Moving into that god awful box of a suite is miserable. Ezra is thankful, however, that he doesn't have to share a room with any of his bandmates. It's clear they were given the nicer suite of the two, since it is their label after all. That being said, the singer refuses to let himself enjoy any part of this arrangement.

Even worse is the fact that he now has Jude and Ambrose breathing down his neck every goddamn second of the day. They haven't been in that suite for nearly a week and he's already getting interrogated every other hour about whether or not he's truly serious about being a willing participant in his own imprisonment.

If he got asked one more time if he liked the place, Ezra would explode.What's the fucking point of him enjoying this, anyway? He's not even allowed to take a shit without someone supervising. 

Though this "opportunity," as Jeff called it, is supposed to spark some sort of change in the male, Ezra isn't willing to go down without a fight. So, it's really no surprise that he wakes up with a splitting headache and an unbearable hangover Monday morning. His alarm had to be ringing a solid forty-five minutes before Ambrose finally took it upon himself to wake him up.

"You're supposed to be watching the girls play in thirty minutes," he reminds gently, still hesitant around the male since their altercation. If Ezra wasn't nearly incapacitated by his current condition, he may have been more perceptive to the feeling that his bandmate is afraid of him.

"Yeah, I know," he grumbles, palms moving to press at his eyes before he shifts to get out of bed. "Whose grand idea was it to start at nine?"

Ambrose can't help but let out a soft chuckle. "Actually, it was yours. You always were the one who said the earlier the better." Ezra catches the subtle hint of nostalgia in his tone. Now, he can't tell whether it's the hangover or guilt making him feel like shit. Before he can say anything else, Ambrose exits and closes the door behind him.

✧*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ

Somehow, he manages to sober up and make himself presentable enough to visit his opening act. The record label's building is conveniently located right across the street from the practice space they're renting out, which makes his late start undetectable.

With a coffee in hand, the male pushes the doors open to their assigned room. To his surprise, the girls are already set up and are halfway through a song. His eyes move to the nearest clock. 𝟿:𝟶𝟹 𝙰𝙼. Jesus, they didn't waste a minute. Part of him remembers when he was like that; thirsty for the stage. Now, he can't even remember that euphoria.

A few of the girls catch a glimpse of his entrance and begin to taper off their playing. Billie is so clearly in tune with the music that she notices the shift in pace rather than him. She turns towards her bandmate, offering an inaudible remark which causes them to point at the male in return.

"Sorry," Billie offers with a breathless huff when she finally turns to him, "We just wanted to check the acoustics in here before you came."

"Don't stop on my account," he offers cooly before moving to sit on the nearest foldable chair. God, he prays that this Baileys in his coffee and the three Advil's are going to kick in soon. Otherwise, his head will just about split from the music.

The lead singer offers a short nod and the girls begin playing once more. Ezra tries to appear disinterested, though it's his explicit job to care about the girl's performance. Still, he can't quite see himself as a credible critic. It's clear that the girls, especially their lead singer, don't respect him or his opinion at all.

Yet, it grows increasingly difficult not to get lost in the music. They're more talented than he cares to admit. Perhaps their spark is what he's been lacking for so long. The way Billie gets lost on the stage, no matter how shabby or small it is, reminds him of himself from five years ago. Nothing prepares him for the sinking in his chest.

For a moment, he envies this nobody blonde. Maybe it's because she's clearly a somebody to her band when he hasn't been that for his boys or anyone, for that matter, in years.

What feels like mere minutes becomes a full hour filled with Billie's angelic voice. It's practically torturous. Every syllable and note drives him further into annoyance. Ezra can't quite place his dissatisfaction until his eyes finally meet the blonde's mid-song. For a split second, he's looking at his younger self.

How disappointed would that Ezra Moore be with who he's become? He doesn't bother pondering the question because, thankfully, their playing has stopped.

He moves to get up, popping a piece of gum in his mouth to mask any scent of alcohol on his breath. The girls seem somewhat eager to hear his thoughts, which almost comes as a surprise. Though he could choose to be a prick, Ezra knows good music when he hears it.

"It's good," he offers without pause, "You're still getting used to the idea of playing in front of thousands. Loosening up will just take time. Make sure you're on beat. I can hear a bit of a pause between Billie and ..." He trails off, realizing he knows none of these girls' names. "I should know all your names, but I, uh ... don't," he explains, mind unwilling to hold onto his thoughts.

"Callie," the brunette offers softly, "I heard it, too. Jude offered to play with us sometime this week. So, maybe we can work on that with him."

He nods in agreement. Then, Sloane and Daria introduce themselves without even a blink, as if the whole blow up didn't occur. Part of him is thankful for their graciousness.

"Alright," he offers after a pause, "I don't think you really need anything else from me. You certainly know how to do your job." Ezra makes a conscious effort not to look at the lead singer, knowing she'd likely see right through him and his nonchalant demeanor.

"Thanks for stopping in," Callie offers, "We know that it's not really common for the opening act to be working so closely to the headliner. So, it means a lot to hear your feedback."

"Right," he offers shortly, unsure of what exactly to say. It's been a while since anyone has taken his opinions seriously, and he wonders if this might be some elaborate ruse to make him look like a complete jackass. "I've got a meeting," he lies, feet already carrying him towards the exit.

That had to be one of the most god awful things he's done in a while. Ezra makes a mental note to take himself off the schedule for critiquing girlcrush's performance. He'd be happy to never hear Billie sing again.

In his mental distress, he barely hears the footsteps following after him in the hall. "Hey," a familiar voice calls out, and his whole body stiffens. "Wait up."

Ezra reluctantly turns to meet Billie, hands immediately shoving themselves into his pockets. He doesn't say anything, desperately trying to come up with an excuse to get out whatever heart to heart she thinks they're going to have.

He can't do this right now. Not when his head is pounding, and he has zero fucking pills in his system.

"Look," she breathes, "I just want to say I'm sorry for the other day. You were right. I don't know anything about you and it was unfair of me to speak about it."

"It wasn't exactly keeping me up at night." The words come out colder than expected. Did she really think he gave a damn about her opinion of him?

"I just appreciate you giving us a chance. So, thank you for being the bigger person and coming."

"I didn't do it for you. I did it so Jeff would get off my back." Billie pauses for a moment, bottom lip finding its way between her pearly whites. She's clearly at a loss of what to say. So, he adds, "Don't worry. I'm not going to make shit difficult for you. I've got enough on my plate as it is."

"Well, thank you. I hope we can put it behind us. It would make this tour a lot easier if we're all friends."

A bitter scoff escapes his lips, brows furrowing momentarily. "Friends?" He repeats, the word sour in his mouth. "We're not going to be friends, Billie."

She appears taken back, eyes somewhat widening at the realization that his form of easy was by no means pleasant. "And why not?"

"Because I'm here to do my job, collect my check, and get the fuck on with my life," He replies, leaning slightly forward as he lowers his tone, "And let that be your biggest lesson today: You aren't here to make friends. Not with me or anyone else here who pretends like they give a shit about us."

"Forget I said anything," she replies flatly, taking a step back the minute he leans forward. It's almost as if they two are opposite sides of a magnet, destined to never touch. 

"Gladly," he retorts, already headed for the door. Billie Fields was going to be the death of him.