The set had ended nearly twenty minutes ago…
But Gabriel was still completely pinned near the merch table, buried under a sea of fans shouting praise, shoving homemade artwork and torn scraps of posterboard for autographs.
“GABE! I LOVE YOU!”
“SIGN MY ARM!”
“YOU’RE THE FURRY PRINCE OF BASS!”
“PLEASE PLAY MY WEDDING!”
Gabriel was laughing, flustered, tail swishing wildly as he tried to sign things with both claws and zero coordination. Someone gave him a friendship bracelet. Someone else gave him a ferret.
He held the ferret like it was sacred and mouthed, “Why me?” at the sky.
A few feet away, Thane was coiling up his mic snake, guarding his battered portable case like it was a newborn pup. A teenage fan in a too-big hoodie tripped nearby—and her chocolate milkshake nearly arced through the air right into his cabling.
He caught it in one clawed hand mid-spill.
Looked at her.
Growled — not hard, just enough to vibrate the air.
The girl gasped, nodded frantically, and backed away like she’d just crossed the wrong line on an ancient forest path.
Thane sighed. “…Kids.”
Meanwhile, over by the side of the makeshift stage, Cassie had crouched down next to a younger boy — maybe 12, maybe 13 — who was sitting quietly off to the side, watching the crowd with wide eyes and arms wrapped tight around his chest.
“Hey,” she said gently. “Too loud?”
He nodded.
She sat next to him. “You came for the music, though?”
He nodded again. “I like the lyrics. Yours. I didn’t think anyone else felt that way… not in this town.”
Cassie’s eyes softened.
She reached into her pocket, pulled out a crumpled setlist, and handed it to him. “You ever write music?”
“Sometimes. I don’t show people.”
“That’s okay. Most people don’t show their hearts either. But it’s worth it when you do.”
He stared at the setlist like it was a map to a better place. Then whispered:
“…Thanks for singing it like you meant it.”
Cassie smiled. “Always.”
Near the edge of the event, Mark stood next to the bus with his arms folded, eyes scanning the scene like a quiet sentinel.
Diesel stood next to him, sipping from a can of something probably older than the tour itself.
“Not bad,” Diesel muttered.
Mark grunted in agreement.
“You think they realize how rare this is?” Diesel asked.
Mark shook his head. “They will. Eventually. Maybe not today.”
“Think that’s what makes ‘em great?”
Mark looked out over the crowd — Gabriel overwhelmed with affection, Cassie talking softly to the quiet kid, Thane checking every cable like it held the world together, Maya teaching someone how to hold a power chord, Jonah breakdancing with toddlers.
He nodded slowly.
“It’s not the music. Not alone. It’s what they give away.”
Diesel raised a brow. “What they give?”
Mark turned toward him.
“With their whole hearts,” he said. “That’s what makes something great.”
Diesel smiled. “Heh. That almost sounded poetic.”
“Don’t let it get around,” Mark muttered. “I’ve got a reputation.”
Back by the mic snake box, Thane finally relaxed — just a little.
The milkshake girl came back, this time with a paper towel and a quiet “sorry.”
He blinked. Took the towel. Nodded once.
“…It’s alright.”