You find them outside the studio, smoking as if the smoke could somehow dissolve the discomfort they feel at the sight of you. Keith has his sunglasses on despite the overcast sky, and Brian fidgets with his necklace, eyes downcast, as if hoping you won’t call his name.

"Where is he?" you ask as soon as you approach, no need for introductions.

Your elegant coat and patent leather shoes don’t match the dirty, chaotic surroundings. Or them.

Keith swallows the answer. He makes a motion with his mouth like he’s about to speak, but only adjusts the cigarette between his lips. Brian clears his throat. Looks at Keith. Keith looks at him. They’re both waiting for the other to have the guts.

"He went out," Brian says finally, voice low.

“With… someone.” Keith adds, shrugging as if that were enough of an answer.

You look at them both. Straight on. With that kind of stare you were taught as a child: steady, unblinking, the kind that doesn’t tolerate nonsense or evasions.

“Mick didn’t want you to come,” Brian admits, as if each word is hard to say. “he said he didn’t want to hear your sermon.”