Archive of Our Own

Raffy didn’t mean to make it a pattern.

If it had been intentional, maybe he would’ve caught it earlier—would’ve seen the way Rome’s patience thinned out, layer by layer, each time Raffy said Jack’s name like it belonged in every conversation.

But to Raffy, it was just… normal.

Jack was interesting. Complicated. Worth talking about.

Rome—

Rome was just there.

The first time, it was small.

Rome had texted him in the afternoon. “8 PM. Don’t be late.”

Raffy had smirked when he read it, already knowing the tone behind it. He showed up at 8:40.

Rome didn’t comment on it. Just handed him a drink without looking at him, fingers brushing briefly. It should’ve settled there.

But Raffy leaned against the counter and said, casually:

“I ran into Jack earlier.”

There was a pause.

Then, “Yeah?”

Raffy shrugged. “He’s thinking about dropping that elective. Said it’s a waste of time.”

Rome nodded once, like the information mattered just enough to acknowledge.

“Cool.”

That should’ve been the end of it. It wasn’t. Raffy kept going.

“He asked about you, actually.”

That made Rome look at him.

“What did you say?”

Raffy tilted his head, playing it light. “That you’re good at what you do.”

There it was. The shift.

Rome’s jaw tightened just slightly before he looked away again, taking a sip from his own drink.

“Good to know I made an impression.”

Raffy smiled like it was a joke.

Like it hadn’t been placed exactly where it would land.

The second time was worse.

Because this time, Raffy actually promised.

“After your set,” he’d said, fingers tapping lightly against Rome’s wrist, tone dipped just enough to mean something. “Don’t disappear on me.”

Rome studied him for a second—long enough that Raffy almost rolled his eyes.

“Wait,” Raffy added, quieter now. “I mean it.”

Rome nodded once.

“Okay.”

He shouldn’t have.

Because halfway through the night, Raffy saw Jack.

And everything else—plans, promises, Rome—slid sideways.

Jack was leaning against the far wall, laughing at something Dean said, the two of them standing just a little too close to be casual.

Raffy didn’t think. He moved.

Conversation first.

Then another.

Then drinks.

Then time—stretching, bending, slipping.

By the time Raffy remembered—

Really remembered—

Rome’s set was over.

And he wasn’t behind the booth anymore.

Raffy found him outside.

Back alley. Quieter. The bass reduced to a distant thrum.

Rome was leaning against the wall, cigarette in hand, expression unreadable.

“You left,” Raffy said, like he was the one pointing out the problem.

Rome looked up slowly.

“I finished.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Rome stubbed out his cigarette.

“I know.”

There was something off in his tone.

Raffy frowned slightly, stepping closer. “Hey, don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That thing where you act like you don’t care.”

Rome let out a quiet breath, something almost like a laugh—but without humor.

“I don’t act.”

Raffy clicked his tongue. “Come on, I got distracted. It’s not that deep.”

“By Jack. Again.”

Raffy hesitated—just for a second—but it was enough.

Rome noticed. Of course he did.

“It’s always Jack,” Rome said, more to himself than to Raffy.

“Oh my god,” Raffy scoffed, defensive now. “You’re overreacting.”

Rome pushed off the wall, standing properly now.

“You asked me.”

“And I said I’d come find you after.”

“You didn’t.”

“I was going to—”

“But you didn’t.”

The interruption was quiet. Flat. And final in a way Raffy didn’t like.

The third time broke it.

Because this time, Raffy made sure Rome saw it. It wasn’t even subtle.

Jack walked into the bar. Raffy noticed. And instead of ignoring it—like he could have, like he should have— (Why he should?)

He turned to Rome mid-conversation and said, “Wait,” already stepping away.

No explanation. No hesitation.

Just gone.

⸻

Rome watched him cross the room.

Watched the way Raffy’s posture shifted instantly—more open, more engaged, more there.

Watched Jack smile.

Watched Raffy stay.

⸻

When Raffy came back, it was like nothing had happened.

“Sorry,” he said lightly, reaching for his drink. “Jack needed help with something.”

Rome didn’t respond. Didn’t move. Just looked at him.

Really looked this time. And Raffy felt it. That weight. Different from before.

He frowned slightly. “What?”

Rome’s voice, when it came, was steady.

Too steady.

“I’m done.”

Raffy blinked. “With what?”

“With this.”

A small gesture between them.

Raffy let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “You’re being dramatic again.”

“I’m really not.”

There was no heat in it. No argument left.

Raffy’s smile faded a little. “It’s not that serious, Rome.”

Rome held his gaze.

And for the first time— There was nothing in it for Raffy.

“I asked for the bare minimum,” Rome said. “And you still chose someone else. Every time.”

Raffy opened his mouth, ready with something—excuse, deflection, anything—

But Rome didn’t give him the space.

“You don’t get to come back to me after,” he added, voice still level. “Not anymore.”

Raffy’s expression shifted, irritation flickering in. “Oh, so that’s it? You’re just done?”

“Yes.”

Silence stretched between them.

Raffy tried to push against it, stepping closer, lowering his voice. “You’ll get over it.”

Wrong move.

Rome shook his head once.

“No,” he said. “I finally did.”

And then he walked away.

Raffy told himself nothing had changed.

He still walked into the bar like he owned the place, still leaned on the counter like the night would rearrange itself around him if he waited long enough. The lights were the same, the crowd was the same, the bass still settled somewhere under his ribs like a second pulse.

Rome was the same, too. But this time—Rome didn’t look at him.

Not once.

No flicker of recognition when Raffy walked in. No shift in posture, no subtle acknowledgment tucked between transitions. The set flowed clean, precise, detached from everything except the music itself.

Raffy waited.

Five minutes.

Ten.

Fifteen.

Nothing.

He clicked his tongue under his breath, irritation rising too fast for something this small. Fine. If Rome wanted to play it like that—

Raffy pushed off the bar.

Boston was easy.

That was why Raffy chose him.

He was already there, already watching, already the kind of person who leaned in when Raffy got close instead of making him work for it.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” Boston said, a half-smile pulling at his mouth.

Raffy mirrored it effortlessly. “You say that like I’m not exactly where the interesting things are.”

Boston huffed a quiet laugh. “So I’m interesting now?”

Raffy stepped closer—not too much, just enough. “You could be.”

It worked.

Of course it did.

Boston’s attention sharpened immediately, his body angling toward Raffy like he’d just been handed something worth focusing on.

Conversation slipped into place easily—light, teasing, just enough edge to keep it from being boring. Raffy let his hand brush Boston’s wrist once, twice, deliberate without looking forced.

All of it familiar.

All of it controlled.

And all of it—

Pointed.

Because Raffy knew exactly where Rome was.

Knew the angle.

Knew the line of sight.

Knew that if Rome looked—if he looked for even a second—

He would see.

So Raffy leaned in closer when Boston said something under the music. Let the distance shrink. Let it look like something. Waited.

Nothing.

Raffy’s smile held, but something underneath it tightened.

Boston was still talking—something about a photography, something about a mutual friend—but Raffy’s attention had already slipped.

Because Rome still hadn’t looked.

Not even accidentally.

It started to feel wrong.

Like a reflex that should’ve triggered—but didn’t.

Raffy pulled back slightly, just enough to glance toward the booth again.

Rome’s focus never broke. Hands steady. Movements precise. Expression unreadable in the low light. Unbothered. Completely.

Raffy’s chest tightened, sharp and sudden.

Boston touched his arm, pulling him back. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Raffy said quickly, too quickly. “Just—thought I saw someone.”

Boston followed his gaze briefly, then shrugged. “You wanna get out of here for a bit? It’s loud.”

That—normally—would’ve been an easy yes.

A clean exit. A shift in scene. Control regained.

Raffy hesitated. Just for a second.

Then—

“No, I’m good,” he said, already stepping back. “I’ve got something to do.”

Boston frowned slightly, caught off guard by the abrupt change. “Right now?”

“Yeah.”

Raffy didn’t wait for a response.

He cut through the crowd faster than necessary, irritation bleeding into urgency before he could stop it. This was stupid. It didn’t matter. Rome didn’t matter.

So why—

Raffy stopped just short of the booth. Close enough.

Rome noticed him this time. He had to.

But when his eyes lifted, it wasn’t the reaction Raffy expected. Then back to the mixer.

Like Raffy had never stood there before. Like he was—

Anyone.

Something in Raffy’s stomach dropped.

“What the hell is that?” Raffy said, louder than he meant to.

Rome didn’t respond. Not immediately.

He finished the transition first—clean, seamless—before finally glancing up again.

“If you’re going to talk,” Rome said evenly, “wait until I’m done.”

That—

That was new.

Raffy stared at him. “You’re serious right now?”

“Yes.”

Raffy let out a disbelieving laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Wow. Okay. So this is what we’re doing now?”

Rome didn’t engage. Didn’t rise to it. Didn’t care.

And that—more than any argument—set something off.

“Say something,” Raffy snapped, stepping closer. “Or are you just going to pretend I’m not here all night?”

Rome’s eyes met his again.

“I’m working.”

Each word placed carefully. No excess.

Raffy scoffed. “You’ve worked before. Didn’t stop you then.”

“It does now.”

Raffy’s jaw tightened. “Because of this?” he gestured vaguely between them. “You’re really going to drag it out like that?”

“I’m not dragging anything out.”

Rome’s voice didn’t rise.

“If anything,” he added, “I ended it pretty clearly.”

Silence hit, heavy and immediate. For a second, Raffy didn’t have anything ready.

So he defaulted.

“You’re acting like I did something terrible,” he said, tone sharpening. “I talked to someone. Big deal.”

Rome held his gaze. And for the first time tonight—

There was something there.

Disappointment.

“It’s not about Boston,” Rome said.

That made Raffy falter, just slightly.

Because—

Of course he’d noticed.

“I don’t care who you flirt with,” Rome continued. “That’s kind of the point.”

Raffy’s chest tightened again, sharper this time.

“Then what is it about?” he pushed.

Rome didn’t answer immediately.

He looked at him for a second longer—like he was deciding something.

Then:

“It’s about the fact that you only come to me when there’s nothing else you want more.”

Raffy opened his mouth—instinctively, defensively—

But nothing solid came out. Because this time—

He didn’t have a way to twist it.

Rome exhaled quietly, already pulling back, attention shifting away again.

“I’m not doing that anymore,” he said.

And just like that—

The conversation was over.

But Raffy didn’t move right away.

Didn’t leave.

Didn’t speak.

Because for the first time—

Pushing didn’t work.

Provoking didn’t work.

Being wanted—

Didn’t work.

And standing there, with the music rising around him and Rome already gone again in every way that mattered—

Raffy felt it.

Something quieter.

Worse.

The beginning of something slipping out of his control.

The second time Raffy goes to him, he doesn’t pretend.

No leaning too close, no careless smile, no half-jokes designed to pull a reaction out of Rome like a reflex.

He just… walks up.

Rome is setting up early, the bar not fully open yet. The lights are dim but honest, no crowd to hide inside. Cables, screens, the low hum of equipment warming up.

Raffy stops on the other side of the booth. For a second, neither of them speaks.

Rome notices him. But he doesn’t fill the silence.

He lets it sit there.

Raffy shifts his weight slightly, jaw tightening—not from anger, not exactly. From not knowing how to start when there’s no familiar script to fall back on.

“So,” he says finally.

It sounds thin. He hates that. Rome doesn’t help him.

“Can we not do this thing where you act like I don’t exist?” Raffy adds, a little sharper now, defaulting back just enough to steady himself.

Rome glances up briefly, then back down at what he’s doing.

“I’m not acting.”

Raffy exhales through his nose, nodding once like he expected that—even if he didn’t.

“Right.”

Another pause. It stretches.

Raffy tries again, this time less defensive, more… direct.

“You’re really done.”

A test.

Rome adjusts something on the console, eyes steady, movements precise.

“Yes.”

Raffy watches him for a second, searching for something—crack, irony, anything that suggests this is temporary.

There’s nothing.

“You don’t even—” Raffy stops himself, recalibrates. “You’re not even going to ask why?”

Rome finally looks at him properly.

“I know why,” he says.

That throws Raffy off more than anything else so far.

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

A beat.

“You wanted something else more.”

It’s not accusatory.

Raffy’s instinct is to argue—to twist it, to complicate it, to make it less simple than that.

But the words stall. Because the way Rome says it—

There’s no space left to reshape it.

Raffy lets out a quiet, disbelieving breath. “So that’s it? That’s your conclusion?”

Rome shrugs, minimal.

“It’s not a conclusion. It’s a pattern.”

Silence again. Longer this time.

Raffy’s fingers tap once against the edge of the booth, then still.

This is the part where Rome used to push back. Where something would spark, escalate, turn into something else.

Now—

Nothing catches.

Raffy feels it then. Something looser.

Like reaching for a door that used to open and finding it locked—no resistance, just… no give.

“Say something else,” Raffy mutters, more to fill the space than anything.

Rome doesn’t.

He just holds his gaze for a second—long enough that it almost feels like an answer—

Then looks away.

And that’s it.

The conversation dies there.

The next day is worse.

Because it’s quiet.

No music. No dim lights. No distraction.

Just a mostly empty rehearsal room, chairs pushed aside, sunlight cutting across the floor in sharp, unforgiving lines.

Raffy didn’t plan this. He just… ended up here. And Rome is already inside.

Laptop open. Headphones around his neck. Focused.

Raffy lingers by the door for a second before stepping in.

Rome notices.

“Are we seriously doing this again?” Raffy says, trying for casual and landing somewhere off-center.

Rome leans back slightly in his chair, regarding him.

“What? You came to me.”

Raffy scoffs softly, folding his arms. “Yeah, well. You’re hard to avoid when you decide to disappear in a crowded room.”

“I’m not hard to avoid,” Rome says. “You just don’t like being ignored.”

Raffy’s expression tightens. “That’s not—”

He stops.

Because arguing that sounds worse than letting it sit.

Rome watches him. Raffy exhales, slower this time.

“Look,” he says, shifting tone again. “I’m not saying I handled things perfectly.”

That alone is new. It hangs in the air between them.

Rome doesn’t react to it the way Raffy expects. Just a slight nod, like acknowledging a neutral fact.

“Okay.”

That’s it.

Raffy blinks. “Okay?”

“Yes.”

“That’s all you’re going to say?”

Rome tilts his head slightly. “What do you want me to say?”

Raffy opens his mouth—

And nothing comes out.

Because that’s the problem.

He doesn’t know.

An apology? Not really.

A reaction? Yes.

Something that proves this still matters. But Rome isn’t giving him anything to work with.

“I don’t know,” Raffy admits, quieter now, frustration slipping into something less defined. “Something.”

Rome studies him for a second.

Then:

“I already said everything I needed to.”

Raffy lets out a short breath, looking away this time.

The room feels too still.

“No, you didn’t,” he says under his breath, more reflex than belief.

Rome doesn’t argue.

Doesn’t correct him.

Just lets it pass.

That’s worse.

Raffy leaves first.

He doesn’t slam the door. Doesn’t make a scene.

It follows him. That’s the part he doesn’t expect.

Something missing.

He notices it in small, inconvenient moments.

When he reaches for his phone and pauses.

When a joke forms in his head and has nowhere to land.

When a room feels just slightly off, like something’s been moved and he can’t immediately tell what.

It’s irritating.

That’s what he decides.

Annoying. Residual. Temporary.

It doesn’t mean anything.

It definitely doesn’t mean he misses—

No.

Raffy exhales sharply, shaking the thought off before it finishes forming.

He’s fine.

He’s always fine.

That night, he lies on his bed longer than usual.

Not sleeping.

Not really thinking, either.

Just… there.

His phone is in his hand before he consciously decides to pick it up.

Unlocked.

Familiar motion.

Muscle memory.

He hesitates for half a second—

Then opens YouTube.

The search bar is already filled in before he registers typing it.

DJ JeRome.

The channel comes up instantly.

Of course it does.

Raffy stares at it for a moment.

Then taps the first video. The sound fills the room.

Different from the bar. More precise. More… honest, somehow.

Raffy shifts onto his back, one arm under his head, eyes fixed on nothing as the track builds.

He tells himself it’s just noise. Background. Something to fill the silence. Nothing more.

He lets it play.

Then the next one.

And the next.

At some point, he stops pretending he’s not listening.

Still—

He doesn’t name it.

Doesn’t follow the thought to where it wants to go.

Doesn’t say it out loud.

Even in his own head.

He just lies there, the music threading through the quiet, settling into that same space he’s been trying not to look at—

And lets it stay there.

They run into each other by accident.

Just the campus corridor—too bright, too clean, footsteps echoing a little more than they should. People pass, voices blur, doors open and close. Ordinary.

Raffy almost misses him.

He’s halfway through checking his phone when something familiar in his peripheral vision pulls him up short—not a face, not even movement exactly, just a presence he recognizes before he can name it.

Rome.

Coming from the opposite direction, backpack slung over one shoulder, headphones resting around his neck.

Raffy stops.

Rome notices a second later.

And he stops too.

For a brief moment, it’s almost symmetrical—distance measured, neither stepping closer, neither stepping away.

“Hey,” Raffy says.

It comes out normal. That, somehow, feels strange.

Rome nods once. “Hey.”

Raffy shifts his weight slightly, glancing past him for half a second before looking back. “Didn’t know you had a class here.”

“I don’t,” Rome says. “Meeting someone.”

Nothing extra.

Raffy nods. “Right.”

A pause settles in.

It’s not heavy the way their silences used to be—charged, waiting to flip into something else.

This one just… exists.

Raffy feels it stretch and, for once, doesn’t immediately try to break it with a joke or a jab.

“So,” he says after a second, “your sets have been… good.”

He almost says something else. Stops himself.

Rome tilts his head slightly, like he didn’t expect that direction.

“Thanks.”

Another pause.

Raffy lets out a small breath through his nose. “Crowd seems into it.”

“They usually are,” Rome says, not cocky—just factual.

Raffy almost smiles at that. Almost.

“Yeah.”

Someone brushes past Raffy’s shoulder, muttering a quick apology. The moment shifts just enough to remind them where they are.

Not in the bar.

Not in anything that belongs to them.

Rome adjusts the strap of his bag slightly. “You good?”

It’s a simple question.

Raffy nods automatically. “Yeah. I’m good.”

Rome studies him for half a second—nothing invasive, just… checking.

Then he nods once.

“Alright.”

And that’s it.

No “see you later.”

No lingering.

He steps past Raffy, continuing down the corridor like the conversation reached its natural end and there’s nothing left to extend.

Raffy doesn’t turn around immediately. Doesn’t call after him.

He just stands there for a second, watching the space Rome occupied close itself without resistance.

Like it always does.

Only then does it hit him.

Like a line delivered without the expected response. Like timing that didn’t land.

Raffy exhales slowly, rolling his shoulders once as if resetting something physical will fix whatever that was.

It doesn’t.

He reaches into his bag without thinking too much about it, fingers finding the familiar tangle of his earphones.

Automatic.

He plugs them in, phone already in his hand.

Unlock.

Open.

He doesn’t hesitate on the search this time.

Doesn’t hover.

Rome’s channel loads instantly.

Playlists.

His thumb pauses for a fraction of a second—

Then taps.

The sound settles in fast.

Raffy starts walking again, slower now, syncing unconsciously to the rhythm. The corridor noise dulls at the edges, replaced by something more contained, more intentional.

He tells himself it’s just habit.

Just something to fill the space between classes.

Nothing more.

But as the track builds, he notices it—

The structure.

The pacing.

The way the tension doesn’t spike immediately but… stretches first. Holds. Makes room. Then releases.

Raffy frowns slightly, gaze unfocused as he moves.

It feels—

Familiar.

Not the sound.

The shape of it.

The push, the pull, the way it almost expects a reaction that never quite comes.

He slows near a window, stopping without really deciding to.

The light hits differently here.

Too clear.

Too honest.

The track dips—brief, controlled silence before the next layer comes in.

Raffy’s fingers tighten slightly around his phone. There’s a thought there. Not fully formed.

Not something he’s ready to follow all the way through. So he doesn’t.

He shifts his weight, jaw setting just a little.

“It’s just music,” he mutters under his breath, barely audible even to himself.

The next drop hits—clean, precise.

Raffy pushes off the wall and keeps walking.

But he doesn’t change the track.

Doesn’t skip.

Doesn’t lower the volume.

And when one playlist ends—

He lets the next one start.

He doesn’t call it anything.

Not missing.

Not regret.

Not even curiosity, really.

Just—

Something that lingers a little longer than it should.

Something he doesn’t turn off.

Even when he probably could.

Raffy doesn’t notice when it becomes a habit.

At first, it’s just background.

Something to fill the gaps—between classes, between conversations, between thoughts he doesn’t feel like finishing.

He puts his earphones in without thinking, scrolls without really looking, taps whatever playlist sits closest to the top.

Rome.

Always Rome.

It’s easier that way.

He tells himself it’s about the music. It stays about the music.

For a while.

Then it starts repeating. Just… certain ones.

A slower set he plays when he’s walking alone across campus at night, lights flickering in long stretches, footsteps too loud against the pavement.

Another—sharper, tighter—for when he’s around people, when he needs something to cut through the noise without actually engaging with it.

But his thumb hesitates less each time before choosing.

And sometimes—

He doesn’t choose at all.

Just lets the same one play again.

He realizes it on a Thursday.

Because of the interruption.

“Do you even hear me?”

Raffy blinks, the world snapping back into place around him.

Boston is sitting across from him, leaning forward slightly, expression caught somewhere between amused and mildly annoyed.

Raffy pulls one earphone out. “What?”

Boston huffs a quiet laugh. “Exactly.”

Raffy glances down at his phone, like the answer might be there. Same playlist.

Again.

He doesn’t remember restarting it.

“Sorry,” he mutters, locking the screen. “Zoned out.”

“Clearly,” Boston says, studying him a little more closely now. “You’ve been doing that a lot.”

Raffy shrugs, easy, automatic. “I’m tired.”

“Yeah?” Boston tilts his head. “Or distracted?”

Raffy smirks faintly, deflecting on instinct. “You’re not that boring, don’t worry.”

Boston smiles, but it doesn’t fully settle the moment. Because the thing is—

He’s not wrong. Raffy has been elsewhere. Even when he’s sitting right here.

They leave together.

Not for anything specific.

Just movement, conversation, the kind of loose direction Raffy used to be good at steering without effort.

Now it feels slightly off. Like he’s a step behind his own timing.

They end up in a quieter hallway near the back of the building—less traffic, softer lighting, voices distant enough to blur.

Boston leans back against the wall, still talking, still trying. Raffy listens. Or at least—

He tries to. Because underneath it—

There’s a rhythm still running.

Faint now. But there.

He shifts, pulling his phone out again without thinking, thumb hovering.

Boston notices this time.

“Seriously?”

Raffy pauses. “What?”

“You’re doing it again.”

Raffy exhales, a little sharper than intended. “I said I’m listening.”

“You’re not, though.”

Raffy’s jaw tightens slightly.

For a second, he considers pushing back, turning it into something else.

But the energy’s not there. Not really.

Boston watches him for a moment longer, then straightens a little.

“Who is it?”

Raffy frowns. “What?”

“The music,” Boston says. “You keep going back to it like it’s—” he searches for the word, then settles on, “important.”

Raffy lets out a quiet scoff, shaking his head. “It’s not.”

“Then why the same one?”

No answer. Because Raffy doesn’t actually have one. Not a clean one.

Not something he can say out loud without it sounding—

Wrong.

He looks down at his phone again. The screen lights up under his touch. Same playlist.

Paused.

Waiting.

Boston follows his gaze, then back up to Raffy.

“…Rome?”

It’s not a guess. It’s a recognition. And that—

That shifts something.

Raffy’s first instinct is denial.

Automatic.

Immediate.

“It’s just a set,” he says, too quick. “He’s good, that’s it.”

Boston doesn’t move. Doesn’t argue. Which somehow makes it worse. Because now Raffy hears it.

How thin it sounds.

The silence stretches.

Raffy leans back against the opposite wall, running a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly.

The music is still there, even paused.

Like it hasn’t fully left.

Like it’s waiting for him to decide something.

He doesn’t.

He just—

Says it.

Half-looking at Boston, half not.

“It was better when he was there.”

The words slip out clean.

Boston stills slightly.

“Better how?”

Raffy frowns immediately, pushing off the wall like he can outrun the sentence he just dropped.

“I don’t know,” he mutters. “Just—different.”

He unlocks his phone again.

Presses play.

The sound fills the space between them before anything else can.

Raffy doesn’t look at Boston. Doesn’t explain. Doesn’t take it back.

Because he can’t.

Boston watches him for another second, then exhales quietly.

“Yeah,” he says, not unkindly. “That doesn’t sound like ‘nothing.’”

Raffy doesn’t respond.

He just adjusts the earphone back into place, letting the music settle in properly this time.

Louder than before.

Clearer.

Like if he leans into it hard enough—

It’ll drown out whatever that was.

Whatever that meant.

It doesn’t.

But said.

And once something like that exists—

It doesn’t really go away.

It just… waits.

For the moment Raffy runs out of ways to pretend it’s something else.

Raffy doesn’t tell anyone he’s going. He just ends up there.

Like it’s incidental. Like his feet knew the route before his brain caught up.

The bar is already alive when he walks in—lights low, bass steady, bodies moving in that loose, half-coordinated way that turns a crowd into something almost fluid.

For a second, it feels familiar enough to slip into. Then he looks up. And the booth—

Is empty.

Not empty-empty. Someone’s there. Some DJ he vaguely recognizes, technically good, clean transitions, nothing wrong with it.

But it’s not—

Raffy exhales sharply through his nose, jaw tightening before he can stop it.

Right.

Of course. He doesn’t ask.

Doesn’t go up to anyone, doesn’t check schedules, doesn’t do anything that would make this look like what it is.

He just goes to the bar.

“Whiskey,” he says.

The bartender nods, already reaching.

It comes fast. Raffy takes a sip immediately, barely tasting it before setting it down again.

His eyes flick back to the booth. Still not him.

Something in his chest pulls tight—brief, sharp, gone before it can settle into anything he has to name.

He drinks again.

And again.

It stacks faster than he expects. Or maybe he just doesn’t pace it.

One turns into two, two into something he stops counting, the edges of the room softening just enough to take the edge off everything that’s been sitting under his skin for days.

The music doesn’t help.

It’s fine.

Just fine.

No tension held too long. No silence stretched until it means something. No drop that feels like it’s earned.

Raffy huffs a quiet, humorless breath, tipping his glass back again.

“Of course,” he mutters under his breath.

Because even now—

Even here—

It’s not right.

At some point, sitting still stops working.

The noise gets too flat, the crowd too close, the air too thick.

Raffy pushes off the bar, grabbing his jacket without really thinking about it. His movements are looser now, just slightly off-balance at the edges.

He doesn’t look at the booth again on his way out.

Outside, the air hits colder than he expects. Sharp enough to cut through some of the haze—but not all of it.

Raffy exhales, dragging a hand down his face before reaching for his earphones. Automatic. Familiar.

Plug in.

Phone out.

Screen lights up—

Rome’s channel still open. Paused video. Mid-set.

Raffy stares at it for a second, something in his expression shifting. Then he presses play.

The sound settles in, immediate. Familiar in a way the inside of the bar wasn’t.

Better.

He starts walking. He doesn’t notice the footsteps behind him at first. Doesn’t register the way they match his pace, just slightly off to the side.

It’s only when someone steps closer—too close—that something in him tightens.

“Hey.”

Raffy keeps walking.

“Hey, I’m talking to you.”

A hand catches his arm.

Raffy jerks slightly, pulling one earphone out, irritation flaring fast. “Don’t—”

The words stall halfway out. Because the guy doesn’t step back. If anything, he leans in closer, grip not painful—but persistent.

“You’re alone,” he says, tone too casual to be neutral. “Didn’t look like you were having fun in there.”

Raffy’s brows knit, focus a beat too slow to sharpen properly. “Let go.”

“Relax,” the guy huffs, smile crooked in a way that doesn’t land right. “Just talking.”

His other hand comes up—hovering too close to Raffy’s shoulder. Raffy tries to pull back.

The movement’s there. The intention’s there. But his coordination lags just enough that it doesn’t land clean.

“Dude,” Raffy mutters, annoyance bleeding into something less steady. “I said—”

His foot catches slightly on uneven pavement. His balance tips.

The guy’s grip tightens instinctively, pulling him forward instead of letting him steady.

Raffy’s phone slips. It hits the ground with a dull crack, earphones yanked free as it lands face-up on the pavement.

The music cuts.

“Shit,” Raffy breathes, instinctively looking down.

And in that second—

The guy shifts closer. Too close now. Hand still on his arm. Other one brushing his side like it has no reason to be there.

“You’re kinda out of it,” he says, lower now. “Maybe you shouldn’t be walking around alone.”

Raffy’s stomach twists, something sharper cutting through the alcohol haze.

“Back off,” he snaps, but it lacks weight—timing off, voice not quite steady enough to land the way it should.

The guy doesn’t move. Doesn’t let go. And Raffy—

Raffy doesn’t get the angle right to pull away cleanly.

“Hey.”

The voice cuts in clean. The grip on Raffy’s arm disappears. Immediately. Like it was never meant to hold.

Raffy blinks, head turning just slightly too late to track the shift.

Rome is already there.

Close enough that there’s no space left to misread anything. His posture isn’t aggressive. But it’s not open either.

“You need something?” Rome asks, tone even.

The guy hesitates. Just for a second. Then shrugs, backing up half a step. “Nah, man. He looked like he needed help.”

“He doesn’t,” Rome says.

The guy looks between them once, like he’s measuring whether this is worth pushing.

Then he scoffs lightly, hands lifting in mock surrender. “Whatever.”

And he leaves.

Raffy exhales, slower this time, the adrenaline cutting unevenly through the alcohol.

“Great timing,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his face.

Rome doesn’t respond immediately. His attention drops instead—

To the ground.

To the phone.

Screen still lit. He bends down, picking it up carefully. The video is still open. Paused mid-frame.

His own face caught in low light, hands mid-motion over the mixer.

The timestamp flickers in the corner. The title clear.

DJ JeRome — Live Set.

Rome stills. Just for a second. Then he looks up.

Raffy’s watching him now.

Caught.

In a way that doesn’t leave much room to twist out of it.

Rome holds his gaze for a beat longer than necessary. Then straightens, holding the phone out.

“You dropped it.”

Raffy doesn’t take it immediately.

His eyes flick down to the screen, then back up. Something in his expression shifts—small, but real.

“…Yeah,” he says, quieter now.

He takes it. Their fingers brush.

Rome studies him for a second, taking in the slight sway in his stance, the unfocused edge in his eyes.

“You’re drunk.”

Raffy huffs a faint, humorless breath. “Observant.”

Rome exhales softly, glancing past him at the street, then back again.

“Can you walk?”

Raffy straightens slightly, like the question itself pulls something in him into place. “I’m fine.”

He isn’t.

They both know it. Rome nods once anyway.

“Come on.”

He steps closer, not touching this time—but near enough that if Raffy slips again, he’ll be there before it matters.

Raffy hesitates for half a second. Then follows.

The walk is quiet. And the sound of Raffy’s footsteps, slightly uneven, syncing gradually to something steadier as they move.

After a minute, Raffy speaks. Low. Almost like he didn’t mean to.

“You weren’t there.”

Rome doesn’t look at him. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

A pause.

“Day off.”

Raffy lets out a small breath, nodding like that explains more than it does.

“…Right.”

They walk a little further.

Raffy’s grip tightens slightly around his phone.

After a minute of walking—Raffy drifting just a little too close to the curb, steps not quite lining up—he exhales quietly and reaches into his pocket.

“Keys,” he says.

Raffy frowns faintly. “What?”

“I’m not letting you drive like this.”

There’s no argument in it. Just a decision already made.

Raffy considers pushing back. For half a second, the instinct is there.

Then he just… doesn’t. He fishes his keys out, drops them into Rome’s hand without looking.

“Don’t crash it,” he mutters.

Rome huffs under his breath, already heading toward the car. “Get in.”

The drive is quiet. Engine low. Streetlights passing in steady intervals, flashing across Raffy’s face in brief, disconnected frames.

He leans his head back against the seat, eyes half-lidded, phone still loose in his hand. The screen lights up once—dim, automatic—Rome’s paused video still there before it fades again.

Neither of them mentions it.

Raffy gives directions in fragments.

“Left… no, the next one.”

“Straight.”

“Here.”

His voice drifts in and out, like he’s only halfway tracking where they are.

Rome fills in the gaps.

He’s been there before. Not often. But enough.

They pull up in front of Raffy’s place. The engine cuts. And just like that—

Everything goes still.

Just the quiet hum of the car cooling down and the faint noise of the street somewhere further away.

Raffy doesn’t move.

Doesn’t reach for the handle.

Doesn’t say anything.

He just sits there, staring forward like the last five minutes haven’t fully caught up to him yet.

Rome glances at him.

Waits.

A second.

Two.

“…You good to get in?” he asks finally.

Raffy’s grip on his phone tightens slightly. Then loosens.

His shoulders shift—barely. And then—

It hits.

A sharp, broken inhale—

Then another.

And suddenly Raffy folds in on himself, like something inside him just gave out without warning.

The sound that comes out of him is rough. Caught. Wrong.

Rome stills immediately.

“—hey.”

Raffy doesn’t respond.

He’s already shaking, breath hitching in uneven bursts that don’t quite land right, one after another like he can’t catch up with his own lungs.

It’s not quiet crying.

It’s not subtle.

It’s messy.

Uncontrolled.

And completely unlike anything Rome has ever seen from him.

For a second—

Rome doesn’t move.

Doesn’t speak.

Because this—

This doesn’t fit anywhere.

Not with the version of Raffy he knows.

Not with the one who deflects, jokes, twists everything into something lighter before it can land.

This is—

Different.

“Hey—” Rome tries again, slower this time.

Raffy drags a hand over his face, but it doesn’t help. His breathing breaks again, shoulders tensing tighter like he’s trying—and failing—to pull himself back together.

Rome’s mind scrambles for something to anchor this to.

A reason.

A cause.

Something that makes it make sense. And the first thing that lands—

“Is this about Jack?”

The question comes out before he fully thinks it through.

It feels logical.

Consistent.

It fits the pattern.

“You saw him tonight, is it right?” Rome adds, a little more careful now, trying to ground it. “Did something happen?”

Wrong.

Immediately wrong.

Raffy shakes his head hard, too fast.

“No—no—” his voice breaks on the second word, barely holding together. “It’s not—”

His breathing stutters again, worse this time.

Rome leans in slightly, uncertain now. “Then what—?”

“I didn’t—” Raffy tries, words catching on each other. “I wasn’t—”

He stops, swallowing hard like he can force it back down. He can’t.

Another sharp inhale.

His hands clench uselessly in his lap.

Rome watches him, something uneasy settling under his ribs. Because this doesn’t look like heartbreak directed outward.

It looks—

Internal.

Like something collapsing in on itself.

“Hey,” Rome says again, quieter now. “Slow down. Just—breathe for a second.”

Raffy lets out a broken laugh that doesn’t even resemble humor.

“I can’t,” he chokes out. “I—”

His voice cracks completely this time. He presses the heel of his hand against his mouth like he can physically stop it.

It doesn’t work.

Rome shifts slightly closer, hesitating only a second before placing a hand—light, careful—against Raffy’s arm.

“I don’t understand,” Rome admits, low. “Talk to me.”

Raffy shakes his head again, more frantic now.

“I’m trying,” he says, words slurring together under the weight of everything else. “I just—”

Another breath that doesn’t land right.

“I didn’t mean—”

He cuts himself off, frustration spiking through the panic.

“That’s not—” he tries again, dragging his hand down his face. “I just—”

Nothing lines up.

Nothing comes out the way he wants it to.

And it makes it worse.

Rome’s grip tightens slightly—not forceful, just enough to keep him there.

“Raffy,” he says, more firmly now. “Look at me.”

It takes a second. But Raffy does. And that—

That hits harder than anything else.

Because there’s no deflection left. Just raw, unfiltered something Rome doesn’t have a name for yet.

Raffy swallows hard, trying again—forcing the words out this time even when they don’t cooperate.

“I thought it was just—” he starts, voice unsteady. “Like it didn’t—matter that much—”

His breath stutters.

“But it—” he squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head. “It’s wrong. It’s—everything’s just—off and I—”

He exhales sharply, frustrated, lost.

Rome watches him, piecing it together in fragments that don’t quite connect yet. “Raffy—”

“I didn’t mean to keep—” he pushes through, overlapping him, words tripping. “I wasn’t trying to—”

He stops again, jaw tightening.

Because that’s not it either. Not the whole of it.

Rome’s brows pull together slightly. “You weren’t trying to what?”

Raffy’s hands clench again.

“I just—” he breathes, voice dropping, quieter now—but somehow heavier. “I thought you’d just—be there.”

The words land unevenly. But they land.

Rome stills. Something in his expression shifts—small, but sharp enough to register.

Raffy’s gaze flickers, unfocused for a second before locking back onto him with something closer to desperation now.

“I know how that sounds,” he adds quickly, like he’s trying to fix it as it leaves his mouth. “I know—it’s not—”

His voice breaks again. And this time—

He doesn’t try to redirect it.

“I tried to not—” he swallows hard, shaking his head. “I tried to not care, okay? I did, I—”

Another breath. Shaky.

“I thought it was just—habit or something—”

Rome doesn’t interrupt.

Doesn’t move. He just listens.

Raffy’s grip on his own sleeve tightens, knuckles going pale.

“But it’s not,” he says, quieter now, the words finally starting to line up—even if they hurt more because of it. “It’s not and I can’t—”

He stops.

Because there’s one more step. And it’s the one he’s been avoiding this whole time.

Rome’s voice drops slightly. “You can’t what?”

Raffy looks at him. Really looks this time. And whatever hesitation was left—

Breaks.

“I can’t not—” he starts, breath catching again.

His throat tightens.

The words stick.

He forces them anyway.

“I miss you,” he says, the sentence coming out fractured at the edges, like it had to push through everything else to exist. “I—”

His voice cracks again, worse this time.

“I didn’t—” he tries to add, shaking his head like he’s arguing with himself. “I didn’t think I would but I—”

Another breath. Another failure to steady it.

“I do,” he finishes, barely above a whisper.

Silence.

Rome doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Because for a second—

Everything in him just… stops.

Jack isn’t in the equation anymore. Not really. Not in the way he thought.

Raffy’s still shaking slightly, eyes unfocused again, like even saying it didn’t fully settle anything. It just—

Made it real.

And Rome—

For the first time since this whole thing started—

Doesn’t have an immediate answer.

Rome exhales slowly.

Like he’s taking a second to place everything Raffy just said somewhere it won’t immediately blow up on impact. Then, quieter than before—

“You’re really drunk.”

Raffy lets out a broken, breathy sound that almost turns into a laugh—but doesn’t make it.

“Yeah,” he says, voice rough, dragging the word out like it weighs something. Then, after a beat—quieter, but sharper in a way that lands anyway:

“Because of you.”

Rome’s jaw tightens. Not visibly at first. Just enough to register if you’re looking for it.

He doesn’t answer that. Doesn’t agree. Doesn’t argue.

He shifts slightly in his seat instead, gaze flicking past Raffy toward the building in front of them.

Lights on.

Curtains half-drawn.

Familiar, in a distant way.

“…Is there anyone home?” he asks.

Raffy sniffles, dragging the back of his hand under his nose, blinking like he’s trying to force his vision to settle.

“Probably just servants,” he mutters, words slurring just slightly at the edges. “They’re always—around.”

Rome nods once. Small. Processing that.

Silence settles again. Thicker this time. Not empty—but not resolved either.

Raffy’s breathing evens out just a little, though it still catches at the edges. His hands are quieter now, resting loosely in his lap, like the storm already passed through but left everything unsettled behind it.

Rome looks at him.

The red in his eyes. The way his shoulders still don’t fully relax. The slight delay in every reaction, every movement.

And then—

He looks away.

A quiet breath leaves him. Longer this time. He hesitates. Just a second.

Maybe two.

Then he makes the decision. The engine turns over. The sudden sound cuts through the stillness, grounding, immediate.

Raffy flinches slightly at it, blinking as the car hums back to life.

“…What?” he mumbles, voice softer now, worn down at the edges.

He shifts in his seat, dragging himself upright just enough to look over.

“Wheeere—” he starts, then corrects himself automatically, slower this time. “Where are we going?”

Rome doesn’t look at him when he answers. He pulls the car smoothly away from the curb, eyes fixed ahead, hands steady on the wheel.

“My place.”

Rome’s place is quieter than Raffy expects. Raffy doesn’t comment on it.

By the time they step inside, the alcohol has settled into something heavier—less sharp, more exhausting. The earlier edge is gone, replaced by a kind of slow, sinking weight behind his eyes, in his limbs.

Rome doesn’t ask anything.

He just guides him down the short hallway, one hand hovering near Raffy’s back—not touching unless he needs to, but close enough to catch him if he drifts too far off balance.

The bedroom door opens.

“Sit,” Rome says, low.

Raffy does.

He drops onto the edge of the bed without resistance, shoulders slumping forward slightly, hands hanging loose between his knees. His gaze drifts—over nothing in particular, unfocused, like he’s still catching up to where he is.

Rome stands there for a second. Watching. Taking in the version of Raffy that doesn’t perform. That doesn’t fill space. That doesn’t reach for control.

It’s unfamiliar.

And it lingers a second longer than it should. Then Rome exhales quietly and turns away.

The bathroom light flicks on. Water runs briefly. A drawer opens, closes.

When he comes back, there’s a damp towel in his hand, faint steam clinging to it.

Raffy hasn’t moved much.

Just shifted slightly, elbows resting on his thighs now, head tilted down, eyes half-lidded but not closed.

He looks up when Rome steps back in. Doesn’t speak. Just watches.

“Hey,” Rome says, quieter now. “Arms up.”

Raffy blinks once, slow, like the instruction takes a second to process.

Then he obeys. Clumsy, but compliant.

Rome reaches for the hem of his shirt, pausing for just a fraction of a second—like he’s checking for resistance that doesn’t come—then pulls it up and over his head.

Raffy lets it happen. Tracks the movement with his eyes, expression distant, worn down at the edges. The air feels cooler against his skin.

Rome doesn’t comment on that either.

He just unfolds the towel slightly and presses it gently against Raffy’s shoulder first—testing the temperature—before dragging it down, slow and steady. Like he’s working through something methodically, even if he hasn’t fully named what it is.

Raffy’s gaze stays on him.

The towel moves across his collarbone, down his arms, over his knuckles. Rome wrings it once, resets, then continues—shoulders, chest, the line of his ribs.

i

But there’s something in the quiet between them that stretches those seconds longer than they should be.

Raffy’s breath catches—

Soft.

Barely audible.

Rome doesn’t notice at first.

He’s focused on what he’s doing, movements steady, controlled.

Then—

Another small hitch.

And another.

Rome’s hand stills slightly. He looks up.

Raffy’s head is tilted down again. But not the same way as before. His shoulders are tighter now. And there’s a subtle tremor running through them—small, but consistent.

Silent.

Rome exhales under his breath.

“…Hey.”

Raffy doesn’t answer. Doesn’t look up. But the next breath breaks just slightly more than the last.

Still there.

Rome straightens a little, the towel lowering in his hand.

He watches him for a second—long enough to confirm it, to understand that whatever cracked earlier didn’t just disappear.

It’s quieter now. But it’s still happening. Another breath leaves him. Long. Measured.

He doesn’t push.

Doesn’t ask again.

Instead, he steps back.

The closet door slides open with a soft sound. Fabric shifts as he reaches in, pulling out a loose t-shirt without overthinking it.

When he turns back, Raffy hasn’t moved much.

Rome steps closer again.

“Here,” he says, softer now.

Raffy lifts his arms automatically this time.

Rome pulls the shirt over his head, guiding it down carefully, fingers brushing briefly against his shoulders as he adjusts the fabric into place. It settles there.

Rome’s gaze lingers for half a second. Then drops.

“Stand up,” he adds.

Raffy hesitates—

Then pushes himself up, a little unsteady.
Rome steadies him this time. Light grip at his waist, just enough to keep him upright.

He doesn’t comment on that either.

The rest is quicker. Less room to think about it.

Raffy doesn’t protest when Rome unbuttons his pants, doesn’t react when they’re pushed down and off. Just steps out of them when guided, movements slow but cooperative.

By the time Rome guides him back onto the bed, Raffy’s already half gone again—eyes heavy, body sinking into the mattress without resistance.

Rome pulls the covers over him. Tucks them in just enough to keep the warmth in place.

For a second hejust stands there. Looking.

Raffy’s eyes are half-open. Not fully aware. But not completely gone either. Something in-between.

Rome exhales quietly. Then turns away.

“I’m taking a shower,” he says—not expecting an answer.

He doesn’t get one.

The bathroom door closes. Water starts again. The sound fills the space.

Raffy lies there for a while. Just listening.

The rhythm of it. Familiar in a strange, distant way. His eyes drift closed—

Then open again.

Something pulls at him.

Just—

Habit.

Slowly, he shifts under the covers, one hand dragging itself down toward the edge of the bed, reaching blindly for where his clothes ended up.

It takes a second.

Two.

But his fingers catch fabric.

Pocket.

Phone.

Earphones tangled with it.

He pulls them free, movements clumsy but persistent, the screen lighting up dimly in the low room.

Same as before.

Still there.

He doesn’t hesitate this time.

Unlock.

Tap.

Play.

The sound fills his ears almost immediately.

Muted by the headphones.

Raffy exhales slowly, sinking back into the pillow, pulling the blanket up slightly as if it makes the space smaller, quieter.

Safer.

The music builds.

He doesn’t fight it. Doesn’t question it. Doesn’t try to rename it into something easier.

He just lies there. Eyes half-closed. Listening.

The water keeps running in the other room.

The track shifts, layers stacking slowly, tension stretching in that same way he’s learned to recognize.

Raffy’s breathing evens out. Not fully steady. But closer.

The water stops.

Not abruptly—just a shift in the background noise, the steady stream cutting off and leaving behind a quieter kind of silence.

Raffy registers it distantly. Through the music. Through the weight pulling him down into the mattress.

A few seconds pass.

The bathroom door opens.

Raffy doesn’t open his eyes. But he hears it.

Tracks it the way he’s been tracking everything else tonight—half-aware, but tuned in anyway.

Footsteps.

Bare against the floor.

Unhurried.

Familiar in a way that settles somewhere low in his chest without asking permission.

A drawer slides open. Fabric shifts. Then the muted thud of a closet door closing.

Closer now.

The steps shift direction—toward the bed.

Toward him.

Raffy’s grip tightens slightly on nothing.
On the blanket. On the moment.

The mattress dips. Subtle, but there.

Weight added beside him. Warmth, too—faint at first.

The edge of the blanket lifts.

Air brushing briefly against his side before it settles again.

Raffy feels it.

Even if his body refuses to move with it. Even if his eyes stay closed, too heavy to force open.

There’s a pause.

Right there. And then—

A quiet exhale.

Close enough now that Raffy can feel it more than hear it.

That small, contained sound that doesn’t quite make it into words.

Something shifts near his shoulder.

Fingers.

Light.

Careful.

The pressure at his ear disappears.

One side.

Then the other.

The music cuts out.

Raffy’s brows pull together faintly, a soft, instinctive reaction, his hand twitching slightly like he’s about to reach for it again.

A quiet, slurred protest forms—

“—wait—”

It doesn’t fully land.

Rome’s voice comes instead.

“Shh.”

Enough to stop him from chasing it.

There’s the faint sound of something being set down.

Wood against plastic. The nightstand. Then—

Warmth.

Rome’s arm slides around his waist, firm this time—not hesitant, not hovering. Solid.

Pulling him in.

Raffy lets out a small, breathy sound at the sudden movement, body shifting with it, guided more than choosing.

His forehead brushes against something warm—shoulder, chest—he doesn’t fully register.

Just that it’s there.

Close.

The blanket shifts again, drawn up over both of them, sealing in the warmth, the space tightening in a way that feels—

Contained.

Raffy’s hand lifts weakly, like he might push back, might say something—

It doesn’t get far.

Rome’s grip steadies him before it can turn into anything.

Keeps him there.

“I’m here,” Rome says quietly, right above him.

Close enough that the words don’t have to travel far.

A beat.

“We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Simple.

Certain.

Raffy’s breath stutters once—

Then evens out.

His hand, still half-lifted, curls loosely into the fabric at Rome’s shirt instead of pushing away.

He doesn’t open his eyes. Doesn’t try again.

This time—

He lets himself stay.

Right there.

Held between the quiet and the warmth and the weight of something he doesn’t have to figure out tonight.

And for once he doesn’t fight it.