Ronan's steps were light as he bounced over to the next room. He rapped on the door with four knuckles in a crisp, rhythmic tap—not loud enough to shake the walls, just sharp and neat. Leaning his ear against the door to avoid disturbing other hotel guests, he muttered under his breath.
"Cliff, Cliff, Cliff, Cliff, Cliff," he chanted over and over until the door swung open. Ignoring Cliff's grumpy scowl, Ronan shoved past him, tiptoeing into the room with a grin. His chant shifted gears as he kept going.
"Get up, get up, get up, get up, get up," he repeated endlessly. "Interview! We've got an interview to prep for—hurry, hurry, hurry!"
Cliff and Maxim were already awake, just lingering in bed. The relentless grind before the concert had drained them, and they needed the rest. Now, watching Ronan prance around the room like a horse on parade, their heads spun along with his dizzying energy.
"Wait, what's going on?" Maxim latched onto Ronan's words, sitting up straighter, urgency in his voice. "Explain."
"Rolling Stone magazine called to set up an interview. Three p.m., downstairs in the lobby." Ronan summed it up in one breath.
Cliff took a step forward, like he wanted to say something, but held back. Maxim, meanwhile, was still processing, looking like a computer buffering with too little RAM.
"Oh, I was worried it might be a scam call, but… well, we'll know for sure when we meet them," Ronan added, tossing in some unnecessary detail.
"Scam call? Hahaha!" Maxim cracked up, doubling over. "Ronan, your imagination—hahaha!" He rocked back and forth, then—thunk—smacked his head against the hard headboard. Joy turned to pain as he clutched his skull, yelping like an overcooked lobster.
But mid-rub, out of nowhere, Maxim sprang up like a martial arts master. Head snapping up, he darted off in a blur—feet barely touching the ground—vanishing into the bathroom and slamming the door shut behind him.
Ronan and Cliff exchanged a look, stunned. A beat later, Cliff caught up, shouting, "Maxim!"
Too late.
Maxim, the band's resident prince with a stage-four vanity disorder, was obsessed with his image. He'd stop at anything reflective to check himself out, like Narcissus from Greek myth. And once he hit the bathroom? Forget it—he wouldn't emerge for at least an hour.
The other three bandmates had no clue what he did in there. How he stretched an hour out of whatever routine he had was a mystery they'd griped about endlessly. Maxim didn't care—he did his thing, and it remained one of the band's great unsolved riddles.
Staring at the firmly shut bathroom door, Cliff let out a long, defeated sigh, running a hand over the wild beard swallowing half his face. Between tour rehearsals and Maxim hogging the bathroom, Cliff hadn't had a chance to groom lately.
On stage, it didn't matter—fans were too far to see his features. But their first magazine feature, and with Rolling Stone no less? Cliff didn't want to drown in his own facial hair.
He glanced at Ronan, hesitating, words stuck in his throat.
Ronan took the lead. "You can use our bathroom. Ollie and I are in and out quick. Got your razor out here, though?"
Cliff borrowing Ronan and Ollie's bathroom was a regular thing—they were used to it. Normally, he'd just ask outright, but today, Cliff was off, awkward.
It'd been like that earlier too.
Faced with Ronan's bombshell news, Cliff—usually the first to speak up—stayed quiet. Maxim's voice filled the void instead.
It was still about the agent thing. That night, when Cliff had flat-out lied to John-Mark and Allen Bay Shuck, claiming Alice was their manager, Ronan had confronted him back at the hotel after the concert.
No surprise, Cliff was still rattled from the Tristan mess. To him, Allen being so eager at their first meeting felt off. Sure, Allen was Bruno's agent, but the band didn't have a solid tie to Bruno. Cliff thought they should keep their guard up.
Ronan saw it differently. They could've handled it better—played it cool, kept the door open for working with Allen later, instead of Cliff bluntly shutting it by saying they already had a manager. John knew the band's real situation. If he and Allen compared notes and didn't like their vibe, it could flip a promising connection into a dead end.
Maxim and Ollie both agreed with Ronan.
What really ticked Ronan off, though, was Cliff throwing Alice under the bus without a heads-up or agreement. Forget the band stuff for a sec—Ronan didn't like how Cliff treated her. Alice wasn't hired help. For over three months, she'd been pitching in for free, and they owed her real gratitude, not assumptions.
That's why Ronan had to speak up fast, making his stance clear. He didn't want the band taking Alice for granted.
He'd pushed for an open talk, and that's how it went down.
After hashing it out, Cliff saw he'd acted rashly, not thinking it through. He apologized to Alice formally. Between bandmates, though, apologies felt too stiff—some joking around smoothed it over.
Cliff didn't say it, but he still felt bad. These past couple days, he'd been stiff around Ronan, holding back.
Now, Ronan broke the ice. Seeing Cliff's awkward, sheepish look, he laughed. "That shy face really doesn't suit your big beard. It's like a princess growing whiskers."
The quip made Cliff roll his eyes. "What kind of description is that? Watch your words, okay?"
"That's more like you. No need to keep acting all weird. Come on, hit our bathroom and clean up—we're short on time." Ronan clapped Cliff's shoulder, and they both laughed. The awkward air cleared, things flowing again.