Darling boy

Chapter 1

The neon lights outside the bar buzzed faintly, casting a ghostly red hue over the crumbling brickwork. Inside, the air was thick with smoke and sweat, a half-forgotten soundtrack of rock classics filtering through the hum of conversation and the clink of glass. The place had an almost timeless quality—a kind of purgatory where lost souls drifted in and out, tethered only by the pull of cheap liquor and the promise of a few hours' oblivion.

Charlie Angelos sat on the edge of the stage, lost in his own world as he tuned the worn-out Fender across his lap. His fingers moved with mechanical precision, gliding over the strings, eyes half-lidded beneath the mess of brown hair that fell across his face. He had that look people called beautiful—doe eyes dark and large, a hint of something fragile in his features that wasn't quite youth but wasn't far from it. The faded black t-shirt hung loosely on his slight frame, the jeans low on his hips, frayed at the hems. He was slender, with a lithe strength that seemed to come less from muscles and more from a constant quiet tension, like a coiled wire.

The band—Twilight—gathered around him, their voices mixing in a lazy murmur that seemed at odds with the energy they'd soon unleash on stage. William, the frontman, occupied the center like he always did, adjusting the mic stand with a languid ease that belied his taut presence. His dark blonde hair was tousled just so, catching the low light in streaks, and his green eyes carried a certain look of mischief tempered by something sharper. Dean, Damon, and Sebastian clustered nearby, their chatter blending into the background as they prepped their gear, but Charlie tuned it out, letting his focus drift back to the guitar, the hum of the strings vibrating through him.

He didn't need the pre-show rituals or the camaraderie. The music was enough—a narrow path that he could follow out of himself, at least for a while. He played like he was reaching for something just out of sight, something that slipped further away the closer he got.

The set was over, but the vibrations from the last note still echoed through the dimly lit club as the band slipped backstage. Nathan, their producer, stood waiting in the corner, his rough-hewn face creased in a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Not bad," he said, voice gravelly from years of cigarettes and whiskey. "But I need more from you next time, Charlie. You're holding back."

Charlie gave a vague nod, brushing past him to get to his guitar case. The others were still hyped up from the show, the adrenaline fueling their easy laughter and roughhousing. William had already started recounting some half-embellished story about a girl who'd thrown her bra onstage, his voice rising above the others as he described the way she'd winked at him. It wasn't that Charlie wasn't used to it—the stories, the backstage buzz, the low thrum of half-burnt excitement that pulsed through every venue. It just never seemed to reach him the same way.

He wasn't aloof out of disdain; he was detached out of necessity. It was easier that way.

As the others started making plans for the night—bar hopping, a party, who knew what else—Charlie slipped out the back door, into the cold air that burned his lungs clean. The alley was deserted, save for the glowing end of his cigarette, and the distant murmur of traffic like a fading lullaby. He took a long drag, the smoke filling the hollow space in his chest as his thoughts wandered back to those nights long ago in Mark's old house.

The house had been one of those quiet places that felt like a refuge from the world. A small, creaking thing filled with overstuffed armchairs, shelves of dust-covered books, and a radio that softly played old classics on lazy afternoons. Mark hadn't been much of a talker, but there had been comfort in his silence. The kind that didn't demand anything of you but let you breathe without being seen.

It was there, in the years following his parents' death, that Charlie first lost himself in music. Not the frantic kind that came from a need to prove something, but the slow, melancholic songs that seemed to understand the weight of things. He learned to play on the guitar Mark had given him for his 14th birthday, a time when his world had felt impossibly small, and everything seemed to press in from all sides.