Oscar has never tried to fit in and has never wanted to, but when his party friend, Max, is revealed to be mafia prince, Marcus Gallagher, suddenly being a 'lone wolf' is no longer an option; not if Oscar wants to woo his prince and get out alive!
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The symphony from the men's restroom was little more than distant elevator music echoing through the fluorescent lighting and perfectly polished tiles. Oscar was just about finished with his impromptu crafting project—turning the cuff links Max had lent him into buttons on the fly—literally.
He was pretty impressed with how good it looked and, for a brief moment, even considered that he could have been a tailor in another life. Until he stepped out of the stall and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror—he wasn't a tailor. He knew that lifestyle would never satisfy him. It was too neat and tidy for his taste, just like this restroom and these people. The further he slipped out of his world and into Max's, the less in control he felt.
He stared into the mirror another long minute before the restroom door opened, and he decided that he'd better get back to check on Max.
When he drew back the curtain to the box, Max was alone, with an ankle resting across his knee, and his fingers tapping his thigh in a rhythm that mismatched the orchestra.
"Sorry about that, Oz," Max said, glancing up at the punk with those big, dark eyes. "You good?"
"No, yeah, I'm good," Oscar replied, but his tone and the way his fingers combed through his dark hair suggested otherwise. "I'm just a little bored, so I think I'm gonna dip. You chill?"
"Yeah, of course," Max said, though he didn't sound entirely convincing either. Then, he suddenly pulled out his phone and snapped a picture of the brightly-lit musicians on the stage. "I guess I don't really have to stay for the whole thing..." He tucked his phone back into his pocket. "Mind if I tag along?"
A smirk tugged at the corner of Oscar's mouth. "I ain't gonna stop you," he said as his hands found his pockets and he ducked back through the curtain. "You drive?"
"Gladly," Max purred as he followed, practically on Oscar's heels.
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"...Tryna chase a feelin', but we'll never feel it, ridin' on the last train home..."
The echo-y lyrics filled the sleek cab of Max's ride, along with a guitar that sounded as lonely and defeated as the vocalist it accompanied. It had rained while they were inside the theater, and now the dark asphalt of the city streets were streaked with colors, mirroring the street lights and neon and LED signs from every place they passed.
