Somewhere along the line, Matt sets down his book.

He doesn't know if he had a drink before, but he has one now--a half-depleted, golden something he can feel heating his throat. The singer meets his rapt gaze and gives a little smile, and Matt's throat goes that much warmer.

What more could he ask for? Beautiful music, a beautiful guy playing it. Time and space to be alone but not alone, in the way music always makes him f--

Oh God that's the Pixies. That's a Pixies cover. Is it being sung at him? Matt flushes immediately, which is impressive given all the blood loss he's been experiencing lately.

When he next looks down, his drink is gone. That liquid courage has got to be why, when it seems like there's a break in the music, Matt tucks his book under his arm and walks over. (Because like literally, he never does this. He always waits until he bumps into the frontperson, bassist, or occasionally drummer an hour or so later and they hook up in the alley.) He extends a sweating glass of water.

"Great work." A sheepish smile. "Uh--I can get you a better drink too, it just seemed like. You've been working hard."