The practice room was a mess of tangled wires, half-empty cups of coffee, and the lingering haze of sweat and effort. The air felt thick, heavy with the tension of three stubborn personalities clashing against each other like rough edges refusing to smooth out.
Nick sat on a worn-out stool, fingers resting on the strings of his guitar. His sleeves were rolled up, hair slightly damp from the heat of the cramped space. Across from him, Elisa leaned lazily against the upright piano, the deep black of her dress somehow untouched by the chaos of the room. She was staring at her reflection in the glossy surface of the piano's lid, adjusting the smudge of her eyeliner with the tip of a finger.
Lily, the only one who seemed to have a grasp on patience, was already seated behind the drum set, lazily twirling a drumstick between her fingers. "Alright, let's run it again. Last time before the gig."
Nick exhaled sharply, shifting his guitar into position. "No diva bullshit this time. We're running it clean."
Elisa's lips curved into that infuriating, knowing smile. "Oh, darling. I never do anything clean."
Nick ignored her, nodding to Lily. The first few chords rang out, crisp and steady, filling the room with raw energy. Lily followed with a sharp, controlled beat, her movements fluid. Then Elisa came in-her voice sliding through the melody like smoke curling around a flame.
Nick hated to admit it, but it was good. Really good.
The song built up, growing rougher, wilder—Elisa pushing into the notes like she was made for them, Lily keeping everything grounded with her relentless rhythm. Nick let himself sink into the music, his fingers flying over the strings, feeding off their energy.
For a moment, everything clicked. The music wasn't just sound—it was something alive, something untamed. Nick could feel his breath as his hands moved on his guitar.
Then Elisa did something stupid.
She changed the way she sang the chorus. A drawn-out note where there shouldn't be one, a dip in pitch that threw off the rhythm.
Nick immediately stopped playing.
"What the fuck was that?"
Elisa didn't even blink. "Art."
Lily groaned. "Oh, for the love of—Nick, just—"
"No, no, no," Nick cut her off, rubbing a hand over his face. "We've been doing it one way this entire damn time, and now you're pulling this dramatic, mystical crap—"
Elisa tilted her head, that infuriating smirk deepening. "Oh, darling. I am dramatic and mystical."
Nick took a deep breath. Counted to five.
"Okay. Let's try this again," he said through clenched teeth, adjusting his guitar strap.
And they did. Again. And again.
By the time they finished, the room was filled with exhaustion, their bodies sore, their minds frayed.
Nick stretched, groaning. "Alright. We'll run it once more tomorrow before the gig. Any complaints, take 'em to a brick wall."
Elisa, lounging against the piano, smiled. "Oh, darling. I wouldn't dare."
Lily rolled her eyes. "If you two flirt any harder, I'm gonna start charging admission."
Nick made a noise somewhere between disgust and exhaustion, grabbing his coat. "I'm leaving before one of you says something worse."
They stepped out into the cold night air, the weight of the upcoming performance settling between them.
Tomorrow, they'd have one last run-through.
Then?
The Watchtower.
***
Nick worked through the notes he hadn't properly written the past week of Economics. The mere thought of the subject made him flinch. It was a bunch of chains grinding at his soul, puffing the burning embers inside his heart. But he had to, lest get might just get kicked out of the class. Something he dreaded just as much. This was his greatest backup, the class may not have taught him anything serious, but having it etched beside his name,
Economist Nick? Maybe Businessman Nick?
He didn't mind it. He liked the sound of that. But not as much as
Star Nick.
He scoffed, too poetic for him to bother. He tilted his head slightly at the night sky through the window.
His pen never stopped but his eyes were dazed. There was someone who used to call him that. He couldn't remember it, but he could feel it.
What is a star?
If he were asked that, he already knew the answer.
It's a stubborn bastard that burns itself alive just to be seen. It don't get to rest, don't get to stop—just keeps shining, even when it's dying. And people look up, make wishes, write sonnets, and never once think about how much that little speck of light is suffering just to be noticed.
That's a star. A damn fool that don't know when to quit.
The only light in the room, of the lamp on his desk, dimmed slightly as his fingers stopped moving.
Nick let out a slow exhale, tapping his fingers against the desk as he dropped his pen onto the pile of half-legible economics notes. Finally. Done. Another mind-numbing dive into supply and demand, and he didn't even have the will to gloat about it. He rolled his shoulders back, cracking his neck as he reached for his guitar—
And then the door swung open.
"Nick, sweetheart, you've been in here all day!"
His mother's voice was soft and full of warmth, the kind that could make even the worst days feel a little lighter. She stepped in with her apron still on, dusted with flour, smelling faintly of cinnamon and honey, like she had just come straight from the kitchen.
Nick groaned, already bracing himself. "Mum."
She folded her arms, giving him a look. "Have you eaten? Have you even stood up? Or are you planning to turn into a statue by the end of the night?"
Nick sighed. "Mum, I'm fine."
"Mm-hmm, that's what you always say," she huffed, walking over and brushing a bit of hair from his forehead. "You know, for someone so sharp-tongued, you're awfully careless with yourself."
Nick rolled his eyes. "I take care of myself. Even when you go for long shifts at the agency, " his voice had a tinge of jealousy, as if irritated the agency had her more than he saw her, to which she chuckled.
"Darling," she began, her tone carrying that particular kind of softness that usually meant she was about to spring something on him.
Nick narrowed his eyes. "What did you do?"
His mum placed a hand on her chest, feigning offence. "Me? Do something? Nicholas, I am hurt."
"Last time you said that, I ended up spending my entire Sunday at Mrs. Whitaker's tea party, listening to old women argue about jam," Nick deadpanned.
She waved him off with a chuckle. "Oh, come now, it wasn't that bad—anyway, I took the day off tomorrow."
Nick blinked. "You—what?"
She smiled sweetly. "I figured I could use a break, and, well, I heard from a certain someone that you have a little show at the Watchtower tomorrow night."
Nick's fingers stilled on the strings. Lily, you bitch. He cursed in his mind, she put him in an inescapable position once again.
His stomach flipped. "Mum—"
"And I thought," she went on, undeterred, "what better way to spend my day off than to finally see my son perform live? I mean, imagine! My little star up on stage—"
Nick groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Oh, bloody hell."
"Oh, bloody hell!" she mimicked in an exaggerated voice, giggling. "Come on now, don't act like you don't love me."
Nick shot her a flat look. "That's emotional manipulation."
"It is a mother's love, dear." She clasped her hands together. "You are taking me, aren't you?"
Nick stared at her, knowing full well there was no way in hell he could say no now. Not when she was looking at him like that—like he was still her boy, like he hadn't spent years clawing his way through life, like the world wasn't sharp-edged and cruel.
He exhaled sharply, shaking his head with a smirk. "You better not faint when you hear me play."
She beamed. "Oh, I'll be the proudest one in the crowd, sweetheart."
Nick leaned back, eyeing his guitar like it had suddenly turned into a ticking bomb. "God, what have I done?"
She kissed his forehead. "Something wonderful, darling."
Bringing his mum to Watchtower.
This was either going to be the best idea in the world.
Or an absolute disaster.
"Alright, I have dinner prepared." She nonchalantly said.
"As I said, I will be there soon," he said, his hand grabbing his guitar.
She gave him a knowing look. "Oh, sure. Like the time you got so caught up in your music you forgot entirely about dinner and nearly fainted the next morning?"
Nick clicked his tongue. "That was once."
"Twice," she corrected with a smile, shaking her head before plopping down on his bed, fluffing up his pillows like she owned the place—which, technically, she did. "Come on now, darling, you need to eat. I made your favourite."
Nick leaned back in his chair, dragging a hand down his face. "Mum, I appreciate the concern, but I'm fine. I'm—"
"I know, love." She cut him off with a soft smile, reaching over to gently squeeze his hand. "But even the strongest ones need to rest. You've been working so hard, I just don't want you running yourself into the ground."
Nick sighed, already knowing he had lost. There was no winning against his mother's gentle persistence. He stood, grabbing his coat, and muttered, "Fine, but if anyone asks, I came willingly."
She patted his cheek. "Of course, dear."
And with that, she walked out of the room, her warmth lingering in the air. Nick ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head with a smirk.
His mother, the only person in the world who could make him feel like a kid again, whether he liked it or not.