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It’s not like Formaggio’s even remotely close to a home body, but he’s fairly sure he could have done better things with his evening than get dragged to some concert by his sisters. He hadn’t even gotten a chance to say no, just a text from Mom about her being so happy he was taking time to hang out with them, and then he had to go figure out what the fuck that meant.
At least they’re not making him drive, and he took the chance to claim shotgun, but now he keeps having to tell Cipolla to stop leaning up front whenever she’s got a comment. The city skyline is damningly dark, any stars that could have been in it covered by clouds. He had the window down for a bit, but it’s shut by now because the sea smell was too overpowering.
Formaggio doesn’t get why this thing had to be so late at night, or, hell, why it’s even that important in the scheme of things. He’s never even heard of the band before, just knows his sisters are a fan. So… guess he’s curious.
The venue is fairly humble, he notes. There’s more parking spots than they were anticipating, which is good, but Cipolla almost makes them drive into the wall because she pokes her head up at the wrong time. Aglio sighs and puts her head on the wheel once they’ve parked properly, proceeding to accidentally honk the horn in the echoey parking lot. Cool.
“Out with both of you,” he grumbles, waving his free hand as he opens the door with his other hand.
“We’re going!” Cipolla giggles, hopping out of the car. Aglio silently gets out, waiting for them before beginning to lead the way.
Formaggio sighs, rubbing his eyes and following behind. This band better be damn good, it’s already late as hell.
–
The venue is fuller than he expects it to be, which is to say, at all. There’s a crowd that’s nothing to scoff at, and he makes himself comfortable in his seat. Cipolla insists he sit in between them, though he suspects this is just so they both can lean on him. Leeches, both of them.
It’s not even the band itself that captures his attention. When the opener steps out, Formaggio feels something twist in his stomach, a pang going through his chest like a goddamn gong. The guy is hot as hell. Formaggio feels like fucking fanning himself. He’s damn relieved the lighting only shines on the stage. He says his name– Illuso. Ha.
Illuso’s pretty tall, red eyes, black hair that’s tied neatly into six ponytails. His outfit leaves almost nothing to the imagination, and it makes Formaggio’s throat feel dry. It makes every centesimo worth it. Holy crap.
Formaggio’s hooked on every word and song that comes outta the man’s mouth, and when he mentions he’s gonna go stretch his legs, his sisters both fix him with A Look. He ignores it, ruffling both of their hair aggressively before making his way downstairs.
If he ends up in line to talk to Illuso, that’s only an accident. He doesn’t mean to, mostly, but once he realizes he has his brain struggles to think of something to say that won’t make him sound like a fucking idiot. But… it shouldn't even matter. Not like he’s gonna see the guy again, after all. This is just a random crossing of paths thanks to his sisters upstairs, and he’s not gonna expect it to happen again.
He nearly jumps when he’s actually in front of him. “Uh, hey,” he says, winching internally at how awkward he sounds.
Illuso smiles, a damning sight. He tosses his hair. “Hey. Enjoy the show?”
“Yeah,” Formaggio admits, not sure what else to say, then adds, “Never heard your name before,” cursing at himself immediately after.
Illuso laughs. Fuck. “Well, this is the best introduction you could have got to me.” He winks right after.
Formaggio’s face burns, the feeling in his chest coming back. “Bet it is.”
That seems to be a good enough response, cause Illuso slides a signed CD across the table. Formaggio, caught by surprise, sputters a little and picks it up. “Oh, cool,” he says, like that’s anything.
Illuso stands up straighter like a pleased cat. “On the house.”
“Great,” Formaggio says, then adds, “Thanks,” and leaves. It’s only by the mercy of the music that his sisters don’t interrogate him then and there when he sits back down.
–
In the car, however, he is not so lucky. The drive back–a whopping two hours–is spent like a scene from a detective movie that drones on for too long. His sisters are convinced there was some spark. Formaggio thinks they’re just being dramatic.
“We talked for a minute,” he says, again, “That’s nothing.”
“Suuure.” Cipolla sticks her tongue out. “It could be something!!”
“I'm fairly sure he's local,” Aglio comments.
“To two hours away,” Formaggio deadpans.
“Semi-local.”
“Ooooh,” Cipolla adds—unhelpfully—from the back, “You've gotta shoot your shot!”
“I don't have a shot,” Formaggio grumbles. His chest hurts again. “Give it a rest.”
They do not, and as soon as they get back, Formaggio fucks off into his room, flopping on the bed and placing a hand on his chest. He's got no clue why it aches so damn bad, but he's getting sick of it real quick.
His sisters are ridiculous. Him and that goddamned dreamboat? They're mocking him.
–
Illuso can’t stop thinking about that guy. He met tons of fans, both of the band he was traveling with and his own, but no one else had walked up to him and told him they hadn’t heard of him before. Illuso was honestly offended at first, but after thinking it over more…
Ha, it was almost endearing. Not that he lets the thought hang out too long; he probably shouldn’t anyway. Man like that’s almost certainly taken already.
And that fact, oh, that one hurts his chest a bit. It shouldn’t; he hardly knows the guy, so god knows he’s escalating this shit way too quick. Even if he is single…
There’s really no point. Illuso sighs, sits up, and takes his guitar into his hold, idly plucking some strings. Then some more.
He lets himself be lost in the music, and enables his current situation, the ache in his chest, to guide him. Through the notes, and the lyrics, til it fades like a scar.
–
Formaggio decides he’s gonna stop listening to the radio on the day that he turns it on, and he hears his voice flow out of it. The song is far from bad, but it…
Does some shit to him. Makes it feel like all of a sudden, his cig’s gone and set his heart on fire, leaving behind just a crater in his chest full of ash. Because, goddamnit–
Formaggio shoves the radio off his balcony almost violently, watches it crash and split apart into pieces on the ground, the sounds coming out of it distorting, then fading. His voice warping before going quiet, and then, silent.
–it felt like he was calling out for him.
(What a ridiculous thing to hope for.)