Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The air conditioning hummed too loud in the cramped shop. N/A wiped sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, leaving a faint smudge of dust on her skin. She rearranged a display of vibrators shaped like cartoon animals, their cheerful colors clashing with the dim lighting. "Need help finding anything?" she called out to the lone customer browsing the lube aisle, her voice flat from repetition.

The bell above the door jingled. N/A glanced up, expecting another awkward college kid. Instead, Billie Eilish stood framed in the doorway, oversized black hoodie swallowing her frame, brown hair peeking out from under a beanie. She scanned the shop with sharp, guarded eyes, looking utterly out of place amidst the rows of silicone and leather. N/A froze, the cheap plastic rabbit vibrator slipping from her fingers and clattering onto the counter. Billie’s gaze snapped towards the sound, locking onto N/A. A flicker of something unreadable – recognition? Annoyance? – passed over the singer’s face before settling into cool detachment.

N/A’s mouth went dry. She fumbled for the fallen toy, heat crawling up her neck. “Uh. Welcome to Velvet Touch.” The words sounded tinny and rehearsed. Billie didn’t respond, just drifted towards a display of harnesses, her fingers trailing lightly over the intricate straps and gleaming metal buckles. She paused before a particularly intricate piece – black leather, double O-rings. Her expression remained unreadable, but there was a focused intensity in the way she examined the stitching. The air conditioning’s drone faded beneath the sudden, thick silence. N/A watched, rooted to the spot, as Billie picked up the harness, testing the weight of it in her hands “This one.” Billie’s voice was low, husky, cutting through the quiet. She didn’t look up, her attention fixed on the harness. “What’s the weight limit?” N/A blinked, scrambling to recall the product specs. “It’s… reinforced. Holds up to, uh, 300 pounds? Easy.” She winced internally at the awkwardness. Billie finally glanced at her, a ghost of a smirk touching her lips. “Good.” She placed the harness back with deliberate care, then turned fully towards N/A. Her eyes, sharp and assessing, swept over N/A’s name tag, then back to her face. “You know who I am.” It wasn’t a question

N/A’s pulse hammered in her throat. “Yeah. Obviously.” She forced herself to meet Billie’s gaze, trying to project a professionalism she didn’t feel. The singer’s presence was overwhelming, a live wire in the cluttered space. Billie took a slow step closer, the scent of expensive, musky perfume cutting through the shop’s plastic-and-lube smell. “Good.” She repeated the word, softer this time. Her gaze drifted past N/A to the glass counter displaying an array of dildos – realistic, abstract, smooth silicone, and veined textures in various sizes. “Show me the platinum silicone ones. The dual-density.” Her tone was casual, but the specificity was charged. N/A swallowed hard, moving behind the counter, her fingers trembling slightly as she unlocked the display case.

She pulled out three options: a thick, veined piece in deep burgundy, a slender, curved model in pearlescent white, and a realistic flesh-toned one with a pronounced head. Billie leaned her elbows on the counter, studying them with unnerving focus. Her fingertip traced the curve of the white one. “This one.” She tapped it. “And the harness. And…” Her eyes flicked up, locking onto N/A’s. “…you know your inventory. What’s good for… mutual stimulation?” The question hung in the air, thick and deliberate. N/A’s mind raced. *Scissoring*. The word screamed in her head. She pointed shakily towards a shelf near the changing rooms. “We have… uh… couples’ straps. With textured pads. For direct contact.” Her voice cracked on the last word.

The shop’s flickering neon sign, visible through the front window, cast shifting, watery shadows across Billie’s face as she turned slightly towards the display N/A indicated. The harsh pink and blue light deepened the hollows beneath her cheekbones, making her look both ethereal and intensely present. She didn’t move towards the shelf immediately. Instead, her gaze drifted back to N/A, a flicker of something raw beneath the cool exterior – vulnerability, maybe, or a deep, restless need. When she spoke again, her voice was barely a whisper, almost lost beneath the hum of the AC. “Need something… quiet,” she confessed, her eyes darting towards the door as if expecting an intrusion. “For… confined spaces. Tour bus bunks. Thin walls.” The admission felt startlingly intimate, a glimpse behind the carefully constructed persona.

Before N/A could formulate a response, a sharp, insistent buzzing shattered the heavy silence. Billie flinched, pulling her phone from the depths of her hoodie pocket. The screen illuminated her face, revealing a sudden tightness around her eyes as she glanced at the caller ID. She answered with a curt, “Yeah?” Her expression shifted instantly, the guarded coolness replaced by stark alarm. “What? When?” she demanded, her voice rising, sharp and brittle. She listened, her knuckles whitening around the phone, the other hand gripping the edge of the counter as if for support. “Jesus, Mike… How bad?” The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Billie’s face paled, the neon lights now making her look ghostly. She ended the call abruptly, the phone slipping slightly in her trembling hand before she shoved it back into her pocket. She looked up, her eyes wide and unfocused for a moment, scanning the shop without seeing it. “My drummer,” she said, the words flat, hollow. “He’s… out. Bad bike wreck. ICU. Whole fucking tour…” Her voice trailed off, choked by a mix of fury and despair.

N/A watched the carefully constructed persona crumble, replaced by raw panic. The intimacy of the moment before evaporated, replaced by the harsh reality of a collapsing world. Billie ran a shaky hand over her face, smudging her eyeliner. “Months of rehearsals… sold-out arenas…” she muttered, more to herself than to N/A, her voice thick with disbelief. The weight of it pressed down on her, visible in the slump of her shoulders beneath the oversized hoodie. The shop, with its rows of intimate aids, suddenly felt absurdly trivial, a stark contrast to the professional catastrophe unfolding. N/A felt a surge of sympathy, cutting through her own nervousness. This wasn’t the untouchable star anymore; this was someone facing disaster.

“God, that’s… that’s awful,” N/A stammered, the awkwardness of their previous exchange forgotten. She leaned forward slightly, drawn in by the sheer vulnerability radiating from Billie. “Is he… is he gonna be okay?” Billie just shook her head, a jerky, frustrated motion. “Don’t know. Broken everything. Collarbone, ribs, leg… hands.” She choked on the last word, the implication hanging heavy. No hands meant no drums. The silence stretched again, filled only by the relentless hum of the AC and the frantic energy of Billie’s despair. N/A’s mind raced, a crazy, impulsive thought bubbling up before she could stop it.

“I… I play,” N/A blurted out, her voice louder than intended in the tense quiet. Billie’s head snapped up, her sharp, tear-bright eyes locking onto N/A’s with sudden, fierce intensity. “What?” N/A swallowed, her heart pounding against her ribs like a kick drum. “Drums. Since I was fourteen. Jazz band, punk covers, some session stuff…” She trailed off, feeling ridiculous. Who was she compared to a world-touring professional? Billie stared at her, the raw panic momentarily eclipsed by pure, unvarnished shock. “You’re shitting me,” she breathed, disbelief warring with a desperate, fragile hope.

N/A nodded, her palms slick against the cool glass countertop. “Yeah. Seriously.” She gestured vaguely towards the back room. “Got an old Tama kit back there. Boss lets me practice after closing sometimes. Mostly just to blow off steam.” The admission felt surreal. Billie took a single, deliberate step closer. The scent of her perfume, the faint sheen of sweat on her temple, the electric crackle of her focus – it all pressed in on N/A. “Right now,” Billie demanded, her voice low and urgent, cutting through the shop’s artificial chill. “Show me.”

The back room was cramped chaos: cardboard boxes of lubricants stacked precariously, shelves overflowing with replacement parts, and tucked into the far corner, a well-worn Tama Rockstar kit. N/A’s heart hammered against her ribs as she slid behind the worn throne, the familiar feel of the sticks in her hands a small anchor. She didn’t play a complex fill, just a simple, driving rock beat – solid backbeat on the snare, crisp hi-hat work, a steady four-on-the-floor kick drum pulse. It wasn't flashy, but it was tight, controlled, and possessed a raw, instinctive groove. She kept it short, ending with a sharp crack on the snare that echoed in the small space. Silence rushed back in, thick with the lingering vibration of the drums and the scent of dust and Billie’s perfume.

Billie hadn’t moved from the doorway. Her eyes, wide and intense, tracked N/A’s every movement. The raw panic had receded, replaced by a laser-focused assessment. She didn’t smile, but a spark ignited deep within her gaze – a flicker of that desperate hope solidifying into something sharper, more calculating. "Okay," she breathed, the single word heavy with decision. "Okay. You can keep time. That’s… something." She pushed off the doorframe, stepping fully into the cluttered room, her presence making the space feel even smaller. "Rehearsal studio. Tomorrow. 10 AM sharp. Don’t be late." She rattled off an address in the industrial district, her voice regaining its low, husky command, though the underlying tremor of stress remained

Chapter Text

N/A’s grip tightened on the drumsticks. "Tomorrow? But… the tour? Your drummer…" The impossibility crashed over her. Playing along to Billie’s records in her bedroom was one thing; stepping into a stadium tour with zero notice was madness. Billie cut her off with a sharp wave of her hand. "Is in traction. And I have three weeks before opening night in Quebec. You *will* show up." It wasn’t a request. Her gaze swept over N/A again, lingering on her hands clutching the sticks. "Bring those. And…" Her eyes flicked towards the counter where the pearlescent white dildo and the intricate harness still lay forgotten. A ghost of their earlier tension returned, sharp and electric beneath the professional urgency. "Bring that too," she added, her voice dropping lower, almost intimate again. "Consider it… an advance."

The bell jingled violently as Billie shoved the shop door open, disappearing into the neon-lit street without a backward glance. N/A stood frozen in the back room doorway, the silence roaring louder than the drums. The scent of Billie’s perfume lingered, mixed with the tang of sweat and dust. Her gaze drifted back to the harness and dildo gleaming under the shop’s dim lights. A hysterical laugh bubbled in her throat. She’d just been hired – or commandeered – by Billie Eilish. As a drummer. And possibly… something else entirely. The sheer absurdity made her head spin.

N/A’s hands trembled as she gathered the harness and the pearlescent toy, the leather cool against her skin. She shoved them into her battered messenger bag alongside her drumsticks. The weight felt surreal. Outside, rain began sheeting down, blurring the streetlights into watery smears against the shop window. She locked up mechanically, the familiar routine grounding her. The walk to her rusted Civic felt like wading through syrup. Every raindrop hitting her hood sounded like a metronome counting down to tomorrow.

Rain lashed against the windowpane. N/A dragged her worn practice pad onto the coffee table, the sticks feeling clumsy in her sweat-damp palms. She tried focusing on rudiments—paradiddles, flams—but her mind kept snagging on Billie’s drummer’s shattered hands, the ICU, the sheer precipice of the tour. Her own hands felt suddenly fragile. She played faster, harder, the sharp *crack-crack-crack* echoing in the small room. Was she insane? She wasn’t touring caliber. She was a shopgirl who played drums to vent frustration. Billie’s desperate gamble felt like being thrown into a hurricane. She stopped playing, the sudden silence thick. The harness lay beside the pad, a stark reminder of the other, unspoken tension simmering beneath the professional chaos.

The next morning dawned grey and damp. N/A arrived at the warehouse address early, drumsticks clutched tight, the messenger bag heavy with the harness and toy. Inside, the space was cavernous, concrete floors echoing with the clatter of roadies assembling a stage mock-up. Billie stood silhouetted against towering speaker stacks, headphones clamped over her beanie, nodding tersely to a sound engineer. She spotted N/A, her gaze sharp, assessing. No greeting. Just a curt jerk of her chin towards the gleaming Pearl kit already set up center stage. "Warm up. We start in five." Her voice was stripped of last night’s husky intimacy, pure business. The air vibrated with coiled energy—tour panic, not seduction.

The band meeting convened around a scarred folding table littered with laminated schedules and coffee cups. The bassist, Maya, tapped her foot impatiently; Liam, the synth player, scrolled his phone. Billie leaned over a map of the Quebec venue, tracing a route with a chipped black nail. "Stage-left load-in is tighter than Jenkins' ass," she muttered, then glanced up, her eyes finding N/A hovering awkwardly near the drums. "And keep the pyro away from the drum riser. My new drummer," she announced, the words casual, almost dismissive, "isn't road-tested yet." She paused, took a deliberate sip of coffee, and added, flat as a snare hit, "*And* my stress relief. So don't fuck with her setup." Maya choked on her coffee. Liam’s head snapped up, eyes wide. A roadie stacking cables froze mid-lift. The silence was absolute, thick with shock.

Rehearsal was brutal. Billie drove them relentlessly, her voice slicing through the warehouse like shards of glass. "Faster, harder! Feel the fucking kick in your chest!" she barked during "THE GREATEST," pacing before the drums like a caged panther. N/A’s palms blistered inside her gloves, sweat stinging her eyes as she fought to match the machine-gun precision Billie demanded. Every missed fill earned a sharp glare; every solid groove tightened the coiled tension in Billie’s shoulders. During a break, N/A slumped against a flight case, gulping water. Billie materialized beside her, silent, her presence a physical weight. Without looking at her, Billie murmured, low enough only for N/A to hear over the ringing in her ears, "The harness. Is it comfortable?" N/A choked on her water. Billie’s gaze remained fixed on the distant stage lights, her profile impassive. "For… confined spaces. Remember?" The reminder was a velvet-wrapped command.

Studio B was a concrete bunker behind a chain-link fence. Billie opened the door herself, silhouetted against dim blue light. No band, no crew. Just a minimalist drum kit and a low leather couch. "Play," she commanded, tossing N/A a bottle of water. Her voice was stripped raw. N/A slid behind the kit, the sticks familiar anchors. She started slow – a heartbeat pulse on the kick, brushes whispering on the snare. Billie paced, a restless shadow. Gradually, N/A built the rhythm: complex polyrhythms weaving through a steady backbeat, mirroring the storm outside. Billie stopped pacing. Closed her eyes. Leaned against the wall as if the sound physically held her up.The tension bled from Billie’s shoulders. She sank onto the couch, pulling her knees up, watching N/A through half-lidded eyes. The music shifted to BLUE – softer now, intricate patterns like rainfall on glass. Billie’s breathing deepened, syncing with the groove. Minutes stretched. When N/A finally let the last cymbal shimmer fade, the silence felt sacred. Billie didn’t move. "Again," she murmured, voice thick with exhaustion. "Just... like that." N/A obeyed, weaving another soundscape. Billie’s eyes drifted shut. Her head tilted back against the leather. Asleep.

Chapter Text

Two days crawled by. N/A existed in a haze of blistered hands and frantic practice sessions, replaying the image of Billie asleep on that couch – vulnerable, utterly spent. The harness and toy remained untouched in her bag, potent symbols of an unspoken promise. Her phone buzzed incessantly with tour logistics, band group chats she barely understood. Still, no word from Billie. The silence felt heavier than the drumsticks she clutched. Had it all been desperation? Was she just a replaceable cog? The memory of Billie’s possessive declaration – *my stress relief* – echoed, sharp and confusing.

Her phone rang again, vibrating violently against the laminate countertop where she was sorting lube samples. Unknown number. N/A snatched it up, her heart slamming against her ribs. "Hello?" Her voice sounded thin, strained.

"It's Billie." The husky rasp was unmistakable, cutting through the shop's ambient electronica playlist. "Rehearsal tomorrow. 9 AM. Sharp." A pause, filled only by the faint sound of traffic on Billie's end. Then, quieter, almost hesitant: "And... about Studio B." N/A held her breath, knuckles white around the phone. "Falling asleep like that. Wasn't... intentional. Or professional." Another pause. "Meet me. Tonight. 7 PM. That matcha place on Sunset. We'll... talk. Maybe walk a bit." The invitation hung, fragile. "Just... be there." The line went dead before N/A could utter a syllable.

N/A stood frozen, a bottle of strawberry-flavored lube slipping from her numb fingers and thudding softly onto the worn carpet. *Be there*. The command echoed, layered with exhaustion and something softer than the warehouse glare. Sunset Boulevard at 7 PM. Matcha. A walk. It felt surreal, a fragile truce offered amidst the hurricane of rehearsals and looming stadiums. She pictured Billie’s sharp profile softened by exhaustion on that leather couch, the stark vulnerability beneath the tour panic. This wasn’t about drums or harnesses. This felt like... reconnaissance. Or maybe just breathing space.

The matcha place was tucked beneath a towering palm tree, all minimalist wood and soft lighting. N/A arrived ten minutes early, clutching her messenger bag like armor. Billie slid into the opposite chair precisely at seven, oversized hoodie pulled low, mirrored sunglasses hiding her eyes despite the fading dusk. She ordered a ceremonial-grade matcha without looking at the menu. "Thanks for coming," she murmured, stirring the vibrant green powder slowly. The apology hung unspoken between them, thick as the steam rising from her bowl. Her fingers tapped a restless rhythm on the tabletop.

They walked east along Sunset as the streetlights flickered on, casting long, distorted shadows. The frantic energy of the warehouse rehearsal felt worlds away. Billie kept her hands shoved deep in her pockets, shoulders hunched. "Jenkins woke up yesterday," she finally said, her voice low against the traffic hum. "Hands are fucked. Nerve damage." She kicked a loose piece of gravel, sending it skittering across the sidewalk. "So. You're stuck with me." A sideways glance, sharp despite the sunglasses. "Scared?"

N/A matched her stride, the messenger bag bumping against her hip. Inside, the harness felt like a coiled secret. "Terrified," she admitted honestly. "But mostly of dropping a stick mid-chorus in Quebec." A hesitant pause. "Less scared of… confined spaces." Billie stopped walking abruptly beneath a neon sign advertising psychic readings. She pushed her sunglasses onto her head. Her eyes, ringed with smudged liner but intensely focused, locked onto N/A’s. The raw exhaustion was still there, but beneath it simmered a fierce, magnetic heat.

"Good," Billie breathed, the word sharp and low. "Because the tour bus bunks are fucking tiny." She held N/A’s gaze, the implication hanging heavy in the humid LA air. "And stress relief isn't optional." She started walking again, faster now, heading towards the looming silhouette of the Hollywood Hills. "Rehearsal tomorrow. 9 AM. Don't be late." She didn't look back. "And bring *it*. We test the specs." The command landed like a drumbeat – final, undeniable. N/A watched her vanish into the swirl of tourists and headlights, the taste of matcha lingering, bitter and electric. The harness in her bag suddenly felt less like a secret and more like a loaded weapon.

The next morning, the warehouse buzzed with frantic energy. Setlists were taped to flight cases, cables snaked across the concrete floor, and Maya tuned her bass with sharp, discordant plucks. Billie stood center stage, headphones clamped over her beanie, barking adjustments at the sound tech. She spotted N/A lugging her stick bag towards the drum riser. A curt nod. "Set up. We run 'CHIHIRO' straight through. No stops." Her voice was stripped raw, pure business. No mention of Sunset, matcha, or harnesses. Only the relentless grind of preparation. N/A slid behind the gleaming Pearl kit, the familiar feel of the throne anchoring her amidst the chaos. Her palms were slick inside her drum gloves.

Rehearsal was a blur of sweat and adrenaline. Billie prowled the stage edge, eyes locked on N/A’s hands. "Tighter snare!" Aron snapped during the bridge of 'BAD GUY,' his voice slicing through the thunderous bass. N/A adjusted, muscles screaming, focusing solely on the relentless pulse of the kick drum, the crisp snap of the hi-hat. Every beat felt like a test. During a rare break, N/A gulped water, leaning against a speaker stack. Billie materialized silently beside her, staring out at the empty venue mock-up. Without turning, her voice low and rough, she murmured, "The harness. Did you... check the fit?" N/A choked slightly. Billie’s gaze remained fixed ahead, her profile unreadable. "For confined spaces. Remember?" The reminder was a low thrum beneath the warehouse clamor

They launched into 'CHIHIRO' again. N/A dug deep, driving the intricate rhythm with everything she had. Midway through the second verse, she noticed it – a subtle shift. Billie, facing the band, angled her left hip slightly forward during a complex hi-hat syncopation N/A kept flubbing. It wasn’t a dance move; it was precise, deliberate. A fraction later, as the rhythm shifted to a driving four-on-the-floor, Billie’s right shoulder dipped almost imperceptibly, mirroring the kick drum pattern N/A needed to anchor. It was tactile guidance, silent and intuitive, like a shared language only drummers spoke. N/A locked onto the cues, her playing snapping into sharp focus, the groove locking tight. Billie didn’t glance back, but her spine straightened a fraction, tension bleeding from her shoulders.

The song ended in a crash of cymbals. Silence hung, thick with exertion. Billie finally turned, pulling off her headphones. Her eyes met N/A’s across the stage. No praise, no critique. Just a slow, deliberate nod. It was the barest acknowledgment, yet it carried the weight of hard-won understanding. That silent communication, born from shared rhythm, felt more intimate than any words spoken on Sunset. Maya whistled low. "Damn, newbie. Found the pocket." Liam offered a grudging thumbs-up. Aron said into the band's in-ears "Again. From the top. And keep it *that* tight."

The afternoon dissolved into the gritty reality of tour prep: learning the precise choreography of loading gear onto the mock-up semi-trailer, memorizing riser placements, and enduring the bone-deep ache of repetitive physical labor. Each time N/A glanced towards the sleek, black tour bus parked near the warehouse doors, the harness in her messenger bag seemed to hum against her back. Billie moved with relentless efficiency, her earlier silent guidance replaced by sharp directives, her focus entirely on the looming Quebec deadline. The unspoken promise of the bus felt like a distant, impossible dream.

Chapter Text

After practice, hauling her stick bag towards the makeshift break area, N/A felt Billie fall into step beside her. The singer didn’t slow, her gaze fixed ahead. "The harness," she murmured, her voice barely audible over the roadies shouting instructions. "Tonight. After load-in practice. My bus." She didn’t elaborate, didn’t look at N/A. She simply veered off towards a cluster of technicians, leaving the command hanging in the air like the final, resonant thud of a kick drum. N/A’s stomach tightened, a coil of anticipation and nerves.

Later, the warehouse emptied, leaving only echoes and the scent of sweat and diesel. N/A hesitated outside the sleek black tour bus, the harness clutched hidden in her bag. Inside, it was dimly lit, smelling faintly of stale coffee and expensive leather cleaner. Billie sat alone on a narrow couch bolted to the wall, bathed in the eerie blue glow of a laptop screen. Wordlessly, she gestured N/A towards the curtained bunk alcove – a tiny, coffin-like space barely wider than a mattress. N/A squeezed in, the leather harness cool in her hands. Billie followed, pulling the curtain shut, plunging them into near-darkness thick with the scent of Billie’s perfume and shared breath. The cramped space amplified every rustle, every shift.

Billie turned, her eyes catching a sliver of light from the main cabin. Exhaustion etched deep lines around them, but beneath that, a raw, desperate hunger burned. Without preamble, she surged forward, pressing N/A firmly against the thin bunk wall, her lips crashing against hers. The kiss was fierce, demanding, tasting of salt and adrenaline, a spark igniting instantly in the confined heat. N/A’s body responded instinctively, a jolt of pure electricity shooting down her spine, her hands instinctively tightening on Billie’s hips.

But as Billie’s fingers tangled in her hair, pulling her closer, a sharp clarity pierced the haze. N/A gently but firmly pressed her palms against Billie’s shoulders, creating a sliver of space between them. Breathing ragged, she met Billie’s startled, dark gaze. "Billie," she murmured, her voice low but steady in the muffled darkness. "This... the drums, the tour... it's chaos. And *this*?" Her eyes flickered pointedly between them. "I need to know what *this* is first. What tangled mess am I walking into?"

Billie froze, her lips still parted, the raw hunger momentarily eclipsed by surprise. She hadn't expected resistance, especially not here, pinned against the bunk wall. N/A’s taller frame suddenly felt less like a yielding surface and more like an unyielding presence. The power dynamic shifted palpably; Billie, accustomed to commanding stages and situations, found herself momentarily caged, looking *up* into N/A’s determined eyes. Her usual effortless control faltered. "Mess?" Billie echoed, her voice rough, defensive. "It’s… stress relief. Like I said."

N/A didn’t yield the inch of space she’d created. Her thumb traced the intricate stitching of the harness strap still clenched in her hand, the leather cool against Billie’s hip beneath the thin fabric of her tee. "Stress relief implies a transaction," N/A countered, her voice low but unwavering. "One night? The tour? What happens after Quebec?" She leaned in fractionally, her muscular frame subtly pressing Billie back against the bunk’s thin padding, reversing their positions. "You called me *your* stress relief in front of your band. That sounds like ownership, Billie. Not… this." Her gaze flickered pointedly between their bodies, the harness a silent accusation.

Billie’s breath hitched. The raw desperation flickered, momentarily replaced by a flash of startled vulnerability. She was used to dictating terms, commanding stages and situations. Here, pinned against the bunk wall by N/A’s taller, stronger frame, her usual effortless control evaporated. Her eyes, wide and searching in the gloom, darted across N/A’s face – the set jaw, the unwavering gaze. This wasn’t submission; it was a demand for clarity. "Fine," Billie rasped, defiance warring with exhaustion. "It’s messy. Jenkins is gone. The tour hangs by a thread. And you…" Her gaze dropped to the harness in N/A’s hand, then snapped back up. "You walked in looking like you could crack concrete with those hands, offering exactly what I needed." She swallowed hard. "Both things."

Impulsively, driven by frustration and the electric tension still crackling between them, Billie surged forward again, her lips seeking N/A’s with bruising force. It was a kiss meant to overwhelm, to silence the questions, a desperate attempt to reclaim the upper hand through sheer, demanding heat. But N/A didn’t yield. Instead of pulling Billie closer, her drum-calloused hands rose, surprisingly gentle despite their roughness. They framed Billie’s face, thumbs brushing the sharp line of her jaw, holding her still. The kiss broke abruptly. Billie froze, startled, her lips parted, her breath shallow against N/A’s palms. The sudden tenderness amidst the frantic energy was jarring.

N/A held Billie’s gaze in the dimness, her thumbs tracing the faint smudges of exhaustion beneath Billie’s eyes. "See?" N/A murmured, her voice low and steady, a stark contrast to Billie’s ragged breathing. "This?" She tilted Billie’s chin up slightly, emphasizing the intimacy of the touch. "This isn't just hitting hard. Or stress relief." Her gaze was unwavering, intense. "Which is it, Billie? Do you want someone to *use*, or someone to *trust*?"

Billie flinched, a flicker of raw vulnerability breaking through her defiance. She pulled back slightly, N/A’s hands falling away. Her eyes darted to the harness discarded on the thin mattress, then back to N/A’s face, searching for judgment, finding only quiet resolve. She swallowed hard, her throat working. "It’s complicated", Billie replied, the words thick, defensive, yet laced with a startling admission. "Jenkins… the tour… the pressure… it’s fucking suffocating." She ran a trembling hand through her dark hair. "You were… unexpected. Solid. And then…" Her gaze flickered down N/A’s body, a spark of the earlier hunger reigniting, mingling with confusion. "You felt like… oxygen."

N/A stayed silent, leaning against the bunk wall, her arms crossed. The harness leather creaked softly in her grip. Billie paced the tiny space, a trapped animal. "Fine!" she snapped suddenly, whirling around, her eyes flashing with panic before hardening into brittle resolve. "It’s Maya, okay? It’s *been* Maya. And it’s been messy as hell since rehearsals started." N/A’s fingers tightened involuntarily on the harness strap, the leather biting into her palm. Maya. The bassist. The incredulous disbelief flashed back – Maya’s sharp intake of breath when Billie declared N/A her "stress relief." The sideways glances. The tension thicker than stage fog. It clicked with brutal clarity – Maya’s anger hadn’t just been about professionalism.

Billie’s voice dropped, stripped bare. "She was… my anchor. Through the panic attacks, the insomnia, the fucking avalanche of expectations." Her knuckles whitened where she gripped the bunk frame. "After shows… in bunks like this… she’d hold me together. Until Jenkins fell." Her breath hitched, sharp and painful. "The pressure exploded. Everything did. We fought… viciously. Said things." Billie’s gaze fixed on a loose thread on the mattress, haunted. "She pulled away. Said she couldn't be my life raft *and* my punching bag." The confession hung heavy in the stale air. "I was drowning. Alone. And then…" Her eyes lifted, locking onto N/A’s face with startling intensity. "*You* walked into that fucking shop."

N/A didn’t flinch. She stepped forward, closing the charged space between them. Her hands, still holding the harness, rose slowly—not to restrain, but to frame Billie’s face again. Her thumbs brushed away the single, traitorous tear tracking through Billie’s smudged eyeliner. "Billie," N/A murmured, her voice low and impossibly steady in the cramped gloom. "This bunk? This harness?" She shook her head slightly, the leather strap brushing Billie’s cheek. "This isn’t oxygen. This is suffocating."

Gently, firmly, N/A steered Billie backwards, out of the claustrophobic alcove and into the slightly wider aisle of the bus main cabin. The sudden shift from oppressive darkness to dim overhead lights made Billie blink, disoriented. "Matcha," N/A stated, her tone leaving no room for argument as she guided Billie towards the bus door. "Sunset. Now." She pushed the harness decisively into Billie’s unresisting hands. "Hold this. Symbolically."

Billie stumbled slightly on the bus steps, clutching the leather straps like a lifeline, the cool night air hitting her flushed face. "But—" she started, confusion warring with the lingering panic in her eyes. N/A cut her off, already striding towards her parked car. "Maya, stress relief, harnesses – Canada first," N/A declared over her shoulder, her voice crisp against the quiet industrial park. "We survive Quebec and Toronto, Then we untangle this knot." She unlocked the passenger door, holding it open. "Get in."

The drive back to Sunset was thick with unspoken words. Billie stared out the window, fingers tracing the harness buckles absently, the neon signs reflecting in her dark sunglasses. N/A kept her focus on the road, the rhythmic thrum of the engine the only sound. When they pulled up to the familiar matcha spot, N/A killed the ignition and turned, her gaze firm. "Tour bus bunks are for sleeping," she stated flatly. "This?" She gestured towards the quiet shop. "This is for talking. Properly. After Canada."

Inside, the air smelled of green tea and damp earth. They took the same corner table. Billie slid the harness across the worn wood towards N/A, her movements stiff, almost reluctant. "Fine," Billie conceded, her voice scraped raw. "After Canada. We talk." Her fingers lingered near the strap, knuckles white. "But Jenkins—"

Chapter Text

The cafe window exploded with light. A passing SUV’s headlights flooded their booth, illuminating Maya’s face pressed against the glass like a ghostly apparition. Her eyes, wide and bloodshot, locked onto the harness lying between Billie and N/A. Betrayal twisted her features into something savage and wounded. She didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Just stared, her breath fogging the pane in ragged bursts. Billie froze mid-sentence, her hand recoiling from the harness as if burned. The color drained from her face, leaving her smudged eyeliner stark against suddenly pale skin.

"Maya no!" Billie’s cry ripped through the quiet cafe as she scrambled up, knocking her chair backwards with a clatter. She lunged for the door, but it was already too late. Maya vanished from the window. Simultaneously, blinding flashes erupted from the shadows beneath the palm trees – paparazzi, lying in wait. Shouts pierced the night air: "BILLIE! WHO'S YOUR FRIEND?" "IS THAT THE NEW DRUMMER?" "LOOKING FOR STRESS RELIEF, BILLIE?" The sudden assault pinned Billie momentarily, blinded, her hand instinctively flying up to shield her eyes.

N/A moved without thought. Years of navigating rowdy crowds behind drum kits kicked in. She surged forward, planting herself squarely between Billie and the flashing onslaught. Her taller frame became a shield, one arm wrapping firmly around Billie's shoulders, pulling her close and tucking Billie's face against her chest. Her other hand shot out, palm forward, blocking the closest lens. "Back off!" N/A snarled, her voice cutting through the chaos with authority. She scanned the chaotic scene – Maya was already halfway down the block, sprinting towards a waiting Uber, her silhouette frantic under the streetlights. The photographers surged closer, ignoring N/A's command, lenses hungry for Billie's panic-stricken face.

"Lets get us in the car" N/A says gently into Billie's hair, her grip tightening. Using her body as a battering ram, she steered Billie backwards through the cafe door, ignoring the shouts and the spilled matcha pooling on the floor. She shoved Billie towards her parked car, shielding her relentlessly. Billie stumbled, numb and shaking, her sunglasses askew, tears finally breaking free and streaking through her eyeliner. N/A practically bundled her into the passenger seat, slammed the door shut against the pursuing flashes, and sprinted around to the driver's side. Tires screeched as she peeled away from the curb, leaving the paparazzi scrambling.

The drive to Billie's secluded Hollywood Hills house was silent except for Billie's choked sobs. N/A kept one hand firmly on Billie's thigh, a grounding pressure. Inside the stark, minimalist living room, Billie crumpled onto the cold concrete floor, her shoulders shaking violently. N/A sank down beside her, pulling Billie’s trembling form against her chest. Billie buried her face in N/A’s shoulder, fingers clutching the fabric of her shirt like a lifeline, her cries raw and guttural – the sound of panic attacks and shattered trust colliding. "She saw... she saw everything," Billie gasped between ragged breaths, her voice muffled against N/A’s collarbone. "The harness... Maya thinks... she thinks I replaced her with *that*."

Without prompting, N/A pulled Billie’s phone from her jacket pocket. She navigated past dozens of frantic missed calls from Finneas and pressed Quenlin’s contact, placing the phone gently against Billie’s ear. Quenlin answered instantly. "Bill? Billie, breathe! What’s happening?" Billie tried to speak, but only another fractured sob escaped. N/A leaned closer, speaking clearly over Billie’s shoulder. "It’s N/A. She’s safe. At her house. She needs you." Quenlin’s voice sharpened with protective urgency. "Put her on speaker." N/A did. Billie managed a shaky inhale. "Q... it’s Maya... the paparazzi... the harness..." Quenlin cut through the panic. "Deep breaths ok?". Focus on my voice. Zoe’s calling Finneas right now. We’re coming." Billie whimpered, curling tighter into N/A’s embrace as N/A repeated the call with Zoe, whose calm, steady tone promised, "Hold on, Billie. We’ve got you."

Quenlin and Zoe arrived moments later, Zoe carrying a worn leather satchel. Quenlin went straight to Billie, crouching beside Finneas, her voice a low, grounding murmur. Zoe’s sharp gaze swept the room, landing on N/A standing near the door. "You," Zoe stated, her tone clipped but not hostile. "Kitchen. Now." She jerked her head towards the adjoining room. N/A followed silently. Zoe leaned against the cold marble counter, pulling a small bottle of CBD oil from her satchel. "Billie’s crisis management," she explained tersely, unscrewing the cap. "We patch her up, get her functional. Tour leaves in 36 hours." Her eyes locked onto N/A’s. "Your job? Keep her drumming heartbeat steady. Whatever *that* takes." She held N/A’s gaze, a silent acknowledgment passing between them – the harness, the chaos, the unspoken mess – all secondary to survival. "Understood?"

Back in the living room, Billie sat slumped between Quenlin and Finneas, her breathing shallow but steadier. Zoe knelt before her, gently pressing a dropper of oil onto her tongue. "Swallow, Billie," Zoe commanded softly. "Then bed. Now." Billie obeyed mechanically, her eyes hollow. As Finneas helped her stand, Billie’s gaze found N/A’s across the room. Raw anguish flickered in her bruised eyes, but beneath it, a desperate plea: *Don’t leave.* N/A gave a single, barely perceptible nod. Billie sagged against Finneas, allowing herself to be led towards the bedroom.

The house plunged into tense quiet. Quenlin paced near the windows, phone pressed to her ear, murmuring rapid-fire logistics to someone on tour ops. Zoe methodically repacked her satchel, her movements precise. N/A leaned against the kitchen doorway, watching the hallway where Billie had disappeared. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken fallout from the cafe, Maya’s shattered face, the harness still lying forgotten on the concrete floor where Billie dropped it. Then, a sharp, insistent chime sliced through the quiet – Billie’s phone, buzzing violently on the coffee table where Finneas had left it. Zoe snatched it up, her brow furrowing as she read the screen. "Jason," she announced, her voice tight. "Marked urgent."

Finneas emerged from the hallway, his expression grim. He took the phone Zoe offered, swiped open the message, and his face paled. "Shit," he breathed, the word heavy with dread. He strode towards Billie's bedroom door, rapping sharply. "Billie? Jason. It's bad." The door opened a crack. Billie stood there, washed out in the dim light, wrapped in a too-big hoodie, her eyes red-rimmed but eerily calm. Finneas held out the phone. She took it, her gaze scanning Jason’s frantic text: *Billie this is urgent. Private flights just called me and said that due to an error in the system, the only available flight that won't cause the first tour date to be canceled is in 5 hours. Pack your shit and get to the airport NOW. I've called the rest of the crew and they're on their way now.*

N/A didn't hesitate. "My kit," she announced, already moving towards the door. "I'll meet you at the hangar." Billie's head snapped towards her, a flicker of panic piercing the mask. "You *are* coming?" The raw vulnerability in the question hung heavy. N/A met her gaze squarely. "I play drums for Billie Eilish," she stated, simple, undeniable. "I'll be there." Relief washed over Billie's features, swift and profound. She gave a curt nod, then turned, letting Finneas guide her towards the waiting SUV Zoe had summoned. Quenlin followed, already barking logistics into her phone.

N/A sprinted to her car, tires screeching on the canyon road asphalt. Her apartment was a whirlwind – five minutes flat. The oversized suitcase gaped open on her bed. Clothes? She shoveled them in indiscriminately – band tees, jeans, hoodies, underwear – a chaotic avalanche filling the void. Essentials followed: toothbrush, deodorant, skincare basics tossed into a washbag atop the pile. Her vape pen and charger landed beside it. Then, the core: her practice pad, meticulously folded sticks pouch, spare felts, and tuning key – crammed into any remaining space. She slammed the lid shut, wrestling the zipper over the bulging contents. One last glance: drumming heartbeat secured.

Near the gate desk, Jason was mid-rant, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Five *hours* notice? Absolute clusterfuck!" Ava chimed in, adjusting her headset, her voice strained. "My entire sleep schedule is ash. Again." Jane scrolled frantically through her tablet, muttering about conflicting manifests. A cluster of crew members buzzed nearby, swapping weary complaints about scrambled logistics and lost luggage allowances. Their voices blended into a low, frustrated drone. Only Maya remained apart. She leaned against a window overlooking the tarmac, bathed in the harsh fluorescent light, her gaze locked on her phone screen. Her knuckles were white around the device, her posture radiating a furious, wounded silence. She hadn’t glanced up, not even when Finneas gestured wildly nearby.

N/A parked her suitcase beside Billie’s identical black roller. Billie didn’t look up from beneath her hoodie’s shadowed depths, but her clenched fingers stilled momentarily against her thigh. Zoe pressed a small vial into Billie’s palm. "Under the tongue. Now." Billie obeyed silently, tipping the CBD oil drops beneath her sunglasses. The sharp, grassy scent briefly cut through the terminal’s sterile air. N/A settled into the chair beside her, close enough for their shoulders to brush. Billie flinched at the contact, then leaned into it infinitesimally, a silent concession. Her breathing, shallow and rapid since the cafe, deepened fractionally. The mask held, but the tremor in her hands eased.

Chapter Text

The plane’s cabin hummed with low-grade tension. Billie claimed a window seat near the front, instantly cocooning herself in a massive hoodie, sunglasses still shielding her eyes. Maya slid into a seat diagonally across the aisle, pointedly facing away, her posture rigid as steel. Finneas slumped beside Billie, already scrolling through a tablet, brow furrowed. Zoe and Quenlin took seats flanking them, a protective cordon. N/A settled a few rows back among the crew, her gaze drifting forward. She saw Maya’s reflection in the darkened window – eyes red-rimmed, fixed on the seatback in front of her with furious intensity. Billie remained a motionless, hooded silhouette. The engines whined, pressing them back as the jet clawed into the predawn sky. Silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Only the intermittent clink of ice in a crew member’s glass broke the quiet.

Hours bled into the grey monotony of cruising altitude. N/A drifted in and out of uneasy sleep, jolting awake whenever turbulence rattled the cabin. Once, she opened her eyes to find Maya standing in the aisle near the galley, staring back towards Billie’s seat with an expression raw enough to flay skin. Their eyes met. Maya’s jaw clenched, a muscle ticking violently near her temple, before she spun away and vanished into the small bathroom, locking the door with a sharp click. Later, N/A overheard Finneas murmuring low and urgent to Billie, "You need to talk to her, Bill. Before Montreal." Billie’s muffled reply was lost beneath the engine drone, but the shake of her hooded head was unmistakable. Avoidance.

The descent into Montreal felt jarringly abrupt. Wheels screeched on wet tarmac. Billie emerged from her hoodie cocoon as the plane taxied, her movements stiff, practiced. Sunglasses still shielded her eyes. She strode down the aisle towards the exit without glancing sideways, Finneas shadowing her steps. Maya remained seated until Billie was off the plane, then surged up, grabbing her bag with white-knuckled force, brushing past N/A’s knees without acknowledgment. The air crackled with her silent fury. N/A followed the procession into the terminal chaos – flashing cameras, shouted questions in French and English, a wall of handlers parting the throng. Billie moved like an automaton, head down, flanked by security. Maya walked several paces behind, radiating icy isolation.

Finneas spotted Aron and Jason near the baggage carousel, huddled over a tablet displaying stage schematics. He caught their eyes, jerked his head sharply towards a nondescript door marked *Fournitures*. Inside the cramped, dimly lit closet smelling faintly of bleach and linen starch, Finneas shut the door firmly. "Listen," he hissed, voice tight with suppressed panic. "The Billie-Maya-N/A bomb? It detonated last night. Maya saw Billie with that fucking harness at the cafe. And then there was a paparazzi ambush, Maya bolted like a spooked horse thinking Billie replaced her with… *that*. Billie’s barely holding it together on CBD oil." Jason swore softly; Aron paled. Finneas leaned in. "Maya’s a live wire. Billie’s compartmentalizing like her life depends on it. N/A’s the drummer keeping Billie’s literal heartbeat on track. If Maya snaps on stage? If Billie shuts down? This tour implodes before soundcheck."

Aron shook his head sharply, the fluorescent light catching the stubborn set of his jaw. "Band-Aids," he stated, low and urgent. "You’re putting duct tape on a grenade. Separate rooms? Babysitters? That just lets the rot fester." He leaned forward, palms flat against a stack of folded towels. "Maya needs to scream her betrayal. Billie needs to vomit up her desperation. And N/A?" His gaze flicked to the door, as if seeing through it to where the drummer stood alone by the carousel. "She needs to define herself beyond Billie’s ‘stress relief’ before Maya defines her as the homewrecker. Containment fails. Detonation’s inevitable." He paused, letting the truth sink in. "Give me one hour. A locked room. Just the three of them. No handlers, no brothers, no CBD. Let them tear each other apart *now*, before they do it on stage in front of fifty thousand people."

Jason exchanged a fraught glance with Finneas. "Christ, Aron, the risk—"
"Is less than the certainty of disaster," Aron cut in, relentless. "Maya’s bass is the spine of your set. Billie's voice...well it's her concert for fucks sake. Right now, both are fractured. Let me mediate. Let them purge the poison." He saw the flicker of terrified concession in Finneas’s eyes, the reluctant nod from Jason. "Good. Find me a room. Soundproof. Now." He pushed past them, throwing the supply closet door open. His eyes instantly found N/A across the bustling baggage hall, leaning against a pillar, watching Maya’s rigid back near the exit. Purpose hardened Aron’s features as he strode towards her.

N/A felt the approach before she saw him. Aron stopped before her, his voice low, stripped of pleasantries. "You, Billie, Maya. A locked room. One hour." He saw the instinctive recoil in her posture, the flash of *hell no* in her eyes. He leaned closer, his words sharp. "Maya thinks you’re the replacement toy Billie bought to scratch an itch. Billie’s drowning in guilt and tour pressure. And you?" His gaze pinned hers. "You’re either Billie Eilish’s drummer, or her coping mechanism. Decide. Because Maya *will* define you first if you don’t." He watched the truth hit her, the realization that avoidance was a luxury the tour couldn’t afford. Her jaw tightened, then she gave a single, sharp nod. "Where?"

Aron guided her through a maze of backstage corridors, the thump of stage construction vibrating through the concrete floor. He stopped before an unmarked steel door. "Sound booth storage. Soundproof." He handed her a keycard. "Maya’s inside. Billie’s on her way." N/A’s fingers closed around the cool plastic. "You’re not mediating?" Aron shook his head, a grim finality in his eyes. "This fire needs oxygen to burn clean. Or consume everything. Your move." He turned and walked away, leaving her alone before the sealed door. The silence pressed in, thick with the echoes of Maya’s fury and Billie’s fractured breathing. N/A swiped the card. The lock clicked open.

Inside, the cramped room smelled of dust and ozone. Maya stood silhouetted against the single bare bulb, her back to the door, shoulders rigid with coiled fury. She didn’t turn as N/A entered, her voice slicing through the stale air like shattered glass. "Enjoying the upgrade from drumming to bed warmer?" The venom was palpable. Before N/A could respond, the door opened again. Billie stood framed in the doorway, Zoe hovering protectively behind her. Billie’s sunglasses were gone, revealing eyes raw and swollen, her face pale beneath the harsh light. Zoe started to step inside, but Billie raised a trembling hand. "Out, Zo. Lock it." Zoe’s protest died on her lips at Billie’s brittle command. The door clicked shut, sealing the three of them in suffocating stillness.

Maya whirled around, her gaze locking onto Billie with scalding intensity. "That harness," she spat, the words trembling with betrayal. "You replaced *me* with a fucking *strap-on*?" Billie flinched as if struck, her voice a ragged whisper. "Maya, no—" "Don't!" Maya cut her off, stepping closer, her finger jabbing towards N/A. "You dragged her into our bed, Billie! You made her *touch* you where only I—" Her voice cracked, raw grief breaking through the rage. Billie crumpled against the cold metal wall, tears spilling silently. "It wasn't like that," she choked out. "Jenkins got hurt… the tour… I was drowning…"

N/A stepped forward, placing herself squarely between them. Her voice cut through the charged air, low and unwavering. "I play drums," she stated, locking eyes with Maya. "That's my job. The harness?" She glanced at Billie's hunched form. "That was desperation talking. Tour stress, Jenkins gone, *your* withdrawal." Maya recoiled slightly at the accusation. N/A pressed on. "Billie grabbed onto me like driftwood. Was it messy? Toxic? Fuck yes. But it wasn't replacing *you*." She held Maya's furious gaze. "It was filling a hole *you* left when Jenkins went down." Maya's breath hitched, the fury in her eyes flickering with stunned confusion.

Billie pushed off the wall, her voice thick but gaining strength. "Maya," she said, taking a tentative step forward. "When Jenkins got hurt... you shut down. Pulled away. Completely." She wiped her cheeks with a trembling hand. "The harness? It was panic. A stupid, fucked-up band-aid." Her gaze dropped to the dusty floor. "I needed *you*. But you weren't there. And I... I broke." Maya stared at her, the rigid fury in her shoulders slowly dissolving into something haunted. The silence stretched, thick with the unsaid weight of shared history and abandonment.

N/A shifted, her voice cutting through the heavy air, blunt and unflinching. "I'm her drummer. Period. The rest?" Her gaze locked onto Billie. "That was a drowning woman clinging to whoever was close. You weren't ready, Billie. For any of it." Billie flinched violently, as if physically struck. N/A's raw words – *you weren't ready* – sliced through her haze of guilt and desperation. The horrifying clarity hit: her frantic grasp for control, for *anything* to mute the terror, hadn't just used N/A. It had weaponized her against Maya, shattering Maya's last, fragile hope that their fracture wasn't irreparable. Billie's breath caught, a ragged sob trapped in her throat. She saw Maya's face again – the cafe, the utter devastation – and understood, truly, the depth of the wound she'd inflicted.

Billie sank to her knees on the gritty concrete floor, the impact jarring but grounding. Her hand shot out, fingers closing around Maya's wrist with surprising strength. "Please," she choked, the word thick with tears and utter exhaustion. Maya resisted, pulling back instinctively, but Billie held fast, her grip desperate. "Please, Maya." The raw plea, stripped bare of defenses, broke Maya's rigid posture. Her knees buckled. She sank down beside Billie, not yielding, but collapsing under the sheer weight of grief and betrayal. Their shoulders touched, trembling. N/A mirrored them, dropping fluidly into a crouch directly in front of them, forming a raw, fractured triangle on the dusty floor. Their eyes met – Billie's wide and shattered, Maya's brimming with furious tears, N/A's steady but shadowed.

Billie's trembling hand slid from Maya's wrist, hovering hesitantly before settling lightly on Maya's knee. The contact was electric. Maya flinched but didn't pull away. "I never replaced you," Billie whispered, the words barely audible above the thrumming silence. Each syllable was a fragile offering. "Never." Her gaze flicked to N/A, then back to Maya, raw honesty etched onto her tear-streaked face. "It was never about replacing you. It was about… drowning. And grabbing onto anything that floated." Maya stared at Billie’s hand on her knee, then lifted her gaze to meet Billie’s. The fury was still there, a banked fire, but beneath it flickered a dawning, agonizing comprehension. The harness wasn't a replacement; it was a symptom of Billie's utter panic, a flailing grasp at control when Maya had vanished into her own pain.

N/A shifted her weight, the gritty concrete biting into her knees. She kept her gaze level, focused on the space between them. "The show starts in 7 hours," she stated, her voice cutting through the charged atmosphere with pragmatic clarity. "You need Maya’s bass. Maya needs Billie’s voice." She paused, letting the undeniable truth hang in the dusty air. "And Billie?" Her eyes locked onto Billie’s. "You need to breathe." Billie shuddered, a ragged inhale catching in her throat. Maya’s jaw tightened, but she gave an almost imperceptible nod. The immediate crisis wasn’t solved, N/A knew. The wounds were deep, jagged things. But the bleeding had slowed. For now, survival meant the stage.