Neville's fingers fidgeted against his knee. He had rehearsed roughly fourteen versions of his opening line in his head by now. But every single one of them sounded like something a middle-aged reporter would ask at a press junket.
Chronos, for his part, looked so relaxed. He sat with one ankle crossed over the opposite knee, a glass of something clear and probably non-alcoholic on the armrest beside him.
The low amber light caught the sharp line of his jaw. Up close, though, there was a softness to him that the cameras never quite captured.
Neville swallowed hard, decided that the fourteenth version of his opener was still garbage, and threw it all away.
"I should probably confess something," he said, his voice pitched low enough that only Chronos could hear. "I haven't actually been a fan for very long. A few months, really. So if I say something stupid about your discography, please don't take it to heart. I'm sure older fans knew about this more than me."
