Chapter Text
Signal Boost
Julian
Julian's muscles still sang from the rehearsal—that particular ache between exhaustion and accomplishment. His brain was quiet.
They'd gone through SMKE's chorus formations four times, then the bridge transitions twice more because Louis had decided the spacing "lacked intention." Julian's calves disagreed with intention. His calves wanted a nap.
The main hall couches had become a post-practice graveyard. Louis at one end, melted, eyes drooping. Owen at the other, legs swung over the armrest. Julian in the middle.
Owen was mid-thought, gesturing with his vape. "—I'm just saying. If you want the second formation to hit different, we need to stagger the entry. It's too uniform."
Louis cracked one eye open. "It's supposed to be uniform. That's the whole point. The contrast comes when Sol breaks—"
"Yeah, but visually—"
"Owen." Louis lifted his head. The look he gave was the one that preceded either a compliment or a murder. "Trust. Me."
A tired laugh escaped Julian. He let his head drop against the couch.
Then the glass doors at the far end of the hall swung open, and his brain stopped being quiet.
Octavius and Victor. Together.
Not together-together—that weird distance between them was still there, the one no one but Louis dared comment on. But walking side by side, at least. Victor looked surprisingly relaxed, and Octavius—
Octavius looked like Octavius.
They hurried toward the admin office and disappeared inside.
Julian stared at the office door for two full seconds before he caught himself and looked away. He found a fascinating spot on the ceiling.
"—and the transition needs to be sharper at the chorus. Jules? Hey." Louis waved a hand. "You with us?"
"Hm? Yeah." Julian blinked. "Totally. Sharper. At the chorus."
Owen's eyebrows crept up. He looked where Julian had been staring, then back at him.
"Oh."
"What?" Julian sat up straighter.
"Okay," Owen said, casual in the way that meant the opposite. "If you were any more subtle about staring, we'd need a microscope."
"I wasn't—" Julian started.
"Mm-hm," Louis hummed. "So interesting, that door."
Julian went red.
"You're making it so obvious," Owen hissed, smile so wide it almost split his face.
"Making what obvious?"
"You're mentally undressing him through a wall."
Julian choked on a cough.
Owen offered him his water bottle, delighting in his own evil. "Hydrate your throat for when you inevitably—"
Julian snatched the bottle from him. "Owen," he warned.
"—talk," Owen finished innocently.
Louis propped himself up on one elbow. His whole face lit up like a slot machine hitting triple sevens. "This wouldn't have anything to do with the housewarming party, would it?"
"Shut up."
"Since we're on the topic," Louis continued, blithe, "how would you rate the feeling of being cornered by a hot man on a scale of one to my DMs?"
Julian gripped the bottle harder. The plastic crackled. "Pass."
Owen leaned back, ankle on knee. "Fine. We'll play Pictionary. I'll draw eyeliner. You blush."
Julian stuck his tongue out at him like a sophisticated adult and looked anywhere but down the corridor.
His body didn't listen. His spine went rigid as the admin office door creaked.
Octavius stepped out alone, closing the door behind him with one hand. He looked—Julian searched for the right word—settled. Not the storm cloud he'd been for weeks. Not the version that had cornered him at the party. Just a person. A calm, unfairly attractive person scanning the room with dark eyes.
Those eyes found Julian.
Julian forgot how sitting worked.
Boots on tile, that unhurried stride, thumbs hooked in pockets.
"Hey," Octavius said. He addressed the group, but his focus was aimed entirely at Julian. "Julian."
Julian's name. In his mouth. Again.
"Oh!" Julian sat up like he'd been electrocuted. "Hi, Octavius. I... uh..." He scrambled for a sentence that made sense and found only wreckage. "You need something?"
Owen turned his head away. His shoulders were shaking.
Octavius's gaze flicked briefly to Louis and Owen—acknowledging, but not including—then came back to Julian. "I'm about to go grab coffee. The Chiller." He tipped his chin toward the glass doors. Casual. As if this were a thing they did. "You want to come?"
Julian stared at Octavius. Octavius stared back, utterly unperturbed, one eyebrow lifting.
"I—" Julian's voice came out strangled. He cleared his throat. "Yeah. Yes. Coffee. I could—yeah." He stood up too quickly, almost tripping over Owen's outstretched leg. "Let me just—" He grabbed his jacket from the couch, fumbled with it, nearly put it on inside out.
Louis made a sound like he was dying slowly and beautifully.
"Cool," Octavius said simply, already turning toward the exit.
Julian followed on legs that had apparently forgotten the formations they'd just drilled for two hours.
Octavius said "Americano" like it was a decision. Julian’s mouth said "latte" and his heart said something unprintable.
They slid into a two-top by the window. The café was quiet at this hour.
Julian wrapped both hands around his glass. The silence stretched. Should he lean forward? Back? Eye contact too much, not enough?
The condensation from the iced drink was already beading against his palms.
Octavius took a sip of his coffee. Then, without preamble:
"I wanted to apologize."
Julian blinked. "What?"
"The party." Octavius's tone was direct. "I was drunk and I came on way too strong. That was shitty of me. So." He lifted one shoulder. "Sorry."
Julian’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. Of all the scenarios his brain had drafted—and there had been approximately forty-seven between the Lab and the Chiller’s front door—Octavius apologizing had not been one of them.
"You—" Julian shook his head. "No, you don’t have to—it wasn’t—" He pressed his lips together, trying to organize the avalanche. "I didn’t think you were being an asshole."
Octavius’s eyebrow rose.
"I mean, I was—" Julian’s face heated. Might as well be honest. "I was intimidated. By you. Not because you did anything wrong, just because you’re—" He made a vague gesture that encompassed all of Octavius. "You know."
"I know?"
Julian exhaled a laugh. "You’re intense. And I’m—not great with intense. I tend to..." He mimed ducking under an imaginary arm. "Run."
"I noticed."
"Sorry about that too," Julian said, and meant it.
"Don’t be." Octavius wrapped both hands around his mug, rings clicking against ceramic. "We’re good?"
"We’re good."
They drank in a silence that was—different.
Then Octavius asked, "So. How long have you been singing?"
The question opened a door Julian hadn’t expected to walk through. He found himself talking—about his parents being musicians, about growing up in a house where someone was always playing something, about the first time he’d understood that his voice could make people feel things and how terrifying and addictive that had been. Octavius listened with that focused stillness of his, asking short questions when Julian paused.
"The session with Rosien," Julian said, warming to it, "that was the first time in a while I felt like—like I was doing the thing I was supposed to do. Does that sound dramatic?"
"Yes," Octavius said. "But I get what you mean."
"I’ve been doing content stuff for so long that I forgot what it was like to just—sing for the song, you know? Not for engagement or clicks or—" He stopped himself. Smiled. "Sorry. I’m rambling."
"I like it."
Three words. Julian’s ribs tightened around them.
He realized, distantly, that his shoulders had dropped. That his hands had stopped clutching the glass like a stress ball. That he was—comfortable. Almost. With Octavius. Who was watching him steadily, chin propped on one hand, not looking bored.
Julian was about to ask about Octavius’s music—he wanted to hear about the band, wanted to hear Octavius talk about anything—when his phone buzzed against the table.
He glanced down. Instagram notification.
His eyes processed the words before his brain could filter them.
@tyler.donahue commented on your post: Aw, still at it! Love that you never give up on your little hobby. Cute :) lmk if you need a real job
On the clip Julian had posted two days ago. Him, in the studio. The take he’d been proud of.
The café noise flattened into a single frequency. Julian’s hand hovered over the phone, frozen. The words were so small on the screen—but they expanded inside his chest like pressing a bruise.
Cute.
Tyler's favorite word.
The shame was instantaneous. Old wiring, firing before he could think. His throat closed.
"Julian."
He couldn’t look up. If he looked up, Octavius would see it—the pathetic, small thing Tyler could still turn him into with a few words and a smiley face.
The room had shrunk to the size of a pinhole, everything narrowed to the screen and the sick, familiar weight that said: he’s right, he’s always been right, why did you think this time would be different—
"What is it?"
Julian didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
"Hey." Octavius’s voice, closer. Then his hand—reaching across the table, long fingers turning Julian’s phone toward himself without asking.
Julian let him take it.
Octavius read the screen. His face scrunched up.
"He sounds like a dickhead," he announced. "Who is he?"
Julian swallowed. "My ex." It came out small and scraped. "We—it ended a while ago. He’s just—" He couldn’t explain it. The months of condescension, the way Tyler had made him feel grateful for attention while cutting him down to nothing. "He does this."
Octavius didn’t ask does what. Didn’t need to. He looked at the phone screen once more, then pushed it face-down on the table.
There was no pity on Octavius's face. No gentleness.
"You impressed Rosien," he said. "In his own studio. On a first session." He held Julian’s gaze without blinking. "Whatever that guy thinks he knows about you—he doesn’t know shit."
Julian's face was burning. Not from shame this time.
He felt his eyes sting and blinked rapidly, looked at the ceiling, looked at the brick wall, looked anywhere except directly at the person across from him who had just—without trying, without sweetness, without any of the things Julian usually needed to feel safe—said exactly the right thing.
"You’re—" He heard himself say, voice unsteady. "You’re not what I expected."
Octavius paused mid-sip. Then the corner of his mouth lifted. "I’m trying to be less of an asshole."
Julian laughed. It came out watery, surprised, too honest. He looked down at his hands and realized they weren’t shaking anymore. "It’s working."
signal boost (n.):
- [comms.] the amplification of a signal to improve range and clarity above background noise
- the rebroadcast of another’s message to increase its reach; borrowed power that keeps a voice from being treated as static