Astarion had been to operas. Galas. Private performances with crystal chandeliers and velvet curtains and patrons who knew when to clap.

This?

This was… chaos.

The bass thudded through his bones like a second pulse, the crowd a sea of flailing arms and shrieking voices. Lights strobed across the stage, blinding and unapologetic. The smell of sweat, smoke, and spilled beer lingered thick in the air.

He grimaced, lifting a manicured hand to adjust his sunglasses.

“I hate rock music,” he muttered.

And yet.

There you were.

Center stage. Guitar slung low, mic in hand, spotlight burning around you like a star caught mid-collapse. The crowd roared your name — thousands of voices chanting, desperate, worshipful.

Ridiculous, he thought.

His rockstar boyfriend. Truly absurd.

He folded his arms, leaning against the VIP railing, pretending to be bored — while his eyes refused to leave you.

You moved like you owned the world. Confident. Wild. Alive in a way that made something twist painfully in his chest. Every time you smiled at the crowd, every time your voice climbed into a shout, it felt like you were tearing something open inside him.

Not his genre. Not his scene.

His person.

A woman near him shrieked your name again, throwing things toward the stage like it was a sacred offering. Astarion rolled his eyes.