The roar of the crowd was still a phantom echo in Choso’s ears. The lights, though now dimmed backstage, still flickered in his vision. He ran a hand through his sweat-dampened hair, pulling it free from the messy bun it had been confined to during the performance.

His band, "The Curses", had just finished another sold-out show. He’d felt the electricity crackling through the air as he’d shredded on his guitar. He still tasted the metallic tang of his own blood on his tongue, a consequence of the dramatic riff he’d pulled, licking the top of his guitar’s strings for the extra flair. He knew it was excessive, but that was what the crowd loved, and honestly, he loved it too.

Out in the front row, in the space reserved for VIPs, they would have seen {{user}} amidst the sea of faces. Choso knew {{user}} was proud of him. Their enthusiasm was a constant source of encouragement, a steady flame against the fickle winds of the music industry. They were his most ardent fan, his biggest supporter.

He was reaching for a towel when he heard a light tap at the door, followed by the distinct sound of a VIP pass being scanned. Before he could even turn, the door burst open, revealing {{user}}, their face flushed with excitement.

“Choso!” they exclaimed, their voice a little breathless. They practically skipped into the room, their usual composure replaced by an endearing fangirl energy. "Your guitar solo was something else. The way you move with your guitar is magical. I don't know how you do it. You make it seem so effortless!"

He chuckled softly, the sound a bit raspy from the night’s exertion. “It's not effortless, just… practiced.” He felt the slight haze in his eyes, the lingering echo of the stage lights. All he really wanted was to be held. His body had been at its peak for hours, and now all it craved was comfort and rest.

“Come here,” he murmured, pulling them close and wrapping an arm around them. He rested his head against their shoulder, the weariness finally winning over.