5' 8"-5' 9"
He was The Devil of no principles! Ethan fooled Noah!!! Thomson had promised there'd be a reward for all the manipulation, however…
Sure, technically Thomson hadn't said exactly that. What he had said was that he might thank Morgan later. And then proceeded to do everything he wanted, not bothering to actually thank Noah! The whole point, obviously, was to distract Morgan from the spiral of dark thoughts he'd been stuck in. And to Ethan's credit, he definitely deserved an A+ for that. At the end Noah was so mentally wiped and emotionally drained he couldn't hold onto a single thought for more than two seconds. He wouldn't have lifted a finger even if his life depended on it. The exhaustion was mostly emotional—but physically, he wasn't doing much better either. Ethan had warned him that he might mess up a couple of things. And he did mess up some things. A few times, it got bad enough to require a knife. Those moments, Ethan handled with swift, clinical precision. And honestly? With a knife in his hand, he looked like the hottest damn serial killer that ever lived. The only thing hotter was when he needed to tie another knot while keeping the other rope in place, so he clenched the rope between his teeth. At that moment Noah was on the verge of whimpering. The little wolf cub Ethan's mom used to call him had become a full-grown wolf.
The aftermath of Thomson's mistakes had left their mark on Noah's wrists vividly. His thighs. His ankles. His stomach. Deep, wine-colored bands were a pure reminder of a day that turned Noah's world upside down—literally as well as metaphorically.
To be fair, by the time their session was finished, Noah had been so ridiculously relaxed that he actually thought he was fine. More than fine. He was satisfied. Content. And it certainly didn't feel like he needed any sexual release whatsoever. However, Noah was wrong. That realization smacked him in the face the next morning when he sat up in bed, body aching all over, painfully hard, and drowning in a flood of embarrassing memories. Sure, they hadn't finished the deed, but Ethan still had managed to explore Noah's body with such frightening attention to every detail, it was kind of frightening. Noah could still feel the ghost of those fingers on the most sensitive parts of his skin. And the cold slick of oil between his legs was even worse to remember! Because after it was all over, and Noah—wrecked, disoriented, and barely conscious—had just sat there on the floor, tangled in ropes still warm from his body, it was Ethan who took off the wrinkled, half-hanging kimono. It was Ethan who wiped him down with wet wipes to get rid of the excessive oil. Wiped everywhere! It was Ethan who helped dress him again in regular clothes! What a nightmare!
"Morgan, are you okay?"
"Mhm."
"Does it hurt anywhere?"
"Mhm."
"What kind of 'mhm' is that? Does it hurt or not?"
"It does."
"Where?"
"Everywhere."
"Can you be a little bit more specific?"
"Mhm."
"Jesus fucking Christ… Raise your arm."
"Mhm."
"Can you at least put your underwear on by yourself?"
"Mhm."
"Then do it!"
"Mhm."
"Morgan… get up."
"I can't."
Noah really couldn't. After all that tension, his muscles had relaxed completely. Every time he tried to get up, his body just collapsed right back onto the floor. His legs were sinking under him. His arms were shaking. And yet, somehow, he'd never felt calmer or better, honestly. He was so at peace he would've happily curled up naked in the still-warm ropes and dozed off for a couple of hours.
"Noah, you've got to get up."
"Mhm."
"Get dressed."
"Mhm."
"Morgan, when I say 'get dressed,' I mean pants and a T-shirt. Leave the ropes alone already!"
Ethan had such a hard time with him—first trying to get Noah back to the land of the living, then half-carrying him all the way to the car. The hotel-club employee gave Noah a knowing look as they passed.
"Come again soon!" she said politely.
"For sure," Noah mumbled, feeling like a ragdoll in Thomson's strong arms.
"Do you want some coffee?" Ethan asked, buckling Morgan's seatbelt for him.
"No."
"What do you want, then?"
"I want you to fuck me."
"…Morgan!" Ethan started snapping his fingers frantically in front of Noah's face. "Are you completely out of your damn mind?! Wake up, for fuck's sake!"
The ropes, the stress, the exhaustion—it was like they'd wrung every last drop of willpower out of Morgan. Scary as it sounded, at that moment, he would've said yes to anything Ethan suggested. Would've let him do whatever. Would've agreed to any amount of reckless, idiotic behavior. That's how far gone he was. Maybe that was why Ethan didn't do a damn thing in the end? Well… his loss. HIS BIG, STUPID, TRAGIC LOSS!
Noah spent the entire morning pissed off at the world. His cosmic grief over the sex that didn't happen swirled nicely with all his other reasons to be miserable.
"You got something," Andrea announced during the lunch break, setting a little gift down in front of Noah. He looked at it like it was a piece of shit wrapped in craft paper. To be fair, he'd been giving that same look to pretty much everything today.
ETHAN, THAT WAS THE LEAST NICE THING YOU'VE EVER DONE!
"From whom?"
"Some cute girl from our department. I think she's a year younger than us."
"What is it, a piece of poop?" Noah asked coldly, ready to rave and storm at the smallest inconvenience.
"Doesn't seem like it," Andrea said seriously. "I sniffed it. Doesn't smell like crap. Smells like chocolate."
"What if it's poisoned? I bet it's got Ebola or anthrax in it. Throw it away," Scott stepped in, nudging the bundle away with his fork like it was radioactive.
"And where, exactly, was she supposed to get Ebola?" Andrea scoffed. "Amazon?"
"Did someone say Ebola? I haven't caught that one yet," Ethan chimed in cheerfully as he slid into his seat. He snatched the package off the table, tore it open, and dumped everything out. It turned out it really was just a chocolate bar and a little note. Without asking, he unwrapped the bar, pulled his mask down, and took a big bite. Noah's jaw clenched. Ethan was definitely the person Noah was mad at the most that day.
"Bon appétit," Morgan muttered like it was a curse.
"And what does Ebola taste like, anyway? Or anthrax? Do you guys know?" Ethan asked through a mouthful of chocolate, completely ignoring Noah's mumbling.
"No idea. I only specialize in the taste of being screwed over," Morgan growled, shooting Thomson an angry glare.
"Don't be so shy. I'm sure you've got a few more talents up your sleeve," Ethan winked, dropping into the chair next to him. "I do wonder, though… can viruses even be mixed into food like that?"
"What's up with you?" Scott cut in, ignoring the question and eyeing Ethan with suspicion.
"What do you mean, 'What's up with me'?"
"You look… unusually pleased today."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Ethan said smoothly, handing Noah the rest of the chocolate bar.
"Did you two finally—?" Scott started mumbling.
"Oh, I wish," Noah bit out, lacing his voice with enough venom to take down an entire city.
"Aww, are you ma-ad at me?" Ethan drawled. There was a smile hiding in his eyes.
"I hate you."
"How much?"
"With every inch of my being! If I could, I'd strangle you with my bare hands!"
"And where exactly did all that willpower go?" Ethan smirked, happily fanning the flames of Noah's slow-burn rage.
"You… You… You know what you are?! You…" Noah struggled to find the word. "You're a villain!" Well, it sounded pathetic.
"Did you guys hear that? "I'm a villain," Thomson announced, turning to Andrea and Scott.
"Oh, I see," Andrea said knowingly. "You turned him on, but then you never—"
"BUT THEN HE NEVER!" Noah howled, throwing the chocolate bar away while still clutching the note from the mystery girl.
"Ethan, that's just cruel," Andrea said, shaking her head in judgment.
"Hah!" Ethan looked positively radiant, feeling no guilt whatsoever.
Noah held his breath for a second, trying to calm himself down. It wasn't the best thing to yell across the cafeteria about his raging, unresolved sexual frustration because of the guy sitting next to him. Noah knew well the whole "sleeping with Ethan" thing was going to be a long game. Days. Weeks. Months. YEARS?! He'd made peace with that. What he hadn't accounted for was Thomson's wish to set up traps like that one!!! That was just unfair!
Trying to distract himself, Morgan looked back down at the note. What was it? A fresh wave of targeted humiliation? A new type of mockery? And what was with the chocolate? Was it some kind of metaphor? Symbolism? Was there an inside joke waiting to be unlocked if he actually read the note?
"She—the one who gave this to you—is she in the cafeteria right now?" Morgan asked darkly. In case the note turned out to be some twisted prank, Noah was fully prepared to make the scene. One way or another, he had to let off steam from all the frustration eating him alive. Honestly, he was almost hoping the letter would be offensive!
Andrea glanced around.
"Oh, there she is," she nodded toward a table on the other side of the room. Morgan spotted her immediately—the same girl who'd tried to talk to him the day before. Their eyes met for half a second. She smiled shyly, then waved her hand a little. Noah scowled even harder. What the hell was this?
"Are you going to read it or not?" Ethan asked, propping his elbow on the table, chin resting in his palm, and staring shamelessly at Noah with THAT EXACT LOOK AGAIN. He, unlike Morgan, wasn't irritated. Or frustrated. Or even remotely conflicted. It was the opposite. He radiated satisfaction. His eyes were practically glowing with it.
Noah unfolded the note with an unhappy look.
"Sorry people are so cruel. Just know—not everyone's like that. And not everyone thinks badly of you!"
"Well, that only took two and a half years…" Noah snorted, not amazed at all.
"Aww, that's so sweet! She's trying to cheer you up! That's just sick!" Andrea clapped her hands.
"What a load of crap," Scott chimed in without hesitation.
"Total crap," Ethan agreed, snatching the note from Noah's hand and balling it up without a second thought.
"You guys don't get it," Andrea tossed her hair with purpose. "This is a sign. The ice is finally breaking!"
"What ice?" Noah frowned.
"The ice of public perception!" Andrea declared. "Your little abuser crossed a line—and people saw it. The thing he had done finally opened people's eyes. They now see how badly you've been treated!"
"Oh, so before this they weren't treating me badly enough?" Noah scoffed. If he weren't in such a bad mood, he might've even agreed with her. But his state of mind was so far past away at the moment that everything around him looked fake and illusional—like a funhouse mirror. However, Noah didn't have any fun at all.
"Or maybe she's just another one of the crazies," Scott added without hesitation, twirling a finger next to his temple.
"Or maybe she's trying to hit on you," Ethan assumed cheerfully, still clutching the crumpled note in his fist. But now there was something in his voice—still playful, but with an edge.
"What for?" Scott looked genuinely puzzled. "Everyone knows he's gay."
"There's always that one girl who thinks she's the magical exception who can awaken the straight man trapped inside," Ethan said, eyes locked unblinking on the girl's table.
"Don't listen to them," Andrea waved it all off. "They don't get it. She's just a decent person trying to show that not everyone on campus is out to get you. So eat your chocolate and be happy about it," she said, pushing the candy bar back into Noah's hands. "Now, back to more pressing matters! You guys are coming to 'I want you deadly' tonight, right? We need all the moral support we can get!"
"I'm definitely coming," Noah confirmed. Ethan tore his glare away from the potential rival and turned it on Noah instead, one eyebrow arched high. "We never actually discussed whether you wanted to go. I can't exactly decide for you," Noah replied, shrugging in response to the silent judgment embedded in Ethan's expression.
"We're going," Ethan told Andrea flatly, eyes snapping back to the girl across the room. Under Thomson's gaze, she visibly tensed.
"That is so-so cool! Thank you, guys! With this kind of support, we'll get an A+ for our performance!" Andrea beamed.
"Sure... if the scale's done the opposite way," Scott muttered.
"Ew, you're so pessimistic," Andrea grimaced.
"It's called having a realistic perspective."
"Screw realistic!" Andrea declared. "We are destined to crush it tonight!"
****
"We're destined to crash and burn! This is a goddamn disaster!" Andrea cried, grabbing Noah's glass of beer and taking a long, desperate swig. 'I want you deadly' was packed tighter than usual. Most of the crowd were students from campus. The place had gone full Halloween—orange and green lanterns shaped like jack-o'-lanterns and bubbling cauldrons were pinned along the walls. Fake cobwebs drooped from the ceiling. An old plastic skeleton with glowing red eyes loomed over the bar like a haunted mascot. The drink menu had been given a spooky makeover: black and orange colors, cocktail names like Vampire's Kiss, Unicorn Blood, and Hocus Pocus, and stickers of black cats and broomstick-riding witches finished the vibe.
Noah ordered the pumpkin beer from the special menu and instantly regretted it—it was pure trash. Fortunately, Andrea was doing her part to help eliminate the nasty drink.
"What happened?" Noah slid a plate of bat- and ghost-shaped salted crackers toward Andrea—just in case she wanted to chase down the awful brew with something edible.
"Oh God, I'm not even supposed to be drinking!" She gasped, snapping out of it and handing the pumpkin sludge back to Noah. Then she immediately reached down to adjust her tight skirt—an item that had already been declared Scott's personal Achilles' heel.
The moment he'd seen Andrea in her stage outfit— she was wearing a gauze red blouse dotted with rhinestones, a black leather corset, shredded fishnet pantyhose, and a tight short skirt—Scott looked frozen for a good three minutes. Noah, watching the whole thing unfold, half-expected actual drool to start trickling down his friend's chin. While the band hauled in their gear and Andrea barked orders, Scott had made several feeble attempts to protest the criminal brevity of her skirt. But every time he opened his mouth to speak, his eyes would inevitably land on Andrea's backside… And that was it; everything was blurred. At one point, he managed to collect himself long enough to stammer something like, "Do you maybe want my jacket? I mean, so you don't catch a cold?" Andrea shot him a smoldering look and murmured, "I'm hot. I'm always hot," and then she purposefully bent to grab her bag much lower than it was necessary.
Oh yeah. Andrea was shamelessly hot. Scott practically slipped into a coma. Died. And then resurrected about ten minutes later.
"Steve! Steve happened!" Andrea blurted out.
"He didn't show up?" Noah asked, instantly on alert.
"Worse!" she hissed, full of righteous fury. "Turns out he's been putting together his own band for a while now. And guess what? He's performing tonight. Right here. In this exact bar."
"That's why he bailed on your set?" Noah gasped.
"No. He said he'd do us a favor and sing with both bands. But now I don't even want him on our stage. The audacity! One vocalist, two bands? Am I the only one who finds that pathetic?"
"Not the only one," Ethan chimed in, sipping his Coke. His mood, strangely, was still hovering somewhere between carefree and euphoric. Noah felt both happy and mad about it. "Honestly, I never got why you put up with him in the first place. He's a jackass," Thomson added melancholically.
"Do you think we had other options?" Andrea scoffed. "Lead singers don't grow on trees."
Ethan turned to Noah and stared at him—unblinking, expectant.
"…What?" Noah shifted, instantly uneasy.
"What?" Ethan parroted. "The question I asked you last time still stands. Why not you?"
"I told you already! I've got no ear and no voice!"
"Did someone tell you that, or did you just assume it on your own?" Ethan asked. "You've got a beautiful voice," he added, a little quieter.
"It's just a regular voice," Noah pushed back.
"No," Ethan said, shaking his head and leaning in closer to Morgan. "Every time you open your mouth, I get the irresistible urge to fuck you in it," he whispered.
Noah flushed and instantly got pissed. Ethan was doing THAT! AGAIN!
"Oh yeah? Funny, 'cause that urge seems pretty damn resistible, seeing as you've never once—" Morgan hissed back and then continued louder, "My voice is completely average," he snapped through gritted teeth.
"Liar," Ethan shot back, not backing down an inch.
"I can't sing."
"Can't you, though?" Andrea cut in, squinting at them both. "Because, just to clarify, you sound pretty good at karaoke."
"Karaoke's not the same thing!" Noah looked even more uncomfortable now.
"And you know all our songs," Andrea didn't want to let go.
"Well, yeah, since I've been to all your shows! I've picked up a bunch of songs that way. What's next, you want me to replace Billie Eilish just because I know half her setlist by heart?!"
"Noah, this would help us soooo much," Andrea whined dramatically, leaning toward him and giving him an eyeful of her deep neckline. If Noah were straight, his brain would've shut down right then and there. Unfortunately for her—and to Ethan's clear irritation—he was still very much gay. Without a word, Ethan reached over and covered the offending cleavage with an orange napkin, shielding Noah from temptation that didn't tempt him in the first place. Andrea just giggled.
"If Morgan's got the Devil's Eye, you've got the Devil's Tits," Ethan muttered.
"And I'm proud of it," Andrea said with a wink, tossing her hair back. "But whose side are you even on?"
"His. Always," Ethan replied, pointing at Noah.
"But you're the one who brought up the whole 'Noah as vocalist' idea in the first place!"
"And I still think it's a great idea. I just don't want him doing it because of your...looks."
"Are you seriously jealous right now?!" Andrea gasped.
"What a dumb question."
"Noah, he's jealous," Andrea remarked mischievously. "You do know jealousy is a sign of insecurity, right?"
"I am insecure," Ethan said calmly. "But you should still sing." That part was clearly directed at Noa.
"I can't!"
"Why not?"
"I… I… I've been drinking!"
"So? It just means your vocal cords are warmed up."
"What about rehearsals?!"
"You have been to some rehearsals!" Andrea reminded him.
"Yeah! As an audience member, not the damn vocalist! What do you think I am, Captain Jack Sparrow? Noah, did you rehearse with the band? No, no, it's much better than that! I watched the rehearsal!" Noah took a frustrated gulp of his pumpkin beer and winced. Still crap.
Ethan's face looked confused, like the reference hadn't hit him.
"Don't tell me you also haven't seen Pirates of the Caribbean?" Noah asked in horror. Ethan just shrugged.
"That's tragic," Andrea gasped. "Noah, you need to fix this. Immediately."
"I'll handle it. Soon," Morgan promised her.
"I'm still here," Ethan said, frowning. "And don't try to change the subject. Are you gonna sing or not?"
"No."
"Why?" Ethan narrowed his eyes. "And spare me the dramatic self-flagellation. Your voice is fucking amazing. If you can kill it at karaoke, you've got an ear. So what's the real issue?"
"It's just…" Noah leaned in closer to Ethan. "…it means going up on stage. And I'm awfully shy. And let's be honest, my image might do no good to the bank's reputation."
That was true. Not like Noah hadn't dreamed of singing with his friends. He had. A lot. But reality had consequences.
"Fuck the reputation," Andrea snapped suddenly. She grabbed Morgan by the wrists and yanked him to his feet. "Are you scared to sing in front of everyone? Then sing for him," she nodded toward Ethan.
"But—" Noa was still trying to find another reason why he wasn't good enough, but Andrea was already dragging him backstage.
5' 3"
All the bands playing at the bar were more or less on the same level of glorious mediocrity, but the booze-fueled crowd still gave an extremely warm greeting to every act. More than half the people at the bar had shown up wearing costumes, clearly too impatient to wait for Halloween to actually arrive. A group of already-drunk college kids were starting to get rowdy near the bar, their shouting and drunken laughter occasionally drowning out the crappy music blaring from the tiny stage. The cheerleaders had staked out a spot not far from Ethan. The twins he already knew gave him a shy little wave but didn't dare approach. They'd probably been following the anonymous campus chat like the rest of the student body. There was no doubt in Ethan's mind—they'd already cornered Rufus with a ton of questions. And he knew exactly what Hughes had said, since they had already had the conversation weeks ago.
"You know, people have been asking me about you a lot lately," Rufus said, catching Ethan just outside the law building. Since Rufus studied on the other side of campus, it was clear he'd been waiting for him.
"So?"
"I don't know what to say. Should I tell the truth? Or lie?"
"Truth. The whole truth. And nothing but the truth," Ethan assured him.
"Don't you want to ask me about those questions?"
"I don't have to. I can guess. Question one: 'Is he gay?' Answer: Yes, he is. Question two: 'Is he dating Morgan?' Also yes. You see. It's that simple."
"O-okay… if you're cool with that," Rufus muttered and started walking away toward his car like someone who'd just experienced severe culture shock, though Ethan couldn't quite figure out why he was expected to hide his sexuality—or his boyfriend—for anyone's comfort.
"Hey, Hughes…" Ethan called out just as Rufus was getting into his car. "Thanks for asking." Even he hadn't seen that one coming. But honestly? Hughes handled it surprisingly well for someone Ethan still considered a total dumbass.
Back in the bar, Thomson gave the twins a quick wave. One of their friends even tried fluttering her lashes at him, only for the twins to shut it down instantly.
"…What a joke! Have they completely lost their damn minds?! Replacing me with him? Ha! I'd love to see what kind of performance this is going to turn into—" Steve burst out from behind the stage and stormed into the crowd, still grumbling curses under his breath. He was clearly heading for the bar, where he'd no doubt find a few ears willing to hear his dramatic monologue. He would've made it there, too, if Ethan hadn't casually stuck his leg out just as Steve stormed past him. Steve tripped over Ethan's foot and fell face-first onto the floor. He popped back up a second later, kneeling and fuming—
"What the fuck are you—" Steve stopped himself short, realizing a second too late that the reason he was now kissing the floor was none other than Ethan.
"Oops. My bad," Thomson said coolly. "I had no idea my stubby little legs could be such a hazard. Are you okay? I hope you didn't hurt yourself."
"Go fuck yourself," Steve hissed, scrambling to his feet.
"Not right now, though," Ethan replied, mock-offended, shaking his head. "First Morgan has to sing, then maybe I'll get that d—"
Steve let out a funny noise, something between a frustrated growl and a whimper of despair, and stormed off toward the bar. Apparently, getting replaced by Morgan had been the ultimate slap in the face, and Steve was clearly planning to drown the insult in liquor until he blacked out. To be fair, the band Steve had already played with sucked even harder than Andrea's usually did. So his chance to shine had flopped all on its own. And now, to make things worse, his second appearance was canceled. What was worse than that? That his spot had been handed to freaking Noah Morgan. It was a low blow!
Ethan had a handful of snarky one-liners lined up and ready to toss at Steve's back—but he was cut off by the soft ping of a notification. No one else around him reached for their phones, which meant the message was for him. Only two people could've texted him: Morgan or…
Ethan looked at his phone screen—and immediately turned it off. After glancing around to make sure no one was watching him or his screen, he dimmed the brightness to the lowest setting and opened the reply to the inquiry he'd sent the day before. He hadn't expected an answer so fast.
The information Ethan found made him frown. A surge of heat flushed through his face as a mess of emotions rose up out of nowhere and crashed over him. He couldn't believe it—but his first random shot in the dark had actually hit something. No, it wasn't a smoking gun, not yet. But the inconsistency in front of him was loud enough on its own. Okay, the evidence was still circumstantial. Nothing that'd hold up in court. But still—someone had lied, and Ethan highly doubted that this lie had nothing to do with what had been happening to Morgan. There was definitely a connection. He just didn't have all the puzzle pieces yet to see the big picture. And the burning question—Why?—was still hanging in the air with no answer.
Ethan leaned back in his chair, mulling over his next move. He'd known going in that Duncan's sources wouldn't get him everything. What he hadn't expected was having him to step in personally this soon. Then again, maybe that was a good thing.
He opened the list of names Smith had collected for him. Then he found one that might have the answer to a very specific question and flipped back to the bodyguard's inbox to fire off a follow-up request.
…Is Morgan really unaware of that?
After that, the emotional storm hit Ethan. What if this wasn't news to Noah? What if there wasn't a connection at all? Ethan started mentally analyzing every conversation between the two of them and the people around them. Every offhand comment. Every relevant name drop. If Morgan had known something, he'd been doing a damn good job of hiding it. A full-blown interrogation, maybe? Stupid. This whole thing was for Noah in the first place. So, if he had kept quiet about something, it was probably just because he didn't think it mattered. Either way, Ethan figured it was smarter to dig a little deeper before he would bring anything up.
Meanwhile, Andrea and her band took the stage, fiddling with their instruments. The sound check was rough since it led to random screeches and squeals from the ancient mic. Morgan stood off to the side, practically pacing a hole in the floor. His nerves were showing—his hands were visibly shaking, and Ethan caught the drummer and second guitarist throwing sideways glances at him. Clearly, Andrea's decision to swap in a new lead singer five minutes before showtime didn't sound appealing to them. Especially not when the replacement was Noah Morgan. They were setting up their instruments in complete silence, knowing this was going to suck, and they were bracing for the impact. Once they were ready, Andrea gave Morgan a little wave to approach the mic. Noah shuffled up to center stage. He gave the room a quick glance with those ridiculously beautiful, ocean-blue eyes. And under the wash of cheap stage lights, he still looked gorgeous—at least to Ethan.
"H-hi, everyone! We're…" Noah started, voice cracking, then swallowed hard. The bar quieted a little. A lot of people in the room knew him. They'd read the gossip. Whispers behind his back had turned into full-blown opinions a long time ago. Seeing Morgan was shocking to many people. Nobody could quite believe he had the guts to put himself out there like that. Even if all the rumors were crap and he was just some sweet, chrisom babe—what gave him the right to flip off public opinion and act like none of it mattered? Seriously, who the hell did he think he was?
"Isn't that the local slut?" came a drunken voice to Ethan's left. "What is this, a PR stunt for his busted-up ass or what?"
Ethan slid a hand into the deep pocket of his hoodie.
"Wait, is he actually gonna sing? I'm pretty sure that mouth is better designed for other things."
Ethan's fingers brushed cold metal and grabbed it.
"Chill, man. Just leave the guy alone," came another voice.
Ethan loosened his grip.
"I am leaving him alone. I'd rather starve than eat out of a trash can. But come on, everyone knows that…"
His hand clenched again.
"...it has to be a joke. Someone should throw a bottle at him before he ruins the night."
Ethan spun his chair around in one clean move and came face-to-face with those speaking. 'I want you deadly' was a small place, so the tables were jammed close together. Usually it didn't feel so crowded, but tonight everyone was practically sitting on each other's laps. And Ethan found himself oddly grateful for sitting so close to the people he had never met.
"What the hell are you staring at?" scoffed the guy—the same voice that had just threatened to throw a bottle at Morgan.
"We don't want any trouble," his buddy jumped in quickly, either catching the warning in Ethan's eyes or recognizing him.
"What the hell are you talking about? Are you scared of some punk-ass kid?" the first barked in an irritated voice. But the second one leaned in closer, and Ethan didn't catch the words—but he read his lips: 'That's Morgan's boyfriend'. Ethan couldn't help the smile that tugged at his lips. He liked the way it sounded.
"Him? What?" The drunk guy burst out laughing. "Aha-ha-ha! Man, that's rough! Hah! Please, don't act like his security guard. Come back when you've grown up a little more!" The drunk bastard kept laughing, loud and stupid. Ethan didn't say a word. He just slowly pulled his hand out of his hoodie pocket—fingers clenched around something he'd been gripping for a while now. A switchblade [In case you're curious, Duncan gave Ethan Kershaw Launch 13 CPM-154CM.], which Duncan had given him as a gift a couple of years prior to that. It had a smooth black handle and a razor-sharp blade. According to Duncan, Kershaw knives were the gold standard. They were sleek without being flashy and high quality without charging extra for a name. Solid, ergonomic, reliable, and clean.
When Duncan gave it to him, he warned him that he should only carry this if he knows damn well he's ready to use it. And if he understands what can come next. Ethan did know that he was ready to use it. And he was aware of the consequences. Which was why the knife usually stayed locked in a desk drawer. But after the attempt on his father's life, Duncan reminded him that in these dark days it was too risky to walk around unarmed. Smith's gift of the pen with a little secret hidden inside didn't count, because he thought it would take too long to unscrew the blade part, and in a pinch, that delay could cost you. So for the session with Noah, Ethan had brought Duncan's knife. When it sliced through those ropes like butter, he was reminded exactly how dangerous it really was.
"If you do end up having to use it," Duncan had warned, "you stick to a full defensive strategy. Got it?"
"I remember."
"Good. Then you know exactly where the carotid artery and jugular vein are—and that you ARE NOT SUPPOSED to go anywhere near them."
"Yes, Duncan."
"Muscles only. You aim to neutralize the opponent. That's it."
"Understood."
"AND NO STABBING IN THE ABDOMEN!"
"Duncan, for god's sake, who do you think I am?!"
"Be extra careful with the shoulders," Smith replied calmly. "If you sever the brachial artery and your opponent stays unconscious for fifteen seconds, then they're dead from blood loss in ninety percent of the cases."
"Oh, for fuck's sake, will you stop overexaggerating it?"
But, of course, Smith was right. A knife wasn't the kind of thing you just waved in someone's face to make a point. One wrong move, and you're behind bars with a guilty conscience chewing through your ribs. However… Only if you actually end up using it. According to Ethan's experience, such a result was highly doubtful in a fight with an average guy.
"I'm afraid I can't really grow up anymore," Ethan said dryly, noting out of the corner of his eye that one of the bar's cameras was pointed at his back, and another was blocked by some guy in a sombrero. Nothing else seemed to have a clean shot of him. "But don't worry," he added smoothly, "I'll make good use of the head start." And with that, Thomson pressed the button. The switchblade flicked open with a satisfying click, catching the light just right and bouncing a sunbeam straight into the drunk guy's eyes. The reaction was instant. Sobered up in a heartbeat, the guy flinched, lost his balance, and crashed backwards—chair and all—right onto the floor. A couple of people nearby turned their heads, switching from Ethan to the two guys. However, Thomson no longer had any knife in his hand. It was back in his hoodie.
The opening chords rang out from the stage. Ethan immediately lost all interest in the fool on the floor and turned back toward Morgan. Bathed in the warm, shaky glow of the cheap spotlights, Noah looked like some kind of living heat source—soft and radiant, the kind of warmth that seeps right into your chest. Everything about him screamed nerves and shyness, but god, it was adorable.
…And when Noah started to sing, Ethan forgot how to breathe.
5' 8"-5' 9"
Andrea was bouncing up and down, high on the thrill, swearing it had been sick. Scott agreed a little too enthusiastically, though it was pretty clear most of his attention was glued to Andrea's too-short skirt. Pete—the drummer—chimed in too. Even Ravi, the second guitarist, tossed out a dry "Not bad," which, coming from him, was basically a standing ovation. The guy barely spoke at all most days.
Noah felt… weird. When he'd first stepped onto the stage, he'd been shaking like a leaf. His throat felt locked up, like even a single note would be impossible. If it hadn't been for the weight of his friends' expectations, Morgan would've bolted before the mic even warmed up. He felt the crowd watching him. He heard the whispers. But as soon as Noah heard Andrea hit the first keys—something shifted, and he thought, 'Screw it! I want this. I'm doing it.'
And he did.
Was it the best performance 'I want you deadly' had ever seen? Not even close. Noah knew he hit a few wrong notes, lost rhythm once or twice, and maybe threw the band off in spots. But damn, the feeling? It was electric. Like something cracked open inside him and let the positive emotions in! Noah quickly began to enjoy it and gave everything he thought he had. And when they stepped offstage—people even clapped! They actually clapped! Sure, Ethan's applause drowned out the rest, but Noah could tell—there were others. Morgan hadn't expected that some strangers would be thanking the band, considering that it was him on the stage.
But the moment the whole band ducked into the stuffy dressing room, Noah slumped against the doorframe and felt like those bright emotions started to fade. In its place came a heavy, dull kind of apathy. Andrea was still bouncing, Scott was hovering anxiously around her skirt, Pete had his nose in Instagram, trying to find someone who'd posted any videos of them, and Ravi… was quietly demolishing a sandwich he'd apparently stashed earlier. Noah, meanwhile, only wanted one thing. A smoke. Thank God he knew exactly where to go without running into anyone. If you cut through the bar's kitchen, there was a back alley—dark and quiet. One of the line cooks had shown it to him once. He was the only one who smoked back there, and for a while, when Noah used to come support Andrea's shows, he'd go out there with the guy just to keep him company. Then, one day, the guy quit smoking. After that, the spot became Morgan's alone.
He pushed open the squeaky back door and stepped into the crisp October air, pulling in a full breath. It wasn't until the cold slid over his sweat-soaked skin that he realized just how much the stress had worked him over. He moved a few steps from the door, leaned his back against the cool brick wall, and lit up the cigarette. His head felt hollow. He wasn't sad or anything. But he didn't feel happy, either.
"You killed it up there."
Noah jumped, nearly dropping the half-smoked cigarette. Ethan was leaning against the doorframe, cocktail in hand. He must've stopped by the dressing room after the show, and Andrea told him where to find Noah.
"Thanks," Morgan said with a tired smile. Whatever adrenaline had gotten him through the performance had fully burned out.
"I brought you a Witch's Heart," Ethan held out the cocktail.
"How about your actual heart?"
"It's already yours," Ethan shot back without missing a beat. Noah let out a nervous laugh at the unexpected burst of romantic flair.
"Perfect timing. Thanks," he said—and downed the drink in two long swallows, exhaling loud and satisfied. The warmth hit immediately, spreading through his limbs and softening the edges of everything. He placed the empty glass on the ground, his eyes drifting back to the cigarette pack. The idea of heading back into the sweaty chaos of 'I want you deadly' made his stomach turn. He wanted to stay right here—stretch the moment out as long as he could. In the cool, silent dark. Noah slid another cigarette between his lips but didn't bother lighting it just yet.
"What'd you think of the set?"
"You screwed up," Ethan replied, pulling off his mask and leaning back against the wall extremely close to Morgan. "But you were fucking incredible."
"Ha-ha, I see…" Noah said with a skeptical little laugh.
"Yeah," Ethan replied. "Exactly that." His voice sounded off somehow, like his thoughts were miles away.
"Did something happen?" Noah asked, just in case.
"Yeah. You happened."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Ethan clicked his tongue in frustration.
"You keep pushing me to do all kinds of crazy shit."
"I'm not even doing anything!"
"Exactly." Ethan's tone sharpened. "You keep pushing me to do all kinds of crazy shit—and you're not even doing anything yet."
"I'll take that as a compliment," Noah said with a crooked grin and a wink. Thomson gave him a long, uncertain look in return.
"What?" Noah asked.
Ethan pushed off the wall and stepped in close. Morgan, taller by almost a head, leaned in instinctively—clearly aiming for a kiss—but Ethan stopped him with a firm hand to the chest, pinning him gently back against the wall. Then, without a word, he plucked the unlit cigarette from Noah's mouth, fished out that familiar pen from his pocket, and started scribbling something on the paper wrapping.
"Here," he said, handing it back. Scrawled across the cigarette were the words, 'A fucking bully.' "It's been a while since you smoked your problems away," Ethan added.
"Fair enough…" Noah chuckled, slipping the cigarette between his lips again. "Thanks."
"Remember how you told me about the Pole Star when we first met?"
"Yeah. I remember."
"Can you see it now?" Ethan asked, still holding Noah pressed to the cold brick. Thomson glanced up at the small patch of stars framed between the rooftops.
"Yeah," Noah nodded. "It's there."
"Good." Ethan nodded toward the cigarette. "Smoke. And keep your eyes on the star."
"Wh—"
"Smoke," Ethan repeated, more firmly this time. Noah lit up a cigarette and took a slow, deep drag. "The sky," Ethan prompted. Noah sighed and moved his eyes back on the Pole Star, still not understanding a damn thing. Then Ethan's hand, which was resting flat on Noah's chest, started moving lower.
"What are you—"
"Smoke and keep your eyes on the sky," Ethan said sharply, flicking Noah's chin upward when he started to look down.
"But—"
"Shut up."
Noah swallowed hard, hearing Thomson sinking down in front of him.
"Not here!" Noah tried to protest, alarmed.
"Shut up."
"No, really, you don't have to!"
"Morgan, I told you to shut up."
"I don't even need this!"
"But I do."