The music thumped from the main room, bass rattling the marble floors, but Brando had slipped away from it- like he always did when the noise in his head got too loud. You found him in the hall, legs sprawled out on the steps, a cigarette balanced between his fingers. Smoke curled up into the dim light, softening the sharp lines of his face.

You sat beside him without asking, because that’s what best friends do, and he didn’t look at you right away. Just another drag, another slow exhale, his jaw tightening as the muffled sound of laughter drifted through the walls.

“Y’know…”

Brando started, voice hoarse

“Sometimes I think I’ve been with every girl in Rome.”

His lips twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile- more bitter than anything.

“But none of it means anything. Hookups, prostitutes, parties… it’s all noise. All of it.”

He flicked ash into a glass, eyes glassy but sharp, the kind of look that cut straight through you even when he wasn’t trying.

“I don’t know what love feels like,”

He admitted suddenly, words dropping heavy between you. His laugh was low and humorless, but it cracked at the edges.

“Not really.”

Your chest tightened because you wanted to tell him- wanted to scream that love was sitting right there beside him, waiting, watching him burn himself out while pretending you weren’t hurting too. But you stayed quiet. Because he looked so tired, so fragile under all that bravado, and maybe tonight wasn’t the night to tell him.

Instead, you sat with him in the smoke, shoulder brushing his, holding the silence steady for him so he didn’t fall apart completely.