Kashmir

Chapter 1 Chapter Text

Summer, 1969, 11:53 pm

The spotlights blinded me when the darkness of the stage was violently replaced by a vivid blue. I blinked at the faces below me, I blinked again and saw the mic in front of me. I wondered how other people did this, I was blinded by the lights and the roar of the crowd was deafening. Were all other senses meant to disappear when you found yourself on a stage? Was I meant to be guided solely by intuition?

I blinked once more, and I was speaking into the mic, I hoped my shaky voice was at least somewhat coherent.

"We are The Velvet Doves!", the howl of the feedback made the wave of bodies in front of me wince. I looked back towards Cam, and swallowed hard, pointing my index finger at him, he struck his drumstick onto the tom with rapture, and he guided us into our first song.

10:20pm

As the last chord faded into the chatter of the dimly lit bar I could only make out a murmur of an applause, even that sounded inattentive. The total of two people who even bothered to face us as we played turned back around once the set ended, continuing their conversations. Billy grumpily put his guitar back into its case as he bitched about the patrons of the bar. I handed him mine, leaving the boys to pack up, if I had timed it right, I had half an hour for two beers,maybe three if I was lucky, leaving me fifteen minutes to walk home.

"Wasn't that bad tonight"

Jack said from behind the bar as he already began pouring my beer.

"Mhm, not bad."

Jack owned the most popular bar in town, The Zodiac. It didn't say much; Belle Vale had a total of three bars, and The Zodiac was the only one to stay open until midnight. It was also the only bar that aspiring bands could play, which also didn't say much since it didn't take bands long to crash and burn in this town, not that they'd even fly high enough to suffer a substantial crash. I liked The Zodiac, though; even if the smell of vomit was one that lingered or some of the customers were creeps, it still felt as much as I could know of a home. There was music paraphernalia on almost every wall and booths that fit all my friends. Maybe it wasn't a stadium, but it was something.

I started chugging my beer as soon as the cold glass met my fingertips, leaving my upper lip lined with foam. Jack busied himself with making the boys drinks, I could tell from the slope of his shoulder and his short glances that he still pitied me. I knew he hadn't stopped since two years ago, freshly eighteen when I had begged him to sell me the guitar he kept above the back booth. That guitar was my entire world: a brilliant red off-brand Fender, lovingly named Rosie, who was safely tucked away in the storeroom by the main liquor shelf when she wasn't in my arms. I thought it too risky to hide her in my room. Jack felt bad enough for me that once I could as much as form a chord or remember half the lyrics to a song he offered to start open mic nights. He wouldn't admit to it, but I knew when he looked at me, I was a mirror of his youth; the pickguard was yellowed and scarred.

"Don't mind her Jack, Laila is just pissy because Led Zeppelin is in town tonight and she missed her only opportunity to see Robert Plants bulge up close"

My gaze flickered up from the foamy piss-yellow liquid as Cam, our black-haired drummer, floated beside me, the smoke from his joint curled around his fingers as he lifted his drink to his mouth. I rolled my eyes at him

"I'm not pissy" I grumbled and got to work on my second beer.

"Awww, muffin", Cam mused, earning him a firm slap to his arm.

"Oi, you'll probably be sharing venues with Led Zeppelin soon anyways", Jack added, ever so confident in our band's success ", and he'll be begging to see Cam's bulge instead."

My mouth curved into a smile for the first time that day, it soon faded once I noticed the time. I uttered swift goodbyes and bounded out the doors of the Zodiac. I walked beyond the damp alleyways; these walks home usually marked the last calm moments of my night, yet as I walked further, I noticed how the usually barren streets seemed to be teeming with people. I could hear them grumbling beneath the streetlights, gathered in groups against the brick shop walls like cliques in some cliché American movie, while they angrily chain-smoked. I watched the faces that I passed by; not one of these people was from here; the girl's makeup was too colourful, their skirts were too short, and the boys had hair the length I'd only seen in the music magazines hidden beneath my floorboards, never on the streets of Belle Vale.

I let my feet carry me away from the outsiders until I was at my front door. I pushed my hip against the wood, turning the handle slowly so it wouldn't creak and I slipped inside the still darkness of the house. Passing my parents room and I could make out the outline of my mother's sleeping form from the door way before I turned down the hall to my bedroom. As soon my foot met the first tile on the floor my two-tone green phone let out a piercing trill, my side slammed against the wall when I grabbed it so it would stop screaming at me.

"Hello?" I answered, whisper yelling, everyone who had my number knew better than to call me at this hour, I was going to bite someone's head off.

"Is this Laila uh...Kumair?"

My platform boots were practically luminous from the floor of the sleek car as i pulled them on once more, I had inhibited myself from wearing them until a special occasion arose, I knew now that I had chosen the perfect time. As soon as the phone was off of the hook I was tugging my Converse off and the boots on,until I heard my father's car pull into the driveway,the jingle of keys rattling against the door which made the nausea that swirled behind my throat even worse. The platforms were burgundy velvet with embroidered flowers, entwined in each others curled stems while they searched for the sun, victorian-esque ankle breakers,they were also a menace in a dead silent house when you were trying to sneak out. So instead I tucked them under my arm and crawled out of my window,almost contemplating decapitation when my big head got partially stuck between the bars. I landed amidst the darkness of dry and dead shrubbery that was the garden.

The man, who had introduced himself as Chester Grant, Led Zeppelins manager, an American man, extended a hand to me from the driver's seat, I took his work worn hand in my own. My nervousness melting into overconfidence as I shook his hand firmly.

"Its Kumar, by the way, nice to meet you"Chester started down the road,the rust coloured flats, that matched the red of the cars leather seats, and churches drenched in the black of night began to blur past us.

He looked at me from the corner of his eye, his cadence was that of a stereotypical businessman, I figured he was uncomfortable in silence.

"So, the Ramones decided to storm out ten minutes before they were going to open,the bastards. The bands have been fighting and tonight they all just flew off the handle completely", he shook his head

I nodded, "I see, you're lucky that you found Jack, there's only like three bands in this town. And we're the only one people think are Satanists."

I watched my hands pick away at my chipped nail polish out of habit. I knew it was me who was lucky, that or I was pushing my luck. Being able to play tonight was going to be a huge opportunity, but it didn't feel real,it felt like a chance that would slip out of my hands like water as soon as my fingers curled inwards to close around it. It felt as if I would wake up tomorrow morning and the only evidence of the concert's existence would be my sore throat, nothing would have changed.

"Oh,i know i am" He smiled charmingly as his attention flickered away from the road over to me. "As for Satanists..."

"Jack and I are old friends and I needed a savior, a half-empty stadium is godawful, it's something no one wants, Jack tells me your band is very talented, hes certain you'll make it big"

"I suppose we are."

We were shoved through a labyrinth of dizzying corridors to get backstage. The boys arrived before I did, somehow even more nervous, but maybe that was just the cause of Jack's driving. Billy was picking at the acne on his forehead,scraping his ragged nail across the pinkened skin as he kept the side of his arm in constant contact with Cam's. At least Theo looked excited. Not a single word was uttered between any of us. I could briefly recall my guitar being shoved into my arms and the haze of a conversation with a guy about the mic that was to be in my hands in fifteen minutes. I was disoriented by all the lights and the people, whos eyebrows seemed perputually furrowed, brushing pass me with a sense of urgency I hadn't ever encountered before. The four of us stood in a huddle, embodying the fear of prey about to be hunted yet all we could muster were wide eyed stares, we were outsiders in this uncanny world. My mind couldnt even drift in the direction of Led Zeppelin, who were currently under the same roof as us,under any other circumstances I would have passed out at that realization.

I could hear the unfamiliar buzz of a crowd from behind the bend i was certain led to the stage, I could the feel sound that filled my ears getting louder by the second. It filled my head until there was no room for thoughts of my impending failure and I realized my feet were carrying me forwards,the warmth of hands on my shoulder grounding me and encouraging my unsteady steps. Yet I halted,digging my heels into the concrete as i squared my shoulders and held my chin up. When I turned I was met with Chesters confusion.

"We're only playing if we get a label and an album, you need us more than we need you at this very moment" I hand gripped my hip in determination. This girl who was about to be on stage was someone other than me, she was a lit funeral pyre.

He sighed, shook his head in surrender and I knew I pushed him between a rock and a hard place, I knew he didn't have a choice but in giving me what I wanted.

"You drive a hard bargain kid. I'll figure something out"

"Thank you"

My eyes drifted behind him to the boys,,still looking as frazzled as i felt, Jack was behind them,a hand on Billy's shoulder.

"You're going to be great!" Jack mouthed

I nodded to the boys and they followed, we were all in.

These people were angry,the concert of the year was in shambles and some dim nobodies were going to be in place of their stars, but they wanted a show so I'd give them just that. I could dissolve that anger into something stronger: passion. Maybe I couldn't do it tonight,maybe not for this particular crowd, but i would soon kindle that passion that mirrored my own in an audience . I would make sure of it.

Because this is what i want. It was a want that burned the back of my eyelids as I willed myself to sleep,it took the shape of a stage and a crowed that called my name and echoed my soul back to me, this want was an eternal flame of desire. I wanted this and I was going to have this,I couldn't, I wouldn't let this ignited longing slip between the cracks of darkness above my knuckles.

Because, I was going to be great.

Chapter 2 Chapter Text

They loved us.

The rush of blood, which now felt luminescent, slowly faded into a dreamlike calm when our faces all broke into grins, and we laughed wildly, our arms engulfing one another.

"-And then bam, bam, bam! Billy comes in with his kick-ass solo." Cam was babbling, incoherent and euphoric, embodying my exact feelings.

I nodded firmly. "And the way they sang along when we did the 'I wanna be sedated' ," I smacked Cam's arm, "And my boots!"
He wolf-whistled, smacking me back.
"And how that girl flashed me!" Theo added
Billy spoke up pointedly, eliciting a snicker from all of us, "And how it wasn't even directed towards you, pretty sure she flashed Laila"

I noticed our repetitive use of the word 'And' as we recounted our performance, like it would never end, as though it was reenacted through memory itself. If I could, I would live in this bubble of contentment forever; if we got signed, I could. All was hopeful and light.

But the night was far from over; the air around us refused to still, and the blood that thumped in my ears, which I thought had steadied, picked up its pace again when I caught a glimpse of gold. My attention was immediately on him; of course, it was; that's what his existence demanded, your immediate attention. He stood there effortlessly, drenched in light, a statue in flared denim, legs long and graceful as a horse's. This was it, I was in a God's presence, a rock God, a visionary, Robert Fucking Plant.

I felt tangled in his wild locks, bewitched as I raised my hand in greeting, the corners of my mouth turned up in a grin, I was sure to look ridiculous, I must've been spellbound as I wished him luck, luck that he most definitely didn't need, my voice cut through the humid air with a tone that sounded overly enthusiastic and wimpy. I didn't even get one last look at his face when I felt the silk of his blouse, a black void that filled my vision as it brushed against my cheek with a coldness that matched his shoulder.

"You'll be signed to Atlantic Records by tomorrow at the latest, which will be perfect since the show in London is on Sunday. Definitely need stylists too..."

"Wait, wait, London?" I squinted, "I thought we would only play tonight and then get the album; that was the deal, wasn't it?"

The prospect was enticing but improbable. We sat in a posh dressing room that Chester had ushered us into; he closed the door behind him and plopped onto the purple couch, a stack of papers on his lap, and the sound of 'Whole Lotta Love' faded into just a dim echo.

I couldn't go to London, all those hopeful thoughts turned to dread, no, embarrassment. I had gotten up on that stage with so much feeling, so much determination, I performed as though this could all be mine.

"Well, the tour is joint, can't have a show without an opening act. And an album at this point would be futile, one arena has heard three or four of your songs, thats hardly enough for you to be remembered, the tour let's us get your music out there...unless we should find another band?"

"No! We'll do it!" Cam yelped.
Chester dropped the stack of papers onto the table with a triumphant smirk. "It's a deal then?"

Once the papers were signed, I sat, my leg bouncing as I chewed on the end of an Atlantic Records pen. "I don't know guys, it just...it won't work out"

"Always the optimist, muffin, but you're the best liar I know!" His usual foolishness dropped for a rare moment "C'mon, you would be lying to yourself if you said you didn't want more nights like tonight, just, I dunno, tell them you're going join a convent."

"A convent in Soho," i scoffed "I'd be a bad nun."

"Yeah, Laila, we all want this", interjected Billy, Theo hummed in agreement.

"You can't just let them control you forever", Cam smirked once more. "You wouldn't want to deny Theo of getting flashed again, would you?"
"Yeah, that's what I'm living for, Laila!", I pinched the bridge of my nose, they didn't understand how impossible this was.

"Laila, I'll talk to your parents okay?"
Jack spoke up with a gentle tone that was reserved for me. I could only nod, knowing words would only fail me, as they always did.

That Saturday morning, I watched from the staircase as Jack stood at the door, newspaper clipping in hand, blinking away the brightness of outside, which followed him into the house. The sun reminded me of Robert, the asshole, I brooded over that glimmering infinitesimal flash as I stared at my ceiling, bathed in the lilac dawn, with my feet hurting from my platform boots and a worn throat. I reached the unsteady conclusion he was just nervous or frustrated or any other undesirable emotion. He didnt hate me and want me to die, probably. Not that he'd have any reason to, anyway, probably.

The words were all muffled as they jerked me back to the present that I desperately yearned not to exist in at that very moment. I didn't need to hear the words to know what the thickness of unease in the air meant, a white man on a doorstep in an Indian immigrant household was both a welcome and unwelcome, unusual sight.

Race is an indefinite term neither drawn from science nor research, only the perception we have given it; the knowledge of it is born with us, and thus it will stay. To my parents, this sight meant two things: this white man could bring prosperity, dreams of a hopeful future, and a superior being that hovered over peasants. Their very existence was an unattainable holiness and only they could save us from the tragedies of our own. The other side to this coin was the stories that newspapers wouldn't print, lit fireworks being put in mail boxes the cruelty that wore a badge. The scholar on the TV, the one my mother sat in front of as she oiled my hair, whose booming voice declared that by permitting mass immigration, the country was “heaping up its own funeral pyre” She turned the TV off and went back to the kitchen to check on the potatoes. We couldn't ignore that we were of coloured skin, that we were a stain on their porcelain nation. But was there a lesser evil between pity and violence?

To my parents, there wasn't, but evidently so their daughter wanting to leave the country with a 'satanic' band took more importance over racism right now, not that I didn't expect this reaction. The door slammed shut and my father's feet arrived at the landing. His face was a cloud of anger, this was the only way I ever saw him, especially in dreams; he was a faceless figure, disfigured anger.

"What's nonsense is this, Laila? Galavanting around and playing nonsense devil music," His voice throbbed against my skull "leaving the country?"

"Dada, you don't understand it's a huge opportunity for me. We've been doing this for years, and we're good at it, we can make money, Dada", I was pleading with my shaky voice. "I can help us, Dada, please."

"I don't want your dirty money; you're a disgrace to this family and a liar", he spat, a blurred veil was over my eyes, I could only make out his narrow brows and his gaping mouth. "You're throwing your life away, and I won't stand for it; I won't have my daughter doing these things!"

He was stomping away from the stairs, "Nothing but a disappointment, a failure, chasing these fantasies of yours instead of getting married or studying. You're a stupid girl, just like your mother!"

I hopelessly followed against my own will, there would always be a tether that ran through the three of us, unwillingly joint.
"Dada, you don't understand, this isn't a silly dream it r-"

"When I get back you will be gone", he just cut it. The door slammed hard for the second time within that hour.

"He's just angry, Poppy" My mother's feeble voice breathed against my arm. "He doesn't mean it. Come, I'll make you sugar water"

"Mama, I can't live like this anymore, it doesn't matter, he wants me gone so I'll go." she was chasing behind me with futile reasoning and tears; I couldn't break apart the sound of her sobs from my own. "Mama I'm sorry, but you know I have to" The floorboards were bruising as I dug out all my music magazines, the Rolling Stone, Tiger Beat, Pop Music, then my records, Abbey Road, Blues Helping, Fleetwood Mac and Joan Baez,Pink Floyd and The Kinks. Then there was my horror paraphernalia: The Adventures in Horror and my stolen copy of the Exorcist, all hidden here for years, knowing these walls as well as I did; the sounds that existed within it, the crying, the yelling, the sharp ring of fallen plates and hushed whispers in a language that should have been my own. But they were hidden from the sight of it all, at least.

Then I was haphazardly throwing clothes into a bag, the sobs that wracked my body and rendered me blind, in a house I wish I didn't know my way around, subsided to just hiccups. I could separate mother from daughter now.

I was speaking words of comfort, piling one upon the other, to stifle her sobs, to make her forget the memories that I was leaving behind in this bedroom. The walls that caved in on me, the ones I painted purple, the posters I wish I could've covered them in, all the books, and the holy ones I didn't want to touch. The mirror where I'd apply metallic blue eye shadow to her lids and brush her hair, how even when it was smooth I'd still continue, when the quirk of her painted lips made her look like a girl again, how we had felt like girls together until he called for her.

My mother held herself as though hands themselves could prevent an avalanche, she didn't try to stop me again. She knew I couldn't turn back. Left behind everything I could let be erased, the room was far from empty as though tonight she'd find me on my bed, hunched over a book as she usually would, she'd nag me about still being awake and sit down at the foot of the bed and talk about her day, and I would listen. I searched for the last thing and shoved it into my pocket: the intricate music box, a frilled and dolled-up ballerina inside; the delicate dancer was clandestine, still and protected on her baby blue stage, housed in soft darkness until the notes began to float around her.

Outside, the cheeriness of the grass mocked me and my singular bag; our mirrored faces watched one another. These endings were just as cruel as the beginnings. I didn't think this navy blue luggage bag had ever seen the sky, I had nowhere to run until now.

"No boys." She implored as she grasped my cold hands. That would really be the nail in the coffin for me. I nodded in confirmation.
"Yeah, yeah, I know." She opened her mouth to speak but only a woeful sound left it until she found her words once more.

"You will forget me"

"I won't, Mamma, you know that." I held the music box out to her "But how do I know you won't forget me, mhm?"

She couldn't stop the small smile that found its way onto her face. She held the box as though it would vanish. Her eyes sparked in recognition; it was a birthday present to me, a birthday that must've been a decade ago, a static pink memory of wrapping paper on the floor until the box was hidden away, "music doesn't have a place in this house".

"I can't forget my little ballerina, my music girl."

"Your father-" She began

"He threw me out; he won't ever understand, and I won't ever understand him; I can't do anything but leave. He's stubborn and prideful with all his beliefs and all that...that bullshit."

I had let the silence stretch out, "I can't be the good daughter he wants. I'll bring shame to him and throw away my life, but I'll be happier than I ever was in this house."

"He's just scared, Laila."

"So am I, Mama." I tensed my jaw to halt the tears that lodged themselves like bullets in my throat. "But that's the difference between him and I, he won't ever stop being scared."

Robert

Locals Turned Legends

The Velvet Doves pulled away from obscurity to centre stage as a last-minute opening act for the highly anticipated rock band, Led Zeppelin.

When news broke that the Ramones were unable to perform due to unforeseen circumstances, tensions began to rise. The entire concert was thought to be cancelled. However, when The Velvet Doves took the stage with the pure ethos of rock and roll but also something more experimental. With a sound that was reminiscent yet entirely new and a voice of eerie, bewitching, sensuality, the crowd couldn't help but dance; those who had begun to walk away, turned around in curiosity, and those who were crying smiled.

The Velvet Doves are local to the small town of Belle Vale and favourites to the patrons of The Zodiac. Laila Kumar, the Indian vocalist and lead guitarist, rhythm guitarist Theo Dubois and his brother, drummer Cameron Dubois, and bassist Billy Patton all of whom effortlessly charmed the crowd with their talent. The stage was theirs and they took it, casting off any memory of the Ramone's absence.

The Velvet Doves are rumoured to be joining Led Zepplin on what is known to be the tour of the year, playing cities such as Paris, London, New york and California. Their next performance is curiously and eagerly awaited, perhaps even more so than Led Zeppelin's.

What began as a nightmare for both concert-goers and event organizers turned into a night of success, as well as the rare opportunity to witness the birth of what many are believing to be legends.

Jimmy slid the newspaper back to me with a shrug, he was quite hungover and not particularly interested.

"It's bullshit," I said with a voice muffled by my cigarette; Malboros always hit the spot first thing in the morning, especially when you needed frustration to ease. "More anticipated than us? Yeah fucking right, until last night, they were complete unknowns!"

"Not their fault you nearly smashed a beer bottle over the Joey Ramones' head." he covered a yawn with the back of his hand "Seemed like they held their own last night, the crowd didn't mind them"

"The crowd didn't boo them; there's a difference, now we've got to drag them around and share the stage with them every bloody night." The bus rattled along noticeably with the extended silence, my gaze floating to the highway before he spoke again.

"So this is about sharing the spotlight then?"

"No, it’s about standards, Jimmy. Standards!" I huffed out, everyone's way too laid back about this, do they even care that we're the Led Zeppelin? It was infuriating.

"You can't be in a mood the whole tour." Jimmy smirked. Infuriating. "Maybe you just decided you don't like any opening acts after the Ramones."

"Maybe I just don't want to have to share a tour bus with them, a hotel, stage time, articles! Everything, Jimmy! And having to deal with them when they come over all awe-struck and grateful, we aren't meant to be doing charity work! None of you idiots seem as bothered as I am either."

Jimmy held his hands up in defense, looking at me as if I'd gone mad. "Just enjoying the music, man. You should try it sometime."

I could hear them giggling away acting like absolute children who had never been on a bus before. The dark hair of the singer was almost blue against the light from the window, her hair was absurdly long and somewhat distracting in its movement. She didn't have that hopeful look on her face anymore, the one she donned when i saw her for the first time. She flipped through the magazine on her lap while simultaneously making conversation with her bandmates, if it was a fashion magazine she obviously wasn't too attentive with her reading. She dressed like she robbed graves and hippie's closets. The thought amused me.

I would just ignore them and their grating existence, I wasn't here to make friends and i knew how to enjoy the music, my own music that is.

"I'm going to kick their amps off the bus."

Chapter 3 Chapter Text

London was evidently a creature which urged you to acknowledge her electric chaos that never stilled. The neon lights that surrounded us ricocheted onto the streets and the people that stirred to and fro. It was vastly different from the London I was once briefly acquainted with as a child when we had come to visit distant family for some function I probably fell asleep during. Then, the slow-paced suffocation of my hometown seemed to follow and dilute the brightness of the temptress that sparkled and burned before me now. The sparks danced out of clubs that seemed to line every street, scandalous and alluring, the sparks flitted of off the green glass of the beer bottles that I held. This was the essence of rock and roll.

"Okay, top three drugs on our bucket list?" Theo spoke from behind me. He was already strangely entranced by this new world we were thrown into. It seemed like this part of it, the partying, was what he looked forward to. The music and drugs, both a rush, they were one in the same I supposed.

"Cocaine's definitely my number one, doesnt seem like a bad time." Cam smirked slyly, he was just entertaining Theo, "All of 'em do it, makes them feel lush"

I could feel a certain inside joke brewing.

"And makes their dicks limp" The words left our mouths at the same time, leaving Cam and I to stumble forward into the neon air with the force of our laughter, bumping shoulders and beer bottles.

Billy piped up, almost apprehensively when our stupidity subsided."Do you think they're gonna do coke tonight?"

"You think they wouldn't do coke tonight?" Theo replied.

"Are we doing coke tonight?" Billy was a lost puppy, looking up at Cam with his mossy eyes.

"It's up to you, they'll definitely have coke, the world's at our disposal now", Cam waved his hand theatrically, "Better get used to it boys...and Laila"

"I think my number two is heroin." Theo was continuing his idiotic train of thought which barely stopped at it's station to hear us, well at least I knew one of us was sure to do some sort of drug tonight. It wasn't very comforting, but it was unavoidable, was there anything you could avoid in this world?

"We bought cheap beer, I'm sorry." I placed the six pack onto the counter, they got a much nicer hotel suite than we did i noticed. If I looked to my left i could see the corridor that ended with a poor print of a Monet, and I could faintly make out the shadow of two doors on each side. Back in our room I had made up the couch for when I inevitably drunkenly pass out on it. I would also inevitably end up getting Theo comfortable on the other couch while Cam and Billy took the bed. But I couldn't complain, I was technically homeless now.

"We're not fussy" Jimmy laughed good-naturedly, "I'm glad you lot came, it's good for us to be acquainted, think of this as a...welcome party?". Were dashing smiles a non-negotiable asset for rockstars to possess?

Across the room, Theo was already slouched into the plush armchair like he belonged there, his booted feet kicked up onto the coffee table while he chatted with John Paul as though it was just another casual evening at the Zodiac and John was an old friend. Cam leaned against the minibar, a lazy smirk playing on his lips, while Billy hovered near the doorway, unsure whether to step further into this gilded world.

"Acquainted, hm?" Cam echoed, tipping his beer towards him, "I like the sound of that, guess you wouldn't want a repeat of the Ramones either, now I am curious about that whole situ-"

One of the doors in the hallway cracked open–the room was immediately charged, the idle chatter silenced, I didn't have to look to know who it was, who else could make air shift like a storm rolling in?

Robert didnt speak right away, his gaze sharp and cat-like, just took us in, lingering on me for a moment too long. I couldn't quite place the expression on his face, disdain, amusement? Either way it took the form of a half smirk around the cigarette which hung off his lips.

"I see you've taken in the strays," His voice, it occurred to me this was the first time I had actually him speak, was melodically demeaning, "they've made themselves comfortable too."

"Oh we weren't looking for a saviour." The words escaped before I could stop them, sharp and almost a challenge. I could hear Cam snicker into his drink.

The gray smoke escaped with a humorless huff, equally as challenging, "Good, that would be a waste of time." His gaze flickered over to Billy now, who was still stood stiffly like an actual stray. "Looks like you're still deciding whether to stay or run."

"We're still here, aren't we?" I quipped hastily.

"For now, that is, we'll see how long that lasts"

"Is that supposed to scare us?"

"Only if you let it; it's just a friendly warning, love." He smirked proudly, waiting to see if I'd back down, if I'd bend to his will just as everyone else probably did.

I couldn't help that his words got under my skin, he held the tone of a man who was oh-so sure of himself and it irked me to no end. A week ago, before I knew his eyes were of a starker blue than in the magazines, I would've been at his feet, in awe of his presence, I probably would've ashed out his cigarette unsolicited, I had tried to rationalize his behavior before but it occurred to me now that he might just be an asshole, plain and simple as that.

"I guess we will."

Jimmy pushed himself off the counter at the knock on the door "Well...enough of that" he coxed calmly, as he crossed the room he disrupted the space between Robert and I, breaking the promise of challenge between us for now. The knock ushered Billy to distance himself from the threshold to make room for Jimmy who, with the unmistakable shuffle of an exchange and a drawn out "Thanks love.", set a baggie of snow white powder on the counter, right next to our shitty beer.

"Ready to dip your toes into the muck?" His eyebrows wiggled beneath his fringe. "Or are you just watching?"

"I'll bite!" Theo scrambled up from the couch. I met each of my bandmates eyes with the silent question to which I received uncertainty which matched my own, aside from Theo's which only held intrigue. It wasn't until I accidentally found Robert's eyes, turquoise incited in a provocative dare, that my decision was clear. It would have made things easier to believe we had nothing to prove, but we would only be lying to ourselves. We had everything to prove.

The crystallized substance didn't go up easy, I could see the distorted, dreamlike face, in the mirror with powder clinging to her nose which had began to drip, she was a haze of fascination, half of the line still in front of her. So she leaned back down in a veil of euphoria and it went down a little easier now, she could barely feel the burn, or anything for that matter. She only felt unbound.

My head was full of lyrics unwritten and songs unsung, spilling out from me like the beer that glistened on rambling lips. My cheek fluttered against Cam's rough denim clad knee with my legs stretched beneath me on the blood orange carpet, the sound of laughter was one I held up to my ear, like you do a seashell to feel the crash of long gone waves, letting it reverberate between my ribs. The ghosts of a knocked over ashtray hung like stars in my hair and fell onto my painted eyes when I found the glowing bodies of laughter. The words burned without fire and I could barely understand the sharpness of voices yet they warmed my face regardless.

Jimmy, like a Cheshire cat was dizzyingly draped across an armchair with pupils that widened impossibly as the spell met its edge, sat up and spoke off-handly as though through wisps of swirled thoughts. “Laila, play us something”

“Huh?“ I lifted my head, it felt sticky like a pulse. Light and heavy, time was sprinting and dragging its clouds of soot all at once.

“Give us a song.”, he gestured to the acoustic guitar leaned against the chair, it wobbled at his pale fingers and the starkness of the individual strings on the deity found their clarity within me.

“Give us some music Velvet Dove!“ John Bonham, Bonzo, the king in exile slumped next to me on the floor bolstered.

“I don't know if I can feel my hands” my lips pouted with a dopey smile as I my head pulled itself back down, I could feel Robert, a gilded wraith, gaze over me, silent yet watchful.

“That's when it's best.” Jimmy giggled and gestured me to my feet. That was all the convincing I needed, I knew I would've let an agreement slip past my lips once I had refused enough. On wobbly knees I leaned against the edge of the hedonistic coffee table, the wood of the guitar was warm on my thigh, the strings just slightly out of tune. The instrument was my altar.

“Alright then.“ I let my fingers ground themselves between grooves and below the strings that matched the callouses adorned, my very body was sculpted in the image of it. I strummed once–rough,uncertain. I strummed again and cleared my throat in the same way you use a corkscrew to let the silken liquid flow, red and unbridled. With eyes cast low as if I hoped to summon something ancient through a forgotten language which spoke of obscurity, I let it come to life.

"Wild man of blues,
There’s no turning back.
Like ships built to wreck,
I drift in your tracks.

I'll be your cigarette’s muse,
Half ache, half rhyme
Like catching fire's flame,
Call me yours, I’ll call you mine.

Would it make me a fool to follow you?
There's no turning back, nothing else I could really do
We dug our graves, there's nothing else we could really do
And God, you really do
You burn me right through

Light me up, burn me down
Leave your mark on my sad old town
But I don't want it another way,
You burn bright, but you burn right through.
Play me soft, then play me cruel,
Wild man of blues

The fiery sadness you named desire
Half decay, half poem,
I can kiss ruins and name them rooms
I'm just a fool to follow you

But even if I had known
Your steel eyes and pretty lies,
I was born to lose
To a wild man of blues"

My voice when it came over keys which dropped off cliffs only to raise back up to another, was low and smokey, a slow burn that set my lungs alight. My song was a living, breathing, burning thing.

Jimmy clapped his hands together as his boyish eyelashes fluttered, the sound stung the air and his smile mirrored my own. But I felt Robert's unintelligible hum, or was it a grumble? Regardless, it gravitated my axis and I turned a cheek to everyone else to find a crease in a brow or a hint of admiration on his lips, but everything was too abstract to understand. The fresh vibration of chords flaunted themselves in the thrumming of my fingertips while the sweet chirps of compliments sung around me. Robert pushed himself upwards with the abruption of a lightning strike, his hair maddeningly strewn across his pearlescent face, he floated away and dissolved into the black corridor with an ashen veil of smoke. The shimmer of fantasy faded and with it fell a lull over the room.

"Is he alright?"
My irises were filled with the void he once occupied, engrossed in the empty space that once thunderous, was now in oblivion, why did he leave? There was a wild, sudden yearning to hold the tempest of his mind in my palms.

"He just gets restless when he's high." John shrugged.

"Laila, Laila.” Cam's breath was brushing against my face, his tangled hair tickled my face from where he was looming, ghost-like over the couch, his thick skull was thankfully, blocking out the sun

“What was that song you played last night?”, I opened one eye, it seemed he wasn't blocking the sun at all for she hadn't yet risen, this idiot was waking me up at an ungodly hour, making some godforsaken liquid bubble up my throat which I promtly pushed down, like a priest with a crucifix. “I dunno.” I grumbled and turned over, shoving my face into the pillow which still smelt of sleep and was warm like sunbathed petals.

“Laila, what was it called, when did you write it?“, his icy hands rocked me back and forth, eliciting another unhappy noise. But sleep was too far out of my grasp now to keep my fists clenched, “Wrote it a few night's ago.“ My throat felt screwed and scratchy not unlike my brain as the blotches of last night began to conjure behind my eyelids. “Burn right though.” I added.

I didn't write, that was Cam's thing. He wrote of fleeting love that he wasn't entirely sure existed, heartache he knew all too well, and stories. Stories which constantly spun themselves around his mind– the Greeks, Shakespeare, his own. Cam had been writing these stories since time itself, or at least since Year 2, while I used to sneak a glance over his shoulder to figure out how he wrote his 'g's so prettily, he would wound tales between the lines as he let the colours of his mind spill from his pen. He would read me his words while I pushed myself forward on the rusted swing and I'd watch as his language caused the autumn leaves on the floor to blur into a vision so clear and vibrant as the pigment of thick paint on canvas. He was incredible and I revered him for that. I sang and strummed, reaching for the sound which existed, tangled in stanzas and looping letters, all I did was give it a voice. Cam gave it flesh, gave it a name. Yet last night I had given it both, which now felt silly of me to do. I wasn't a songwriter, I left those lyrics forgotten at the back of an empty notebook with unknown chords but last night they had come back and I had forced everyone to experience my shortcomings. I didn't mean to show my cards, I didn't realise I had any.

“It was fucking good Laila, I mean those lyrics, fucking hell, they suited your voice better than mine do! They were so different. Why didn't you tell me about it? We need to get that on the album.“ He rambled above me, making my teeth crush against one another. “We can work on lyrics together, imagine i-”

I shook my head quickly to leave no more room for words, “Let's just forget that happened. You're still our poet, always will be Cam. It's not me.” I smiled wryly as my feet found the floor and the bile flooded around my clenched teeth and soon I fled and was banging on the bathroom door trying to push away the shame which had begun to gnaw at me. There was Theo, snot and the salt of tears crusted on his slumbering form in the bathtub, I didn't even have time for a worried glance before my guts were being spilled into the toilet bowl in a burning witches brew green.

I was suddenly overcome with hunger just as room service, along with Grant Chester, looking exponentially less frazzled than us, arrived, never had I been so thankful to see a face that wasn't youthful and callow. "Eventful night, huh?" He had joked when he first saw us. Sat on the couch in silence we munched on several pieces of toast and flavorless cubes of fruit until there was nothing left but crumbs and the sticky crescent imprints of mugs on the coffee table. Yet I was still starved, and it suddenly felt like I would be cursed with hunger for eternity, so I took to emptying the tiny tubs of jam into my mouth while Grant told us what our broken bodies were now expected to busy themselves with for the day.

We were all too tired to exist fully, already too disgusting to get under the shower, with the exception of me who spent an hour trying on every combination of skirt and top I owned after I stood beneath the hot spray for what felt like hours. And for once, we were quiet. Besides Theo, of course, who only bragged of last night like a constant banging against my already throbbing head, he was starry eyed, yet somewhat weighed down. He eventually left to roll joints with Led Zepplin's roadies when we didn't bat a droopy eye at him. We had also come to learn that we didn't have the privilege of help with lugging equipment yet, this only added to the whirl storm of emotions I was feeling. I didn't feel excited to perform or even willing enough to appreciate the stadium.

Well, maybe I did gawk at it enough to draw the attention from my trembling arms wrapped around an amp to the wide sky that opened up above us, I couldn't comprehend the size of it, the rows of empty seats which carried on further than my eyes could see, which would soon carry the weight of a loud, excited crowd. A crowd that, although unaware of us, would still hear us. I was filled with too many overwhelming contradictions to begin putting names to them.

But the sky was still beautiful and the city air was still around me where I smoked somewhere behind the stadium. My pounding head found solace on the coolness of the brick wall behind me, letting breaths in and out. In I breathed the music and hopes, maybe of another bump of coke to bring back that confidence, out was everything else. I repeated that in my mind until the unwanted and unneeded thoughts came less frequently.

“Paki.”, a snicker and the padding of shoes. A pair of crew members that passed me, the sound carried over their shoulders.

Just like that, a tidal wave of thoughts, of my mother, of my father. Paki, it cut deeper than I'd want to admit, how it stabbed. It was one of those words you didn't need a dictionary to understand to know the intention and meaning behind it, to know that the syllables where crafted with their bones of hatred and sheer disgust. It wasn't a word that was whispered, it was a word commanded, wanton for being heard. But you shouldn't react, you should thicken your skin, just as my mother has done to stop the slices it left from teenage boys who she had just allowed to buy cigarettes, just as my father does when he lowers his head to the wind as we walk the streets. A word I couldn't imagine how often it was spat at a woman who looked like my mother, a man like my father, at a little girl with two oiled pigtails, at a grandfather who couldn't string together the language but understood none the less. And now me, with hopes leaned against bricks, who wanted to sing for an audience, who was a complete unknown and now the joke of the stage crew.

Where did it all go?

I watched their shadows disappear. It echoed, echoed with memories of home, it echoed louder when I turned around and saw Robert.

Robert Plant was amused.

Chapter 4 Chapter Text

Robert

"Her life, her mystery was no different than the way he said "Don't hide behind your hair that way." In his heart, he wishes for her stardom." – Gold and Braid

Last night had blurred around the shape of her. She was everywhere and nowhere all at once. Jimmy had invited them into the suite as a welcome gesture, but it felt more like an initiation. Especially when the powder arrived and we had the chance to watch them unravel. I didn't want to be there, but when she caught my quips it felt like she held a lit match to the suddenly fammable air between us; it intrigued me as much as it irritated me. So I watched as she laughed and drank, and watched me like she wasn't, but I couldn't find anymore words for me in her dark-drowsy eyes. And then, God help us, Jimmy asked her to play.

I didn't expect anything. I’ve heard thousands of hopefuls over the years, scraps of melody wrapped in ego and desperation, kids who believe pain made prophets. I didn't expect to hear it as clear as I could now in the cold, sober morning.

Her voice, it was like smoke on the stained glass windows of a cathedral, and the chords worthy of it were sharp and confusing. I couldn't understand any of it, how her song taught my lungs how to hold their air in for a little longer, why my mouth hung ajar like I wished to breath her in, or why the music was like blood on her lips and made me covetous, or how that burning around the edges of my body felt terribly similar to resentment. I didn’t clap. Jimmy did, of course, he claps for strangers and sunsets, he'd probably clap for a falling leaf if it landed rhythmically enough. Bonzo howled like a proud uncle and her bandmate's eyes lit up with pride. But me? I stood. I left. And didn't catch any eyes on my way out in fear of giving myself away. I didn't understand why I left then but it came to me now as I stared at the light filtering through the window before I had lifted my head from the pillow or made any attempt to face the world. I didn't leave because her song was horrific or humiliating or just bad, I had expected it to be. It was the complete opposite.

I left because it was dangerous.

Laila didn't know she had it. That made it worse. It wasn’t practiced, or polished, it just was. And the second she realized it, the second she owned it, she’d burn everything in her path. Been there, done that. Truthfully, it scared me.

London mornings, dreary, suffocatingly hung in industrial smog and equally as hungover, yet London was nostalgically lovely. The sky was pale as a smudged charcoal with the threat of daylight, and I felt stuck in an endless dawn, when the night was too full and the morning is now too empty. The venue was mostly asleep, except for the stagehands and her band. With the lenient silence that was offered by the day, I sat with Jimmy in the green room, he played and I sang along with my usual recklessness. He tried to still his fingers occasionally to get a word in but I didn't want to know what he had to say, if he wasn't going to talk about the music, our music, I didn't want to hear it. He soon understood that and now only spoke up to tell me if I was offtune, he was usually wrong about that though.

I couldn't help but hold onto some frustration towards him. It felt like everything was unbalanced and Jimmy had been the one to give it that push, he invited them, he coaxed out her voice. Jimmy, the Victorian child who could charm a guitar as though it was a venemous serpant with frets for scales. Jimmy who when he liked you even briefly, made you feel like you were chosen by some ancient, cosmic rite. But I knew better. Jimmy didn’t so much as choose people as much as he discovered them, like relics. And The Velvet Doves were his newest relics.

The shinest of them was Laila, as he was trying to tell me. This is how I saw it though; the most unremarkable of them was Theo, God, I had seen innumerable numbers of Theo's: self assured overachievers. There was the quiet one who was too vulnerable, a fawn on the highway. Cam was out there, charming, doubtless to be adored. I hadn't yet heard them, not properly, but I could already envision Jimmy tonight, urging me to strain my ears to catch rhythym and melody and voice, Laila's voice. Laila, Laila, Laila. I didn't have anything more to say about her.

Jimmy held them up to the light to catch a glint and I furtively watched over his shoulder as he did so. It was familiar, only now from a different lense. It was only last July, that in a blur of barely coherent phone calls, too fleeting to feel the weight of what they told, he had found me. I had received an invitation from Chester Grant to audition, I wasn't the first choice of either of them. But Jimmy came to London anyways perhaps driven by fate or curiousity, he had heard me perform at a measly venue in Walsall, this made London feel like a mother, our birthplace who granted us an act of creation. The drinks flowed as I hoped they would, and Jimmy being the archeologist that I did not yet sense, invited me over. He unearthed me like the bones of a buried city, slow, deliberate, reverent, we spoke of passions and when he felt that he had dug up something worth keeping, he chose me, we had become brothers in arms. In that moment, I belonged to the music. And Jimmy? He's the hand on the volume knob that turns it up all the way.

I got sick of song soon enough when my lungs felt too bare. I'd gone looking for silence and found smoke instead, the girl who's voice was beginning to bury itself in my skull was leaned against the wall as though it could stop the world from pressing in around her. She didn't see me, standing just beyond the reach of the light, behind the amplifier cases and discarded scaffolding, so I lingered, I could've left then, called my girl, slept the high off but I stayed watching her.

Two crew boys walked past her, laughing too loudly for the hour. It was a familiar laughter, I'd heard it before. It was the ugly kind, a dog-like coughing that was thoughtless aside from its own lack of consequence.

"Paki." Like it was nothing. And then they were gone, cowards always move quick.

She flinched, no, not quite. She froze, not in the dramatic way once does in the stillness right after a glass shatters. She froze in such a miniscule manner that, had I not been observing the plight closely, I would not have noticed it. Their word didn't slice, it merely bore down on an ever existing bruise.

Laila's eyes found mine, wide and wounded, but not weak, however, any magic of last night had slipped away, down into the dark gutters and all that remained were the dregs of whimsy that once hid the now visible shards of reality. She understood that I had been there long enough, that I had heard, that I had seen. That I had perhaps been complicit, I wasn't. But the word 'savior' came to mind again when she was searching my face for something, anything, I'm not her savior.

Did she want me to start throwing punches over words that had been swirling around London long before she or I had shown up in it? Apologize for someone else's ignorance? Vanquish sadism? It was unjust, I knew that, she didn't deserve it, still I said nothing.

She was looking at me like a question. I answered with a smirk. Not out of cruelty, not really. Out of habit, defense, general contempt, call it what you will, I don't have a name to give it. But my silence was like violence or her, I could tell. And the she brushed past me like the still thick summer breeze and with the breeze she ashed her cigarette out on my denim jacket. The ever graceful flick of her wrist sent the snowy flecks landing in burns on the blue of my shoulder. There might've been a hiss of agony from the fabric, but she was staring back at me, who had my mouth set in provocation, I couldn't help but think in that moment she looked like some religious figure you'd sacrifice yourself for, with a god-like rage, like something I didn't believe in. And just like the divine, she disappeared once no prayers rolled off my lips.

And maybe I was amused, not by the word, not by the callousness or the furrow I found between her rich eyebrows. But by the way the world still found new ways to show its teeth and how some people, like her, still had the nerve to bare theirs back.

Chapter 5 Chapter Text

"Anger knows cigarettes as smoke knows teeth, as alleyways know exchanges, as ash knows descent."

I turned to music as I always did when things went to and felt like shit, this time is was in the form of our first sound check. But even then Lady Luck still decided against me. The mix was all messed up, the sound techs and crew were dismissive with their irritated sighs as they assured us we sounded "alright", "fine," "good enough." I watched over my shoulder, knowing I would constantly have prying eyes scrutinizing me. Every moment felt like a test I was failing in front of the wrong crowd.

Seven songs. From the wings the boys watched Led Zeppelin's sound check while I felt my way through each word and the breaths I needed to take in between them. We would open with "Little Liberty", which was fast and spirited, the kind of song where I would hold myself closer to the mic and produce raw highs and raspy melody, it was one of my favourites. I was comfortable with these songs; it was easier to sing words when you weren't the one bleeding onto the page. I was halfway through humming out the guitar solo of "Sparrow Song" when Billy was suddenly behind me with a silver triangle held between his thumb and index. He was grinning and his eyes, like dewdrops, sparkled.

"Jimmy gave me a pick, for good luck he said."

"We shouldn't be getting close with them." I said. His smile faltered with uncertainty.

Cam looked up, one eyebrow raised, sensing the shift."What, you think the pick's cursed?"

"I think they're not our friends. We don't know them." I shifted my guitar strap with sudden bitterness. They all gave me a quizzical look, even Cam.

"You allergic to opportunity all of a sudden?" Theo, half-joking, watched me closely.

I took a breath. There was a dull ringing in my head that hadn’t left since the alley. I hadn't told them. Not yet. Maybe I didn’t know how to. Maybe I didn’t want to see their faces fall in that specific way.

"Opportunities like what? We laugh at their jokes until they like us enough to off-handedly mention our name in a Rolling Stone interview?"

Theo blinked, caught off guard. “Well, yeah. Isn’t that how it works?”

'We can make it work our own way, it can't be that hard to find a way that doesn't include them."

Billy was still holding the pick, his eyes cast downward on it like it meant something. “Laila… it’s not like that. Jimmy’s just being cool.”

“Cool?” I laughed, dryly. “You think any of this is cool? The sound techs don’t even look us in the eye. We’re barely getting monitored properly, and the only reason they know our names is because we’re written in 10-point font under Led Zeppelin on the posters.”

Billy mumbled meekly, "It's just a pick."

"It's not about the pick." I snapped too quickly, too harshly.

Cam blew out a long drag of smoke "Then what is it about, Laila? Because if you're pissed off about something, we should know."

"It's about what happens when the tour ends and we're still attached to their name?" I swallowed the words I could've confessed. It wasn't like I could flippantly say "Oh their crew called me a Paki and Robert said nothing, he even found it funny. Isn't that strange? Haha. Oh! And then I ashed my cigarette out on him because it was well deserved, he's probably out for blood now!"

"We just can't lose ourselves, that's all. We can't pick up their scraps, be appendages and live in their shadows. We can't trust them either." I met each of my bandmates eyes.

"So what, we keep our heads down and ignore them the entire tour?" Theo was questioning. "We're not allowed to even party anymore?"

"All I'm saying is that we can't afford to get sucked in, we're not groupies, we're a band. A band who deserves this as much as they do."

The air between us was not fixed, yet it was thinner somehow, perhaps in a shift of understanding. "I'm still keeping the pick. Not for luck, it's just shiny"

I smiled tiredly at Billy, "Fine, but if we end up cursed I'm blaming you."

"And I'm still partying with them.", Of course you are, Theo.

We stepped into position under the bruised London sky. I was happier with the mix now, and we owned the stage, momentarily but that didn't matter when we were alone up there, no sound techs, no crew, just The Velvet Doves. The arena was full, the crowd swaying. Being up there for the second time, I finally found a way to describe it: it was like an ocean. I watched as the clouded sun drenched faces of my friends, it beckoned and winked off the curves of their instruments, I didn't feel alone for the first time that day.

"Oh, when you're set in stone, and there's no more silver for the phone

You're wishing you were as free as you swore you'd be

Oh, but don't you think of me, and my dirty company

Just get up, go on

and walk on home.

Oh, when the talk has all gone cold,

it's not dead it's just not gold

Oh, there's not a soul to taunt,

when you've gotten what you want

So you'll just get up

Go on, walk on home

Go on run, Little Liberty

Run on don't look back

Your freedom called

and it's a one way track

You know love won't wait until

Your wild heart decides it needs to still

But you can run,

Little Liberty

Little Liberty, run"

Little liberty was an instinctive kind of song, it showed in the crowd. I noticed the change once the chorus rose, when their feet found the beat and their lips curved around the words they had begun to know. It was the sort of song that got popular, the kind even the strictest of Indian aunties would bob their heads to. Universal and instinctive, sure it might be superficial, but most hit songs were anyways. I knew then it needed to be our first single. Grant told us this morning that it was a risk to put out an album from the get-go, my demand to him, as I treaded the edge of the stage that first night, felt incredibly silly and naive. Of course we couldn't bare all of ourselves to the world, we needed to prove that we were worthy of their attention first.

We weren't going to be in our home country for much longer, London was the last city in the European leg of their tour of which we missed more than half of. Our country was familiar and new all at once, but comfortable, but then we'd board a transatlantic flight to an obscure, completely unknown yet glittering land, at least to us. I tried to imagine myself in the scenes of New York; sitting just outside a café with the city of unrest laid out before me and a notebook on my lap, looming buildings which held the sky in their countless glass panes, and walking into one of those very buildings, except this one's walls echoed with music, we would be led to a darkened recording room where we could hang stars above our heads with our instruments in the other hand, all these scenes once seemed unattainable or better yet, unthought of. I suppose they still did, I was tip-toeing on shards of jewels, waiting for the moment this daydream was snatched away from me, when the taste of freedom, still fresh and sweet on my lips would turn bitter and be swallowed by reality.

The fear was real. Maybe even deserved. But it didn’t make any of this less absurd. We were thrown into these cloudy, uncharted waters that sparkled and in the same wave would pull you in and suck you under. Never would I have thought I would be here, let alone discover that a golden god, whoes howling voice I would've built an alter for, is a storm raging toward me, or that cocaine makes my words flow easy, or that I loved the intensity of performance that left my ears ringing so much so that I would willingly let it drown me.

I eased out from the blankets, bare feet silent on the worn carpets. Everyone lay sleeping or at least pretending to be, it was our last night. Billy was scared shitless for what the morning would bring; he had never been on a plane before. Cam was snoring loudly, still in his jeans, and Theo was gone, he had disappeared with a bottle and half formed promises "I won't do anything that'll tarnish our image". He'd turn up eventually slurring his way to the couch, I wasn't worried.

I couldn't stop thinking, not about the tour or New York, her. My mother. I pulled my Afghan coat on over my nightgown and slipped out of the room like a thief, the door caught on the latch with a soft click. The light in the hall was dim and jaundiced. The phone sat at the far end, fixed to the wall between two paintings of the English countryside that looked mass printed and miserable. I picked up the receiver, pressed in the number which sat nestled in muscle memory. I hadn't called her since I arrived in London, I couldn't face her, I couldn't hear news of a home that wasn't mine anymore, of my father and his white-hot rage. But I needed to now. I twirled the chord around my finger nervously. I wasn't even sure she'd pick up, she hated late calls, said they only brought bad news. Ring. Ring. Ring.

Then her warm, sleepy voice,

"Hello?"

"Mummy."

"Laila?"

"Yeah, sorry, I know it's late."

"No,no, it's okay my baby, where are you?"

"Still in London, we leave tomorrow, I just...couldn't sleep."

I heard her sit up and imagined the familiar rustle of her duvet that pooled around her.

“Are you okay?”

"Yeah, Mama, I'm okay."

We spoke softly, the way people do in the dark. About the show, about how New York wasn't a planet away, and how she still hasn't figured out how to set the timer on the rice cooker, about easier things. I didn't speak of Robert or the alley. I didn't speak of how differently my world had tilted now. When goodbyes and "I love you's" were said, I lingered, the receiver still pressed against my ear and my forehead against the cold wall, the dial tone soft and distant. I don't think homesickness would've been the right word to describe it.

I heard the scrape of a lighter, he was leaning against the wallpaper as though he was sculpted, with his shirt almost completely buttoned down from God knows what, a capricious quirk in his brow, and curls which made the city lights seem trite.

"Do you often use people as an ash tray?"

"Only when I need to...do you uh..often follow people around?"

We stood like two wrong notes in a song which wouldn't resolve, like chess pieces ready for a checkmate.

"Ice." Robert's pale hands lifted the bucket, it's rim pointing to the ice machine at the end of the hall, it's buzzing suddenly filled the space between us. I nodded. I was ready to retreat, for my king to slide across the checkered tiles back to safety, but he didn't let me.

"Was it really necessary?". He was the only one who knew, who saw, the fragmented memory was shared only between us two. I had tried to keep it down in my chest, but here he was, picking the lock. I remembered to put the phone back on the hook, as though my mother could still hear me. I couldn't bear the thought of her knowing, of anyone knowing.

"I'd like to think it was, burn for burn, that's pretty fair to me."

He scoffed. "We have different ideas of what 'fair' means."

"I guess so. Silence isn't fair, not to me."

His boyish features hardened with spite "You're lucky you've got that voice Laila, or else you'd just be another angry girl who doesn't know how to pick her battles."

Against my will, I took a step closer, the lights shifted, darkness pooled into the shallow hollows of my cheekbones. Something had cracked between us, raw, red-hot, like a vein bursting it felt as though it would be eternal.

"Oh, brilliant, so I’m just some angry girl with a good voice. Thanks for the compliment, Robert."

"Do you really think you all belong here?" He held my gaze threateningly, "I don't."

"Well, someone else seems to think we do. We've earned our spot on that stage, just as much as you have."

"I stiffened when he scoffed, his words were biting, "Jimmy has a penchant for charity cases. Do you think Chester decided on this? No, Jimmy persuaded him." His step forward matched my own. "You don't belong here."

"So we're only on this tour out of pity?" I scoffed, "And you think you haven't already made it awfully obvious that you don't believe we belong here?"

"Then act like it Laila. You hold your tongue, you open shows and play your songs, and you don't start fires you can't put out."

"And you Robert," I pressed my finger to his bare chest, "you get off your high horse, and make peace with the fact that the spotlight doesn't belong to only you."

He grabbed my wrist, not hard, maybe even gently, "The spotlight belongs to people who deserve it."

I pulled my hand free, "Good night Robert." As I stepped away, my shoulder brushed against his purposefully. I had reached the door, my palm flat against it, when he turned to face me.

"By the way Laila, burning holes in my jacket was one hell of a first impression." I smiled, he could be amusing too.

Chapter 6 Chapter Text