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Chapter Text

Sylvie Fowler watched as her entire makeup kit, sans caps or lids, fell to the floor of her hotel room. There was nothing she could really do about it. Her corset was too tight to bend down, and anyway she was about to be even more late for her band's sold-out stadium show.

She heard the tap-tap-tap of expensive faux-leather boots beneath her as she half-heartedly hurried to meet the rest of her group. Of course, these days they were anything but hers, even if fans liked to think so. They all scowled at her; nobody bothered protesting. It wasn't surprising anymore. Everyone shuffled off to the side of the stage, preparing to take their places. Meg, Sylvie's oldest friend and greatest pain in the ass, looked at her once more and then stalked off.

The roar of the crowd in front of them was deafening. The faces Sylvie could see looked borderline euphoric, their shouts lost among thousands of identical others. Usually, Sylvie felt obtrusively big to the world around her. Up on stage, however, she felt infinitesimally small. Her brain blanked out, as it always did, as she stood at the center of the stage. Meg was waving as she picked up her guitar; Rowan said something into the microphone next to her before jogging up to his drum set. In his typical fashion, their bassist Brian simply strode up to his place, absorbing the lovesick screaming of numerous women and a handful of men. He was wearing the same beanie he always did, using it to hide a particular bald spot that sprouted from years of starving himself.

Sylvie recollected herself, feigning confidence as she took hold of her microphone. Somewhere in the crowd she saw a hand-painted sign with the words 'I LOVE U ROWAN VILLANOVA' written haphazardly across it. They even got his last name wrong - it was Villanueva. Not that it mattered to Rowan. After all these years he still had a strong sentimental streak when it came to his fans. Their love didn't feed his ego, unlike every other member of the band. It simply made it all the more worthwhile. He put all of them, Sylvie especially, to shame.

The band was formed nearly five years ago, right before Sylvie and Meg's high school graduation. They were nigh inseparable, having been friends since middle school that bonded over being a little chubby, rather unpopular and more than a little weird. It was that mindset, the label of 'weird kid' that had never escaped them, that pervaded their music. In those days Sylvie had a much greater respect for Meg's ability to perceive everyone and everything around her; these days, it was more of an annoyance. Together they had written most of their first album. Brian and Rowan were later additions who happened to know the only person Meg had ever dated and been introduced through said guy. All four of them were willing to do anything for that childlike dream they shared, to make it in the unforgiving world of new music. Eventually, though, they would all pay the price; Sylvie more than anyone else.

Inspiration seemed like a free-flowing fountain back then. However, most of Sylvie's songwriting expertise had evaporated like wine on a white couch. It was gone, there wasn't anything to be done about it, but nevertheless she had to be reminded of it every goddamn day. At some point, Sylvie would just have to accept the fact that she was shit out of luck when it came to creativity.

"Hey y'all," Sylvie said, for lack of anything better. Lucky for her, the audience seemed enthused enough hearing her southern drawl, something rarely audible in her singing. "How are we doin' tonight? I apologize for our delay - well, my delay really."

Meg nodded in a rather exasperated fashion.

"Anyway," she continued, rolling her eyes, "We're, uh, starting off with a fan favorite tonight. Some of y'all might know it from our first album."

Brian's low, edgy notes settled loud enough over the crowd to hush them. Sylvie supposed a different song would have sufficed to start out with. After all, she didn't want to immediately depress her fans with a song about parental neglect. Then again, she thought, that's kind of what we're known for. People listen to our music just to wallow in their own misery. Sylvie wondered if she would eventually be known as just another sad-girl musician who got to enjoy her 15 minutes of fame.

Only four beats after Meg and Rowan's intro, Sylvie sang the first verse, feeling the roughness in her voice. She was renowned for a unique raspy tone that seemed only to deepen as a result of copious tobacco usage. Meg had been nagging her to quit since she started smoking in 10th grade, but even she couldn't deny the effect it lent to the music.

After that, they went through the rest of their darker repertoire before transitioning into Meg's lighter, folk-y sound that characterized their second album, Shady Grove. It was around the time said album was released that tensions started to climb between the band members. It became apparent that Sylvie and Brian wanted to get in with the revived rock scene, while Meg was falling hard and fast for the flowery, acoustic Simon & Garfunkel-esque sound. Rowan was the only one of the four who seemed happy just to play the music. Sylvie had never envied him more.

Sneaking a look sideways at Meg, Sylvie observed a rare genuine smile on her face. Her strawberry blonde hair was whipping wildly around her face, sticking to her wine colored lipstick. Meg never felt the need to squeeze her waist into a corset. She simply existed in artful rags and Birkenstocks, defiantly unashamed. It was the whole reason Sylvie loved her in the first place.

As sharply as he began, Brian ended on a deep, vibrant note. His bass, along with Sylvie's rasp, were the selling point of Wildwood as a band. From here, their routine was almost pre-planned: they would go to a bar, a club, or a party somewhere. Meg would leave by 9 after maybe one drink. Rowan would follow her if she asked; otherwise, he would go off by himself to do someone or something that suited his fancy. Sylvie and Brian would hang around until the wee hours of the morning. Together they would lounge miserably until she got nauseous from drinking (she had a sensitive tummy, okay?) or Brian deemed it was time to go home. They would slink back into the tour bus or hotel room and crash on the nearest flat surface, wake up at noon and do it all again within a few days.

Nobody wanted to admit it, but life seemed more pointless than it ever had before.

Chapter Text

Sylvie awoke the next morning vaguely confused, aware she was somewhere entirely unfamiliar. Oh, right. It was her hotel room that she'd spent barely half an hour in the day before. Feeling unable to even lift her head from the pillow, she took in her surroundings. The makeup was still there on the floor, having left a spray of fine powder along the carpet.

She groaned and forced herself upwards. Standing up caused a distinct throbbing sensation to make itself known at the back of her skull.

I would that there were no age between sixteen and twenty three, thought Sylvie drearily, or that youth could sleep out the rest. With that thought she gathered her things and went to take a shower. Her makeup had not been washed off last night, and produced a large pimple in the center of her forehead as a result. Much to her chagrin, she hadn't outgrown acne entirely since high school. It felt good to shed it all, the makeup and the contacts and the grease in her hair. She sang an old Fleetwood Mac tune as she scrubbed. Big Love spoke to her; she remembered the feeling of loving someone with all her might, and knowing it still wasn't enough.

Upon stepping out, Sylvie deigned to check her cell phone for missed calls. There was only one from Rowan. He probably just wanted to tell her about his latest sexual escapade.

She pulled on an old button up over a pair of jeans, not bothering to dry her hair. Her glasses had been the same thin wire frames she'd had since sophomore year. The prescription was slightly out of date, but Sylvie didn't give enough of a rat's ass to fuss with a trip to the optometrist.

All of the sudden, it hit her that she was starving. It was certainly too late for a hotel breakfast. Maybe there would be a diner around somewhere.

Leaving the hotel, she didn't bother calling anybody to let them know of her whereabouts. As long as she showed up to work on time, they didn't care where she was. Someone would have a rude comment to make about the large breakfast she planned to have, but she couldn't summon the energy to care.

The day was unequivocally freezing. Everyone else on the street had a jacket on; some were equipped with scarves and hats. The sky was dark with rain and fog swam through the streets. Fleetwood Mac's Bare Trees album rang through her worn-out earbuds. Sylvie vaguely remembered crying to the tune of Sentimental Lady; Bob Welch may have been a serious man whore, but damn if he couldn't write music. Sylvie realized she hadn't cried about anyone or anything in years. As with all things, crying took energy she didn't have.

She came upon a restaurant that looked as if a Victorian saloon and a 50's-style diner had fucked and produced the world's most eccentric establishment. It was enough to make a minimalist tear their own hair out. Sylvie found it exceedingly charming, choosing a rickety table near the window. Loneliness in that seat felt much more romantic. There was a brief impulse to pull out a cigarette and a book of poetry to complete the look.

A young and very pregnant waitress came by after a few minutes, clearly in no rush to get to her. Sylvie ordered a stack of pancakes along with sausage and eggs and coffee and returned to twiddling her thumbs. She rested her fingertips against the smudged glass, relishing the sensation of frost beneath them. Once daydreaming became sufficiently boring, she chose instead to look around at the patrons throughout the restaurant. An old couple, probably regulars, sat in a booth about ten feet away. It was one of those wrap-around booths that was probably intended for at least seven or eight people. A few teenagers sat studying around a wooden table that would clash with the décor theme if the restaurant had one. One of them was wearing glasses not unlike Sylvie's own, except he wore them in a sort of ironic-vintage way.

There was also a group of young men sitting in the middle who all looked dressed for different events. One wore a suit and tie with torn-up jeans; another one wore a denim jacket over a vest. The third wore a leather jacket over a shirt that read Coca-Cola in faded lettering. The fourth and fifth were the most normal of the bunch, although the fifth's haircut resembled that of a medieval prince. Sylvie smiled to herself, finding it handsome in a dorky way. The fourth reminded her of the ex that inspired her first album. It made something in her chest ache softly.

The boy in the suit, in particular, was especially cute. He looked like a mess in all the best ways. His sunken eyes and puffy lips reflected too many sleepless nights. His shaggy brown hair was almost wet, like hers, as if he'd put too much gel into it. He wasn't Sylvie's usual type, but she thought he was unbelievably cute.

Her food arrived after forty-five minutes. By that time Sylvie was salivating and a little irritated, but she couldn't stay mad at the waitress who probably shouldn't have even been working that late into pregnancy. All that mattered was that it was hot and delicious. Sylvie burnt the tip of her tongue on her coffee, and stirred it anxiously until the second it was cool enough to gulp. They had forgotten her eggs. It didn't matter to her as much as it could have. For now she was pleasantly calm, absorbed in hot food and a comfortable atmosphere.

Her tummy full, Sylvie spent a few minutes trying to make a tower out of the copious cream and sugar packets she'd put into her coffee. Going back to an empty hotel room was majorly unappealing. She supposed Rowan was probably the only one of them whose room wasn't empty. He had probably spent the morning asleep in the arms of some pretty young woman, or perhaps a few of them. He wasn't exactly picky. She suspected he'd slept with Meg early in their acquaintance. It was unlikely that the sex was anything near good - Rowan was a very kinky guy, whereas Meg was the type of girl to lie back and think of England.

The boy in the suit took out a cigarette in the middle of the restaurant as if he owned the place. The sound of a lighter was barely detectible above the murmur of customers. That ballsy fucker let out a flagrant puff of smoke not ten feet from the pregnant waitress, who proceeded to put her hands on her hips and tell him very firmly that smoking was not allowed inside.

The boy put on a pouty face, but reluctantly took himself outside. Sighing, the waitress put the check on Sylvie's rickety table next to a syrupy plate that Sylvie had been tempted to lick clean. As soon as she went away, Sylvie set down a couple hundreds. The service might not have been great, but she guessed the waitress must be hard-up on cash, or else she probably would have gone on maternity leave. Besides, she had cash to burn. She stood up, took her purse and followed the boy outside.

His cigarette was nearly gone. Leaning against the red brick wall, he offered her a lazy look.

"Don't suppose I could use your lighter?" asked Sylvie, who thought the scene he caused was more amusing than annoying.

He smiled half-heartedly and nodded. The lighter was a vintage sort, the kind that one flips the top off of. Sylvie reached into her pocket for a cigarette, but she found only one that was broken.

"Damn it," she said, "Nevermind."

She turned to head down the sidewalk, but the boy said, "Here. I got an extra around somewhere you can have."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive," he said. He reached through various pockets on both his suit jacket and in his jeans. Looking closer, there was mud on the knees of the jeans, with small rips running up and down his legs. It probably wasn't an intentional thing - they were just that worn out. His hair smelled a bit like cheap beer.

Finally, he produced a pack of Camels with a little smile of triumph. Sylvie drew one out and set it between her fingers, while the boy took out his lighter again.

"Appreciate it," said Sylvie.

His eyes met hers. "No problem," he said, "what's your name?"

"Sylvie."

"Have I seen you somewhere before?"

Sylvie was a little flattered by the recognition. "Well, uh," she replied, "I sing in a band. Maybe you've heard us."

"No shit? Me too, actually. God, I sound fucking pretentious. Who do you sing for?"

"Funny coincidence. I'm with a band called Wildwood. We're finishing up touring for our second album. You?"

"The Strokes," he said. "My name's Julian."

"You're kidding," said Sylvie, "They've been calling you guys the saviors of garage rock."

Julian looked proud of himself, though he tried to suppress it. He smiled in a way that made his eyes crinkle.

Suddenly, Sylvie's phone began ringing obnoxiously from inside her purse. She dug through her bag to find it, seeing Yosef's number on the screen. That probably meant they wanted her back. Yosef was likely calling on behalf of his boss and Wildwood's manager, Farrah. As much as she wanted to stick around, Sylvie had pissed Farrah off enough lately.

"Looks like I've gotta head out. But hey, you guys are New York based, aren't you? Wildwood is too. Maybe I'll see you around," said Sylvie.

"Sure," he responded, "Nice meeting you, Sylvie."

Chapter Text

When Sylvie got back to the hotel, her band members were already sitting around a coffee table in the lobby looking impatient. Their suitcases were around them. Sylvie's was the only one missing, it being obviously still in her room.

"I still don't understand why we have to leave so suddenly. Weren't we supposed to spend another night here?" argued Brian in the distance.

Farrah stood imposingly at the center of the group. "Management wants you all to schmooze with a few producers on the way to Ann Arbor. We have to allow an extra day in Minneapolis for a lunch meeting to discuss what the hell you're gonna do with your next album," she said.

Fuck. Sylvie had been avoiding that particular conversation. She wanted to bring the band back on the same track they'd been on in the beginning, but it wasn't like she had any ideas to back herself up. Meg would probably end up winning that fight, and Sylvie would be left pissy and uninspired.

"Sylvie! We've been waiting for you," said Farrah, marching up to her.

"For once it's not my fault I was late," she replied, "Nobody gave me any notice that we were checking out."

Rowan snickered. "Me neither. Our lovely manager busted into my room not even an hour ago to tell me. I was, ah, occupied with this blonde chick I met at a rave last night."

"Gross," muttered Brian.

"You went to a rave?" questioned Meg. Rowan showed her the wristband that had been issued to him, along with the generous amount of glitter still clinging to his skin.

"As Sylvie was saying," asserted Farrah, "It wasn't her fault this time. I apologize for the abrupt change of plans. With that said, Sylvie, you've got about fifteen minutes to get your shit together so we can check out."

Grumbling to herself, Sylvie hurried to the elevator and into her room. She had never really unpacked in the first place. All there was to do was to grab her hygiene products and attempt to clean the spilled makeup on the carpet. At least one stick of eyeliner had snapped in half; a cake of powder had crumbled inside its container.

Son of a bitch.

She ended up stuffing it all haphazardly back into her makeup bag, a green thing with Kermit the Frog's face printed on the side of it. Meg had given it to her for her 15th birthday around eight years ago. The little bag pleased her to no end; she had always loved the Muppets.

With the last of her things in hand, Sylvie dashed out of her hotel room.

The tour bus, as always, was a crowded affair. The band members were even more likely than usual to agitate each other. Rowan, who was mellow by nature and used to sharing a space with lots of people, was the only one immune to it. He had grown up in South Bronx, sharing a bedroom in a run-down apartment with two younger brothers who were constantly at each others' throats. He was the only member of the group who could honestly claim to have started at the bottom - Sylvie and Meg came from the suburbs, and Brian's family owned a very successful chain of restaurants.

"You know who I met today?" said Sylvie, trying to find something pleasant to talk about.

Meg looked up, as a signal to continue. Brian and Rowan were busy throwing paper airplanes at each other.

"The lead singer of the Strokes. Julian what's-his-name. I'll tell you what, he's cute as a button."

"Really?" replied Meg. "Julian Casablancas, huh? Where'd you meet him?"

"A café. He let me bum a cigarette and lighter. Wish I'd gotten his phone number, I would have liked to see his pretty face again."

Meg frowned. She had always disliked Sylvie's smoking habit, but had long since given up complaining about it. She almost wished she had told on Sylvie back in high school; maybe then Sylvie would have been forced to give it up by her parents. Of course, there's no way Sylvie would have forgiven her. They would have gone their separate ways, probably working office jobs on opposite ends of the country.

"Just go to whichever bar in New York stays open the latest," said Meg, "and you'll find him." Meg knew about Julian's reputation as a drunken bar fighter.

"What are you guys talking about?" asked Brian from across the tour bus. Rowan took advantage of his momentary distraction to pelt him with a spitball like a middle-school bully.

"Julian Casablancas," said Meg, with some distaste. "Apparently Sylvie met him this morning."

After giving Rowan the finger, Brian turned back to face the girls. "You know I saw him play once. It was at this place called Acme Underground. Fucker got in trouble with the manager of the place for damaging the mic stand, but I doubt he remembers it. He was one drink away from passing out. The music was pretty damn good, though."

Sylvie giggled. That should have been a turn off, but now she was even more curious. "You think he was cute?"

"Eh, if you're into the whole hobo look. Evidently some people think so, since apparently he's known for getting blowjobs in the bathroom after his shows."

The idea sounded oddly appealing to Sylvie. Good Lord, she thought, I've only just met the guy.

"Charming," muttered Meg.

Meg's disapproval reminded Sylvie of her own parents. She hadn't seen them in person for over three years - their only contact being through sporadic phone calls that always seemed to come at the worst time. Three years ago Sylvie had promised them and herself that she'd never burden them with her presence again. So far, she'd kept that promise.

Sometimes, though, it was as if her parents were standing right in front of her, ready to tear down the four walls Sylvie had built around herself. Right now was one of those times, with Meg's tone of derision making Sylvie more agitated than was probably necessary.

"I need a smoke," she announced, and turned towards Farrah, who was sitting up front. "When's our next bathroom break?"

"Not for another hour. Have some nicotine gum if you need it."

What Sylvie needed was to get off this goddamn bus. She settled for moving over to another spot on the couch and popping a piece of Nicorette into her mouth. Brian went back to folding pieces of paper idly; Rowan went back to pestering him. In a move somewhat unlike her, Meg laid down next to Sylvie and placed her head gingerly in Sylvie's lap. They made eye contact, with Meg clearly expecting some kind of protest. There was none.

"Those cigarettes are going to kill you one day. You do realize that, don't you?" said Meg.

Sylvie pretended to think it over. "Good," she replied, partially to annoy Meg and partially because it was true.

Meg furrowed her brow in a way that made her forehead creases apparent. "Don't joke like that. It's not funny."

"Whatever you say, mom," teased Sylvie, rolling her eyes. She hadn't really been joking.

"I'm serious."

"So am I." With that, Sylvie turned her head towards the window. Miles and miles of highway stretched around them in each direction. There was no life, no vegetation, sans a few weeds that liked to grow on the side of the road. The sun hung lazily on the edges of a violet sky, obscured by clouds outlined in light. Billboards were spread around, along with signs advertising fast food.

One of the billboards read Weight Watchers in bold letters. Next to the words was a picture of a young woman's midriff. Not her face, not her body, just her stomach, flat and glistening. Sylvie wanted that stomach so badly it hurt.

"Do you remember how in high school," Meg began, "I used to have you french braid my hair every morning before school?"

"Yeah?"

"Could you do it again in a moment?"

Sylvie looked down at Meg, whose fair hair was currently spread across the seat and Sylvie's legs. "Sure," she replied.

And with that, Sylvie felt some of the tension in her gut unwind.

Chapter Text

New York, though hectic in its own way, was a relief after weeks of touring. Playing in Ann Arbor was energizing, certainly, but that didn't mean Sylvie wasn't glad to be home. The band had another few interviews and meetings to attend in a few weeks time. Until then, she was free to relax and spend her days doing as she liked.

Her apartment was warm, in contrast to the chilly northeastern air outside. A relatively old record - Marie Laforet's Viens, Viens drifted around the room. It had that endearing low-fidelity feature to it that characterized old music. The acoustics of the room enhanced the sound. Sylvie herself was faceplanted on a bright green sofa underneath her favorite throw blanket - a quilt that looked like someone's grandmother had spent hours stitching it together (it had actually come from Macy's).

Sylvie had gotten sick, predictably enough. Her head felt like a ball of metal every time she tried to lift it; her throat felt like a piece of fleshy fabric recently sewn together. It was times like these that Sylvie wished more than anything for her mother's tomato soup and her childhood bed.

Maybe if this cold persisted, she could put off having to work on a new album. It was a blessing and a curse that Shady Grove had sold so well. Its popularity made Meg feel justified in pushing for a different sound. Of course, it had also lined Sylvie's pockets, which was a nice consolation.

Her brain was addled, but not so much that she'd forgotten a list of errands she needed to run. The apartment's cabinets were completely barren.

Fuck.

Grocery shopping it was, then. The logical thing to do would have been calling someone to pick up food for her until she was well enough to do so herself, but she didn't especially feel like seeing anyone involved in the band today, and they were kind of her only friends. Luckily there was a small supermarket only a couple blocks from the apartment.

Getting dressed was an ordeal. Sylvie decided on a set of long underwear, jeans, a very chunky earl-grey sweater and a pea-colored coat that reached her knees. The effort it took to slide on a pair of boots almost made her decide to give up and lay back down.

After spending about ten minutes hunting for her keys, Sylvie walked out of the apartment at a snail's pace. Her nose was running furiously and any tissues she might have had certainly weren't on hand. What was on hand, in a very literal sense, was a sleeve that she discretely tried to wipe her nose on.

Trudging along the sidewalk, the wind nipped at her cheeks and nipped the tips of her ears. Dark black hair swirled around her face, but Sylvie couldn't be bothered to pull it back. She stuffed her hands into the pockets of her coat and marched on.

"Just another block. You can get your groceries, make a bit of food, and then go back to sleep. Just a little more walking..."

A hand took Sylvie's wrist and yanked her roughly backwards. The whoosh of a car sounded from only a few feet in front of her, honking its horn aggressively as it sped through the crosswalk she had been standing on. Pedestrians around her murmured amongst themselves, each of them knowing how close she had come to being roadkill. Some of them probably thought she was stupid; others assumed she was downright suicidal.

Eyes wide, Sylvie turned around to thank whoever had pulled her out of the way. A tall, disheveled boy in a dark grey jacket and red scarf looked anxiously back, shaggy brown hair flying wildly around him.

It was Julian, the man she'd met a few weeks prior. Suddenly, Sylvie registered the fact that her nose was still running and the bags underneath her eyes were even darker than usual. She wished she had thought to put on makeup before leaving.

"Fuck, are you okay?"

Sylvie stared a little longer and sniffled loudly. Julian recognized her as the rest of the pedestrians proceeded to cross the now vacant street.

"I am now," she said. "Whatever okay means." Her voice was nasal and scratchy.

"Good. Were you trying to get yourself killed?"

Sylvie smiled wryly, "Not yet."

They stood in terse silence for a moment, neither one sure what to say. Julian's pouty lips were chapped, bitten by cold, dry air. She had to force herself to look away from them. His puppy-dog eyes had moved from her to the pavement beneath their feet.

"So-" they both began at the same time, and then laughed. Julian's grin remained his most attractive feature.

"You first," said Sylvie.

Julian cleared his throat. "Where are you headed?"

"Anderson's Groceries. It's just up the road. You?"

"Same," he said. "My buddy Al's got the munchies and can't be bothered to get his ass up and get some food himself. No offense, but you sound pretty sick. Don't you have an assistant or something who can do shit like this for you?"

Sylvie smiled, picturing how funny it would have been to make Farrah or Yosef do that sort of thing. As it stood, though, she didn't want to be the type of person who couldn't do simple tasks for herself.

"Don't you?" she parroted.

"Touché. But no, I'm not pretentious enough for that shit. Listen - and, uh, you can tell me to fuck off - but maybe I should walk with you. Y'know, in case you step into oncoming traffic again," he said.

"Certainly, Julian. Full disclosure, though, I'm probably contagious." Sylvie sniffled again, making a mental note to get a little packet of tissues as soon as humanly possible.

"Call me Jules. And fuck that, I don't get colds."

Her eyebrow went up. "Is that so?"

They started again along the sidewalk, taking each step slowly. Julian adjusted his scarf over his nose, protecting it from the frigid breeze. Ambient noise was everywhere - it was the greatest charm of New York City life. Distantly a group of children laughed, enjoying outdoor play despite the weather. Shop windows attached to brick buildings reflected the street in front of them. In any other situation, the absence of conversation would have been uncomfortable. However, there was no tension between Sylvie and Jules; they were both content to simply walk together.

"Smell that?" asked Jules. It was the scent of sugar emanating from a nearby bakery.

She lifted her head but could not manage a full inhale through her nose.

Julian looked on unabashedly. The girl was attractive to him, there was no denying that. It was something he'd noticed during their first meeting.

Rounding another corner, the sign for the small grocery store faced them.

"What now?" said Sylvie, "I suppose this means we go our separate ways."

"Trying to get rid of me already, huh?" teased Jules. "But actually, If you wanted to, maybe I could buy you a cup of hot chocolate. After you finish shopping, y'know?"

Julian looked down at his shoes. It was obvious that he felt a little embarrassed by the whole thing, despite the air of nonchalance around him. If this was how he acted around other women, then it was no wonder he received so much bathroom fellatio.

"You don't have to, of course, uh-"

Sylvie couldn't help letting a goofy smile overtake her.

"I'd love that," she replied.

Chapter Text

Jules and Sylvie stood outside her apartment, each holding paper cups stained with hot chocolate that had long since been finished.

Over the course of only a couple hours, they had talked until Sylvie's voice was hoarse. Jules was a kindred spirit; lost, like her, only he made it look beautiful. He told her he'd be in New York for at least the next couple weeks before The Strokes began touring again for their second album, which had apparently come out less than a month ago. He was a little surprised to learn a third album was already being pushed on Wildwood.

"I mean, didn't you guys just get back from touring for your second?" he asked. "Shit, at this rate they'll have you back on the road in six months."

"Don't remind me," she groaned.

Together they stood, wishing for only a little longer in each others' company. However, Sylvie's stomach growled. She took a step towards her building, more than ready to eat and then collapse on the sofa.

"Guess this is it," said Jules.

"Is this it?" Sylvie said cheekily, unable to resist the chance to make a cheesy pun. He'd probably heard jokes like that a million times. Surprisingly, though, he still laughed a little bit.

"See you around, Miss Fowler. Try not to get hit by a car."

"Oh," exclaimed Sylvie, looking a little sheepish, "I never did thank you for saving me, did I?"

He saluted her. "Always happy to help a pretty girl in need."

The sad thing is, thought Sylvie, he's probably lent a hand to lots of pretty girls. Literally. Nevertheless, she was excessively flattered at being called pretty, especially by the likes of Jules. The man in question was making his way down the sidewalk, waving as he went.

"Jules!" she called, "Come back for a sec!"

He did so eagerly. She took his hand in hers, pushing up the sleeves of his thick woolen jacket. There was a marker in her purse kept on hand for unexpected autographs. Sylvie took the cap in her mouth and proceeded to write her phone number along Julian's skin.

"Call me," she winked, and walked into her apartment building.

The days came and went after that, monotonous as Sylvie tried to shed the illness that clung to her. It held on stubbornly. After five days she was due for a meeting and still not feeling entirely well. The CEO of their label had recently retired; replacing him was his son, whom Sylvie had met only once or twice. From what she'd heard, he was a great deal less sleazy than his father before him.

An all-black look made her feel more powerful somehow. It reminded her of the clothes worn in the new Charlie's Angels that had come out earlier in the year. She made no attempt to be there on time. Ten minutes after the official start, Sylvie walked in to observe everyone and their mother seated around a rectangular table. The band members were sat shoulder to shoulder at one end, leaving no space for her near them. Only one seat was left open.

Michael Augbiny, new CEO of Avian Records Inc., sat in a leather desk chair at the head of the table. He looked like a king on a throne. To his right was the only spare chair in the room.

"Christ, Sylvie, you look like shit," said Rowan.

"Thanks," she retorted sarcastically. She took her seat with mild indignation.

Meg, clad in her usual birkenstocks and an unusual amount of necklaces, strode up with a journal in hand. It was her songwriting journal; she'd had it since the band's formation. Taped to the front was a picture of Wildwood's members. They were newly eighteen in the photo, barely more than children.

She flipped to a page that was already bookmarked and set it down in front of Augbiny, instructing him to survey the contents of the next few pages. Sylvie watched on as Augbiny's expression turned from impassivity to awe and mild delight.

"These are beautiful, Ms. MacDougal. How long have you been working on them?"

Meg was pleased. "About since touring for Shady Grove began. It really inspired me."

Sylvie wondered what was so inspiring about hotel rooms, tour buses, and getting drunk. She couldn't have found her face most nights, let alone written down music. Without asking, Augbiny tore a piece of paper from the journal and passed it around the table. Their producer seemed to find it amusing. Farrah and Yosef read it, looking simultaneously concerned and impressed. Brian and Rowan's reactions were the same.

"What?" asked Sylvie as she took the paper. All their eyes had shifted to her. She read it line by line.

The song was about her.

It began like a story - introducing some mysterious woman who insisted on digging a deeper hole for herself every day. The picture it painted became more and more unflattering as time went on. It was missing a title and a few lines at the bottom had been roughly erased. Sylvie realized Meg understood her better than she ever thought possible. She felt like she had been stripped naked.

Meg's all-seeing eyes met hers as if to convey some sort of apology. Save it, Sylvie wanted to tell her.

The meeting continued despite palpable tension across the table. Decisions were made by Farrah and Mr. Augbiny, leaving the performers out of it altogether. Recording would have to take place within the next year, it was decided, leaving that much time for music to be composed and lyrics to be polished. It was a better deal than expected. Leisure time would be in relative abundance until the time came to tour again.

People filed out of the meeting room in an orderly fashion. Yosef hailed a taxi, eager to get back home to his wife and baby daughter. Farrah and their producer sauntered out together into the night. Sylvie took a brisk flight to the curb, waiting to hail a cab of her own as she yanked a cigarette from her purse. Meg followed her, Rowan and Brian in tow.

A hand fell on Sylvie's shoulder. Attached to it was a silver ring that she'd bought some five years ago, for Meg's 18th birthday. It was inlaid with little pearlescent daisies - a symbol of the glimmering dream they'd shared - that had turned dull with age.

"I didn't mean for you to see that," Meg began. "I wasn't going to put it on the album. It was just something I wrote down when inspiration struck - I wasn't even going to finish it."

Sylvie scoffed. "Sure you weren't."

"Really. Listen, it was a bitchy thing to do and I'm sorry. I only wrote a few songs, not enough for an entire album. You can write the rest of it."

"Is that really what you think of me?" asked Sylvie, "That I'm some loser who can't stop wallowing in her own misery?"

Meg adopted her usual self-righteous expression. "That's not what I think of you. It's just that, you know, you do have some pretty self-destructive habits-"

"Enough. I don't need a puritanical lecture from you. I'm a grown ass adult who can smoke and drink and fuck if I damn well please."

"Fine."

"Fine."

The two women stared each other down intensely. Brian and Rowan stood to the side, awkwardly twiddling their thumbs. The scene was reminiscent of parents arguing in front of their children.

"Listen, we've all decided to get dinner at Brian's parents' place. Why don't you come with us?" said Meg gently.

A taxi pulled up against the curb, casting a faint shadow against her. In lieu of answering, Sylvie simply shook her head and got in. After getting home, she reheated some leftover soup and parked her ass in front of the TV. Faintly audible was the sound of cars rushing around outside, of people talking and the neighbors on her right arguing.

Alone, as always, Sylvie crawled into a too-large bed, laid her head on expensive cotton pillowcases, and slipped into melancholic dreams.

Chapter Text

Sylvie sat at her spacious marble countertop, munching on cheerios in a bowl that had Mickey Mouse's face on it. Morning light filtered through sheer tan curtains onto her left side. The day was sunny and relatively warm.

For once in her life, Sylvie had gone to bed at a reasonable hour. There was nothing on her to-do list today. She imagined the rest of the band had spent the night with Brian's parents - it was nostalgic for them, given how often the group used to have sleepovers there after practice. Hell, they had a routine in place especially for the occasion. Meg would take one arm of the ginormous wrap-around sofa in their basement, Rowan would take the other side, and Sylvie would curl up next to Brian in a sleeping bag on the floor.

How far gone those days seemed now. Distantly, her cellphone chimed in the background. It sounded muffled. She didn't feel like answering. but nevertheless Sylvie exerted the effort to dig through her laundry, finding it in the pocket of her black slacks.

A brief flutter of hope that it was Julian calling dissipated as Brian's number appeared before her. It had been almost a week since he'd bought her hot chocolate and listened to her talk in a nasally voice. Maybe all the snot scared him off.

"Hello?" she answered impatiently.

Brian's voice was deep, as if he'd just woken up. "Sounds like someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed."

The temptation to hang up was strong. "Is there a reason you're calling, or do you just want to irritate me?"

"God," he chuckled, "It's like I pissed in your cereal or something. Listen, my friend Ocean is hosting a party tonight. Now I know what you're thinking - it's not just any house party. This place is supposed to be pretty classy."

"Ocean? What the hell kind of a name is that?" Sylvie asked.

"His parents were hippies. So are you in, or are you out?"

"Depends," she said, "on whether or not Meg is coming. I don't feel like talking to her right now."

Brian laughed. "No, you know that's not her scene. But you know who will be there?"

"Who?"

"Your little boyfriend. Julian."

"I wish. He won't even call me back. Also, aren't we a little old for parties?"

"We're rockstars. We'll never be too old for parties."

Sylvie exhaled. She wanted to see Jules again, but the fact that he hadn't called indicated the feeling probably wasn't mutual. However, one-on-one time with Brian was appealing - their bond was unspoken, but profound nevertheless. "Okay, you win. I'll go. What time?"

"It starts around nine. I'll be by to collect you around 8:45; with any luck, we'll be there at 9:15. And Sylvie..." Brian paused, trying to summon the right words "... I'm not saying it was right of her to write about you like that, but Meg does have a point. Sometimes it feels like you've stopped trying." And with that he hung up.

"Well, fuck you too then."

The sun slid from east to west, darkening the sky as it went. Given the season, it had already been dark for several hours when Sylvie began getting ready. Her hair had been fried straight two days before and had not seen a shampooing since, which seemed good enough. Her face, however, did require some attention. In typical rockstar fashion she took a black eyeliner pencil and smudged it until it looked intentionally messy.

As predicted, Brian knocked well before Sylvie had gotten around to dressing. He had fluffed up his afro and donned a tan leather jacket with corduroy pants and his usual beanie. Within a few minutes they were inching along the congested streets of New York. The stars were hidden behind a thick layer of smog and cloud cover.

The place was definitely swanky. It wasn't so much a house as it was a mansion. A very expensive speaker set rested along the living room wall, blaring out something unrecognizable at a freakish volume. Dozens of people were clumped into little groups, leaving just enough space to squeeze between them.

Inside the spacious kitchen, a sort of alcohol buffet was lined up, complete with limes and various types of glasses. Brian helped himself and Sylvie to a Shiner Bock each. Sylvie took a lime and began to suck on it as she surveyed the room.

As she crossed the threshold into some sort of den (it was hard to tell given the ridiculous amount of people crammed in), she tripped over something large, splattering beer all over the carpet.

It was Julian, laid out across the floor with a dazed expression. One of the guys from the café was sitting against the wall next to him in the same Coca-Cola shirt that now had a few droplets of beer on it.

As she tried to push herself up, Jules took hold of her arm and yanked her right back down to the floor. Her ass hit the carpet with a thump that made him snort. Nobody heeded the three people or the beer stain on the ground, stepping around as if they weren't there.

Jules stuck his face right up to Sylvie's. They were so close their noses almost touched, but not quite. Something was off about him - it was as if he could barely contain himself.

"Fancy seeing you here, Miss Fowler. You been stalking me?" he asked with a girlish giggle. She wanted to be snippy about the fact he hadn't called, but the truth was she couldn't be. Obviously he wasn't interested in seeing her again. It hurt, but it wasn't surprising.

She turned to his friend. "Is he on something?"

"Adderall," the curly-haired boy replied, "mixed in with a bit of Jack Daniel's."

"I see."

Jules looked between them, as if he was struggling to control his own gaze. His finger was still entwined in Sylvie's polyester sleeve. "Sylvie, this is little Fabrizio," he said, patting Fab's cheek. "Fab, this is the lovely Sylvie Fowler. She sings like a... like a fucking falcon."

"Nice to meet you," said Sylvie politely. She wasn't entirely sure what to make of Jules' comment. By the way he looked at Jules, however, she could guess that Fab knew what it meant. She stood up slowly to retrieve paper towels for the stain, but by the time she returned both men had wandered off.

The next half hour was spent alternating between silently nursing a cocktail and chatting up miscellaneous fans. It was still baffling to be recognized in public. When she was eighteen, it made her feel powerful, to be so well known and so beloved.

After a while, Sylvie decided she'd seen all that needed to be seen. She took a few turns around the place again in search of Brian. There was only one place left he could be - upstairs, near the bedrooms. Several people were already up there doing unsavory things. She crept up the stairs, passing the living room in which Jules and a few others stood on a table shaking their hips and groping one another drunkenly.

"Brian?" Sylvie half-called down the upstairs hallway.

The music was still thumping beneath her feet. The sounds of smacking lips and female moans sounded faintly behind closed mahogany doors. One door, near the end of the hall, was almost silent, cracked ajar only the slightest bit. Sylvie crept up to it and rested her ear against the doorway. A voice was heard; laughing, perhaps, and undeniably Brian's.

She threw the door open. Brian was there - and he wasn't alone. A man was knelt between his spread legs.

"Shit!" said Brian, wide eyed.

The man turned his head towards the door. His shoulders kept Sylvie from seeing Brian's - ahem - willy, uncovered by the corduroy pants around his knees.

Sylvie threw her hands up. "Sorry- I, uh, I didn't mean to... I'll leave you to it."

She fled, red-faced. Brian's heart froze in his chest - his deepest secret was out in the open air.

Chapter Text

Brian found Sylvie leaning against the end of the staircase. Her face was flushed, as was his, albeit for different reasons.

"That wasn't what it looked like."

"Really?" Sylvie snickered into her hand, "Because it looked like a guy hot enough to be an Abercrombie model had his hands around your pecker. I'm totally jealous."

Brian looked frantic. "This isn't something to fucking laugh about. You can't tell anyone, not a soul. Please. If not for me, then for the sake of the band. I've kept plenty of your secrets - you owe me."

"Christ, okay. I won't tell anyone, cross my heart. Also, what does the band have to do with anything? Do Meg and Rowan not know?"

"No, they don't," Brian sighed. "What I mean is, I can't just be... out in the open. I mean, the only thing I bring to the table is sex appeal. Even Farrah says so."

"Not true. You're our bassist - our backbone."

"My bass playing is mediocre at best. There's a reason management has me shirtless in so many of our promo photos. Fans - specifically female fans - eat that shit up. If I give that up I become replaceable."

Sylvie wanted to reassure him, but she wasn't sure how. She wished she could travel back in time five years ago and tear up their stupid contract. That contract was supposed to save them - instead, it trapped them underneath a net she and the elder Mr. Augbiny had woven from more than just ink.

She placed a hand on Brian's shoulder. He was significantly taller than her, and yet so very fragile. "Listen. I don't give a fuck if you're gay. Neither would Meg and Rowan if you told them. The execs never would, but even if they did tell you to walk, we'd all go with you." It was true. The agreement was silent and unbreakable; the members of Wildwood were a package deal.

Lifting her gaze, Sylvie saw the man Brian had been with standing at the top of the stairs. He was on the shorter side but handsome enough to make up for it. His hair was golden blond, tousled like he'd spent hours in front of a blow dryer. Around his neck was a chain of shells; his shirt was sleeveless despite the season and read 'SURF IS LIFE'. At least he had the sense to wear long cargo pants instead of shorts.

"Thank you," Brian choked out. His eyes were glassy and wet. Good lord, was he going to cry? "I just- thank you, Sylvie. You can be pretty sweet sometimes."

"I'm sweet all the time."

"Yeah, right."

"I suppose that's Ocean," she said, gesturing to the surfer dude above them.

Brian smiled. It was as if his whole body brightened at the mention of his lover. "Yes, that's him. He, uh, really suits his name."

No shit, she thought. Baywatch called, they want their actor back.

Her original plan to ask Brian for a ride home was abandoned. Cockblocking wasn't her specialty; she'd have to hail a cab. It took effort not to worry about how Julian was going to get home. At least there was no need to worry about him driving - he was so far from earth right now, Sylvie doubted he could find his own face, much less a pair of car keys.

A loud bang followed by a slurred expletive came from the kitchen in a voice she recognized. Julian had probably managed to hurt himself. Not surprising, given his current state. Sylvie took off, hurrying to the kitchen. He wasn't injured, much to her relief. He was clutching his leg, but laughing as he did so, stumbling backwards into some poor sod who was no match for his 6'2, bulky frame. She told herself how stupid she looked, rushing in to check on him like that.

As soon as he saw her, Julian forgot about apologizing to the guy he bumped into. Sylvie's chest was exposed to the top of her cleavage, which cradled a silver pendant in the shape of an anatomical human heart.

"Saw you talking to some groupies. You're pretty damn popular, huh?" he said.

She nodded modestly. Wildwood was more than popular.

"I was, uh, just about to head out. It was nice seeing you, Julian."

"It's Jules, babe. And where the hell are you going? It's not even 10:30." He was still giddy to the point of excess. Sylvie was glad to see that his hands were free of alcohol; the reckless substance abuse was a little unnerving.

"I'm all peopled-out," she sighed. "No offense to Ocean, but this party is a little... loud."

"Your bassist is here, right? Is he your ride home?"

Sylvie shook her head. "No. He wants to stay a little while longer, so I was gonna look for a cab." She tried to resist asking Jules about how he was planning to get his ass home. Hopefully, at least one of his five band members was sober enough to get behind the wheel. They were all supposedly at this party, but only one had actually been spotted.

"I suppose you'll have a ride when the time comes," she said. Her voice was deceptively distant.

"Nope," he responded, popping the 'p'. "But believe it or not, I'm capable of calling myself a taxi." Julian patted down his pockets one by one. First his jeans, then his jacket, and then when those had come up empty, he checked his jean pockets again. His eyes went wide as saucers.

"Well, fuck me," Julian laughed. "Guess I gotta fucking walk." He leaned into her, adopting a comically sultry tone. "Unless you let me hitch a ride with you, Miss Fowler. Maybe you'd even let me see the inside of your place."

She knew he was joking, but Julian's words stirred something inside Sylvie. His breath was warm against her ear, the scent of dollar-store cologne and sweat vaguely detectable. She supposed the concept of personal space was a little hard for him to grasp at this very moment. Hot one minute, cold the next - she had a feeling that was just how Jules rolled.

Sleeping with him was off the table (at least for now). In any case, his mind was so fogged he wouldn't know which hole to put it in. Which, in fact, was exactly the reason Sylvie didn't want him wandering alone at night. After a moment of silence, he stepped away.

"If you don't want to, that's fine."

"No, I do. You're welcome to ride with me. But, uh, no..." she struggled to come up with the right words, "...no funny business. I mean it. You're too high for anything like that." Realizing what she said, Sylvie tried to laugh, to play it off as a joke. There was no way he was actually suggesting something sexual between them. Her gaze fell to the ground.

Her cellphone was in her back pocket. Taking her attention away from Jules, Sylvie only half-beckoned him outside with her, unsure whether or not he would actually follow. The temperature had dropped what felt like twenty degrees, turning a chilly night downright frigid. Sylvie's coat, a draping thing of rich fabric, was still crumpled up in the back of Brian's car. By the time she realized it, Jules was back at her side.

She tried to dial the number for a taxi service with shaking hands. Behind her, the sound of ruffling leather was ignored. Jules was trying (and failing) to clumsily sling a denim jacket over her shoulders.

"You're shivering," he said. "Do you even own a jacket?"

Sylvie's brain sputtered. Did he like her, or didn't he? She decided to just spit her thoughts right out.

"You didn't call. I was hoping you would, Jules."

His droopy eyes brightened a little bit. Shifting his hands around in his pockets, he raised his head to look at her. "About that," he chuckled, "I've been, uh," he looked a little sheepish, "I've been pretty sick this past week. Hardly in any condition to take a lady out."

Oh.

"Whatever happened to 'Look at me, I'm Julian, I don't get sick.'" She took her voice up an octave. Julian struggled to maintain an indignant posture, with his hands on his hips.

"I don't sound like that," he said, fighting through laughter. Sylvie wasn't bothering to hold hers back at all. The sound of cackling cut across the quiet of the night like ink on stark-white paper.

In the time it took the cab to come, Jules and Sylvie had found a comfortable rhythm of conversation. The drugs and alcohol robbed Jules of any inhibition; he was touchy, smiley, eager to hear lots and say even more. Remarkably, there was no vacancy in his eyes. He was undeniably present.

When Jules took her cold hand into his, Sylvie didn't object. All she could think of was the callouses on his fingers and the overwhelming attraction she felt for this wild, careless boy.

Chapter Text

Julian slouched further into the seat of the cab, humming a slow tune. Something by The Velvet Underground... Sylvie couldn't remember the name of it. The same chorus was repeated a few times in succession, each note soft and rich.

Around them, New York City buzzed like a hive of wasps. It was so very different from the life Sylvie had been born into. As a child she had dreamed of the city hustle and bustle; now, she missed the clean air and endless prairies of Tennessee. In the city you could hardly even see the moon at night, so covered was it by a sea of pollution and artificial light.

She wanted to ask Jules about his childhood. Where did he grow up, did he always want to be a singer, that sort of thing. She'd heard through the grapevine that his parents were quite well-to-do people; his father was the founder of some famous modeling company. He'd been called a nepotism baby more than once, a label comparable to being red-shirted in the rock industry.

What complete bullshit.

Abruptly Julian sat up and let out a very exaggerated yawn as he stretched an arm over her shoulder. It was the oldest, cheesiest trick in the book. Sylvie hesitated for a moment, then slowly brought her hand up to take hold of his. The cabby side-eyed them through the rear view mirror.

After twenty minutes of moderate traffic (which was as good as it got in New York) they arrived at Sylvie's building. Clearly the doorman was not expecting to see her back so early.

"Do you want anything to drink?" she offered as soon as they got up to her place. Julian's mind was elsewhere. He took a few moments to stroll around, idly picking up trinkets and putting them back down.

"Got any beer?"

She did, in fact. But Jules didn't need to know that. "I have water, if you like. Or some hot tea."

If he replied, Sylvie didn't hear it. She set down a glass of water on the coffee table for him anyway and set about arranging the pillows on her green couch. Jules had wandered off to another corner, leaving her enough time to frantically fix her hair and apply some cherry chapstick.

Across the room, Julian had found a stack of papers in a ceramic dish. There was a sundry collection of envelopes, napkins, and torn pages with a few scribbled lines written on each. The lines were poetic and emotional, each one a spur-of-the-moment feeling translated into written thought. He recognized some of the words; they were her lyrics, raw and unpolished.

"Don't look at those!" Sylvie commanded. She ran up to take the papers from his hand, but he held them above her head, just out of reach.

"This is how you write music?" asked Julian. He smiled as she jumped and tried to pull his arm down. For a guy who didn't take much care of himself, Jules sure was strong - she couldn't make him budge.

"Damn you, put those down." There was that cute expression again, the one that made Sylvie furrow her brow and purse her lips. He was tempted to hand back the papers and indulge her, but he wanted to see more of that face.

"What're you gonna give me in exchange?"

"Nothing."

"That so?"

Sylvie couldn't contain her smile. "It is. You're holding the only music I've been able to write for months."

Her palm rested on his collarbone. She'd been using him as leverage to reach, but her touch lingered. Jules took a moment to observe her hand; soft and pale, with a manicure that looked like it had been bitten off at the tips. The remaining polish was purple and glittery.

He leaned down and kissed her. It was sweet and mostly chaste, until he began to lightly suck on her bottom lip. Her breath was caught in her throat. Hot, syrupy desire weighed her down and turned her insides to sugary mush. She wanted to let him kiss her forever.

"You taste like cherry," Julian murmured.

Sylvie pushed him away gently. Her chapstick had smeared a slight red tint all over his mouth.

Julian's face fell. "Fuck," he began, "I'm sorry. I, uh, should've asked. Shit."

"No, it's not that, it's just..." she struggled to find a polite way to explain her apprehension. "You're high, Jules. You're not in the right state of mind."

"Fuck that. I know what I want, Miss Fowler."

She was afraid to push him away again. Maybe he would take things the wrong way and give up on her altogether. But it was for his own good. God, she sounded like Meg, all condescending and motherly.

"Good, because I want you to do it again," she said, "Tomorrow. When you're sober."

"I'll hold you to that."

Chapter Text

Julian awoke buried in miles of blankets atop a very ugly green couch. It was almost as comfortable as it was hideous - he could have melted into the cushions. Throw pillows were scattered around him, some of them on the floor. Sylvie's apartment followed no consistent décor theme. It was like a patchwork quilt and suited her perfectly.

Speaking of Sylvie, she was nowhere to be found. He could only remember bits and pieces of last night, but he remembered acting on the urge to kiss her. Her scent was still heavy in his head. Standing up brought spots to his vision - he wobbled a bit before chugging a glass of water someone had abandoned on the coffee table next to him. The curtains were open, letting in harsh sunlight that aggravated an already pounding headache.

"Good morning, sleepyhead." Sylvie was leaning against the open doorway between her kitchen and living room. She had on a fresh sweater and maxi skirt and was very obviously not wearing a bra.

Julian smirked, winking at her. "It is now that you're here."

"Flirt. Quit staring at me and get yourself a cup of coffee. It's in the pot by the microwave. I already set out the cream and sugar." She could tell exactly where he was looking, crossing her arms over her chest. Her fingers were stained with ink. On the little dining table lay the culprit - a blue pen had leaked while she was scribbling another one of her leaflets.

"You trying to write music?" he asked, remembering the papers he'd seen last night. Inside the cabinet was a huge collection of joke mugs. He chose one that read 'Not my cup of tea' in squiggly letters.

Sylvie sighed loudly, running her hands through her hair. "Yeah, trying. I may as well be pulling teeth at this point." Her manicure had been bitten further, if that was even possible.

"Well, fuck, lemme see."

The handwriting was nearly illegible, and smudged with blue fingerprints to top it off. Through that he managed to make out a whole lot of flowery, vacant imagery. It lacked the piece of soul Wildwood's music usually included. That said, he understood her vision; it was a song about precious memories, of a childhood spent safe and happy. Sylvie began listing off breakfast options, but Jules didn't hear her. A billion ideas raced through his aching mind.

"You need to cut it down a bit. It's too... wordy."

Of course it was. She let out a caustic laugh. That was always the problem with her writing, too many words and feelings for three minutes of music. "Well, what would you suggest?"

"Here," he said, "lemme just..." he crossed out a good half of the page, leaning over her as he did so. A few more lines were strategically sprinkled in to fill the gaps. They were direct and to the point - a hallmark of The Strokes. Sylvie's body was warm and gentle beneath his, curved in a way that distracted from the task at hand.

Goddamnit. He was right - the song was almost perfect now, except for a few minor things. Suck on that, Meg.

Speak of the devil. Sylvie's phone was ringing from its place on the counter. Meg's name lit up the screen. Nope, she thought, before quickly pressing decline.

Jules looked sheepish. "Sorry, I uh, hope you weren't too attached to all of that-"

"No, no, it's much better now. I'm gonna have to give you a songwriting credit for this one." God, if the song was approved, Farrah was going to have a fit. There would be a stir in their respective circles, something her manager preferred to have control over. Nobody in the music world would be expecting a collaboration between Wildwood and Julian Casablancas.

"You could give me something else instead."

"Instead? Sorry, but I think I legally have to put your name in there if this song makes it onto a record. I could give you something alongside it, if you prefer," said Sylvie. She hoped they were on the same wavelength; after all, she had been promised a kiss.

Their faces were just inches from each other, Jules still leaning over her imposingly as she arched her neck backwards. What was he waiting for? They were both sober and willing. Hell, at this point, Sylvie was close to begging for it.

He leaned in closer. Their noses bumped together before Jules realigned his head, slotting his lips next to hers. He didn't have the same dead fish stare most men adopted in moments like these - no, his gaze was intense and hungry in the best possible way. She couldn't help smiling a little bit. At the last minute, however, he paused.

"Got a mint?" asked Jules, his breath fanning her lips.

The tension in the air deflated like a balloon. She gestured towards her purse on the countertop, dazed and still. Surely he didn't mean she needed a mint - oh God, what if he did? While his back was turned, Sylvie exhaled into her palm. Nothing seemed especially offensive.

Julian found a pack of mints and popped one into his mouth, crushing it quickly. Without hesitation he swung back around and placed a large hand on her back, kissing her deeply. Her lips tensed briefly before relaxing into his.

Briefly they separated to gasp for air before diving back in. It was as if he was holding back, and that simply wouldn't do. Sylvie took the initiative to grasp at Julian's shirt, urging him closer.

"Jesus, Miss Fowler," said Jules, gently releasing her. "Are you trying to bite my face off?"

Sylvie blanched. Clearly she'd been a little too enthusiastic.

Jules was grinning. "Relax, babe. I'm kidding." He kissed her again, this time a little less desperate but just as slow and sweet. She was pliant to his touch, moving her mouth in sync with his. Her lips parted more, encouraging him to take the next step.

Just as he was beginning to get the hint, Sylvie's phone rang again. He was reluctant to let her go; even after she tore herself away, his head subconsciously leaned in further.

"Someone better be dying," she muttered. Meg was calling again. Apparently it was too important to wait another few minutes. She thought about declining again and making up some excuse later. Technically, it wouldn't be a lie to say she was busy.

"Take it," said Julian.

"I'll only be a second - I promise."

She scrambled into her bedroom, answering the phone with a peeved "Can I help you?"

Meg's voice was staticky through the phone; there was a small clacking coming from the other side, probably from Meg's ridiculously large earrings hitting the phone against her ear. "Hi, Sylvie. I see you're in a good mood this morning."

Sylvie smiled despite herself. The morning had been better than good. "Oh, yeah. Real chipper. Listen, I'm a little busy at the moment. Can I call you back later?"

"Busy with what?" Meg teased, "Sleeping in?"

"If you must know, I have a guy over. And I was this close to having his tongue down my throat before you called."

"Who's the guy?"

Sylvie cradled the phone closer to her ear. "Julian Casablancas," she breathed, the heat returning to her face.

Meg paused for a second. "Oh, Sylvie, haven't you heard the rumors about him-"

"Oh God, here we go."

Meg scoffed from the other side of the line. "Fine, fine. You know, I'm only trying to help you." In a moment of tenderness, she muttered, "I care about you more than you seem to care about yourself."

That was probably true. Sylvie sighed. "Look, I can watch out for myself. Truth is, he's been pretty sweet to me."

"Well, that's what I like to hear. Anyways, I was calling to tell you that Farrah's booked us a gig playing on January 4th, after New Years. Some big important venue, I don't know."

"And the reason Farrah didn't call me about this is...?"

"She thought you'd be more likely to answer me."

Sylvie didn't have much to say to that. Farrah was right. However little she felt like talking to Meg, conversations with Farrah were infinitely more boring. There was always some annoying business that needed to be discussed - it made Sylvie's brain hurt.

"I've got to go, Yosef's calling me now," said Meg. "Just, uh, promise me you'll be careful."

It would be an empty promise, but Sylvie replied "Okay," and hung up.

Chapter Text

The rest of Julian's stay was brief - they talked and kissed a little more and then he had to go, promising she'd see him again soon. He gave her a little goodbye peck that only barely satisfied her appetite for him.

Truth is, she was a little relieved. If he'd stayed any longer, things could have gone further than innocent kissing. It wasn't that the idea was off-putting; far from it, in fact. The thing was, stripping herself to another person was scary. She didn't want to show him the same body she despised.

Sex was nothing really foreign. There was her only serious ex, John. He had been her first, and there was a time when she believed he would be her only. There were the various strangers during the first boom of Wildwood's success, each one new and thrilling but not all that passionate. And then, of course, the time Sylvie had used her body as bargaining chip - but that hardly even counted. It was over almost as soon as it began.

From then on, Sylvie didn't see much of Julian. He was busy with frequent performances for his second album, Room on Fire. The Strokes bounced back to New York a couple times for performances, and each time Sylvie was invited to the show and its afterparty. She usually went alone — the invitation was only really extended to her, anyway.

At one of these joints, Jules made an attempt to touch her. He had been staring at her in the crowd - undressing her with his eyes - throughout his set. They were alone in the bathroom of some club, having found nowhere else to be alone. They could hear the muffled sounds of electronic music along with faint knocking on the door, which they disregarded as they sloppily kissed each other. First, he gently caressed her breast over her thin blouse, which she allowed and even encouraged. He toyed with the little white buttons down the front - it was obvious what he wanted.

His fingers breeched the low waistband of her jeans. She froze, her mouth still interlocked with his. Evidently, Jules could tell, because he retracted his hand and apologized. Things were stilted and awkward after that. She left after a few more minutes with him and hadn't seen him since.

It was stupid to follow him into that bathroom in the first place.

December came to a close. Christmas was uneventful; the band spent a few hours together, and Sylvie received her bi-annual phone call from her parents. They sent her a card in the mail. Inside was a scribbled bible verse, Ephesians 4:32, and cash. As a little girl, Sylvie had engraved the same verse into a ceramic mug in art class as a gift for her parents. She suspected they were trying to send a message. She tucked the card into a drawer before heading outside for a smoke. The money would be sent back.

New Year's Eve was approaching rapidly and she planned to spend the evening in a dingy bar with strangers, sloshed out of her mind. The rest of the band wanted to all do something together, though.

Rowan would be hosting them all for dinner and drinks. Farrah would be there, too. Sylvie took her time choosing what kind of champagne to bring. Truthfully, she knew nothing about champagne, but she settled on an elegant bottle with a price tag in the double-zeros. She also bought some Crown Royal, primarily for herself and Brian.

Sylvie arrived around 6:30. Meg was the only person who looked up when she entered. Rowan was in the middle of telling a story, standing on a table and gesticulating dramatically. Everyone's eyes were wide. He had a habit of speaking too loud anytime he got excited, something his neighbors likely suffered for.

There was one extra person in Rowan's living room. Sylvie took a seat on Rowan's midcentury red sofa between her and Brian. According to Brian, the girl had been sleeping with Rowan for a few weeks, since just after their tour ended. Her name was Vera, and she was twenty-five, about a year older than Rowan. She had a spiky bob dyed cherry red and wore a black t-shirt with Siouxie Sioux's face on it. Her tights were artfully torn at the knee. What a couple.

"Anyone want some champagne? Whiskey?" offered Sylvie. Everyone gave a response except Brian. His gaze was focused elsewhere. To his left, Rowan was cupping Vera's cheek, whispering something in her ear. She was laughing sweetly behind a pretty little palm. It might as well have been just the two of them in the room. Brian was completely still except for the anxious tapping of his fingers against his thigh.

Meg followed Sylvie to the mini-bar (yes, really). She opened the cabinet to collect a few glasses while Sylvie tried in vain to open the champagne.

"Hand it over here," said Meg softly.

"Thanks," Sylvie muttered. "Hey..." she struggled for words. Any anger at Meg was long gone, and Sylvie was a little ashamed of her own reaction. "Is Brian tired or something? He looks distracted."

"I, uh, don't think so."

Something was off. Meg never stuttered. "Are you sure?"

"Well, you know, I think he might be feeling a little-" Meg leaned in, cupping her hand over Sylvie's ear, "-jealous."

"What, you think he likes Vera?"

"Not Vera. Rowan."

Right, of course. Nothing escaped Meg; it was like she had superpowers. Or was Brian being gay just that obvious? And wait, what about poor Ocean?

"What makes you say that?"

"I mean, just look at the poor guy," whispered Meg.

Sylvie swiveled her head around and saw Brian, who resembled a constipated statue. You would think he would be glad. Maybe with a new girl on his hands, Rowan would have less time for childish pranks, or at least someone else to pull them on. Brian liked to act annoyed every time he got harassed. Maybe it really was just that - an act. The two men spent a lot of time with each other, and Lord knew Rowan wasn't bad looking.

"You won't tell Brian I said anything, will you?" asked Meg. "I don't care if he's gay, or bisexual, or whatever. I just don't wanna be presumptive. Has he talked about it with you?"

Sylvie laughed nervously. That was answer enough.

"Doesn't he trust me? Why would he talk to you and not me? I mean, no offense or anything."

"First of all, ouch. Secondly, it's more complicated than that..." Sylvie trailed off, "Just, for now, don't tell anybody. He'll talk to you when he's ready. And for the record, I haven't heard anything about him and Rowan."

Meg sighed. "If you say so."

Chapter Text

Sylvie laid herself down on the shag carpet, throwing her arms over her head. The room around her was vaguely cloudy. Wisps of smoke curled around Brian, who held a half-finished joint in his hands, like a feather boa. He sat listening to Rowan, who was babbling about the time he found a creative use for a can of whipped cream and some marbles in the bedroom. Ew.

Sometime after dinner, Rowan had decided to generously roll a doobie for each of his bandmates. Even Meg partook, to everyone's shock. Vera had already taken off, claiming to have work in the morning. The lie was obvious. Not that anybody could blame the poor girl; she'd been on the receiving end of weird stares all night.

"Ugh, I'm starving..." groaned Meg, interrupting Rowan's tale, "but the snack tray is all the way over there." A party platter of vegetables, crackers, and dips was approximately five feet away from her.

"Sylvie, please, I'm dying here," Meg whined, gesturing towards the platter. Reluctantly, Sylvie crawled to where the tray was. Her limbs were heavy as lead. She deposited the tray on Meg's lap, taking a couple crackers for herself.

"You know what would be funny?" Sylvie smiled at her own thoughts.

"What?" asked Brian from across the room. He was slowly sliding down the couch, but couldn't summon the strength to sit back up.

"What if I called him?"

"Called who?"

Sylvie giggled. "Julian."

The thing about weed was that it made all feelings - both good and bad - more intense. Before getting high, Sylvie was only mildly concerned about Jules, wondering how exactly to proceed with him. Now, she was simultaneously panicked and giddy. It was a strange feeling, to be both nervous and relaxed at the same time, like a very wobbly hunk of jello. Mmm, jello.

"Why?" asked Meg. "What do you wanna say to him?"

"Hmm... I dunno. Just feel like talking to him. God, I wanna tear his clothes off and ride him like a stallion at the Kentucky Derby."

"So why don't you?"

"Cus, I mean, what if..." she sighed, "what if it looks weird?"

Meg cast her gaze downward. "It?"

"My pussy."

The whole room erupted into laughter. Rowan tossed his head between his knees, shoulders shaking. Brian nearly dropped his joint, which by this point was little more than a nubbin. Meg giggled through a mouthful of pita chip, spitting tiny crumbs on her lap. "Don't laugh at me, you assholes," mumbled Sylvie, rolling onto her stomach. "I'm serious."

"Hey, in my expert opinion, all penis fly-traps are beautiful," said Rowan. "See what I did there?"

Meg groaned loudly. "Did you genuinely just call it a penis fly-trap?" Rowan nodded, shamelessly laughing at his own joke.

"What makes you a fucking expert?" demanded Brian.

"I've got a lot of experience in my field - or rather, my bush. Just ask your mother."

Sylvie made a fake vomiting noise. Gesturing towards the door to his patio, she announced, "I'm gonna step out for a smoke."

She took her phone from her pocket, almost forgetting her purpose in the time it took to dial in Jules' number.

The phone rang and rang. Jules was probably busy, if not singing or partying then definitely in bed with some pretty young thing. Hell, maybe he was getting his usual bathroom blowie. "Come on, pick up," she mumbled, but just as she went to hang up, the line clicked. Jules answered with a husky, "Hello?"

"Hey, Jules," said Sylvie into the phone.

"Sylvie," Jules breathed. "Where are you?"

"My drummer's balcony," she said, wishing she was at an all-you-can-eat buffet instead. Patting down each of her pockets, she realized her cigarettes were already in her hand. Oops. "You?"

"Las Vegas. We played at Cox Pavilion earlier, and now we're checking out the Vegas party scene." Jules was proud of himself, she could tell, and with good reason.

Sylvie whistled. "Damn. Who opened for you?"

"Regina Spektor. And the Kings of Leon." He let out a nervous laugh, almost in disbelief.

"See any strippers yet?" Her tone was light, hiding a tinge of bitter jealousy. Not like Jules needed strippers, he had girls falling all over him as it was.

"No, but the night's still young. Fab's probably gambled away every cent the gig earned him." Julian's tone became abruptly melancholy. "I'm glad you called. I'm so fucking bored... do all the bars and parties and shit ever get old to you?"

"Yeah, but it beats sitting in a hotel room alone. Or worse, sitting in a hotel room with my bandmates. Besides, I've rarely got anything better to do." That wasn't exactly true. Sylvie never had anything better to do, besides kissing the execs' asses.

"Same. That's the nice thing about alcohol - it makes passing the time a little easier. Maybe that's why I can't put down the bottle." He laughed sardonically. "Sorry. I'm not usually so fucking depressing."

"No need to apologize."

Swimming through the fog of her mind, Sylvie remembered her cigarette, still unlit. The desire for it felt less pressing than before. For the first time since she was sixteen, she put the cigarette back into its carton.

"I was gonna invite you to a bar with me after my next show, but screw that. Let's just do something, Jules. I don't care what it is. I'm sick of just talking on the phone."

Jules exhaled. He felt the same way. She deserved better than what he had given her so far. His last failed relationship nearly crushed him. His heart was like a cyst, an inconvenient thing he had to keep from bursting and killing him. Sylvie tempted him like a drink did an alcoholic - he was too stupid to turn her away.

"Sure," he said. "I wanna see you play. We can meet up afterwards, if you want. I'll take you to this burger joint me and the guys like."

Burgers made her nervous. They tempted her more than they should have. She was a celebrity, and more importantly a young woman - people acted like she owed them thinness. Her wrists were too wide, her hips too dimply, her ribs buried too far beneath layers of flesh.

She paused a moment before answering, "It's a date."

"That it is, Miss Fowler. I gotta go. Drugs to do, hookers to fuck, you know. Not to mention, it's almost time to feed Fabrizio."

"Tell Fab I said hi," she murmured, before gently hanging up.

Chapter Text

Sylvie twisted a razor around in her fingers, waiting for her shower to heat up. She was running late by about ten minutes, and yet she still needed to shower and change. For the first time in months, she was going to shave every inch of her body.

Jules would be at the show, front and center. Knowing him, he'd be in his usual denim jacket and jeans. He probably wouldn't even comb his hair - he'd just spike it with beer and call it a day. And yet, like everything else about him, the lack of personal grooming was endearing.

There were a few new papers added to the tray on her countertop; receipts from a gynecologist visit. She'd gone for a routine checkup, but also to get back on the pill (just in case). It might make her gain a few pounds, which scared her almost to death, but then again pregnancy would mean the end of whatever life she had left.

A faint stinging sensation registered on her calf - without realizing, she'd nicked herself pretty badly. A thin line of blood ran down her ankle, collecting on her heel before being washed away.

The performance went slower than usual. As soon as Sylvie caught sight of Jules, she stumbled over a note, earning a few uncomfortable stares. All the smoking was finally catching up to her; she had to sneak breaths whenever she could. A handful of people had recognized Jules, clamoring over him in the front row. He didn't notice until they shouted his name, too occupied staring at Sylvie, silently waiting for her to look back down at him.

The crowd shrieked for an encore. Jules was among them; her voice enchanted him, deep and not very melodic, but lovely all the same. She glanced behind herself for a split second, an unspoken signal for Rowan to fix his wobbly tempo, before turning her head down to Jules.

She knelt down as the song approached its chorus. The emotion that went into this song was almost crippling. She had written it at eighteen, after her former boyfriend had taken to ignoring her in the wake of an explosive fight. At the time, it felt like the end of the world.

Sylvie reached into the crowd; immediately, people began to grasp at her, shaking and caressing her proffered hand, professing their love and devotion. She sang on. Only when Julian caught hold of her palm did she squeeze back, almost imperceptibly. He was eye-level with her boots, close enough to reach out and touch her.

And then the song was over. The lights dimmed, the band thanked everyone for coming, people began to shuffle away. Sylvie's feet ached, but she didn't want to make Jules wait while she changed into more comfortable shoes.

They made their way out of a side entrance, sneaking like errant teenagers to avoid rabid fans. His stride was longer than he realized; she was stumbling behind him, heels clacking in an asynchronous rhythm.

Sylvie winced as she ascended the steps leading up to the restaurant. She had reopened the cut on her leg, feeling the fresh blood dry into a sticky lattice on her skin. There was only one other person there. It was dark and the furniture was probably older than either of them - the hallmark of a good restaurant in NYC. The food was just as amazing as Julian had said it would be.

"Good?"

"Heavenly," she moaned.

Julian snorted. Nights like this made him glad to be alive, the mundane as marvelous as anything.

Her face was illuminated dully by the dim fluorescent lighting above them. Looking at her now, Jules was beginning to realize just how much he liked her. By now, most girls would have taken off the rose-tinted glasses, either leaving or trying to force him to clean up his act. Not Sylvie, however; for whatever reason she actually liked his sorry ass.

If he wanted to be with her, really and truly, he knew he would have to change himself. Only recently had he come to terms with his own dependency on alcohol; the strength to act against it evaded him. Furthermore, was it even worth the effort?

Her right hand was occupied, but her left was idle. Jules pinched the fabric of her sleeve. He could see her attention shift down. The air had changed somehow. Soon they were throwing cash down on the table and scurrying out.

His apartment was only a block or two away. The walk would usually have been easy, but Sylvie's cut along with her boots made it painful. Jules noticed her wince.

"Here," he said. "Your foot bothering you?"

"Nah, it's just the heels. I'll be okay."

He bent down clumsily, offering her a ride on his back. She was worried about being to heavy for him, but the ache in her leg made her accept. Surprisingly, he managed to stand up and carry her almost a block, savoring the feeling of her cheek against his shoulder.

They had barely crossed the threshold of his place when Sylvie pounced on him, initiating a long and heavy kiss. They found their way to Jules' sofa, barely separating for air.

Jules was in heaven. He had a girl straddling his lap, kissing him breathless. His eyes were heavy-lidded but through them he could see Sylvie's lipstick smudged on her cupid's bow, her skirt ridden up over her knees.

There was a condom in the pocked of his jacket; he didn't think he would need it, and strangely enough didn't mind the fact. Thank God he did, though - once he found the strength, he would pull Sylvie off of him and invite her down the hall.

His rough hands inched under the hem of her shirt, feeling the flesh of her middle, creeping upwards toward the underside of her breast. His dick twitched in his jeans. It was hot; he wanted to shrug off his jacket, but couldn't bring himself to pause. Sylvie took his hands and moved them to the first button on her shirt. It was not a subtle signal - he got to work, undoing the top two and revealing most of her black bra.

He pulled his lips from hers, a line of saliva still connecting them. He kissed a line between the base of her neck and her shoulder. The little bit of lipstick that had gotten onto him was now on her collarbone.
If Sylvie would give him permission, Jules wanted to take the bra off entirely, to have his hands and mouth all over her pretty tits.

He was so close to asking for it, begging even, when the doorknob began to jiggle.

Chapter Text

Albert shuffled in, clearly not expecting anyone but Jules to be there. He didn't even look over his shoulder as he set down his keys. Upon seeing the two of them, Sylvie still on Julian's lap, he didn't even raise an eyebrow. She dislodged herself with urgency, almost tripping over Julian's knee as she frantically buttoned up her shirt. He caught her with a slight laugh.

After a few minutes of tense silence, Albert came out of his bedroom, holding a small case close to his chest. Suddenly all of Julian's good humor disappeared. Albert shot him a look, daring him to say something, anything. They both knew he wouldn't. There was nothing to say that hadn't already been said. Sylvie picked off a few more pieces of nail polish.

Their little Mexican standoff ended when Albert stalked off back towards the door. He knocked his keys to the ground by mistake. They landed right in front of Sylvie's foot. She picked them up silently and let Albert take them from her with a terse "Thanks." They had met once or twice by now, but had barely exchanged more than a few words. Julian was leaning as far back into the couch as physically possible.

"Al," he said.

Albert was halfway out the door. He hesitated, then turned back around.

Julian's voice sounded strained. "Be careful."

"I always am," said Albert, before closing the door behind him. Jules and Sylvie were alone again, free to resume their earlier activities, but it felt like the energy had been sucked out of the room. She could tell Jules was angry, or at least trying to appear so. She placed a hand on his shoulder, which he covered with his own.

Sylvie's voice was cautious as she asked, "Is everything okay? You look kinda...pissed." Julian nodded. It was clear he wanted to change the subject.

"So now that you've got me all alone, what are you gonna do with me?" he winked, trying to lighten the mood.

Fast forward only a few minutes, and Sylvie had been dragged down the hall to Julian's bedroom. The room wasn't messy per se, but it hadn't been cleaned in a while - there was dust collecting everywhere and an overflowing laundry basket in the corner. Sylvie had been expecting much worse. Hanging on the doorknob was a pair of black fuzzy handcuffs. Kinky.

It had begun to rain. The sound of splattering droplets was barely audible through a rickety window behind them. She was busy examining his band posters, taped all over the walls and even on the ceiling, while Jules laid her down on his bed.

All but one button on her shirt had been undone, and Jules' knee was lodged firmly between her legs as he hovered over her. He stood up straight just long enough to yank his shirt over his head. Boys were usually either cute or hot, but somehow this one was both. He was perfect; beautiful, even.

Sylvie took the liberty of undoing her last shirt button, shrugging it off her shoulders. There was still a red blotch on her collarbone, forming into a very faint bruise. For a moment, she didn't really know what to do.

"Can I, uh, take this off?" said Jules, tugging the band of her bra. She nodded and allowed him to reach underneath her arms to unhook it. The bra fell down the front of her, revealing her breasts in their entirely average glory. He cupped one in his palm, running his thumb over her nipple as their lips met again. He kissed a line down the center of her throat, over her clavicle and onto the other breast as he took the nipple into his mouth.

Sweet Jesus. Almost involuntarily, Sylvie spread her legs a little bit wider. She pulled the ends of her skirt up over her knees. There was a fine line between horny and downright aroused, and it had just been crossed. It was as if Jules wanted to devour her.

"That looks uncomfortable," said Sylvie. She was right; his erection was bordering on painful, barely relieved by the tight fabric of his jeans.

"You could help me with it," he smiled.

"They oughta call you Julian Casanova."

His fingers ghosted up the sides of her thighs, disappearing under miles of black fabric and tracing circles into soft flesh. He hooked them into the waistband of her underwear; a question, a plea. The rain began to patter harder.

"Go ahead," she laughed nervously.

He did. They were tugged down her legs and discarded with the rest of their clothing. Julian didn't miss the wet spot in the center of them. Tender was his touch as he laid her back down, spreading her legs wide.

"Fuck," he mumbled, voice gravelly with arousal. All the blood from his brain was now situated in his crotch. "You're gonna give me a heart attack, Miss Fowler."

"Cheesy. Also, don't you mean a stroke?"

Jules let out one of his usual breathy laughs. "Now that was cheesy."

There was something oddly arousing about wearing nothing but a skirt. The waistband mercifully covered the lower part of her stomach, resting just over her belly button. Abruptly he pulled away from her.

"Hold on... hold on," Julian chuckled. He reached for his jacket on the floor, checking a few pockets before finding what he was looking for. Seeing the condom made it all feel more real somehow. They were no longer just fooling around; they were gonna go all the way.

He took a second to stand over her, silent and still. Sylvie found she couldn't keep eye contact with him. Unconsciously, her arms crossed over her stomach, shielding what she knew to be her worst feature. Two of his fingers applied gentle pressure to her clit as he gave himself a few pumps with his fist. It was steady enough but only barely took the edge off.

Something guys didn't always realize was that the penis itself was nothing special. It was the person attached to the dick that made it attractive, not the other way around. That said, Julian's dick was pretty good as far as dicks went; perhaps one of the best she'd ever seen.

He pushed the tip of his cock against her entrance, breathing shakily. "You sure about this?"

"I'm sure. Believe me, I'm sure."

As Julian bottomed out, he let out an exhale, leaning into the crook of Sylvie's shoulder. At first he was slow and steady, trying to find a rhythm. The sound between them was quiet enough to still hear the gentle rain. Sylvie's skirt ruffled with each of Julian's thrusts; he hadn't taken it off, just pushed it far enough up her legs for easy access.

Her legs were getting a little sore. They were spread as wide as her joints would allow, tucked against the sides of his body. She was trying not to make too much noise - it helped that he couldn't see her face, flushed red and contorted in pleasure.

Julian paused just long enough to sling both of her legs over his shoulders. Despite the fact that she was literally folded in half, Sylvie found the position much more comfortable. She could focus better on the sharp ecstasy between her legs.

Surprisingly enough, Jules was absolutely the type to be loud in bed. He was trying to mumble something, but Sylvie wasn't really paying attention. He became a little more forceful in his movements. They were both already close to the edge, trying to draw things out for as long as possible.

"Oh, fuck," said Julian in a borderline desperate voice, "Sylvie-"

There was something sweeter than usual in the way Jules said her name. It was so raw, so tender, not hidden behind drunken playfulness or standoffish conversation. Sylvie felt drunk on desire.

It took her completely by surprise. Her orgasm made her shudder beneath him, letting out a few high-pitched gasps as she came back down to earth. The air between their bodies felt more humid than it had before.

Sylvie put her hand to his heart, pushing him gently back. "Give me a minute," she said, "I'm still... sensitive." Julian didn't pull out - he simply stayed put, kissing the underside of Sylvie's jaw until she told him to move again.

Within a few thrusts, he was again approaching his peak. His fingers had never left her clit; he circled them around again, trying to make her feel good. It wasn't long until he came into the condom, groaning Sylvie's name into the skin of her neck.

If the neighbors weren't already awake, they definitely were now.

Chapter Text

Sylvie was alone in a recording booth, idly running her fingers over the ridges in the microphone. She could see Farrah and Yosef whispering to the sound team through a small window to her left. No doubt they were complaining. It was late and everyone wanted to go home; they'd been through what felt like a million takes of the same backup vocals, each one sucking complete ass in its own special way.

Sleeping with him was one thing, but Julian had let her stay the night with him. There was something strangely intimate about it. Thankfully, he wasn't the type of guy to get all cold after the act - he'd held her in his arms and talked about the Odyssey for a million fucking years. Of the few one night stands Sylvie had tried in her life, she'd usually find an excuse to leave right after the (sort of) fun stuff despite whatever half-hearted sleepover invitation was offered.

"Hello? Earth to Sylvie?" said Farrah, standing in the door. "Try not to clear your throat for a minute. Sound team wants a little more rasp in this next take."

That idea sounded absolutely awful, but Sylvie complied. She'd heard that Julian was like a dictator during his recording sessions. It was hard to picture - he was so relaxed with her, almost to the point of lethargy.

Meg's writing was so flowery. It was full of description, from twinkling stars to dark, still water and everything else beautiful. Maybe that's why Sylvie couldn't get it right. If Meg was beauty, then Sylvie was truth, its ugly counterpart. Her voice was so aggressively straightforward. She simply could not drag it up to the fragile, airy tone demanded of her. Maybe Julian was right - she was a falcon, not a nightingale.

"What's the issue?" said Yosef, tapping on the glass, "That note should be within your range."

Sylvie sighed. "I'll try it again." She really needed to quit smoking.

Before leaving for the day, she dug a transcribed and revised version of her and Julian's song out of her purse and presented it to Farrah, Yosef and the rest of the band. It was only the first of at least three songs she was supposed to produce, but everyone seemed surprised to see it. They agreed that the lyrics were good - better than good, in fact - but disliked the idea of having Julian's name in the credits.

Farrah suggested keeping it as an unreleased track to be saved for a future demo EP. "I mean, I like the song, but decisions about collabs can't be made solely based on who you're fucking this week."

Brian snickered; Rowan outright laughed. Meg looked uncomfortable, but held her tongue.

"Fuck you," said Sylvie. "How do you know I'm sleeping with him anyway?"

Farrah's little dig wasn't that harsh, but it did sting. Sylvie knew she'd been a whore in the past. It was why she couldn't stand to face her parents. But compared to some people (ahem, Rowan), she was practically a virgin. Besides, although she and Jules had done the pantless polka, the nakey shakey, the horizontal waltz, whatever you wanted to call it - that certainly wasn't all they did together.

Farrah smirked. "Call it a hunch."

"Christ, Farrah," said Meg, standing up and crossing her arms self-righteously, "Sylvie's not as unprofessional as you're implying her to be."

Sylvie was absolutely that unprofessional, but what made her so was her chronic tardiness and pissy attitude. Not the fact that she was mixing work and pleasure.

"It was only a joke," scoffed Farrah, "Has anyone ever told you that you take shit too seriously?"

Many people had, in fact - Meg could be a bit of a stick in the mud. It was a small inside joke between Wildwood. Now, Sylvie felt unbearably sorry for having teased her about it. She shrugged her shoulders, dismissing both of them.

"I want this as a B-side to the next single we put out. We can record it in a few weeks, which gives us plenty of time to play with the sound," Sylvie said. "It's not like Jules has to be featured. He only needs a credit for writing some of it."

Meg frowned. "No. It should be on the record independently."

"Yeah," said Brian, "I don't get what the big deal is. It's just a songwriting credit." Rowan (for once in his life) said nothing. He was too busy staring down at his phone, trying to hide a grin. Brian exerted a great effort to keep his eyes on the women - it didn't take a genius to guess who Rowan was texting.

Farrah could see she was outnumbered. "Fine. Let's just call it a day and we'll pick back up later. You," she said, pointing at Sylvie, "Have your little boyfriend's people call me."

Jules would be absolutely indignant to hear that someone though he had 'people'. He probably wouldn't even have a manager if not for the fact that he couldn't be bothered with all that bureaucratic shit.

She'd been thinking about Julian all day. He'd been bouncing between cities since they last saw each other, as usual. Somehow he'd managed a few minutes a day to call her, but it wasn't the same - she kinda-sorta-maybe missed him. She often sent him gritty photos of graffiti along the street she figured he'd like, which her poor phone was barely capable of doing. He, in turn, took to sending her pictures of books and posters and funky sketches that nobody else could decipher the meaning of.

He would be back soon. Until then, Sylvie supposed there was nothing to do but wait and sing.

Chapter Text

"Fuck you," said Julian, holding his head in his hands.

Sylvie threw up both middle fingers. "Yeah, I bet you would." She had just thoroughly kicked his ass at pool.

"I already have," he slurred with a clumsy wink. "God, I'm drunk. And that's saying something coming from me."

"Drunk as a skunk," Sylvie agreed. Her accent was exacerbated by her own intoxication. She inched closer to him, patting his shoulder in mock consolation. It gave him the chance to grab her wrist and plant a slobbery kiss on it.

"What do you say we get out of here?" Sylvie laughed, rubbing her arm on her blouse. Truth was, she wasn't in the mood so much as she wanted to be close to him. Sex was simply the easiest way to do that without seeming clingy - a means to an end.

"Your place or mine?" he asked.

"How 'bout-" Sylvie leaned in, whispering in Julian's ear, "-the bathroom?"

Julian shook his head resoundingly. He didn't want to take Sylvie in the bathroom, to see her on her knees on some filthy floor, to treat her and himself like dirt for the sake of cheap thrills. It was fucked up and he knew it, how many girls had done that exact thing for his supposed pleasure.

He leaned against the end of the pool table, getting cue chalk on the tips of his fingers. The apple of Sylvie's cheek was illuminated dully by colorful fluorescents. Shadow covered most of her face, but he could still see a faint glint in each dark iris.

"You're beautiful," he said matter-of-factly.

Sylvie shrugged. She knew her face was at least okay, or else she probably wouldn't be so famous. It was the rest of her she worried about. She answered vacantly, "Thanks."

The bar was crowded. Other patrons surrounded them, chatting noisily and leaving empty bottles strewn around. Julian, in his typical fashion, picked them up to examine them for seemingly no reason before setting them back down. He was slowly (and unintentionally) wandering away from her.

It was almost poetic, the way Julian wandered towards her and then away. He was so beautiful. At that moment, though, Sylvie knew she didn't have his attention - she didn't have his anything.

She wanted to say something. Instead, she was silent, watching him as he stood absorbed in his own world.

"What?" said Jules, turning around and facing her.

"Nothing."

"Come on, what?"

"You're beautiful-er."

He didn't accept or rebuff the compliment. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were trying to get into my pants."

"I'm not trying to get into your pants. I'm trying to get you out of them."

Jules snorted. Sylvie could be clever when she wanted to be. She made him laugh - when they were together, he tended to forget about all else, be it music, or his drinking, or all the shit with Al and the guys. Whether that was good or bad, well, he hadn't yet decided.

"D'you want another drink?" he asked. Sylvie shook her head. Unlike Julian, she couldn't knock 'em back that quickly; the beer in her hand was still halfway full. "Then come outside with me. I need a smoke."

She acquiesced. "Me too."

They headed out to the small patio hand-in-hand. There was another string of lights out there, this one entirely composed of little golden bulbs. It contrasted nicely with the still biting cold outside. Spring was holding out; maybe the groundhog had seen his shadow.

The cold gave Sylvie an excuse to scoot closer to Julian. She tucked her side against his, resting her head on his leather-clad shoulder. The position was awkward - even more so once Julian tried to drunkenly put his arm around her and light his cigarette like that.

"I only got one cigarette left," he said, "You wanna share?"

Sylvie had a whole pack somewhere, but felt too drunk to bother digging through her purse for it. "Sure."

He flicked the lighter once, twice, drawing only a quick spark. Shaking it, he neither felt nor heard any remaining fluid. "Hope you got a lighter."

"Yeah," said Sylvie, "Hang on." She slid out from under his arm. Her favorite lighter - a flip-top vintage one in emerald green - was in her front pocket.

Jules' shaggy bangs were too close to the flame of comfort. As he held the cigarette in his mouth, Sylvie smoothed it back softly.

"Isn't it kinda poetic? You have the cigarette, I have the lighter..."

"I get it," said Jules.

Sylvie smiled. "Reminds me of when we first met."

"I don't really remember it," said Jules, handing her the cigarette, "If I wasn't hungover, I was probably drunk. Or both. I can't tell you how much fuckin' shit I've missed on account of the bottle."

"Why not quit, then?" The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. It was a stupid question, one she already knew the answer to.

"Same reason you don't quit smoking." His tone was flat. He'd heard the same thing from everyone else - it was getting really fucking old.

She hummed. "One of these days... I'm gonna quit."

"Why'd you start?"

"Lotta reasons. I was fifteen and real halfwitted. Everyone else was drinking, or smoking, or doing some other dangerous shit. I wanted to fit in, y'know," she tapped the cigarette, watching smoky ash crumble away from it. "Mostly, though, I thought it'd make me less hungry." It was hard to say aloud; to admit how desperately angry her own body made her.

"I know what you mean," said Jules, "Thinking you got something to prove."

"How old were you?"

"Shit, twelve, maybe? Thirteen? I was a little older when I started smoking."

Sylvie looked at him wide-eyed. "Are you serious? That young?"

"Sadly, yeah," he laughed half-heartedly. "Got kicked outta school for it. My dad was fuckin' pissed, which I guess was kinda the point. Wanted to give that bastard and all his money one big 'fuck you'."

"I'm sorry."

"Now that's somethin' I've never heard before," he cleared his throat, becoming solemn. "I'm sorry, too. So stupid - we were just kids," he said, referring to the great injustice of it all.

"Stupid," she agreed. The cigarette, stained with lipstick on one end, was nearly gone. The bartender could be heard from inside, announcing last call. Their time together was coming to a close.

"Come back to my place," offered Julian.

"Okay."

Chapter Text

Julian was once again on top of Sylvie. They were both fully clothed, but that was about to change. He'd assured her that Albert wouldn't be returning to their shared apartment for the rest of the night. Thank God.

His room wasn't just tidy, it was clean. There were no bottles on the night stand or dirty clothes on the floor. Indents in the carped suggested it had been recently vacuumed. The fact that Jules even owned a vacuum was shock enough, let alone the fact it had been used.

His hair hung down, tickling the sides of Sylvie's face. It was soft and didn't reek of Heineken — he'd washed it recently. Who was this man and what had he done with Julian Casablancas?

Feeling bold, Sylvie cupped him through his jeans. He was semi-hard already, groaning against her neck, where his mouth had moved.

"Lift your hips," said Julian, unbuttoning her jeans clumsily and tugging them down. It made her laugh; she was just tipsy enough to be delighted without any real reason.

"If you don't hurry up and get naked, I'm just gonna do this thing myself."

Julian grinned, "Sounds hot. Can I watch?"

"Nasty, you perv," she mumbled, stroking his back.

"Only for you, gorgeous."

"Yuck."

Jules' fingers ran along the band of her underwear before dipping in. Sylvie let out a breath — his touch was too gentle, bordering on torturous, and he knew it.

"You're... wet," Jules said, suddenly looking up.

"Huh, already? Good job."

"No, I mean, uh, not that kinda wet," Jules held up two fingers. They were bright red, glistening with blood. Sylvie's eyes widened.

"Oh my god," she whispered, swiftly closing her legs and standing up. "I am so, so sorry." She stumbled, trying to pull her jeans up rapidly. Thankfully, she'd had the foresight to tuck a couple pads into her purse. Of all the bloody times for Aunt Flow to make an entrance.

Julian lay supine on his bed, which was mercifully left unstained. His non-bloody hand was covering his mouth, trying to keep a laugh from escaping.

"Real glad you find this funny," said Sylvie, fumbling with the button on her jeans. She was trying to feign some dignity.

"Hey, it ain't a big deal. I got a few towels in the hall closet — we could make like Moses and part the red sea, if you wanna."

"I'd rather make like a tree and leaf so I can get a pad on. Mind if I use your bathroom?"

Julian stood up and approached the doorway she stood in. "You don't even gotta ask. There's some Midol in the cabinet above the sink. I, uh, don't know what all's around. Girls like chocolate, right? Al's got some M&Ms in the pantry-"

Sylvie backed up, inching closer to the bathroom. Her face was hot with embarrassment. She just wanted to clean herself up, preferably before her jeans got stained, and get the hell out before Jules asked her to. "I'm good," she said. "Thanks."

Upon exiting the bathroom, she went into the hall to retrieve her shoes, checking the contents of her purse to make sure she wasn't forgetting anything. Jules followed her.

"Where're you going?"

"Home," she replied. "I'm sorry, I'm just not really in the mood anymore. Next time, okay?"

Jules put his hands in his pockets. "It's like, four in the morning."

"Is it?"

"Yeah. So just stay over."

"I haven't got any pajamas. Or a toothbrush. And I can't believe you still want to fuck me after that."

"I don't mean to fuck. You can wear some of my clothes," said Jules. Taking a step back, he added, "Unless there's somewhere you gotta be in the morning."

Sylvie hesitated a second. She was still mortified as all hell, but some mushy part of her was glad at the invitation. It meant he took her seriously.

"Come on," said Jules. He wanted her there, with him — it didn't matter what they were doing.

"Alright." She let him take her purse from her and throw it onto a hook by the door. He gave her the Camel t-shirt, the one he'd been wearing the day they met, and a pair of shorts. She tried her best to scrub off her makeup with toilet paper and hand soap. It left a grey stain underneath her eyes.

"I look like Adam Sandler," Sylvie said.

"Maybe if he was hot."

"Oh stop it. Y'know, I kinda thought he was, in middle school. Had a poster in my room and everything."

Julian laughed. He laid down over the covers on his bed, not sure whether he wanted to sleep. He was so tired his head hurt, drunkenness fading into the inception of a hangover. But Sylvie was there, watching him, looking at him like he was the most interesting thing on earth.

He turned his head towards the window by the bed before he could say something stupid. It was still dark — dawn was fast approaching. Vaguely a couple on the street could be heard arguing.

She slid in next to him. Her hand was on his back, a balm to his mistreated body. He felt his shoulders relax, eyes halfway open.

"You should come over more often," he mumbled.

"What am I, your girlfriend?"

He smiled and closed his eyes, letting her continue to touch him.

"I'm serious," she said.

Julian opened his eyes, contemplating his words. "You don't wanna be my girl," he said. "I got too much shit goin' on."

"Stop telling me what I do and don't want." She hadn't meant to be curt with him — he'd been so kind to her earlier.

"I'm fucked up, Sylvie. I got problems — you know that — and I'm not gonna fix myself for you.I got nothing to give." He couldn't go through it again, trying futilely to be what someone else wanted, throwing away years of his life on the equivalent of a dying star.

"You think I don't know that? You drink too much — that's the only thing I have a problem with — but I like all the other stuff. I like you."

"You don't know all the other stuff."

"I want to."

They all said that. They all wanted him to open his heart, and ran away the minute he did. "Don't teach me a lesson I've already learned."

"Well, if you don't wanna be 'committed', that's fine. I'm not going to force something out of you. I just don't get why I'm here. I don't have anything to give you either."

In that moment, Julian wished he wasn't so shy — he wished he could tell her that he was falling in love with her. Her anger was like a hot brand on his skin. It paralyzed him.

Sylvie assumed Julian was checking out of the conversation. She didn't have the energy or the strength to keep arguing. Laying back stiffly next to him, she let him roll over so he could go to sleep. After a while, the sun began to rise and she watched it, alone, through the cracks in the half-open blinds.

Chapter Text

Sylvie woke up at around noon. Julian was next to her, still on his side and facing away. Embarrassingly, she'd wrapped one arm over his middle in the night. She tried to pry it away, but it was stuck under his, pricked by pins and needles. He held on to it, stubborn even in his sleep. He rolled over with a snore (which was strangely adorable), giving her a chance to take back the limb.

She stood up slowly, trying not to wake him. Her hangover made itself aggressively known. A headache coupled with slight nausea made her dizzy, bumping her leg against the nightstand with a loud thunk. Julian let out a little grunt and did not stir.

Sylvie crept into the kitchen. Predictably enough there was little in the way of breakfast around — how on earth Julian kept himself alive was anybody's guess — but there were coffee grounds in a tin and a machine that looked very well-loved.

The pot was just beginning to fill up when Albert walked in. His hair was easily as disheveled as hers. Beneath his eyes were large purple bags, which stood out against lifelessly pale skin. He didn't appear surprised in the least until he recognized her.

She was a little embarrassed to be caught in what was obviously Julian's clothing. Not knowing what else to do, she offered her hand for a shake and introduced herself, offering apologies for her intrusion.

"Where's Jules?" Albert asked, disregarding her introduction. "I need to talk to him." He poured himself a cup of coffee. It wasn't done brewing yet; droplets sizzled against the grate as they fell.

"He's in his room. I think he's still sleeping."

Albert set his mug down on the countertop and marched towards Julian's room. Sylvie had the urge to go after him, to stop him from disturbing Julian's much-needed rest. It wasn't really her business, though, whatever was going on. And she was still a little annoyed with Jules.

"Hey asshole, you decent?" said Albert, banging on the door. Julian could be heard from inside, telling Al to do some truly unsavory things to himself. He went in anyway.

Sylvie's nosiness would be the death of her. She could hear passive-aggressive arguing and profanity being thrown around. Albert walked out of Julian's room, running his hands through his hair, exhaling forcefully and storming past a timid Sylvie. His own door slammed shut with a bang.

It was clear she had long outstayed her welcome. She picked up a mug and poured coffee for Julian, already planning an excuse to leave.

"Hungover?" asked Jules. His voice was rough from sleep.

"A little. You?"

"Violently." He rubbed his temples. Never had such a severe case of bedhead been witnessed.

"Hold on a sec. I'll bring you some water too."

"Nah, I'm good. You wanna do something today? Ain't shit fun around here, but we could figure something out, I dunno."

"I have a meeting later," Sylvie said. It was true — but the meeting was a late dinner. There was nothing stopping her from spending a few more hours with him. Truthfully, she just wanted to run away from the feelings of inadequacy that always reared their ugly heads in Julian's presence.

"You want a ride there?" offered Julian.

"That's okay. I have to get home first. Change, do my hair, all that."

"Lemme take you home, then."

She crossed her arms skeptically. "You don't even own a car."

"Yeah I do. It's out front."

Peeking out his bedroom window, Sylvie saw a lone grey Chevy Impala that would've been totally bitchin' about fifteen years ago. Huh.

"So why don't you ever use it?" She asked.

"Compared to walking, driving in New York doesn't save much time. And gas isn't cheap either."

She wanted to tell him that whatever money he'd saved on gas, he'd likely blown on taxis. However, it was well known that Julian's idiosyncrasies were not to be reasoned with.

"Alrighty, then."

She went into the bathroom to put on last night's clothes. There were a couple drops of something, probably beer, just above her shirt's hem. It could have been worse — she could have thrown up on herself. There was a comb on the counter and enough Nicorette in her purse to hide terrible morning breath.

Julian twiddled his thumbs while he waited, wishing Sylvie was changing in front of him.

"You ready?" Sylvie said, popping her head through the doorway. Julian nodded. He'd passed out in last night's clothes and saw no need to don anything else.

They exited somewhat loudly. Next to the door there were hooks, from which hung various knickknacks, jackets and even someone's tie. He twirled his keys on his finger, opening the front door for her and bowing in a comical gesture. She played along, curtsying on the threshold.

Jules took his chivalry a step further and opened the car door for Sylvie. It was such a strange juxtaposition, a greasy dude in wrinkled clothes acting like a knight in shining armor.

The car was somewhat dirty. There were a few wrappers along with various magazines and even a pair of shoes in the backseat. In the front cup holder sat a few empty coke cans. From the rear view mirror, one of those little tree-shaped air fresheners hung, advertising the scent of pine. It did not, in fact, smell like pine.

"You can just toss that in the back," he said, referring to a leather jacket crumpled pitifully on her seat.

As the car pulled out, some asshole in a lotus laid on the horn, clearly distraught over having to wait two seconds for them. Sylvie's headache was aggravated; she turned grouchily towards Julian, wondering why he didn't flip that guy off. He was smiling, oblivious.

The silence between them was comfortable enough. Julian's driving was, to put it plainly, bad. He kept looking over at Sylvie, expecting her to say something, but she was busy squinting out the window, trying to keep the sun out of her eyes. She had forgotten to take more Midol that morning. From her belly button to her thighs, everything hurt.

Conveniently, a parking space was free not 30 feet from her building. The doorman could be seen yawning into his gloved hand.

"Can't I get a goodbye kiss, Miss Fowler?"

Demurely, Sylvie leaned in and pressed a kiss to the skin of his cheek. It held the slightest hint of stubble. Her cheerful tone as she thanked him for the ride was forced. She allowed him to return the favor with a peck on her jawbone, and then the edge of her lips.

"You better call me soon," said Julian. He wondered when they'd see each other next — it could be a week, it could be a month.

She promised she would. Stepping out of the car, she willed herself to ignore her own sentimentality, the startling pang in her heart as she watched him drive away. The sense of intimacy she felt with Jules, the almost painful soft-spot she had for him, they were the product of a childish fancy. Nothing more. Julian clearly had no desire to be with her in any serious sense. He wanted a cool girl, the kind who was down to keep things casual and fun.

The smart thing to do would be to break it off. Sylvie, however, was dumb — at least, so people always told her.

She stood in the street for a moment before entering her building, watching a flock of crows perch themselves on a wire. This meeting later was going to be a bitch.

Chapter Text

"The fuck is this?"

Michael Augbiny's willowy little assistant sat up straighter, clearly not expecting confrontation. "It would sell. You know it would." She took a bite of her sparse dinner, looking about the restaurant to avoid the eyes of those around the table.

Sylvie highly doubted that.

"If Sylvie says no, then no. End of story," said Meg, crossing her arms. Her hands were shaking — for all the flack she gave her friends, you'd think she'd have no problem speaking up to superiors.

"We make concessions for your sake, Sylvie. Lots of them. I just don't get why you have a problem with this. You're young, you've got assets-" said Augbiny, enunciating the 'ass', "-so why not take advantage of them?"

"Don't make comments like that about her," said Meg, under her breath. Augbiny rolled his eyes.

The new head producer, Harris Grant-Metin, raised his hand. "Let Sylvie speak for herself." Metin had previously worked with popular new acts, such as Avril Lavigne and Green Day. His hiring was the label's decision, based on the meteoric success of Evanescence's Fallen a year ago, which he personally had a hand in mixing.

The concept art for a cover was in Sylvie's hands. There were a few preliminary sketches, some rough, others polished. Among them, there was one thing in common — they all featured her in a state of semi-nudity. Some had her erotically caressing or pressing her mouth to the barrel of a shotgun. The label clearly thought the image of Sylvie's breasts, barely concealed, was a necessary element to ensure success. If that wasn't insulting enough, each design incorporated some way of hiding her stomach, arms and legs, knowing they didn't fit the conventionally attractive bill.

It wasn't that she had a problem with the idea itself. She wasn't her parents, she believed in a woman's right to express her own sexuality. But her sexuality and Wildwood didn't mix; Wildwood was her baby, her art, her greatest achievement. It was a way of purging tender feelings by sending them out into the world.

Perhaps it was fate, or divine punishment. Wildwood would never have succeeded if not for the careless — no, downright improper — use of her body.

Like any artist, Sylvie knew she would trade anything for the sake of her art. She just didn't want it to be like this, to be reduced (again) to a walking sex object. Wildwood was more — she was more. It wounded her already fragile pride. And yet, simultaneously, it felt well deserved.

"She can't be talked into it. Trust me," said Farrah, taking a sip from her wine glass. Yosef nodded in agreement. A moment ago, he had been proudly showing pictures of his daughter to anyone who would listen; he had a whole roll of them in his wallet.

If Julian were here, he would be making demands like an autocrat. Sylvie could imagine him now, leaning back in his chair with a cigarette between his lips and a beer in his hand, doing everything in his power to get his way. A smile tugged at the corner of her lips.

And then a new wave of irritation surfaced. Julian was, as usual, in another city. The Strokes were booked up for the next few months, while Wildwood was stuck in New York, bickering with management like children.

Sylvie beckoned over a waiter, ordering herself another glass of wine, which earned her two stern looks. One was from Meg, who thought public drunkenness was uncouth. The other was from Farrah, who disapproved of the way alcohol would affect Sylvie's figure. Sylvie ignored them both. She picked off her last flecks of nail polish and listened to the clinking of piano keys across the restaurant, where an elderly man sat playing a gentle rhythm. If Julian were here, he'd be able to recognize the pianist's fugue. He had a weirdly good ear for those things.

Sylvie didn't like how frustrated Julian's absence made her. She knew that it would almost constantly be the case — they both had busy careers and lives that would seldom be able to mix in the foreseeable future; Julian especially.

He didn't have time for her, and clearly didn't care to make it.

The thought hit her suddenly; try as she might, things between them would likely never go very far. She took a long gulp, nearly emptying her wine glass. A slight, comfortable dizziness made its way to the top of her head. Farrah and Augbiny were leaning into each other, whispering conspiratorially.

When nobody was looking, Brian offered to swap his own full glass for Sylvie's, patting her on the shoulder. She refused. From the looks of things, he'd be needing it. Rowan had been yammering on and on about moving in with Vera after only three months of dating. Brian had pretended not to care. Sylvie and Meg had seen right through it; he was a terrible actor. The way he'd stabbed his steak, you'd think it owed him money. Sylvie did not ask after Ocean.

"Right," announced Farrah, "We've come to an agreement." Her grin was wide, her shoulders held high. Whatever she and Augbiny had come up with was clearly the best idea in all of human history. "It won't be you on the cover, Sylvie. We'll just hire a model. That way we have more freedom in regards to how we pose her."

"So tasteless," Meg sniffed.

Augbiny took a bite, savoring his words as much as the food he was eating. "Well, Ms. MacDougal, we at Avian don't think so. And we do get final say — it's written in your contract." His tone brokered no room for argument.

Sylvie remembered what she had done to get them that contract. She was glad she'd already finished her own meal, or else she'd have lost her appetite.

The elderly pianist had stopped playing, sorting through the bills he'd collected in his hat. His wrinkled face sagged in disappointment. Whatever he'd earned was obviously not as much as he'd hoped for.

Standing up, Sylvie set her napkin on the table, taking her small clutch purse with her. She strode up to the old man. "Do you accept requests?" she inquired timidly, clasping a stray lock of hair.

"Certainly. What would the young lady like to hear?"

She remembered Julian telling her about his favorite classical pieces and asked for one of them. While the old man was busy rifling through sheet music, she took a $100 bill from her clutch and slipped it into the hat, making sure he wouldn't see. Julian was right; the song was lovely.

Feeling a bit less cross, she slipped back into her chair, ready to get the check and take off. There was a bit of spinach stuck in Augbiny's teeth. She almost pointed it out, but decided it was funnier to leave it be.

Chapter Text

Sylvie's lighter gave one spark, then two, and on the third strike created a flame that danced only long enough for her to light a cigarette. Shaking it, she did not hear the sound of splashing liquid inside. The lighter was empty.

"You're sure you wouldn't like a ride home?" Mr. Augbiny asked, gesturing towards his sleek BMW that the valet had just retrieved. His assistant was already in the driver's seat.

"No." Sylvie said sharply, muttering "Thank you for dinner."

"Suit yourself." He slid into his passenger seat, made of expensive black leather, and drove gaudily away.

Meg was about fifteen feet away on the same curb, next to the restaurant's awning, bidding a cheerful goodbye to Brian and Rowan, who were taking Brian's car home. Rowan's face was bright and wide-eyed; Brian's was somewhere between a grin and a grimace.

Meg made a show of standing five feet away and pretending to cough as Sylvie puffed.

"So dramatic," said Sylvie, smiling, "You're not even downwind of me."

"Worth a shot. Do you plan on taking a taxi?"

"Yeah. Beats walking." And it definitely beat letting a member of the Augbiny family drive her anywhere.

"I could give you a ride?" Meg suggested.

Sylvie mulled it over for a second. "Sure."

"Excellent. Follow me, then. Evie's parked just down the street."

Meg's car was a blue GM EV1, chosen for its use of electricity rather than gasoline. It was decorated with a small dreamcatcher hanging from the rear view mirror and seat covers made of colorful thread woven into exotic patterns. Its lovingly bestowed name, Evie, was a play on the car's model.

"When are you going to get yourself a car?" Meg asked, blunt as always.

"When I start needing one."

"You already need one. You take so many taxis, you might as well pay for a car and gas. Look at how happy me and Evie are together. It's like we're soulmates." Meg stroked the car's dashboard. People tended to overlook how strange she could be because she was cute.

Sylvie realized she had used the exact same argument on Julian the last time she'd seen him. "Touché," She conceded.

Meg tapped her short nails against the steering wheel cover. "You know, I don't envy poor Brian in the least, what with Rowan and Vera moving in together. You think they'll get engaged?"

Rowan getting married? Un-fucking-likely. "What makes you so sure Brian likes Rowan, anyway? All Rowan does is pester him."

"That's exactly it. Brian wouldn't tolerate that crap from anyone else — excuse my language."

"You're excused," Sylvie replied sarcastically.

"Ha-ha."

"Whether it's Brian or Vera or whoever, I can't see Rowan staying with one person for more than a few months. He gets bored easily. Not to mention, he's straight."

Meg wrinkled her nose. "I beg to differ. Do you ever listen to his sexploit stories?"

"Sometimes. I try not to if I can help it."

"Well, if you did, you'd know that he's slept with a surprising number of dudes, even when you don't count orgies and threesomes. He must be bisexual or something."

Sylvie nodded sagely, pulling down the sun visor and opening the mirror. Her eyeliner had smudged; she licked her pinkie and tried to rub it off. "A hole is a hole."

Meg's eyes rolled. "I just hope it doesn't mess with the band. We're already stressed enough with this new album."

"Would it be such a bad thing? You used to talk about putting out a solo record. We could be... I dunno, we could be free."

"I'm a little surprised you remember that," Meg ran her hands through her hair, pulling a few stray pieces out of her bandana (made of organic, hand-woven cotton, of course). "Stupid idea, anyway. Nobody wants to hear my solo stuff. Besides, they got us for five albums and we can't do squat about it, 'less you wanna pay back the advance they gave us."

They were getting closer to her place. Sylvie noticed Meg taking a few extra turns — by now, they might have passed it. The road they were on didn't look very familiar to her. They were close to Anderson's Grocery. She could see, if she squinted, the crosswalk where Julian had saved her.

"Where the hell are we going? You trying to kidnap me, Bundy?"

"Ah sh- shiitake mushrooms. I think I missed a turn," said Meg. The road ahead was emptier than usual. Streetlights revealed only a sparse handful of cars idling along. "How come we never spend much time together anymore?"

"I spend almost every other day with you. We work together, remember?" Sylvie playfully tapped on her friend's head, wondering what was distracting her. Meg didn't miss turns; she didn't miss anything.

Meg sped up a little, passing a minivan that was driving under the speed limit. The turn signal ticked on and off. "That's not hanging out. That's being coworkers."

"Well, maybe if you weren't constantly on my fucking ass..."

Meg's expression was one of frustration. Her mouth was twisted into a thin line. "Well, sorry that I care about you. Actually, you know what? Never mind! I don't even know what the point is anymore — you would cut off your nose to spite your face." She paused, taking a deep breath. "I hate this attitude you have. There's nothing 'cool' or 'artsy' about being miserable all the time."

Sylvie was stunned, mum as a church mouse, slinking back into the car seat. She looked over at Meg, who had a white-knuckle grip on the wheel and was blinking fervently.

"Are you crying?"

"No!" Meg averred through a sniffle.

"Oh my god, you are," said Sylvie. She used her sleeve to try and wipe away a tear running down Meg's freckled cheek. The tables had turned; playing Mother was not usually Sylvie's job.

There was no need to ask why Meg was so upset — she already knew. Like all things, it came from her childhood, one spent really, truly alone.

"I'm so sorry," murmured Meg, wiping her face clean. "I'm just tired." Her speech was flat and soft, weak like a child's. They were circling back towards Sylvie's apartment. A trickle of guilt crept in — clearly Meg had been cracking for a while, and she was only just now seeing it. Looking closer, Sylvie could see the faintest worry wrinkles beginning to form on her friend's forehead.

"You're fine. Don't worry so much about me. I just gotta shake off this funk, that's all." Sylvie wiggled her body as if to literally shake off the negativity, which made her earrings jingle. She straightened her back and squared her shoulders. "Thanks for the ride home. I appreciate it."

Meg patted Sylvie's back. "Nobody deserves to be alone. Especially not you. You're something special, you know that?"

Sylvie wasn't so sure she believed it. Something tender gnawed within, alongside a wave of loneliness. Clearing her throat, she said, "Why don't you come up? I got some brownie mix and a few DVDs. We can have a little sleepover — just like old times."

Meg looked a little taken aback. She smiled, and for a moment looked like her younger self. Her worry creases were overshadowed by smile lines and dimples in each cheek.

Chapter Text

Julian stood facing his own reflection in a bathroom mirror. There were various spots and scratches along the surface, barely adhered to a whitewashed brick wall. Fluorescent blue lights hung above; the air vent could be heard buzzing, loud enough to overcome the sound of live music and people talking outside.

The Strokes had just come from playing at a huge venue, with The Sounds as their opener. For once, Julian was satisfied enough with the way they'd played.

Ryan had told him this club was a local hole-in-the-wall, not very well known even by locals. Julian was beginning to see why. The place was dingy and old. But alcohol was alcohol, and for whatever reason he felt like drinking only enough to take the edge off.

There were women, too. Albert had been buying drinks for a bony blonde woman with tattoos of nude figures on her arms and legs. She seemed to like his curly hair — what was left of it, at least. Nick, although engaged, kept up a subtle flirtation with one of the woman's friends. Fab and Nikolai made a show of being faithful to their girlfriends back home.

Julian didn't want to have to see those girls on the arms of his friends, nor did he feel like listening to Fab and Niko's talk about their own relationships. It reminded him of Sylvie — of how much he missed her, and how little right he had to do so.

He looked down at the beer in his hands, almost empty, and finished it off even though he was faintly nauseous. His hair, recently dyed dark, looked even darker soaked with sweat and gel. It was almost the same color as Sylvie's, whose tresses were black as midnight. Julian had always preferred lighter hair on girls, but as usual, Sylvie was an exception.

The guys would be waiting for him outside. Albert probably wanted him to get out of the single-stalled restroom so he and the tattooed blonde could make better use of it. Not long ago, he would have done the same thing.

He unbuttoned his leather jacket and tousled his hair before leaving the bathroom. The room's ambience, loud and chaotic, was sharp as shattered glass in sobriety.

Albert held the blonde woman on his lap, spinning her around in a barstool as he clutched her about the waist. Her giggle was high and light, free and yet a bit contrived. Sylvie had laughed like that when Julian carried her on his back.

"Where the fuck have you been?" asked Nick, nudging Julian with his elbow.

"Bathroom."

"Ah. Hold on, lemme guess. With... that one," he said, pointing to a tall, buxom young lady standing in the corner with her friends. Julian shook his head. She was exactly his type, sporting mousy brown hair, a lithe figure and a bold, angular face. She seemed to notice the two of them looking at her. As she approached, Julian slid into a stool and spun it to face the bar, ordering himself a drink that he really didn't want.

"Hi," said the girl shyly. She was smiling as she approached his right side. Her posture was stiff, shoulders high and proud. What gave away her coyness was the way she twirled a strand of hair between her middle and index fingers.

Sylvie picked her nail polish when she was nervous, Julian remembered.

"My name is Rachel." She blinked her eyes — wide, like Sylvie's, but a much paler shade.

Julian said nothing. He smiled politely (which probably looked more like a grimace) and turned his attention back to his drink. He felt a little bad for dismissing her so coldly, but the truth — astonishing even to him — was that he didn't want her. His heart of hearts could only conjure the image of one woman.

"And you are...?" Rachel said.

"Julian." Rachel held out her hand and he shook it.

"I saw you looking at me from across the bar. You and your friend." The poor girl was trying her best to feign confidence. She'd probably been egged on by her many friends. No doubt they believed she would succeed; she was beautiful, with the kind of looks that put you instantly at ease. God only knew what she was doing at a place like this.

Rachel pushed her bangs to the side. "I was wondering if you'd like some company? Private company."

Was that Rachel's idea of propositioning him? Attractive she may have been, but subtle she most certainly was not. "Uh, no thanks," Julian said tersely. He spat out the only excuse he could think of. "I'm, uh- I have erectile dysfunction." Rachel's eyebrows shot up.

Fab, having heard this, laughed and shouted, "We gotta get you some Viagra, old man!"

"I bet you'd have no problem if that girl of yours was here, huh?" Nick said. Rachel's eyes widened even further. She stuttered out an apology and skittered to rejoin her friends like a scared mouse.

"She ain't my girl," said Julian. The words tasted bitter in his mouth.

"Sure she ain't," said Fab. "The paps got a picture of you two in your ugly-ass car." He wrapped his arms around himself and mimed kissing, making vulgar sounds with his mouth.

A new band shuffled into place in the small corner designated as a stage — the place wasn't big enough for a real one — clutching their instruments with anticipation. One of them plucked at his guitar in an effort to tune it. So far, he had not been rewarded; his ear wasn't quite trained enough to notice the subtle differences in key. This band was quite obviously composed of teenagers pretending to be old enough to enter a bar.

Julian didn't even think of calling for Nick or Albert. He had a better, more refined ear than either of them, even being out of practice. He approached the young man with the guitar and offered aid, asking what they intended to play.

"We call ourselves The Greeds," interjected someone of indeterminate gender, who held the microphone like a royal scepter. The young man with the guitar nodded.

Looking closer, the guitarist's red leather jacket had a number of pins on it. Julian recognized most of them. There was Sleater-Kinney, The Doors, Black Sabbath, even Bikini Kill. At the top of the jacket, next to the seam that separated sleeve from shoulder, there was a Wildwood pin. On it was a blue monochrome image of Sylvie's precious face.

Maybe it was a sign. Or maybe Julian was just a fool.

The irony of it all struck him. He drank to get away from it all, to escape the debilitating sentimentality that so often overcame him. He wanted to feel in control, but a sense of powerlessness settled like dust, thick and familiar.

Julian's fingers strummed a few chords on the newly tuned guitar. It sounded perfect. Or, at least, as good as such a cheap instrument could sound. He gave it over to the boy and wished him luck.

Of all the things Juliet (and most of his other girlfriends) hated about him, at the top of the list was the way he ran away from his feelings. The day he and Juliet officially broke up, she had hurled plenty of insults at him — womanizer, asshole, idiot, etc. — but none had hit harder than 'coward'.

Julian was rarely sure of anything in his life. His music never pleased him. He alternately loved and resented his bandmates. He never knew what to do with girlfriends; how to make them happy. Each failed relationship was one more blow to his crumbling pillar of self-esteem.

He could feel it everywhere — in the pit of his stomach, in the marrow of his bones. He was terrified. Scared of the strength of his desire.

The intense fear was contrasted by fireworks of longing every time he thought of Sylvie, and like a spectator he basked in the beauty of it all.

Julian wasn't sure if it was courage or weakness that possessed him. Either way, one thing was sure. Yesterday had sailed away and nothing could change that. But Sylvie was here now, (metaphorically) right in front of him. Hopefully she'd be there in the future, too.

He tossed the rest of his drink in a nearby trash can and left the bar. Albert was wandering around outside with a dazed look on his face. His sleeve likely covered a new lesion in the crook of his elbow, one of many tiny scabs over the same indigo vein. Nikolai had followed him out to keep an eye on him, which reassured Julian enough to let him leave.

Heading back to his hotel, Julian knew exactly what he would do upon returning to New York. He was going to ask Sylvie to be with him — really and truly.

Maybe tomorrow would be different.

Chapter Text

Julian could feel himself sweating through his jacket, and it wasn't just because of the spring sun.

His flight back home had taken longer than anticipated. Performance after performance meant it had been three weeks since that lonely night in the bar, when he'd sworn off other women, and since then he'd been bouncing off the walls like a kid with a sugar high.

He and Sylvie had kept up daily phone conversations, but lately they had lasted no longer than five minutes at a time. Every time she answered the phone, Julian could hear the exhaustion in her voice, how her usual wit twisted into caustic sarcasm. He usually caught her right before she slept, when he was just getting ready to head out for the night.

Yesterday, she hadn't picked up the phone. Julian couldn't help it — he was a little worried about her. After he'd landed back in New York (at the ass crack of dawn), he thought about paying her a visit. That thought turned into an overwhelming urge.

Which was exactly why he was standing right outside her door. It occurred to him that she might not even be awake. It was nine in the morning, and God, did Sylvie love her sleep. He let out a little chuckle.

The door had been staring him in the face for at least a minute. It was time to just knock.

He did, gently, hoping not to wake her if she was asleep. He should have brought something back for her. Maybe some kind of souvenir, or flowers. Girls liked flowers, right? Actually, no, he remembered Sylvie saying flowers made her sad because they died so quickly.

He could hear someone stomping on creaky floors inside. It was definitely Sylvie's apartment. Her doormat, recognizable because it read 'Go Away', was underneath his dirty sneakers.

From inside, there came a crashing sound. Julian knocked again, a little louder.

"Who the hell is it?" Sylvie yelled from inside. Her voice was crackly but edged, and louder than necessary.

"It's, Jules," he said, wondering if maybe he should come back later.

"Fuck, I'm sorry. Gimme- gimme just a second, okay? I'll be right there..."

He heard her swear as her footsteps got closer to the door. She opened it and rubbed her eyes, trying to get rid of the frustrated tears that had gathered.

He reached to give her a kiss hello, which she leaned into, even though she was embarrassed to be caught in such a state. "Are, uh, you okay?"

"I'm fine. Tell me all about California. D'you want anything to drink? I made coffee just a second ago — haven't had any yet, so you'll have to tell me how it is — and there might be some orange juice, I'll have to see," she rambled. Julian followed her inside.

There were pieces of a ceramic vase on the floor by the kitchen, next to a whisk broom and dustpan. She'd been in the middle of cleaning it up. Without thinking, Julian bent down and scooped up a few fragments, putting them in the dustpan for her.

"Don't touch that!" she said, but it was too late. He'd already cut himself up the length of his middle finger. He said nothing; it stung, but he was still distracted. Sylvie looked over her shoulder to see blood dribbling into the cracks of the vase, soaking into the clay where the glaze didn't cover it.

"Shit!" Sylvie said, stepping over the mess and dashing into her bathroom. She came out with a pack of band-aids and some Neosporin. Julian watched as she generously smeared the cream along his finger (which made him think of something else entirely). The cut was large enough to warrant two of the largest band-aids she had.

"Does it hurt?"

"Depends. You gonna kiss it better?"

She laughed, and thought about obliging, but that sounded unsanitary. They were sitting across from each other on her hardwoods, the broken vase between them. Sylvie adjusted herself so that she was sat criss-cross applesauce. Julian was too; they were like a pair of overgrown children.

"I hope you didn't like that vase, 'cause I think it's beyond saving," he said.

She nodded, peeling pieces of hair from her flushed cheeks. "I really did. Too bad, I guess."

"Why? It's so fuckin' beige... and ugly, no offense." It might have been uglier than the infamous couch, and that was really saying something.

"Oh fuck you. I made that, you know. For my mom."

Now it was Julian's turn to be embarrassed. "I didn't mean it. It's got a nice, uh, modern thing going for it — or it did, I guess. How old were you? Five, six?"

"Not quite. Seventeen."

"I was close. So what's it doin' over here, if it was for your mom?" Julian asked. He watched Sylvie's face fall as she stared off into nowhere, wondering how much explanation she should give.

"Took it with me after I got kicked out just to spite her. Probably did her a favor. It really was hideous." She took the whisk broom and swept the last bits of clay away.

"Why'd you get kicked out?"

The answer was not a simple one. Sylvie's parents had thought themselves incapable of conceiving. They were well into middle age when, lo and behold, Sylvie was unexpectedly born to them in the summer of 1980.

Avery and Virginia Fowler had tried their best for their unplanned daughter, but they were old, tired and so desperately wanted to be done with child-rearing. By the time Sylvie turned eighteen, they were in their early sixties.

They allowed her to bounce between their house and Meg's for a few months after graduation. And one fateful night, she happened to make the foolish mistake of stumbling in late, drunk off her ass. Something had happened. Virginia had been the one to hold Sylvie's hair as she dry heaved over the toilet. She'd already puked in the foyer; that had kickstarted a serious argument. Things got worse when her father found her cigarettes.

Sylvie had figured there was nothing left to lose. She was sure, come morning, that her parents would send her packing. So, like an idiot, she decided to confess what she'd done.

Part of her wanted to throw her misbehavior in their bible-thumping faces. The other part hoped — somewhere deep, deep down — that they would take pity on their child.

"My parents found out I was smoking," said Sylvie. She wrapped her arms around her knees, which were draped in the faded periwinkle cotton of a day dress, and hoped Julian couldn't tell that the whole truth had been omitted.

He didn't know what to say. Moving the whisk broom and dustpan out of the way, he leaned forward and took Sylvie's hands, admiring each individual feature of her face.

Sylvie couldn't take it anymore. She needed to spit out her thoughts to someone, anyone. And Jules was her friend; maybe even her best friend. Aside from Meg, of course. If he were ever to truly know her, he would have to know everything.

"That wasn't the only reason," she said. "I did something kinda fucked up."

Chapter Text

"Here goes," Sylvie muttered, beginning to tell the story.

What would you do to get the thing you want most in the world?

Sylvie had asked herself that very question many a time. Until the winter of 1998, the answer had always been anything, anything at all. She was eighteen and a half years old and the new lead singer of a band called Wildwood. Meg thought they were going to be stars; Sylvie wasn't so sure.

If only they could just get signed.

Their demos had been called unpolished, overdone, every passive-aggressive insult under the sun. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of rejection, someone had noticed them. Not just someone, either. Avian Records; a huge corporation, bigger than anyone in the band ever could have dreamed.

So when the illustrious Sean Augbiny, then head of Avian, asked for a one-on-one meeting, Sylvie was quick to agree. Who knew how the hell she had ended up alone in his office, with the door shut and locked behind her.

"I should have known better," said Sylvie. "Don't what I thought was gonna happen."

The elder Mr. Augbiny had been perfectly willing to sign them. He liked the demos, thought they might really get somewhere.

But he needed something in exchange.

And Sylvie had, begrudgingly, provided it. He was old and not exactly pretty; the idea made her squeamish. In the end, though, she knew how much this could help her. She pictured the way Meg's face would light up when she told her the news. Wildwood, signed at last. Maybe she could finally afford to move out of her parents' house and quit being a burden to them.

The act only took ten minutes. Less than that, really. She allowed him to paw at her breasts and bottom, to place wrinkled hands where only one man had ever done so before. The main event didn't exactly hurt. It was more uncomfortable. He was generous enough — if one could call it that — to go slowly. Maybe he got off on the idea that he could please her if he tried hard enough.

He did not. She simply counted the ceiling tiles and waited, waited, waited for him to be done.

"I mean, it was kinda gross. But I did it."

And from the moment Sylvie left his office (hair in disarray and underwear on backwards), Sean Augbiny had steered entirely clear of her. The contract was signed the next day. He retired not long after, handing the reins over to his son Michael.

Avian officially had her for five records. They laid out an advance so monstrous that the four members of Wildwood could not have paid it back with all their money combined. The money kept the four of them securely under Avian's thumb. Sylvie was allowed a few days to pack up her things and handed enough money to keep herself alive until her first paycheck came in. The rest was history.

Stealing the ugly vase had been a last-minute, childish decision.

"Holy shit," said Julian. He was in disbelief. "So you really let a seventy year old guy fuck you?"

"Yeah."

"Just that one time?"

Sylvie stood up, taking the dustpan with her. "Yeah."

"Hey, wait a sec. Get back here," he called. She ignored him, emptying the dustpan into the trash and shutting the lid so she wouldn't have to look at the broken bits of clay. He stood up and caught her by the shoulders.

Sylvie was astonished. "You're not, like, mad? I mean, I know you hate people that do that sort of thing... cheat to get where they are."

"I'm not mad," said Julian. It was a lie. He was angry, but not at her. The old man abusing his power over Sylvie — it made him scared. And fear, hard to confront, was much more palatable under a thick blanket of fury. "I get why you did it. Besides, I've done shit I'm not proud of either."

"Like what?"

"I cheated on Juliet," he blurted out. "We were in a fight, and we both knew things weren't gonna last between us, which isn't an excuse, I know. So I spent a night with a girl in another city. Don't even remember her name."

Sylvie stared at him, brows furrowed. Julian recognized that face. She, like him, was disgusted and confused.

"You think I'm gonna do it again," he said. He was not surprised in the least — but he was crushed.

She shook her head passively. "I never said that."

"No, but I can see it." He stood, sure of himself, as if he'd caught her in a lie.

She kept her eyes on the floor, timid but unable to keep her mouth shut. "I really hate it when people put words in my mouth," she asserted petulantly.

"I hate it when people don't answer my calls," he replied, trying to ignore guilt.

"It was one time, okay?" She crossed her arms in annoyance. "I hate it when people disappear for weeks at a time, show up to just to talk and maybe fuck and then disappear again."

"You would do the same if you were touring." Julian stared her down challengingly. He was irate, and struggling to control it, fighting against the animal urge to let go. Instead he took a deep breath, leaning against the wall. "I hate it when people don't trust me. Even if I know I deserve it."

Sylvie's expression softened. Despite herself, she wanted to reach out and comfort him. It took effort to keep the scowl on her face. She wanted to retort that yes, she did trust him, but it wouldn't be entirely the truth. Julian was fickle. "If we're still playing this silly game... I hate it when people won't just tell me what they want. Even if I have no right to ask — even if I should just be grateful for the attention."

Damn her. He was ready to hurl something vicious, but all it took was one fleeting look at her to stop him dead. Julian could feel his anger give way way to regret. There was no longer any rage left to keep him safe.

"Never mind. I'm going outside for a smoke," said Sylvie. She had said everything, perhaps too much, and been rewarded with a zoned-out stare.

"You want me to leave?" Julian asked. She was acting like him, running away from the problem. It occurred to him that she, too, might have been afraid.

"No. But I can't stop you from leaving, can I? You'll do what you want no matter what I think. So you tell me; do you wanna leave?"

"I don't."

"Really? Could have fooled me."

"You're sexy when you're mad. Scary, but sexy." He smirked at her, which she returned with a frown. "I don't just wanna fuck around, y'know."

"Sure you don't." Her shoulders went slack. Things seemed quieter in the wake of the argument.

"I missed you while I was gone. Kept thinking of jokes I wanted to tell you — I'd be looking forward to calling you all fuckin' day, I swear — and then at the last minute I'd forget." He chuckled feebly from his nose.

"Is that why you're here? You thought of a joke and wanted to tell me in person?"

"No."

"No?" Sylvie questioned, bemused.

"No. I wanted to see my woman before I leave again."

Sylvie couldn't help it; hearing those words made her giddy. "Oh, is that what I am now? Your woman?" She said, biting back a smile.

"If you want to be." He threw his hands up.

She exhaled, resigned. "Yes, Jules, if it wasn't fucking obvious, I wanna be your girlfriend." God, could he be any denser?

Until that moment, Julian had not believed her. Few people could see beyond the facade of the devil-may-care rockstar, the man who wore leather and fucked on the first date. Fewer still could tolerate what hid behind it. But there was something in her eyes that convinced him; some powerful desperation that told him how much she wanted this.

"Good. Glad we're finally on the same fuckin' page," he said. Too overcome to say anything else, he leaned in and kissed her.

Chapter Text

"Believe me, Miss Fowler... If I didn't have to go, I wouldn't."

Sylvie wrinkled her nose. She'd been in Julian's presence for hours, not doing much except talking, and yet she wanted him to stay even longer. "Where is it you're headed off to?"

"Airport," he said sluggishly, "The guys are waiting for me in Portland. My flight is in... two hours, I think, and I still gotta get my shit from me and Al's place. We got a show tonight. After that, who the fuck knows? It ain't my job to book venues — that's what I pay Ryan for. That and sexual favors."

"So you just came to New York for, what, twenty four hours? Why not just follow them there?"

"Like I told you," he said, adopting a gruff timbre to negate what might have been the cheesiest sentence on earth, "I wanted to see my woman."

There was no stopping the leap in her pulse, the warmth that crept up her spine. Affectionately, she gave him a little pinch on the elbow. "I wish I could hop on a plane with you right now. Take a little vacation."

"I'd trade places with you if I could," he said. He'd seen enough planes to last a lifetime.

Sylvie shrugged. "Course, I'll be in your shoes soon enough. We'll have to go on tour within a year... then record another album, then tour again, and again, and again..." She trailed off, talking more to herself than him. Julian watched as she picked the last fleck of coral glitter from her pinkie nail.

Abruptly she looked up — she'd been whining. "Could be worse, though. I could be unemployed."

"You still like it, though, right? Making music, I mean?" Julian asked. Losing a love of music was something he couldn't begin to imagine.

She sighed. "Of course I do. Music is my life, it's who I am. I just feel like I'm not doing it for the right reasons. Or the right people, I guess. All this time and money, and for what?"

"If it's a waste of time, then quit  and go live out your dreams or some shit. You only live once."

"You make it sound so easy," she said. "I can't expect my band members to just follow me out the door. Paying off the advance would require everyone to chip in. Besides, I haven't got any more dreams to live out."

It had become clear that the sheer amount of money provided was not a commitment from Avian, nor did it speak to Wildwood's value. It was simply a weapon, keeping Meg, Brian, Rowan and Sylvie bound like dragonflies in amber.

"It all comes down to money," said Julian, monotone. "Corporate America'll fuck all of us stupid enough to do what we love."

"Yeah. Literally, in my case."

Julian flushed with guilt; he hadn't meant to bring that back up. Sylvie laughed at her own joke.

"What if you forced them to end the contract? They'd have no choice but to cut their losses. It's like... what do they fuckin' call it? Malicious compliance?"

"How? We'd have to make something truly terrible. Like, Morrissey's Kill Uncle terrible." Sylvie contemplated for a moment, the gears turning in hear head. "Hey, wait, that's actually not a bad idea!"

"No it ain't," asserted Julian, regretting his words. "Don't put your reputation on the line for a bunch of assholes." Taking a serious tone, he said, "They don't deserve it."

"Fuck my reputation," said Sylvie.

Maybe if she could shatter her public image of her own volition, she'd finally have an excuse to give up the struggle against herself. She could be freer than she had been in years.

"You're a genius, Jules. I really mean that," she said. "Now you better hurry, or else you'll miss your flight out."

Julian leaned down, ready to capture her lips with his, but stopped just short of doing so. "Would that be so bad? I could catch a later one."

Sylvie twirled a piece of his greasy hair. She didn't want to cause him any trouble; if she pulled that kind of crap, Farrah would be furious. "You don't have time to catch another one," she said, adding, "Call me from Portland, okay? And whatever other places you pass through."

Julian finally connected their mouths, kissing her with all the longing he'd felt since the day they'd met. He wanted to do more — kiss her elsewhere, perhaps — but time was indeed running out. It was a comfort to know she'd be here waiting for him and him alone. Soon, he thought, he'd make up for everything his absence denied her.

"You know I will." It was a promise; the most sincere he'd ever made. As he stepped out her front door, he gave her a smack on the rear.

"Hey!" Sylvie yelped, but he was already gone.

Chapter Text

Sylvie was almost glad when it was time to go back to work. When she wasn't on the phone with Julian, she was thinking about him, or talking about him to anyone who would listen. He was her boyfriend — hers — and she found a way to mention the fact in almost every conversation she had.

During the day, she was carefree, daydreaming about the handsome boy who promised he would be back in her arms soon enough.

At night, however, she indulged darker thoughts. Who was he with? What was he doing? Who was he doing? Without fail, her thoughts would become torturous, engendering an urgent need for distraction.

Hence, she'd been showing up to the studio on time (for once) and leaving late in the evening. Farrah and Yosef were pleasantly surprised. Meg, as was her wont, knew Sylvie's punctuality was too good to be true.

They'd switched studios late in the game and were getting ready to completely re-mix each of the tracks that had been recorded. There were still a few not yet recorded at all, including her and Julian's song — at least, that's how she thought of it.

The place was cold and utilitarian, with the only softness in it coming from the wall padding in the sound booths and a line of black velvet couches against the wall of the central chamber.

In one of those couches was where Vera had set up shop. Rowan had invited her to watch and hang out for a few hours, as she had done the past three days in a row. The two of them were attached at the hip. Sylvie feared the wound such a separation would leave.

Sylvie took in the sight of Brian, who was playing the same slow fugue over and over again. He did not look at his instrument as he played, nor the sheet music in front of him. He would play the tune, and right before the last bar would stop, letting the note hang in the air, before suddenly resuming and starting over again. There was something eerily placid about his mannerisms.

Rowan slid onto the sofa next to his girlfriend, who in boredom was drawing lines in the fabric with her fingernails. By the way he flattened his lips and whispered, it looked like they were arguing. Sylvie plopped her butt down next to Brian, stealing his sheet music and pretending to read it as she eavesdropped. It was no use — she only caught a few words.

Brian remembered he was supposed to be using the paper and snatched it back impatiently. "Leave me alone. 'Less you're gonna help me figure out these four bars here."

"I couldn't do instrumentals if you put a gun to my head... but maybe Rowan could," said Sylvie.

Brian balled up the sheet and threw it behind him. "Forget it." Leaning closer to Sylvie, he muttered, "Rowan's busy." He took a piece of gum from his pocket and began to chew with his mouth open, creating an odd percussion beat to go with the little tune.

"Quit smacking your gum, you nasty little boy," said Meg. She pinched the fat of his cheek and pretended to slap him as if he were a naughty child. Brian was not amused.

Sylvie pantomimed a hand cutting across her neck, tilting her head slightly towards the couple on the sofa.

Having seemingly made up, Rowan and Vera stood to go and fetch something, because heaven forbid one of them go anywhere alone. When they were gone, Brian put down his bass and sat forward, placing his elbows on his knees and resting his jaw on his palms. Sylvie did the same, so that they would still be shoulder to shoulder.

"What?" said Brian.

"Nothing."

"What?" Brian repeated, turning his head sharply towards her.

Meg sat on his other side in the same pose as him and Sylvie. He was effectively trapped and he knew it.

He stood up, taking his bass with him and leaning against a wall across the room. "Why are you two looking at me like that?"

"We just want to know if you're alright," Meg stated. She was waiting for Sylvie to bring up the elephant in the room. Sylvie, realizing this, rolled her eyes.

"Why wouldn't I be?" Brian asked. He began to sweat. "Wha- what did you tell her?"

Sylvie gestured Brian closer to her and whisper-yelled, while pointing at Meg, "I didn't tell her anything."

Brian, bless him, shifted his weight as if he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him. He spun towards the easternmost wall, through which Vera and Rowan could be heard goofing off with some expensive piece of equipment.

"Damn," he said softly.

At just the right moment, the regal Harris Grant-Metin appeared. He wanted Meg's opinion on something. Come to think of it, he always wanted Meg's opinion on something — and she was eager to provide it.

Meg followed him into the sound booth. She stopped on the way there to chastise Rowan and Vera, who continued to mess with equipment the moment she turned her back. Brian and Sylvie were alone.

"You should just tell her you're gay. She basically already knows," Sylvie said. "And that you're into Rowan."

Brian's eyebrows shot skyward. Before he could stop himself, he asked, "How did you know?"

"Meg had some suspicions, and you're not exactly subtle." She began to half-sing, "Brian and Rowan, sittin' in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G."

"What am I gonna do, Sylvie?" He asked, as if she knew the answer. There was no point in trying to deny the affection he felt for his bandmate, a wonderful, excruciating inconvenience.

Sylvie abruptly stopped teasing him. She had no idea how to help, but tried to comfort him by saying, "Rowan and Vera aren't gonna last."

"Maybe. Maybe not." Brian adjusted his beanie. "But I hope they do. Because even if they didn't, it's not like we could be together. We're not just Brian and Rowan, we're Brian Kowalcyzk and Rowan Villanueva of Wildwood. Same way you're not just Sylvie, you're Sylvie Fowler, seeing Julian Casablancas, 'cept at least you're a pair of straighties."

"What if we didn't have to be that? I mean, I guess we'll always be associated with Wildwood, but what if we were no longer in it?"

Brian raised an eyebrow in suspicion. He said nothing, seeing no need to point out the obvious; that what Sylvie suggested was not currently an option.

"If this new record bombs, we'll probably be dropped."

"No shit, Sherlock."

She stuck her tongue out at him. "And if we were dropped, there'd be nothing on paper keeping us together."

"Are you saying you want to make an album that sucks ass?"

"Hypothetically speaking, it wouldn't be the end of the world."

"Hypothetically speaking, I'd say you're not wrong. But good luck getting Rowan and Meg to see things from your point of view."

Sylvie shrugged. "Meg probably wouldn't mind too much. She's been wanting to get started on solo stuff."

"Well, it's an idea."

"Not my idea — Julian's."

"Of course it was."

"Isn't he the smartest?" Sylvie asked, pretending to swoon and fanning herself with her hand.

"You're talking about the guy that made out with his cousin."

"Shut up. It was one time," asserted Sylvie, stifling a giggle. She supposed she ought not laugh at Julian now that he was her boyfriend.

"Who made out with his cousin?" Meg questioned nosily, poking back in the room.

"Sylvie's boyfriend," Brian replied.

"Yep. My boyfriend. Who brought up a very interesting idea..."

Chapter Text

"Okay," Meg hummed.

"Okay?"

"Yeah. Sounds like a plan."

"What do you mean, 'sounds like a plan'? You're actually serious about this?"

"I am. It's the perfect idea — can't believe I didn't think of it." Meg put her hands on her hips, blinking at them as if it she'd just said the most obvious thing on earth.

"Let's all take, like, five steps back," said Brian. He'd absentmindedly pulled his beanie off. His pinkie nail picked at its grey, web-like stitches until he realized his bald spot was out, at which point he put it hastily back on.

Sylvie, whose mind was perpetually three steps behind her mouth, asked, "What's the issue?"

"Shallow as it may sound, aren't you worried about our reputation? Shit," said Brian, drawing out the word so it sounded like shee-it, "I'm not gonna get my place in the rock-n-roll hall of fame with a bunch of crap in my repertoire."

Sylvie and Meg, meeting each other's eyes, knew they were having the same thought — he wasn't getting one to begin with. Both had the decency not to giggle.

"Thing is, I am worried about our reputation. Which is why I want to be done — better one more bad album than three."

Meg put her hands on her hips. "O ye of little faith. You're so obsessed with being perfect."

Sylvie thought that was just one more thing she and Julian had in common. "Have you heard the stuff we've been recording?"

"As a matter of fact, I have," responded Meg, answering an obviously rhetorical question.

"It's so-so. Might as well be bad." With disdain, Sylvie muttered, "Anything's better than being the  guys who try too hard. Maybe that's it — we be those guys once in order to avoid being them forever."

"What's that you always say? The only good musicians are sad musicians? Well, you must be feeling pretty cheerful, Sylvie."

Sylvie shrugged. "Not cheerful. Just tired of being stuck in the same funk." Truthfully, she had been more cheerful, but didn't feel secure in saying so; it was bound to change.

"It's cause she's finally getting some," said Brian.

"Shut it," said Sylvie. She'd only gotten some once since meeting Julian; every other attempt on either of their parts had somehow been foiled. If she was lucky, she'd be getting some this weekend, when Julian was bound get back to the city, assuming he decided to stay sober long enough.

Rowan and Vera could be heard shouting in the long hallway. Rowan had thrown Vera over his shoulder and was running through corridors with her as she screamed in delight, alternately laughing and yelled to be put down. The chains attached to her neck and belt loops clinked with each stomp of her boyfriend's sandals.

"Did someone give him sugar? Coffee?" Meg asked dimly.

"Worse," said Brian, picking up an empty red bull can from the table at the end of the leather sofa where Rowan had been sitting.

Meg rubbed her temples. "God help us all."

"I'm boooooooored," Rowan whined, huffing and puffing as he entered the room where his bandmates were gathered. Vera had been released and stood behind him, rearranging her colorful bat's nest. She looked windswept; like one of those women on a hill in a Monet painting, as if she could hardly keep up with Rowan. He tended to have that effect on people.

Neither Meg, Brian or Sylvie knew what to do about Rowan. He was the only one with a vested interest in Wildwood's continuation; in fact, his very livelihood depended on it. And he seemed content enough to keep things as they were. As if snapping awake, the three of them got up and took to their music, beginning to work again.

"What, did I interrupt something? What were you talking about? Was it Harris? 'Cause I think he likes Meg- oops, I wasn't supposed to say anything. But seriously, what'd I miss?" Rowan asked, as Vera tugged on his arm, unrolling his sleeve from the crook of his elbow.

"Nothing," said Sylvie. "It was stupid. Forget about it."

"Yeah," Brian agreed. He noticed that the ribbon choker Vera was wearing earlier had been tied around Rowan's wrist. The little spider charm danced down his metacarpal.

Busywork came easily to them. For a few hours, Farrah, Yosef and Harris stayed huddled in the sound booth a few rooms over. The same thirty or so seconds of Sylvie's voice boomed out as they layered tapes on top of each other to create a harmony that started soft and crescendoed. That would be the bridge, Sylvie realized, to her and Julian's song, still unnamed. She got up from where she'd been doodling in Meg's songwriting journal and marched into the booth.

"It needs to be softer," she said as she entered.

Farrah had her hand on her chin while Harris fingered a knob. His tie had come loose, as had the first button of his shirt.

Harris sat up straighter and fixed his tie. "She's right. The high's too high and the low's too low. We need another two notes held in between, I think, one of them in a minor key. I don't think this needs to be a happy song."

"Eighty-six it," said Sylvie, unsure where exactly the demand had come from. All she knew was that the song had a destiny elsewhere.

"Bad idea. Too precarious to have just instrumentals in the bridge."

"No, not just that vocal section. Get rid of the whole song. You were right, Farrah. It doesn't need to be on this record."

Farrah raised her eyebrow, plucked to high heaven and filled in so that it resembled a wire. "You were so insistent on featuring it. Julian helped you write it, right? Did you two call it quits?"

"No. Just... changed my mind, I guess."

"Sheesh, you couldn't have told us this earlier? We've been working on it all day," said Farrah. Her gold hoop earrings shook with her speech. Harris looked relieved to finally be done with the damn thing, setting down his headphones and loosening his tie again, as if shedding his professional skin.

"Sorry," said Sylvie. "Can we call it a day and go home?"

"Sure. Tell the others they can leave," said Farrah. She walked over to where Yosef was dozing in a chair and began to gently shake him by the shoulders.

Sylvie did exactly that. Meg and Brian left with alacrity. As she was packing up her purse, Rowan approached her.

"I heard what you guys were talking about earlier," he said. "About the whole getting Avian to drop us thing."

Sylvie tucked a cigarette behind her ear. "Well, you don't have to worry. It was just an idea. We're not going to follow through."

"Really?"

"Yep. Your job is safe."

"I was kinda hoping you guys were serious." Rowan took a deep breath. "I know it's kinda sudden, but I've been thinking lately-"

"Well, don't hurt yourself," Sylvie interrupted.

"-Har dee har har. I've been thinking about the future. And, uh, I guess things have changed for me. I wanna, like, settle down. Vera — she's in the bathroom, by the way — I wanna settle down with her. And you guys are right, our shit is getting kinda stale."

Sylvie blinked. "You're kidding." She didn't know what she'd been expecting, but it wasn't that.

"Nope. I'm not just dicking around — hell, I've been researching mortgage rates for a house."

"You? Researching? Mortgage rates?"

"Yeah. Crazy, huh? It's like I've gone crazy," he said quietly.

"Huh," said Sylvie, who couldn't for the life of her think of how to reply.

"My point is, I'm in. If you guys are."

"Sure, sure," she groped around her purse before remembering she'd put her lighter in her pocket earlier. Poor Brian.

Chapter Text

Julian called her on her way back from the studio that night, asking her to come over right then; he'd gotten back a few hours before. Sylvie was tired, her mind dull from disuse, but she promised to be right over. When she asked whether Albert would mind, Julian scoffed and assured her he wouldn't. Doubtful, very doubtful indeed.

Albert opened the door for her when she knocked. "Sylvie," he greeted with cold gentility. He stayed only as long as was polite before retreating to his room.

"Hello," she murmured, stepping inside gingerly. She ran her fingers through her hair again, trying to fluff it out a bit. Spring humidity had frizzed it out.

Sylvie didn't know what she had done exactly to make Albert dislike her. She was on the verge of asking that exact question when Julian came into view. He was shirtless except for a vest, which, (although quite pleasing) was strange for him. She let Julian lead her wordlessly into the living room, where the TV was blaring. It was tuned into a baseball game.

"Listen, you must be tired. We can get together later if you—" a shout from the TV interrupted her; someone had scored a home run, "—Can you turn that thing down?"

Julian obliged, turning it all the way off. He sluggishly lowered his arm and tilted back his head with his eyes closed. There was a light sheen of sweat coating his exposed Adam's apple. Sylvie wanted to lick it off.

Dismissing that thought, she asked, "Are you hungover?"

Julian opened his eyes. "Naw."

"Nervous? You guys are playing Letterman again tomorrow — that's huge."

"You could say that," he sighed, shivering a little despite the obvious sweat. Sylvie began to suspect he was already drunk.

He nearly moaned aloud when she put her silken hand to his forehead, feeling for fever. It was cold and clammy, not warm in the slightest. "It's fine — I'll be fine — I just need a drink."

"How about food? I can make something for you," she offered, knowing all he likely had on hand was instant ramen and chips. Not even the good kind either, since Julian hated Pringles.

"No, I'm good." Food would probably settle his stomach a little, but the idea was nauseating in and of itself. He stood up and walked to his fridge, an ugly old white thing, and grabbed a can of beer from the bottom shelf. Sylvie could see him crack open a Heineken across the open concept area that connected his and Albert's living room and kitchen. He paused, let out a weirdly cute belch, and took another long gulp. "You want one?"

"Sure. Fuck it."

He took out one for her and popped the top off. "Let's go out, Sylvie. I wanna do somethin'... somethin' cool."

"Can't we just stay here?"

"Why? There ain't shit to do around here."

"Well..." she didn't want to sound like a stick in the mud, "I probably look gross. Look at me, this isn't the type of thing people usually go out in," she said, gesturing over her hoodie, cargo shorts and beat-up navy blue sambas.

"You look—" he glanced over, making sure Albert was out of earshot, "You're a sight for sore eyes, Miss Fowler."

"You're a bald-faced liar... but thank you."

"It's true."

Sylvie shrugged. It wasn't. "What are you performing on Letterman?"

"The End Has No End. It's about Juliet. And politics."

"Oh. Interesting."

"Hey, it ain't like that. I didn't write the song for her, I wrote it about her. Big difference." Julian smiled as he watched Sylvie's expression soften. "Come on, let's go somewhere," he said, renewing his plea.

"Where?"

"I dunno. Anywhere. My balcony. Somewhere Al ain't."

Sylvie scooted herself closer to quietly ask, "Does he not like me being here? I mean, I don't know what I've done, but he's your best friend. I want him to like me."

"He's just mad at me right now — which is his problem."

"What for?" Sylvie was being nosy and she knew it.

Julian fidgeted with the funky-looking watch on his wrist. When he struggled to fasten it, she lifted his arm and began to help him. "Well, uh, he's mad that you're not Juliet. Shit, that came out wrong. It's just that they were sorta tight, y'know, and I think he wanted me to marry her. When I— when I cheated on her, he didn't say shit because he did the same thing to Catherine, but I think it changed the way he thought about me."

And that was the worst part of it, he knew. He could no longer delude himself with the idea that he was a decent man.

"Damn," said Sylvie, for lack of anything else. She willed herself not to picture Juliet in her place, fixing Julian's watch, offering to cook for him.

"I didn't mean... aw, shit. No point in complaining. For what it's worth, I'm glad you're not Juliet. We wouldn't have lasted anyway."

"And you think we will?"

"I hope so. But I don't know, I guess."

"I don't, either. But I hope so too."

He leaned in and kissed her, soft and deep. "You know, I had this weird idea that I was gonna stop drinking before I got back. Cold turkey." He swirled the beer around in his hand. "I almost made it three days."

"Oh, Jules," she breathed, feeling the weight of such an undertaking. "Why now?"

"Wanted to be past the worst of it by the time I saw you. Think it made Al happy, too, but that's down the shitter now. I just thought maybe if I could tough it out, it would make up, somehow, for all the shit I've done lately." He laughed his trademark Julian laugh, the little sarcastic exhale out his nose. "And maybe for some of the shit I will do."

"No wonder you're so sweaty, you're going through withdrawal."

"Yeah. Well, not anymore."

"For what it's worth," she said, quoting his own words back to him, "I'm proud of you. Three days is something."

He shook his head to dispel a smile. Her kindness was so unwarranted it shamed him. Three days was nothing, and he hadn't even made it that long.

"There's no hope for me, Miss Fowler. No hope at all. Smoke?"

Sylvie nodded.

"Come on, then."

Chapter Text

The minute they were alone, Julian's lips were on Sylvie's, and then on other places entirely.

"Sheesh. Is this why you wanted to be alone?" She asked.

"Naw," he breathed huskily, "Wanted to have a scintillating conversation."

"That's a big word — scintillating."

"Don't sound so shocked," he muttered, his thumb caressing the apple of her cheek. She wondered vaguely whether it felt hot beneath his touch, but coherent thoughts were hard to form when she could still feel sticky saliva on her clavicle.

Sylvie's hands groped the collar of his vest, both to anchor herself and to pull him in closer. Julian wrapped a strong arm around the small of her waist. They were almost as one, each curve in one's silhouette filled by the other.

"I ever tell you I missed you?" Julian asked tenderly. Sylvie's head ended around the bottom of his nose. If he tilted his head, he could smell her shampoo. It was the fancy kind that cost $15 at the grocery store and came in a pretty bottle. He never saw the point in such luxury, but if she stopped using it, he knew he'd be disappointed.

"Yeah, you did. Did I ever say I missed you back?"

"A few times, but you could say it again," said Julian. He hated that she had to miss him, and hated even more how much he loved to hear it.

"When will I get to stop saying it?" Sylvie asked, a little more bluntly than she meant to.

"Soon," he promised. "Soon, baby. I'll be at BFD and a few more festivals after that, but once fall hits I'm all yours."

"That's no good," she mumbled petulantly. She'd be tied up in the dreaded new album by then. The word 'soon' hardly meant anything anymore.

Julian kissed her again to distract her. It worked perhaps a little too well; he distracted himself in the process, concerned with nothing but the woman who so enraptured him. Tendrils of black hair, perpetually in the way, were tossed behind her shoulder as she offered herself to him.

Sylvie forgot herself entirely as she allowed Julian to caress her. As their lips were intertwined, he continued to press her harder against him, roving his touch along the length of her back and then even lower. His wayward fingers crept underneath the neckline of her shirt, brushing just south of her collarbone.

"We're on a balcony," she said, suddenly remembering.

Julian smirked obnoxiously. "That we are."

Fighting a not inconsiderable quantity of embarrassment, she quipped, "People can see us, smartass."

Julian made a show of looking around on the dark street. Though a few cars could be seen passing by, there was nobody on the sidewalk, nor were any of his neighbors on their own balconies. "They can't," he said, resuming his earlier activities.

As he leaned into her neck, she yelped, "Someone will! Just what do you think is gonna happen out here?"

"You tell me, Miss Fowler."

"I think we're gonna scar the neighbors if this goes any further."

"Scar? They wish they could get in on this." He gestured at their bodies. Sylvie's scandalized expression made him laugh.

"Be serious. Someone would probably call the cops."

"Yeah, well, New York City cops ain't too smart."

Valiantly she suppressed a snort. "Oh, aren't you funny."

"You wanna go back in?" Julian asked with sincerity. "If you're cold, you can have my vest." Never mind that it was seventy five degrees out.

Sylvie tilted her head consideringly. "Not yet. It's nice out. We never did actually smoke, did we?"

He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a cigarette — only one, since the natural assumption was that they would share. Someone had forgotten a lighter on the railing.

The whole scene was familiar — too familiar. How many times had she and Julian stood one one of their respective balconies, smoking and quietly pretending not to be disappointed about the infrequency of their assignations? Worse, what if the disappointment belonged to her alone? She was sick to death of it, all of it.

"Come with me," said Julian. "Just for BFD, at least. It'll only be a couple of days."

"I can't," she replied, more or less automatically. She couldn't, she never could. "I'm not some groupie."

"I know you aren't — that's not what I'm trying to say."

"Then what are you trying to say?"

"Why's it so unbelievable that I just want you there? Jesus, you think all I want is convenient pussy?" He sighed, knowing there was no point in bickering. "I'm sorry, Miss Fowler. You gotta stop thinkin' like that — I like your company, believe it or not. So come with me."

Sylvie turned away. "I can't... unless..."

"Unless what?"

"Jules, how many festivals are you playing at this summer?"

"A few; Y100, T in the Park, Randall's Island, V-Festival, stuff like that. Why?"

"Are any of them still booking?"

His face lit up as he caught on. "You saying you'll be there with me?"

"Well, maybe I could convince Farrah to book me and Wildwood for a few of them. Hell, she's probably already looking into it; she wants us to perform the title track live before it releases as a single."

"We can travel together, if you want. The guys can manage sleeping and eating without me."

"Won't Ryan mind? Won't your bandmates mind? They're your friends, they'd miss you."

"Fuck them," said Julian resolutely. Ryan most certainly would mind, but he would have to deal with it. The only person in the world with power over him was the woman tucked against his side.

Sylvie crossed her arms self-consciously. "Do you honestly want to spend that long with me? I'd probably drive you bonkers—"

"I do. If you'll let me." He held the cigarette to her lips. "Who the fuck says 'bonkers' anyway?"

"I do, so you can put a sock in it. I'll see what Farrah says. T in the Park is a couple months away. Suppose I still have a chance at getting a spot." It wasn't a promise by any means, but it was close enough.

"What's the track you're supposed to perform, anyway?"

"It's called Fusillade."

"Huh. Now that's a big word."

Chapter Text

As soon as she and Julian came in, Albert eyed them up from his place on the couch — exactly where Sylvie had been sitting a few minutes ago. Sylvie gave a timid wave, not sure where exactly to go. Julian clearly wanted to see the ending of his baseball game, and the couch wasn't big enough to comfortably fit all three of them. In true bachelor fashion, the only chairs around were those tucked around Albert and Julian's dining table, which never got used since they both preferred to eat in the living room.

Julian took a place at the other end of the sofa anyway, deliberately trying to piss Albert off. He motioned Sylvie over, and before she knew what was happening he sat her on his lap and began trying to talk to her. It was as if he was using her to taunt his roommate. It would have wigged her out to sit on Julian's lap in front of anyone, let alone Albert, so she squirmed away. He tried to pull her back, and gave up when she made a nasty face at him and whispered, "Quit it."

"Okay, okay," he said, releasing her to slither down into a seat on the carpet next to his leg. As if apologizing, he began to rest his calf against her side.

Sylvie was a little embarrassed. "You know what, I changed my mind. You were right. We should go somewhere."

"Naw, just let me see the end of this."

"No, she's right, Jules. You should go somewhere," interjected Albert coldly.

Julian rubbed the bridge of his nose. It was clear his headache "Why don't you fuckin' go somewhere, Al? Like it or not, she's my girl. End of fucking story."

"Where'd you find her? The bar? You take her home and then decide to keep her around for a while?" Albert sneered. The corner of his mouth twisted into ennui. Wow, real creative, thought Sylvie. She rolled her eyes, knowing nobody was paying attention to her anymore.

Before he could stop himself, Julian barked out, "Fuck you. You don't get to say that shit when you take your women to shoot up in filthy bathrooms."

"At least I don't shoot up with other women when I've got a girlfriend at home waiting for me," said Albert. He had both underhandedly admitted his drug usage — in Sylvie's presence, no less — and brought up the root of his problem with her. Julian's face crumpled from indignation to injury.

The aforementioned woman coughed, allowing a lull in the argument. Albert looked at her with obvious pity and a hint of condescension, as if she were doomed to some horrible fate and too stupid to realize it. She realized he felt sorry for her.

Albert announced he was going to the corner store and would be back shortly.

"Don't listen to him, baby—" Julian began.

Sylvie shot him an icy glare. "Don't you baby me. You really had to do that in front of him?"

Julian looked hurt. "Do what, defend you?"

"No, sit me on your lap just to show me off like some piece of meat! You know he doesn't like me, but you just had to antagonize him and make it worse, didn't you?"

"What, you're embarrassed? There wasn't shit sexual about it," Julian laughed. "I've seen him go a lot farther with girls in front of me."

That ticked Sylvie off like nothing else. "I don't appreciate being involved in this machismo shit. I've had more than enough of that."

His voice rose. "From who?"

"You already know who! If you had just let me talk to Albert, maybe I could have done something to change his mind about me. But no, you just had to use me to antagonize him. I hope you're satisfied."

"Okay, I fucked up, I admit it! I should have gone about it differently. But shit, what kind of man would I be if I didn't stick up for you? I don't give a flying fuck how mad Al gets. You don't deserve to be spoken about like that. I gotta do something right by you, at least."

"You keep saying that, and for what? You know I don't care if you're 'man enough', or whatever," she mumbled. "There's no need to prove anything to me, to Albert, or to anybody. So save that stupid shit for someone else."

"Fucking hell, Sylvie, it's not about proving something to you. It's about proving something to myself." A beat later, he added, "Which I guess is stupid."

Sylvie bit her lip, finally understanding. "Oh." It was strange, looking up at him wide-eyed from her place on the floor. There was too much distance between their faces; they were talking at each other, not to each other.

"Yeah."

She lifted herself up off the floor and sat down beside him on his couch. He wouldn't acknowledge her, his expression a strange sort of amused self-mockery. He wasn't really present anymore, she knew, caught in his own thoughts.

"I'm sorry I got annoyed with you. Al's your best friend, and you tore him a new one for my sake." She crossed her legs. Was it too soon to reach out and grab him and beg him not to be unhappy with her? "You don't have to do that for me. I don't expect it."

Julian snorted as if she were being silly. "You're my best friend. I want Albert to see that. I want everyone to see that." He gave her knee a squeeze. "Gotta deal with my own shit by myself. It's my fault for getting you involved."

Sylvie found herself unsure what to do or say. Owlishly, she blinked, hiding behind the hair in front of her face. "It's alright," she settled on saying.

"It ain't. There's nothing I can do to keep this going, but I want to try anyway. I don't want to wake up. Does that make any sense? I want to stay here as long as possible."

"That's sweet. Well, we can stay here if you want to so badly. I like this couch — it's a lot prettier than mine."

"I don't mean stay here in my apartment. I mean... forget it."

She tugged a little on his arm. Even that small contact gave a little thrill, which was strange and alarming. Butterflies were one thing, but this was something else entirely. Something soothing. Like having a stomachache, then farting and feeling the stomachache disappear. "No, no, tell me. I swear I won't laugh at you."

"It's too soon," he replied, and that was the end of that. Sylvie was too preoccupied trying to soak up as much physical contact as possible before Albert got back. The soothing feeling returned and she reveled in it, her insides settling from their dance. No matter how terrified she was in Julian's arms, it was nothing compared to how utterly bereft she was when he went away.

Chapter Text

And bereft she was, into the beginning of June. Julian had gone away and would not return until the end of that month; Sylvie would see him briefly, and then they would be separated again until midway through July, when she came to join him and take her place on festival stages.

Her arms and legs would usually be getting freckles around this time of year, but she and the summer sunlight had turned from friends to strangers in recent years. Even when she did venture outdoors, her legs were thoroughly covered. Her shorts were tucked away in an antique dresser — the world didn't need to see her lower half, which could be kindly described as doughy.

Busywork abounded. They were scheduled for a few photoshoots to generate publicity around the new album, and interviews along with a few of them. There was even a radio station that wanted to host them for a segment. Then there was appointments with stylists and arrangements to be made for performances commemorating the anniversary of their first album, “Man, Woman and Child”.

Yet for all the things that needed to be done, her heart settled into its usual sleepy unease. She knew she wanted Julian, and knew she could not have him right that minute, and was forced to reconcile herself to those facts. She knew also that the wanting of him was merely a symptom of something stronger that ached in dreadful familiarity.

Hiding in her work like a cockroach under a rock, Sylvie found comfort in a semblance of the old closeness she had once had with her bandmates. They had re-forged the chain that connected them in the fire of a secret — they had all gotten together and agreed verbally that their contract should be ended discreetly and with alacrity. That meant coming up with excuses to re-record, this time tweaking the music and lyrics in a way that sounded artsy but came off terribly in execution. Any unrecorded tracks were scrapped altogether and replaced hastily with a selection of lyrics from Sylvie's pile of papers in her kitchen and Meg's battered journal.

This could be done under the nose of everyone important except for Harris. Farrah and Yosef weren't privy to every recording session, and weren't involved in the process anyway. There were no other sound engineers at all, aside from his own hired personal assistant — Harris fiddled with every last note himself. When he wasn't buried in his work, his whole body bent over his equipment in concentration, he was looking quite appreciatively indeed at Meg.

When the day arrived to take photos for the album cover and a few promotional materials, Sylvie found within herself no more than cynical annoyance. When she had been emotionally invested in Fusillade as a project, she had vehemently hated the idea of using nudity to sell it. Now, she hoped people would see the nakedness of a model on the cover as the cheap trick it was.

Photography studios were cold places, Sylvie thought, feeling sorry for the poor model the label had hired one early morning. The band and Yosef had showed up early for their own pictures, which would feature in the CD sleeve and album announcement posters. The model and photographer were setting up in one corner of the studio, while the band was huddled up in the opposite corner, dressed in matching clothes. A team of hired hair-and-makeup women stood over the members of Wildwood, prettying them up like a bunch of pageant children.

Sylvie was a little uncomfortable in her lumpy chair as sweet-smelling powder was patted over the apples of her cheeks. Meg's hair let out little tendrils of steam as another woman drew a straightener through it. Brian's hair was its' own challenge, given that he was missing a good hunk of it on the back of his head.

"Quit staring at her," snapped Sylvie to Rowan, who was looking at the model intensely from his place beside someone's overstuffed makeup bag. "You've got a girlfriend."

"No I don't," said Rowan.

"Excuse me?" Meg chimed in, then yelped when the hair straightener caught her on the ear. Every member of the band looked up — Yosef was distracted, on the phone with his wife and listening to his daughter babble from the other end.

"We broke up."

"What happened?" asked Sylvie's nosy self, just as Meg gently said, "That's terrible. I'm sorry."

Rowan looked straight on, daring anyone to question his façade of indifference. "Yeah, well, don't be."

"That sucks, dude," said Brian, who did not have to feign sympathy. Sylvie knew Brian was too tenderhearted to celebrate such news, no matter what advantage it posed to him. Rowan's pain was his as well.

Meg  cradled a hand over her injured ear, not trusting that she wouldn't be burned again. "You poor thing! Why didn't you tell us? We could have done something for you, maybe. Oh, you and Vera were so serious, too. I really thought the two of you were gonna get married someday."

"Er, I'm sure Rowan will tell us about it later," Sylvie interjected. The makeup artist pushed her chin up and instructed her to close her eyes.

She heard a commotion and opened her eyes, still feeling the vague coolness of wet eyeliner on them. Rowan had dug a pair of scissors out from the bag and cut off his ponytail. He seemed not to know what to do with it, examining the bundle of hair as if it were some foreign object.

"Why'd you do that?" asked the woman who was doing Meg's hair, while everyone else stared on in mild confusion.

"Vera liked when I wore my hair in a ponytail," he responded, gingerly setting down the bundle of curls. "Hey, Sylvie, what does Julian think of your hair?"

She remembered the wonderful way Julian brushed it behind her ear. He seemed very fond of her tresses, despite their proclivity to be in his way when he wanted to kiss her. "Uh, he likes it, I guess."

"Then you should cut it all off, too."

Meg, in an awkward if kindly effort, said, "I think the short hair looks nice on you. Very manly. Throw your ponytail away over there, nobody wants to see that just laying around." She pointed to a trashcan. The hair-and-makeup women resumed their work. Sylvie had to have her right eyelid wiped clean and redone because the eyeliner had smudged.

Rowan did so, but instead of sitting back down he inched closer to where the model stood.

Sylvie dryly commented, "Sheesh, he doesn't waste much time, does he?" Yet she watched him as he acted, and knew he had a purpose.

Rowan grabbed the model by her smooth shoulders and led her off to the side. The girl had not yet undressed, hence why the privacy screen around the photographer's small set had not yet been closed. "You are relieved of your post," he told her solemnly, like an old-timey war general come to dismiss one of his officers.

"Just what in the hell do you think you're doing?" Sylvie, who was just within earshot, asked. She was fearful of his answer.

Rowan bade the photographer to keep his seat. He began shrugging off his jacket, the same one worn by the rest of the band for their photos, and picked up the shotgun prop the model was supposed to hold seductively. Instead of holding it in a suggestive manner, he brought the barrel to his head, then pulled the fake trigger and pretended to launch his head backwards. Nobody laughed. "Why have some rando get naked and pose, when I could do it myself?"

"Good God," said Meg, looking over her shoulder at him. "You're a complete whackjob."

Chapter Text

Meg pinched her nose with one hand and used the other to beckon Yosef over. From him she obtained the checkbook issued by the label and made out a check to the model for her time. The amount was more than generous — after all, it couldn't hurt to chip away at that monster of an advance given to them.

"I don't think this is a good idea, Rowan," said Yosef uneasily. His words were certainly gentler than the ones Farrah would have used, but they were ignored all the same. He eyed his cellphone, debating on whether or not to call Farrah and tattle. She would berate him for disturbing her, undoubtedly, but then again, she wouldn't be happy to see Rowan's nude self on a record cover.

While he was busy contemplating, Rowan was busy stripping the rest of the way down. He took off his cowboy boots — who knew what their stylist had been aiming for with that one — and shimmied out of his trousers with an obviously practiced ease. "No need to shut the curtain," he said, as Yosef frantically began to close the privacy screen, "I've got nothing to be ashamed of."

"Oh yes you do," Yosef muttered under his breath.

"Have you gone crazy? Er, crazier?" asked Meg.

Sylvie had never been so jealous of the man. To be attractive was one amazing thing, to know it was something else altogether. She saw Brian tactfully turned towards the wall, blankly looking through his cellphone's call log as if there was anything interesting to see. Poor man, she thought, about both him and Rowan. She went over and shut the privacy screen herself. Let the photographer get an eyeful — pretty as Rowan was, some things were better left to the imagination.

Meg repeated, this time towards Sylvie, "Has he gone crazy?" This time, though, it was said with cautious amusement.

"Though this be madness, yet there be method in't," she replied nonchalantly. The idea of it excited her — none would be thrilled to hear that Rowan had decided to grace the public with... himself. She imagined the scolding they all would receive from Farrah, and smiled.

"O, what a noble mind is here o'erthrown," said Meg, who could be counted on to catch Sylvie's references. "Well, maybe not so noble. Brave, I guess."

More seriously, Sylvie quoted in a soft voice, "There is something in his soul o'er which his melancholy sits on brood."

"'Something' being his recent breakup?"

"I tell you what, Sherlock Holmes, you sure are incredible."

"And you're rude," Meg retorted.

A few moments later, the shutter of a camera sounded. "Did you get my good side?" Rowan asked the photographer, from behind the screen.

Sylvie called out, "Which side is your good side?"

"My backside," he called back at her, with less of his usual mirth at having come up with something so terribly witty.

Sylvie sensed she was obliged to retort, mimicking the usual banter that swung between the two of them. Unfortunately, she couldn't think of anything clever to say. Maybe Julian was rubbing off on her — when he stopped talking long enough to breath, he was prone to forgetting what he wanted to say next.

They had to postpone their group photoshoot by half an hour so Rowan could finish up, and a boring half-hour it was indeed. Yosef nearly drove himself mad fretting about the state of their schedule (which they seldom adhered to anyway). Sylvie tried to sneak out for a smoke, but was prevented from doing so. Apparently it would be unprofessional to return her rented suit jacket if it smelled like tobacco.

All the better if the costume were ruined, in Sylvie's opinion. It was supposed to be ironic, dressing her and Meg in men's suits and trousers, while the male members of Wildwood wore women's pantsuits. Everyone was wearing cowboy boots. The whole getup was atrocious from head to toe, crossing into try-hard territory, which made it perfect.

When Rowan emerged, buttoning up his own horrid manteau, he was not smug or self-satisfied. Clearly, he had not just been trying to pull a practical joke.

"I hope you had fun, because Farrah's going to hand me my ass once she gets over that cold," said Yosef. "I'm lucky if I don't get fired because of you."

"I didn't," Rowan bluntly admitted. He tugged his cowboy boots back on over a pair of mismatched socks. On the side of his calf, Sylvie could see the tattoo he'd gotten after losing a bet with her. If he'd won, she would have the same image on her left asscheek.

"You could have stopped him if you weren't such a wuss. And we both know Farrah won't fire you, you're like, the Robin to her Batman," Brian interjected.

Just to rile Yosef up, Sylvie quipped, "Yeah, who else would get her coffee?"

"Don't backtalk me, or I'll book your rooms at Motel 6 the next time we tour. I'll even ask them to give you the nastiest room they have. Roaches and all."

She made a face. "Bleugh. Never mind."

"Yep. You'll go down for breakfast, and boom, roach in the eggs."

"Are you gonna be this mean to your kid when she's older?"

"You bet," said Yosef, who was much more inclined to spoil his infant daughter rotten. "Wait, Rowan, what do you mean 'I didn't'? Surely there's a reason you decided to kick out the hired model and take her place in all your sexy glory. And please, for the love of God, tell me you found some way to tastefully hide your pecker. I don't need this album getting banned in half the world's countries."

Rowan shrugged. "Why do you care so much? So what if I want to be on my own cover instead of some random chick whose whole job is being hot? I don't write the music — and I don't want to — but come on. I want to be seen, too, while I still got the chance."

"I care because in the music industry, people like naked women. Naked women sell."

"That's just sexist," said Meg, rolling her blue-grey eyes.

Sylvie remarked, "It's sexist, but it's true. I would know." Her top was proof of that. Although she wore a man's suit, there was no button-up shirt underneath the jacket. Her cleavage was out and practically waving hello.

"Truth is, I don't know why I did it, besides the simple fact that I felt like it. That's the thing; now that Vera's gone, I can go back to doing whatever and whoever I want, when I want to."

"That hardly sounds healthy," said Meg. "It sounds like you made that decision solely to piss off Vera."

"You don't get it. What's unhealthy is sitting around thinking, Shit, what if my girlfriend doesn't want me going on tour, or shit, maybe I should start thinking about buying a house, or something stupid like that, when I could be smoking grass and playing drums on the road? Y'know, if I'd said to Vera, 'Hey babe, I'm gonna go get naked pictures taken to put on my album cover', she would have freaked."

Meg scoffed. "What you're describing is called contemplating the future. It's completely normal, and I daresay necessary, for people in serious relationships."

"But like, why should I invest so much in a future that might not even happen? If I had bought that house for me and Vera, I'd be living in it alone."

Brian piped up, "Man, that's just a risk you gotta take."

"How would you know? When was the last time you were in love? It fucks with you, dude."

Brian scratched the top of his head, where his bald spot hid. "I know that."

"Can we stop talking and start setting up for the group pictures? You all realize the photographer gets paid hourly, right? We're wasting time and money."

"Good," said Brian, "Good riddance to both of those things."

Chapter Text

Promotional materials were such a pain in the ass.
A month later, after five more photoshoots and a butt-ton of interviews , it was time for Wildwood to make the first of their festival appearances.

They didn't need to fly to Y100. It was in Camden, New Jersey, close enough to take a commercial train from the city. On June 16, two days before the festival, Wildwood bade a temporary goodbye to New York.

Sylvie loved trains. They smelled so nice and crisp, and they vibrated and shook in a constant hum that made her drowsy. She felt like a Victorian lady taking a trip to the English seaside.

Farrah and Yosef had booked them comfortable rooms in the Holiday Inn. It overlooked the Delaware nicely, and she could see across it into the south side of Philadelphia.

There was a swimming pool on the hotel's ground floor. Meg, Brian and Rowan went swimming the first night; Sylvie joined them, wearing a t-shirt over her bathing suit, and afterwards fell asleep watching Who Wants To Be a Millionaire?

Most of the other acts flew into town the following day. There was a production rehearsal scheduled for that morning. Each act would pass through to do various technical business in preparation for the festival, according to their assigned time slot.

It was during Wildwood's slot that Sylvie got to meet Adam Yauch of The Beastie Boys. She hadn't much appreciation for his music, aside from Brass Monkey, but Brian sure did.

Playing festivals was, oddly, less nerve-wracking than normal concerts. Maybe it was because the thousands of people there weren't just there for her. She was one act among dozens. Or maybe it was because the general creation of noise mattered more than the artistry of it and nobody really cared what she said or sang so long as it was good.

It was so strange, standing with twenty-odd people in an empty amphitheater, the rest of BB&T Pavilion deserted except for a couple bands and their retinues. Sylvie felt so magically insignificant.

Who cared that she stood a few feet higher than everyone else? Who was looking at her? Nobody, that's who. Brian was still busy chatting with Yauch, and Rowan was whining about a hole in his shirt, and Meg was sat on an amp braiding a ribbon into her hair. Sound techs and assistants and managers buzzed about, concerned with nothing but their work.

One of the lights had gone out, and Wildwood's hired light technician paced the stage in a tizzy, cussing under his breath. It was hot and most of the staff were growing ornery. Sylvie wondered if lights were even necessary. They were supposed to play right before dusk.

Once the light had been settled, the members of Wildwood shuffled back out to Farrah's rented van. Their instruments were still in the back compartment. On the ride there, the four of them had to clutch each other whenever a sharp turn was made, lest someone go hurdling into five thousand dollars' worth of drums.

In the parking lot, another couple of groups had shown up for their allotted rehearsal time. "That's Hoobastank," Rowan whispered in her ear, pointing out a bunch of very plain-looking men standing by the side of a bus. "I think, anyways." He began to hum the tune to "The Reason."

Brian climbed into the van first, then Meg, who was in the middle because she was the smallest. Sylvie was close to following her when, peeking behind Hoobastank's bus, she caught sight of another five men worth a great deal more to her. The Strokes had shown up, and she had almost missed them.

Julian had just descended from a tour bus, lighting a cigarette tiredly. He'd come from California, where The Strokes had played at 12th Annual KROQ Weenie Roast.

Impulsively, she touched Meg's arm. "Look over there — Julian's here!"

"Of course he is. He's playing tomorrow, too." Meg could see a rare elation in Sylvie's eyes.

"I'll be back shortly," said Sylvie, disregarding the sarcasm. "Tell Farrah."

Farrah, who was buckling into the driver's seat, said "Really? We're about to be late for our dinner reservation."

With her characteristic flippancy, Sylvie replied, "I'll be quick. I just— I have to talk to him, just for a second."

Albert caught sight of Sylvie's approach; his eyes widened, then narrowed in recognition. She put her finger to her lips, begging him to play along. He did so reluctantly.

She crept up behind Julian — he was so absorbed in his own speech, he didn't even sense her — and shook him violently by his shoulders, shrieking.

"Fuck!" he yelled, loud enough for the whole parking lot to hear.

Sylvie cackled like an elderly witch. "Ha! Surprise, motherfucker."

"Fuck you," he said, grabbing her by her face and kissing her hard, as if to get revenge. The kiss was so distracting she almost forgot where she was.

She looked up at him, grinning. He was so tall. "Did I get you?"

"Yeah," Julian admitted, "You got me good." He wanted to draw her into his arms and feel her soft, curved body against his, but he was conscious of their bandmates nearby. "Long time no see. Fuck me, you look pretty, Miss Fowler. You been well?"

"Well enough. Finished the album, finally. We're announcing next month."

"You gonna send me a copy of the vinyl?"

"Sure, if you like." She stood on her tiptoes, whispering in his ear, "But it's absolutely terrible."

Everyone but Al had come up to greet her. She remembered Fabrizio, who was wearing yet another Coca-Cola shirt, and was introduced to Nick, Nikolai and Ryan. They were polite enough. Sylvie wondered how many other girls Julian had introduced them to.

A minute later, she looked over and saw Farrah irately trying to get her attention.

"She calling for you?" he asked, gesturing to Farrah.

"I guess so, but it won't kill her to wait." Whatever it was, this marvelous surge of affection, she wanted to bask in it.

"I just got you back, too," he said morosely.

Two of his band members had gone inside to see the stage, and the other two were huddled by the gate smoking. That gave him a chance to lay an inconspicuous kiss on her browbone. "Tell you what, pretty lady. Right now, you go wherever you need to go, and maybe we see each other later tonight."

"Tonight? I'm staying at the Holiday Inn over the Delaware." Quickly, with restrained excitement, she whispered, "Maybe you'd like to swing by."

Julian smiled. "Maybe I would."

She blew him a kiss as she walked back to Farrah's van. He pretended to catch it, pressing his closed fist over the place where his heart rested. He would see her in a few hours — and would think of nothing else in the meantime.

Chapter Text

Dinner with the band went as it usually did. Farrah lectured. Meg ordered grass-fed, ethically sourced meat. Rowan kept trying to kick Brian under the table.

Comfortingly, things were as they had always been. Nobody had anything new to say. Sylvie thought her life had fallen into a cycle; work, meetings, meals with the band, waiting for Julian, rinse, repeat. Sometimes there was a night of partying thrown in for variety. Weirdly, she was grateful for it. There were worse ways to throw away one's life.

Even these thoughts were nothing new. She'd been wondering exactly what she was chasing — what goal she was grasping at — if it even existed.

The answer to that question was Julian. It was an odd realization, made in between sips of wine while Farrah went over the next day's itinerary. Whatever Sylvie had been digging like a fiend to find, it had something to do with him. She saw that now.

She had only ever been in love once — and even that was debatable. John was her first sweetheart. At eighteen, he'd broken her tender young heart in half, asking her to follow him across the world for deployment. At her refusal he'd made a childish and halfhearted offer of marriage. When that was also refused, he'd promptly fucked off to the Middle East for Operation Desert Fox. Bullet firmly dodged.

With Julian, however, things were completely different. The lines between friend and lover blurred; like two guitars playing in tandem, together completing a melody.

Almost analytically, she began to seriously consider that she might love him. Or at least that she could.

And then she remembered that there was nothing logical about it at all. He could have any woman in the world — not just a beautiful girl, but one who knew herself, one who knew where to place her feet next.

So she couldn't love him. She wouldn't. It was a terrible thing that she wanted to.

After dinner she took her time meandering back to her hotel room. The Hilton was clean and quiet. She was just another traveler, crawling back to a room with white sheets and mini-soaps and beige vinyl curtains.

Her well loved suitcase sat in the corner of the room, half-unzipped and leaking clothes. Frustrated, Sylvie was trying to re-fold her clothing into something resembling organized when a knock sounded at her door.

"Room service," called Julian lazily. She went and unlocked the door for him.

He smelled even more like smoke than usual. His shirt was the same Camel tee he'd let her borrow months before.

"Really? Because I don't think I ordered a tall, sexy glass of water." She leaned against the doorframe, trying — and miserably failing — to look sultry.

"That joke was bad. In a good way. Good-bad." He leaned in to greet her with a kiss. "Are you drunk?"

"Not drunk. I had some wine with dinner, though." She giggled — definitely tipsy. "How'd you know I got back here? I was just about to call you."

"Telepathy," he said. "Kidding. I dunno, I didn't really think that far ahead. I just got up and came here. How about another kiss?"

"So demanding," she chided, obliging anyway.

"I meant to go to the convenience store for cigarettes, but I forgot. You wanna come with?"

Sylvie pointed to her purse. "There's a pack of American Spirits in there. All yours if you want them. I have a whole other pack of Marlboros around here somewhere."

That was a bit of a fib. She didn't have another pack, but the irritation that came with needing a smoke was something she wanted to spare him.

Julian dug through the ratty old bag. "Why do women carry so much shit around?" There were a zillion pockets inside, each one filled with crap.

She took the bag from him and unzipped a mysterious pocket. "Here's your cancer sticks, sweetheart. I feel bad about giving them to you — like I'm enabling the addiction." Her tone was humorous, but it was the truth.

Julian took the cigarette carton, but did not release her hand. "Don't feel bad," he said, patting her so far up her thigh it might as well have been her butt. "I've given you plenty of cigarettes, haven't I?"

Sylvie shrugged. "At least let me take my shoes off, before you try to molest me. I only got in ten minutes ago."

"Anything else you want to take off?" He asked suggestively. He hadn't come to get laid, but if it happened, he wasn't complaining.

"Actually, yes." She gingerly removed her blouse. It was too fancy to just keep on, if she was going to bum around in a hotel room. Underneath, to Julian's disappointment, was a white camisole.

"You should wear white more often."

"Why's that?" She asked, expecting some sort of immature joke.

He sat up from her bed, abruptly sincere. Why did he always do that? It was like getting whiplash; jocular one moment, dead serious the next.

"It makes you look like an angel."

"Let me guess, did it hurt when I fell from Heaven?"

Ignoring the sarcasm, he said, "You remember that first time I got stupid drunk, and you let me spend the night on your couch? The next morning, when I saw you in that white sweater, I was like, 'fuck me, she's an angel, what the hell am I doing here,' y'know? Thought I'd died and gone to Heaven."

She scoffed. "You're such an exaggerator."

"I'm a bastard, Miss Fowler, but I'm not a lying bastard."

"Whatever you say." Sylvie wrapped her arms around her torso. There was a hoodie stashed in her suitcase, in case she got cold; she threw it on.

"You won't believe me, no matter what I say," said Julian, "but why would I lie to you? You just-you have no fuckin' idea- fuck, this isn't coming out right..."

Sylvie blinked; she wanted the conversation to end. "You wouldn't," she acquiesced.

His finger found the opening of her hoodie. Underneath the thick fabric, her shoulder was like silk. "So why won't you just listen to me, woman?"

"Same reason you bitch like a baby when someone says they like your music." She smiled, finding herself clever.

"That's different," Julian muttered.

"How so? Enlighten me."

"Damn you," he said, without heat. Sylvie flicked him. "I don't bitch like a baby."

She laughed. "You so do. But, then again, that's what I've been doing this entire time. So I forgive you."

Like a child, he responded, "Nuh-uh. No way."

"Yuh-huh. Yuh-huh times a million."

"Angel, my fuckin' ass. You're too mean. And for the record, you didn't win this argument — I just gotta figure out how to say what I wanna say without puttin' my foot in my mouth." He brushed her sleeve completely off that shoulder. "Is it just me, or is it warm in here?"

It abso-fucking-lutely was not. Hotel aircon was as reliably crisp as ever.

Amused, Sylvie replied, "I guess it is. I better take off this jacket then, huh?"

Like the cocky asshole he was, Julian responded, "Maybe those pants, too, while you're at it."

Chapter Text

No matter how many times it happened, she wasn't sure she would ever get used to Julian's kissing.

"That kinda tickles," she breathed,  as Julian began to press fluttering little pecks on the side of her neck, with the aim of making her laugh. He sucked a bruise a few inches below her ear, kissed it softly in lieu of apology, and then made another one.

"Jules-"

"Just- gimme a second," he said, entirely absorbed. With his head against her neck, he could smell her, the sweetness of beauty products and perfume that couldn't quite hide sweat. "You got anywhere to be in the morning?"

"Nothing I can't skip," she mumbled. "Why, are you planning on keeping me up all night?"

"Maybe." He pinned her by her shoulders, gently enough that she could wriggle free if she liked. Then he resumed his earlier travail.

"Julian..."

She sounded so sore and wanting — her voice, strained and beautiful, went straight to his crotch. "What?"

"Will you take off your shirt?"

"Ladies first," he said.

Sylvie rolled her eyes, a little reluctant.

"You want me to help you with that? Y'know, I'm kind of an expert."

"Learn from experience, did you?" Turning her back to him, she tore off the camisole as gracefully as she could, clutching it to her chest. "Your turn," she said, wanting them to be on equal footing. Julian obliged.

Her bra was nothing fancy. Just a stringy old thing from off a department store rack — who knew how long she'd had it? Julian couldn't have cared less. He wanted it gone.

He seized her shirt and tossed it to the floor with his. Sylvie tried to cross her arms over her chest, but Julian removed them. "Why're you hiding? I'm not a fuckin' animal. I'll live, if you don't feel like havin' sex."

"No, I want to. Believe me." As she spoke, she could feel the evidence of that between her legs. "I just-“ she paused, not wanting to say it aloud. "You already know how I feel about my body. Do we really need to talk about it?"

"Forget about that. Just for a minute, forget about it and lemme show you what I meant earlier." The proof of his wanting was beginning to show itself. The sound of his belt unbuckling and falling to the floor was obscene. Clink-clink.

"D'you see?" he said, after his jeans had come off. He felt a bit silly, standing in front of a woman and asking her to look at his erection. "This, uh, doesn't just happen on its own."

Sylvie laughed, wanting to cover her eyes. "You're making me feel like a perv."

He leaned forward, wrapping his hands around her shoulder blades, fumbling to undo the clasp of her bra. Even after it snapped and fell, he still wanted to keep her this close. Her dark eyes were close enough to reflect him.

Rhythmically, Julian palmed her breasts, reveling in the way they gathered in his fingers. "Be gentle," she asked, only half-sure she actually wanted it that way.

"I will be. Promise." He cupped the left one and brought the nipple to his mouth.

The other breast ached in want of attention. Almost desperately, she pushed the heel of her hand against it. The real ache was the one between her thighs.

"Don't be impatient," said Julian. He released her left nipple and began to delicately suck the other one, kneading the flesh around it.

Abruptly, he pulled away from her chest. "Open your legs."

The urge to be a smart-ass was irresistible. "How about a 'please'?"

"if that's what it takes," said Julian, and that was the truth. Another truth — there wasn't much in the world he wouldn't do.

He could see his saliva shining around her nipples, which had grown rosier with his touch.

The center of her underwear had darkened, betraying her body's response to him. He ran his fingers down that scrap of fabric and circled them, slowly but deliberately, where he knew her clit was.

Sylvie wondered if she'd ever been so aroused. Like a new-made virgin, she was clumsy and eager, using her thumb to yank down the band of her underwear. Now his fingers grazed the bare, silken flesh, coming away with a single thread of crystalline moisture.

Her legs were wide open and all of her was visible. Like the basest of men, he lowered his eyes from her reddened face, down clavicle and breasts, over the slope of her stomach and navel to the rose-petal flesh below. Carefully, as if she would break beneath him, he laid himself on top of her.

"What are you waiting for, huh?" Sylvie murmured softly.

His cheek was only inches from hers. Brushing the side of her face were a few tendrils of hair. The little peck laid on his temple wasn't enough to really say what needed to be said.

Something was poking against her pubic bone. Normally, she wouldn't want to look at it; penises were just ugly poles of flesh and veins. But his was different — somehow, it being attached to him made it better, even beautiful.

"Nothing," said Julian. Reverently, he laid his mouth against her neck, and eased himself inside of her, finding something like relief.

"Oh my god," she breathed out.

He began to move. His thrusts were shallow but sure. Their bodies were a little sweaty, stuck together, but that was the beauty of it.

Julian was straining his legs with the effort of going slowly. His balls hurt. His body wanted to fall into hers, to adopt a fast and unrelenting pace until he finally climaxed, but that would be unfair. His breathing was hot in the crook of her shoulder.

Her eyes were half-closed in ecstasy. Every movement was sharp, jolting her upwards. "Please, go a little faster. I can't take this."

With a little shame, Julian admitted, "If I do that, I won't last very long."

"I don't care," she murmured. Her hands wrapped around his back, pulling him flush against her, breasts crushed under the weight of him. "I don't care at all."

His balls tightened — she wanted him, and he couldn't honestly believe it. In his mind, the words flickered through a haze of lust; Sylvie wants me, Sylvie wants me. He had to still himself for a moment.

"Julian," she said, clutching his shoulderblade. His hipbone was gently sloped — she could feel it slotted against her pelvic bone, because he was pressed inside as deeply as he could be. "Why did you stop?"

Because I love you. "Because I love you — fuck." Not an answer that made much sense. The implications were utterly lost on him. A question was asked, and it was answered.

"Fuck," Sylvie echoed. "You're going to make me cum." She felt herself tightening, approaching something powerful, when he began to thrust again. This time his movement was urgent, as if he was trying to prove a point to her. "Julian—please—"

But he was too far gone.

"Please," she whispered again, and came, trying not to dig her nails too hard into his back. Julian kissed her pulse point. Beneath his lips her pulse throbbed.

His loving her, the damn fact of it, was enough to send him tumbling down. Thrusting erratically, he shuddered. His voice was pained and cracking. "Sylvie—" he exclaimed, just like he did their first time, but he wasn't really talking to her, or to anyone.

Underneath, Sylvie could feel his heart beating at his hot breastbone, exactly in time with hers.

Chapter Text

When Sylvie woke up, she realized she'd forgotten to take out her contacts the night before. Her eyes were dry.

The next thing she noticed was that she was alone in bed. Stretching out a bare leg, there was lingering warmth on the other side of the bed. But no Julian.

The alarm clock read 10:02. Between her legs, she was still a bit sticky; they hadn't used a condom last night. That was alright. Birth control pills were tucked safely in her toiletry bag, the one with Kermit the Frog.

Dressing on wobbly legs, she heard the shower running. Julian wouldn't mind if she went in, just to take her contacts out. She'd already seen every inch of him.

"Jules?" she called, knocking on the bathroom door. No response. She opened the door slowly, hoping not to startle him.

"Sylvie?"

"No, it's the Queen of England," she said.

The sound of falling water echoed, a soft patter. "Did I wake you up? 'M sorry."

"No - the opposite, actually. I think I got cold because you weren't there." She bent over the sink, carefully peeling the lenses off her reddened eyes.

Julian put his hand against the tile wall in front of him. Through the crack in the shower curtain he could see Sylvie, or at least her silhouette in a fogged mirror. He was afraid to say anything more. Did she remember what he had said last night, in the heat of their lovemaking?

"Quit staring at me like a creep," she said, smiling. "Do you want me to go downstairs, see if I can scrounge you up a cup of coffee?"

"You could join me in here," he said. All he wanted was to be near her.

He saw her look up, contemplating. Then she shimmied out of her clothes and stepped in beside him. He moved aside, so she could take his place under the warm water.

"About last night..."

"It was wonderful," she said plainly. After a beat, she added, "You told me you loved me."

"I did." He didn't deny it — he didn't want to.

So quiet it was barely audible, she asked, "Did you mean it?"

Looking down on her, Julian saw her eyes wide and dark on him. It was those eyes that scared him, and at the same time, gave him the courage he needed. Forcing himself to sound brave, he said, "I never say things I don't mean. It was true. It is true, Sylvie."

When Sylvie didn't respond, he turned away from her and the little bit of hot water that managed to reach him.

"Fuck." His skin was prickled with goosebumps and water droplets. His shoulders dropped and he didn't mind or even notice the water that ran from his forehead to his eyelids, compelling him to blink.

"Jules?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you," she said, pulling him back under the hot water.

He had nothing to hide behind, no tousled hair or black clothes or jewelry or alcohol. Sylvie liked him this way. His expression turned from dejection to joy — hers probably looked the same.

"I didn't know it 'til now, I think. But it's been there a while." She wrapped her arms over her breasts, laughing slightly at herself.

Julian smirked. "I knew it a long time ago. Shit, it was months ago, I was in this bar after a show and this girl tried comin' onto me. And I mean, she was hot, really hot—"

"Excuse me?"

"—Lemme finish. The thing was, I didn't even want her. I was attracted to her, y'know, but like... I didn't even think about sleeping with her. And then, I met this kid who was supposed to perform there, and I tuned his guitar, and he was wearing a pin with your face on it."

"Is that right?"

"Yeah. And I saw it and knew why I didn't wanna fuck that girl."

"Oh," she breathed, considerably less offended. What a blunt way of putting things.

In that moment Julian was confident — sure he wouldn't trade the woman in front of him for a thousand others, sure he would never want to. After Juliet he had forgotten the world was worth the pain it took to live in it; now he was reminded.

"Jules, you should let me take care of you. Let me get you off with my hands, or my mouth, or something."

She got down on her knees gingerly, using the little soap-holder for balance, and found herself face-to-face with it (or rather, face-to-something else). Experimentally her fingers wandered over his belly and hipbone, to the place where a little bit of hair led down to his manhood.

He made no move to stop her, simply resting his palm on the top of her head. Abruptly self-conscious, she said, "I haven't given a blowjob in, like, five years. If I'm bad at it you have to say something."

"Hey, don't worry. You'll know if you suck."

Sylvie rolled her eyes.

"I'm just kidding, baby. There's no way it'll be bad... unless you bite me." Then he added, "Please don't bite me."

"No promises if you keep making bad jokes," Sylvie quipped. She was less intimidated than she might have been. This was normal and natural — she was a woman who loved a man.

He tried not to let himself lean back. She had him clasped in her fist, her thumb running over the head. He was getting hard, his penis twitching with the flow of blood, growing flushed.

"Is this good?"

"Yeah... it's good," he said softly.

"How about this?" She laid her tongue flat along the tip, and then took it into her mouth.

"Fuck," he muttered, and she was proud.

Her fist was still working the base of it — it was too large to take all the way into her mouth. Julian didn't mind. He didn't want her gagging on his dick like a pornstar. All of her was precious; if she asked him to be rough, he would refuse.

Her left hand, previously unoccupied, came up to cup his balls. His cock was completely stiff. The blood in his head had gone downstream. Her cheeks caved around him, suctioning, then releasing with the hint of a laugh.

Julian forced himself to look up, away from her; whenever he looked down he came dangerously close to finishing. When she rolled her tongue around the head, he had to pull his hips back.

"What's wrong?" Sylvie asked. Her lips came off him with a pop.

He nearly gasped at the abrupt loss of contact. "Nothing. Nothing's wrong. I just don't wanna be done yet. If I come in your mouth, I can't fuck you right now. Refractory period, y'know."

"I don't mind," she said, even though there was something undeniably sexy about the whole experience. She pushed her thighs together. "Shower sex is never that good. Water isn't wet, if you get what I mean."

"I'll make it up to you," muttered Julian, as she wrapped her lips around his cock again.

Within minutes, he was spilling himself, thrusting as gently as he could manage into her warm, wet mouth. The tightness in his belly burst and then eased.

"Tell your manager," said Julian, still breathing hard, "to cancel your room reservations for the next two months. I want you to stay with me until V-Fest, on nights neither of us are traveling. Please."

Sylvie tried not to make a face, spitting it out. She stood up, knees sore, and rubbed the water out of her eyes.

Somewhere in the back of her mind was a sense of foreboding. She pushed it away, bade it be silent, and agreed.

Chapter Text

"I spy with my little eye, something... blue."

Meg yawned. Sylvie's head was on her shoulder, like a great big bowling ball with hair. "Is it the sky?"

"Bingo," said Brian, tapping his pointer finger.

They were on a flight to Edinburgh, Scotland. The band was scheduled to play this year's T In The Park the following day. As such, they were halfway into a seven-hour journey.

Sylvie's head bounced with a spot of turbulence, but she didn't open her eyes. She only stirred, eyelids barely flickering.

"You suck at this game," said Rowan. Brian shrugged.

"Yeah, you do," Sylvie murmured.

Brian peeked at her through the gap between seats. He was in the row ahead of her. "You're one to talk. You always choose something impossible. Like, how were we supposed to guess the red thing you picked was one singular bead in Farrah's earring? I can't even see her earring from over here."

Sylvie tilted her head a few degrees towards his seat. Her eyes were glassy, reflecting the light that shone down through the plane window. "I spy a little bitch," she said, looking directly his way.

"Oh, har-har. You really got me with that one, Sylvie."

Sylvie did not respond. She was too busy laughing at her own joke.

"Another round," Rowan pleaded, to everyone's chagrin. Brian was the only one to reluctantly agree.

When the two of them had gone back to the game, Meg said to Sylvie, "I hope you're not that mean to Julian."

"Please don't get her started on Julian," said Farrah, who had been eavesdropping from the row behind them. "Bad enough I have to hear about the two of you from the media."

"Ok, ok, shut up. I got it," said Sylvie. "You people are no fun."

"You're no fun, since you stopped hanging with us after shows," said Brian. He turned all the way around. "You and me used to be afterparty buddies. Remember that?"

"Not really. I was usually shitfaced."

"Ooooooohhhhhh, is someone jealous?" Rowan asked. He stuck a finger in Brian's ribs.

"Er, no," said Brian. He scratched his bald spot. Sylvie and Meg shared a look.

"We all could've been afterparty buddies, if you guys ever cared to come to my usual spots. Even you, Farrah and Yosef," said Rowan.

"I know exactly what you do with your afterparty buddies, and I don't want to be one of them," Meg retorted.

"Brian? Are you game?"

"Don't answer that, Brian," said Meg, saving Brian from a very uncomfortable response. "I wish they'd pass out peanuts. I'm hungry."

Must be nice, Sylvie thought, to say you're hungry without worrying what people think.

Even though she was tired, there was no use trying to sleep on Meg's shoulder anymore. Her back ached from the effort. There was a beachy romance novel in the purse tucked under her seat, but she didn't feel like reading it.

She resorted to digging out her eyeliner. Meg lent her an arm to doodle on. She started with flowers, then tried to copy the band's logo. It was hideous.

"I can't draw for shit," she told Meg.

"I know. No offense."

"Are we there yet?" Rowan whined like a child, loud enough to be heard by everyone behind him.

Irritated, Meg chimed in. "You won't make it to Scotland alive if you keep up all this moaning and groaning. I'll wring your neck with my bare hands."

"Kinky. I'm not usually into that type of stuff, but I'd try it for you, sweet thing."

"There are children on this airplane. Have you no sense of decency?" Despite herself, Meg chuckled a little.

"That wasn't a no," Rowan said.

She scoffed and sipped ginger ale out of a little plastic cup, hoping it would soothe a plane-sick stomach.

Sylvie let Meg's arm free. "I wouldn't get this tattooed if I were you."

Meg whispered in Sylvie's ear, "You think he's over it? Vera, I mean? He seems like his normal self again."

She whispered back, "I doubt it. He's never really been one to talk about feelings, though. He likes to bottle things up."

"Says you."

"What do you mean, 'says me?'"

"Ladies, please, no bickering," said Farrah. "You know, I never wanted to have children, and here I am, looking after four of them. Funny how life turns out."

"I pay part of your salary, Farrah, so please continue to call me names," Sylvie responded. It was an obviously empty threat. She lowered her voice back to a whisper and said to Meg, "Yeah, I says."

"That doesn't make any grammatical sense. My point is, you know how you and me are having a whisper-conversation about Rowan because we're concerned about him?"

"What about it?"

"Well, that's what we've been doing about you for like, five years. You got all mopey after our first album came out."

Sylvie shot her an evil look. "I'm a grown ass woman. All of you ought to mind your own business."

"I always wanted to ask what happened to you. Why you've been half yourself for so long. You've been physically here the whole time, but I've been missing you for five years. And maybe now's not the best time, but fuck— I mean, screw it."

"Half myself? I disagree. The bitch side... it's me through and through." She hated it, but knew it was true. Her voice was flat and unambiguous.

"That's completely false."

Sylvie glanced around her. Brian and Rowan were still playing their game. Farrah had put in a pair of headphones, and Yosef was busy scribbling into a book of accounts. Nobody was paying attention to them.

Meg continued on, "You say Julian loves you. And I believe it, but if he loves you now, in this long winter, imagine how much he'd love you in spring."

"It's the middle of summer? Is this some sort of metaphor?"

"Something like that. I guess I'm lucky, because I get to look at you and remember spring. And hope for it to come again."

Sort of catching on, Sylvie said, "I think you're wrong. It's been winter for so long the whole world is frozen over, and all the people in it are dead."

"I think the permafrost is thawing — even if the wind still howls."

"I guess we'll have to wait and see," Sylvie whispered back. Despite herself, she wondered if spring really was on its way after all these years. She looked out the plane window. The sunlight that poured through it warmed the bridge of her nose.

Chapter Text

After her performance on the first day of T in the Park, Sylvie found herself unaccompanied in "King Tut's" Tent. Mohair was onstage in front of her. Sylvie wasn't sure about their lyrics, but the music was decent (and aggressively English). Good enough to sway to in the thinning crowd.

It had gotten dark enough that few people turned their heads to look at her. Julian had promised to meet her at some point, but he seemed to be caught up elsewhere. Sylvie understood. He had to prepare for his act tomorrow; The Strokes were on first thing, followed by Pixies. And anyway, the best acts were yet to come — namely, PJ Harvey, Massive Attack and The Killers.

Wildwood had preceded The Beta Brand on the main stage earlier that day, debuting the title track of their as-yet unannounced album Fusillade. The audience's response had been lukewarm.

All the members of Wildwood pretended not to be delighted. They had begun to consider — really consider — what it would be like if Avian dropped them. Meg had privately told Sylvie about studio sessions she wanted to book in California, something she would only be able to do if there were no other commitments. She was going to record a few singles, just her and an acoustic guitar. Maybe (Meg vehemently hoped) they'd one day appear on an album of her very own.

Sylvie's performance outfit from earlier had been...terrible. Farrah had used a chunk of Wildwood's massive advance to hire them an honest-to-god stylist, who had coerced Sylvie into a pair of laced-up leather pants and a tartan-patterned jacket, open in the front to reveal the tops of her breasts. Brian liked having someone pick his outfit (apparently it was too much pressure for him to handle alone), but Rowan had protested this EGREGIOUS loss of autonomy by removing his shirt onstage and tying it onto his head. Meg could be cajoled into a grunge-y skirt and blouse, but nothing could persuade her to trade her Birkenstocks for a pair of boots.

Sylvie doubted herself; she wondered if all this humiliation was worth it. Even if it worked — if the band managed to make Fusillade fail — the label might still not drop them. She, Meg, Brian and Rowan were gambling with their reputations. By extension, they were gambling with their livelihoods.

Someone tapped her on the shoulder. Sylvie half-expected Julian; she turned around hopefully. Instead, it was Rowan.

"Sylvie!" he shouted. She could barely hear him.

"That's me!" she shouted back.

"What?"

"Never mind."

"Huh?"

She rolled her eyes. They stood together for a moment, each shifting their weight side-to-side with the rhythm of the song playing. Rowan was still shirtless, but he had changed into a pair of grey jeans ripped at the knee. Someone had drawn a pair of eyes on his chest, with his nipples as the pupils.

In an astounded tone, he asked, "You actually like this shit?"

Sylvie shrugged. She was content enough.

"Come on. Let's find something better to see." Rowan took her wrist and led her out of the massive tent, into the crowded field. There could hardly be a step taken without someone's blanket, or drink, or other accoutrements underfoot.

"At least tell me where we're going," said Sylvie, a little nervously. Rowan was not known to socialize with the classiest people.

"I dunno. Wherever the wind takes us." His foot caught on a tent pole, nearly taking him and Sylvie down together. The grass beneath their feet was damp.

She shook her wrist from his grasp. "Julian said he would meet me. I don't wanna wander too far."

"Then come and sit in the field with me... there's nobody interesting playing right now anyway."

"Alright," she acquiesced, realizing Julian probably wasn't coming anytime soon. The two of them found a dry patch of grass a few hundred yards from the main stage, free of anyone else's tarp or blankets, and sat down. Now her butt would have grass stuck to it.

Around them, people stumbled in and out of tents, their voices a loud static that mixed with the distant sound of music. Drinks were left precariously alone on the ground, some tipped over and spilling into the dirt. There were men in filthy clothes and women with few clothes at all running around, faces painted, hair stuck to their backs with sweat. Overpriced food stalls crowded the edges of each tent's allotted land. The air smelled of beer and Scottish summer wind.

"Look up," said Rowan.

Above her, the stars were brighter than they ever were in New York. Sylvie could have traced patterns in the night sky.

"How pretty," she said, absorbed. "It makes me want to just stay in Scotland forever. Not to sound like Meg, but there's too much goddamn pollution in New York."

Rowan laid down on his bare back in the grass, his hands clasped on his middle. "Vera likes constellations. She's into astrology, y'know, all that kinda stuff."

She lay a hand on his shoulder, trying to be comforting. "This is gonna sound cliché, but it's true; there are plenty of other fish in the sea. In ten years, you'll barely remember her."

"In ten years we'll all be old geezers," he mumbled. "And anyway, I could never forget her. Not in a hundred, million, quintillion—" he opened his arms wide, "—bajillion years."

Sylvie didn't say anything. She understood.

Rowan continued, "I mean, aside from all my fuck buddies, I've had real things for people before. Romantic feelings, not just physical shit. Remember Marie, after our first tour? Then there was Christina, then Jen, and even Brian for a second there—"

"Did you just say Brian? As in, our Brian? The one who plays bass?"

"Yeah," Rowan laughed. "It's kinda embarrassing, but have you seen him in a suit? I swear to God — or Buddha, or Allah or whoever, I don't know — he looks good. I just wish he'd take off that dumbass hat for once. But whatever. He's not into guys anyway, so it's not like he'd be interested."

"Hmmm..." said Sylvie, stifling a laugh. "I dunno. Have you tried it on with him yet?"

"Shit, yeah, dude. It was like, five years ago, on our first tour. I just climbed into his bed on the tour bus one night. He froze up — I guess I made it weird," Rowan laughed. "But I don't know if he remembers. We were both stoned as hell. I woke up the next morning in my own bunk, fully clothed."

This was news to Sylvie. Trying to be subtle, she said, "Maybe you should give it another go. Sober, this time."

"Why... did Brian tell you he wants to fuck me?" Rowan laughed as if the idea were absurd.

"What have you got to lose?" asked Sylvie, dodging the question.

"Not yet." Rowan sighed softly. "I'm just— I'm not ready." He crossed his legs, returning his gaze to the night sky. There was grass stuck to the side of his pants.

"That is surprisingly mature of you," she muttered, laying on the ground next to him. "But maybe someday?"

"Maybe someday. My body's a temple...everyone should be allowed to worship," he laughed quietly.

She nodded. There was an ant crawling on her forearm. Gently, she raised her arm and flicked it away.

"You know I like to shag randos. But it takes energy, strength, stamina. And holy fuck, Sylvie, I'm tired."

"Ha. You're already an old geezer," she quipped, a little sad. It was so strange to hear the words 'I'm tired' come out of Rowan's mouth. Suddenly, she said, "Wait. In all the five years I've known you, have we ever hung out one-on-one like this?"

"Not once," Rowan answered. "Which is a damn shame."

Chapter Text

Sylvie and Rowan spent another hour or two together, stargazing and sharing a lukewarm beer, shooting the shit, until she decided she was sleepy. Rowan was good enough to see her back to their hotel, before leaving for God-knows-where; his night was just getting started. Julian had never showed at all. Well, he knew where she was staying. Hopefully he'd make an appearance and explain himself.

Alone, she bathed, put on a tank top and sweatpants in lieu of real pajamas, and went to sleep a little after one. At least without someone else in her bed, Sylvie could spread her limbs all across the cool, crisp sheets. For a few hours, she fell in and out of dreaming.

The sound of the door closing had woken her. For a brief moment she was scared, until she heard Julian utter a muffled, "Shit." Clearly he had meant to be quieter. She pretended not to stir as he stumbled to the bed where she lay, pressing a sloppy kiss to her cheek, almost falling on top of her in the process.

As she blinked open her eyes, the alarm clock by the bed read 4:05 a.m. in searing red. Julian was yanking furiously at his clothes, trying to shed a few layers. His belt buckle seemed especially recalcitrant. Sylvie would have laughed, if she weren't irritated.

"Where've you been?" she queried, with a voice clouded from sleep. "You said you would meet me for the end of the first day."

He turned back around to face her. "I called you — think I left you a voicemail..." Julian returned to the belt buckle. Finally, he managed to unhook it and pull it free, discarding it onto the carpeted floor.

Sylvie's phone was on the nightstand next to the hateful alarm clock. The ringer, as usual, was off. While Julian tried to rid himself of his jacket, she flipped the phone open and let the voicemail sound.

"I can't understand a word of this," she muttered. "How much have you had to drink?"

"Help me with this..." he slurred pathetically. His black jacket was halfway off — all he really needed to do was shake his arms out of it.

"I assume you got yourself into this mess," she said, as evenly as she could manage. "You can get yourself out."

Placing his hands on his hips, as if well and truly befuddled, Julian said, "Don't think I can, Miss Fowler." When she had no response, he said, "Fuck it."

"Don't make me laugh — I'm supposed to be mad at you." She turned on the lamp with a click. The whole hotel room was illuminated faintly. There by the foot of the bed was her suitcase, thrown open and spilling clothes. There was the bureau against the far wall. Atop it, the TV. By the door was the closet, chair and desk where she had dumped her purse. And standing in the very center of it was Julian.

Julian, with his lip split down the middle, barely scabbed enough to staunch the ooze of blood. One eye was mottled red underneath. Soon it would turn black.

"What happened to you?" Sylvie asked, forgetting her ire. She threw back the warm bedsheets and stood, approaching him with her hands outstretched, aiming to inspect him. Julian, clearly unsure what she meant to do, took the chance to drunkenly lean in and attempt a kiss. His breath reeked of alcohol — the hard stuff, not just beer. Sylvie dodged.

"Does it hurt?"

"It's nothing," he said soothingly. He'd long since given up on being able to undress, but warily tried to take off his shoes by tugging at the heel of each one. "The other guy only landed two hits. I kicked his ass." He smiled, proud. Sylvie scowled.

Julian was too plastered to stop himself staring at her. Her hair was tousled; it had half-fallen out of the braid she'd put it in, attractively wrapped around a smooth neck and shoulders.

"Tell me you didn't get in a fight," she mumbled. Julian abruptly shook off his reverent thoughts. "Tell me you didn't ignore my calls because you wanted to get shitfaced and lock antlers with someone at the other end of a bar."

Defensively, he said, "I can handle myself... and I don't fight with anyone who doesn't deserve it. Don't sound so worried."

"I don't give a flying shit who deserved it. You could've gotten seriously hurt. And to top it all off, you would rather risk your ass than hangout with me. I can't believe you."

"You know that ain't true. You can yell at me all you want in the morning, and I'll take it 'cause I deserve it, but for now," he sighed, "I'm tired. My face hurts."

Now thoroughly angry, Sylvie retorted, "And whose fault is that? I think you'd better bunk with someone else tonight. In fact, if you can remember where your bandmates are staying, I'll call you a cab."

He reached his hands up to her shoulders. There was a red splotch around each knucklebone. "I saw your set. I'd never skip it. You were good. I meant to meet up with you after like I said I would, I just...got sidetracked. I'm sorry."

"Flattery's as smooth as glass," she replied, quoting some old book or other whose title eluded her. "I don't know what bed you think you're sleeping in tonight, but it won't be mine, I can promise you that much."

Julian slurred, "I'm bein' sincere. I'm sorry I skipped out on you — really, baby, I am. I'll make it up to you. Cross my heart. Now can I please go to fuckin' bed?"

"Sure you can," she said sweetly. "Just not this bed, with me." Scared of what else she might say, Sylvie took a few steps back. She wished for a glass of water. Her mouth was dry from sleep.

"You're being childish. I'll sleep on the fuckin' floor, or in the chair, if you don't want me in bed with you. I'm a fuck-up, I know it — but don't kick me out."

"No, you're being childish." Ironically, such a retort did sound immature. "I'm a fuck-up too. I'm the worst woman I know. But that's nobody else's problem, is it?"

"You're a fuckin' liar," Julian spat. He straightened up, his eyes less clouded than before. "You're goddamn perfect — too good for me and you know it. Except for the obsession you got with your looks, which I don't get. Nobody gives a fuck except you."

"Yes they do! Everyone does. I know it — they won't say it, but I know it." Sylvie stopped herself, wondering if she sounded a little insane. A knock on the door interrupted them.

Sylvie shot Julian one last murderous look before she went to answer it. It was a middle-aged woman, dressed in black with a nametag that read 'Antonia: Sr. Manager of Hospitality.' The woman hesitated a moment before speaking; clearly she recognized either Sylvie, who was suddenly self-conscious of how she looked in pajamas, or Julian, who stood a few feet behind.

In a thin Scottish accent Antonia began, "Excuse me, ma'am. Sir. We've had a noise complaint about you two. It's past four in the morning. Do try to keep it down a bit."

"God, I'm so sorry," said Sylvie, mortified. "He was just leaving. There won't be any more noise from us tonight." She made a mental note to apologize, if anyone from the rooms surrounding hers decided to come out.

"'M sorry," Julian repeated. Quietly, he moved to leave, stepping past Antonia. His footfalls were quiet on the hallway carpeting. "Goodnight." Sylvie wanted to ask if he would call sometime, or if he still wanted her in the crowd for his performance the next day.

But she did not, because she was too proud.

Chapter Text

Sylvie had a hard time getting back to sleep. She sat in the office chair in her pajamas alternately stewing and regretting her words for at least a good hour; after that, she crawled back into bed and fretted some more. It was nearing six by the time she managed to doze off, waking four or so hours later.

For a split second, she remembered Julian coming in and kissing her cheek the night before, and reached over to the other side of the bed for him. Then she remembered the rest, and leapt up to check her voicemail (a rare occurrence). Nothing from her darling boyfriend. Just the usual thirty or so old messages from Farrah, Yosef and Meg.

After showering, Sylvie was halfway through doing her hair when she began to wonder what she was doing. If she wanted to catch Julian's set that evening, then doing her hair was perfectly reasonable. But what if Julian didn't want her there?

She tossed her hairdryer and round brush onto the bathroom counter. Her phone still sat tantalizingly on the nightstand by the unmade bed; tearing herself away from it, Sylvie picked the brush back up. Looking at herself in the mirror with a critical expression, she once again began the fruitless task of trying to get her hair to hold a curl.

When the phone rang, Sylvie nearly jumped to get it. She had a whole spiel planned in her head — ‘you'd better have a damn good apology, mister’ — as she picked it up and flipped it open.

Just Meg. Sylvie remained unreasonably irritated, this time at Meg for getting her hopes up. Whatever. She'd call back, if it was important.

By now the hairdryer had been been given up on. She'd cajoled Farrah into booking her a room with a balcony, so she could smoke without having to go all the way to the ground floor. Sylvie rifled through her perpetually overfilled purse until she found a pack of cigarettes, and was immediately alarmed by how light it felt.

Oh yeah. She was supposed to pick up another pack the night before. Her last cigarette — worth its weight in gold — was in her hand as she yanked the balcony door open with entirely too much force.

A quick, insistent rap on the door made Sylvie groan aloud. If that wasn't Julian, come to profess his undying love and remorse, she was gonna kill him. Then again, the knocking sounded a little too feminine. Hopefully Antonia wasn't back.

Half-tempted to shout, 'Go Away!' she instead grouchily made her way back inside, to the corner wherein the front door stood. A smarter person would have bothered to look through the peephole first. Instead, Sylvie opened it with impatience.

"Good morning, sunshine," said Meg. "Don't you look perky today!" She was wearing a lapis-colored blouse, half-covered with a handmade knit vest in lilac. Her strawberry blonde hair was half contained in a clip and framed her face nicely. Ugh.

"Don't start," said Sylvie, who was really not in the mood to deal with her dearest friend at the moment. "What is it?"

"We're all going for lunch. Care to join? You can tell us all about Julian, I promise not to complain."

Normally Sylvie might've accepted, but as it was, she had no desire to feign happiness. "Not particularly. Thanks anyway." Sylvie moved to shut the door, but Meg caught it right before it closed, nearly catching her fingers in it.

"Sleep poorly? I always do in hotels — they make the rooms too cold."

"Something like that."

"Whatever's bothering you, you know you can talk to me about it," said Meg, in that annoyingly sweet voice of hers she reserved for animals and children. Sylvie wanted to shake her.

"It's nothing important. I have to get dressed. I'll see you guys tonight at dinner."

Pushy as ever, Meg sidled her way into the room and, without being prompted, began to make the bed. Sylvie begrudgingly went to help.

"Did you and Julian have a fight?" asked Meg. There was that nosiness.

"Yes, if you must know. He didn't even show up last night until four in the morning, just reeking of alcohol, with his face all fucked up. Want to know where he'd been?" She didn't give Meg a chance to answer the obviously rhetorical question. "Bar-fighting. The hotel manager had to come down and tell us to quit arguing 'cause we were being too loud. It was mortifying."

"I'm sorry," said Meg, clearly holding something in.

"What?"

"I won't say I told you so, but..."

Sylvie snatched the last pillow from her hand and set it on the bed. "I don't want to hear it. Go, or Brian, Rowan, Farrah and Yosef will leave for lunch without you."

"Just talk to me, Sylvie. Why's that so hard for you?"

"Would you kindly quit pestering me about it?" Sylvie said bitterly. "I'm mad at Julian, but I guess I'll get over it eventually. There you go."

"You're not being very mature about this."

"Pray tell, how could I possibly be mature about it? My boyfriend skips out on me because he'd rather drink his life away, and there's nothing I can do about it — there's nothing I can do to help him."

"Oh, honey," said Meg.

Sylvie turned away before Meg could place a hand on her shoulder. She laughed, to cover up a knot in her throat. "Just when I think I've found a guy who wants me despite all this..." she gestured down at her body.

"You're blowing this whole thing way out of proportion. He skipped out on you, sure, but he'll realize he effed up soon enough and come groveling."

"But what if he doesn't? I mean, let's face it, there are women everywhere who wouldn’t utter a word of complaint against him." Women slimmer and prettier than me, she thought.

Nonplussed, Meg replied, taking a seat on the fresh-made bed, "He will. In the meantime, take a breath. Come to lunch with us. You'll feel better."

"You can't possibly know that!"

"And if he didn't, would it be the worst thing? Sylvie, I know you don't see it, but there are men near at hand who'd sell their very souls for a chance with you. You're a beautiful girl. Sweet, too... or at least you can be."

"It would be the worst thing," said Sylvie, meaning it. "Of course you wouldn't fucking understand. I love him. I love him like I've never loved anyone." To ease the vulnerability of admitting such a thing, she added sardonically, "More fool me."

Brian could be heard walking down the hall towards Sylvie's room, talking with Rowan. He called from behind the room's closed door, "Sylvie? Meg? You guys still in there?" Without waiting for an answer, he pushed the door open and entered, followed by Rowan. Of course, upon seeing Sylvie red in the face and close to tears, and Meg with a furrowed brow, he regretted it instantly.

"Woah... uh, what's going on?"

"Relationship trouble," Meg answered pityingly, which didn't especially help her case.

Sylvie snapped, "I'm not going to lunch. End of story. You three can leave now."

Brian and Rowan didn't need to be told twice. They (blessedly) knew to pick their battles. Sensing the tension between the two women, Brian tried to cajole Meg into leaving with him, but she waved him away. Rowan seemed to be entertained.

Meg lifted herself off the bed and allowed Brian to take her by the wrist. "I thought we were past this, Sylvie. All this self-flagellation. It won't get you anywhere, and I think you know that. All you're doing is feeling sorry for yourself. I'm going to leave now — come to me when you actually want to be consoled."

"Tell Farrah I won't be coming to dinner with you guys tonight either. I'll just meet you at the airport tomorrow."

"Now you're just being childish."

It took Sylvie a great deal of restraint not to say things that would prove Meg's remark true. Once her bandmates had left, she wiped her eyes, blew her nose, and went outside for a smoke.

Chapter Text

Sylvie was so utterly angry that she refused to spend any part of the rest of the day with her bandmates.

She knew nothing good would come of giving them the cold shoulder. It wouldn't endear her to them, it wouldn't make her seem any more powerful, and it certainly wouldn't produce a solution. Hell, Brian and Rowan were completely innocent (although she was inclined to think of them as Meg's accomplices).

She was also furious with Julian. The rational part of Sylvie's brain knew that he was as little equipped to handle conflict resolution as she was; that by giving him the cold shoulder, she was being hypocritical.

A prouder part of her wanted to ice him out until he came chasing after her, maybe with flowers, because he loved her.

The very worst part wondered if he ever would — if he really did love her, like he said.

What was in it for him, to lie? Her body? She would have given it to him anyway. What that fact said about her, Sylvie didn't know. Her status? Big deal. Julian Casablancas was famous in his own right, and didn't seem to be terribly enthused about it.

But of course, all that was more logical than taking him at his word. Sylvie Caroline Fowler was not beautiful. She could not even be pretty in that charming, unconventional sort of way you could be if you wore the right clothes and feigned confidence. She was not intelligent, having kept average grades when she bothered showing up to school. She was not kind; that had been proven over and over again. She had been creative, and interesting once, but no longer. Her voice, her one and only talent, was beginning to fade.

Maybe Julian liked her. Maybe he cared for her, enjoyed sticking his prick inside her. But with nobody around who was willing to reason with her, Sylvie talked herself into believing there was no way on earth she was actually the object of a man's love.

It was for that reason she made a decision she knew she'd come to regret; she decided not to catch Julian's performance at T in the Park. There was still the second night of T in the Park to attend, and no getting out of it (or else face Farrah's wrath), but Sylvie could make herself scarce until after The Strokes' act.

It was an unspoken agreement between the two of them that they would always attend each others' concerts if they were in the same town. Now Sylvie had breached it, and she felt this course of action was irrevocable somehow.

The next day, it was time to leave Scotland. Their flight was close to noon, which meant Sylvie had to get up early (or whatever early was to her) to make it to their van on time, which would ferry them to the airport. She got herself dressed and ready with the television on in the background, not because she wanted to watch it, but because she needed some sort of noise.

While she applied a light layer of makeup - she couldn't bring herself to go outside without it anymore — she absentmindedly mumbled the lyrics to some old Fleetwood Mac song, No Questions Asked. But then she realized the song was a little too relevant to her, and forced herself to hum the tune to one of her own songs that she really should have remembered better.

She thought about making Rowan trade seats with her on the flight back, but he usually sat next to Brian, and she'd be loath to separate them. Instead she traded places with Farrah, because Yosef could be counted on not to talk much, and she didn't mind having a zillion pictures of his kid shoved down her throat. Let Farrah and Meg put up with each other the entire nine hours.

For some of the flight Sylvie slept. Yosef woke her when the stewardess came around to take drink orders. She didn't like peanut packets, so she gave them to him. He would not be bullied into letting her doodle on his arm, so she doodled on herself instead.

The flight was long. A baby cried. People around her intermittently talked, slept, and stepped over each other to use the bathroom. She would never admit to a fear of turbulence, so when the plane rumbled over clouds, she simply sat back and wished Julian was there. And then when she thought of Julian, she thought of skipping his performance, and felt ill with guilt.

"I guess I should warn you," said Yosef, a couple hours before the plane was due to land, "When we get back home, you guys have several interviews lined up to publicize the new album."

"I know," said Sylvie. She was dreading it already.

"Farrah's going to ask you to talk about being with Julian. She said you two were...having some trouble?"

Sylvie whipped her head around at him. "How the hell does she know that? Oh, of course Meg told her. Fuck. Just - fuck. It was literally one singular fight. And it's none of your business."

"Don't give Farrah too much flack," said Yosef. "Some managers I know would've anonymously leaked this stuff to the press with or without permission, just to drum up publicity."

"Do I not have any right to privacy?"

"Sylvie, I'm gonna say this gently. If you wanted privacy, you should probably have chosen another career path besides rich and famous rockstar. You want my opinion-"

"Not really," said Sylvie, even though she knew her ire at him was misdirected. Yosef was someone she'd always looked favorably on.

"Alright, then," he said, meek as ever. He mimed zipping his lips. "I figured you'd prefer hearing it from me."

Now she felt a little sorry. Yosef more than anyone hated confrontation, direct or secondhand. And he had to suffer through the members of Wildwood fighting with each other like alley cats, or else fighting him and Farrah on their decisions, almost every day. "Yosef, will you tell me something honestly?" she asked, in a very contrite tone of voice.

"Sure. If you promise you won't bite my head off for giving an honest answer."

"Cross my heart," Sylvie replied. That was an expression she remembered Julian using sometimes. "Don't you think it would be a little silly for me to talk about myself and Julian publicly? I mean, I feel like it'd just be asking to get made fun of."

Yosef shrugged. "I don't think so. You two are a celebrity couple. People like hearing about that sort of thing. It's good for business. Just don't cross the line. Don't be like Pam and Tommy."

"No, what I mean is, don't you think it's a little silly for me to be talking about Julian? Sure, we're both famous; we're on the same level in that respect. But he's himself. He's stupidly handsome, and reckless, and known for spending his time with all sorts of women. When people see me as his girlfriend they're gonna think, 'poor him, being with a girl who looks like that.'"

"You think about yourself too much," said Yosef. "Who cares if people think that? You're the one on his arm, not them. And let me tell you something else — do you truly think you'd be so famous if you looked like a troll under a bridge?"

She shifted in her seat. "Well, I didn't always look like this. I used to be real cute, back when we first started out." Of course, that'd had its own sort of repercussions.

Yosef turned away, plucking up the courage to say what he really thought. "None of us know how to make you feel better, Sylvie. I know it scares the crap out of Farrah, because she's told me, and I suspect the rest of them too. And it scares the crap out of me especially because I can see a billion other little girls these days, including my daughter, turning out just like you."

"Why should they be scared? I'm the one who's fucking scared." Sylvie laughed nervously, knowing she had just admitted a grave vulnerability.

"I know. The only advice I'm equipped to offer is to tell you that nobody was ever killed by gossip. Whatever people say about you and Julian doesn't matter; you're famous, they're not. You're his girlfriend, they're not," said Yosef. "Now, would you like me to get out my portable DVD player? I've got Fight Club, Dumb and Dumber, Night on Earth..."

"Have you got 16 Candles?" Sylvie asked. It was one of her favorite movies.

"I think so," said Yosef. "See if you can find a pair of headphones in your bag."

Chapter Text

Julian Casablancas did not have anything to say. At least not to his girlfriend.

His eye was sore, and a deep shade of crimson that would soon turn violent. The split in his lip had just barely closed. One knuckle had scabbed over in spots. There were other little bruises scattered around his body, but Julian didn't care enough to take stock of them.

It was his wounded pride that troubled him. Sylvie didn't want the kind of man that saw it as his duty to defend her — in her mind, she didn't deserve to be defended, so of course Julian was unwilling to confess that he'd gotten into a fight on her behalf. All it would get him was an argument.

Some drunk festivalgoers had crossed his path at exactly the wrong time. It wasn't long after Wildwood's T in the Park set had ended. Julian had attended the performance, and knew he was supposed to find Sylvie later on in the night, but first he needed to gather up some courage.

He was once again a few days into forceful sobriety. I'll quit, he'd promised so many times, or else, I'm fine. I'm in control. None of it was true. But if he really quit drinking this time, or at least found some way to get a handle on it, maybe she would be inclined to consider him as a real, viable option for her future.

He had tried to be alright with the arrangement he and Sylvie had — that they would see each other and spend the night together, anytime they happened to be in the same town. But it wasn't working out for him anymore.

Julian didn't want Sylvie to be a little piece of his life; he wanted her to be intertwined with the whole of it. And God knew he was getting sick of Albert's shit, all the drugs and the nasty crap Al and Catherine (and sometimes other women) did in front of him, not knowing or caring whether or not he could see it. Worst of all was the way Albert looked at him, believing that nothing he did to Julian could be worse than what Julian had done to Juliet.

After all, Albert was only hurting himself, nobody else — at least in his mind.

So Julian was going to ask Sylvie if she wanted to find a place with him. It could be any place, in any part of New York or even outside of it, if she liked. It was all up to her.

A group of festivalgoers had simply been having a conversation within Julian's earshot, utterly unaware of him, making crude comments about most of the female performers that had been on that day. He didn't like it, but knew he'd said similar things when he was younger and dumber, and so felt obliged to ignore them. His lips were pressed tight, but his body cried out in pain. Withdrawal had long since set in.

But then they'd gotten on the topic of Wildwood. The gaggle of douchebags started in on Sylvie's holier-than-thou guitarist first, remarking that despite her beauty, her breasts and ass were both too small. Then they'd made the mistake of bringing up Sylvie.

Apparently, the downturned slant of her eyes made them wonder what she would look like on her knees looking up at them with her lips wrapped around their cocks. One of them orated (loudly) his curiosity about what Sylvie would be like in bed; of course, he'd never fuck that—

Well, Julian didn't like to think of the names Sylvie had been called.

He could not bring himself to feel sorry about what he'd done after that. He wanted to be the kind of man that abhorred violence. His stepfather, a quiet, introspective artist he'd looked up to his whole life, had told Julian that violence was the way of animals and fools.

But the feeling of the other man's skin yielding to his blows was wonderful. The wet blood on Julian's knuckle after he broke the other guy's nose was relished.

In the end, Nikolai had to talk him down, in that irritatingly gentle manner of his that put Julian to shame. Otherwise, Julian might have inflicted enough damage to warrant getting the authorities involved.

Afterwards, the adrenaline tapering off and his eye socket throbbing, Julian swirled around the beer in his hand and felt powerful. He had finally done something for Sylvie, albeit something she would hopefully never hear about.

But then he'd have to explain the black eye and the swollen lip to her. It would hurt her to hear her worst fears validated — that the shape of her body impacted how people thought about her. Julian couldn't stand to watch her be hurt, to watch her feign indifference through it. He would have to lie to her about why he'd gotten into that fight, why, by that point, he was late to come and see her.

So he cracked, and bought a beer, just to clear his head. He couldn't bear the sweats, the nausea, the shakes and mind-numbing anxiety. Withdrawal had kept him from sleeping and made him irrationally angry. Maybe he could blame his horrible impulses on that.

A noble cause hardly justified ignoble actions. Had he even done what he did for Sylvie? Did she derive any benefit from it? No. The only person who gained anything was him.

Julian knew he was being stupid. He'd just go and find Sylvie, apologize for being late to see her, and say he'd gotten the black eye joining a fight Al had started or something. No, that was wrong too. He ought to own up to the fact that he had acted of his own volition. Nothing he could say would reflect well on him, nothing he could say would spare Sylvie's feelings.

But then, he risked the very worst. She would wisen up to the fact that Julian was a stupid, drunken, violent, impulsive ass, and she would leave him. She would go away and never come back. It was inevitable.

Julian wanted to shout, or maybe run away. Instead, he resolved to seek out a little more comfort, before he'd go and find Sylvie in her hotel room.

Chapter Text

"So. Let's get to the elephant in this room-on-fire. You and Julian Casablancas."

Sylvie pursed her lips and nodded. Meg crossed her legs primly and tried to feign boredom, but even she knew her own nosiness couldn't be controlled. So she listened intently, eyes directed away.

Wildwood had been invited to give an interview about their new album, following a spate of MTV reruns of popular music videos on All Things Rock Countdown. It had been a hectic few hours.

First, all four of them had been trussed up like turkeys. They let Meg keep her hair wavy and long, but someone had the bright idea to do Sylvie's up in spikes — she looked like a porcupine. Because this was MTV, all of them were wearing eyeliner so thick you couldn't hardly see their eyes themselves, and clothes fit for a funeral.

Next, they'd been made to shoot an intro before their videos came on. The camera had been pointed at the four of them sitting on metal stools, trying to improvise something witty into their microphones. Rowan told the story of how he'd gone streaking by complete accident in the West Village. This process repeated in between videos, of which there were seven. Three of them were Wildwood's own.

The interviewer in front of Sylvie smiled, clearly trying to provoke some sort of funny reaction from her. "How's that going, huh? I don't think there's a woman in New York who wouldn't love to be you, you know."

"Yeah, I'm lucky," she said, and Meg knew she alone could sense the sarcasm, "He's a very talented performer. I'm always in awe when I see him onstage."

"Aren't we all..." said the interviewer dreamily. Meg suspected she had a little thing for Julian herself. "How long have the two of you known each other?" she asked, as if she and Sylvie Fowler were two friends at lunch together.

"About eight months. We ran into each other at a restaurant after we played in Atlanta on our last tour. The Strokes were playing two nights there around the same time, and... that was that."

The interviewer had been flat-out dismissing Brian, Meg and Rowan, who were sat at Sylvie's sides. Ostensibly, they were there to talk about their new album. Farrah had put them up to it. But of course, however much people wanted to hear about Wildwood, they wanted to hear the personal business of Sylvie Fowler and Julian Casablancas more.

"Has there ever been discussion about a collaboration between Wildwood and The Strokes?"

"Mmm, no. It wouldn't work. Best to keep business and pleasure separate, I think." She laughed sweetly, a practiced laugh. This was her personality in front of the cameras.

"I suppose you'd heard his music before the two of you met, right? Tell me, how have The Strokes influenced Wildwood's new album sonically?"

What an assumption to make. Sylvie said exactly what Meg had been thinking. "They haven't." That sounded like a criticism of The Strokes — to soften it, she said, "Of course I like his music. Who doesn't? But we're so distinct as musicians. Jules' band basically invented the garage rock revival... we're not a part of that." She shrugged.

If Wildwood was actually interested in marketing their new album, they might make up some crap about its connection to The Strokes. People would hear it if they wanted to. But Meg knew Sylvie was simply going along with the gambit: make the album as unmarketable as possible. No marketing, no sales, no more contract with Avian. At least, that was the goal.

"Was it love at first sight? Or did you guys take a while to warm up to each other?"

By now, Meg was sure she knew what mood Sylvie was in; she was sitting back, in her subconsciously defiant way. Meg tried not to blame the interviewer (whose name she'd forgotten), because she probably had her own instructions to follow. Nevertheless, Sylvie was clearly getting flustered.

Meg glanced over from where she'd been sitting. Her eyes met Sylvie's, and an understanding came to her. Sylvie wanted her help. Meg wondered if Sylvie realized how much power she had in their dynamic. She could ignore Meg for a long time if it pleased her. She didn't seem to want Meg's attention the way Meg wanted hers.

"What does that have to do with the album?" Meg interjected loudly. Inwardly, she was gleeful. That meant Sylvie was ready to stop being grumbly with her.

Surprising both of them, Rowan spoke up from his seat next to Brian. "If you wanna talk about romance..." he said faux-suavely, "...then we can talk about romance."

There was barely enough time for Meg to think an unmentionable word before he slithered onto Brian's lap. He smiled wide as he unbuttoned the top of Brian's shirt and stuck his hand inside it. Brian tried to play along good-naturedly, but Meg perceived the flicker of joy, then the disappointment of reality cross his face. He loved being touched, even in front of everyone — he hated that it was just for a joke.

"Oh. Wow," said the interviewer. "Is this a common thing?"

Meg pinched the bridge of her nose. "Unfortunately." She really needed to have a word with Rowan; getting Brian's goat like this was terribly insensitive, no matter how funny some people found it. And by some people, she meant Sylvie, who was giggling behind her hand.

Just when she thought it couldn't get worse, Rowan seized Brian's face in his hands and licked a long, sensual stripe down his cheek. He then wiggled his tongue in Brian's ear. Brian, who until then seemed too taken aback to really react, jerked his head away violently.

"Tell her the people what we do at night, Brian," said Rowan. "How we tie each other up and whip each other senseless. And then I spray your toes with whipped cream and lick in between each one—"

"He's lying!" said Meg emphatically, as if it weren't obvious. This was going to be on fuck— on freaking TV.

"No, you're right, I am lying," said Rowan soberly, "We don't use whips. Brian prefers paddles. He's got a very sensitive ass." He switched suddenly into giggling like a girl and twirling his newly short hair. "That's why he's always on top."

The interviewer laughed uncomfortably. She twisted her chain bracelets around in her hands. Apparently on MTV, even the staff had to look like goth teenagers at the mall. "You heard it here first, folks. Brian Kowalcyzk likes it gentle. Remember that, ladies." As if the ladies had a chance to begin with. She made a playful face at the camera. "Getting back on topic..."

Meg said levelly, "Are we actually going get back on topic, or are we going to keep talking about a guy in another band?" She heard Sylvie's laughter cease, and watched her mouth drop open. Even Rowan quit pretending to sniff Brian's hair. "What?"

"Damn, Meghan," Brian said. "Scorched earth." His hand had come to rest on Rowan's waist. Only Meg seemed to notice. If it weren't being broadcast live, surely MTV would have asked them to start the whole interview over.

"Hit us with another question," Sylvie said graciously. "Ask Meg about how she came up with the album title — it's good, isn't it?" She nudged Meg's foot with her own. "Fusillade."

That was the closest she was going to get to verbal forgiveness. Meg reached over and patted her hand. It was an apology.

Chapter Text

A few days after the MTV interview, Wildwood had another magazine shoot in the works. This one was a little more casual than the last — she and her band members would be allowed to dress themselves, and be photographed through the city.

She sat down in front of the small mirror on her dresser. Her usual lipstick felt to garish today. She scrubbed off the dusty red color and applied a soft pink, dragging it just over the line of her natural lips so as to make them look a little fuller.

"What am I doing?" she said out loud to nobody. The pink lipstick didn't fix anything. It was still the same face she loathed in the mirror.

Sylvie oscillated between hating mirrors and peering into them obsessively. She knew the planes of her face so well that she, who had no talent for drawing, could have replicated them in her sleep.

Sometimes, when she put makeup on it, it was bearable to look at — she would vainly seek out her own reflection, wondering if good enough might be within reach, pleased by the almost-satisfaction.

But other times, she couldn't delude herself. You can't put lipstick on a pig. Or, she supposed, you could, but it wouldn't do much good.

Sylvie had just gotten done with her makeup, and was getting ready to leave, when her cellphone rang from its charging cord on the end of her nightstand. She was beyond expecting Julian to call. It was probably Meg or Farrah, admonishing her for her tardiness.

No, not any familiar number. There wasn't really enough time to take a phone call, but whatever. She picked it up and answered with a polite, "Hello?"

"Uh, hey... Sylvie."

"Who is this?"

"It's Albert."

If she had made a list of all the people on earth she expected to call her, he would have been at the bottom of it. There was no reason to be nice to him; he'd never been nice to her. "What are you calling me for? Is... did something happen to Jules?"

"Aw, he's fine. In the middle of another one of his stupid attempts to get sober cold turkey. He saw you on TV, and now he's in his room listening to music."

"Did he put you up to calling me so he wouldn't have to do it himself? And he calls me childish! You know what, put him on, we're gonna have words."

"No, no. Jules didn't put me up to anything. I'm just sick to death of his bitching." Albert dropped his voice into what was actually a decent impression of Julian. "'Sylvie's mad at me, she's gonna break up with me, it's all my fault. I can't take any more. Can't you just break up with him instead of ignoring him? It's the merciful thing to do."

Sylvie smoothed down the front of her blouse. She was starting to get antsy about the time. "Nobody's forcing you to live with him. Anyway, it's not your business."

"Maybe not, but Jules wasn't planning on talking things out with you until he got sober... a.k.a. never. He's too chicken shit to face you until he thinks he has a chance of convincing you to stay with him."

"He thinks I'm gonna break up with him?" Sylvie nearly shrieked. "Jesus. We had one fight. I'm mad at him, but not that mad. I thought he wanted to break up with me — or at least, he was trying to prove a point." She had forgotten by now that she had anywhere to be.

"Could've fooled me." On the other end, Albert heard Julian emerge from his room to take a piss, and lowered his voice. "Look, I'm sorry for being a dick. I saw Julian become someone he wasn't, when things were ending with Juliet, and I figured seeing him in the tabloids with some prissy singer wasn't gonna help Juliet get over him."

She thought about denying the prissy allegation, but then again, she'd just spent ten minutes agonizing about lipstick color alone. "Jules told me you and Juliet are close. I'm sorry he hurt her — and sorry if my involvement with him hurt her after their breakup."

"Y'know, since getting involved with you, he's gotten better. He's always been sorry about what he did to her, and he spent a lot of time trying to punish himself, in his own dumbass way. I'll let him tell you stories... but he was really fucked up for a while. Maybe deservedly so. But since he met you, he's kind of taken a break from the self-flagellation."

"So that's why you hate me? Because you think I've made him happier than he deserves to be?"

"No. It's a good thing, I mean. That he's not constantly wallowing in self-pity." Albert chuckled dryly. "Ever since Jules was a kid, he'd had this idea that everyone hates him, and it's his job to prove them all wrong, only he can't. Every mistake he makes reinforces that idea."

God, that sounded familiar to Sylvie. A little too familiar.

Albert continued, "He told me how he got into a fistfight on your behalf. I know it was a bad thing to do, and nobody would blame you for leaving him. I guess what I'm asking is, can you please rip the band-aid off?"

Sylvie was cradling the phone on her shoulder, and picking off her nail polish with her hands. As Al spoke, she stopped. "Wait. On my behalf? What do you mean?"

"He didn't tell you? Of course he didn't. Either he can't keep his mouth shut, or he doesn't know when to open it." Al sighed. "Jules picked a fight with those guys because they were saying stuff about you. Loudly."

"What stuff?" She had a feeling she already knew.

"Sylvie, I'm not gonna say it. Not if Jules hasn't already."

"You gotta tell me. C'mon, it's probably nothing I haven't heard before. I can handle it," she assured.

"Fine. They were talking about your weight — and some other sexually degrading stuff. Don't make me repeat it."

"Oh." Well, great. It shouldn't have bothered her, but it did. All that fretting about clothes and lipstick seemed pointless now. She levelled her tone. "And he didn't just tell me that because...?"

"I dunno. I guess he thought it'd hurt your feelings."

As she always had, Sylvie acted like she didn't care. "On the contrary. I get the feeling it's wrong to be flattered — I'm not some damsel in distress, in need of a man to defend my honor — but I am."

"So you're not still mad at him?"

"Oh no, I'm definitely still mad at him. He's so stupid... but I've been stupid, too. You said he's at home with you?"

"Yeah. I can hear him messing around with my fucking guitar. He sounds like shit."

"No way. His playing is angelic," she laughed. Then her alarm clock, right next to where her phone had been plugged in, caught her eye. "Listen, I'm late to a photoshoot, but would it be alright if I came over afterwards?"

"Fine by me. I'll tell him to have a drink. It'll put him in a better mood."

"No, don't do that," she said abruptly. "Let's at least give him a chance. Hey, how'd you get my number, anyway?"

"I have my ways," said Albert. "Nah, I just went through Jules' cell. His password is his birthday. He's so predictable."

"In some ways, I guess," said Sylvie.

Chapter Text

Another photoshoot, another day of being trussed up like show ponies.

It was an outdoor shoot. Wildwood had been dressed up in flowy, bohemian-inspired clothes that allegedly fit the season's trends. However, that didn't mean they were allowed to leave off the over-edgy jewelry and accessories characteristic of their era's musicians.

Sylvie paid it no mind. She was too preoccupied with Julian. Nobody wanted to hear her whine, so for once in her life she shut her mouth and tried to answer everyone's attempts at conversation with her.

Rowan had been made to cover his lean chest with a sheer scarf; he hated it so much he'd tied it around his head, covering what was left of his pretty curls. His face had filled out a little. After the whole Vera debacle, he'd lost enough weight to give his already angular cheeks a certain hollow look — devastatingly handsome, if you liked the whole heroin-chic thing. Now he looked five years younger, and only as beautiful as any other mere mortal.

Brian, by contrast, had traded in his beanie for an ironically feminine headband that pushed enough of his hair back to cover his bald spot. Sylvie, who understood the courage it took to push past an insecurity, was proud of him. He'd been dressed more plainly than the others, as always. Poor overlooked creature.

Meg was crowned in black flowers and draped in yards of lace. She was the May Queen, the bride of Dracula, beautified as if being sent off to sacrifice. As obviously over-the-top as it was, they all had to admit she looked nice. Only such a fair, sweet-faced girl could pull it off.

Sylvie herself let the hired wardrobe team dress her however they pleased. They threw her in jeans so loose and ripped she might as well have been wearing rags. Over her torso she was wearing a delicate blouse deliberately torn to make the sleeves fan out like a wilted flower (and also to make her shoulders look smaller.) As the lead singer — ostensibly the centerpiece — she'd been given a black jeweled netting to put over her head, like some kind of coronet.

They were told to embrace each other sensually, posed against the darkened brick of a historic city building. Sylvie was turned sideways, gazing at the camera faux-innocently with her arm around Brian's neck and her leg resting on top of his. Rowan was in the crook of Brian's shoulder on the other side, Meg hanging off him as he lifted her lily-white leg to hold just below his own dark stomach.

Sylvie wondered how Julian would feel about her appearing on the cover of a magazine in such fashion. She felt nothing in particular grasping at Brian — unlike the insatiable hunger incited by Julian's touch.

Beyond the base lust Julian engendered in almost every woman, there was the matter of her love for him.

The command to take a five-minute break was given. Thank God — aside from the makeup that needed adjustment, all four of them reeked of sweat. They broke apart with relief.

"Jesus," said Brian. He wiped his brow with his palm. "Are they gonna have us fuck each other next?"

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Rowan taunted. Brian didn't dignify such wit with a response.

"This is ridiculous," Meg complained. "We're musicians, not models. Why can't they just take pictures of us on stage and be done with it?"

Sylvie replied, "Remember what Yosef said? Sex sells."

"Any sexier and they won't even legally be allowed to sell whatever magazine they're putting us on. What magazine is it, anyway?"

"Beats me," said Brian. "We should know this, shouldn't we?"

"We're frauds!" Rowan cried dramatically, drawing the attention of the photographer and his staff. They all pretended to look away in disinterest.

"Speaking of something we should know... what date did we decide on for the album release again?"

"October 3rd," said Meg. "Oh, Sylvie. Did you really forget? It's your music, for crying out loud! And Brian, the magazine is MOJO."

"That's a ways away," Sylvie muttered lowly. She'd quieted herself for secrecy's sake.

Brian nodded subtly. "Plenty of time to drum up publicity."

"Thank you, captain obvious," Meg muttered. "It's out of our hands, I suppose. We can push for an earlier date, but not much earlier."

Sylvie pushed a bit of hair from the sweat-soaked nape of her neck. She lowered her eyes, mentally dismissing the problem; there was nothing she could do about it. After a moment, she half-gasped at the beginning of an idea. "What if it were in our hands?"

"What if we lived on Mars," said Meg.

"No, really. What if we forced them to put it out sooner? No time for publicity equals fewer listeners equals a lower spot on the charts." The 'them' in question, of course, referred to almost everyone who had been involved in Wildwood's business.

"Which means bad sales, which hopefully means no more contract?" Rowan asked. He was a little slow on the uptake.

"How do you suppose we do that?" Meg queried, her delicate hands fanning her face. Damn her. Even flushed with sweat, she was attractive, her reddened face offsetting her fair hair and steely eyes.

"I can seduce them," said Rowan. He threw himself against the brick wall behind him, as if trying to give an example.

Sylvie was the only one who laughed. Sex was what got them into that position. "The album's finished recording. Production will be done soon. What if a copy of the master happened to get out early?"

"You want us to leak Fusillade," said Meg. "On what platform? How would we even begin to make people aware of a leak?"

"I don't honestly know," said Sylvie. "We'd have to comb through our contract, find some legal way of selling it."

Meg, trying not to be so critical, muttered. "It's a good idea. We can work out the logistics later. All in favor?"

Brian and Rowan both said, "Aye."

They broke apart of the little molecule they had formed to have their private conversation. Sylvie took a cigarette out of her back pocket and lit it.

"What the hell are you four over there conspiring about?" Farrah called from a few feet behind the camera. "Get your behinds over here. And Sylvie, put that out. We need to fix your makeup and then it's back to work."

Sylvie took the longest drag of her life and obeyed, putting the cigarette out on the pavement. She needed to quit. For real, this time.

It struck her that if all went according to plan, she might not have to sit for many more photoshoots at all. Nobody else would have to paint her face; nobody else would have to pick out her clothes. It would all be her own choice.

Chapter Text

After Wildwood's photoshoot, the band was expected to go to dinner to discuss a potential touring schedule for the end of the year.

Sylvie declined her dinner invitation — less of an invitation, and more of a demand, really — and took off alone. She had other plans for the night.

If all went well, there wouldn't be a tour. Avian would drop them and any future funding would be void.

Farrah and Yosef might expect them to pay for a much smaller tour out of their own pockets. It might be an idea worth considering, if only to make enough money to tide them over until they could sign with a new label. If they would sign with a new label.

The ride to Julian's was packed. It was a Friday evening, nearing six o'clock, and everybody and their mother seemed eager to get home or go out or do whatever else a Friday night was good for.

Sylvie noticed a group of girls staring at her from the opposite end of the traincar, over the heads of a hundred others. She was careful not to lift her own head and meet their eyes. Perhaps they were fans; perhaps she was being looked at for another reason. Judged.

Even though the train car was air-conditioned, she was still sweating by the time she got off. She had made the walk between this particular subway station and Julian's apartment what felt like a million times. This time, it was Albert who opened the door for her.

"Sylvie. Hey," said Albert, more warmly than she was used to.

"Hi. Jules still in his room?"

"I'm right here," said Julian from their little kitchen. He was standing over the countertop, bracing himself with his arms, pale and sweatier than even she was. Albert hadn't lied about the state of Julian's sobriety.

"Julian," she began, "Jules. I came to talk. To apologize for yelling about you... that night."

"Jesus Christ, don't apologize," said Julian curtly. Albert took that as his cue to retreat into his own room. "I'm the one who fucked up."

"Albert told me why you did what you did. Maybe I shouldn't admit it — but I'm more flattered by your defending me than anything"

Julian looked up. She noticed he'd begun to grow his hair out again. It was so long it covered his eyes, and the black box dye had faded to the ends.

"I hear you think I'm going to break up with you."

If Sylvie didn't have his attention before, she certainly did now. He said uncertainly, "Aren't you?"

"No. If I was, I would have done it by now."

"You got a real fuckin' funny way of showing it. " He leaned against the wall behind him, as if he had no way to hold himself upright. "You kick me outta your hotel room, then don't talk to me for, like, two weeks. What else am I supposed to think?"

"Need I remind you that you didn't call me either?" She crossed her arms. "I figured you were mad at me — or sulking — and I'm not gonna deal with that."

"I've been trying to get fuckin' sober for you!" He hadn't really meant to raise his voice, but his control over himself was hanging by a thin thread, exacerbated by the pain of withdrawal. He hated that Sylvie saw him that way — expected him to behave like a spoiled manchild — except shamefully, Julian knew she was right to think that way.

He wasn't good enough. He'd known it all his life, and gotten used to the fact. Until Sylvie came along, there was nobody who could hurt him by saying so.

Irritated, she said, "Don't do that. If you're gonna get sober, do it for yourself. And for the love of God, don't do it cold turkey with no intervention."

Julian was some shade of grey in the face. His under-eye bags were deep. "Jesus, Sylvie. I drink too much, and now that I wanna quit you're saying I shouldn't?"

"I'm not saying that at all. I'm saying, your own wellbeing should be a good enough reason to quit. You're putting this on me as if I ever asked you to put down the bottle — did I ever want you to change yourself for me?"

"Well it fuckin' isn't." The words were true, even if they weren't meant to slip out. "I could give a shit if I live or die, but I'm not gonna drag you down to my miserable level."

There it was. Sylvie had anticipated a similar sentiment. She held back the venom on her tongue, and paused, looking directly at him. Challenging him to explain himself.

"It's not... I mean, I don't wanna change myself for you. I wanna change myself back. Alcohol isn't me. Drunk Jules isn't me. Er, actually, he is. Like an evil twin or something." He laughed nervously, easing some of the tension between them. "It sounds like I'm trying to pin the blame on someone else, doesn't it?"

"Keep talking."

"I'll try," he said. "So, uh, I guess what I'm getting at... I hate drunk Jules. I hate who I am on that shit. Most people like me better drunk, 'cept you, but I could give a fuck what anyone else likes... 'cept you, again."

"You're an idiot," she said, for lack of anything better. Her heart seemed to literally swell beneath her breast.

"Guilty," he replied, daring to smile a little bit.

They had finally found level ground.

"I hate drunk Jules, too, by the way. Screw that guy." She sighed, running her hands through her hair. "I'm sorry for making you think I was gonna break up with you. That was immature. I'm sorry I didn't talk to you — I just didn't know what to say."

"You'd be smart to leave me. Justified," said Julian softly.

"You know, I've thought the same thing about you. Many times." She sighed.

Julian was baffled.

Sylvie pictured herself the way Julian was seeing her in that very moment. Tired, dressed in too-edgy clothes, makeup smudged from summer sweat and heat. Fat. If he could look at her like this, and still want her, then she had to talk. For him, but more so for herself.

"I love you, Julian. I don't want this to be the end. I think... we're not so different. You're fighting something you can control in theory but not in practice. I am too." This was the first time she had ever . "We're a couple of chucklefucks, ain't we?"

"You're not the one makin' a fool of yourself," said Julian wryly. He wanted to say that he loved her too. He loved her so much it made him afraid of her judgement, of him and herself. He loved her so much it made him forget his long held self-hatred. It made Julian wonder if there was something worthwhile about him, which he did not deserve to believe.

The two of them were united in absolute self-hatred. Only Julian could dispute Sylvie's image of herself with any efficacy, and vice-versa.

"So... we're good?" Sylvie asked. The whole thing had been rather anti-climactic.

"Not yet."

"What do you mean, not yet?"

"I gotta actually do it," he murmured. "I gotta get sober. And you gotta stop believing all that stuff about yourself. I know you can't help it, but it's hard to hear. For someone who loves you."

Despite herself, Sylvie brightened. She impulsively reached out to embrace him. "I love you too."

Julian caught her in his arms and marveled in the way she fit against him; soft, plush and perfect. He never wanted to feel another woman's frame against his, never wanted to let another woman's love cradle him. He opened his mouth and forced out the truth. "I only wanna be good enough for you... so that maybe you'll consider keeping me around."

"I already told you I wasn't going to leave you," she said.

"Yeah, but I mean, like, permanently. Er, for the foreseeable future, I guess."

She peered up at him, resting her chin on his clavicle. Julian couldn't help himself; he had to cup the side of her face in his wide palm. "I told you I love you. What about that says 'impermanent'?"

"Personal experience." He laughed sardonically.

"Fuck you," she said, with some degree of seriousness. "You don't trust me enough to take me at my word?"

"Of course I trust you." Julian met her gaze, taking in features that were so familiar to him. He was getting used to the idea that he had a long time to admire her. Forever didn't usually exist for rockstars — but then again, he didn't like to think of himself as a 'rockstar.'

Chapter Text

It was dark in Julian's bedroom — evening was at hand, and the natural orange light from between his shutters was faint.

He laid Sylvie down on his unmade bed and wasted no time fumbling with her clothes. There was no need for words.

Sylvie surrendered herself entirely. She trusted him. He lifted her shirt and exposed her bra, but she threw it the rest of the way off. Julian cupped her right breast, feeling lace beneath his palms, as he kissed an unknowable shape down her neck.

Julian wasn't convinced he had ever liked a pair of breasts better. It wasn't just that Sylvie was perpetually warm and soft and sweet-scented. Her heartbeat was an affirmation of her life, which miraculously overlapped with his. Her cries, her breathing, her half-formed words were proof of her exceptional responsiveness.

He had never had wordless sex. There was always some quip to let loose, some dirty remark on the tip of his tongue. Between himself and Sylvie, now, nothing needed to pass except the purely physical. Julian's body was weakened from his tumultuous relationship with alcohol, but he urged himself forward on the strength of sensation alone.

"Julian, I'm ready," she murmured, lips against his shoulder. "For the love of God, put it in!"

"Soon," he reassured her. His eagerness was obvious; Sylvie could feel it on her leg. Holding himself back, Julian was compelled to keep kissing on her neck, stroking her covered sex with two fingers. He finally drew himself away long enough to toss away his shirt.

As soon as Julian climbed back atop her, she couldn't resist; Sylvie pinched his flat right nipple.

The look of surprise on his face was enough to make her let out a restrained snort, followed by a spurt of laughter.

It took no time at all for Julian to seek vengeance. He reached underneath her and unhooked her bra with the ease of experience. Then, just to wipe the look off her face, he took one of her nipples into his mouth. She exhaled instantly.

By now, he could read the little cues of her body, and she was obviously holding something back. Julian was utterly sick of having any distance between himself and Sylvie. His own tumescence made him bold and eager. He resolved to force her hand.

Kissing down her plush breast and belly, his intention was clear. She seemed apprehensive, but made no move to stop him. Lifting her hips, she allowed him to pull her unbuttoned jeans down her legs.

I'll show her, he thought. I'll make her cum a hundred times. I'll prove it to her. Prove what?

There was nothing to prove. He had finally succeeded at making her believe she was worthy of him. And the opposite was true as well. He wasn't worthy of her yet, but he could be. He would be. 

Julian's mouth gently caught the crease of her thigh. Sylvie recalled one of Rowan's filthy stories — something about an Australian kiss — a French kiss in the land down under. 

"God, quit staring at me..."

Julian ignored her. He finally licked a slow stripe up her cunt, tasting her softly. Her lower muscles jerked. Julian tried to be lighter with his touch.

"Why'd you stop?" Sylvie almost whined. She had forgotten her apprehension and needed some kind of stimulation.

Julian didn't answer; he had no reason to. He places his lips around the nodule at the top of her labia and sucked. Her thighs tightened involuntarily around his head, but he didn't care.

Sylvie laid back and tried to keep herself quiet. She thought of reaching out to yank at his hair; instead, she grasped at the sheets beneath her, writhing.

Her usual passivity during lovemaking had only been a front. Free for possibly the first time in her life of self-conscious restraint, she decided to take what she wanted. She began to scoot upwards, disconnecting herself from Julian's mouth; he was loath to let her go, clutching tightly at her hips, but eventually he did.

Julian unbuttoned his own pants and nearly tripped getting out of them in his haste. His penis stood erect, flushed pink with blood, evidence of urgent need. She was used to the sight of it, and obscurely craved it, as if it belonged within her. 

Wantonly Sylvie lay back and spread her legs, lazily raising her arms as if taunting him. He grasped himself and, lined up with her entrance, penetrated.

Both of them were awash with relief. He withdrew slightly, only enough that he had room to push back into her. Sylvie was ready to meet him.

She put her hand on the back of his neck and drew his head down to kiss him. Now that he was lying almost fully on top of her, her sensitive nipples brushed against his own hard chest. Her legs were opened as wide as they could be to accommodate him.

Neither one felt any speech was necessary, nor did they care to restrain their incomprehensible noises. Julian set a quick pace, wanting to urge her on before he fell to his peak. It was nothing short of animalistic. 

He had tried with all his strength to prove how attractive he found her — how much he loved her. But some things were better said aloud.

"I love you, Sylvie," Julian breathed without reserve. "Oh, fuck... I love you, I love you..."

He wouldn't close his eyes in pleasure; he wouldn't look away. Sylvie was unnerved by the eye contact and struggled not to break it. But for all her self doubt, she believed him. His word was good. 

Chapter Text

"On three," said Sylvie, to her bandmates standing around her. "One...two...three."

Meg shot Sylvie a final look, softening her blue-grey eyes, and made a single click of her mouse.

They had obtained a master recording of Fusillade from Harris Grant-Metin; because he was so obviously sweet on Meg, when she'd requested the recording, he'd been amenable to providing it, with a promise that she would keep it to herself. Meg had been uncomfortable lying, but it was necessary.

It was in their contract that the music could never be sold, but there was no legal provision against giving it away for free. Brian had a contact through his parents, who employed several business and contract lawyers for the sake of their restaurant chain, and had spent time and money going through their contract word-by-word.

The four members of Wildwood had absolutely no idea how one went about leaking music. The first step was to somehow convert a physical burned CD to an mp3 file that could be uploaded to the internet; a challenge for four people who had not grown up taking computer classes. They had a group MySpace profile, but posting the converted mp3 there would have been too obvious. They decided on creating a fake accounts to post a link on multiple popular chat websites, under Wildwood-related forums and discussions, trusting that the link would spread like wildfire until everyone had heard Fusillade — and discovered how bad it was.

Harris would doubtless be smart enough to put two-and-two together. Whether or not he would spill the beans was anyone's guess. He had been paid a hefty lump sum upfront and smaller sums for each mixed song; his income would be unaffected, at least directly speaking, by Fusillade's success (or lack thereof). His reputation, however, might be tarnished by the album's complete and utter bombing by association, even if he had done everything in his power to make it sound decent.

Meg decided, of her own accord, to come clean and offer him ancillary payment. Hopefully that would convince him to keep his mouth closed. Sylvie insisted on going with her to do so. She wouldn't put Meg in the same position she herself had been in almost six years earlier; alone with a man who had immense power over her.

Speaking of coming clean, Sylvie felt that she ought to do so herself. That particular truth — that old Augbiny had traded sex with her for a record deal — would be quite a nice piece of leverage, if Avian as a corporation ever decided to retaliate. Perhaps it could never be proven — it had only been Sylvie and the old bastard himself as witnesses. Still, what a scandal the truth might cause.

It took two days before Sylvie woke up to a furious Farrah on the other end of the phone.

A meeting was arranged, at Sylvie's house, to discuss the situation. Meg, Brian and Rowan got there before Farrah and Yosef, and milled about the living room anxiously. Sylvie made a pot of coffee, sure it wouldn't be touched.

Farrah had no pleasantries to offer when she arrived. She was murderously angry that someone had gotten ahold of Fusillade months before its scheduled release. Hopefully she hadn't already made too many accusatory phone calls to the production team. Yosef trailed behind her, ever the loyal sentry.

After a long rant, she finally let the four of them get a word in edgewise. "Do you people have any idea how this could have happened?"

And so it began. Sylvie, as the singer, was the de-facto leader; everyone else looked to her to start talking. "Alright, before I say anything else, I want to make sure both you and Yosef know you're not laid-off. Unless you want to be."

"What on earth does that mean?"

"We've been keeping a secret from you two," Sylvie sighed. "For a while."

"Oh my god. You didn't," Yosef said faintly. He was sat on the arm of Sylvie's armchair, next to Farrah. Almost like children, the four members of Wildwood were contritely arranged in a row on the ugly sofa, preparing to be scolded.

"We did," said Brian. "But that's not the secret."

Farrah looked ready to fall forward in her chair. She was usually so composed, so elegant, but the unexpected leak had unnerved her — and to learn it was caused by the band themselves was like being slapped in the face. "What... could possibly be worse than that? What could you four dumbasses have possibly done that beats leaking your own album months ahead of schedule, for God knows what reason?"

The members of Wildwood cast their eyes around the room. There was no gentle way to reveal the entire truth. Their actions had been worth taking, of that there was no doubt, and their secrecy thus far had been necessary to assure success (or failure, depending on how you looked at it). Still, they had lied by omission to their manager and her assistant, who had grown to be more than just employees.

"We recorded Fusillade poorly on purpose," said Sylvie, seeing no better way to phrase it. "We wanted out of our contract with Avian, by any means possible. And you know better than anyone we couldn't be the ones to break it. The only other solution was to force their hands."

"By recording a terrible album...you were betting they'd drop Wildwood from the label," Yosef muttered. "Leaking it out of nowhere was just a part of the same strategy."

Meg, with more guilt than anyone, said, "We're sorry we didn't tell you guys."

"Goddamnit," said Yosef. "That's fucking brilliant. I can't believe you four, of all people, came up with it."

"Hey! We're plenty brilliant!" said Rowan. He hadn't even bothered to get out of his pajamas before coming over, which didn't exactly lend him any credence.

Sylvie shifted in her seat. "Er, we didn't exactly. Julian did."

"Julian? Julian-fucking-Casablancas is responsible for this?" Farrah asked. "Some rando from an entirely different band who's been fucking my lead singer is the brains behind this operation? Are you joking with me right now?"

"In his defense, he didn't encourage me to follow through. And the leak was more of a group effort." Sylvie felt herself relax a little. She always did when Julian crossed her mind. Now that things between them were mended, she couldn't help but feel that everything else would work itself out.

Farrah rubbed her aching temple with a manicured hand. "So what now?"

"I don't know," said Sylvie honestly. She glanced at her bandmates, assured of her next words. "I think our time working together has come to an end. At least, for the next little while."

"Are you breaking up?"

Brian shrugged. Sylvie picked off more nail polish. Meg, for once in her life, kept quiet. Rowan said, in his usual flippant tone, "I guess it's the natural move, right?"

"Christ," Farrah almost groaned. "I knew there was conflict — especially between you girls — but I didn't know it was this bad."

Sylvie replied, "No, actually. We're doing a lot better these days." She took Meg's hand and patted it. "It's just that, well, we all have other stuff we want to do. We'd be parting on good terms. On our terms. Being in the band hasn't exactly been conducive to our friendship."

"Right. So, pray tell, how exactly am I not laid-off? I can't manage a band that doesn't exist."

Meg started up, "Well, if you'd be open to it... I want to record solo. I have huge plans, stuff I've been working on for years. And I want you to be my manager."

"No fair. I wanted her. Yosef, c'mon, you'll be my manager, won't you? I'll make it worth your while." Rowan reverted to his playful sexual tone, sending a wink Yosef's way.

"My wife might not appreciate that," Yosef replied, rolling his eyes.

Rowan licked his upper lip exaggeratedly. "She can join in. The more the merrier."

"You're disgusting," said Brian.

"Don't be jealous, babydoll. You're still my number one."

Despite herself, Farrah had to smile. "I'm not going to miss whatever this is. Meghan, I'm in, but my salary had better not decrease."

"So why is it that you four couldn't tell us about your mad plan to begin with?" Yosef queried.

Sylvie answered, "We were afraid that you wouldn't be on board. Not that we'd have blamed you. It was a huge risk. Still is, I suppose; we haven't been officially dropped yet."

"And you thought we'd sell you out to the label? Force you to make something fabulous against your will?" Farrah asked incredulously.

Meg, Sylvie, Brian and Rowan flushed with sincere contrition. "We're sorry, truly. I hope you understand why we didn't."

Farrah relented in her ire, crossing her legs gracefully. Unlike some people (cough, Rowan), she preferred to show up everywhere presenting her best, and right now she was the image of queenly forgiveness in a tailored grey suit and pumps. "I get it. You hired me though the label, figured I'd sell you out. I harangue you to do your best because I know Wildwood for the musical force of nature it is. Haven't you figured out by now that I'm on your side? On the side of the music, rather than the money?"

"Not me. I love money," said Yosef.

"Thanks a lot, Yosef," Sylvie quipped.

Brian pointed his finger to the sky. "Amen."

"What? Kids are expensive. You four will figure that out eventually. Wait, scratch that, Rowan should never be allowed to have a child. Sylvie, either, now that I think about it."

"I adore you crazy people, in spite of your best efforts." She sighed, smoothing her pressed trousers. "I suppose I have a breakup announcement to plan."