Archive of Our Own ^beta

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I would’ve called this an author’s note , but oh boy do I have a lot to say. If you want to skip this, feel free to. Two things to note are the format and the tone of this story, but you’ll figure it out eventually even if you don’t stick around after this part.

For those who are staying, thank you. I know I can come off as a bit of a snarky asshat with the way I write, but I swear I’m not. Or, at least, I’m not trying to be. This is just super, super, super informal, almost to a toxic degree, so um. Yeah. That’s being a teen for you!

First off. I have no idea how LCD Soundsystem came to be. Even though my dad looks like James Murphy (and I look like my dad … wait, so do I look like James Murphy! Fuck yeah, rock on!), I don’t know the band in real life. Been to one concert, which totally ruled, but other than that, just a fan of the music.

So, I’ve written and rewritten this story, oh, I dunno, about two times? That might not sound like a lot to you, but I would like to mention that these were about 2000 words each, which takes a lot of brain power for me. My mind isn’t satisfied until I read something 10 times over. Only half joking. Still doesn’t sound like a lot? Fuck you. I kid, I kid, but really. It took a while to write those chapters, and it also took a while to determine how I wanted to write this in the first place. How much will this be based on real events? How will I break this up into chapters? Should I break this into chapters (answer: yes, dumbass)?

That, along with the writer's block that kicked me in my nonexistent balls, made me only post about 3 chapters of this onto wattpad, and I have never touched it since. Now I’m sitting here, clacking away on my keyboard, and upgrading myself to ao3 (whether it’s an actual upgrade is TBD, but I have a wishful mind). If you like my work from this point onwards, by all means, give me some kudos. Still not entirely sure how this website works, but I’m sure it’s a good thing to click. If you don’t? Leave me some criticism in the comments. Constructive ones, preferably.

I will have a somewhat specific format for y’all to not get confused. I will mention the year’s I’m talking about, then a quote that I like from one of the people associated with the band (99% of the time James Murphy), and then I’ll get into the meat of the whole ordeal. The ‘meat’ is split up into two parts; the actual events and what I think happened, just to dabble in some good ‘ol fiction (my favorite, no sarcasm). This will be separated by some little -’s. Understood? Cool, I hope so. You’ll understand eventually.

ONE LAST THING! I don’t know how long it’ll take for me to actually write these chapters. If my past attempts are anything to go off of, then oh boy… My mind is so scatterbrained that it runs from MRI machines. Read my other stories (it’s just one ATM but summer’s coming up this year and fuck , I can’t wait) if you want, but no obligations, of course. I love lotsa bands, so you might find a band that you like, too. Especially Modest Mouse…

Now, everyone, time for what you’ve all been waiting for…

SHUT UP AND PLAY THE HITS (THE ‘STORY’)

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1988

“James is great; he's a very articulate, very kind of canny, intelligent guy. And I think that anybody who works with him would agree with that. He could also be a tremendous pain in the ass, but, y'know, you gotta take the rough with the smooth” -I forgot who the fuck said this (I know, great start)

What is music? That answer might seem easy for some; the combination of a melody and a beat. And if this is the only definition we can come up with, then oh boy. Ever heard of rap music? Rapping isn’t really a ‘melody’, more like an emphasized poem. Is that not music? Racists, I would like you to sit down on that one and shut up for once in your lives. Oh yeah, and what about classical music? There’s no beat to it, really. Just some good ol’ piano. Some may argue that the piano is both the melody and the beat, and you may be right, but that’s too much for me to think about.

What am I getting at here? Well, I’m just introducing you to the mind of our wonderful protagonist, the dashing young singer of the band Falling Man… James. Shoot, is that it? I could’ve sworn he had a last name somewhere …

Oh. Who the hell are those other people?- Sorry, sorry. Point is, we know his last name, fortunately. That 18 year old shade-wearing goth is none other than James Jeremiah Murphy. Or, as normal people call him, James Murphy. You can tell it’s him because of the chubby cheeks and spiky flat hair. 

Listening to the album, it’s… there. If James is the one singing, he surely sounds like how he looks; painfully gothic. I’m a sucker for goth music, but oh my god did he change it up in the latter years.

Speaking of those latter years, this Murphy is but a youngen. Shit, he’s only about a year older than me on this album. Not to reveal my age or anything, but he’s 18. Comparing that to his bandmates, who are well into their 20’s, you can surely say that he stands out from the rest, even if his name is just… James. Seriously, dude, why did they do that?

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James can’t handle this. This whole pressure’s been building up in him for years, and has yet to be released, being trapped like a closed-off, shaken bottle of coke. When the cap untwists, he can’t even imagine it. I mean, sure, growing up will be good for him. It’ll put emphasis on his talent and not his age. But what if he has no talent? What if people have just been hyping him up because he had potential, but never actually followed through? What then? Will he, then, be stuck in some dead-end job like both of his parents? He loves his parents, but not their jobs. What about his bandmates? How did they manage getting old? Man, they’re not even that old, they’re just old er . They’re average. But James doesn’t want to be average. That’s why he’s so stressed.

Not wanting another panic attack of circular thought, Murphy dials his friend on the phone, remembering all his bandmate’s numbers by heart. His finger shakes as he swirls in each number, his vision going blurry with a built-up dam of tears. At least if he has a panic attack, he knows someone will be on their way to fix him.

James calls his trustiest of the pals, Steve. He’s a fun guy with a fun last name; Nebesney. That’s why everyone calls him that instead of snoozefest Steve, but this time, James can’t bother with that bullshit. Then Nebesney’ll know that he’s truly a wreck. No one calls him Steve anymore.

A quick chat later, and Nebesney is on his way to stitch up James’ shriveled, tear-filled heart. 10 minutes pass, and a knock is heard on the door. Thank god his parents aren’t home. If it was known that James invited one of his ‘coked up druggie’ bandmates to their house, oh man , he wouldn’t hear the end of it. They never liked Murphy hanging out with the other four, mainly because of the age difference, and that only tacked on to the boy’s personal stress.

James opens the door, hand covering one of his puffy eyes, which is covered in his thick sleeve. Despite it being the summer, James has been having some body image issues lately, as if things couldn’t possibly go any worse.

Steve takes one look at him and sucks his teeth. “Sheesh, man. You look rough.”

This causes Murphy to collapse in the other’s arms, hands clinging onto his shirt, weird sniffles and wails covered up (poorly) by the cloth.

“Man, I don’t know where to go !”

“Well- you got college after summer, right?”

“That just makes me feel worse ! I don’t want to get older!”

And there, just there, is the vocalization of James’ battle with the inevitable challenge of aging. Passing of time… can’t really do anything about it, and oh man , does it hurt. Mentally and physically in this case, with how much Murphy has the urge to kick and punch everything in front of him, including Steve…

“Ow! Fuck, dude, why’d you do that?” He pulls away, being hit right in the shin. At least it wasn’t… y'know, but it still hurt like hell on Earth. James still had his shoes on, and he wasn’t exactly weak , despite what he tells himself in the mirror.

“Sorry! Sorry, sorry-” Now it’s the only word James can say. “I’m just…” He claws at his hair, “...how do you deal- with death?”

“ What ?”

Steve can’t see the connection between aging and death, and frankly, neither can the other. He just blurted out the first thing that came to his mind, his thoughts stripped of any and all subtlety or context.

“I mean- how do you- do you deal with you- yourself-” he can’t stop sniffling, so much so that he breaks down onto the floor, tornado drill position, before he can finish his sentence.

Steve crouches next to the fallen man (see what I did there? Yeah, not the time…), petting his curled back. “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me anything…”

“I need HELP , Steve!”

The word ‘help’ rings out throughout the room, even if James’ mouth is practically kissing the floor. When he raises his head, his whole face burning, hair stringy and wet on his face, eyes desperately trying to read the other’s for some semblance of an answer.

“I…” But Steve doesn’t have one.

The two sit there, Steve having nothing to say while the previously indestructible man, who wouldn’t ever back down from an opportunity, crawls into himself, broken inside and out. Every breath out is painful, and every inhale is dry and cracked, sounding choked.

Steve leaves his side and disappears into the distance. Murphy doesn’t say anything, but rather wipes his sleeve with his own snot and tears. It’s gross, terribly so, but that doesn’t matter.

Before he can process said gross image in front of him, James sees Steve’s shadow emerge from the end of the hallway, large glass full of sparkling cubes in his hand. It’s amazing how he memorized the layout of the house so well, only being invited here 2 times before, at most.

James chugs the glass of water given to him, because oh , does he need it. The ice clangs against his teeth, and if it weren’t for the adrenaline rushing through him, he would be in incredible pain. Luckily, it’s not registering yet.

“You have a therapist right?”

That can’t be the only option, right? “Yes, but- but he’s- he wouldn’t understand me… I’m too- confusing…”

“I’m sure that’s a lie.”

Not in James’ head, it wasn’t. Explaining the same thing he’s been feeling for years, over, and over, and over, and OVER, and OVER again was never how he wanted this to go. Even if he was comforted through every sentence that came out of his mind, he would still think the person listening is making fun of him. That’s the perk of anxiety, for you. Spiraling out of control for no reason, thinking everyone hates you. Refreshing, ain’t it?

An hour later, Nebesney’s presence is replaced with his questioning parents, bombarding him with words: “Do you need your therapist?” “What’s wrong? We can help you.” “Should we call him?” “College is just a few months away, you’re going to be fine.” You’re fine. You’re fine. You’re fine.

“BUT I’M NOT FUCKING FINE!” A thick air of silence is shaken into the room, and James just realizes that he’s said this out loud…

“Excuse me?” His mother seems to be conflicted. “You have no right- you know what, JJ, okay. We can’t have you getting another anxiety episode… but we can’t have you going to him every day…”

Every day? That does sound nice, but she’s right… James shouldn’t rely on one person to wring out all his feelings to, but it’s not like he would help, either. It wouldn’t be anything new for his therapist to hear. Since six years old, he’s learnt all about his internal problems; his depression, that denial of said depression, and his intrusive thoughts of killing himself. Literally everything . Now, he’s 18, feeling isolated even with his parents right beside him. Has nothing changed?

“That’s not what I want… I just want things to change.”

“Sweetie…” His mother lets out a sigh that she’s been holding in for a while now, “...I don’t know how to help you right now.”

Murphy looks over at his dad, but… nothing. Just pleading eyes staring into empty ones. He wants to kick and scream, he wants the ground to swallow him whole, and, most importantly, he wants this to end.

“Has the medication helped at all ?”

James thinks about it for a second, then shakes his head. “It’s just been turning problems into other problems. I don’t feel sad anymore, I just… feel.”

Feel can mean a lot of things, and that’s what’s so frustrating about it. There’s nothing that James can say for anyone to truly understand him. James Murphy is just James Murphy right now, and that’s that. Slightly dreadful, slightly nauseous, slightly tired, slightly hungry, slightly paranoid, and dare he says, slightly anxious. He doesn’t want to admit it, but… what if he can’t be helped?