

Crackling. Then Rhysand’s voice, smooth and unbothered: “Top floor. Don’t chip the paint getting up here.”

The lock buzzed. Azriel shoved the door open and they stepped into a stairwell that reeked of old shoes and burnt toast. The steps creaked under them, wood warped and shiny with wear. Cigarette ends were crushed into the corners. Hendrix posters flaked off the walls like the building was trying to shed them. Each floor brought a different stink—fried food, paint thinner, smoke that didn’t come from cigarettes. By the fourth, their backs were wet, guitar cases dragging at their shoulders.

Rhysand’s door was painted midnight blue, the number 4 1/2 stencilled in silver. It swung open before Cassian could knock.

Rhys leaned against the frame, grinning like he’d been waiting. Shirt open at the collar, rings glinting. Hair perfect, like the weather knew better than to touch him.

He stepped aside. “Wipe your boots.”

The lounge was a single long room under a slanted roof, candles burning where a proper fixture had blown weeks ago. Walls: matte black, half-hidden by record sleeves and a giant Yardbirds poster pinned with silver tacks. One corner dripped with Feyre’s canvases—bold swathes of crimson and ultramarine still wet enough to glisten. Another was crammed with amps, mic stands, tangled leads, and Rhys’s new second-hand Vox that he claimed cost “a kidney and my first-born.”

The smell was cloves, turpentine, and the faint ozone of overheated valves.

Mor lay sprawled across the battered leather sofa, boots on the back cushions, vinyl of Ogden’s Nut Gone Flake spinning low behind her. She raised a cigarette in salute. “Camden boys, living dangerously in Soho. Hide the cutlery.”

Feyre crouched by the table, knees tucked under her, pencil jammed through her hair to keep it out of her face. Paint stains streaked her overalls, dried thick at the knees. She was lettering ILLYRIA – FRI 20th – THE GASLIGHT on a sheet of butcher paper, tongue caught between her teeth in concentration. At their entrance she looked up, blue eyes bright. “About time. Cass, I need the exact running order.”

“Set list’s in my head,” Cass said, tossing his bag. “Head’s solid. Most days.”

Feyre rolled her eyes but smiled. “Nesta sends apologies,” she added to Azriel, noticing the glance he sent toward the spare chair. “Deadline on some magazine piece. Says she’ll make the next practice.”

Azriel nodded once and shrugged out of his coat. The room was warmer than the one he’d left—dry heat ticking from the grate. He worked his fingers open and closed, joints slow to catch up. His eyes moved, taking in the usual scatter: Rhys’s books lined up neat but not precious, Wilde shoved beside dog-eared sci-fi; Mor’s discarded feather boa hanging from a lampshade, a lone teacup left on the amp, just sitting there like it belonged.

Cassian was already uncasing cymbals near the window, chatting full volume about pint glasses used as projectiles and how many tips he’d nicked off the bar for cab fare. Rhys listened with half a smile, adjusting levels on the Vox, every so often flicking ash into an empty beer bottle.

Azriel slung his Strat copy over his shoulder, the worn leather strap settling into Friday’s bruise. The room hummed with low feedback, candlelight dancing on chrome.

Outside, traffic rolled past in waves, engines low and constant. Inside, cables snaked across the floor, half-buried under boots and gear, and four bodies moved like they’d done it a thousand times—no stumbling, no need to speak. Nesta wasn’t there, but the rhythm held.

Practice started at seven sharp. One coin left in the jar. Rent barely covered. No plans for what tomorrow could be, just the weight of tonight.

Az ran his thumb over the E-string. It rang out sharp. He glanced up, caught Rhys watching.

Cassian raised his sticks, gave a quick four-count against the edge of the kit.

Then it hit—raw and loud. Sound poured out fast, filled the room like it was trying to break through the walls.

Chapter Text

“Everyone deserves a night where they can be nobody.”

September 13th, 1968

Camden, morning. Rain again. Always rain.

It came sideways, gnawing at umbrellas, sneaking past collars. Azriel didn’t bother. The cold had already found him.

He pushed open the door to Mick’s Music & Books with a shoulder and a grunt. The bell above clanged—less chime, more complaint. The inside smelled like damp wool, forgotten coffee, stale cigarettes, and old vinyl. Something sour was wafting from under the floorboards again.

Mick looked up from behind the till, his mouth pulled tight around a pencil stub. “You’re late.”

Azriel peeled off his wet coat. “I’m early.”

“You look late.”

Azriel said nothing. He reached for the cracked plastic tag on the wall, didn’t even pin it on. Mick slapped a clipboard onto the counter.

“Folk bin’s a mess. Some bird came in yesterday, tried to rearrange it by ‘emotional journey.’ Left me a pile labelled ‘Wildflower Child.’”

Azriel blinked.

“You ever heard of that, lad? ‘Wildflower Child’? Is that a genre now?”

“No worse than ‘acid skiffle,’” Azriel muttered.

Mick grunted. “Fix it.”

Azriel ducked into the stacks. The shop wrapped around him—narrow aisles, low ceilings, pipes that wheezed louder than customers. Joan Baez was snuggled up too close to Dylan, and someone had shoved Simon & Garfunkel behind a copy of Electric Ladyland. He didn’t mind the mess.

It felt more honest.

He dropped to a crouch and started sorting sleeves. The radiator clicked somewhere behind him. Dust settled on his knees. His wrist throbbed—Cassian had cracked a stick across his arm at last night’s rehearsal, and the bruise was a fresh one. He rubbed at it absently.

Then the door creaked again.

The bell above groaned half-heartedly.

Azriel didn’t look up. Not yet.

Boots hit the floorboards. Heavy. Confident. Then—

“Still smells like 1965 and a hangover in here,” a voice said.

Azriel turned.

The boy standing in the doorway looked like someone who had never been ignored in his life. Blonde hair sun-touched. Tan skin like he’d walked out of someone else’s summer. Motorcycle jacket over a t-shirt that used to be white. Brown eyes, warm but sharp.

He wasn’t posing. Just standing there. The room seemed to rearrange around him.

Azriel didn’t move.

The boy stepped inside, a faint grin curling at his mouth. “Mind if I...?”

Azriel gestured to the bins. “Go on.”

The boy moved down the aisle like he was looking for something specific and not in a rush to find it. He ran his fingers along the records, not flipping through them—feeling them.

“Nobody looks at the backs anymore,” he murmured. “That’s where the real stuff is. The lies. The faces they want you to believe.”

Azriel tilted his head. “Depends what kind of lies you like.”

The boy looked at him. “You?”

“Happy endings,” Azriel said.

That got a laugh. A low one. Not mocking.

“I’m River,” the boy said, sticking out his hand. “River Dames.”

Azriel took it. His hand was cold. River’s was warm.

“Azriel.”

River raised an eyebrow. “Biblical.”

“Blame my mum.”

River shrugged. “Could be worse. I knew a guy once named Zodiac. Spelled it with an X.”

He kept flipping. Found Strange Days by The Doors. Held it up.

“You like Morrison?” he asked.

“I don’t dislike him.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

Azriel didn’t answer.

River turned the sleeve in his hands. “This one’s queer. The whole thing. Not just Morrison. The songs. The artwork. Like they made it to confuse people on purpose.”

Azriel swallowed. His throat suddenly dry.

“Five quid,” he said.

River handed him a ten. “Keep the change. Looks like you need it.”

Azriel bagged the record. Brown sleeve. Mick refused to use plastic. Said it ruined the aesthetic.

River leaned against the counter.

“You go to parties?” he asked, just like that.

Azriel lifted a brow. “What kind?”

“Loft kind. Chalk Farm. Not a rave. Just a few people and a lot of records. Maybe smoke. Maybe dancing. Mostly forgetting it’s Tuesday.”

Azriel hesitated. “It is Tuesday.”

River smiled. “Exactly.”

He scribbled an address on a napkin. Camden scrawl, a small star in the corner.

“Come. Or don’t. I won’t cry.”

Azriel folded the napkin, pocketed it.

River paused at the door.

“That name of yours. Azriel. You ever think it’s something you grow into?”

Azriel looked up. “What does that mean?”

River just grinned. “You’ll figure it out.”

Then he was gone.

The bell above the door gave a half-hearted rattle as River left, and the air seemed to fold in around the silence he’d left behind.

Azriel stayed still behind the counter, one hand still resting on the sleeve of the Doors LP like he’d forgotten he was holding it. The cover looked different now—more absurd than it had an hour ago. Clowns in alleyways. Faces stretched wide. A sort of madness that felt familiar.

Mick shuffled out from the back, rubbing a tea stain into his jumper like he thought he could erase the whole day with it.

“You flog anything decent?”

Azriel didn’t look up. “Doors. Strange Days.”

Mick snorted. “Figures. Fewer notes, more moaning. Bloody poetry students and their acid records.”

He vanished again, muttering about tax returns and bad jAzrielz.

Azriel stayed a beat longer. Reached into his coat pocket and pressed his fingers against the napkin. Still there. Soft from the rain. Faint ink bleeding at the corners.

He thought about the flat. About the leak above the stove, the way the radiator clicked like a bad habit, Cassian probably halfway into a bottle and arguing with the telly.

And then he thought about that loft River mentioned—people with loud jackets and louder mouths, music played wrong on purpose. And River himself: the way he moved through a room like it owed him something, like he’d already forgiven it.

Azriel didn’t know what River was exactly. Just that he wasn’t dull. Wasn’t cold. Wasn’t trying to shrink to fit.

Azriel didn’t want to be with him.

He just wanted to feel that... ease. To stand in a room and not feel like the wallpaper.

Tonight, maybe, he could fake it.

The lock on the front door caught, like it always did. Azriel jimmied it loose with a hard shoulder and stepped out into the Camden air—wet and thick and stuck between smells. Rain again, but light now. Mist that clung to your collar.

The streets were winding down. Market boys packing up, shouting over one another. Vinyl sellers still yelling about obscure imports like they were offering gospel. Somewhere, a dog barked once and then kept barking like it had lost the plot. A kid screamed across the road and got told off with a sharp clout.

Azriel walked straight past the turning that led to the flat. Past the red door, the rusted letterbox, the buzz of old pipes behind thin walls. He didn’t stop.

The bus stop on the corner stank of wet wool and old chip paper. A woman smoked with her eyes half shut, holding her fag like she didn’t care who saw.

Azriel stood back against the plexiglass. The timetable was peeled halfway down the frame. Someone had written God Is A Bird in biro next to the number 24 route.

The bus was late. Always was.

Inside, he took his usual seat: third row back, window side. Bag on his knees. Face angled toward the condensation.

The city drifted past in bits. Street lamps too slow to blink. Faces behind glass—flat and distant, like paint left out in the rain. Posters torn halfway: THE KINKS – THE ROUNDHOUSE – SOLD OUT. Underneath, a flyer for Illyria at The Gaslight. Azriel’s band. Their name barely visible beneath a wad of chewed gum.

The heater kicked in with a groan. The whole bus shook like it hated the idea of moving at all.

Azriel’s thoughts weren’t tidy.

River kept bouncing around in them—just bits. His grin. The way he didn’t ask to be noticed. The way his laugh had landed in the middle of the shop like it belonged.

He didn’t want to shag him. That wasn’t it. Or if it was, it was somewhere deeper than Azriel wanted to look.

He just wanted to exist the way River did.

Like breathing didn’t take effort.

Like the world bent toward you, not the other way around.

By the time the bus rumbled into Soho, the mist had turned sharp again. Air that tasted like clove cigarettes and cash.

The buildings leaned in tight around the street. Windows high and gold-lit. Leather jackets in doorways. A bloke shouted something in Italian at a girl who gave him the finger and kept walking.

Azriel got off near Wardour Street. Stepped into a puddle deep enough to soak through his boots.

Didn’t flinch.

Azriel stood in front of the narrow door wedged between a tailor’s window and a basement café.

Rhysand’s place.

Someone had Paint It Black on downstairs—too loud, too warped. Sound bled up through the floor like it was chasing ghosts.

Azriel climbed the stairs. Four flights of bad wiring and peeling paper. Each landing had its own stink: garlic. Polish cigarettes. Incense. One of them always reeked of varnish and never had a wet floor sign.

By the time he hit the top, his coat clung to his back like regret. His fingers had gone cold again, and the napkin in his pocket had nearly gone soft.

He knocked once, then opened the door. Rhys never locked it properly.

Feyre sat on an upturned milk crate in the middle of the lounge, paint on her hands and one sock off. Her sketchpad was open on her knee. Her hair was tied up with a shoelace and she smelled like turpentine and lemon.

“Look at this,” she said, not even greeting him.

Azriel stepped in. The radiator clicked once behind him.

Feyre held up the sketch. Cassian mid-shout. Rhys with his eyes closed, back arched like a frontman on a crucifix. Azriel, neck bent, like he was trying not to be seen.

“Do I really look like that?” he muttered.

She didn’t look up. “You look lonelier in real life.”

Azriel hesitated before he laughed under his breath. Rubbed the back of his neck and muttered, “cheers for that.” Sat down on the floor. His coat stayed on.

Feyre passed him a thermos. Tea. Too sweet. Slightly burnt.

She dipped her pen again. “Skipped the studio today.”

“Again?”

“They were talking about negative space like it’s a religion. Bored me stiff.”

“You’re wasting your grant.”

“You’re wasting your talent shelving James Taylor under J.”

Azriel didn’t argue.

Silence.

Comfortable. A bit stale. Like worn shoes.

Then—

“I met someone today.”

Feyre raised an eyebrow.

“Not like that.”

She waited.

“Bought a Doors record. Said the shop smelled like the sixties died.”

That got a grin. “He sounds like a wanker.”

Azriel shook his head. “No. Just... I dunno. He’s throwing a thing tonight. Said I should come.”

“It’s Tuesday.”

“Exactly.”

Feyre didn’t press. Just kept sketching. “You should go. Might write a better lyric if you let someone else talk for once.”

Azriel smirked. “Cheers.”

Azriel didn’t bother explaining. Didn’t feel like he could. Not without sounding daft.

He stood to leave, brushing dust off his coat. Feyre didn’t say goodbye—just passed him a paint-streaked napkin, as if that were enough.

The hall outside Rhysand’s flat was dark, the overhead bulb half-shot and buzzing like it had opinions. He was halfway to the stairs when Rhys caught him.

The door creaked open behind him.

“You off somewhere?”

Azriel turned. Rhys stood shirt half-open, a silver chain catching the last light from a guttered candle on the bookcase. He had that lazy grin on—like he knew something you didn’t and probably never would.

“Just Camden,” Azriel said.

Rhys cocked a brow. “Cassian’s pulling taps. Mor’s halfway through a bottle. What’s in Camden?”

Azriel shrugged. “Just a thing.”

Rhys lit a fag, didn’t ask if Azriel minded. He never did. The match flared, lit his face like theatre.

“Gaslight’s in two days,” he said, voice easy but not casual.

“I know.”

“Try not to get your face rearranged, yeah?”

Azriel let the corner of his mouth lift. “No promises.”

Rhys smiled. Too many teeth, too much knowing. “You never do.”

Then he shut the door, and Azriel was alone again—back in the stairwell, in the smell of damp wood and old piss and curry from the second floor.

He took the stairs two at a time, breath shallow, hands jammed into his coat pockets.

Outside, the city hadn’t changed. But something in his chest had.

Not a big change. Not something you could name.

Just a new kind of noise.

The flat buzzed around him — cigarette smoke curling through low yellow light, a record warping its way through a Stones B-side on the turntable. Azriel stood slightly behind River, unsure whether to follow closer or hang back.

Four pairs of eyes turned their way.

“This is him,” River said, almost casually — like they’d all been talking about Azriel before he arrived. Maybe they had. “Azriel.”

Sally was first to speak. Perched sideways in a red armchair, her knees tucked under her like a cat, cigarette hanging from two fingers. Blonde hair teased high, black liner done thick and defiant. Her leopard coat was still buttoned like she didn’t trust the room with her softness.

“Well, look at that,” she said, eyeing him. “Camden poet, just like River said. Thought he was taking the piss. You’re better than described.”

Azriel just blinked. “Alright.”

Sally snorted. “Bit stiff, aren’t you?”

River grinned beside him. “He loosens up.”

“Like me mum’s gin,” Tony said, exhaling smoke without looking up. He was on the floor, back against the wall, legs stretched long. His skin was tanned but worn, the kind that looked like it belonged to a bloke who’d seen a few fights and wouldn’t mind a few more. Ink peeked out from his sleeves — a halo cracked down the middle, a rabbit with a knife in its mouth.

“That’s Tony,” River said, pointing with the bottle in his hand. “Sally, obviously. That’s Margie—”

Margie waved with her toes. She was lying on her side, barefoot, one arm draped lazily over the armrest of a faded green sofa. Her dress was tight at the top, loose at the bottom, navy with tiny white dots, and she wore rings like she’d robbed a pawnshop. She smiled slow.

“You in a band, then?”

Azriel nodded. “Yeah. Illyria.”

Margie’s eyes sparked. “Oh, love. Twelfth Night?”

“Sort of,” Azriel said. “The name was a mate’s idea.”

“It’s good,” she said. “Sounds like velvet. Smooth and a little sexy.”

The last one was Luka. Long hair tucked behind his ears, cheekbones that looked like they could cut glass, voice soft like someone who didn’t like to repeat himself.

“You don’t sleep, do you?” Luka asked.

Azriel shook his head. “Not if I can help it.”

There was a pause. Margie slid her legs up onto the couch to make space, and River nudged Azriel toward the floor, a cushion appearing from nowhere.

“Sit, mate,” River said. “You’re making us all nervous standing there like you’re about to bolt.”

Azriel lowered himself down, cross-legged. He was wedged between the edge of the sofa and the windowsill, near a wilting plant that smelled like stale water. The floor creaked under him. His back touched the wall. He kept his coat on.

The music spun on, slightly too slow.

Sally tilted her glass. “Where’d you grow up, Azriel?”

He didn’t pause. “Orphanage.”

The words dropped like stones. Not a gasp, just a quiet shift in the room’s rhythm. No one said “sorry.” No one said anything for a second.

Tony was the first to move past it. “Guitar, then?” he asked, tipping ash into a cracked saucer. “What d’you play?”

“Mostly rhythm,” Azriel said. “Still figuring the rest out.”

“You got a gig coming?”

Azriel nodded. “Thursday. The Gaslight.”

“Oh, I love that shithole,” Luka said. “You play loud enough, bits fall from the ceiling. Real vintage ambience.”

That got a laugh. A real one, from Azriel’s throat. He didn’t know why. Maybe the image. Maybe just the fact that Luka didn’t smile when he said it.

“Record shop by day, band by night,” Sally mused. “You’re practically a bleeding archetype.”

“I also alphabetise Dylan albums,” Azriel deadpanned.

“Sexy,” she said, blowing smoke in his direction. “What else?”

Azriel hesitated. “I read.”

“Do you write?” Margie asked.

Azriel rubbed the side of his neck. “Sometimes.”

“Is it good?”

Azriel shrugged.

“You brought him home, River,” Sally said, tossing her cigarette into a half-drunk glass. “Where’d you find him?”

“Mick’s shop.” River slumped beside Azriel, knees pulled up, boots off. “He sold me Strange Days. Kept a straight face through the whole thing.”

“Proper salesman,” Tony said.

They shifted into a story about Rome. Azriel listened. River, Sally, Margie and Luka had been there in August — boiling heat, too much espresso, River accidentally tripping in the Sistine Chapel. Luka got hit on by a priest. Sally chased a pickpocket in stilettos. Margie nearly got arrested for lighting something that was not incense in the Pantheon.

“Did you actually see God?” Tony asked, deadpan.

River leaned back on his hands. “Saw something. Might’ve been the ceiling.”

Another bottle surfaced. Something herbal and clear. Azriel took a sip, not asking what it was. It burned going down, but not in a bad way.

River’s arm was near his again. Azriel noticed it like you noticed when someone else started breathing in time with you.

Sally exhaled loud, smoke rising toward the cracked ceiling. “By the way. I’m gay. Just so it’s said. If that rattles anyone, you know where the stairs are.”

Azriel’s head turned without meaning to. He didn’t flinch — but it was in his throat. That stutter. That snap of something ancient.

The others didn’t blink. Margie tapped ash off her cigarette. Luka smiled.

Sally grinned right at Azriel. “Surprised?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then, “No. Just—” He stopped again. “I’ve not... met many people who say it like that.”

“Who say it like they won’t burn for it?” she said, like a joke, but not really.

Azriel looked away.

“You alright?” River asked, quieter now.

Azriel nodded. “Just didn’t expect it.”

“Most things worth knowing are like that,” River said.

Then Tony, voice flat: “Right. Who’s got the gear?”

Luka pulled out a compact from his coat pocket, flipped it open. The powder sat neat, two small lines gleaming silver. A key followed. No ceremony.

River turned to Azriel. “Only if you want. No pressure.”

Azriel stared. He’d done a joint or two. Cheap lager. That was it. This — this was something else. A party with no sharp edges. No one shouting. No one jostling. It was almost polite.

River held the key out. Azriel took it.

“Small line,” River said. “Tastes like arse. Feels better than it should.”

Azriel snorted it. Cold. Numb. Like static across a speaker. The burn was sharp, then gone.

The world didn’t lurch — just tilted. Warmth flooded his neck, then his fingertips. He blinked. The lights seemed a touch dimmer, like they’d leaned back and softened.

River was beside him, saying something to Margie. Azriel only caught pieces.

“You feel it yet?” River asked.

Azriel nodded. “It’s... weird. But good.”

River passed him a new bottle. Bitter. Azriel sipped again.

The music changed. Slower. Deeper. The hiss of the needle suddenly clearer than it had any right to be.

He was still on the floor, knees drawn up. His shoulder brushed River’s every so often.

“They’re not like my lot,” Azriel said.

River looked at him. “Bad thing?”

“No. Just...”

“New,” River offered.

Azriel nodded.

“They don’t care who you were this morning,” River said. “Only who you are right now.”

It sounded simple. It felt... enormous.

Sally was dancing on the table by then, coat half off, laughing at nothing. Margie stood beside her, they kissed. Just like that. Azriel’s chest tightened.

He didn’t know people could move through the world like this — not here, not now. Not and live.

He stared.

River leaned in. “You alright?”

“I didn’t know,” Azriel said. “That people like her were real.”

River didn’t smile. “They are. We are.”

Later, the room thinned. Luka passed out with a fag still between his fingers. Margie curled up next to Sally, already snoring. Tony slumped against a wall of records.

Azriel and River sat on the floor, a half-empty bottle between them.

River’s voice was quieter now. “Why’d you really come?”

Azriel peeled the label off the glass. “I wanted to be somewhere no one expected anything from me.”

“Were you?”

“Yeah,” Azriel said. “Still am.”

River studied him for a moment. Then reached for a pen. Took Azriel’s wrist gently, and scrawled a number in blue ink.

“Call next time. You don’t need an excuse.”

Azriel looked at it. “You got a phone?”

“Nicked access to the neighbour’s,” River said. “He thinks I’m his cousin.”

Azriel almost smiled.

River stood and stretched, shirt pulling up slightly. Azriel looked away. Not because he had to. But because he didn’t want to think about what it meant that he didn’t want to.

He stepped out into the stairwell. The door stayed open behind him.

River leaned against the frame, barefoot, arms crossed. “See you, Shadows.”

Azriel nodded. Then walked down into the cold.

His coat clung damply to his back. His fingers tapped time on the rail. The stairwell smelled like ash and laundry and someone’s dinner gone wrong.

His head buzzed.

Not just from the coke.

But from something that felt like he'd just seen the inside of someone else's life and found it better lit than his own.

He didn’t know what to call that feeling.

But he’d remember it.

The Camden flat greeted him with its usual breath of rot and heat.

Azriel shoved at the swollen door until it let go with a reluctant creak. He stumbled through the frame like he’d forgotten how his body worked. Rain clung to his shoulders. His boots left soft prints across the lino.

Inside, the place looked the same, but felt different. Stale chip wrappers. A coat half-on the radiator. The saucepan catching drip after drip from the ceiling like it had somewhere better to be.

Azriel didn’t move past the threshold.

He just stood there, soaked, high, blinking like the world had slowed down a notch and no one had told it to start up again.

He wasn’t fucked. Not properly. Not gone. Just... loose. The edges of things fuzzed out. Breath easy. Limbs light. Like someone had wrung out all the tight parts of him and left him softer.

He didn’t hang his coat. Didn’t take his boots off.

He leaned on the counter. Listened to the tap-tap of the leak. Thought, vaguely, about writing. About songs. About River’s laugh and the loft lights smearing gold through his eyes.

Then the door slammed behind him—full force, crash loud enough to rattle the window glass.

“Oi!” Cassian's voice, cracking through the flat like a pint glass in a fight.

Azriel turned.

Cassian lurched in, reeking of lager and fried onions and a punch-up. His eye was swelling. Lip split. One sleeve torn. Shirt misbuttoned. Grinning like none of it mattered.

“Jesus,” Azriel said.

Cassian kicked the door shut behind him. “Still got all me teeth, don’t I?”

Then he stopped.

Mid-step. Mid-sentence.

Froze.

Azriel blinked at him. His head floated slightly above his body. He felt like he was looking through a fisheye lens.

Cassian squinted.

Then stalked forward.

“Oi. Let me see you.”

Azriel didn’t move fast enough to stop it—Cassian’s hand catching his jaw, turning his face to the light. Not rough. Just firm. Like he needed to see.

“Fuck me,” Cassian muttered. “You’re off your head.”

Azriel tried to pull back. “I’m fine.”

“You’re flying,” Cass said. “Christ, your pupils—mate, you look like you’ve just seen God through a jukebox.”

Azriel couldn’t help it. He snorted.

Cassian laughed. Half in shock. “You’re high. You. You. What the hell?”

He stepped back, both hands on his hips now. Just stared.

“Didn’t think I’d ever see the day.”

Azriel scrubbed a hand through his wet hair. “It wasn’t planned.”

“That makes it worse!” Cass barked. “You don't even plan to get wrecked, you just wandered into it?”

Azriel shrugged.

Cassian stared harder. “Where were you?”

Azriel opened his mouth. Closed it.

Cassian narrowed his one working eye. “You weren’t here. You're soaked. You’ve got that... floaty look. Like someone’s written poetry on your ribs.”

Azriel gave him a flat look.

Cassian raised his brows. “What? I'm not wrong.”

Azriel looked down. “I went to a party.”

Cassian blinked. “Bullshit.”

“I did.”

“You—” Cass pointed. “You don’t do parties.”

Azriel sat down in the nearest chair like it was safer to be lower to the ground. “Apparently, I do.”

Cassian stared at him for a moment longer. Then dropped his bag, cracked his neck, and flopped on the sofa like it owed him rent. He hissed as he pressed a bag of frozen peas to his swollen eye.

“What kind of party?” he asked.

“Loft one. Proper. Records, people, everything.”

Cassian cocked his head. “And who the fuck got you in there?”

“Met a bloke at the shop,” Azriel said quietly. “River. He invited me.”

Cassian froze mid-adjustment of the peas. “River?”

“Yeah.”

“River.”

Azriel nodded.

Cassian blinked slowly. “You went to a stranger’s loft at night in Camden because a bloke called River said ‘come along’?”

Azriel shrugged. “He had good taste in music.”

Cassian groaned. “Jesus. Az. He could’ve been a psycho.”

“He wasn’t.”

“Oh, right, no psychos listen to the Velvet Underground.”

Azriel smirked faintly.

Cassian tossed the peas at the sink with a wet thunk and leaned forward.

“So what was it, then?” he asked. “Some girl there? One of those arty types with a fringe and too much eyeliner?”

Azriel’s smile died.

Cassian saw it.

“Not a girl,” Azriel said. Flat. Not angry, but fast.

“Alright,” Cassian said quickly. Hands up. No smirk. “Didn’t mean anything by it.”

Azriel looked away.

Cassian watched him. Carefully.

“I know it’s changing out there,” Cass said after a beat. “Still weird, though. That kind of thing. Even now. ’S not easy for lads like us to make sense of it.”

Azriel nodded once. “I’m not—like that.”

Cassian held his gAzriele. “Didn’t say you were.”

Azriel swallowed. “I just liked... being there.”

“Not the same as liking someone,” Cassian said softly. “You don’t have to panic.”

Azriel flinched. “I’m not panicking.”

“You look it.”

Silence.

Cass leaned back. “So tell me about it.”

Azriel stared at his hands for a moment. Then: “It was loud. But not bad loud. Just... people laughing. Drinking. Talking. And no one asked anything of me. They didn’t know me.”

“And that was good?”

Azriel nodded. “It was better. Not being ‘Azriel from the band,’ or ‘Azriel with the past,’ or ‘Azriel who doesn’t talk much.’ I was just... there.”

Cassian sat with that a moment.

“Reckon that’s alright,” he said finally. “Everyone deserves a night where they can be nobody.”

Azriel let out a breath.

Cass leaned over, resting his elbows on his knees again.

“But hey,” he said. “If you’re gonna go off wandering into stranger lofts, maybe give us a heads up next time. Yeah?”

Azriel nodded. “Yeah.”

Cassian’s voice dropped. “You’re a good-looking bastard, Azriel. Always have been. Pretty face like yours gets noticed. Not always by people who mean well.”

Azriel looked at him. “I can handle it.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” Cassian said. “I’m worried you don’t care if you get hurt.”

Azriel didn’t respond.

The silence swelled around them again. Not angry. Not sad. Just the weight of boys who’d survived a war that didn’t have bombs, but left scars all the same.

“Don’t vanish on me, alright?” Cass said.

Azriel nodded.

Cass grunted. “Good. Now go write a fucking song about it or something.”

Azriel smiled for real then. Just a twitch at the corner of his mouth.

He sat back, head tilted against the wall. River’s number was still faint on his wrist, smeared at the edges now. He didn’t try to scrub it off.

Cassian noticed. But didn’t say anything.

Just watched the leak hit the pot.

Drop. Drop. Drop.

The city didn’t sleep. But maybe—maybe tonight—it would let them rest.

Chapter Text

"Keep going. Play louder.

Make them fucking feel it."

Azriel’s guitar neck was slick again, sweat threading down his wrist and gathering in the cradle of his palm. He shifted his grip, thumb catching on the lacquer. Cheap finish, worn down smooth—like everything else in this place, ready to fall apart the second someone leaned on it too hard.

The Gaslight looked worse than usual. Or maybe it just smelled stronger tonight—beer in the carpet, mildew in the vents, cigarette smoke clinging to every wall like the ghost of last week’s set. Ceiling tiles bowed like they were praying for release, water spots spreading in slow brown blooms. The amps buzzed faintly, not from power, but from anxiety, from the thick air charged with too many people and not enough space.

Azriel leaned into the corner, one boot on the monitor, half-tuning by ear, half-listening to the chaos unfold around him. He liked it here, this moment before everything—soundcheck still echoing off the walls, cigarette smoke pooling low, nerves making his heart knock against his ribs like fists on a locked door.

Cassian was already halfway to a fight with the sound guy, arms flying, voice raised—"You don’t hear that hum? You deaf or just fuckin’ lazy?"—while the bloke in the booth rolled his eyes and turned a knob that did exactly nothing.

“Jesus Christ, Cass,” Mor muttered from the edge of the stage, pacing slow circles in her boots that clicked against the warped floor. She’d changed twice already. Settled now on a red top knotted high, her midriff gleaming under the weak overhead lights. “It’s not fucking Glasto.”

“You’ll wish it was when the whole system shorts and we’re all playin’ unplugged,” Cassian shot back.

Rhys said nothing. He never did before a show. Just stood at the edge of the smoke, cigarette dangling, watching the room fill. Eyes distant. Calm like an undertaker. The buttons on his velvet shirt were done up too perfect, silver chain tucked just beneath the collar.

Feyre was painting setlists backstage, her handwriting looping in white ink across rough butcher paper. She was hunched over a crate near the beer taps, tongue caught between her teeth, fingers stained. The light caught her hair like a halo, but her concentration was knife-sharp. Azriel watched her for a second, just a second, then turned back to his tuning. Didn’t need to get caught in that orbit.

Nesta appeared without ceremony, coat still on, boots still damp. She crossed the room like it belonged to her and dropped a thermos beside him without a word. No kiss on the cheek, no greeting—just squeezed his arm once, firm, and moved on.

“Cheers,” Azriel muttered. She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.

Mor reappeared in front of him, hands on hips. “We’re on in ten. Place is packed. Even the bastards showed.”

Azriel frowned. “Who?”

“Harvest,” she said, and her voice was flat. Cold enough to cut.

A flicker inside him. Small but sharp. Like a key turning in an old lock. He didn’t move, didn’t let it show, but he felt it—burning just beneath the ribs. They hadn’t seen Harvest since that night in Holloway. Since they’d nearly signed with their prick of a manager and Cassian broke his nose on a pool cue. Azriel had thought—hoped—they were done with them.

He adjusted the strap across his chest, tugging it tighter, the weight of the guitar steadying him.

The room swelled louder behind Mor. Bottles clinked. Boots scraped on the sticky floor. Voices bounced too loud off the crumbling brick.

The ceiling above the stage creaked again—just once. A groan. Azriel looked up. Plaster flaked at the edges of the lighting rig. They were nearly too big for this room. Nearly too loud for this roof.

Cassian stomped past again, muttering about bad grounding and sabotage, his drumsticks tucked behind his ear like cigarettes. Rhys didn’t look up. Just exhaled smoke toward the ceiling and stepped into the shadows behind the mic stand.

Azriel tapped a string. Dead on. He flexed his fingers, checked the amp, then checked again. His palms were sweating. His throat was dry. That was good. That meant he still gave a shit.

He closed his eyes. Just for a second. Let the sound of the crowd bleed into him. The rush of feet, the bark of laughter, the scratch of lighters. It was a Camden crowd—half punks, half posers, and maybe three actual fans. The ones who mattered would know. Would feel it.

He looked down. His boots were planted wide. Worn black soles. One lace fraying. The edge of the stage barely two steps away.

Behind him, Cassian clicked his sticks together—once, twice, sharp. A signal. Azrielriel nodded. Just once.

Rhys leaned into the mic, voice like smoke and knives. “We’re Illyria. Try not to piss yourselves.”

Then the lights went hot. And they played.

The lights are shite. Not moody or atmospheric—just dim, yellowish, flickering like someone forgot to pay the meter. One near the stage is out entirely, leaving the right side of the platform in a thick bruise of shadow. It suits Azriel fine.

The crowd’s already boiling. Elbows and pint glasses, limbs spilling toward the edge of the stage like the floor might buck beneath them if they push hard enough. Someone up front’s screaming every word before Rhysand sings it, and Mor’s in the wings holding two bottles like weapons, eyes glittering as she mouths along with the chorus.

The amp cuts.

Sharp. A hiccup in the sound. A breath caught too long. Cassian’s eyes snap to the tech, a full-body threat. Then—

BOOM. It surges back. Louder. Meaner. Like it’s pissed off at being ignored.

Cassian slams into the snare with a bark of laughter, and Rhysand launches into the next verse like he’s conjuring fire. His voice roughens on the high end, cracking just a little—but it works. Raw, real, like someone dragging a nail down a velvet curtain.

Azriel’s fingers burn. The strings bite under his fingertips, frets slipping like ice beneath him. He’s sweating through his shirt already, the thin cotton sticking to his back like clingfilm. The lights smear across his cheekbones and every muscle’s pulled tight, a bowstring that won’t let up.

He doesn’t play like it’s music.

He plays like it’s exorcism.

Rhys throws a glance over his shoulder mid-line. Azriel catches it, barely, and flicks his head once—yeah, he’s good. Doesn’t matter that his left hand’s already blistering. Doesn’t matter that the stage floor’s vibrating hard enough to shake fillings loose. They’re in it. Deep. Rhys grins, teeth sharp, and spins back to the crowd.

And that’s when he sees him.

Not front row. Not shouting.

Back of the room, spine straight, shoulder to the wall like he belongs there. River.

Azriel swears he hadn’t seen him come in. The room’s packed shoulder-to-shoulder, sweat-glued and deafening, but River just—appears. Collar popped against the noise, one hand around a half-empty glass, the other tucked into his coat pocket like he’s here for a reading, not a gig.

He’s not smiling.

He’s not singing.

But his eyes are fixed.

On Azriel.

Not the stage. Not the band.

Just him.

It’s not like a pull. Not quite. It’s pressure. A push, maybe. Like being pinned. And Azriel tries—really fucking tries—not to let it show. Not to let it sink teeth into his ribs. But his fingers tremble on the next chord and the G comes out flat. Only for half a beat. No one hears it. No one but him.

And River, maybe.

Azriel tightens his grip. Drops his head. Lets his hair fall across his eyes. Pushes through it. Next riff hits hard. Dirty. Loud enough to shake the ash from the rafters.

Cassian’s gone feral on the drums now, grinning like a man who’d brawl the Pope for another four bars. Sweat pours down his neck, off his jaw, into the kit like offering.

They crash through the second chorus like they’re trying to blow the roof off. Rhys screams into the mic, eyes closed, one hand raised like he’s summoning thunder. And maybe he is—because the floor’s bouncing now, and the speakers are protesting, and the fucking stage lights stutter again—

—and Azriel sees him.

Not River.

Someone else.

Near the bar. Sharp. Detached. Smiling like the whole thing is an inside joke he doesn’t have to tell.

A stranger in a camel coat.

Tall, auburn hair, suit pressed so clean it looks like it snuck in from a different city. Or century. Arms folded across his chest, eyes narrow and amused. Watching the stage like it’s a test he’s already marked.

Azriel stumbles.

Just a hitch in the rhythm—a blink, a breath, half a second of nothing. But enough. Enough that he feels it.

The man sees it too.

And he smiles.

Azriel looks away. Doesn’t let his hands falter. Drives harder into the next chord. Fights the itch crawling down his spine.

Because that stare? That heat? That stillness in a sea of movement?

It felt personal.

Familiar.

Wrong.

He doesn’t look back.

He lays like the ceiling might collapse, and he wouldn’t stop even if it did.

Because right now, the only thing keeping him upright is the weight of River’s eyes and the ghost of the mystery man’s smirk and the sting in his fingers that says—

Keep going. Play louder.

Make them fucking feel it.

Azriel shoved through the back exit of The Gaslight like the walls had started closing in. The rusted door slammed behind him with a groan and a click that felt too loud.

Inside, the venue was packed wall to wall—sweat, bodies, amp hum.

Mor was halfway into a stolen bottle of whiskey, boot propped on the table like she was declaring war. Cassian had slouched against the jukebox with the kind of full-bodied sprawl that said he wouldn’t be moving anytime soon. His shirt stuck to his chest, open to the third button. Rhysand was tangled up with Feyre, bottle spinning on the floor between them like a lit fuse.

Azriel couldn’t breathe in there.

He wasn’t high, not properly—not even buzzing. The adrenaline from the gig had worn off too quick, and what was left behind was a ringing in his ears and a feeling like ants crawling under his skin. His left shoulder ached. Maybe from the amp strap. 

He just needed five minutes. Somewhere with air. Somewhere no one was watching him breathe.

The alley smelled rotten as usual. It didn’t matter. At least it was quiet—well, London quiet. Bins rattling in the wind. Someone’s radio leaking out a window two stories up. A train rattling far off on the line.

Azriel leaned back against the damp brick, reached into the pocket of his threadbare coat and pulled a fag from the crumpled pack. His hands weren’t steady, not quite. The match flared hot and too fast, burning his thumb a little. He didn’t flinch. Just cupped it and lit the cigarette, dragging in deep like the smoke would settle the tension crawling around in his ribs.

He stared into the flame for a moment before snuffing it out.

Two drags in, the door hadn’t opened. Good. Maybe he’d finally be left alone.

And then—

“Got a light?”

Azriel jumped.

Spine straightened like a jolt of current had gone up it. His boot scraped on the brick. He turned fast, too fast, like someone was coming at him swinging.

They weren’t.

Just a man.

But not just any man.

Azriel had seen him in the crowd.

And he wasn’t some Camden regular staggering out for a piss or trying to bum a fag. This one was clean. Too clean. Red hair under the streetlamp catching fire at the edges. Coat sharp enough to cut, russet wool that didn’t belong to any rack in North London. The boots were polished. Who polished their boots at midnight in Camden?

Azriel didn’t answer. His thumb stayed on the lighter, flame still flickering.

The man took a step closer. No threat in it, just ease. The kind of ease Azriel didn’t trust. The kind that usually came with rich boys who thought they could buy space they hadn’t earned.

He had a cigarette pinched between his fingers. Long and thin, gold band at the end. Imported. French or something like it.

Azriel lifted the flame.

The man leaned in, and for a second their faces were inches apart.

The end flared orange. The light caught him full.

And Azriel felt it—sharp and fast and low in his gut.

He looked like trouble dressed in something expensive. Angular jaw. Smooth mouth. Eyes that didn’t blink as often as they should. Something too calm about the way he held Azriel’s gaze—like he was used to being stared at. Or wanted to be.

Azriel looked away first.

“You were good,” the man said, like he wasn’t talking to anyone else tonight. Voice was smooth, not posh exactly, but cut clean. He didn’t raise it above the alley. Didn’t need to.

Azriel exhaled smoke. Didn’t thank him.

Then, deadpan: “Thanks.”

Silence stretched, but the man didn’t fill it. Just smoked. Watched. Like he was waiting to see what Azriel did next.

“You’re the guitarist, yeah?” he said eventually. 

Azriel didn’t nod right away. The man knew the answer already. 

But he gave a short nod anyway. Couldn’t quite meet his eyes.

The man smiled, and it wasn’t friendly. Wasn’t cruel either. Just… knowing. Like he already had half the page written.

“I’m Eris.”

Azriel didn’t say anything. His eyes flicked up, caught Eris watching him again.

The kind of look Azriel hadn’t let himself notice in years.

But it was there now.

Azriel took another drag, kept it steady.

“You looked pissed off up there,” Eris said. Flicked his ash to the side. “Made for good playing.”

Azriel’s cigarette twitched.

“Wasn’t,” he said.

Eris smiled again. Small. Like he didn’t believe a word of it.

“Right. Just play like you’ve got something to beat to death.”

Azriel’s jaw clenched. “Maybe I do.”

He regretted it as soon as it was out. Too sharp. Too revealing. Something he couldn’t unsay now.

But Eris didn’t flinch. Just tipped his head slightly.

“Thought so.”

Azriel looked down. His boots were scuffed, laces fraying. Dried mud crusted the soles. They weren’t new and didn’t try to be.

His cigarette was burning faster than it should’ve been.

Eris stayed quiet, just watching. That unreadable calm again—he didn’t fill silence to kill it. He let it live.

“You always this quiet?” Eris asked finally.

Azriel didn’t answer.

“That a yes?”

A shrug. “Sometimes.”

Eris let out a sound. Could’ve been amusement. Could’ve been interest.

“Shame,” he said, voice low. “Quiet suits you. But some noise might suit you more.”

Azriel didn’t like that. Not because it was a line—though it might’ve been—but because it hit too close to something he didn’t talk about. Something he hadn’t even named in years. He shifted against the wall, shoulder pressing harder into the brick.

“You trying to take the piss?” he asked.

Eris’s mouth curled at the corner. Not cruel. Not mocking. Almost… entertained.

“If I was, you’d know.”

Azriel looked at him again, finally. Met his eyes. They were light, unreadable, almost amber in the streetlamp. Too direct.

Not flirtatious. Not overt.

Just… open.

Azriel hated that.

Hated how his chest went tight. Hated how it didn’t feel like fear, not exactly. Closer to want. Closer to the thing he didn’t let himself feel. The one that made him keep every glance at arms’ length. That kept him careful.

But Eris—this man didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t do anything but stand there and see him.

Azriel looked away again.

The alley suddenly felt small.

“You’re not from here,” he said, quieter.

Eris tilted his head. “No.”

“You slumming it?”

That got a laugh. Dry, but real.

“I go where the sound is.”

Azriel didn’t respond.

Eris let the pause stretch, then said, “You don’t believe me.”

Azriel flicked ash off the end of his cigarette. “I believe you’re here for a reason.”

Eris nodded like that was fair. “I am.”

One step back. A little space. Enough to breathe, just barely.

“That last track you played,” he said. “Write it yourself?”

Azriel hesitated. Every instinct said to lie. To brush it off. But something about the way Eris asked made it hard to do that.

“Yeah.”

“You should record it.”

Azriel’s eyes narrowed.

“Not in a Camden basement,” Eris went on. “A proper recording.”

Azriel snorted. “We can’t afford tape, let alone a studio.”

Eris didn’t blink.

“I know a place.”

Azriel froze. The cigarette paused halfway to his mouth. The line between his shoulders went tight.

Then: “We’re not looking for charity.”

Eris’s voice didn’t rise. “Wasn’t offering any.”

Azriel turned fully toward the wall. Let the cold soak into his jacket.

It was too much. Too strange. Too personal. Eris felt like someone poking around in drawers Azriel kept locked.

Eris took a long drag of his cigarette, then flicked the end away.

“You’ll be seeing me again,” he said lightly. “Camden’s small. Word travels fast.”

Then he turned. Walked into the fog like he’d never been there.

Azriel stayed frozen. Cigarette dead between his fingers. Chest still too tight. Something sharp and unsettled curling low in his gut.

He met back up with the others before he was dragged into the back.

The door slammed behind them and the room swallowed them whole.

Concrete box. No windows. One light overhead flickering like a warning. The heat clung to the walls—sweat and electricity still baked into the paint from the set. No chairs. No couch. Just a busted metal table shoved against one side and a coat hook with a single limp wire hanger hanging from it like a bad joke.

Cassian flung himself against the wall, still panting. “Holy fucking—did you hear ’em? Camden’s ours yet again lads!”

Rhys said nothing. Lit a cigarette with a shaking hand. The only thing that betrayed the adrenaline was the tremor in the match as it caught. Mor was pacing. She always did that after a show—too much energy, no outlet.

Azriel stood in the corner, guitar still strapped to him. His back to the cold wall. Fingers twitching. E-string still humming faintly from the last chord.

The door creaked open again.

The man stepped through like he owned the walls. Like he belonged there. Like this was his green room, not theirs. Calm. Controlled. Smiling the way foxes smiled at traps.

Azriel stiffened.

Same coat. Same hair. Same unreadable calm.

Cassian’s smirk dropped.

Mor froze.

Rhys exhaled slow, the smoke curling lazy around his jaw like armour.

“Gentlemen,” Eris said, voice silk-wrapped steel. “And lady.”

This time, the voice hit different.

Recognition sank in like a punch.

Eris Vanserra. Harvest. Vice President. Beron Vanserra’s golden boy turned talent-hunter.

And Azriel—he hadn’t known.

Not in the alley.

Not until now.

Mor didn’t smile. “Fuck off.”

He ignored her.

“Not bad,” he said, looking around like he owned the walls. “Bit raw, but that’s fashionable these days.”

Azriel’s fingers clenched.

Cassian snorted. “Deliberate enough to shake your drink loose.”

Eris turned his attention to Rhys then. Not flinching. Not baited. He didn’t even look at Azriel. Not yet.

“You’ve got something,” he said. “Raw. Dangerous. We like that.”

Azriel could feel Rhys tense beside him.

“We?” Rhys asked, voice low.

“Harvest,” Eris said. “We’re expanding our catalogue. Your sound’s a bit... unrefined. But that can be managed. You bring the teeth. We’ll file ’em just enough to sell.”

Mor made a sound between a scoff and a growl. “Get to the fucking point, Vanserra.”

Eris smiled with no warmth at all. “You’ve got something. Doesn’t matter if it’s rough—we’ve built careers on worse. Come Monday, we talk about turning all this noise into money.”

Rhys was silent.

Cassian looked like he was holding back a laugh. “You think we’re gonna sign with you just ‘cause you slicked your hair and called us dangerous?”

Eris looked at him for the first time. “No. I think you’ll sign because the flat above the laundrette still smells like piss and burnt rice, and the ceiling leaks in three rooms.”

That shut Cassian up.

Azriel didn’t move.

Eris’s eyes finally landed on him.

“Though if it were up to me,” Eris said, slow, “I’d build the campaign around him. The quiet one. Pretty face. Mystery. Girls’ll eat it up.”

Azriel stepped forward. Calm. Quiet. Every inch of him cold steel.

“We’re not for sale.”

Eris didn’t flinch. “Everyone says that before they sign.”

“You don’t know a thing about us.”

Eris’s tone sharpened. Not louder—just deadlier. A blade drawn with care.

“I know enough,” he said. “You’re angry. You’re poor. You’re good. That won’t last if you keep pretending pride pays rent.”

Azriel stared.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe.

Then: “I’d rather be broke than hollow.”

Eris tilted his head like he was inspecting something under glass. “Hollow? Please. I’ve seen your kind before.”

He stepped closer now, just enough to crowd the air.

“You’ve got the anger down. That’s easy. What scares you is wanting something enough to play the game.”

That one hit.

Dead centre.

Azriel didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

Just stood there, fury smothered beneath something rawer. Something he didn’t have the words for yet.

Mor stepped in then, voice like a knife pressed to a throat.

“Out.”

Eris didn’t argue.

Just reached into his pocket, laid a card on the metal table.

“Monday,” he said. “My office. You can either build something with us—or keep screaming into basement walls.”

He smiled again.

“Up to you.”

Then he left. The door clicked shut behind him.

Silence.

The buzz of the stage still echoed in the bones of the room, but no one moved. No one breathed.

Cassian muttered something under his breath and slammed his fist into the table. The card didn’t move.

Rhys just stared at it.

Azriel looked away.

Because Eris had been right.

He hadn’t said what Azriel wanted.

Because Azriel still didn’t fucking know.

Camden alley. Just past midnight. Cold and damp like the city was still trying to bleed them out one gutter at a time.

Azriel stood alone beneath the rusted fire escape, shoulders hunched, cigarette trembling slightly in his fingers. The match had taken three strikes to catch—burnt down to the quick before it lit. He cupped it with both hands, shielding the flame like it mattered more than anything.

The first inhale scorched. He let it.

Concrete slick underfoot. The wall behind him still radiated the heat of a building packed too tight with bodies and dreams. The thump of bass from inside was a dull, distant pulse now. The door had clicked shut behind Eris, and the fallout was still echoing inside Azriel’s skull—every word, every offer, that card on the metal table like a dare.

He exhaled smoke through his nose. Blinked. Didn’t feel lighter.

“You look like you just buried a dog.”

The voice came from the dark near the bins. Calm. Cool. Familiar.

River stepped out of the shadow like he’d been waiting there the whole time.

Same coat—black corduroy with the collar turned up, fraying slightly at the edges. Same boots. Same eyes that didn’t blink when they met Azriel’s.

Azriel took another drag. “That looked rough,” River said, voice soft. Not pitying. Just... a fact.

Azriel didn’t look at him. “He’s a prick.”

River didn’t argue. Just leaned against the wall, arms folded. “Most of them are.”

The rain had stopped, but the air still carried the sting of it—damp on the brick, puddles reflecting half a moon through oily water.

River nodded toward the alley mouth. “Come on. You need something stronger than bitterness.”

Azriel didn’t move. Not yet. He looked back over his shoulder—toward the pub, toward the muffled chaos of his band shouting over one another, the scrape of Cassian’s boots on tile, Mor’s voice rising like a knife again.

And then he looked at River.

And at the space between them.

And at how quiet it felt here. How steady.

He didn’t say anything.

He just flicked the cigarette down into the puddle, watched the ember hiss out—

—and followed River into the dark.

The hallway creaked under Azriel’s boots. Narrow, uneven. A staircase that leaned like it was drunk. The banister sticky with varnish and age.

River’s key turned without effort. The lock clicked like it knew him too well to resist.

Inside: the hush of high ceilings and soft edges. Dim bulbs humming under their breath. One flickered above the kitchen sink—tired, stubborn, like it had something left to say.

The door clicked shut behind Azriel, and the world outside vanished like it had never been real.

River dropped his coat on a worn armchair near the door, boots thudding onto the mismatched mat with deliberate ease. He moved through the space like he belonged to it, like the walls bent around him.

Azriel didn’t follow, not fully.

He stood just inside, still wearing everything. Jacket damp from the alley. Smoke still soaked into his jumper. Fingers curled around the static in his ribs.

Vinyl spun in the corner. A jazz LP, French. Brushed snares, muted horns, the rasp of a saxophone crooning something tired and lonely. It scratched near the end of the track, stuck in a loop that neither of them rushed to fix.

River turned, slow. His silhouette backlit by a crooked lampshade, one bare foot propped against the skirting.

“Drink?” he asked. Voice low. Rough in a way that wasn’t tired.

Azriel didn’t meet his eyes. “Whatever burns.”

River gave a soft, dry chuckle and moved to the narrow shelf beside the record player. The bottle he pulled was unlabelled. Pale amber. Two glasses clinked down. Poured fast. No ceremony.

Azriel stayed standing. Shoulders still drawn tight like he hadn’t unclenched since Eris opened his fucking mouth. Like the chords from the gig were still echoing through his blood.

River handed him a glass. Their fingers brushed—just enough. Azriel’s hand was cold. River’s was not.

Azriel drank without pausing.

It hit hot—sharp and floral, with a bitter trace of something herbal that scratched at the back of his throat. He didn’t flinch.

“French,” River said. “Illegally imported. Or stolen. Not sure which.”

“Probably both.” Azriel’s voice cracked a little, too dry.

River settled onto the floor, legs crossed, back against the radiator that wasn’t on. He drank slow, like he was trying to taste every piece of the evening.

Azriel stayed standing. Still near the door. His body still humming with the memory of the stage, the lights, the way Eris’s voice had slid like a blade between his ribs.

The music clicked to silence. The needle rasped gently in its groove.

River didn’t move to change it.

“You’re not used to quiet, are you?”

Azriel glanced over. “Is anyone?”

River smiled faintly. “Some of us live for it.”

Silence stretched. Not empty. Just wide.

Azriel stepped forward, just one pace. Enough to shed the worst of the doorway. He didn’t sit. Didn’t ask.

River watched him. Not hungry. Not pitying. Just there.

“What’s the worst thing someone ever said to you?” River asked, like he was asking the time.

Azriel didn’t answer right away. He drained the rest of his drink and set the glass on the windowsill, eyes on the dark outside.

Then, quietly: “That I was built to be quiet. That I’d never be more than background.”

River nodded. “That’s not the worst thing.”

Azriel looked at him. “You didn’t hear it like I did.”

River’s gaze didn’t shift. “You’re not quiet.”

Azriel’s mouth twitched. “You haven’t seen me on a Monday.”

“I’ve seen you on stage.” River’s voice was low, even. “You play like you’re bleeding. Like it’s the only way you get to speak.”

Azriel looked down at his hands. Blisters on his fingertips. Guitar string cuts not yet healed.

“I’m not good with talking,” he said. “Not like Rhys. Or Cass. I don’t... charm. I just play.”

“That’s enough,” River said. “You don’t have to charm. You just have to mean it.”

Azriel’s throat tightened. He didn’t know what to say to that.

Outside, a siren wailed far off. The kind that didn’t mean much unless it stopped nearby.

The room stayed still.

River stood. Walked over. Not fast. Not slow.

He picked the scarf up from the floor and tossed it over a chair. Then walked back toward Azriel like it was nothing. Like Azriel hadn’t just spent an entire night dragging a blade behind his eyes.

“I can change the record,” River said. “Or not.”

“Leave it,” Azriel said. “I like the scratch.”

River poured them both another. Azriel didn’t hesitate this time.

They drank. The silence softened.

Azriel peeled off his jacket finally, draped it over the back of a chair. His jumper clung a little from sweat. The heat of the room pressed gently against his skin, not enough to sting.

He didn’t sit. Not yet.

River tilted his head. “Why’d you really come?”

Azriel looked at him. “Needed air.”

“This ain’t air.”

Azriel shrugged. “Better than what’s back there.”

He didn’t mean the bar. Or the band. Not just.

River nodded. “You don’t have to explain it.”

Azriel looked down at his glass. Then back up.

The quiet wasn’t loud anymore.

He sat. Cross-legged, opposite River. Their knees nearly touched.

The bulb flickered once above them, then settled.

Outside, the city blurred to static.

Inside, they drank. The record scratched.

Neither of them moved to change it.

The room was too still. Azriel’s body didn’t know how to be still.

He paced.

The floorboards beneath him creaked in protest — long, drawn lines of friction beneath his boots. One board near the radiator groaned like a warning each time he passed over it. But he didn’t stop. Couldn’t. It was in his bones now — the gig, the weight of it, the heat that hadn’t left his spine, and the rot that had crawled under his skin the moment Eris Vanserra looked at him like a project with a price tag.

River didn’t speak. Just leaned back against a cushion on the floor, long legs stretched out, elbow perched on the old radiator like it had been built for him. The same French LP still scratched and hissed in the corner, the needle riding its own ghost track now. A saxophone stuck in purgatory.

Azriel dragged a hand down his face, still pacing. Still chewing his thoughts raw.

“He talked,” Azriel said finally, voice cracking like glass in his throat, “like he already owned us.”

River lifted his eyes. Didn’t interrupt.

“Like we should be grateful,” Azriel continued, “that he even noticed we existed.”

River’s gaze sharpened, catching the tail-end of the rant blooming beneath Azriel’s ribs. “That’s Harvest. Velvet rope on a noose.”

Azriel stopped moving. Turned. “You’ve met him?”

“I’ve met the type,” River said. He picked up a pack of cigarettes off the floor, lit one, and held it out.

Azriel took it.

He lit with trembling fingers. The match flared, orange against the grey. Smoke rushed into his lungs like a second heartbeat, sharp and dirty.

“He called us angry,” Azriel said. “As if that’s... something we should be embarrassed about.”

“You are angry,” River said simply. “You’re furious.”

Azriel took another drag. “So?”

River shrugged. “Means you’re awake.”

Azriel paced again. Three steps forward. Stop. Turn. Repeat.

“He looked at Rhys like he could already see the headlines. Like he’d sell him in silk and call it art. Looked at Cass like a problem to be branded. Looked at Mor like she was decoration. Didn’t even look at Feyre.”

“And you?” River asked, voice low.

Azriel exhaled slow, smoke curling around his teeth. “He looked at me like he already knew me. Like he’d read the fuckin’ file. Like there was nothing I could do that he hadn’t already seen a dozen times. Broken boy with a guitar and a chip on his shoulder. Move along.”

River nodded. Like he got it. Like he’d been there.

“Fuckers like that,” he said, “they’re not artists. They’re predators with business cards. You hand them your ache, and they feed it through a shredder. Sell you back the noise.”

Azriel laughed. Bitter. “He told me I’d have to choose. Not what I hate — that’s easy. What I want.”

River’s eyes narrowed slightly. “That land too close?”

Azriel didn’t answer. He dropped onto the floor next to River instead, legs folding like they didn’t belong to him anymore. The cigarette trembled slightly in his fingers.

River passed him the spliff. No questions. No ceremony.

Azriel took it. Inhaled deep. Held.

Let it go.

The silence shifted. Not heavy. Just full.

River rolled over, grabbed the same compact mirror from earlier, set it flat on a record sleeve between them. He didn’t make a show of it — just did it like brushing his teeth. Casual. Familiar. Sad.

The coke glinted under the bulb. He raked it into a line with an old library card. Sniffed. Winced.

Azriel watched.

River blinked, cleared his throat. “You want?”

Azriel hesitated.

Then: “Fuck it.”

River handed him the card.

Azriel knelt, shoulders hunched. Snorted. Shivered.

The burn wasn’t as clean this time. Deeper. It dragged fire down his sinuses, licked the back of his throat raw.

Then it hit.

The stillness wasn’t still anymore.

The floor breathed. The air around him buzzed — not noise, just vibration, like the whole room was made of speaker wire. Like his blood hummed in the same key as the saxophone scratching in the corner.

Azriel leaned back, blinking slow. “I feel like I could peel my skin off and still keep walking.”

River laughed softly. “That’s the high, love.”

Azriel’s eyes dragged to him. “It’s not just that.”

“No?”

“It’s... like for the first time, I don’t want to smash something.”

River watched him. “What do you want?”

Azriel didn’t answer right away.

He looked around the room — the scarf on the chair, the fern in the window, the crumbling spine of a Kerouac paperback. The world was soft here. Frayed. But honest.

“I want to not flinch when people look at me,” Azriel said finally.

River’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away.

Azriel pressed the heel of his hand to his temple, eyes fluttering shut for a second. “I’m always waiting to be caught. Like someone’s gonna point and say, ‘You. You don’t belong. We saw you when you were nothing. Still are.’”

“No one says that here,” River said.

Azriel opened his eyes. “You do coke on library cards.”

“Yeah,” River grinned. “But they’re overdue, so it’s technically justice.”

Azriel snorted. It surprised them both.

He leaned back against the couch, the spliff burning down in his fingers. He watched the smoke curl up toward the flickering bulb.

“It’s so fucking loud in my head all the time,” he said.

River turned to him. “You don’t sound loud now.”

“‘Cause I’m here,” Azriel whispered.

River reached over. Gently plucked the cigarette from Azriel’s hand and stubbed it out.

“Then stay,” he said.

And Azriel did.

The spliff had died in the ashtray. The record spun out long ago—still hissing like it didn’t know the song had ended. Azriel hadn’t noticed. Not really. The hush after the last note felt natural. Like the kind of silence you didn’t dare interrupt.

They were still on the floor, backs against the ancient couch. Legs splayed. Shoulders nearly touching. Nothing between them but the kind of space that dared to be crossed.

Azriel’s head had dropped against the cushion, one hand resting on his knee, fingers twitching like they were trying to remember a chord. His shirt was damp with sweat down the spine. The buzz of coke hummed like a second heartbeat beneath his skin—steady, manageable now. Edges blurred in a way that made the world breathable, for once.

He hadn’t spoken in minutes. Let the quiet settle into his lungs like smoke. Let River’s presence stretch into the shape of something oddly comforting, even as his thoughts coiled tighter with each breath.

River finally spoke, voice pitched low, soft as a confession.

“You did well tonight.”

Azriel’s brow creased, slow and automatic. He didn’t look over. “Didn’t feel like it.”

River chuckled once, under his breath. Not unkind. “Maybe you don’t know what winning feels like yet.”

Azriel turned his head then. Just a little. Enough to catch River’s profile—sharp, clean, eyes unreadable. There was something about the way he said it. Like he believed it. Like it wasn’t up for debate.

Azriel wanted to believe it too.

But before he could say anything, before he could tilt his thoughts into words, River moved.

He leaned in.

No warning. No fanfare.

Just the warm brush of breath a split second before his mouth touched Azriel’s.

A kiss.

Not deep.

Not sweet.

Just… real.

Azriel didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His entire body went still, like someone had pulled a wire tight inside his chest.

For one suspended breath, he didn’t react at all.

And then—

He kissed back.

Hesitant. Uncertain. But unmistakably.

It was instinct, maybe. Or maybe it was something worse. Or something better.

Their lips met again. Brief. Dry. Just once more. Then—

Stillness.

Azriel broke away first, breath caught halfway between inhale and no.

He stared at the floor, not breathing. Eyes wide. Chest tight.

River didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched him, quiet and steady.

Azriel’s voice, when it came, was hoarse. Quiet.

“Why’d you do that?”

River shrugged. “Because I wanted to.”

Simple.

Azriel turned his face away.

The silence between them stretched long.

He didn’t know what to feel.

He didn’t know what he felt.

Not shame.

Not disgust.

Not... arousal, even.

Just... the thud of his heart in his throat. And confusion. And something cold and wild clenching under his ribs like a fist.

He’d never kissed a bloke before. Never even thought about it, not really.

Not like this.

Not like it was possible.

River didn’t apologise. Didn’t smirk. Just sat beside him, knees pulled up, arms wrapped loosely around them, eyes trained on the dark window beyond the plants.

Azriel’s pulse still thundered in his ears.

“I didn’t—” he started, then stopped.

River didn’t turn. “It’s alright, Azriel.”

“You don’t know.”

River breathed out slow. “Don’t need to. Not asking for anything.”

Azriel swallowed. His mouth was dry. He could still feel the shape of the kiss in the space just above his lips, like an echo trying to settle.

“I thought I wasn’t—” Azriel said, then shook his head.

River looked at him finally. “Maybe you’re not. Maybe you are. Doesn’t have to be a name tonight.”

Azriel wanted to say something clever. Something that would pin the moment to the wall and make sense of it.

But he didn’t have anything.

So they sat.

Together.

In the hush between thunder.

The loft was still warm. The bulb above flickered again, chasing shadows across River’s cheekbones. The plants leaned against the glass like they were trying to hear the city better.

After a while, Azriel spoke again. Quiet.

“What if I never figure it out?”

River leaned his head back against the couch, eyes closed.

“Then don’t,” he said.

Time folded. The way it does when the world stops spinning and just... waits for you to move.

They lay on the floor now, side by side. Not touching. But close enough that the space between them didn’t feel empty. Just... reserved.

Azriel stared up at the cracked plaster of the ceiling. The water stains bloomed into shapes. A horse. A broken crown. The jagged outline of a continent that didn’t exist.

River exhaled through his nose. “I’m off to Paris in a few weeks.”

Azriel didn’t move. “Of course you are.”

River smirked. “Just for a spell. Sorting art things.”

Azriel turned his head a fraction, just enough to catch the profile of River’s nose, the shadow of his collarbone.

He tried to feel jealous. Or abandoned. Or even annoyed.

But all he felt was tired. And... oddly grateful. That River had let him have this moment. Whatever it was.

River turned too, so they were watching each other again.

“When I’m back,” he said, “I expect you signed and selling records.”

Azriel snorted softly. 

“That sound fair?”

Azriel’s smile cracked a little wider. “What if I’m not?”

River’s voice was dry. “Then I’ll have to kidnap you and make you famous the old-fashioned way.”

Azriel laughed.

It cracked in his throat like something splintering.

But it was real.

They didn’t talk after that.

They didn’t need to.

Just lay there.

Two broken machines, cooling after the show.

Watching the ceiling cracks and pretending they were constellations.

Somewhere below, the city kept breathing.

And so did they.

Together.

But not touching.