We watch him slip through doorways. Out one, in the next, never looking back as he drifts through smoke and sweat and neon, slipping past bodies, past tables, past the desperate stares from us, movin’ as if he doesn’t need anyone.
Past the purple lights glowing from the bar.
Across black tile soaked in spilled drinks.
And then he’s ours—on stage, sweating before the second song, neck and back both slick, shirt clinging to his chest, his eyes everywhere.
On me.
And me.
Andme.
And we’re already gone.
So is Matt, who’s tipping, slipping, drunk as hell.
Matt doesn’t need the spotlight, he needs a stretcher—swaying back, sweat dotting his forehead, shirt half-tucked, eyes glassy. He’s three songs deep, slurring vowels, stumblin’ back just before the lyric we all wait for:
I’m so fuckin’ obsessed with you.
The one we scream, prayer turned profane.
But right when it’s supposed to land, Matt trips over nothing.
And Andrew leans into his mic, steals the lyric, grinning and singing with a half-cocked brow—“He’s so fuckin’ drunk on you.”
The crowd loses it, the sound bouncing off the ceiling, wrapping around the rafters, sinking into our skin. Every drunk bitch and broken boy in the pit echoes—“HE’S SO FUCKIN’ DRUNK ON YOU.”
And for one second, it’s not a band playing.
It’s a brotherhood breaking into laughter under the lights.
Then Andrew takes over lead, guitar slung against his hip, voice all rasp and ruin. We’ve seen boys with guitars before. But Andrew doesn’t play, he possesses.
His fingers crawl up the frets, voice dragging behind the beat, pulled it out from under his tongue to tease it. And when he hits the chorus, he doesn’t sing it. He moans it, drawn out, dangerous, ‘til every pussy’s dripping.
Then he turns, mid-strum and flashes a smile, aimed somewhere in the blur of bodies.Thatfuckingsmile—lazy, sexy, sinful.
We all swear it’smine?—
no, mine?—
no, mine.
He damns us all at once.
Right before the bridge, he always chooses one girl.
He sinks into her for eight bars, vanishing from the crowd to give her everything. Then he pulls back, singing her open and leaving her there.
And tonight, he looks off to his right, through the smoke and lights, to the girl white-knuckling the rail, eyes begging the music to split her open and make it hurt. And he breaks the lyric at the seam for her.
Abigail don’t realize she’s holdin’ her breath ‘til it’s gone.
For those long seconds staring into his eyes, she forgets where she is.
All she feels is Andrew, slidin’ through her, pourin’ his voice into her bloodstream.
