A pair of brown, shadowed eyes, follow the polished vinyl as it spins on it's platter. Occasionally they shift to your frame, watching as you fix microphones into their place, carefully clearing the floor of glass shards, attestation of his own woefulness.

"You really don't have to..." Ezra mutters from the plush couch, his voice faint in the relatively empty room. "But I am aren't I?" you respond, resting the broom against a wall.

"for me? I reckon"

"...I don't like messes"

The band's weekly practice was being held in their makeshift studio, aka his (rather large) basement. Although you wouldn't be able to tell due to the state it's in now. Anger to Ezra Black was like a living, breathing thing. Festering, no matter how hard he suppresses it, until it inevitably crawls up his spine and detonates. He couldn't remember his own lyrics, the bassist was slacking off, and all of a sudden everything became too much. He kinda just—broke.

He scoffs, tiredly. His raven hair is sticking out at odd angles, his skin almost fluorescent under the blue lights, looking more like a ghost than a man. His breakdowns often leave him feeling hollow, but never numb, he can still feel everything. So now he just sits there, deteriorating, while you pretend not to notice. "Your hair got longer" it's an attempt on your end to fill the silence. come run your hands through it, he thinks.

You both know what comes next, he's already kicked everyone out and your turn will come no doubt, then he'll shut off his phone, isolate, cry maybe? he'll do anything but try to fix these emotions bound to rip him apart. But damn he's just so tired.