Will You Wait Me Out?

Will you wait me out?

Summary: You were one of the best of friends—maybe a little bit more—and maybe, if life hadn’t gotten in the way, things could be different now, but instead, a decade after you once knew Noah, you see his face again and find yourself chasing ghosts in the form of old memories, before finally coming face to face with the past.

Pairing: Noah Sebastian x reader.

CW: none really, a little bit sad a lot of pinning by reader, implied old feelings, old friends, potentially high school sweethearts, lots of ‘what ifs’.

The first time you see his face again, it’s like seeing a ghost. He looks older now—his features sharper—and though his hair is much shorter than the overgrown wolf cut you remember, even in grayscale, you recognize those doe-like brown eyes.

His face sits front and center in a group shot on the cover of a magazine—a rock magazine highlighting Bad Omens as Best International Artist. Something inside you swells and flutters. Pride, you think. You always believed he would go far with his words, envied his ability to lay them out so eloquently, weaving them into songs.

Maybe if you had, too, he wouldn’t feel like a footnote in the story of your life. The bond you shared, that special something you’d been too scared to name back then—love—could have come to fruition.

The magazine sits on your coffee table for a week—unopened, but face-up—so you can glance down at him and the rest of the guys. You didn’t stick around in Virginia long enough to meet Jolly, but you’d briefly crossed paths with Folio and managed to forge something of a friendship with Nicholas—Noah’s best friend.

It takes you another week before you finally open the magazine with the intention of reading it—at least the article. Most of it’s about the music, the new album, the trajectory of it all. Then your eyes glaze over the part of the interview that touches on the recent popularity of their song Just Pretend on TikTok. He doesn’t have to name you outright for you to know what influenced it, how the lyrics were written about you. He never had to explicitly say, because you always knew.

You never really ventured into the band’s discography. You followed subtly, heard their name crop up here and there, but it seems they’ve recently broken new ground—though it doesn’t surprise you. Nick and Noah had always been talented, and with the addition of Jolly and Folio, you can only imagine what they’ve achieved.

When you finally take the plunge, diving into their music from the start, you find yourself struggling through parts. There are too many similarities about you and him hidden in the subtext of the lyrics. You make it through, even as it tears at your heart, dredging up memories you’d long since tucked away—kept safe in a lockbox deep inside you.

Three weeks pass, and you find yourself buying three more copies of the magazine: one you saw on display in a coffee shop, one from a convenience store, and one from a Hot Topic window—though that one took a bit of bartering.

In double that time, the number increases to nearly quadruple. At this point, you’re probably the sole owner of almost every copy in the city. You’re not sure when or why the collection began, but now it follows you from place to place, and in every new location you reach, you pick up another. You read them just as often, too—your first copy as beaten and battered as you feel every time you dare to torture yourself by re-reading the same passages of the interview you know will tear your heart to shreds.

This wasn’t how it was meant to go for the two of you—him writing songs about your what ifs, and you learning everything you can through the tiniest pieces of his soul he bares in his music and interviews.

The thought of it breaks your heart all over again.

Less than a month later, you’re in a new town. As you pick out a postcard for your family back home, you find yourself choosing another—for him. You don’t know what prompts you, exactly. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s been on your mind a lot more lately.

You send it to the band’s P.O. box. It’s the only form of contact you have left, after being laughed at by a stranger on the other end of the phone. You had called the number listed on the band’s record label website, hopeful that maybe—just maybe—you’d get to speak to him. The woman who answered wasn’t apologetic. In fact, she seemed amused, as though you were just another eagle-eyed fan chasing a long shot. Maybe things would’ve gone differently if she had known who you are to him… who you were.

Your message is simple—a response to his lyrics:

I’m still out here. I’ll wait you out. – x

You consider adding more, but decide against it. There’s always next time. If there is a next time.

There is—multiple, in fact. Every new place you go, you find a postcard just for him. Your messages are short, pointed. You mention the things you’ve been doing—the ones you once promised you’d do together someday. You tell him where you are, even though it doesn’t matter. By the time he gets it, you’ll already be somewhere else.

Do you remember when I told you my biggest fear was roller coasters too, and that one day we’d conquer that fear together? We weren’t together, but I went—for you. For us. I threw up afterward, and all I could think about was how you’d be fretting over me for at least an hour. I always think about things like that. Your caring heart. I miss it. I miss you. – x

I went ice skating at the Rockefeller Center. I remember you once told me you’d never been, that you couldn’t skate. I promised I’d take you. There were a couple of kids there who looked like they were in love. They held onto each other as they skated. They made me think of you. They made me think of us. – x

I never told you, but I always knew you’d go far with your music. I’m proud of you. – x

I thought I saw you today. I followed the guy for about ten blocks before I realised it wasn’t you. In fact, he looked nothing like you. I see you a lot lately—in the faces I pass. – x

I think of you a lot. I only hope you still think of me too. – x

It’s confirmed: Chicago does have the best pizza. They also have the best hospital vending machine selection. (Only one night in A&E) – x

My family still asks about you sometimes. They remember you—call you my “funny friend” because you always made them laugh. It hurts to hear them call you my friend. You were always so much more than that. I’m sorry I was too late to realise it. – x

Even now, his face continues to haunt you. His ghost follows you, lingering in the memories you’re making alone—the ones born from promises you once made together. You carry him with you still. The nine magazine copies have doubled. Magazines, CDs, even a Japan-exclusive edition you found tucked away on the back shelf of a Goodwill.

You convince yourself to go to a concert. It’s not a large venue—one of their smaller shows. You’re in town, not by coincidence, so why not? You stay out of sight, near the back of the crowd, and you’re thankful you thought ahead, because when he starts singing the opening lyrics of Just Pretend, you feel your composure slipping.

You don’t make it through the whole thing.

You slip away before he has the chance to see you, bumping into someone on your way out. For a brief moment, you freeze—panicked, apologetic—until you lift your gaze and find yourself staring into a familiar face.

You’d almost forgotten the possibility of Davis—the second person Noah has known as long as Nick. You catch the flicker of recognition in his eyes and move quickly to slip past, but then you hear him calling your name.

You don’t respond. You don’t look back. You just leave and hope to God he doesn’t realise he’s right.

You’ve been checking every date since the band’s tour schedule was released. You’ve followed nearly every city with the intention of going, of seeing them—of seeing him, but every time, you back out, lose your nerve.

You wonder if maybe it’s best to leave well enough alone. Is there any point in digging up the grave another time?

At the last tour date offering a meet-and-greet opportunity, you swallow your fear—and your pride. If you don’t do it now, you never will. You saw him once, though barely. You heard his voice, and it broke something inside you. For so long, you feared never hearing it again, and now, all you want is to hear it again, to see him again. Even if it’s just for one last time, for one real goodbye.

Your hands are sweaty as you wait. He’s thanked hundreds of people before you—each calling him their favorite, each naming their favorite songs or quoting their favorite lyrics. The rest of the band mostly go unnoticed, or are appreciated by only a few. That makes your heart ache, especially for Nicholas, who you always knew to be one of Noah’s biggest inspirations—his steady, guiding hand.

Each time you dare to glance at Noah, you catch pieces of the performer’s facade—the bright smile that feels just a little too forced to be real. You remember his real smile all too well. Even his laugh sounds animated now.

It feels like watching an animal in a zoo—a monkey trained to perform. Keep the line moving. Keep everyone happy. There’s a flicker of guilt, because maybe you’re part of the circus now, too, but your intentions aren’t ill-meant.

You’re getting closer now. You start counting down the people ahead of you.

10.

You’re rehearsing what you’ll say. Every scenario you’ve ever imagined is playing in your head like a movie reel—a script you’ve prepared.

7.

But what words could ever cover the span of a decade?

3.

You wonder if it’s too late to back out—if you could slip away unnoticed.

You pass the Nicks first, unsure if either of them really registers you, but you’re too caught up in your thoughts to notice the way Nicholas elbows Folio with a subtle nod in your direction.

Before you can process it, Noah is sitting in front of you. Your mouth goes dry. You choke on the words. An apology? A hello?

You’re prompted to speak by a young man about their age, wearing a cap and a Lord of the Rings T-shirt, keeping the line moving at a steady pace—the same line you’re now holding up.

Noah hasn’t looked up yet, as if waiting for you to say your name so he can sign, the same way he has with everyone else before you. You wonder if he knows. If he can sense it’s you standing there, and when you finally find your voice, you say the only thing you can think to say—your name.

The moment it reaches him, his head lifts in recognition. His eyes widen, as if the sight of you is deceiving, and suddenly, your pounding heart is in your throat—overwhelmed with a mixture of joy, anticipation, and the distinct urge to throw up.

The only thing Noah says in return is your name—so soft it’s barely a whisper. As if saying it aloud might wake him from a dream. As if, by naming you, he might lose you all over again.

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