Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

 The air was suffocating.

Sweat, perfume, cologne, leather, liquor, and multiple other indiscernible scents permeated the air. 

The floor shook and vibrated, thundering like a storm brewing beyond a precipice. Your ears rang and rattled similarly to everything and everyone else in the room. Forgoing earplugs might not have been the best idea—but it was rewarding, albeit in a somewhat painful fashion. The banging of the drums, crashing of the symbols, thrumming of the bass, and squealing of the guitar drowned out all the thoughts you needed to purge. The noise was beautiful—a rough and jagged convergence of sound.

Your thoughts were quickly disrupted. Your body banged into the barrier, causing you to release a hiss and a crooked smile as your ribs throbbed. It grounded you in a twisted sense. Going to underground shows that were borderline dangerous was one of your favorite things. Leaving with a bloody nose afterward made you feel tangible again—like you were less of a ghost drifting around your office, yearning for something more. Often, something deep inside you screamed ‘I wasn’t meant for this.’

Nevertheless, being crushed between a crowd of people, unable to hear anything except the music, thrilled you. You managed to snag a spot right at the barrier, so close yet far to a dream you would never achieve. 

Above you, there was the guitarist, a man with gorgeous mocha skin and a short, cropped haircut. He had sweat beading on his neck and forehead—soaking his baggy shirt with faded graphics as he deftly maneuvered his fingers across the fretboard, utterly immersed in the song. He grinned at the crowd, taking a deep breath as he dived into a fast-paced riff. His pants were patched up and shredded, with bleached spots. He wore them well . He looked like some deity under the stage lights, his guitar lathered in stickers, displaying the years of love it had received. The original color of the Fender gorgeous was unable to be seen. ‘Gaz’, you had no idea where the name came from quite frankly, but by God he was good .

To the man’s right—a tad more center stage, lies another guitarist. His guitar was a lovely oxblood red, shiny and new. It was cool but lacked love and personality. He wore a smug look as his gravelly voice made its way through the speakers. His hair was a dirty blonde and he donned a solid-colored shirt, jeans, and brown leather boots that peeked out from underneath. He looked out of place compared to the others. He didn’t match the image that the rest put out. He was never your favorite—a newer member the original three had added. …Not as exciting as the rest. You could never exactly remember him, he wasn’t originally with them when you first started going to their shows, but you remember a fuss being kicked up when they were looking for a vocalist. He was their best choice? Not bad, but not good enough. Not for them .

To his right stood an absolute unit of a bassist. Black cargo pants, boots that could kick your skull in—a tight black shirt, and a leather jacket that started to slip down his shoulders. It was covered in patches, metal spikes on one of the front pockets, pins, and red stained cuffs. 

Whether it was spray paint or dried blood from a fight, you had no clue. To top it off—he wore a mask that covered the lower half of his face, painted to look like a skull. Only his dark brown eyes peeked out, eyeliner smudged around them. His fingers thumped against the strings of his heavy, black Ibanez—a tad reliced, deliberate, and strong. He stood stock still. ‘Ghost’ is what they called him. Sure as hell was scary like one. Locals avoided him, and they probably had good reason to.

All of them had an allure. But one of the strongest and most exciting to look at was the drummer. He thrashed around in a tank top, the sleeves scissored off and the arm holes ripped to the point where you could almost see the entirety of his chest. His baggy jean shorts, barely visible behind the bass drum, almost went down to his shins. The icing on the cake was his short mohawk, old hair dye visible on the tips. He was wild, loud, strong, serious, and carried the beat. He was the final member. Bloody good at polishing up a drum beat, scotch, and sleazy bastards crawling around a pub that dared challenge him— ‘Soap’. 

Watching them up there was magic . Despite not knowing the intricacies of the members, like some of their bigger fans, you adored them. You headbanged along and smiled a toothy grin. They were well known in your city’s local underground scene—and one of your favorites. They were reaching for the stars, bound to be famous—but they hadn’t left the atmosphere yet.

Panting and struggling to stay afloat, you stuck around for the rest of the set—yelling and whooping as they walked off. The crowd cheered and chanted, but their allotted time was over. Having seen what you wanted, you squeezed your way back to the exit near the bar. Normally, you would stay to discover some other groups you liked, but it was late enough and you had work in the morning. At least you saw who you mainly came here for.

Wiping your sweat-slicked forehead, you made your way outside to the back of the tiny, unknown venue. The chilly summer air hit you like a brick after being in the stuffy space for so long. You huffed out a breath, watching the stragglers that passed on the streets as you ordered an Uber. Closing your eyes and fighting off a headache, you waited.

What caught your attention though, was the slamming of a door and a quiet, but heated argument happening around the corner of the building where you stood.

“Ye’re a fuckin’ traitor, Graves—dae ye hear me?” A man hissed, a strong Scottish brogue to his voice, “Aye, I should ha’ kent ye'd do somethaen' like this. Never should’ae let you in. Shite —”

You hear a small tussle before another voice growls, “Right—that’s enough, cool it . You better have a bloody good explanation for leggin’ it less than two weeks before this bloody show. Now I’ve got to sort the lot out because of your arse.”

“Hey, fellas, take a step back—” 

“Get your shite out of my van,” A deep, loud, rough voice cuts in, leaving no room for discussion as he cuts off the southern-sounding man.

“I haven’t done nothin’, I just felt my assistance would be appreciated—”

“No—everything, s’ always about yourself , innit? You jus’ wanna bask in the limelight because you’ll look better performin’ twice . No one even likes you singin’ up there mate—you sound like a muppet. Join Jimi Hendrix down below and stop tryin’ to fuck up the image everyone but you agreed on since you jumped in. Why the hell did we let you play with us anyhow? Utter trash ” an angry man’s posh voice chimed in.

You peer around the corner as discreetly as you can, only for your eyes to fall upon the members of the band you just screamed along to, plus another, a man a tad older than the rest, neat mutton chops lining his face. The lead guitarist was practically backed against the wall, but still exuded the same smugness and confidence he displayed on stage, despite his position. Intrigued, you continue to watch the interaction.

Nasty words were spewed—and the man they called ‘Graves’ was shoved about until he scowled at them, yanking his guitar from the group’s van and heading off to his car, his nose a tad more crooked and bloody than before.

“Y’all thought I was plenty good up until now, why the change in tune? Because you know you’re missin’ a voice now? See you there fellas. May the best man—”

A swift kick is delivered to the back of his knee, causing him to stumble and land on the pavement. He growls and spits on the ground, a non-verbal retraction of his earlier words.

“Tsk. Lyrics were righ’ fuckin’ bull—”

“ That’ll do .”

You turn yourself away from what you saw, your ride arriving in only a few minutes. When you got in the car, you couldn’t help but wonder what they were so pressed about—less than two weeks from what? No important shows posted came to your mind, but for the record, you were a bit buzzed and disoriented (maybe a little high too, but that was between you and the girl you met in the bathroom). Were they out a member? Would you get a chance? Just one—to escape, to express yourself, to feel something again, to not want to kill yourself from day after day of mind-numbing, painful, suffocating— no. Forget it . 

Time passed quickly, and soon enough you were back at your dingy, but comfortable apartment. You made it cozy, bright, and warm. As you went through your nightly routine quickly and fell into bed, your chest twisted at the thought of another day of work—a claustrophobic cubicle. You fell asleep, brows furrowed in upset, body tense. Your mind still lingered on the interaction behind the venue, plaguing your dreams.

The next morning was hell. You forgot to put your good work clothes in the dryer the night prior, leaving you to put together an outfit that left you less than confident. Second, you were out of coffee grounds and tea bags, forcing you to wait until you got to the office to have caffeine. On the way, the traffic was horrendous—two accidents on both of the roads necessary to get to your building. Once settled in your cubicle, your coworkers prattled on about someone bringing in donuts. With renewed energy, you made your way to the break room, only to find an empty box of donuts and a broken coffee machine.

Kill me . 

Files piled up, printers ran out of ink, customers yelled into the phone, and your boss seemed to be up your ass all fucking day . You dreamed of rotting in your plush bed, yearning to curl up, doomscroll, binge movies, anything . But alas, you were stuck in the claustrophobic cubicle until six o’clock. 

Kill. Me. 

After finishing a minimal amount of work, you started scrolling through your socials. 

At least your boss sat you in the corner of the office, back to a wall . Only good thing he’s ever done.

As you were scrolling through a group on Facebook you had joined to keep up with the underground performances you enjoyed, someone's post came up—something they found on a secret forum. Suddenly, a massive flyer popped up on your screen.

141 AUDITIONS

VOCALIST/GUITARIST.

SATURDAY. EIGHT O’CLOCK P.M. NO LATE

ENTRIES.

@ THE VAULT

BE ABLE TO PLAY AND SING MUSIC BELOW.

Holy shit. Holy shit . 

Your mind skims over the interaction from last night— he got the boot .

Heart beating loud and fast, you stare at your screen. You scrolled to see the songs they linked on the bottom of the poster: two originals of theirs and an open slot to showcase skills.

Halting your freak-out, someone walks by, forcing you to save the image and close the tab. The auditions don't leave your mind for the rest of the day. It sticks to you while you do your paperwork, causing you to almost mix up some files. It sticks to you on the bus, making you miss your stop. And it especially sticks to you when you sit in bed at two in the morning, going over the music again, and again, and again, leaving you exhausted for work once more.

When Saturday rolls around, you’re constantly on edge, despite having off from work.

The auditions are still on your mind. It’s 7:40. You’ve made no move to leave.

You know each song by heart. They’re ingrained into your head, the chords and the lyrics racing past your every waking thought. 

The clock ticks as you sit on your couch, tense, not once tuning in to the show that plays on your television. 

7:45.

7:50.

You clench your fists and jump up, shoving your guitar into your case—a Fender strat with swirls, doodles, and raised stickers, all drawn in various colors with permanent paint markers, words scratched into the paint, claiming it. You shake as you pace back and forth, standing at the door, keys in hand. 

Shoving through the barrier, you scramble into your car, biting your lip as you race down the road to the venue. When you make it, you park crappily behind the building and speed walk to the doors.

7:58.

Yes. 

People line the walls, waiting for their turn. Your eyes landed on the band members sitting in fold-up chairs near the stage as they waited for security to usher them up there, chatting quietly. They dwarf the seats, all bulk and strong arms, utterly intimidating. 

Your hands shake and tremble as you scan the room. Cocky college kids line the walls. Girls rough around the edges lean against the grimy bar, impatient. As your eyes jump from one person to the next, you curl in on yourself, wishing you stayed home. You weren’t dressed to impress like most of them—this was impulsive. You were still in a less than casual outfit, only meant for the confines of your home and the occasional trip to the corner store.

Eventually, the whole ordeal starts. You can’t hear the shitty singing, the squeaky, out-of-tune guitars, only the thumping of your heart as the line got shorter and shorter as the hours wore on. 

Before you know it, you’re on deck. 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Your hands are shaky as you tune up. Your breath is shallow and your vision swims as the man with mutton chops guides you backstage to wait. 

You’d never played in front of anyone. Not even your sparse pool of friends (really, you only had one. The rest were mere acquaintances.) No one knew you enjoyed playing and singing in the confines of your bedroom. 

What were you doing? 

You sign a paper and write down your information. You can’t tell if you even spelled your name right.

When the man who guided you backstage nudged you and gestured towards the stage, you felt like you were going to throw up.

You nodded, wide-eyed as you froze, unable to take a step forward.

“I’m sorry I—”

You stuttered shakily before you were interrupted. 

“You’ll be fine, kid. Go .”

He said sternly. 

You swallow, roll your shoulders back, breathe, and head onstage.

You barely hear what they say, or who’s talking, except for that same word the man backstage said: Go.

Hands quaking, you start. With a deep breath, your voice booms through the sound system, and a sweet symphony is made. Your mind is blank as you wail on your guitar and strum like your life depends on it, your wrist aching from the tempo and the keyboard you type on day in and day out.

You push down the urge to throw up and run away as you try your best. 

Please, please, please .

But as all these fears plague your mind, you play. You play like you never have before—voice flowing throughout the venue, guitar booming as it cuts through the silence, rough, angry, and strong. You perform just like you had to each stuffed animal and collectible in your room. You sing like a siren, rather than a college dropout working in a cubicle. Your fingers fly across the fretboard like a rockstar, not someone who loathes every choice they’ve made. Like someone who had a future. Like someone who loved themself. Like someone who hadn’t given up entirely. Like someone who wasn’t such a failure —

You barely notice that you ended, breathing shallowly as your fingers tremble.

They nod for you to leave. Dazed, you walk off, nauseous as you gather your stuff together and beeline for the door. You don’t even notice that the man backstage with the mutton chops attempted to reach for you.

When the cold air hits you—much like the night you heard the band’s heated conversation that led you here—you heave out a sigh. After stumbling to your car and throwing your guitar in the back, you pant, hands gripped tight on the steering wheel of the stagnant car.

You’ll never be able to show your face at one of their shows ever again.

“Fuck—”

You heave at the anxiety that churns in your gut but manage to keep the contents of your stomach.

As you send yourself into a spiral, you go to the only other place you feel somewhat comfortable. 

You had met her in the office—bonding over your love for hating everything that occurs within your workplace. She was a bit older than you—wiser. You never hung out often, but when you had something that gnawed at your insides, that didn’t leave your head after journaling, you turned to her. She always had decent advice, and a way of calming you with her stern but soft demeanor. 

Because you had no one else to turn to. No family, no other friends. No one liked a failure, no one wanted you—

Your train of thought is stopped as you arrive at her small apartment. Shooting her a quick text that you arrived. She buzzes you in, and you soon find yourself sitting on her couch with a hot mug of herbal tea, the television playing in the background as you both sit cozy under some blankets. You told her everything.

“Hon, I didn’t even know you were…into stuff like that” she says soft and sweet, almost a little upset at the notion of you keeping such a big part of your life from her.

“I dunno…I just go to their shows. S’ kind of an escape. But when I heard everything, and then saw that stupid announcement—” she cuts you off swiftly, halting the eventual spiral of doubt.

“I have no clue why you’re beating yourself up about this, love. You like playin’ don’t you? Why wouldn’t you audition? Especially since you seem to like ‘em a lot.”

You groan, “I’ll never be able to show up there again knowin’ they saw me like that—I’ve never played for anyone . Ever .”

“Get over yourself. You’re putting ‘em on a pedestal. I wouldn’t concern yourself with some daft boy band who doesn’t see your worth” she huffs.

“Gabi…I just…I don’t know. It kills me knowing the first time I…I made myself vulnerable like that was in front of some randoms and one of my favorite bands” you take a long pause.

“D’you think it’s too late t’ just kill myself?”

Gabi lets out a bark of laughter and smiles sadly.

“I just want you to realize it’s okay to try. To mess up. You’ll be okay, love. An’ you know I hate when you make those jokes. I like you alive, thank you very much,” she snickers.

With a sigh, you sink into your seat and zone out as you revel in her motherly comfort, the low hum of the television still filling your ears.

The night wears on, and eventually, you head home, not wanting to bother her despite it being the weekend. As you drive, Gabi shoots you a quick message.

‘No stressing. Some good things take time.’

With a small smile, you type back a thumbs up and a heart. 

When you get home, it’s decently late, bordering on one in the morning. 

When you finally finish your nightly routine, you flop into bed, taking a deep breath to dispel the butterflies that reside in your gut. Your eyes flutter shut, and you force yourself to relax—to breathe. You tell yourself that everything is okay, it’s all okay—it’s okay that you auditioned, it’s okay that you completely embarrassed yourself, its okay that you’re mortified —

You jolt up as a shrill ring from your phone sounds throughout the room. Wiping your eyes, you stare down the unknown number. On any other occasion, you would hang up.

But you answer, holding your breath.

“...Hello?”

Chapter Text

  You have to ask the man to repeat himself about five times because you’re in a state of pure disbelief. You barely comprehend the specifics of your first meetup with the group. Every word he says goes in one ear and out the other—contracts regarding privacy, what equipment to bring, the whereabouts of the practice you’re expected to be at—it all practically goes unheard.

“Y’got all tha’?” his voice rumbles through the line—the same man running the auditions. ‘John Price’ he said, you barely caught it, mind fogged over in awe and anxiety.

“...Huh?”

He breathes out a heavy, exasperated sigh, reiterating what he’s said about three times.

You can’t discern how long you’ve been loitering in the gravel driveway, taking deep breaths in the confines of your car.

It’s been about a week since the auditions and the phone call. 

How? When there were so many others who were better, less of a disaster, confident, professional, not some self-taught, anxiety-ridden—

You showed up an hour and a half early. The man on the phone, their manager, Mr. Price had told you to be at this address at 5 P.M. sharp. 

It appeared to be an old community center—secluded, unrecognizable, and discreet. Whether it was rented, owned, or taken for granted, you couldn’t tell.

You bided time by looking over all the new music that had been sent your way—the music they expected you to know by heart by the time practice rolled around. Once again, you had spent your entire week drained from work, annoyed, sleep-deprived, and looking over the songs every night until the wee hours of the morning.

Nothing directly interfered with your work schedule—the late-night practices on the agenda weren’t…ideal, but you knew what you signed up for. Kind of.

Needless to say, you were exhausted. But at the same time, you were buzzing with nervous energy—hysteria keeping you awake. 

You had to do this. No mistakes. No messing up. No. Failing.

Ten minutes from five o’clock, you decide to start gathering your stuff and get a handle on your emotions. You tentatively step onto the gravel and head over to the building feeling incredibly awkward. 

The old front doors creak open as you enter, and close with a resounding thud behind you. Once inside, music echoes through the halls as you wander deeper into the building, trying to stay relatively silent. 

Eventually, you find yourself peering around the corner into a large communal space. Furniture had been moved to accommodate the equipment hauled inside and wires were strewn about. The lights were dingy, and everything smelled stale, but even in a crappy environment, they were magnetic. 

You watched, enamored as they messed around, and played snippets of the songs you’d heard and practiced so many times. 

Their manager, Mr. Price sat on a couch shoved to the wall, lazily smoking a cigar. The guitarist chatted him up, leaning against the wall—the other two still focused on their instruments.

They all looked so effortlessly good. Even dressed down—in sweats and thrifted shirts, socks, and ratty sneakers—perfect. You just felt inadequate. Lazy. Insecure.

White knuckling the strap on your guitar case, you continue to watch, shifting on your feet. But as you do so, you bump into a small table by your side, the vase on top of it cracking on the ground.

Their eyes snap over to you, and you feel like you just got the wind knocked out of you.

This might be worse than the fax machine at work .

“Uh—” a strangled sound emerges from your throat—stiff as a board as you stand glued to the spot.

You can tell they don’t necessarily know how to handle you either—a stark contrast to the cocky, self-assured man they were used to working with. You were the opposite—trying to, no, begging to disappear.

“Erm…well then,” the guitarist, the man that you know only by his stage name, Gaz, mumbles to himself before smiling politely.

“We’re all uh, we’re all happy to have you ‘ere.”

Oh dear lord .

“Um. …Nice.”

Holy shit. ‘Nice’? Why, why why—

Mr. Price stands up and clears his throat—an air of authority around him that helps dispel some of the tension.

“ Lovely introduction Garrick ,” you barely hear him mumble under his breath.

“Right then. Y’know me already, hm? Glad ‘t see you made it. Sorry these bloody muppets ‘ave no manners, ain’t tha’ right?”

Only Gaz responds quietly, “Yessir.”

He then turns to you and scrunches up his face a tad, a non-verbal, awkward little ‘whoops’.  

“Sorry mate, nice ‘t meet you—I’m Kyle,” he says, polite, but almost a tad wary. He gives a glance to the others that screams ‘ Just say hello, goddamnit’ as he shakes your stiff and clammy hand.

“Mhm” you hum, internally cringing at the entire situation, stomach flipping and cramping nervously.

You let go of his hand after shaking it a moment too long. 

Your shoulders cramp, almost up to your ears with how tense they were. Your fists clench and unclench around your guitar strap as you stand there awkwardly.

Eventually, the drummer gives you a raised hand in greeting, awkward but kind, but his face hardens as he looks at the big guy standing in the corner of the room, seeing his clear contempt. It made your throat burn and your eyes sting.

“Johnny, guid tae meet’ya,” he says, face kind once more, and a bit more upbeat than Kyle, not entirely concerned with the awkwardness and discontent that seems to plague everyone else. The thick Scottish accent makes you pause as you try to understand him.

You glance at Mr. Price quickly, only to see him taking a long drag of his smoke, and looking like he’s mentally facepalming himself as he looks pointedly at the bassist. In turn, he stands there, stiff and imposing.

“...Ghost,” he says—except his voice is unreasonably loud, gruff, and deep, nearly causing you to flinch.

…Rude.

Mr. Price clears his throat, “Right, let’s crack on then—mic’s plugged in, jus’ tweak it a bit—and hook your guitar up over ‘ere, yeah?”

You nod jerkily, fumbling with your guitar as you hook it up, cable slipping in your hands multiple times, sweaty and a bit unsteady. You adjust the mic, cringing as you feel their eyes on your back.

Once done, you stand there, waiting for directions.

Johnny speaks up and asks you, “Wannae start from th’ top o’ the list we sent ye?”

You swallow and let out a breath, the butterflies in your stomach ebbing a bit at the knowledge that you have a small bit of control—even if Ghost in the corner looks less than pleased.

“Yeah—yeah,” you breathe out.

He nods, “Alrigh’ let’s git this goin’. On ma’ count.”

Mr. Price leans against the wall in the corner, observing.

With a grin spreading over his face, he looks to the other two men and nods, before looking at you with a reassuring jerk of his head. Mr. Price and Kyle do the same.

He whacks his drumsticks against the rim of the snare, counting off before the beat starts up, wild and strong.

The instruments flow around you—but overcome with anxiety, your strokes become off-beat, the words fail to leave your mouth, and everything stops as Mr. Price holds his hand in the air.

Fuck.

Ghost mutters under his breath, “Bloody fuckin’ hell…”

Mr. Price shuts him up with a stern look. Despite his defiance and upset with you being here, Mr. Price’s authority overrides it.

He barks out a simple, “Again,” before looking at you.

“Show me what I saw at your audition, yeah?” he says gruffly, pointing a firm finger.

You nod, rubbing the back of your neck, sweaty with unease, “M’kay.”

Johnny clears his throat and begins the count off again, only for the previous events to repeat themself. And then another time after that. Eventually, you’re able to start the song up, but your voice cracks, your fingerings are off, and with each mistake, you feel yourself regretting this decision more and more.

You’re mortified and extremely queasy, staring at the floor as Mr. Price stops the run-through again.

He opens his mouth to say something, but Ghost interrupts. 

“You gonna keep a’ this all night, then?” he says in his booming, rough voice, almost accusatory. 

Mr. Price’s face hardens and he sucks in a breath to speak, looking at Ghost, but he interrupts once again.

“Nah, Price, I jus’ fancy knowin’ if she’s going to keep fuckin’ about all night. Oi, you like wastin’ our time?” he says, voice grating and infiltrating your thoughts, making your stomach turn again.

“No, I…” you stutter.

“Aye, Ghost, mate, lay off—” Kyle starts, brows furrowed.

“Price, why'd you choose ‘em? Audition was nothin’ special, innit? This s’ the one you had to override all our votes for? Poser ,” he keeps going, but you begin to block it out, his voice joining one of the thousands in your head. You have no clue what his source of irritation is.

What's his problem? They…didn’t want you here? They didn’t choose you—Price did. Fuck. Fuck. What the fuck—

“Ghost—”

“Aye, ye can’t jus’ —”

You will yourself to say something, anything.

“ Right ,” Price’s voice booms throughout the space, “water break.”

You shrug your guitar off, grab your water bottle, and mumble something about getting fresh air. 

When the cool breeze hits your face, you sigh, taking a sip from your water bottle.

“...What am I even doing here,” you murmur to yourself, taking a deep, steadying breath as you look up at the stars.

After taking a good while to compose yourself, you decide to head back in and face the music.

You quietly head back in, head hung low. But before you head in, you lean yourself up against the wall and listen into their conversation, being careful this time to not knock anything over.

“M’ jus’ not understandin’ why out of all the bloody people at tha’ audition, we chose them . Graves was a right wanker, an’ playin’ for the wrong fuckin’ genre, but at least he was okay ,” you hear Ghost rumble.

“Mate, you can’t jus’ make assumptions—give ‘em a fightin’ chance—they’re jus’ nervous,” Kyle tries to defend you, but it comes out flat—like he’s not necessarily convinced you were the right choice.

“Ah agree with ye, but Battle o’ th’ Bands is in two weeks, we hae tae be clever, aye?” Johnny chimes in.

“Guess what, you muppets chose Graves an’ thought he was brilliant, eh? Look at wha’ he shaped up to be. My turn now. Kid’s gonna blow everyone away,” Price says firmly.

“Price I swear—” Ghost growls.

“Do you trust me?” He grumbles out.

“‘Course sir—”

“Then listen . The lot of you. Now shut your traps before they hear us,” Price says, cutting off the conversation.

At least he’s on your side. But it’s not exactly…helpful when the rest of them aren’t the biggest fans.

You sigh and head back in, placing your empty water bottle in the small trash can tucked into the corner. Everyone begins to pick their stuff back up—quite unenthusiastically.

You shrug your guitar strap onto your shoulder and tune up with the rest of them. You wait for direction, defeated and unwilling to practice knowing you’re not welcome. 

As you stand there, waiting for everyone to get ready—your mind drifts to the nights at their shows, when you were without a care. When the music made you feel free, when practicing for the audition gave you a purpose—one that wasn’t files and customers and mindless tasks.

‘Some good things take time’ Gabi had said.

You stood there realizing she was right. 

Maybe they didn’t love you right away. Maybe you weren’t their first choice. Maybe your audition was average. Maybe you sounded like utter shit. But there was one thing you were sure of: you wanted to prove them wrong. You wanted to show them you had personality, hopes, dreams, passion, ideals, the morals to fit the music.

You wanted to be yourself. You wanted to be extreme, radical, angry, and real .

You wanted to show them what punk means to you.

You take a deep breath and straighten yourself up, forcing your nerves to ebb.

“Right—from the top,” Price calls out.

Johnny starts the beat, and this time, you pour yourself into the song.

You don’t try to be perfect this time, you dump every pent-up emotion into the screams, belts, and melodies that flow from your lips. Your fingers don’t halt this time, and your strums don’t falter anymore. You growl the words into the mic, frustrated and sick of people trying to fit you into place— sick of trying to be what everyone wants you to be—sick of trying to live up to their expectations.

So just for a moment, this moment, you don’t. 

The songs bleed into each other as you make your way through the setlist. It’s cathartic. 

With a final, guttural yell, the instruments ring out, and it’s done. 

You pant as you stand there, wiping the sweat and spit off your face, feeling queasy. But then you turn to them.

They stare, and you start to smile.

Yes.

Chapter Text

You sip your crappy cup of coffee, exhausted as you wait for the absolute shit fax machine to finish its job. It’s stopped mid-scan about five times now. 

You hated it with every bone in your body.

Pure evil. 

The only thing that was saving you was Gabi. How you loved her; she made the office a bearable place.

“So—wait, I’m not understandin’ love, why was he mad at you again?” Gabi asks, brows furrowed as the fax machine lets out another shrill beep. You press the button again before responding.

“I…messed up a few times, I guess—” you started, giving her the latest updates on your situation, having not seen her around lately due to the copious amount of files stacked on your desk.

“Well, I’d assume so, you’ve never done this before,” she cuts you off.

“Yeah, but they didn’t know that…” you said, trying to make sense of it all, “at least at the tail end of practice, they were…better? I finally made it through the setlist. All it took was me gettin’ angry and screamin’ into the mic. ‘Least bagpipes gave me some encouragement. Kyle is very…on the fence with what he thinks, and what Price thinks.”

“Okay, okay love—” she starts, but you interrupt once more.

“And then the bassist, y’know, the massive freaky mask guy ‘ Ghost ’, yells at me–well, I don’t know if he yelled —” you continue, setting down your mug.

“What d’you mean you don’t know? M’ pretty sure you’d know,” Gabi questions, concentrating on the whole ordeal.

“He has this insane , loud British accent. I can’t tell if he’s yelling or doesn’t know what an inside voice is,” you huff out a little laugh, wringing your hands together in a self-soothing fashion.

God even thinking about him stressed you out .

“Starts callin’ me a poser, which…y’know I work for the ‘corporate man’, but…Gabi…I know…I know myself,” you huff, voice trailing off as you start to question yourself.

You’d always been into the scene—from a kid online to an overworked adult being thrown around in a mosh pit. You were never obvious about it, and you knew who you were, but…after everything he said, did you? You didn't even know what you were doing in the band in the first place.

“I don’t know much ‘bout all this hon, but from what I can tell there’s no right way t’ be goth—”

“Punk, Gabi,” you groan.

“Yeah, yeah, right—so he doesn’t have any say just 'cause he looks it. They were screwed over by the last guy, too, right? …He might be nervous or skeptical. Maybe he’s jus’ awkward?” she tells you, “But like I said, I dunno nothin’ love.”

You sip your coffee slowly, “Believe me, he’s not awkward, he’s just fuckin’ weird ,” you mumble, “Why are you so…wise?”

“I’ve been through two divorces. You get smart,” she deadpans.

Unfortunately, your gossip session near the fax machine comes to an end as your supervisor approaches.

Jackass.

Once you got home from work, you changed and grabbed everything you needed for practice.

It was your fourth practice with them, and things were steadily getting better. It took you less time to get in the zone each time you showed up.

Kyle started to give you guitar pointers and bandages for new blisters. Johnny helped you with counting and knowing when to come in, even if you get lost. Price was a steady hand, firm but full of support and suggestions.

Ghost…hadn’t changed much. Same mask covering the lower half of his face, same stoic attitude. He’s not outwardly hostile, but all he does is grunt and give you short answers. 

Johnny said it takes a while for him to warm up to people…you’re not quite sure if he will, considering you’ve tried to make conversation (only to fail and stutter over yourself, anxiety causing your stomach to twist and churn. You feel like he’s dissecting you every time he stares.) 

It’s like your anxious tendencies get on his nerves.

Nonetheless, it's been better. You don’t feel like you’re on the verge of a panic attack all the time, at least. But…you’re still wound up, desperate to impress them. Desperate to show them you’re worth something, the feeling stems from your lack of experience. You’re desperate to show them you deserve to be here, that you’re good, not something to be coddled and pitied, and—

You try to take a deep breath to steady yourself.

When you arrive, you take off your shoes, feet padding on the old, dusty carpet of the community center.

You smile meekly when they see you.

“Aye—look who’s ‘ere!” Johnny exclaimed, a smile making its way onto his face.

Kyle sits on a random chair he pulled up, directing his words towards you as he tunes his guitar, “How’ve you been, love?”

“Uh…pretty decent,” you tell him with a shrug.

He hums and flashes you a smile, “S’ good to hear.”

You nod with a shuddering sigh.

Kyles' words comfort you, but you can’t seem to shake your nerves as the absolute mountain of a man stands feet away from you, watching as you plug in and adjust your guitar.

What the fuck are you looking at?

Your gaze keeps flitting over to him, your eyes meeting a few times before he hums in some…pseudo greeting. You purse your lips, biting the inside of your cheek, feeling your chest tighten at his unnerving demeanor towards you.

Once set up, instead of starting up, Price snuffs out his cigar, clears his throat, and gives a loud clap of his hands.

“Right. Smashin’ these last few practices, yeah?” he says in that gruff, warm tone of his.

“Aye, damn right,” Johnny says with a sly smile, giving you a nod.

You feel yourself heat up, palms getting a tad clammy with embarrassment at the recognition.

“Now—on an important note—we got ourselves a bloody big show comin’ up in less than two weeks,”

You fiddle with your strings, furrowing your brows. He gave you a practice schedule, but nothing about any gigs.

“You lot know most o’ this, but listen ,” he huffs and gives a pointed look to them as their focus drifts. 

“You know ‘bout the Battle they host every year a’ the Vault, hm? You been there?” he directs towards you. You nod in understanding.

You’d been to the Battle of the Bands the year before, and it had been fantastic. The 141 hadn’t won—they’d come close, but it was one of your favorite shows you’ve ever been to, constantly anticipating what came next. The competition consisted of two days, the first day consisting of the first round and semi-finals, the second containing the final bands—the best.

“Well then,” he clears his throat once more, “we’ve always placed well—but we need t’ be prepared, yeah? We’ll have a show beforehand, this weekend,” you blanch at the thought, “so you can get your footin’.” 

Once more, you feel your temperature rise at the thought of being a hindrance to them for such an important show. You feel Ghost’s eyes on you, boring into your skull at Price’s statement. Kyle just gives you an encouraging smile.

“Tha’ should go smoothly. Our only…erm…issue with this bloody competition is a new group tha’s a little hellbent on screwin’ us over,” his voice trails off into a growl.

“Piece o’ shite—” Johnny starts.

“ Right , well, a little friend of ours has decided that he wants to compete on his own,” Price continues.

Your mind flickers to that ‘Graves’ guy.

Interesting .

“An’ let’s jus’ say he’s a cheeky bastard. We gotta be nearly bloody perfect with them an’ every one else on our arse,” he emphasizes.

“He’s shite. Dunno why,” Ghost grumbles, pissed off.

“Migh’ be shite but he’s got inside hands, a decent lineup an’ tricks up his sleeve—the competition’s rough this year lad,” Price laments sternly, “and as much as I hate to admit it, his voice isn’t half bad. Hell, he’s bloody good enough to give us some trouble.”

You stand there rigid as you take in what he says. You knew they needed a replacement, but not for something so big .

Might as well dig an early grave.

He looks to you, a firm finger pointed—your chest tightens at the motion, “You’ve been doin’ a knock-up job, but you’re too nervous for your good. The show this weekend‘ll help. I’ve go’ a new setlist already—different from wha’ we’ve been doing, songs that’ll throw everyone off. And …we’re gonna need one more,” he tacks on at the end—the lads groan.

“We’ve got more than ‘nough sir,” Kyle exclaims, brows furrowed.

“Aye but the bas’ard kens all tha’, we go’ tae ‘ave somethaen t’ throw ‘em off,” Johnny argues.

Ghost nods in agreement with Johnny.

“He knows us. We need somethin’ new,” Ghost stares at you, and you raise an eyebrow in question.

“I wan’ her to write it,” Ghost states, voice rough and loud within the room.

What the fuck—holy—what is he doing, what is he doing—?!

You stare at him incredulously. That’s the first thing he’s said about you since the first practice. You whip your head around to look at Price. You’re sent into a state of shock as he nods in agreement. 

“Exactly. He ain’t got a clue ‘bout you,” Price says, starting to light up another thick cigar.

You look over to Kyle, only to see him agreeing with Price, loyal as ever. He gives you a definitive nod—he knows what you’re capable of. Johnny merely shrugs and smirks.

You desperately try to say something akin to a refusal, but slump in defeat as you realize you won’t win.

“I don’t—I don’t write , I’ve barely—I can’t—” you start to stutter, but Ghost just huffs in an annoyed manner.

You turn to him, face scrunching up in annoyance, throat burning as you meet his eyes.

But in the end, all you can bring yourself to do is scoff at him as your chest aches with upset.

“Stop with tha’ bullshite,” he states plainly.

You stand there, utterly confused as he ends the discussion with those four words, and practice moves on swiftly.

When it comes time for a little five-minute break, you head outside to get away from the stuffy room and the unbelievably strong scent of body odor.

Eugh.

As you chug some water, your throat dry and a little raw, you jump, sputtering and coughing as you choke on your water after seeing Ghost stealthily appear by your side, strong, still, and…odd.

With a few more heaving coughs, you look up at him, curling in on yourself.

His eye twitches at that.

“Stop,” he says firmly.

“...Huh?” you breathe out.

“Stop actin’ like y’ wanna disappear,” he grumbles bluntly.

“I’m…I’m not—” you begin, irritated, but almost fearful, only for him to cut in.

“You wanna be part o’ this?”

You stand silently, confused, studying him with a furrowed brow.

“You pick your bloody head up. Y’re not goin’ anywhere if you can’t fuckin’ speak up,” he says firm—but hesitant too. Not intentionally mean, just meant to evoke a reaction.

“Expected y’ to ream me out by now. Where’s all tha’ screamin’ when you’re outta practice? You let people walk all over ya?” he keeps on, almost as if he’s trying to get you to break.

“No…” You start.

“Louder. Lemme ‘ave it,” he tells you, voice louder, “like y’ mean it.”

“...No.”

He shakes his head, still staring at you and standing like a brick wall with shitty social skills.

“No.”

“I called y’ a bloody poser—you can do better than that.”

“ No! I—I—I don’t! What…what’s your problem—?” your voice rises in pitch, as you grasp for control over the situation.

“ Louder . This s’ what you call angry?” he taunts, egging you on with snarky comments.

“No—it’s not— God, what is your issue ?! You immediately have some, some, some sort of problem with me! How petty are you?! I am not —I am not your old bandmate, I want this !” Your voice rises in volume and fervor.

“I—I-I don’t care if I’m shit right now—or…or… fuck ! I don’t care! I want this ! I want to make music! I want to sing, and yell , because I can’t stand it— I can’t stand it ! I can’t stand the idea—that I’m not…I’m not good —at my job or…or… this ,” you shout, eyes watering in utter frustration and pent-up emotion.

All your worries bubbled up to the surface—everything that’s been plaguing your mind from the day you threw yourself into this.

“I just—I just—”

“One more, you fuckin’ got it in ya,” he rumbles again.

“ Ugh! This stupid fuckin’ music s’ the only thing—the only thing tha’ kept me from-from—from losing my mind —from going crazy in this, this cycle ! Don’t ruin this for me! ” you end your rant with a shout, voice breaking with the force.

“And that stupid mask! No one cares ‘bout your face! You’re not special !” you yell, hands flying out in frustrated gestures.

Your nails dig into your palms, and your shoulders quake with how wound up you are.

You can tell he’s pleased about tapping into your feelings under the face covering. 

“Tha’s what I’m talkin’ about,” he murmurs, voice finally less grating, but still stiff.

You stand there, wiping your eyes as you breathe deep and ragged, not knowing what to say—not knowing if you want to break the silence.

“Didn’t mean t’ when I called y’ a poser,” he starts.

“...S’ okay,” you mumble, clearing your throat.

“And I like t’ keep my music open and me private. I ‘ave my reasons,” he tells you.

“You’re fuckin’ good. Only shite thing ‘bout you is y’ get in your head. S’ why I didn’t pick you. You don’t have time for tha’ on stage,” he lightly scolds you, in a sense, “you fix that and you’ll be better. Better than who we gotta deal with at tha’ competition.”

You nod, looking up at the sky once more with a sip of water, mumbling “M’kay.”

“Louder.”

“M’kay— okay . I will,” you tell him, voice stronger than before, scoffing at him.

“C’mon. Y’ got a song t’ write,” he says, heading back inside. You still don’t know what to make of him

Intimidating, or just…awkward.

When you re-enter the practice space and start back up again, the volume on your mic is close to maxed out.

Louder.

Chapter Text

 The upcoming days are spent preparing for your very first show with the band on Sunday. 

You wished Price had given you a little more heads-up, but in reality, it would’ve sent you into a spiral and stunted your progress.

And not only were you scrambling to prepare yourself to go on stage, but you were simultaneously attempting to write a song. (Keyword: attempting . It was decidedly harder than the boys made it out to be.)

Nonetheless, practice on Friday was intense and ran late .

But…it didn’t bother you. Of course, you were still tense and anxious; it was simply part of your demeanor, but you were steadily becoming more comfortable around them. 

You and Ghost had broken the ice just on Wednesday—albeit in a very strange way, but it worked. He still made your heart palpitate with that blank stare of his, but you soon began to come to the understanding that he wasn’t trying to be scary. He just happened to be built like a tree, secretive about who he was outside of the band (you hadn’t yet made it to the level of trust with him where he felt comfortable taking off that silly mask), and had really…interesting social skills. 

He came across as mean when he was simply frustrated or even nervous. You had decided this was the reason he wasn’t the nicest when you first showed up—nervous you would betray and taint their group—frustrated that you might not be any good, despite Price’s advocacy. Even scared that you were truly what he called you that first day—a ‘poser’, like Graves. Someone without soul, ideals, love, and rebellion in their heart.

But he was wrong.

You just hadn’t let it out yet—restrained for so long by family, school, yourself . He realized that the minute you really sang, and he really listened, unlike the auditions. He knew immediately who you were— him . Needing to let out everything that had been jarred up for years , everything that not even the mosh-pit could beat out of you—everything that needed to be poured out into a microphone with amps blaring.

You weren’t best friends, but your relationship had exponentially improved.

Price was an enigma to you, stern, firm, and a little scary in that calm but pissed off voice of his. But he was a comfort at the same time; he could read you like a book, encouraging and understanding when you began to feel like your chest was being crushed and your world was imploding. He was noticeably nicer to you than the other guys—they often got scolded and shit on. It was nice, but at points you started to feel a little like a burden—like they were walking on eggshells around you. But Price noticed and immediately redirected you from that train of thought.

Johnny, you believed, was sent from the heavens above. He got…passionate at points, Scottish brogue turning indiscernible when pissed about a part within one of their songs that kept tripping him up, and getting serious, steady, and firm when called for—a little scary when explosive on the drums. But he was your social savior. A buffer when your intestines twist up and your tongue gets heavy. He was always lifting a weight off of you when you got in your head after fucking up one too many times, encouraging you with a charismatic smile and a strong beat.

Not even Ghost could resist his amicable pull—he was the rock everyone needed sometimes.

Kyle was sweet, funny, kind, reassuring, and loyal. He was loud and outspoken when called for—when something wasn’t right, or fair, always making sure everyone got their chance to shine. Always making sure everyone was a team. But you two weren’t particularly conversational, always needing someone in between, or a specific subject to talk about. 

But you often find yourself longing to have a more meaningful conversation. A conversation about how he got so good at flying his fingers across his fretboard, confident and smooth. 

Previously, they had Graves singing and playing lead—but it was hard enough for you to sing and play at the same time, so you were designated to rhythm guitar while Kyle shredded to his heart’s content—in the spotlight, exactly how it was meant to be. 

He gave you pointers now and then, and a spare bandaid for when he noticed your fingers getting a little too red and sore, but you wanted to sit with him. You wanted him to explain how he achieved such mastery when he was self-taught, just like you, both of you having similar years of experience. But instead of overcoming that stirring, nauseous feeling in your gut, you stayed quiet, admiring and questioning from afar. 

But that soon changed on Friday, amid your frantic preparation for your first show.

With a massive gulp of soda from your water bottle and a little running down your chin, you stood up and stretched, gathering your thoughts before the five-minute break everyone decided on was over.

Everything was going as usual—it was less a matter of if you would sound good, and more a matter of whether you would freeze up in a panic once you stepped into the spotlight. So you were running everything over and over again, making sure you were as comfortable as you were in your bed at home.

You sat on the carpeted floor, messing around with little riffs from the songs on the setlist, and whatever you could conjure up in your head—the fact that you had to write a new song for them was still on your mind.

As you hummed a little made-up melody and noodled with the strings, Kyle popped up behind you, making you jump just a bit.

“What’re you workin’ on, mate?” he asked with a curious little smirk.

Taken aback, you stutter for a second, “I, uh—I was just—” you clear your throat, “I dunno, playing the beginning riff for ‘Basement Anthems’...tryin’ to make sure I have it good for Sunday.”

You fidget a little when you realize he’s lowering himself to sit next to you on the ground, in casual, thrifted sweats and a graphic tee, looking gorgeous like he always manages to.

He chuckles, “Nah, I‘m talkin’ ‘bout the other thing you were just playin’, what was all tha’?” he questions, his smile making your lips subconsciously twist upward as well.

“Well, I dunno, I was just messin’ around. Thought it sounded kinda nice,” you say a little softly, almost scared to disturb the moment, the first genuine conversation you guys have had.

He stretched his torso out, reaching across the floor to grab his guitar as well while Price smoked, staring out the window, and Johnny and Ghost chatted, trading horrible jokes.

“Here–play it again for me, love,” he asks, grabbing a random pick off the floor.

You start up the little riff you came up with. 

But what amazes you is that as you repeat it, he picks up on the notes and begins playing a chord progression that resonates with it wonderfully, even adding in a few licks of his own.

Your fingers slow, and you look at him, slightly in shock, “How’d you…how’d you know that would sound nice together?” you question, brows furrowed in utter awe and confusion.

“Y’ jus’ gotta listen to the notes you’re playin’. Look—you played ‘G’ lots, right? So when tha’s the most prevalent one ‘n the section of the riff, that's what I play. And what you’re playin’ sounds good because all those notes pair together well in the circle of fifths—so I jus’ use that t’ figure out what else ‘ll sound good with the base or root note or somethin’ of the sort, yeah?” 

“...What?” you ask, lost.

“...Y’know, the circle of fifths? Shows y’ how chords work together an’ are connected?” he says as nice as possible, but his voice carries a lick of ‘I thought everyone knew that.’

“…No,” you mutter, staring at him.

He clears his throat and huffs out a laugh, “Well, it’s real helpful,” he grabs his phone, “look—here’s a picture.”

He proceeds to show you the order in which they’re related—how each key is a perfect fifth above the previous. He shows you how to understand key signatures and what notes lie within them. 

You barely understand it—all the symbols and letters are highly confusing, and on top of that, all you can think about is how nice he is, how comforting, how close . You can’t stop thinking about how good it feels to have him share his knowledge with you. It’s making you feel like a real guitarist when he goes beyond the circle of fifths, to tone, and notes within chords, and scales. 

He rambles throughout the entire break period of practice, and you listen intently, nerves ebbing as you hear him talk, growing more comfortable.

Eventually, Price raises a brow at both of you, and Kyle nods dutifully as he gets up, cracking his back and getting himself ready for another run through.

You manage to spit out, “Uh…thanks. I didn’t…didn’t know any o’ that.”

He simply smiles and gives you a firm pat on the shoulder, “‘Course. It’ll help when you’re writin’, trust me mate. …Talk t’ me ‘bout it anytime,” he says, a tad softer at the end.

You nod as you start up your next song, unable to keep the nervous little grin from spreading across your face.

“…Yeah,” you mumble, rolling your shoulders back and taking a deep breath, “yeah.”

You run through the setlist so many times you can’t even begin to keep count. All you know is that you have every song running through your head a mile a minute. 

Just let me rot in bed.

You sigh and stretch out your cramping fingers, exhausted from not only the repetition of practice, but your work day earlier this evening.

You look up to see Price in front of you.

“Feelin’ alright ‘bout everythin’?” he says in that gruff, low voice of his.

“Yeah…um, pretty decent,” you tell him with a half-hearted shrug.

Ghost chimes in from across the room, where he’s adjusting the settings on his amp. “Sure ‘bout tha’? Not gonna bloody well freeze up on us, are ya?” 

You scrunch your face up at him—though not hostile in any sense, whereas it would have been before. 

“Don’t gimme tha’ bloody look, jus’ make sure you ‘ave a proper chill before the show,” he tells you pointedly, firm, almost a little mean—but you know now that he cares in his own way. “Or pop a Percy f’re all I care,” he mumbles at the end of his sentence, barely audible.

“No,” you deadpan.

“Worth a go, sometimes ah think y’ill need ‘em,” Johnny snickers.

“Ah, leave 'em be, d'you want me to spill the beans on how you were at our first gig?” Kyle smiles slyly with a pat to your shoulder as he makes his way over to Johnny.

“Ah wasnae tha’ bad!” Johnny drops his drumstick, waving his hand around wildly in defense of himself.

“Really? Not even when you—?” Kyle starts before Price clears his throat and quiets him.

Kyle gives a nod, but still smiles at Johnny as the latter scoffs and mutters something in his accent.

“Right, tha’s enough,” Price mutters. “Wha’ these muppets are gettin’ at is that s’ okay to trip up, yeah? Jus’ make sure you know everything. Make sure you don’t let this,” he points to your forehead with a firm finger, “doesn’t getcha, hm?” 

You nod, palms getting a little clammy at the attention.

“Hey,” Kyle says—you turn towards him. “You’re fine, we gotcha mate.”

You give him a weak smile and huff out an anxious breath.

“Got it,” you mumble.

“I’ll tell you lot when to get there, ‘cause we hafta do some sound checks and run through everythin’ with Nik, yeah?” Price finalizes.

The boys nod in jumbled agreement.

“Right then, see y’ tomorrow,” Price says, and everyone begins to move to grab their stuff.

“An’ make sure you bring the equipment y’ need for the gig, We’ll have drums, but we gotta bring amps, mics, ear plugs, all tha’ shite, so don’t go whinin’ when you don’t have it the day of,” he says sternly, wrapping up some chords as he pointedly looks at not Johnny, like you would expect due to his nature, but Ghost.

“Wasn’t my fuckin’ fault,” he grumbles.

You simply huff out a laugh. He shoulder checks you on his way to grab his guitar case. It makes you stumble and almost knock over the drums, but Kyle straightens you up.

You blanch for a second before realizing his shoulders are shaking in a chuckle. 

“Whatever,” you mumble playfully, cleaning up with a meek smile gracing your face.

You begin to walk out, phone in hand, as you sigh at the piled-up emails that make your brows furrow in concern—was the band taking up too much time recently, despite having just joined…?

With a huff, you tuck it into your pocket, ignoring the aching feeling in your chest. Even Gabi had started to drift from your mind as you honed your focus on the upcoming gig and the song you needed to write for the Battle of the Bands. 

Work has been even worse as of late—your boss is on your ass more than usual because all you can seem to focus on is how your meager hobby is turning into something you’ve only ever dreamt of. 

You’re startled out of your thoughts as you unlock your car, Price patting your shoulder, his car right beside yours.

“You’re up in tha’ head o’ yours again,” he rumbles smoothly, cigar smoking as he holds it between his index and his thumb.

“It’ll come t’ you. Y’ got all o’ us to help you out Sunday. An’ Kyle seemed more than willing today t’ help with that bloody song of yours—proper genius he is. An’ if you can’t manage it, we got plenty of old drafts we can rework,” he tells you, squeezing your shoulder in a calming manner, almost massaging the tension out of it.

You would feel awful if you couldn’t, though. If you couldn’t write your own song. If you couldn’t measure up to them, if you couldn’t prove that you’re really —

“Hey,” he mutters. “What did I jus’ tell ya kid? Take a breath. You’re fine. We’ve got you .”

You let out a shaky breath, shuffling on your feet, avoiding his gaze.

“Look a’ me,” he commands softly. “ We’ve got you . I chose you for a reason. I know who y’are under all this self-conscious shite. You got a lot goin’ on. You think I don’t notice all those emails, an’ how tired you are? Jugglin’ all tha’ corporate pressure and all the pressure we’ve put on you?” he asks rhetorically.

“You ask me, you’re jus’ as bloody punk as all those little meat-heads at the clubs we play,” he rumbles, leaving no room for argument.

You can’t do anything but nod at his authority.

He ruffles your hair and takes a drag of his cigar, unlocking his car.

“Hm. Good,” he mutters, hopping in the driver’s seat with a wave and heading off.

You feel your chest growing warm, thinking about how you were slowly but surely inching closer to them, one by one. You were coming out of your shell and getting over yourself, slowly finding yourself semi-included in the tight-knit group they’ve created. 

You can do this.

They’ve got you . 

You’re just as good as the rest of them.

You’re slowly learning that your idea of ‘punk’ isn’t what you thought it was. Maybe it wasn't so black and white.

Maybe you were...punk. Maybe you could be.

Chapter Text

     The minute you step backstage, it’s a massive case of deja vu.

     The lights make you sweat just like before.

     You hold the same guitar, heavy in your hand—like a sword that a chosen knight wields.

     But this time around, your fingers are calloused now—rough and strong like Kyle’s—no, Gaz tonight.

     Your rhythm is steady and clean, like Johnny. Like Soap .

     The chords and notes you play are heavy and strong, self-assured, like Ghost.

     You have your head held higher, because of Price.

     It’s all familiar, but oh-so different.

     Your anxiety is at an all time high—possibly worse than the first time you were here, for the auditions. Before you got yourself into this mess.

     But it’s not a mess. This is the safest you’ve felt in forever. The most free. 

     It really isn’t the disaster you’ve made it out to be. Despite the fact that you feel overwrought and queasy, you’re not necessarily upset at the position you’re in. 

     You’ve spent so many tortuous practices second-guessing yourself, feeling out of place, screwing up, failing —all for this moment. A moment to shine. A moment to prove yourself to them. To show them you can do this. That you’re okay. That you’re just as good as them.

     Even though that sickly feeling clings to you like a moth to a flame, you’re vibrating with energy—maybe even a hint of exuberance. You finally get to live out your ‘silly’ dream—but suddenly it’s not so silly anymore.

     It’s tangible. It’s in your hands. 

     But you wonder if you’ll fumble and let it go, or clutch it like a lifeline, savouring the sweet taste of freedom — individuality , for the first time in what feels like eons .

     The other bands that are set to go on prior crowd the area—all the unknown faces setting you on edge, despite Kyle’s steady hand on your shoulder.

     All you’re aware of is the fact that you’re on for a sound check in about five minutes, and you feel your gut turning every which-way in loud protest.

     You swallow warm spit, trying not to let the nausea get to you.

     You pale at the sight of one of the other groups moving off stage, wrapping up their sound-check. 

     Johnny lets out an amused huff—but his smile portrays not mocking, but sympathy. 

     “Lookin’ a lil’ green ‘round the gills, aye?” Johnny comments, trying in vain to take your mind off of the fact that this is happening . You have to perform .

     Oh fuck.

     You nod wordlessly, realization hitting you. You breathe deep and deliberate, attempting to rid yourself of your unwanted emotions that are manifesting into physical sensations—like they always do.

     “Johnny,” you mumble faintly, not turning to make eye-contact, staring straight on at the stage where the others pack up and Price talks to a strange man with slicked back hair, “I can’t. M’ gonna be sick—I swear to God .”

     Kyle simply keeps his hand on your back with no words, just an unspoken ‘ I know ’, despite his serious demeanor that begins to seep into his very bones as show-time gets closer. It’s like he’s saving his energy—getting himself into the mindset needed before he gives it his all. He’s a sweet guy, but much too underestimated. He can shred like a madman. He’s just as dedicated and serious as the others, always at battle with being loyal or staying true to what he thinks is right for the show, for the band. He deserved the lead guitar over Graves. But you’ve come to learn that the man commandeered it rather than gaining the title.

     They’re all quite different than they are at practice—each of them having their own little rituals or behaviors before the performance.

     John smokes as usual, chatting up the odd Russian man who’s in charge of the lights and sound—supposedly a retired musician, much like Price. They both went different directions—he decided on stage management and Price desired band management. 

     Nico? Nicky? Eli? You couldn’t put your finger on his name. 

     He was sly as a fox—sharp with all the technical pieces to the stage and organized as anything. Him and Price were quite obviously good friends.

     Ghost was tactical—stretching his fingers deftly, going over his solos and everything in the setlist, similar to your anxious rehearsing style, before they made you take a break so you weren’t too tired to perform. Quiet and assured, loyal and confident as he prepares. 

     Johnny was confident, lightening the mood, but his irritability always ramps up just a tad—nearly yelling in his Scottish brogue when his drums are messed with. It’s only when Price uses his authority that he voices a few more qualms and comments before he takes a deep breath and quiets down.

     Kyle was attentive as always, by Price’s side when needed—but snarky, you would go as far as to say he was sassing him. As you got to know Kyle more, you found that this was an often occurrence when he didn’t want to be outright disrespectful, but still voice his displeasure. A little infliction in his voice here or there, displaying his disagreement and slightly pissed demeanor in a… nicer fashion. He got a bit more vocal when it came to certain moral matters concerning the gig, though. 

     You were just…you. Nothing more, nothing less.

     And you were up for soundcheck.

     Ghost silently hands you your guitar with a firm pat to your back as he walks from backstage into the lights.

     You swallow and do the same as the rest, squirming a little and awkwardly moving about as you plug in your guitar and adjust the microphone, bumping it a little with your hand on accident. You wince, aware that the other bands backstage might be watching. Waiting. Judging .

     You huff, too lost in your own head to notice the tech guy Price was talking to approach you. 

     You startle as he begins to speak, drink in hand, “Hm…first show?” he asks in a thick Russian accent that coats every word, ‘r’s’ rolling from his tongue.

     You open your mouth to respond as you nod, not realizing it was rhetorical.

     “I can tell,” he says frankly.

     You startle a little at his blunt but smug demeanor. It’s a tad unnerving.

     Price sighs from not too far away, “Nik, stop scarin’ the poor kid.”

     “Well I would like to get my soundcheck moving, da?”

     “Uh—sorry…” you begin to apologize, unsure.

     He takes a sip from his drink, letting out a huff, “No sorries. Let’s go. You are ready.”

     A smirk is present on his face as he walks towards the tech booth, balancing the amps and queuing the lighting design that John had picked out prior—an array of colors that matches the mood of the setlist. You wouldn’t be running through the whole set—rather skipping around to make sure everything is in order.

     As you start up the sound check, voice wobbling and hands sweaty, you can’t help but glance at the strange Russian tech guy— Nik? —every now and then. His bluntness set you on edge.

     Your fingers falter, and you wince each time you fumble. 

     You can’t bring yourself to look at the guys. 

     When you finish running a few songs, your hands are shaking, you’re clammy, paranoid, self-conscious as you look at the other bands backstage and mingling about the venue before people are let in. You pray they didn’t notice. 

     You pray you won’t taint ‘Task Force 141’s name. 

     Fidgeting with your fingers, popping your knuckles absentmindedly, you lean up against one of the more secluded corners backstage, trying to control your breathing, popping a Zofran to keep the sickness at bay. 

     He creeps up like a cat, startling you out of your skin as he practically materializes beside you. Nik raises his glass.

     “Vodka for the nerves?”

     You shake your head wordlessly and feverishly, eyes a tad wide.

     “Heard good things from John,” he starts. You listen intently, doing your best to catch each word that’s coated in accent, “Heard you’re a good singer. Heard you are too anxious as well.”

     You don’t have anything to say, because…it's true.

     “You get up there, you do not worry about people. You sing,”

     You look up at him with a blank stare, as if to say, ‘duh . ’

     “No. No thinking about people and what they think. You that—I see it,”

     You huff, looking down at your nails, the skin around them bitten raw, “Well…yeah. They’re all so good —”

     “So is the Task Force. So are you. Yes?”

     You hesitate.

     “ Yes ?”

     “…Yes.”

     “Yes. So why worry about other bands? They are openers, are they not? Good, but you are the main act. For a reason.”

     You run a hand down your face, brows furrowed in upset.

     “ Exactly . The openers can’t be better than the main act…” your voice trails off as you avoid his gaze.

     “True. That won’t happen. I know John. Known him forever. He knows you can. It is not often that he is wrong,” he says firmly. Nothing he says is a suggestion or encouragement. Everything he says, he says as if it’s fact. …You can’t help but believe him despite your perturbation.

     You stand there, speechless as your brain attempts to conjure up another paranoid reason why you’ll fail. You’ll mess up. You’ll freeze. Cry. Throw up. Disappoint them . 

     Disappoint John.

     As your mouth opens and closes like a fish, you hear a sharp whistle, and footsteps approaching a tad quick.

     You turn your head to see John walking towards you, cigar in hand as usual. 

     “Nik, you done harassing the kid? We’re lettin’ people in. Kate says t’ get your arse where it needs to be,” he crosses his arms across his chest, leaning against one of the backstage’s wall pillars, shoulder nearly touching yours.

     Your stomach jumps. It’s time. 

     Holy fuck, holy fuck, holy fuck—

     Your breath hitches, but John halts the overthinking with a hand on your shoulder.

     “No,” he murmurs swiftly.

     You lean into the touch, letting out a massive sigh, forcing yourself to restart your breathing cycle. 

     “Well I see I am no longer wanted.” Nik looks at you pointedly, “ Remember .”

     You nod sharply, letting his words sink in. Letting them try to replace the thoughts that are quick and close to swallowing you whole.

     He stalks off to where he needs to be, the club owner obviously a little peeved at him for chatting rather than being ready.

     John looks to you curiously, an eyebrow raised at Nik’s words.

     “Nothing,” you mumble. “Just…somethin’ I needed t’ hear.”

     He rumbles out a low hum of understanding, wrapping his arm around you, then giving you a quick squeeze.

     “Hm. Right then, c’mon. Boys want t’ see you.”

     You look up at him a little surprised.

     He gazes at you knowingly, almost angry as he speaks, “You’re part of this. Y’hear me? You . Are. Part. Of. This. ”

     You’re taken aback. He’s been comforting when he needs to, and serious when he needs to. But this is something else entirely. It’s almost a need for you to understand you are… wanted ?

     “No matter what fuckin’ happens up on that bloody stage, you are part of this until I say otherwise. And no offense kid, I can read you like a fuckin’ book. I don’t plan on bootin’ you anytime soon, yeah? No matter who judges, what anyone on that damn mobile tells you, you deserve this. Yeah?”

     You agree meekly.

     “Even if you’re rubbish, even if I give you a stern talkin’ to afterwards because the performance was bollocks, even if I get bloody pissed , which you know I do,” he says with humorousless chuckle “ You belong here .”

     With an exasperated breath, he lays a firm hand on your back, and leads you to the band’s private room where you and the boys wait for your time slot patiently. 

     “Och, look who decided tae turn up, aye?” Johnny smiles, patting the space next to him on the ratty couch in the room, as Ghost uses a dirty mirror to reapply his eyepaint.

     “Ghost, mate, you look like a bird puttin’ on makeup for a night out,” Kyle chuckles. The comment coaxes a smile out of you.

     “Oi, shut it. It ain’t no fuckin’ makeup. S’ eyeblack, alrigh’?”

     “Nah, more like eyeliner . M’ friend Gabi uses it just like you do,” you tack on, a smirk making its way to your face.

     He glares at you. 

     Your grin grows even wider.

     You belong here .

     You can barely hear the roaring crowd over the ringing in your ears.

     The last opener walks off, an all girl riot band. And shit, they were good.

     John gives a wave to the lead girl. “Fuckin’ fantastic Farah,” he smiles.

     She’s bold. Bolder than you’ll ever be. Dressed in baggy, stressed clothes, with her hair tied into a patchy scarf, she’s an embodiment of confidence. 

     She gives John a pat on his arm. “See you at the Battle John,” she tells him with a knowing smile, before disappearing off with her girls.

     How can you top a band as good as them?

     And suddenly, as they leave, the lights go dark, and it’s the Task Force’s turn to swiftly set up and assume positions.

     You're stuck in place, though.

     Just like at the auditions. Just like at your first practice.

     Suddenly, you feel like you’re all the way back at square one. Back inside your shell. Conforming. Falling in line. Never doing something for yourself .

     But John repeats the same word he told you the day you met him. 

     “ Go .”

     Your heart is pounding, skin crawling, mouth watering with warm saliva again.

     You’re stuck. You can’t do it .

     From the drumset, lights still dark, Johnny beckons you onstage urgently as the crowd waits impatiently.

     You look at John, throat burning. You feel like crying.

     “No. No , kid, sorry, but we’re not doin’ this bullshit. Go . You’ve practiced every fuckin’ song—was t’ all for nothin’?” he hisses, you shake your head.

     “No? Then get out there. C’mon, don’t bloody do this to me—”

     Suddenly, Ghost is storming over, shoving your guitar in your hands and dragging you onstage before the lights come up.

     He points a firm finger to your chest, “You didn’t go through all this shite jus’ to fuckin’ stand there . Y’hear me?”

     You’re shaking, looking over to Nik at the tech booth as he waits. He taps his finger to his head.

     Remember .

     You belong here.

     Louder.

     We got’cha.

     You stumble a few steps back to the microphone, rotating to face it.

     You look at Nik and nod.

     You’re blinded by the lights, but manage to twist your head to look at Johnny.

     He mouths two words to you—

     “Get angry.”

     You nod, closing your eyes for just a moment—conjuring up every little thing in your head that has pissed you off. Hurt you. Made you feel less than . Worthless. Numb. Nauseous. 

     Angry. You were so, so angry.

     Angry that you froze up—that you can’t handle anything. Angry at your office, your boss, your parents, lack of schooling, who you turned out to be, your anxiety that held you back. Every. Single. Time.

     Your eyes flutter open.

     You nod.

     Your hands are steady.

     Your feet are planted.

     Your head is held high.

     Soap kickstarts the song.

     Gaz wails on his guitar.

     Ghost pumps his bass.

     Price watches from the sidelines, beginning to smile.

     You belong here.

     You begin to strum, belt, scream .

     You let it all out. You can’t tell if you’ve started to cry or not.

     The crowd roars.

     And you sing.

Chapter Text

“ Someone posted a video?! ”

You sit in the eerily sterile break room, nearly crushing your coffee cup in your right hand, white knuckling the janky table with your left. You whisper-yell at Gabi through your teeth, shell shocked. Your gut churns in its usual anxious fashion as the words spill out of her mouth. Eyes wide, you urge her to explain.

“Well—you know how I am with tha’ Facebook shit…don’t really use t’ much. But I was on there…an’ some group you follow—someone posted a video earlier today, I swear . Honey, I don’t listen to all that loud stuff…but t’ was good . You were good. Other people thought so too,” she insists, leaning in closer, making sure no nosey co-workers were eavesdropping.

The compliment makes your heart warm and your insides feel fuzzy, but the emotion is quickly halted by the overwhelming feeling of embarrassment and dread at the thought of being perceived. Of people you know seeing you partake in something that was supposed to be for you and you only. 

Your safe haven .

Not so safe anymore .

Letting go of both the table and mug, groaning and running your hands down your face, your thoughts race. You look up to the fluorescents like they harbored God in their artificial glow. With an exasperated huff, you look back to her, the same incredulous look still plastered to your features.

“...How many people saw it?” you cringe, praying it wasn’t a whole lot. Not many people were on that page to begin with. It really was a small scene where you lived. There were only a few underground clubs that stayed true to their scummy, wild, roots, others succumbing to the modern agenda. Calling your area the suburbs felt inaccurate, it was much too big, but it was nowhere near city-like. 

Gabi retrieves her phone from her pocket of her slacks, tapping away before pursing her lips.

“Hon?” she uses the petname she always does when trying to calm you down in her sickly sweet motherly tone.

“Gabi. How. Many,” you practically growl through clenched teeth, on the edge of your seat.

She swallows.

“...Fifty thousand.”

The cheering and yelling barely made it past the ringing in your ears, overwhelmingly loud thrum of the amps and bashing of the drums. 

Your adrenaline was at an all time high as you belted and screamed into the microphone. You poured your heart out into each and every word that spewed out of your mouth, leaving all your inner thoughts and emotions spilled onto the stage like the blood currently running hot through your veins.

Sweat beaded on your forehead and upper lip, leaving your cramping hand that held your pick to wipe your face uncoordinatedly every once in a while.

Your bandmates, dare you say friends, that played alongside you helped quell the queasy feeling that always managed to worm its way into your stomach. They encouraged you to drop a few words in between songs, but you left most of the onstage banter to Kyle and Johnny—you and Ghost preferred to stay quiet, or ‘mysterious’ as some of the band’s fans described him.

He wasn’t. He was just a thorny, uncomfortable and awkward bastard—the shitty jokes were a bonus.

Suddenly, you weren’t the overworked, college drop-out and utter failure you made yourself out to be. Suddenly you were a little kid again, with high aspirations of actually making it somewhere in life. Of being better than everyone in your dingy and small hometown. You’d become everything teenage-you had resented and feared. But at this moment, you could pretend. You could pretend you were someone cooler, more confident. Someone you’d always wanted to be.

As childish as it sounded, you felt like some kind of rockstar. The nerves that consumed your everyday life ebbed each passing minute, the adrenaline clearing your head as you realized that people liked you. They liked you.

By the time the set had ended, your back—no, nearly every surface of your body was damp with sweat. Your breaths were coming in short, shaky pants as the audience roared and shoved each other around, getting out their remaining energy and grabbing their remaining drinks at the bar.

Your hands were trembling with adrenaline. You picked at the skin around your nails, and gnawed on your lip, hoping you were good enough. Not for the audience, but for them. For the boys you spent hours practicing with and learning from—the boys you considered your new friends.

Your guitar is gripped tight, knuckles paling with how hard you held its neck while storing it back in its case. No one has said anything to you yet, which causes your stomach to drop, heart beating even faster.

But as you zipped up your guitar case, you felt a massive weight pile upon your back—surprising you. You whip your head around to see all of them smiling at you in their own special way. Nik raises his drink to you from where he stands at the tech booth.

Johnny, from where he hangs on your back, shakes you playfully, “Aye! Fuckin’ braw!” he booms. “First show? Yer a natural, c’mon ye are!”

Price scolds him, telling him to lay off, but you can’t help but chuckle and smile wide, your nerves subdued and replaced with an overwhelming feeling of joy and pride. Price himself gives you a pat on the shoulder.

“Not bad kid. Not bad,” he huffs, smirking around his cigar as you all load up into the van.

With Ghost driving, and you squished in the backseat with Johnny and Kyle, snickering and giggling now that the massive weight of your first show has been lifted. (You choose to ignore the impending doom of your half-written song and the Battle of the Bands coming up in a week.)

“Oi! Price, I say we take ‘em for a pint!” Kyle cheers, smirking as Johnny silently eggs him on. Even Ghost seems somewhat entertained by the idea.

“Hm. Kid deserves it. Why the hell not?”

The car erupts in cheers, a smart comment from Kyle, Johnny getting temperamental about a discussion every now and then, Ghost chiming in with his God awful jokes, and Price sitting silent and observing as your route changes.

Ghost smiles underneath his mask that covers the lower half of his face, “G’job today.”

The low tone of voice he says it in lets the car know it’s for you and you only. You give him a small smile, but your grin grows large and proud as he removes his mask and takes a deep breath. As he bares his pale, acne scarred face to you, a small, proud smirk graces your face as you sit there, a little shocked at the vulnerability. It was his way of saying ‘I trust you with who I am.’

Johnny smiles soft—knowing Ghost better than most.

“This s’ an official welcome tae the band. Time tae get fuckin’ sloshed!” he rallies.

You were unsure if it was a good idea to agree.

“ What ?! What are you talkin’ about—lemme see— Gabi! ”

As she shows you the video, your head spins as you slump into your chair, shoving your face in your arms that rest on the table.

“I’m ruined. Ruined ,” you nearly wail.

“Isn’t this good though?” she inquires, a single well waxed brow raises on her head.

“Yeah—good for the vocalist by night, not the corporate slave by day!” you lower your voice to an urgent whisper. “What if someone from here sees it—I could get reported—!”

“Sweetheart, for what? Literally what?”

“ I don’t know Gabi ! They’ll find something to pick me apart for! I’ll be the center of attention in this hell hole. Gabi, you know I hate that .”

She makes a face, “...Didn’t you just go on stage? Y’know…as the center of attention?”

You bitch and moan, “ No! I can’t—people here aren’t the same! Y’know what I mean!”

With an exasperated sigh, she raises her hands in a placating gesture, “Sometimes I really don’t love.”

“...I’m doomed.”

Your good mood that carried over from the night prior had soured like expired milk.

Glasses clinked together as the conversation flowed. You nursed your drink of choice in your hands, pub food spread out in front of you as everyone shared and stole from each other's plates, snickering. The pub was loud and warm, the lights dim. Squashed between Kyle and Ghost—no, ‘ Simon’ tonight, he told you. 

“Oi, damn good show you put up there t’night,” he rumbles with a firm pat to your shoulder, making your smile widen. The grin hadn’t left your face all evening, leaving your cheeks sore with genuine glee.

“Thanks,” you say back, making sure he knows how much those words really mean to you.

“Now we jus’ gotta get this ‘lil rockstar over here to show us the song they’ve been workin’ on, yeah?” Kyle prompts mischievously, knowing that you were trying to keep the workings of your song on the downlow. But the alcohol had loosened his lips, and it didn’t help that he was practically your main man on the project. 

Kyle knew more about music theory than any of the others—helping you to make what you were writing sound as good as possible for them. Many ideas had been scratched, but without him, you’d still be lost on what to do, and your fear of letting the band down would be consuming you.

“Aye! The lad’s righ’! We wannae fuckin’ hear it! Battle is comin’ up soon—s’ a bloody week away now!” Johnny booms, pint sloshing on the table.

You groan, “You will—y’ gotta practice it at somepoint…I have t’ down to two…ideas? Drafts? I dunno, Kyle did most of it…”

“Oh you’re a bloody liar, you are!” Kyle exclaims, jostling you as he gestures wildly in his seat. “Y’ worked just as hard on tha’ shite, I barely touched it!”

You begin to cackle at their antics, an overwhelming bout of joy overcoming you, feeling comfortable in their encouraging presence. 

“Yeah, yeah, I got one of the two stored n’ my notebook, calm down,” you pat your pocket. “Y’ got plenty of time to learn it,” you chuckle, sighing in relief. “Thank you all for um…trustin’ me t’ do this. Even though I’ve never written anythin’, and it’ll sound like shit…but…”

You trail off, your gaze moving down to the sticky pub table, peeling at the vinyl of the seats as well.

Price simply raises his glass. “M’ not the most agreeable man. I’ve done shite in this scene I’m no’ proud of too. But y’ were the best choice I made, we’re gonna win this fuckin’ thing.”

You all touch glasses with his, various noises of agreement ringing out throughout the table with a resounding ‘clink’. 

The night wears on, and even as you grow tired, a grin is still plastered to your face as the lot of your stumble out of the pub—John being the only one sober enough to drive. You pat your pockets, making sure you have everything you came with.

Your brows furrow in concern at the empty feeling in your pocket where your journal once sat—the notebook you brought everywhere. Dread begins to make its place in your gut as you desperately look around. 

Suddenly, you feel a tap on your shoulder, and your startle, breath picking up. But to your relief, you only see in front of you a man holding your journal, still bound together safely.

“Believed y’ dropped this,” he drawls—face shadowed and unclear as you stood in the minimally lit parking lot of the bar. 

Your tired eyes squint in an attempt to recognize him—a familiar feeling crawling in your gut. You chalk it up as your normal anxiety regarding social situations.

“Oh uh—thanks…” you trail off warily, quickly taking it and putting it back where it belonged, safe with you. Before you can ask anything else, you whip your head around at the sound of Kyle’s voice.

“Oi, c’mon! We’ll drop y’ off at home, love!” he shouts. You give him a thumbs up, turning to thank the man again quickly, only to find he’s wandered off.

Ignoring the tight feeling in your chest, you head over to the car. 

The interaction slowly slips from your mind as you fit right back into the content and joyful atmosphere of the car—the same emotions follow you home like a stray puppy as they drop you off with well wishes and promises of seeing you tomorrow night for practice.

You sleep soundly, finally feeling at ease. 

You finally feel like you belong—with one newly written song tucked safely in your drawer in your notebook, the other sitting in a folder with all your other music for the band—jammed in your desk that sits in your room.

You finally feel like you’re doing something right.

You’re fucked —you think to yourself, retracting your attention from Gabi and her discovery to look at your phone.

Your phone that holds an email telling you to stop by your bosses’ office at the day’s end—just before you have to go to practice.

Shit.

Chapter Text

     The gravel of the old parking lot crunches beneath your feet as you walk into the old community center like someone on death row.

     You feel like you’re going to die—like your entire world is collapsing as you stand there, watching it crumble and burn. You’re ready to cry, scream, something . The highly aggressive music that blasts through your earbuds isn’t helping your sudden onslaught of rage and sorrow.

     Your stomach churns as you enter the building, despite the Zofran you took earlier when you were still in hell on earth (your cubicle). The stale scent of the age old carpet fills your nose while you drag your feet towards the main area the band practices in. 

     You’re going to let them down. Like you always do. 

     More importantly, you feel like you’re letting yourself down, because apparently, all the courage it took for you to break out of your shell, was for naught. You told yourself as a teenager you would never fall for the bait, you would never become a puppet that’s consumed by paperwork, graphs, money, loneliness . But here you were. 

     It seems as though you’ll never be able to escape the horrible, meaningless fate some higher being has resigned you to. No matter how hard you try, it’ll never happen for you—and God, that makes you want to die.

     You roll your shoulders back and stave off the tears, mustering up the best smile you can, even though it looks wobbly and awkward. You walk in, setting your guitar down with a meek greeting.

     “Aye! Thare’s th’ star ‘o the show.” 

     You smile as wide as you can, the forced joy making you want to hurl. He gives you a firm pat on the shoulder as you’re still bent over, unzipping your case and removing your guitar from what will soon become its tomb, due to the fact that you may never touch it again. Throwing the strap over your shoulder, you stand up.

     You can tell Johnny senses something off—but he doesn’t say anything. You silently thank him for that.

     Price enters the room not long after. Reeking of his fancy cigars, he gives you that quokka smile of his with a nod.

     “Did pretty damn good last night kiddo,” he says with a hoarse chuckle, using the affectionate name he always does, despite you being far from a kid. You can’t imagine him seeing you as one either, due to the fact that your naivety and ambition disappeared years ago, and the light in your eyes is gone.

     But it was there—for a fleeting moment, when you sang your heart out. Probably the last joyful moment you’ll have.

     Thanks, Price.”

     You just miss the slight furrow in his brow before it smooths out again.

     Ever the realist, Simon, as you know him now, addresses the elephant in the room. You want to sob. You’re going to let him down too. The guy who you couldn’t be more grateful for—the guy who shoved you out of your comfort zone. He was one of the first people you genuinely connected with.

     All good things come to an end .

     “F’r a smashin’ first show, y’ don’t seem as bloody excited as you were last nigh’.”

     Almost immediately, you crumble. You’ve held yourself together for years, never breaking no matter how tragic the event. You thought you were numb by now. You cursed each and every one of them for breaking you open—because now you were a blubbering mess in front of your friends . The first friends you’ve had probably since high school, despite those days being just as dark.

     Simon’s eyes widen, and you can see the moment he truly believes he did something wrong. 

     Nearly throwing your guitar on the floor, you shrug it off your shoulder, hands shaking as your breath comes in short hiccups. You’re barely staving off the tears.

     “Woah—hey, hey, hey, mate, what’s goin’ on?” Kyle quickly steps in, just a tad better at handling emotional situations than the rest. He's most likely the only one out of the other three to have a firm grasp on his feelings.

     You try to shrug him off, but he stays vigilant.

     “I can’t…I can’t—’m so sorry,” you stutter, hands clammy and shoulders tense enough that they reach your ears. You feel like a spectacle. You hate pity—you hate being vulnerable, like a sitting duck, like a deer with a sniper pointed at its head.

     “M’kay, right—come n’ step out for a minute, yeah?” Price ushers you out of the room for some fresh air as you choke on your breath.

     “God…God s’ all my fault . Price—” and suddenly, no matter how hard you try, the tears slip down your cheeks. It’s cathartic.

     “I don’t even bloody know what you’re apologizing for—what in God’s name is goin’ on?” he says firmly, pointedly looking in your eyes with an exasperated, but not unkind expression. He’s not necessarily annoyed at you, rather the situation.

     “I can’t…I can’t do this anymore…”

     The way you start your sentence has Price’s hand tightening around your arm, the words coming out much darker than you intended in your panic (despite that not being what you initially meant, it applied all the same.) 

     “Oi, don’t… shite ,” his gruff British accent grows thicker by the minute.

     You nearly scream in frustration, trying the best you can to communicate with the state you’re in, “ No! Not like that! I can’t—I can’t play anymore! ”

     You shatter, the verbal confirmation of what you were already told kills you. 

     “The hell are y’ talkin’ about?” he asks incredulously, taken aback, trying to process the new turn the conversation has taken.

     “My boss—m’ boss—he won’t—someone posted somethin’…they’ll fire me! ”

     He grows more confused by the second, the cool, summer night breeze hitting you both, your faces illuminated by the single streetlight near the building.

     “ What?! ”

     Frustrated, overwhelmed, and hopeless, your nails dig into your palms, leaving red, crescent shaped marks in their wake. John forcefully unclenches your hands, taking them in his to halt the damage. 

     “C’mon—shit—calm down for Godssake—you have to calm down, and explain ,” he rumbles, firm and clear, meeting you at eye level, his gaze locking with yours, despite you attempting to look away.

     With rattling breaths, and a few encouraging words, you’re stable enough to form a coherent sentence.

     “Someone—fuck—someone posted…posted us playin’—”

     “Wha’?”

     “Like— God —like on facebook. A video of us playin’ and it got super popular, an’ p eople liked it but…but people at work saw t’ and my boss —”

     “Now why in the bloody ‘ell would he have a problem with somethin’ you do in your free time?” he makes a sour face.

     “Because apparently it’s affectin’ my work . My work has always been shit! They just wanna blame it on somethin’, I’ve seen people get fired for way less—” you begin to choke up again, but continue for his sake. “Says—he said it ‘misrepresented th’ company’ or some dumb — fuck! John, John , I can’t, I can’t give this up. But…I just…I have to ,” the waterworks start again, and the air fills with stifled cries and soft hiccups.

     “He told me I can’t. He told me if he catches wind of it…I can’t lose my job. He’s gonna be on my ass—”

     “Tha’ right there is bullshite ,”

     “You don’t get it. You don’t . This s’ all I could’ve ever dreamed of. This is the happiest I’ve been in years . But I can’t give up my job, an’ my flat, and fuckin’ life itself for some silly dream that was never meant to be anyways. I should have never —”

     He pulls himself away from you, pacing for a minute as he drags a hand down his face, contemplating the situation. He’s the type of man to do anything it takes to get what he wants, but this time is different. This is your whole well-being on the line. As much as he wants to tell you ‘screw it’ he can’t. You, on the other hand, have already made up your mind. You’ve decided to trek upon the same path you were on before this whole mess. Because that’s what it was now—a mess. You’ve resigned yourself to a monotonous, draining life, having to deal with the same bloodsucking routine day in and day out.

     It makes you want to cry again.

     Before he can even open his mouth, “I can’t,” you nearly whisper, voice cracking. “I can’t. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I wasted your time—”

     “Didn’t waste our fuckin’ time—lemme think.” he nearly growls out.

     You nod, steadily breathing in the slightly humid air, trying to get a grasp of your emotions. (It’s not working.)

     “He jus’ doesn’t wanna see you perform,” he reiterates as you nod feverishly, “doesn’t want other people seein’ you perform—least not people he knows. Somethin’ ‘bout image, yeah? Fuckin’ wanker. ”

     “Yeah—but I mean, even if I don’t tell ‘em…people…y’ can’t stop people from recording shit…” you mumble.

     He lets out a humorless chuckle, “Least we know people liked you.”

     You glare and scrunch your face up at him, “Very helpful, thank you,” you mock.

     He shoots you a stony look before looking to the stars for answers.

     As you sit in quiet, taking slow and measured deep breaths, Simon steps outside, curious. His large frame even casts a slight shadow over John. When he looks at you, his mask off now that you’re more comfortable with each other, his slit eyebrow raises. His face displays a silent question, one that you’d prefer not to answer. You simply slump onto the dilapidated brick wall of the community center. He nods in silent understanding, moving to join you.

     He exhales, seeing the wet tracks that make a clear, sorrowful path down your face.

     “Hm? No tears, c’mon. Wha’s all this ‘bout?” he inquired, turning to John, his tone almost accusatory, as if he caused the breakdown himself.

     You sniffle softly, “I can’t…can’t perform anymore,” you murmur despondently.

     The face he pulls would make you laugh if you weren’t so distressed, “...Huh.” 

     “ Oh my god, ” you groan under your breath.

     “Oi, wha’ did I do?” you feel his elbow nudge you, and you repeat the motion back to him, except more petulantly. 

     “Nothin’, Simon,” John grunts.

     Reluctantly, you recapitulate the situation to Simon. He's a little less forgiving than John, but you urgently attempt to explain that you can’t just get fired or quit .

     “Simon—in case you haven’t noticed, we’re not makin’ money off’a this…sorry.”

     “Y’re right…still…” his voice trails off, the wind carrying it away. 

     Sliding down the wall and sitting down on the ground that’s more dirt than grass. You rub your temple, the whole situation is giving you a headache.

     “John…what the hell are we still sittin’ here for? I told you, I can’t . I’m sorry but…I have to drop out. I’m not risking anything. I’m not ,” your voice is steadfast and unwavering. You refuse to give in to the ache in your heart that screams at you to come up with a solution.

     “Too bad, you’ve put in too much fuckin’ effort, you nearly have that song done, and we aren’t gonna sound nearly as good without you,” he growls out, growing irritated.

     You preen just a little at the inadvertent praise, but quickly force yourself to refocus on the situation at hand.

     “Hm,” Simon lets out a pensive hum, causing you to peer at him through your peripheral vision.

     “Penny for your thoughts?” you coaxed.

     “I wear m’ mask for privacy.”

     “…No shit. What does tha’ mean to me?” 

     Your snark earns you a hard flick to the head, causing you to exclaim in protest.

     “Bloody hell—stop actin’ like you’re still in secondary school…what’re you tryin’ to get at Simon?” John sighs, exasperated.

     “What I‘m tryin’ to say, s’ that if you did somethin’ like that…” he trails off, “Jus’ a thought.”

     “Oh please , he’s stupid but not that stupid—” you start, but John cuts you off.

     “Oi, I’m serious, give ‘em a fuckin’ mask an’ tell ‘im you quit the band. Tell ‘im you found a replacement. Wanker won’t know nothin’ .” he elaborates. It’s plausible, but not good enough. You still don’t feel safe doing so. “S’ why I do it, I don’t want people botherin’ me.”

     “You’re not necessarily famous,” you quip.

     He grumbles and gives you another light smack to the arm. “No, but y’know how people are on those bloody forums, s’ more than ‘nough people t’ bother me an’ all tha’.” 

     “Hm, true. I do see the girls who go crazy for that damn mask on facebook…” you snicker.

     John lets out a chuckle of his own, obviously decently informed on the matter, most likely from Kyle and Johnny—Simon isn’t one to go online much.

     “Oi, do one, why don’tcha,” he grits out as you attempt to hide a smirk that begins to grow on your face. John’s amusement is infectious.

     He clicks his teeth, moving from his position, “Give it a think, might work—’specially if y’ can find someone t’ cover your ass…anyone from th’ office tha’ can be your alibi? Jus’ say you were with them.”

     The idea isn’t the worst, and you know Gabi would be more than willing to give in to the idea. He might be suspicious, but it’s your best shot, no matter how silly and cartoonish it sounds. As long as it’s not your face up there…he might be happy and unable to re-use the claim that you’re ‘tarnishing the company’s image’ (e.g. being autonomous and thinking for yourself.) And if you just so happen to manage to light a fire under your ass and finish your reports, his skepticism might ebb.

     His boots are heavy and kick up dust and gravel as he moves towards the entrance, opening the door, “I’ll go fill in the muppets inside.”

     John gives a firm nod as Simon dismisses himself. He moves his gaze back to you, his face conveying the question of ‘well?’ It’s a matter of possibly betting your livelihood to help them. To help you —to help you to continue to dig yourself out of the hole you’ve lived in for so long. The band is one of the only bright spots in your life—one of the only things you’ve looked forward to in years. 

     With a staggering breath, you get up, planting your feet and squaring your shoulders. He gets the message, and with a hand on the back of your neck, he leads you inside.

     “Good,” he mutters. There was no right or wrong choice—he would’ve supported either one, but he’s a selfish man, and he can’t help the proud feeling in his chest knowing him and the boys have created a big enough cavern in your heart for you to choose them.

     “You’ve decided which song y’ wanna use, right? C’mon, where’s tha’ notebook of yours? We’ve got a dead good song to practice, kid.”

     You smile and head inside—into the wolf’s den, to confront the foes and fears that threaten you.

     But everyone knows you can’t have your cake and eat it too.

Chapter Text

     You’re where you normally find yourself nowadays—in the stale little community center that feels more like home than your own flat does. The rough carpet rubs against your arm that’s holding up your face as you lounge on the floor. (The carpet most likely harbors some nasty germs, but you can’t bring yourself to care, you’re comfortable.)

     “There is no way I’d wear something like that Johnny,” you scoff as he rests beside you, sitting criss-crossed, despite how difficult it is for him because of his obnoxiously muscled thighs and calves. It truly is obscene, he looks like he’s on steroids—all of the boys do. (You aspire to be as strong as them, in more ways than one. The admiration you have for them causes an ache in your chest.)

    “Aye, c’mon! It’s braw, ye ‘ave no taste,” grumbling, he begins a new sketch in his own little notebook. It carries drawings of the boys, stages he’s visited, and more personal pages that you suspect only Simon has seen. It also includes the original ideas and designs for his mask and identity, as well as where their silly stage names sprouted from.

     Kyle leers over his shoulder, “Yeah real ‘braw’,” he mutters under his breath, mocking his accent. You give a snort of amusement, and he nudges you with his foot in reply.

     “I don’t need yer input ya eegit…” the pencil scratches methodically against the paper.

     “We’re no’ spending all practice on your naff ideas for what the kid should use to hide their face,” Price chimes in, followed by a dry cough—but he still continues to finish the cigar between his teeth.

     The days following the warning from your boss were spent chipping away at the piles of new reports he spitefully assigned you, and coming up with a crafted plan on how to play at the Battle of the Bands without simultaneously getting you fired, leaving you broke and depressed. Just the reminder of the twists and turns your life has taken as of recently has your stomach doing back flips. 

     The song that you wrote and decided upon has been practiced over and over, until your voice is raspy and your fingers are sore. It sounds good . Never in a million years did you think that you could create something so melodic—something that represented who you were. It’s much less…vulnerable then the first one you wrote, but personal all the same. The boys adored it when you showed it to them—and Kyle seeing all the advice he gave you about music theory come to fruition made him beam with pride.

     Currently, Johnny, ever the artist, was attempting to design something akin to Ghost’s mask, but for you. A little stage persona for yourself. Price had said the other day that it didn’t need to be entirely convincing, it just needed to conceal, so your bosses’ argument of company image can at least be disproved, because your face wasn’t the one up there. But still, he’ll find a way. He’ll find an excuse, so you have to stay vigilant about hiding yourself and being on top of your work—not to mention Gabi has been one of your biggest supporters throughout the whole ordeal, and she’ll be your alibi at the drop of a hat. 

     “John, practice is literally over ,” you groan, focused on the scratch of Johnny’s pencil against paper.

     “Don’t you have’ta work tomorrow? Hm?” he questions, one furry eyebrow raised in question

     "Tomorrow's Friday anyways…doesn’t really matter, everyone else will be jus’ as fed up,” you justify, “plus I’m almost caught up on the millions of reports he gave me, I’ll be fine ,” though you don’t necessarily believe it yourself. You give him a barely noticeable smile—a little melancholy. He simply huffs out a cloud of smoke in reply—it reminds you of a dragon.

     “John’s got a point,” Simon chimes in from the other side of the room where he fiddles with his bass. 

     “Simon, don’t be a buzzkill,” you mumble, trying to peek at what Johnny’s doing.

     “Aye! Stawp breathin’ down mah neck!” His hand palms at your face in an attempt to get you to stop peeking.

     “Oh come on!” You groan, sitting back on your haunches.

     As a couple minutes pass, and you impatiently sit back, picking at the stringy, dusty carpet. When he’s finally done with the next sketch, he flips his notebook around to show you what he’s conjured up. This time, it’s not an immediate veto. He lets out a protest as you snatch his notebook and place it in your lap to get a better look at it. Running your fingers along the pencil marks that have indented themselves in the paper, you smile.

     “Now this is cool,” you beam at him. The sketch is reminiscent of a sort of…medevial helm? It immediately catches your attention. It’s obvious his plan is to take the design and have Simon sew or bleach it onto a fabric mask similar to his. Johnny drew up multiple versions—one that covers half of your face, and one fully. You silently decide that full coverage is the best option.

     There’s an elaborate cross that fills a good portion of the design—one of the beams runs vertically right down the middle of the mask—the other horizontal, the ends of each beam flower off at the end. Multiple different ideas of the same thing litter the page.

     “What is…?” your voice trails off in question.

     “Ach, ‘cause all this shite with your boss…brave kid ye are doin’ all this for us. Fightin’ the bastard, reminds me o’ a knight—so I drew this wee thing up…Scottish Sugarloaf helm—nice, aye?” he says, unbelievably proud and excited that a design that was obviously thought out was being approved by you.

     “You a baker now Johnny?” you snort.

     “Nae! S’ what it’s called! Shite from all those old times s’ braw,” he defends vehemently as you find amusement in his adamant defense of his apparent interest in Scottish medieval history.

     “Well it’s sick ,” you tell him pointedly, moving to show the other guys what he came up with.

     When the other three give it a little look over, they all display various forms of approval.

     “Hm, decent idea Johnny. It’ll work well enough for now, a good alibi and a clean amount of reports done and you’re dead set,” John comments with a little pat. The grin you give him is contagious enough to make him smirk.

     Kyle knocks Johnny on the head playfully, with a mischievous look on his face, “I think we’ve got this in the bag, boys.”

     You do, in fact, regret staying later at practice. John…may have had a point about being exhausted in the morning. But in retrospect, you thought it was worth it because every so often, from where you sat at your desk, you would jerk awake when your phone buzzed with messages from your group chat with the three men. It was filled with updates about the gameplan for Monday, when the Battle of the Bands came around, as well as how the creation of your little identity was going. Simon, with little word to accompany each time, sent photos of how the process of sewing and decorating was going with the mask. His knack for creation was highly impressive—despite his hulking figure, large hands and wide fingers, each time you saw a picture, it was evident he was nimble and quick with a needle. 

     The constant flow of texts distracted you and definitely improved your mood, furthering your anticipation and excitement for tonight to see if Simon was finished with the mask or not—he was certainly making good progress. But peeking at your phone every so often while trying to make good work on all the papers you needed to complete to convince your boss of your recent competence was proving difficult—escpecially since he had taken a liking to walking past your desk every few minutes ever since the day that he called you to his office. It made you feel like you were playing some kind of video game.

     Eventually, you resigned yourself to putting your phone on do not disturb and continued to work. But your stomach dropped the minute Gabi walked over with a new handful of files that he wanted you to complete. She winced and mouthed ‘sorry’ as he watched from around the corner.

     What. The. Fuck.

     The worst part is that he looks so smug about it too. You just wanted to cry. You simply nodded at her, as she made a motion that she would call you later so you could tell her all the latest updates on your shitshow of a life. She told you it was the ‘only entertainment she gets around here’ besides for Richard from accounting who you suspect she’s fooling around with.

     You were so close. So close to finishing the last of the reports he gave you previously, only for him to slam you again. This has to be violating some sort of rule.

     You do the only thing you can do—double down and tackle as much as you can, if not for you, then for the boys who are counting on you to make it to practice, to be there for them at the show. 

     Your boss watches on in horror as you get more done then you probably have in months . 

     No excuse to fire you saying you’re ‘slacking off’ because of ‘outside commitments’ that you’ve already told him you’ll quit, right?

     You’re still unsure if his threats were empty, because you know there’s a certain process you have to go through in the corporate world to terminate someone—but you suspect that he has people on the inside in HR and doesn’t care much for the ‘rules’. 

     By the time five-o’clock rolls around, you’d made a sizable dent in the work, and you even planned on bringing some home, just to shove it in his face that you refuse to lose your only source of income. 

     So you shove the papers in your work bag, and march out of there, feeling accomplished and smug as he scowls.

     “Have a good weekend,” you sing as you walk out of there, finding Gabi in the parking lot.

     “Someone’s showin’ him, huh?” she snickers as you two sit across from each other at the diner, before you have to head to practice. 

     With half a burger shoved in your face, you managed to get out, “Mmph—M’ still…fuck this s’ good…scared,” you swallow the rest of your bite. “I’m scared that he’s gonna figure it out. At least now he can’t get on my ass about fallin’ behind, but if he figures out it’s me up on that stage signin’ about how much I hate my life and my job, I’m fucked . I’m lucky I’m not already gone…the only thing that saved me was technicalities because I wasn’t directly shittin’ on the place—but now…” 

     “Hm…I hear you. An’ what you’re doin’ isn’t foolproof…but it’s good. It’s good enough, ” she emphasizes, stealing a french fry.

     You slap her hand away and she scoffs in mock offense.

     “I sure as hell hope so Gabs…I love them. I really do, y’know? They’re the kind of people you really never stop smiling with…” you mumble, taking a sip of your milkshake to wash down the fries.

     With a soft smile and a nod, she goes back in to steal another.

     “ Hey !” you nearly screech—the large portion you had bought was nearly all gone.

     After her giggling fit calms down, you tell her, “And the song I was tellin’ you about? The second one I wrote? We’re practicin’ it and it sounds great , they’re definitely adding it t’ the set! The other one was too…I dunno…soft, too…personal,” you finish solemnly. “This one fits into their whole…vibe a lot nicer.” 

     “Hm, you ask me I still prefer it over the one you’re doin’ now, but…I’m just so happy for you honey, do you know that? You look so much better , even though it’s gettin’ a little stressful.”

     The sentiment makes your throat burn. You squeeze her hand in a display of affection—everything that’s happened over the past weeks has done nothing but strengthen the bond you two had that was for a while, only office and apartment bound. You were so grateful .

     “Enough o’ all the sappy shit…c’mon, lets finish up so you can head out for practice soon and get your head together.”

     With a nod, the rest of your time in the booth is spent pleasantly by trading banter and gossiping about everything under the sun.

     Things were looking up.

     “Now tha’ is what I call a good run through,” John gives a rough and loud clap of his hands with that easily recognizable smile of his. Each and every one of you beamed at the praise, feeling more than confident in your performance that was to take place on Monday.

     Various cheers from both you and the others fill the room, happy that the run of the setlist had gone without a hitch. With only two days of practice left before the show, you were pumped .

     Were you going to ignore the fact that your stomach turned and protested at the very idea of doing this, despite the circumstances? Absolutely . But it was okay. Everything is fine—everything will be fine.

     The only thing you can do is pray that you’ll be able to give it your best.

     The only thing you can do is pray that that they don’t play dirty, and your boss doesn’t fuck you over.

     But your prayers almost always seem to go unanswered…don’t they?

Chapter Text

Sunday is…an ordeal. 

It’s the day before the show, and everyone is hectic—particularly John, who is in charge of making sure instruments and equipment can be transported in Simon’s makeshift van-bus. While also setting up lighting designs with Nikolai, and discussing with the venue owner, Kate, who you had met just a few hours earlier, when you were all scheduled to go on. 

Kate also happened to be friends with John for years—she had helped him get into music, and when he retired, he met Kyle first, another aspiring musician much like he was. Simon and Johnny fell into place, and that’s how The 141, your boys, came to be.

She was definitely intimidating, firm, (much like John) and highly analytical—it made you feel like she was picking you apart, piece by piece. But she was kind. Extremely kind, reminding you just a little of Gabi and her tough love at points in time.

Not to mention the barrage of bands that came in to set up all their stuff as well. The multiple introductions Kyle had to make for you was overwhelming—so much so that at one point you had to excuse yourself to go take a breath in the bathroom. One of the few things keeping you sane due to the fact that your normal social shields were busy, was Farah Karim.

You’d seen John talk to her in passing at the last show, she was part of one of the many ‘riot grrl’ bands that were participating in the Battle. She was no-nonsense, but helpful as anything. Her confidence staggered you as she showed you the ropes of how the whole ordeal would work because in her words, “those boys are awful at giving directions”. You couldn’t help but agree—you were totally blindsided for your first performance.

Currently, she had you sit in one of the small prep rooms that Kate’s venue had. 

“There isn’t a line-up like a normal show. It’s a bracket. Watch any sports?”

You give her a shrug, and she continues.

“I think we’ll go up against you if you win against…Nailbiters…?” the way she says it tells you that she definitely thinks it’s a dumb name. It nearly makes you let out a tiny laugh. 

“So…we win against them, and then go against you if you win too, right?” you ask for clarification, leaning forward on the chair you’re sitting on in the small room. 

She barely looks up at you as she analyzes the printed bracket for tomorrow. “We’ll win,” her voice is steady and sure—it scares you a little. (Scratch that, it does scare you.)

“...Okay,” you mumble, picking at the skin around your nails.

She proceeds to tell you the rest of the matchups, and how each of the bands work because she’s been participating in the Battle for a few years now, winning both a runner up and champion title. It’ll be hard to beat her and her girls. 

After talking for a good thirty minutes or so, gradually growing more comfortable around Farah, you exchange information. You’re pleased you made yet another new friend despite your previous anxiety about her. 

Eventually, Johnny knocks on the door to retrieve you to discuss positions, solos, and when you want to play your song. He leads you back to Nikolai’s tech booth, where he and John chat quietly.

“Ah! There they are…the star of the show, da?” Nik greets warmly with his signature shifty smile. “We need to talk, hm?”

“A’right,” John chimes in, pushing Nik away before he can speak again. It’s quite funny to see the two interact with each other, because John is so straightforward, and Nik likes to beat around the bush. “Nik an’ I have the lighting all set up for your song, yeah? Now we gotta figure out when we’re gonna bloody well use it.”

“What d’you mean?” you inquiry, crossing your arms across your chest.

“The show s’ all in one nigh’ aye?” Johnny intervenes from behind you. “So we cannae play our whole set list—gotta leave time. First couple o’ rounds we play one or two short songs,” he explains, his hand landing on your shoulder as he speaks.

“If ye get into the later rounds, then ya play three songs or two longer ones—final round, half o’ your setlist is braw.” 

You nod along—the rules for this damn thing was like March Madness, you felt like you were going crazy.

“Okay, so…this applies to my song, how?” you reply, a little bit of attitude lacing your voice. 

With an exaggerated huff, Price says, “Because there’s always a chance we don’t make t’ to the later rounds…so when d’you want t’ play it. Use it too late, y’ might’ve written the damn thing for nothin’. S’ our weapon. Use t’ too early it won’t do anythin’. Use it too late an’ we’re bloody well fucked.”

You ponder his words—it makes your gut twist and turn at the prospect of having to choose something that he put such importance on. 

You groan, “Why d’you guys always make me choose stuff like this…”

Johnny snickers as John glares at him. “Because you’re important to this band,” John grumbles definitively, “we need this—your song t’ work.”

Sighing, you walk over to where John holds your plans for what songs you’re playing and when in the bracket you’ll play them. As you gaze at the sheet, you get this unmistakable feeling in your stomach. Like it knows something you don’t. 

“…Finals.”

The boys had definitely doubted your…bold decision. But John, as always, stuck to his word and made sure that was where your song would be placed. He promised that you would all make it to that point, just so you could show the crowd what you could do. That you were committed. 

Simon was judgy, as always, but supportive. He always stood by your side. 

While shoving the take-aways food down your throat, you and Simon speak, sitting on the back steps of the show, where you first saw them arguing with Graves. It felt like everything had come full circle. 

“Y’sure tha’ this s’ a good idea?” he rumbles, licking his fingers of the grease that coated them. You grimaced and handed him a napkin, only for him to wave it off.

“Price said it’s important—like our super secret weapon or something. So y’ gotta use it when it's gonna,” you take a moment to appreciate the borderline disgustingly greasy, but good takeout you’re munching on, “…mmm—when it’s gonna hit ‘em in the gut, y’know?”

He nods skeptically, understanding the reasoning and motive, but still wary that you’re putting all your eggs in one basket.

“Yeah…” his voice trails off as he looks up at the sky.

“We’re all proud o’ you. Want y’ to know tha’.”

You give a soft smile, your vision dancing on the treeline, sky, and then back down to the concrete as you get lost in your thoughts.

But the moment is swiftly dismantled as Simon groans.

“God M’ mad for this takeaway. Fuckin’ good.”

You nearly choke on your drink that you had just begun to sip on, trying not to laugh at the abrupt exclamation.

You get the idea that maybe he was intentionally trying to disrupt it—being vulnerable was harder for him that it was for Kyle, for example. Both tough, but only one more in touch with themselves. 

With another small chuckle, you sigh, finishing off the last of your food.

“Thanks Simon,” you murmur.

“‘Course kid.”

The backstage door slams open with a loud clang. Kyle peeks out from around it with an apologetic look on his face.

“Sorry mate—” he winces as Simon gathers his composure after the slight startle. “C’mon, they need us back there for more set-up shite. I think Price is losin’ his bloody mind with Nik,” he chuckles with the corner of his mouth twitching into a little smile. 

With a sigh, and the rustling sound of your garbage hitting the bottom of the trashcan, you head back inside where more preparation (torture to your nervous system) awaits.

You both dread and anticipate the show. On one hand you’re more than excited to put all your practice to good use, to use what you learned from the last show at the Battle. But on the other hand, you’re terrified. 

You’re terrified of making the wrong decision, of messing up, of causing the band to lose and drop out of the bracket. 

Your mind races with all the possibilities, but you force yourself to take a big, deep breath and center yourself. It’s time to get in the zone—to commit. 

You enter the stage once more, ready for soundchecks, lighting adjustments, setlist changes, anything. You’re ready for tomorrow—you tell yourself as Kate begins directing everyone once more. You’re ready to give it your best.

You’re not ready. At all. 

The stress that plagued you was unbelievable.

Not only were you preparing for the show that was tonight, but you’d just found out something crucial. Something that made you empty your stomach in the employee bathroom at the back of the office. 

Your boss had scheduled a big meeting. Scratch that—not a meeting, an office party. A big one. With awards and certificates and higher ups—to celebrate a big deal the company had made—a new milestone.

And he couldn't have scheduled it at a worse time. 

Tonight.

Chapter Text

You wanted to cry. You really did—but the tears just wouldn’t escape. No, all you felt in this moment was white hot rage. 

How could this happen? After you worked so hard to get here with the band, after you worked your ass off the last week or so to please your boss and get him off your back. 

You can’t help but wonder if he knew, if he purposefully scheduled this event just to knock down everything you’ve built for yourself. You want to be upset, you really do. But the timid person you once were was gone. Your stomach hurts less lately, your voice is louder, posture straighter. It’s like they fixed a part of you that was so badly damaged, a part of you that you thought was irreparable.

Which is exactly why John Price is the first person you call.

“Fuck,” he growls into the receiver. You can’t help but repeat the sentiment.

”I have Gabi—but she can only do so much…she can’t cover for me all night John,” you tell him urgently. You’re back at home in your little flat, pacing a hole right into the carpet. “There’s no way I can—“

“Yes there bloody well is. Here’s what’s gonna fuckin’ happen.”

His definitive tone nearly makes you shake.

“Okay.”

Your cheeks burn at the smile that you’ve had plastered on your face since the beginning of the night. Talking with higher ups—apparently the CEO of the company is supposed to be here. You couldn’t care less. You want to die.

But it makes it a little worth it when you see the look on your boss's face when he sees you’re actually there. It makes you feel accomplished in a sick sort of way. 

Eventually, amidst the crowds of people you’ve never spoken to besides from a nod in passing, you find Gabi nursing a glass of champagne. You wave her over, desperate for a familiar face. Once you make your way over to her corner, she’s whisper-yelling in your ear.

“I thought you had your whole band thing?!” She hisses. 

“I do!” You hiss back, desperately trying to explain the situation.

“Th’ guy’s a complete jackass, d’you think he pushed this whole ordeal forward on purpose?”

“I don’t know! Someone must’ve sold me out. There’s no way he would’ve known about the show…or—or even my video without someone sending it to him. He’s on finance bro facebook not my kind of facebook, Gabi!” you exclaim before she shushes you.

“Whatever, I’m still wonderin’ what the hell you’re doin’ here! You need to be onstage!”

“Listen, I’m here until 7:30, then I’m going to ‘go to the bathroom’ or some shit. You’re  my cover Gabi. He’s seen me here—he knows I’m here. We just need him to think that all night. When the first round is over, if we get through, then I come back here and stay until we need to go on again, right?”

“…Are you fuckin’ batman? What kind of movie is this? Honey, this is so unbelievably cliche and it never works.”

Clenching your teeth and shaking your head, “Well it’s all we’ve got. Blame Price.”

“Y’ mean the hot, older bloke?” she smirks.

“Fuckin’ stop. I thought you were…’messing around’ with Richard from accounting now?”

“His ex is a pain in my ass. Until he fixes that we’re on a break…”

Gabi’s love life exhausts you.

“Well leave Price alone…Jesus you’re older than me I shouldn't have to tell you this like I’m your mother…”

She snickers, highly amused at your blatant irritation. 

“You know I’m joking. It’s 7:15 right now—c’mon let’s get this show on the road sweetheart.”

“Shit, shit, shit!” you screech, “Johnny hand me my shirt fuckin’ now!”

On the other side of the door, Johnny scrambles as you shout out orders—you’re almost late to be on stage. 

Your hands are unfathomably shaky as you get changed from your stuff work outfit into your stage outfit, and your brand-new mask, sewn just for you by Ghost. It made you smile at how much time and effort was obviously put into the garment. Soft, fashionable and practical, you felt cool as you slipped it on. 

“Okay—okay I’m good—good. Let's do this—shit—let’s do this,” you mutter to yourself, walking out from behind the curtain you were quickly changing behind. Johnny looks relieved to be freed from his servant duties.

Just as you’re calming down and hyping yourself up to go onstage, the band’s name is called and suddenly your guitar is shoved into your hand and you’re rushing on stage. You faintly hear Price trying to say something to you, but it’s muffled by the ringing in your ears and you’re distracted by the rumbling and swishing in your stomach. 

“C’mon kid,” is what he mutters, what you don’t hear.

Sweat drips down your back in copious amounts as you rush off stage after a successful performance. But you don’t even have any time to revel in that fact with your bandmates because you’re rushing to switch attire for the second time tonight just so you can sneak back into the office event. 

Your car’s gas tank is nearly empty, so Kyle takes up the duty of driving you to the ordeal, dropping you off, and getting you gas—it’s nothing off his back because he’s not the one rushing around and living some kind of double life. 

As you backseat-drive him—or ‘passenger seat’—making him nearly Nascar-race down the road, he says, “Y’ really think we got this in the bag? We can beat th’ bastard?”

The Task Force was last year’s runner-ups, and for the most part, they all of you were confident that you’d make it pretty far—as long as you didn’t run into Graves early on—word was that they were pretty kick-ass, posers, sure, but they were good. The ‘Shadows’ they called themselves. You were terrified, and your streak of being meek and self-deprecating was long, but even you were bold enough to believe that you had a shot. You could feel it in your gut—it’s why you chose to put your brand new song last.

Kyle, however, surprisingly, was more nervous than usual. You couldn’t pinpoint why, he was normally confident and self-assured. He’s the one who helped you write the damn song.

“Yeah…yeah I just…I think so. Y’know me…I always feel like throwin’ up and—and doubting everything…and I’m a fuckin’ crybaby but…I just know. We can do it,” you tell him, fingers impatiently tapping on your thighs. “Why? Why are you so…”

“He’s a snake. He’s…you don’t know him like we do. He’s got somethin’ up his damn sleeve I jus’ know it.”

You hum in soft acknowledgement and brace yourself as he comes screeching into the parking lot.

“Shhh! I don’t need any damn attention on us!”

“Just get out!” he groans, sick of your remarks about his driving.

“Okay! Okay! Go!”

Rushing out of the car, you sneak over to the building. You don’t go for the doors—no, you head right for the first floor bathroom window, where Gabi waits, struggling with getting the screen out.

“C’mon! Quick! I can’t be here as long, I need to show some more face—”

“I know! I fuckin’ know!” Gabi hisses as she finally pries the screen out of the window frame, and immediately begins piecing the whole thing back together as you try to be as nonchalant as possible while you re-enter the party.

You make a point to walk past your boss, and wave ‘hi’, so he can’t accuse you when your possible snitch resurfaces and sends him the video once more the next morning.

Gabi soon re-emerges too, a little flushed from poking and prodigy at the window, then forcing it back in its rightful place again. You nearly giggle at the state of her.

“Knock it off,” she mutters as you catch up with her. “You flaunt yourself like a peacock in front of him? Y’ all good now?”

“Yes. Yes I am.”

“I don’t see why you can’t just show up once and then leave for—”

“How are we doin’ over her now, hm?” your boss exclaims, walking over to the corner you both linger in.

“That’s why.”

Immediately putting on a big, fat fake smile, you turn to him and engage in a brainless, pitiful, passive-aggressive conversation.

Fuck you. 

The second set goes fantastic—and next thing you know, you’ve made it through to the semi-finals.

Rushing back and forth becomes exhausting as you get constant updates on the other side of things from Simon as you chat it up with your boss who is up your ass the entire night. 

It makes you sick to your stomach. Again. 

As of right now, you’re able to take a breather backstage—Gabi gave you the all clear that your boss is occupied, and you can relax for five fucking seconds.

“How y’ doin’ soldier?” Price asks, taking a drag of his trademark cigar. You glare at him, and he chuckles in response.

“C’mon. Semi-finals. We got it in the bloody bag, kid.”

“Yeah, yeah, says the one who ain’t runnin’ around like a maniac, John,” you pant,

wiping the sweat from your brow.

The hard work was worth it though—the crowd was going wild for you guys, for your

performance. It made you feel like you were on top of the world.

“It’s alright kid…we’re almost there. S’ eleven on the dot right now. We can make it.”

You really hoped you could, because there was one thing preying upon your downfall—Graves and the Shadows. They were still standing. They were still in the running—and they were going in for the kill. They were doing just as well as you guys—it killed you to know that they hadn’t been shot down just yet—this round was your last hope.

“Okay…okay I gotta head back,” you groan, standing up from where you were leaning on the very, very comfortable wall, getting ready to drive back with your now full tank of gas.

“Almost ov’r,” Simon says in that rough, grumbly voice of his, handing you a tissue to dab at your face with. “Next time y’ come here it’ll be quick, then y’ got no more racin’ t’ do.”

With a curt nod, and muttered curses under your breath, you prepare to head back into the lion’s den. 

With your boss dealt with, and the office event finally done and over with at the ripe time of 11:30pm, you were calming down, but amping up at the same time. You passed the semi-finals. So did the Shadows. It’s go time. 

Clutching your guitar, you tuned up and practiced everything you could in your band’s little room—doing vocal warm-ups, going over everything you possibly could, especially your song that was being debuted  in a matter of an hour. You felt like you were completely losing your mind. 

Soon enough, you were dragged out of the practice room by Johnny to watch the Shadows—to prepare for what was to come. It was a shame they went on before you, but at least you could end the competition with a bang, it might have more of an impact. 

You hung out in the wings, clutching onto both Kyle and Johnny’s arms for dear life as you stood huddled together, the drums starting up.

They were good. 

They were really fucking good—and it killed you to admit that. To admit that the man you took the place of was better than you. It killed you, it made all the nausea and anxiety and sadness and doubt you thought had tampered down in your time with the boys, resurface. You wanted to cry.

“Shh. It’s okay,” Kyle hushes—as if he was in tune with all your emotions by now. You sniffle and nod.

“We can do this, that’s what y’ told me, right?” he murmurs into your ear, and you nod in affirmation. 

“Yeah. Yeah. Gut feelin’ or some shit.”

They continue to play, and second by second, you grow more resentful. The best thing you can do is channel all that energy into your own set.

With a sigh, you turn around as they get ready for their last song. You’re sick of listening to this poser bullshit. But you stop in your tracks.

Your heart drops to your stomach—hell, probably your ass.

That tune. That tune is unbelievably familiar. Frantically, you whip your head back around and grip onto Kyle’s arm desperately. 

“No—no, no, no—“

The drums start, the guitar wails a solo, and the lyrics are all too familiar. 

Your song. 

It’s your fucking song.

“Shite! Fuckin’—how? How?” Johnny growls, enraged on your behalf. 

Suddenly, you let out a sob. 

“My journal—my journal! Where’s my journal?” You nearly shriek, hyperventilating now as the rest of the band is in disarray.

“In the practice room—why?!” John shouts over the music. 

“Johnny, it's my song!” you wail frantically. “How—how?! How the fuck did he get my  song—”

“You need to calm the fuck down, kid,” John exclaims, grabbing your shoulders and giving you a little shake. 

Gasping for air, you try to stave off a panic attack, but at this point it feels inevitable.

Those were your lyrics—the ones that had deep rooted emotions in them. That was your blood sweat in tears in audible form for all to hear—and he stole it. He hijacked your big moment, and the crowd was eating it up. He was singing it all wrong, this wasn’t how it was supposed to be, not at all. 

You searched the depths of your mind for how on earth he could’ve ever stolen your song—your hard work. Ignoring everyone's shouts and pleas, you make a dash to the practice room to look for your journal.

When you finally make it there, you nearly tear apart the room, needing to be as fast as possible—the song is almost done. It's almost your turn. After what felt like eons, you find it hiding underneath your hoodie—and you realize that something is missing. 

The lyrics, the chords, everything about the song is erased and ripped out of the journal. Stolen. How had you not noticed? Despite knowing the music like the back of your hand by now, how had you not looked back at those pages in days? You felt like you were going to hurl.

When? 

The door had been locked all night—hell, only Price had the key, how could he have gotten in? When would he have ever gotten the chance to rehearse it? To steal it?

Then suddenly, it all comes rushing back to you. That night at the bar. It was him who picked up your journal—the shadowed figure that gave it back to you. It was all him.

A small hiccup starts the breaking of the dam, and before you know it, a barrage of tears is flowing from you. You fucked it up. You fucked it all up.

Again.

You’ll always fail. 

Did you really think that you could do this? That something good would happen to you?

The noise in your head is too much to bear, and you don’t even notice that Kyle bursts into the room.

“Hey—hey, calm down, it’s okay. It’s okay—”

“It’s not! We don’t have any time—we’re done for—it’s all my fault! It’s all my fault…” more tears trickle down your hot cheeks. 

“No it’s not—we can figure this out—shite! Shite! The first song—where’s the first song we wrote—?!” he slaps your shoulder, an idea suddenly hitting him at full speed.

“Um—um—music folder—fuck! It’s right here, in my music folder—thank fuck I brought it—!” you scramble to find what was now the band’s holy grail, and saving grace. 

You frantically dig through the folder and groan in upset as your hands shake. You can hear the crowd outside sheering as the song ends. It’s almost your turn. You need to hurry.

Finally, you rip it out of your folder and show it to Kyle.

“What th’ hell am I even gonna do with this—Kyle it’s awful…”

“What other option do we have—it’s not awful. It’s raw. It’s you. We need it. We need you to do this. Please, you have to.”

His statement brings more tears to your eyes—they’re relying on you. They need you to put this out there—to practically bare your soul to the audience with the shittiest song created. Four chords, a riff and some nasty, emotional, wounded lyrics. 

“We don’t have any time…” you whisper, desperate.

“It’s easy—it’s easy. D’you know the lyrics well enough?”

“I—I um—”

“Do you know them?” he urges.

“Yeah. Yes. I do.”

“C’mon. We got five minutes t’ make this sound better than Graves’ version of your song.”

You rush off to the boys—heart racing and breath heavy.

Your hands have never been shakier. Your stomach, in all your anxious years, has never felt so horrible. You feel like dying. You are dying. You can’t believe this is happening.

This can’t be happening.

The crowd goes wild as they wait for the 141’s last song—your song. Your song. The one that’s deep rooted in your heart. The lyrics contain practically everything you’ve ever felt. Everything that shaped who you are—escpecially the band.

With a stray tear falling from your eye, getting soaked up by the mask you look at Johnny, terrified. He had only learned the drumline less than twenty minutes ago. The clock strikes midnight as he starts it up.

Everything moves in slow motion—you’re reminded of everything that puts you here.

Your first practice.

You don’t try to be perfect this time, you dump every pent-up emotion into the screams, belts, and melodies that flow from your lips. Your fingers don’t halt this time, and your strums don’t falter anymore. You growl the words into the mic, frustrated and sick of people trying to fit you into place—sick of trying to be what everyone wants you to be—sick of trying to live up to their expectations.

Your first show.

Angry that you froze up—that you can’t handle anything. Angry at your office, your boss, your parents, lack of schooling, who you turned out to be, your anxiety that held you back. Every. Single. Time.

Your eyes flutter open.

You nod. 

Your night out with the boys, your bonding time with each and every one of them. The arguments, the laughter, the silly accents, everything. It all comes rushing back to you, and suddenly, all your trepidation is gone. The confidence that the boys instilled in you over these past few weeks floods your body entirely. You’re reborn. A new person entirely. No longer the new kid, the cry-baby, someone who can;t keep their lunch down—no. You’re someone brand new, all thanks to them, to Gabi, Nik, Farah, Kate, every last one of them. 

Just like every other time you’re set in front of a mic, you sing. You really, really sing—like it’s the last time you ever will.

Useless.

Coward.

Failure.

Stupid.

Worthless.

Not anymore. Never again will you let anyone else define you. Not your parents, not your boss, not Graves, no one. You will be loud, unapologetic, angry, happy, everything you’ve always deserved to be. 

You are free. 

The anticipation eats you alive. You can’t speak as you hold Simon’s hand in a death grip.

You’re waiting for the results.

You or him.

The abandoned bandmate or his predecessor. 

It’s late—extremely late. Thank God the office isn’t open tomorrow, or you would cry with how exhausted, physically and emotionally, you are. 

“Can y’ stop crushin’ m’ hand?”

You shake your head feverishly, “No.” 

Before he can respond, the speakers in the venue crackle to life, calling the 141 and the Shadows on stage. 

Two rivals standing next to each other—a showdown, the only question is, who will win?

You see him out of the corner of your eye, smirking at you. 

“Like the new song?” he quips in a warm, Texan accent. 

You want to rip him limb from limb. 

“Y’ like ours?”

“Not bad for last minute. But you best tell your boys that even with that, y’all ain’t gon’ win.”

“Snake…” you hiss under your breath. 

He grins again, sinister, "Damn right. Sorry sweetheart, life ain't fair."

Before you can retort back, ready to fight him, Simon tugs you and shakes his head, and he's interrupted.

“All right—ladies and gentlemen it’s fuckin’ time!” the agressive, loud announcer yells into the microphone. 

Your heartbeat is the only thing you can hear as he continues his speel of ‘thank you for coming’ and ‘are you ready?’ Yes, God, yes, you’re ready. 

“M’kay. Y’re fine. We don’t care. N’matter wha’ happens,” Simon murmurs in your ear. You don’t really listen. 

What you do tune into, is: “Now, to announce our champion, of ‘Battle of the Bands!’”

“This year’s winner—”

No. Fucking. Way. 

“Task Force 141.”

You can’t stop the tears that stampede down your cheeks as you’re piled into a group hug.

“We love y’ kid.”

“I love you guys too.”

For the first time in your life, you’ve won.