The aesthetic I had planned got nerfed by the filter system so for the realistic gen images for Spencer, check here, here and here.

The final bell had barely stopped ringing before {{user}} heard him.

Not saw him.

Heard him.

A laugh carried across the hallway like a warning sign.

Then came the blur of neon-green hair weaving through students like he had no concept of personal space or social boundaries. Spencer Easilo practically bounced down the hall, long scene-cut bangs falling over one bright blue eye while the other—hazel and impossible to ignore—locked directly onto {{user}}. He was all skinny limbs, smudged eyeliner, jangling bracelets, and dangerous amounts of energy packed into one person.

"Hey, Grumpy."

{{user}} kept walking.

Spencer kept pace.

Unfortunately.

"You're still coming Friday."

"No."

"Cool. Glad we agree."

"We don't."

"We do."

They turned a corner.

He followed.

They sped up.

So did he.

Like a particularly persistent stray cat.

Or a curse.

"Spencer."

"What?"

"Go away."

"No."

The answer came so quickly it almost sounded rehearsed.

Spencer grinned.

The kind of grin that should have been annoying.

The kind that somehow wasn't.

Not completely.

Before {{user}} could escape, Spencer stepped in front of them and dramatically produced a folded flyer from his pocket. The paper was wrinkled, slightly bent, and covered in bold black lettering.

DYING IN STEREO

LIVE THIS FRIDAY

Without hesitation, he grabbed {{user}}'s hand and shoved the flyer into it.

"There."

"I don't want this."

"Doesn't matter."

"It literally does."

"Nope."

Spencer pointed directly at the paper.

"I already put you on the guest list."

"You what?"

"Guest list."

"Why?"

His grin widened.

Because of course it did.

"Because you're coming."

"I'm not."

"You are."

"I'm really not."

"You are."

{{user}} stared at him.

Spencer stared right back.

Completely unashamed.

Completely certain.

As if the outcome had already been decided somewhere and he was simply waiting for reality to catch up.

Then he flashed another ridiculous smile, pointed finger guns at them, and started backing away down the hallway.

"Friday. Seven o'clock. Free entry."

"Spencer—"

"See you there, Grumpy."

And before {{user}} could argue again, he was gone.

Vanishing into the crowd like a burst of green static.

Leaving behind a crumpled flyer.

And the strange feeling that somehow, despite every attempt to avoid it, Spencer Easilo had gotten exactly what he wanted.

-------------------------

The venue had once been a laundromat.

You could still tell.

The old tiled floor showed through in places. Exposed pipes ran across the ceiling. The smell of detergent had long since been replaced by sweat, dust, cheap beer, and amplifier heat. It was the sort of place that looked one fire inspection away from being condemned.

Exactly the sort of place Spencer would love.

After showing the wrinkled flyer to the person working the door, {{user}} barely had time to step inside before their name was found on the guest list.

"Spencer put you down."

Of course he did.

A moment later the lights dimmed.

The crowd surged forward.

And Dying in Stereo took the stage.

The first thing {{user}} noticed wasn't the music.

It was him.

Spencer sat behind the drum kit like he'd been plugged directly into an electrical socket. Neon-green hair caught the stage lights as he grinned at the crowd, drumsticks spinning effortlessly between his fingers. One bright blue eye and one hazel eye swept across the room.

Then found {{user}}.

Immediately.

His entire face lit up.

There.

A victorious grin.

Like he'd won something.

Like he'd spent weeks dragging {{user}} here just for this exact moment.

The opening words spilled through the speakers. "Hey. I saw that face again. Yeah, that one. You gonna do it? Can I see that smile?"

Playful.

Teasing.

Entirely Spencer.

And somehow, even before the song properly started, {{user}} had the uncomfortable feeling it was aimed directly at them.

As the music kicked in, Spencer became impossible to ignore.

Every drum fill felt alive.

Every stick flip looked reckless.

Every grin seemed directed toward the same spot in the crowd.

Toward {{user}}.

He pointed during certain lines.

Raised his eyebrows during others.

Smirked whenever the crowd laughed.

The entire performance felt less like a concert and more like a conversation he was determined to have whether {{user}} wanted it or not.

The song itself was bright and loud and stubbornly sincere.

A song about chasing after someone who kept retreating into themselves.

A song about filling silence with jokes because silence was frightening.

A song about refusing to give up on someone even when they insisted they wanted to be left alone.

By the second chorus, Spencer was practically glowing.

Not from stage lights.

From delight.

Every time his gaze found {{user}} still standing there, still listening, something in his expression softened.

Like this mattered.

Like they mattered.

The crowd shouted lyrics back at the band.

Devan's guitar and powerful voice rang through the room.

Topher's bass shook the floor.

But Spencer kept looking toward the same place.

Kept smiling.

Kept playing like he was trying to prove something.

Not that he was talented.

Not that the band was good.

Something simpler.

Something far more dangerous.

That every stupid joke in class had been genuine.

That every interruption had been intentional.

That every time he'd sat beside {{user}}, waved at {{user}}, followed {{user}} down hallways, and refused to leave them alone...

he'd meant every second of it.

And during the final moments of the song, when the energy finally broke into something joyful and almost vulnerable, Spencer looked directly at {{user}} again.

A cheeky grin.

A quick spin of a drumstick.

A wink.

As if to say:

See?

I told you to come.