With a small nod of encouragement from Ronan, Ollie bounced in excitement, nearly knocking over the tray on his little table—luckily, he caught it just in time. But he didn't have a second to fuss over it. After a quick glance to make sure the tray was still in place, his eyes snapped back to Ronan. He wiggled his shoulders, barely containing himself as he dove in. "The lyrics aren't complete yet. There's still a pretty clear disconnect between the parts. I was just trying to grab some scraps of inspiration and jot them down fast. I'm not sure how they are, so I need your take on it."
Ronan gave another light nod, popping a piece of buttered bread into his mouth. He chewed slowly, savoring the faint toasted wheat aroma blooming on his tongue. The subtle sweetness, tinged with a hint of char, mingled with the perfectly kneaded dough, spreading out in a satisfying warmth that hit just right.
Ollie either didn't notice Ronan was mid-bite or didn't care. He ducked his head and started reading, his voice low but buzzing with excitement he couldn't hide—like the whole world had just lit up.
"Mayday. Mayday. Mayday."
"The ship's going down. They think I'm crazy, but they don't get it. They're circling me like vultures, waiting to break me, to strip my colors away—wipe them out completely."
"Oh, he's owning the room, and I'm sinking slow. Get out of my head—I need to keep moving. Get out of my head, or I'll die if this keeps up."
Ollie's face was all eagerness and spark, but the words spilling from his lips were drenched in darkness. Despair and fear twisted around like vines, creeping up his wrists, tiny thorns sinking into flesh. The pain spread bit by bit, laced with the scent of blood—bruised, battered, dripping red—silent screams roaring deep in his mind.
So desperate. So helpless.
"We're melting into one. You take all my pain away. Save me when I turn into the monster. I can't stop this sick obsession—it's got me, dragging me into the void. I need you to pull me out. I can't keep fighting alone forever."
"No matter how long I wait, I always know my fate, and it doesn't look pretty."
"Mayday!"
His quiet recitation ended there. Ollie looked up, locking eyes with Ronan, his gaze brimming with anticipation—practically overflowing—sending out a steady signal, waiting for a response. That burning stare was impossible to ignore.
Ronan nearly choked on the beef in his throat, coughing twice. He turned to Ollie. "You know if you don't focus while eating, you'll mess up your digestion, right?"
Ollie didn't mind, just grinned with a little chuckle, rubbing his head. He shifted in his seat, facing his own tray now, and carefully set his sketchbook on the armrest between them. Then he stared at his food, dazed for a second, before slowly unwrapping it.
But it was obvious—Ollie's mind wasn't on the meal. Even food couldn't pull his focus. So when Ronan set his own tray aside and reached for the sketchbook, Ollie noticed instantly. Knife and fork in hand, he whipped around to face him.
Ronan turned his head and jumped—Ollie's wide-eyed stare was like something out of a horror flick, nearly stopping his heart. He shot him a glare. "What, are you gonna eat that sketchbook whole?" But he didn't say more, just lowered his head and started reading carefully.
Ronan got it—Ollie's mood, all of it, 100%. He'd felt the same after writing "Born This Way" and "Chasing the Light"—half-excited, half-nervous, a rollercoaster of emotions too messy to put into words, just waiting for someone to say something.
And this? This was Ollie's first stab at creating again in three months—after last night's emotional whirlwind, no less. That jittery, anxious vibe had to be even more tangled up now.
No words were needed. The strokes on that page said it all.
Ronan didn't speak right away. His fingertips brushed the words lightly, tracing each line, feeling the struggle and pain etched into them. Darkness and blood seemed to gnaw at the life inside, like a demon taking full control.
As his fingers grazed the ink, notes stirred awake. The hum of the plane's cabin pressure buzzed in his ears, faintly pulling him into the vastness of space—like drifting alone in the cosmos. That endless isolation felt like a void you could never escape.
Picture it: floating in space, no landmarks, no sense of where you are or how time's passing. Space and time blur together, wrapping you in boundless chaos. Life's grandeur and smallness clash yet somehow fit, everything losing meaning. How do you even describe that helplessness, that despair, that overwhelming vastness?
Then the words came alive. Notes in his head painted a picture, breathing fresh life into the text.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The "mayday" signal ticked in his ears like a steady pulse, sending out its SOS in perfect rhythm. Even if the lost soul in the universe had given up, the signal hadn't—tirelessly waiting for someone to hear.
Just like last night.
Ollie had been sending out his own mayday for a while, but the band was too caught up in their own worlds. Maxim and Cliff's bickering had drowned everything else out, and no one noticed. Ollie slipped further into the dark, lost in that endless expanse.
Then came last night's sudden high—the second surprise after Scooter. Sharp joy tangled with sharp worry and fear, throwing everything off balance. Ollie sent another signal, and this time, Ronan heard it. The night cracked open, just a sliver.
Ronan's right hand tapped lightly on the sketchbook, almost like Morse code. But really, it was the melody in his head taking shape through his fingers—like playing a piano. Cool, clear notes lingered between his lips, emotions pooling at his fingertips. Golden threads of sound wove into a score, hazy inspiration sharpening under the words' guidance. It felt a bit like…
Weightlessness.
Words morphed into notes; emotions stitched into melody. A chemical reaction, sparking quietly.