"…How could we possibly pass that up?"
Maxim's words came tumbling out nonstop, his excitement erupting like a volcano. Last night's promise about the bar tour? Totally shoved to the back burner. If it came down to choosing, there wasn't even a second's hesitation.
Cliff caught the flicker of disagreement in Ollie's eyes. "Maxim, that's a promise—a contract…"
The bar tour was a done deal, signed and sealed. If the timing clashed, Ollie figured they should stick to their word. Sure, the Full Moon Party was a once-in-a-lifetime shot, but some things—like keeping promises—had to come first, even if it sucked.
Cliff, though, picked up on Ollie's brewing frustration and cut him off before he could finish. "There's no time conflict. Discussion over." He nipped the argument in the bud, shooting a look at Maxim and Ollie to shut it down.
Maxim, who'd been gearing up to argue more, mumbled under his breath—grumbly nonsense no one could make out. Ollie, meanwhile, just laughed it off, carefree as ever, and clapped Maxim on the shoulder. Friendly vibes restored, conflict over.
Cliff took the reins again. "We've got the band recommendation locked in. Now we need a bar to back us. I'm not sure, but maybe Sam'd be up for it. Who's gonna talk to him…?"
Mid-sentence, Cliff's gaze drifted to Ronan without even realizing it. A beat later, it clicked—subconsciously, he'd noticed Ronan's voice had gone quiet. In all the chatter, one bandmate had checked out.
But when his eyes landed on Ronan, the words stalled in his throat.
Noticing Cliff's sudden silence, Maxim and Ollie glanced over—first at Cliff, then following his stare to Ronan.
There he was, Ronan, totally zoned in, adjusting his mouth size like a scientist mid-experiment. He was dead-set on figuring out how to shove a whole crawfish sausage roll in there in one go—top to bottom, one clean bite, all the fillings perfectly wrapped up and delivered straight to his taste buds.
How do I pull this off?
Ronan studied the roll's size, flexed his jaw, and poured every ounce of focus into it. "Huh, they even tossed in some pickle slices. Adds a nice tangy crunch," he muttered to himself.
Then he felt it—the heat of their stares. Ignoring that kind of attention? Not an option.
He eased the roll back a bit, closed his mouth slightly, and subtly shifted his body into a defensive hunch. His eyes darted between the three bandmates. "What? Don't you guys have your own food? Why're you staring like that?"
Cliff burst out laughing, half-exasperated. "…We…" He nearly choked on the absurdity. "We're not after your dinner!"
Ollie piped up, curiosity all over his face. "Ronan, how's it taste? Is it what you expected?"
Cliff actually choked on his spit that time.
Ronan didn't budge from his guarded stance, not even glancing at Ollie. "What, you think I'm a lizard? Picking up flavors from the air with my tongue?"
Pfft—Maxim cracked up instantly.
Ollie paused, picturing a lizard… then swapping its head for Ronan's. The laugh exploded from deep in his gut. "Hahaha!" His chest and skull vibrated with it, a thunderous roar that startled the nearby bar patrons.
Ollie's laugh was a force of nature—heck, even the band on stage probably felt the ripple.
Ronan, sitting right next to him, flinched hard. His eardrums buzzed like they'd been hit with a sonic blast. He whipped around, wide-eyed and spooked. Is this guy a walking soundwave weapon?
But then he caught Ollie's goofy, carefree grin and couldn't help it—he cracked up too.
Cliff, off to the side, didn't join in. He quietly looked away, lit a cigarette, and scooted back a bit, pretending he didn't know these clowns.
Once the trio's laughter finally died down, Cliff exhaled a long plume of smoke. "Did you hear anything we were just talking about?"
Ronan blinked, then straightened up with zero shame. "Isn't the top priority right now filling our stomachs? My gut's screaming at me. Low blood sugar means my brain's toast. So, let's enjoy the show, dig into dinner, and deal with the rest after. Sound good?"
Cliff couldn't believe his ears. "Jeremiah's invite was just now, and you've already forgotten? What are you, a goldfish? You're not even a little hyped? The Full Moon Party's losing to a crawfish sausage roll?"
Chomp.
Cliff was still mid-rant, stunned and baffled, but Ronan was already on to the next step. He took a massive bite of the roll, closed his eyes, and chewed like it was the most important thing in the universe. Full Moon Party? Step aside.
His actions said it all.
Cliff's next words got stuck in his throat. Then he noticed Ollie swallowing hard, drooling a little, and Maxim diving into a pizza slice, stuffing it in his mouth. Dinner had officially hijacked their focus—Ronan had woken up their hunger, and Cliff's spiel didn't stand a chance.
Ollie glanced at Cliff. "How about we eat first and talk later?"
Cliff sighed, exhausted, but nodded. He didn't dig in right away, though—just took a deep drag on his cigarette, looking defeated.
Chomp.
Chomp.
Chomp.
Cliff was trying to play it cool and brooding, but the chewing sounds were ridiculous—way too loud, totally ruining the vibe. He exhaled smoke, only for the chomp chomp to keep going. No loneliness, no brooding—just chaos. He nearly coughed from the smoke.
Fighting the urge to hack, he glanced at Ollie, who was demolishing food like a tornado, and Ronan, savoring every slow bite. His own stomach growled. Screw it—he stubbed out the cigarette and joined in. Dinner first. Loneliness could wait.
That's what he told himself, anyway.
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