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New York in the mid-90s had a way of swallowing people whole. Like a starving beast that fed on ambition, and Daddy’s House Recording Studio was its heart.
The hallway lights of the studio washed everything in a cold blue haze. Kirk Burrowes had been pacing back and forth for the past hour, phone pressed to his ear. He was stressing about schedules, deals, and all kinds of other shit that had needed solving by yesterday. But all that noise faded to the background the moment the studio door was pushed open.
Biggie felt the air change even before he saw him. He always did. He looked up from the soundboard and turned in his chair, half-wishing it wasn’t the one person he’d tried not to think about for months.
But there he was. The West Coast rapper leaned in the doorway with his arms crossed, pretending he didn’t care how Biggie’s eyes lingered on him.
“You just gonna stare?” Pac asked, the corner of his mouth twitching.
Biggie kept a poker face. “Heard you was in the city. Didn’t think you’d come back here.”
Pac stepped inside. “Didn’t think you wanted me to either.”
Those words struck deeper than they should have. Biggie felt them settle in his chest like he was choking on them, the same ache he shoved down every night when he went home to his wife and kids.
He loved them, too. That was the tragedy of it. A man could be many things. A father, husband, but not this, not openly.
Across the glass pane separating the booth from the control room, Puffy stood calmly watching. He saw the way Pac drifted closer to Biggie’s side of the room, and the way Biggie relaxed around Pac in a way he never did around anyone else.
Pac slid into the chair beside Biggie, leaning in close to look at the mixing board. “Track sounds different.”
“Different good or different trash?” Biggie joked.
Pac’s voice dropped. “Different like this ain’t actually your sound.” He gestured to the man in the booth.
Puffy couldn’t hear them, but what he saw was enough to make him tick. His voice cut through the glass. ”Yo, Big. We working or we flirting?”
It was a joke, but not really. Pac didn’t even try to entertain him. He pressed the talkback button in almost an instant. ”Man, chill. We listening.”
However Puffy didn’t budge, letting his gaze stay locked on Biggie. It was alive with something ugly, almost like he’s taunting him. Biggie felt heat creep up his neck as his eyes burrowed deeper into the mixing board, trying to make himself smaller under his boss. He used to fight back whenever Puff acted out of order, but over the years he had nearly become completely pliant. It was alike to the cowering obedience of a dog who had forgotten how to bark, and he hated himself for it.
Pac could notice whenever Biggie got lost in his own mind. He gave a gentle nudge to snap him out of it. It was light, nothing inappropriate that anyone could call out, but the meaning behind it made the blood rise to Biggie’s face.
“You good?” Pac murmured.
Biggie nodded slightly in response, their eyes meeting for just a moment before shifting their attention back to the mixing board. Puffy’s expression only hardened looking at the two rappers.
Kirk, watching from the hallway, knew exactly what that expression meant.
”Here we go,” he muttered under his breath.
Biggie glanced at the clock. The session ran later than expected, and he knew Faith wasn’t gonna be happy with him for coming in late again.
He kept thinking of his wife, and how this was the life he was supposed to be loyal to. And yet Pac was right there, close enough that Big could smell his cologne and the leftover cigarette smoke.
Neither of them left, even after the verse was recorded and the engineers started packing up cables and shutting off monitors.
“So you ain’t gonna talk to me?” Pac asked finally.
“Talk about what?”
Pac moved closer. ”Don’t start acting like you don’t feel what I feel.”
Biggie rubbed his hands over his face. ”Pac…”
“You think I came here for Puffy? For the music?”
Pac stepped closer, lowering his voice. ”At least look at me.”
Biggie stepped back. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what? Ask for the truth?”
“It ain’t that simple.”
“‘Cause you married?”
Biggie flinched.
Pac’s tone softened, just a little. “I ain’t tryna wreck your life.”
Biggie wanted to say something, anything, but the words tangled in his throat. Because wanting Pac wasn’t something he could confess. Not in this day and age, and definitely not with the whole damn world watching.
Pac exhaled, “I’m not asking for you to run away with me, Big. I’m asking for the truth.” The aching desperation in his voice was almost enough to make a grown man break.
Biggie looked away, finally giving in to the man in front of him. “Truth is…I don’t know how to be anything but scared.”
Pac’s face softened at that in a way Biggie rarely saw. “Come here.”
Biggie took a step forward, enough that Pac could touch his cheek with the edge of his fingers. He tenderly brushed his thumb across Biggie’s lips.
Pac whispered, “If you want me, just say it.”
But the moment shattered when the studio door flew open. Puffy wondered why it had taken so long for them to come out the studio. Looking between them, with Pac’s hand still half-raised and Biggie’s face all flushed, he knew exactly why.
Biggie stepped back immediately, jaw tight enough to shatter his molars. The air was suffocating him.
”Big. We need to talk. Now.”
Puffy didn’t wait for a response, instead he turned and walked away, expecting Biggie to follow like he always had. All he could do was look at Pac one last time with apology written in every line of his face.
Pac whispered, “You ain’t gotta follow him.”
But Biggie did. Because fear was heavier than desire, and responsibility weighed more than truth.