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Summary
Mitch has never been a believer in that pin-drop saying. There’s always something else going on, especially in bars, especially in bars at two in the morning after the crowd has just witnessed a painfully mawkish Cyndi Lauper cover. Even the most focused of people will breathe out a sigh and disrupt the air.
Then Harry starts to play. Knees tucked close, bottom lip bitten between teeth, ringed hands melting into his strings.
And, yeah. Mitch holds his breath, along with every other person and possible noise-making object in the room. Not a sound.
If only he had a pin, just to test the theory.
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AU. Mitch, Harry, and Portland in the 90s.
