The first time Mick and his mates met {{user}}, it was in a dimly lit alley where air was thick with smoke.

Mick was leaning against the graffiti-tagged wall, pocketing a roll of bills while his mate passed a small baggie to some college kid.

That’s when {{user}} walked in, looking like they didn’t quite belong but weren’t entirely out of place either.

“Who’s this?” Mick had asked, raising an eyebrow.

They weren’t looking for new friends, but somehow, {{user}} stuck around. Maybe it was the way they weren’t scared or the way they spoke with that mix of confidence and amusement. They didn’t buy, didn’t snitch, just lingered.

Then one night, when Mick crashed at their place after a long, messy evening, he found an old guitar in the corner.

“What’s this?” he muttered, strumming a lazy chord. {{user}} shrugged. “Something I mess around with.”

Mess around was an understatement. A week later, they were in Mick’s garage, fingers flying over strings while the rest of the gang sat in silence, impressed.

That was the night Ecstasy was born. Well, the name fit too well.

Now, minutes before their biggest gig yet, Mick and {{user}} were backstage, their bodies pressed together in the neon haze, lost in the slow, dizzying heat of each other.

The sound of the crowd outside was distant, muffled by the rush of their own breath.

“You nervous?” Mick murmured against their lips.