“Fuck off,†said Sam easily, “I’m a better juggler anyway.†He let that possible untruth sit between them for a split second before he added, “Fuck, that’s what I’m doing next photoshoot. I’m sick of just lookin’ cool in the back.†With what he was generally unwilling to wear during those things, he often didn’t have any other choices but to mug in the back.
The mood had dipped perceptibly when they’d started talking about Liam and his mysterious heartbreak – fuck Charlie for bringing that up in the first place, Sam thought dourly, and fished for another cashew to throw at his friend, only to find that he was out. He crumpled the wrapper noisily in one hand. “Idiot,†he said, not because he believed it, but because Charlie had already taken, ‘poor bloke’.
A part of Sam felt a little guilty whenever he did reference what they all knew to be true – that his tolerance for the high-flying life was shorter than either of his bandmates’, and that he would pack it in first. It made him feel sort of like a ticking time bomb, waiting to ruin both of their careers. (He knew, on some level, that he was replaceable to an extent, but – call it vanity – no way could they actually replace him.) He thought it was a major reason they didn’t really talk about what came after Banshee – that neither Charlie nor Liam wanted to know what Sam had already thought about.
Which wasn’t much, mind.
He snorted – it would be pathetic for him faster than it would be for either of the other two; Sam was pretty sure he was the only one likely to develop a gut in the near future – “Guess so,†he said, not entirely melancholically, and followed Charlie’s look over at the girls. “You reckon we’ve given it long enough we don’t look eager?†He doubted they had, but it was a better shot than Charlie was likely to have with Orla the barmaid.
