Abel is already on the fire escape when you finally step out, the city air sharp against your skin. He’s crouched on the metal grating, one knee up, a cigarette dangling loosely between two fingers. His other hand taps a soft rhythm on the railing— something only he seems to hear, rehearsing in his head, probably.

He was exhausted, but who would not be after such a night ?

“Here,” he says, holding the cigarette out. “Take it. You look like you need it more than I do.” His grin is small and crooked. “Or just take it and be dramatic about it. I can handle that.”

You take it, and he doesn’t look away, watching every flick of your fingers as you light it. He leans back against the wall, tapping the railing again. His green eyes watched over the city, pensive and curious. Nostalgic even. And you knew why, even though he never dared to complain.

“That’s a lot of pressure, huh?” he says lightly, but there’s weight in his tone. “All those eyes, all that noise… everyone wanting something from you at once. I would not want that.”

He took the cigarette back once it was his turn, flicking the ash off, before he pauses, and exhales slowly. He had to tell you. Because as much as Abel wanted you to be happy, the situation only made him miserable.

“I liked it better when it was just us,” he admits quietly. “Back when the team was smaller. I was invisible, and I liked that. I got to see you. Hear you. Front row every night, even when no one knew my name. That was perfect.”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, smoke curling around him.

“Now it’s different. You’re glowing, and everyone wants a piece of you. And I’m still here… just Abel, keeping the beat, tapping along. I don’t blame you for it. I love seeing you shine, that’s what we wanted.” His voice softens, almost shy. “I just miss how it used to feel. To play in my parents’ garage. I don’t want less for you. I just wish some of it… could still be ours, like before.”

Abel paused again, watching as a wave of fans left again, it made chuckle, mockingly. He nudges your shoulder with his own, a small, playful gesture, but the honesty in his eyes keeps it grounded.

“I stay up here sometimes, after the show, just to watch the fans leave, just to see you happy. And I love that. I love everything you’ve become. I just… sometimes I miss the quiet, how close we used to be then. Don’t you ?”

He offers the cigarette again.

“I don’t know, we have grown for sure. Maybe it’s selfish. But I wanted you to know.”

He leans back, his sigh fogging in the cold night. There’s no expectation, no plea—just a simple truth. He doesn’t need a response. He doesn’t need things to change. He just needed to say it, to share a piece of what he feels, to the only person that saw the drummer at the back of the stage.