Playlist - 6. Track 6) Concrete - Barrie

March 8th 4:00PM

Work with Miles was progressing slowly but surely. When in the recording booth, it was self-evident Miles was in his comfort zone. Sebastian watched him groove and shuffle his body behind the microphone more than he was watching the audio levels like he was supposed to. He looked much like how Sebastian imagined rock stars of years past would when they were recording. Sebastian had gotten to a stage with him where the two would start bickering over how songs should sound, additional lyric changes, etc. The polite way of wording it was that they had “creative differences.” However, Sebastian was happier they were professionally arguing rather than talking more about his sexual orientation. Or worse, having more passes thrown at him out of pity.

“I’m telling you,” Sebastian said, opening the door for Miles to exit the studio building, “We need to redo the final chorus. Modulate.”

“And I’m telling you, switchin’ up the key disrupts the whole continuity of the song,” Miles countered playfully on the way out, adjusting the newsboy hat he had perched on his coily hair.

Normally, after any given shift with a client, Sebastian would already be out the door and Kate would be left to be personable and friendly and all the happy shit a good collaborator needs to be. She wasn’t here, though. In fact, it’d been pretty much radio silence since sending all the official paperwork over email a few days earlier. Sure, communication is a two way street; Sebastian could’ve reached out to Kate and asked her how touring was, pry interesting tour bus stories out of her, maybe get around to the whole “coming out” thing he’d been stowing further and further away in his brain. However, Sebastian reasoned that he wasn’t the one who changed their dynamic in the first place and subsequently decided that it was her job to make the adjustment. Not him.

The two reached the parking lot. Miles slowed down. The setting Los Angeles sun was exceptionally bright that afternoon, which caused him to lift a hand up as he turned to Sebastian. The shadows of his fingers snaked over his face, almost obscuring the brilliance in his eyes. Almost.

Sebastian looked around for Miles’s car, but he noticed it was missing. “I had to take an Uber here ‘cause my car’s in the shop,” Miles explained. “The engine was starting to sound like the final girl in a horror movie.”

Sebastian grunted, “Hm. Damn.”

Then they just stood there because, in his head, Sebastian was busy sorting and re-sorting out exactly how he was feeling about the man before him. Mentally listing out goods and bads didn’t help, not this time. Some of Miles’s traits were both equally attractive and repulsive, so his brain felt like it was sort of stuck on a loading screen.

“So…” Miles finally said, rocking back on his heels. His gaze wouldn’t meet Sebastian’s, instead at a curb stop in an empty parking spot.

“So?”

“You busy tonight?”

Immediately, Sebastian’s heart fluttered like a bird trapped in a cage. He hardly managed to croak out, “No,” because his throat went bone-dry. The tone in Miles’s voice suggested that there was another question that was coming up.

“Mm, well, I dunno if like, you’ve already got yourself a crew or whatever, but my friends are going to hit up Shout. Wanna come?”

Sebastian scratched the back of his neck, wincing as he asked, “What’s ‘Shout’?”

Miles rolled his eyes and muttered, “Jesus, you really are a baby gay.” Sebastian must have made a face because immediately after, Miles started to nervously stammer, “I-It’s a gay bar! We don’t normally go there, but it’s Joey’s birthday so…”

It was starting to seriously bother him how many people and places Miles spoke about that he simply expected Sebastian to know. The other day, the two had a fifteen minute argument over Sebastian’s inability to know the names of the original members of Danity Kane.

“Joey’s one of my friends,” Miles added, expectantly.

“And Joey’s… gay?”

“He’s gay. I’m gay. The rest of them are gay.”

…And so was Sebastian.

This was exactly what Audrey advised. Get some gay friends. On TV, gay men with other gays showed a significantly higher chance of actually getting some confidence in themselves… of getting their love story. And Sebastian did want to not die alone.

Also favoring going out were Sebastian’s growing feelings towards Miles. Were they positive feelings? Or negative feelings? 50/50 chance either way.

It was undeniable that there was a sort of magnetism to Miles that Sebastian never encountered before. He was handsome, yes, all dancer’s build and high cheekbones, but he was also strikingly expressive and charismatic. Sebastian admitted he appreciated those characteristics to Miles because they compensated for Sebastian’s own lack of flair and charm; Miles teased him, even making him a little song out of it which wasted away both their production time and Sebastian’s patience.

“Okay,” Sebastian finally answered, after far too long of a silence. He silently cursed himself for taking such a massive risk.

Miles clapped his hands giddily. “Eeee!” he squealed, “This is so cool. Baby’s first gay bar!”

“It’s not my first gay bar,” Sebastian lied. He didn’t like that Miles had always seemed to know Sebastian more than he should.

Even now, Miles saw straight through him. “Oh? And which one was your first?”

“Uh…” Sebastian searched his brain. He knew Los Angeles like the back of his hand, he was born here for Christ’s sake! He desperately offered, “The… Man… hole?” His voice made it sound much more like a question rather than an answer.

“Nice try. But Manhole closed down before either of us were in high school. In Chicago.”

Considering Sebastian hadn’t known that was the name of a real bar, he considered it a win nonetheless.

Then, a replay of a few sentences back crossed his mind. Birthday…

“Shit!” Sebastian yelped, “Can we get back early? I have to meet my sister tomorrow for ‘brunch.’” His sister had requested they get brunch together, as she had some “birthday plans” to discuss. That worried the ever-living crap out of Sebastian as Stef was never a party sort of girl.

Miles smirked, “I’ll get you home before you turn into a pumpkin, Cinderella.” He turned on his heel, but he stopped. “You’re going home first to change, right?”

Sebastian ignored Miles’s judgment. “Miles, it’s hardly after four, I’m going home to do a lot more than change,” he stated, who quickly blushed at how confusingly suggestive that sounded.

Then Miles broke into a wide open grin. “Can I come?” he beamed.

“What?”

“My roommate’s being a total bitch,” he scoffed, “Her girlfriend’s parents are in town and they asked for the apartment for themselves tonight.”

Sebastian rubbed the inside of his jean pockets. “Uh, I guess so. I’ve got some shit to do anyways, so you’re going to have to tag along.”

“Awesome!”

Why did Sebastian get the sinking feeling that this wasn’t going to go well?

March 8th, 5:54PM

More traffic. Because of course, Friday evening traffic was a mainstay in Los Angeles. That didn’t make every second waiting to take Sebastian’s proper exit any less bearable, especially with Miles in the passenger seat next to him. Nevertheless, he attempted to remain cordial with him.

“You know I haven’t smoked in so long,” Miles murmured, lifting up a small paper bag. Miles had accompanied Sebastian on his trip to the dispensary; Sebastian had been depleted of weed for a while now. While he’d mostly been able to cope without it for the week, he was pushing his limits without it.

Sebastian rapped his fingers along the steering wheel. “You don’t smoke?” He would have guessed the opposite if Miles’s free-spirited nature were of any indication.

“No,” Miles said, then wrapped his hands around his neck. “It’s bad for your singing voice if you do too much.” He reached down and pulled up a second paper bag with slightly bulkier contents and sang, “Luckily, Miss Mary Jane comes in all sorts of forms these days.” Miles had decided to purchase some garishly-branded edibles last minute.

Sebastian said nothing. His mind was bombarded by poisonous thoughts; why did he say yes to going with Miles? What was he thinking? A bar-- a gay bar-- so soon?

Then, his eyes flicked to Miles. Miles was looking back at him, with a gentle smirk on his lips. Sunlight streamed over the far side of his face.

“Haha, do you want to play some music!” Sebastian offered, a little too loudly. He threw his gaze back on the road; suddenly a red billboard advertising health insurance became the most interesting thing in the world and totally wasn’t just something Sebastian was using to not keep looking at Miles.

“Mm, okay.”

Sebastian’s car was too old to have Bluetooth functionality, and Miles’s phone was too new to have an aux cable; fortunately, Sebastian had developed a work-around with both a bluetooth device and auxiliary cable. When handing the contraption to Miles, the musician made a puzzled look. “What on earth?” he scoffed.

“Just connect to the Bluetooth before I change my mind.”

Traffic started to flow forward just as the device connected with a boo-doo-doo sound. The health insurance sign Sebastian’s eyes were glued to soon found its way behind the car.

Miles, however, did not play music yet, at least, not impulsively. Out of the corner of his eye, Sebastian saw him peer at his phone and scroll shrewdly through his music collection. It was an oddly thoughtful moment from Miles.

Then, bright key sounds bloomed from the speakers. A soulful voice started to call in the beginning of the track. Miles hummed along with it.

Wait, was this…?

Seconds later, Sebastian’s fingers instinctively tapped along with the bass. It was Jill Scott’s “Golden”; 2000’s R&B had a soft spot in Sebastian’s heart, and this particular song had made it to more than one of Sebastian’s Spotify playlists. It was like Miles saw right through Sebastian.

“Yeah, I knew you had taste!” Miles chuckled.

This made Sebastian smile.

Miles started to sing along with Jill Scott. Not just sing with her, as if she were in the back seat jamming with them, but harmonize with her. In turn, Sebastian continued to move his fingers along the steering wheel, matching the bass chords. However, Miles didn’t get very far into warbling through the chorus before stopping short.

“--Sebastian Santos!” Miles cried and jerked the volume down.

“What?! What?!” Sebastian frantically scanned the road for a hit pedestrian or an animal on the freeway. He nearly slammed his foot on the brakes, but until seeing that, besides a truck littered with “Save the Bees!” bumper stickers, there was thankfully nothing of interest.

Miles pointed at Sebastian’s hands. “You play bass!”

And, again, just like that, Sebastian’s contentment with Miles fizzled away. “Are you fucking kidding me?! Miles, I thought I hit someone!” he shouted.

“You were hitting those notes with perfect timing. You know, I-”

Sebastian glared icily at Miles, which immediately cut his incoming tangent off. “If I’m gonna drive you around,” hissed Sebastian, “you gotta keep it to indoor volume. Or better yet, no volume. Heard?”

Miles gave a frightened nod. Sebastian would have felt bad for spooking him, but selfishly, it felt good to shrug off some of the emotional turbulence he felt around this guy onto him. Driving was Sebastian's "alone time." His routine solace was in the car, even when he got peeved because of a traffic jam, because he was alone. Not this time. Not only was he with unpleasant company, he was with reckless unpleasant company. The song played on, still at its low volume, but once it ended, Miles sheepishly chimed, “So, where are we going next?”

“Record store,” Sebastian responded curtly.

There were several record stores all throughout Los Angeles. At one point or another, Sebastian had probably visited them all, from Van Nuys to Long Beach. However, Sebastian’s favorite was conveniently not far from his Burbank apartment; every Friday he’d show up and pick something, anything, up as a part of his weekly routine.

Wisely, Miles remained silent for the rest of the drive on the freeway. In fact, he didn’t even offer a slick comment or mild criticism of the store when they pulled into an empty spot along the street. All he said was, “Wow.”

Tap Vinyl was as nondescript as they come. Situated between a nail salon humorously named “Nail Me” and a law office with so many partners' names, the lettering looked like it spilled off its front door. Perhaps the only thing discerning Tap Vinyl from its other surrounding businesses was the custom-made sign over the entrance: a yellow, Keith-Haring-like stick figure (slightly bleached from the California sunshine) holding a square containing the store’s name.

“It’s cool if I come out with you?” Miles asked. Sebastian swore there was a slight tremble in his voice, which made him think about those scenes on television dramas when the main character’s parent loses patience and winds up in the wrong because of it. God, was he the parent in this situation?

Sebastian patiently responded, “Uh. Yeah, of course. I’m not gonna let you bake in my car.” He took a deep breath and said, “Sorry for snapping. I’m just pretty shit with… people.”

Miles exited the car. He just plastered on a smile and said, “I can tell.”

God, even when he was accepting an apology, Miles was so damn cocky. That should have riled up Sebastian’s anger all over again, but instead, he just felt his face flush with heat.

Thankfully, Tap Vinyl’s AC was at a refreshing full blast. Also at full blast was some punk rock music shooting out from a speaker in the corner.

The store was awash with orange from the setting sun. Massive walls of albums new and old lined the place, with selected spots for cassettes and even some CDs. Posters hung between the shelves, depicting Fugees, Michael Jackson, and John Lennon.

“‘Ey, ‘ey!” a voice chanted.

The punk music turned down exponentially once Sebastian and Miles entered.

A lanky, cool-faced man threw his arms up. “‘Sup Sebastian!”

“‘Sup,” Sebastian returned.

The two dapped each other up, respectfully, then the man jerked his head to Miles. “Who’s that maricón?”

Sebastian didn’t know what a maricón was but he figured Eddy meant Miles. He shrugged his shoulders. “One of my clients. Kate’s out of town,” he explained, then gestured to Miles. “Miles, Eddy. Eddy, Miles.”

Miles stuck out his hand with all the grace of a medieval princess. “Hello,” he breathed.

Eddy glanced at Sebastian warily as he returned the gentle handshake and said nothing.

Eduardo, or “Eddy,” was hardly twenty years old. Besides his young age, he looked much like the stereotype of a record store employee: ripped jeans, faded band t-shirt, patchy facial hair, and a scrawly tattoo on his forearm. Eddy was the only employee Sebastian ever saw at Tap Vinyl; he wasn’t sure if that was because he only ever visited on Friday evenings or because Eddy was legitimately the only person who worked there. Allegedly, his father was the guy who owned the place, but Sebastian would only believe it once he saw it.

“What you got for me today, Eddy?” Sebastian asked pensively, already digging his fingers through a nearby record crate labeled “Just In!”.

“Eh, mostly some new stuff you won’t like. Savage, Billie… I think we got a second-hand Selena record somewhere in there, though.”

Sure enough, Sebastian pulled out Amor Prohibido. Selena’s face had a slight tear in its paper just under her jaw. “Already have it,” Sebastian commented, but before he could place it back in the crate, Miles put a hand up.

“I’ll gladly take it then,” Miles indignantly said.

Eddy tightened his shoulders. Again, he said nothing, just stiffly gestured with his hand for Miles to come closer.

Sebastian continued to comb through nearby record crates, but he couldn’t help keeping an ear on his client.

At this point, Sebastian was begrudgingly aware that Miles had an otherworldly read on him, but after a few days of working together, he wasn’t oblivious enough to not see Miles, too. Miles knew he drew attention to himself, by his manner of dress, by the way he talked, and so on; however, he was obviously unwilling to change for other people's comfort. And Eddy wasn’t comfortable with him.

Sebastian was already quite used to being around characters like Miles, both because of his job and his secret sexuality. Maybe he was not exactly at ease with Miles all the time, but Eddy’s standoffishness was on a whole other level. Clearly, Miles’s flamboyance was giving Eddy fever and not in a good way.

Miles didn’t budge, though. He clicked his fingers on the countertop and swished his hips to the beat of the music humming out from the speaker. But Sebastian could tell this was all done with intent, with pride. It was kind of cool. No way Sebastian wouldn’t have crumpled if he were in Miles’s position.

The young musician finished his purchase with a dramatic turn on heel. “Can we go?” he asked Sebastian. He was about to leave with Miles, until his eyes stopped on a record depicting a man in cornrows, dressed in crushed velvet, sitting on a desert ridge.

Just quickly, he directed his eyes to Miles and said, “All set?”

“More than set.”

They exited Tap Vinyl, with Miles at a noticeably brisker pace than Sebastian.

Once in the car, Sebastian was about to ask Miles about what was up, just to be polite, when Miles, unperturbed, commented, “Stevie Wonder, huh?”

“Yeah,” Sebastian breathed.

He pulled out from the street parking. The car was uncomfortably quiet. Sebastian could hear his own heartbeat in his ears. “Talking Book,” he blurted out-- the album that caught Sebastian’s eye as he left.

“I know,” Miles snipped then rolled down his window.

Silent, miffed Miles was worse than overly-animated Miles by a longshot.

Fuck, Sebastian had to keep talking. He was starting to feel guilty. The only reason why Miles had to have such a brittle moment was because Sebastian took him in.

“I learned to play bass because of it,” he stammered.

Miles said nothing. He wasn’t taking the conversational bait, so Sebastian just continued.

“My dad. That album… he… he taught me how to play bass when I was six. Because of that album.”

This got a subtle eyebrow raise from Miles. Tentatively, Miles questioned, “Bass? At six?”

“Yeah,” Sebastian nervously chuckled, “On an acoustic, full-size bass guitar.” Acoustic basses were larger than a typical acoustic guitar, and full-size bass guitars were considered egregiously too big for the small hands of a six-year-old child, let alone your run-of-the-mill bass. “Probably sounded like shit, but it was all Dad had.”

“Wish I could see a picture of lil’ baby you holding that thing,” Miles replied. His tone was brighter. That was good. That meant improvement.

“Dad was strumming along to Stevie Wonder one night on his own guitar, electric, and woke me up. Instead of putting me back to bed, he handed me his bass and taught me some of my first chords. That… was probably the moment that got me into music.”

The words hung there. Miles was still ruffled, Sebastian could tell. He swore he heard his father’s voice saying something about how people’s anger is another “fact of life.”

“My dad’s pretty cool,” Miles croaked. “So’s my mom. They’re both supportive of me. Maybe too supportive of me.”

“I’m sorry, Miles,” Sebastian immediately said. “N-Not about your parents. That’s cool. Just, about Eddy.” He got where Miles was going with the conversation, now.

Miles rolled his eyes and leaned his head back. “It’s not your fault. I should be used to it by now. Usually I am.” Then, he lifted his head back up and pointedly asked, “Your family know?”

Sweat poured out of Sebastian’s forehead. “No. My mom's kinda difficult,” he admitted.

“Do you want to tell her?”

Sebastian let out a deep, deep sigh. “...No. I don’t. Or, maybe, I’m just afraid of it.”

The car went quiet once more, but just like the mighty exhale that escaped Sebastian’s mouth, the discomfort from the record store finally fluttered out the window. The last glimpses of tangerine daylight withered behind the Los Angeles skyline, and the night swaddled over in its place. Palm trees, painted in placid darkness, swayed friendly and free.

It wasn’t until Sebastian parked outside of his place, glancing at the Selena vinyl in Miles’s hands, that he realized he’d for once not bought his regular Friday evening record… and, for once, he didn’t care his routine was disturbed.