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The heavy, velvet curtains of the Grand Bohemian Hotel suite are drawn tight against the humid Orlando night, trapping the cool, sterile blast of the air conditioner inside. On the glass coffee table rests a prop HTC Titan—a chunky piece of plastic everyone in the room knows will look like a relic by next year. But the real expiration date in the room isn’t the tech.
It’s the silence that follows the director's playback of the music video’s opening frame. On the monitor, Rachel Antonoff stares down at the screen, her fingers typing out a message. She’s playing her part flawlessly, a consummate professional despite the quiet devastation hovering over the set. The true awkwardness doesn't stem from the blatant product placement. It stems from the fact that Rachel and Nate had been an item from 2009 up until seven months ago, in August 2011. Their two-year relationship hadn't fizzled out naturally; it had imploded right here during the early production stages of this very music video, the moment Rachel walked into a backstage dressing room and caught her boyfriend cheating on her with her own brother.
Seven months later, the dust has barely settled. Jack shifts his weight from one foot to the other, his sneakers squeaking against the polished hardwood. He avoids looking directly at Nate, who is intensely focused on the fraying hem of his vintage cardigan. They are a band on the precipice of global stardom, held together by frayed nerves, creative brilliance, and a massive, seven-month-old secret that isn't actually a secret anymore.
The tension of the set dissolves into the quiet luxury of their shared hotel suite. Jack bursts through the heavy oak door, the gold-embossed key card still clutched in his hand. His curls are a wild halo, and his eyes are wide behind his thick-rimmed glasses.
"Guess what just happened tonight?" Jack demands, slamming the door behind him with a theatrical thud.
Nate doesn't look up immediately from the laptop perched on his knees. He’s slouched so low on the plush velvet sofa he’s practically slipping off it. He checks the glowing digital clock in the corner of his screen. "It's still tonight. It's only nine o'clock."
"Guess what happened earlier tonight?" Jack insists, pacing the length of the Persian rug, his energy vibrating at a frequency that threatens to shatter the hotel glassware.
Nate sighs, a small, weary smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he closes the laptop half an inch. "Rache suddenly forgave us because we cashed in?"
"You're half-right," Jack says, stopping dead in his tracks and pointing a dramatic finger at the ceiling. "Tonight: We Are Young hit the top of the Billboard Top 100!"
The laptop is completely abandoned now, sliding onto the cushions as Nate sits up straight. The cynicism drains from his face, replaced by pure, unadulterated shock. "Get out, for real?"
"For realsies," Jack beams, a massive, dorky grin breaking across his face.
Nate lets out a breathless laugh, shaking his head. "You sound like an eight-year-old girl."
Jack crosses the room in three strides, dropping his weight onto the sofa right next to Nate, their shoulders colliding. "Bet I don't kiss like one."
The celebration shifts instantly, fueled by the intoxicating rush of adrenaline and a sudden, desperate need to ground themselves in something real. Jack reaches out, his hand cupping the back of Nate’s neck, fingers tangling in his hair to pull him close. When their lips meet, it’s messy and urgent, a collision of teeth and shared history.
They tumble backward onto the deep cushions of the hotel couch. Nate’s hands find the hem of Jack’s t-shirt, tugging it upward, while Jack works at the buttons of Nate’s cardigan with impatient, clumsy fingers. The world outside this room is exploding, their names are about to be everywhere, but right here, it’s just the familiar heat of each other. Jack breathes heavily against Nate’s jaw, his lips tracing a path down to his throat as fabric is discarded onto the floor.
The heavy click of the suite's main door echoing through the entryway gives them absolutely no warning.
"Guess you heard about the position," Andrew's voice rings out, loud and entirely too cheerful as he strolls into the living area, holding a folder of sheet music and a half-empty bottle of soda. He stops dead in his tracks, his eyes taking in the sight of his bandmates tangled together in a state of semi-undress. Neither Jack nor Nate moves away; they just freeze, suspended in the bright, unforgiving light of the living room. Andrew doesn't even blink. He just rolls his eyes with the practiced exhaustion of a man who has seen it all. "You better wash those cushions!"
Nate rests his forehead against Jack’s collarbone, exhaling a sharp, irritated breath. "Tell it to the housekeepers," he mutters over his shoulder.
Andrew is already turning on his heel, heading back toward the door to give them whatever privacy they have left. "Tell it to Dalton!" he calls out, his voice echoing down the hallway as the door begins to swing shut.
"Fuck off," Nate shouts toward the closing door, the latch clicking into place to secure their isolation once again.
Jack lets out a low, shaky chuckle, his hands coming up to frame Nate’s face, pulling his gaze back down. The adrenaline is still humming in their veins, the chart-topping news still ringing in their ears.
"No," Jack whispers, a wicked, breathless grin spreading across his lips as he pulls Nate down by his waist. "Fuck me, Ruessy."