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[cacophonish]

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[semicharmed]

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."

[cacophonish]

Jeff sits at the edge of the stage, long legs dangling over, as he watches the cute guy in the Breeders shirt make his way over. That idle little smile on his face grows into something lopsided with mischief (though unformed and undirected, more like the intent of mischief than any set-in-stone plans of mischief) when the stranger comes right up to him with a glass of water.

Usually people buy him a beer, or some shit with watered-down tequila and a cherry. (The cherry, incidentally, is always his favorite part.) Water's more, like, practical, like this weird window into thoughtfulness, which he doesn't really possess, himself, but is always a total sucker for.

"Thanks." He takes a drink-- like, a proper drink, not a little sip. Throws his head back and downs half the glass. His throat aches a little, though he doesn't really remember how long he's been singing. He just went where the music took him, for however long...

Wherever they are, time doesn't seem to matter much. At least, he doesn't feel any sort of urgency. Moments flow in a lazy kind of way, which suits him just fine.

"It's good. Tastes like top shelf water." He winks, teasingly, then pats a spot of stage beside him before offering a hand for the guy to take. It's low enough that he probably doesn't need a hand, but hey, Jeff's a fucking gentleman. "You know, I half expected you to have an English accent..." He points to his own neck, miming a scarf. "Seems like an England thing."

Look, his logic is sound.

(Because he probably associates 'wearing scarves indoors' with Doctor Who.)

[semicharmed]

Oh, he's got a really cute smile. And great legs. Matt watches his throat move as he swallows.

--Then he shakes himself out of that moment, and takes the guy's hand to settle on the stage. Matt tends to carry himself with either a pleasant private-school sprawl or a certain birdlike energy, like he reserves the right to flutter away if necessary.

He bursts into a startled laugh.

"I'm, uh." Maybe he means cravats? Matt adjusts his scarf self-consciously. "Sorry, but I'm pretty sure I missed my chance to have an English accent. Studied abroad in London and I still sound like ... this."

Another smile.

"Hi. I'm Matt."

[cacophonish]

He leans back on his palms, watching Matt, taking in the way he moves with a sort of lazy observation. It's hard to say how much he notices, in the moment, will actually stick around in his head. It isn't that he's actively thoughtless, per se, so much as passively thoughtful, which he likes to see as two very distinct qualities.

Still, on some subconscious level, he knows he doesn't want to make the guy flutter away. So: no sudden moves-- or the conversational equivalent of a sudden move, anyway.

When Matt laughs, Jeff beams, sunny and bright, if a bit dimmed at the edges.

"'This' is good." He shrugs, head tilting a little as he takes in the whole of Matt. It's like he could be all angles, but he doesn't come across as pointy. There's a softness to him, like Jeff could drape all over him and not worry about getting his eye put out.

(If anyone could hear Jeff's internal processes, it would probably very quickly become apparent that he's not the one writing much of the lyrics in his music. Not exactly a poet here.)

Anyway. It's cute. He's cute. "I'm not disappointed you don't sound like London." He takes another gulp of water and sets the glass to the side.

"Jeff. Hi." He cranes his neck, practically contorts himself further down on to the stage to try to get a peek at the book in Matt's hand. "What're you reading?"

[semicharmed]

“—Oh. Uh, it’s.”

Matt actually has to check his own book that he’s carrying, because he hasn’t been reading it so much as using it like a paper-brick amulet. Aleister Crowley.

Of course it is.

“He’s undoubtedly the embarrassing racist-and-or-sexist uncle of the magical world,” Matt disclaims, rueful. “But he has some good points. ‘Love is the law.’” He smiles, shaking his head. “Anyway, it’s not like I was getting a whole lot of reading done while you were playing. I didn’t want to miss anything. You are seriously, really talented.”

[cacophonish]

"Ohhh..." He sinks down onto the stage, since he was already halfway there anyway, practically flopping back in defeat once he sees the author's name. "I never could finish any of his books." Any time he'd try to read Crowley (because, of course, Gifted kids are encouraged to read everything, no matter how tedious), it was like every sentence would rush right out of his head the moment he moved on to the next.

Old British guys. They might as well have been writing in a foreign language.

But. 'Love is the law.' That sounds nice. He smiles dreamily as Matt says those words, then lifts his head again, propping himself up on his elbows.

"Aww... And I didn't even have to cast a spell on the room or anything." His smile crooks up a notch, angled with a sort of roguish intent. "You seem like a sweet guy, Matt. I don't meet a lot of sweet guys at my usual shows."

Since his usual shows are far more like magic-and-drug fueled bacchanals than laid back acoustic covers. It's not like there's many chances to just chill out and talk with any of the sweet guys who might be in the crowd. Nobody's ever sober enough for a relaxed meet and greet, least of all Jeff.

[semicharmed]

"If you didn't like his prose, stay the hell away from his poetry," Matt observes with rueful amusement, and is maybe about to go off on some bookish tangent when Jeff--

Well. Looks at him like that. But also keeps talking, which provides a lot of very interesting and distracting information.

"I, ah. Try to be, I guess." Matt's answering smile, as he toys with the ends of his scarf, is tinged with erotic nostalgia--half embarrassed, half warm. V has called him sweet before, but he's usually talking about the way he tastes. "But back up a minute. 'Spell on the room'? What kind of spell are we talking?"