Chapter Text
Somewhere inside the shabby looking dive bar, the kind with sticky floors and old posters covering the badly-painted walls, a band was playing. A bass guitar churned and chugged, the notes deep and relentless in the way they made their way into your bones and reverberated in your chest. The player, a man who could only be described as beautiful with long, wild brilliant white hair that seemed to glow in the stage lights grinned at the crowd. His outfit and makeup, utter glam-rock, accentuated his features perfectly, and he turned to wink at the man sitting at the drumset beside him. The drums were on the edge of being too wild, too loud, reigning themselves in just enough to keep in time with the music and hold it all together in a careful balance of chaos and actual music. The drummer ignored the white-haired guitarist’s grin, focused grimly on his work, his own costume limited to simple gothic eyeliner and a black military-style jacket. His wavy black hair stuck to his sweaty forehead, rolled-up sleeves displaying corded forearms muscled from hours of practice.
At the front of the stage, an electric guitar was being played like it was the musician’s last day on earth and they were planning to rip the air apart before they left with the sheer energy and raw power of their instrument. It weaved in between melodies and accentuating the edges of the singer’s voice, playing with the notes and toying with the sound before throwing its entire weight behind sections of song like a voice screaming to be heard. Their entirely black outfit was the most elaborate, face entirely hidden behind a wicked-looking horned deer-skull mask, long dark hair styled into a wild ponytail and ripped cloak swishing around their shoulders as they played. The ensemble would have looked strange or even out of place if it wasn’t for the fact that they played like a demon unleashed from hell, knowing exactly how to play the crowd and draw screams from them at exactly the right time.
And above it all, the singer’s voice rose, sometimes husky and quiet, dripping with emotion, before building to be on the edge of screaming the lyrics as if they couldn’t contain the tide within them. She had obviously taken the most punk take on her clothing out of all of them; black leather vest jacket studded with spikes, white tank top showing just the right amount of dark red bra strap on one shoulder, wrists and hands adorned with bracelets and rings, shorts that would have stopped traffic and (of course) doc martens below it all. Her makeup looked like it was probably put on yesterday and was taking a bold “yeah it’s still holding up” stance, her hair flicking around her sweat-beaded face as the music seemed to emanate from deep within her and rip itself free.
For I am Death and I won’t break
I got a life I got to take
When will it end, this sufferin’ of late
It was nice to know you
Two figures sat at the crowded bar, watching the audience moving and jumping like an agitated tide, drunkenly yelling along with the lyrics amidst cheers and whoops. It was the end of the set and almost three in the morning, so everyone watching was either absolutely hammered or too tired to realise that they’d sobered up an hour ago. The place stank of booze, old cigarette smoke, sweat and adrenaline.
“Good tonight, right?” one of them, a man with wild, curly black hair that almost covered his eyes, yelled over the din, pointing at the band onstage with a beer in his hand. Liquid sloshed over the side of the glass as someone bumped into him on their haphazard way to the bar but he didn’t seem to care, just switched hands and licked the alcohol off like he couldn’t afford to waste a single drop. His open shirt revealed a chest slick with sweat from the stuffy, humid air, but given he was also wearing tiny man-shorts and sandals the heat didn’t seem to bother him. In fact, he seemed to thrive on it, despite it making his hair bigger by the minute.
“She’s pitchy,” replied his companion, an imposing woman with dark, vampy makeup and perfectly styled blonde hair that fell over one eye. Her low-cut blouse and cincher combination was attracting the attention of everyone that tried to ease past her to get to the drinks, but it didn’t seem to bother her. She crossed her legs, leaning back with her elbows on the scuffed bar, not caring that she was taking up more real estate than was polite given how hard it was to get orders even if she wasn’t there. Anyone who even thought to ask her to move up was met with an icy stare and a sharp tap of the wicked looking cane she had resting against her salaciously-stockinged legs. They quickly backed away after that.
“Nuh-uh!” the man replied, his casual easy-going demeanor completely at odds to the strict elegance of his companion. “Sophia, you-” he aimed a finger at her, “-are trippin’. Plus she’s been singing for like 3 hours so cut her some slack.”
Sophia sniffed imperiously, taking a sip from the martini she’d somehow wrangled from the bartender whose usual orders were ‘beer’ and ‘more beer’. “They still sound amateur, Bodhi. As their manager, you really should take a more critical eye.” She took another sip and narrowed her eyes at the band. “But I suppose that’s why I’m here.”
Bodhi rolled his eyes and turned back to watch the performance. “Nah, bro, you’re totally wacked out. They sound absolutely….” he scrambled for the word, gesticulating wildly as he searched for it.
Sophia raised an eyebrow. “Radical?” she said, scorn lacing her words.
Bodhi gasped and looked at her like she’d just invented the word for him. “Exactly, dude! We make such a great team.” He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close into an awkward sideways hug, much to her chagrin. “Best management team. And best, totally not pitchy, about to go pro most radical band ever!”
She pursed her lips but allowed him to continue his hug and tirade as she finished her drink. Her shrewd eyes watched the band as the song reached the slow bridge, drums fading until just the lead guitarist and singer remained. The guitar notes pitched up and up as the singer’s voice climbed higher and higher, harmonising with each other as she leaned back against him, arching her back to avoid his quick hands flicking over the guitar, hand reaching up to brush over his skull mask and horns as the song reached its peak, notes so high it made Sophia’s heart stutter in her chest. A moment, the last note hanging in the air, before the drums came crashing back in and the song continued, the singer moving away breathlessly, chest heaving.
God, it’s just like watching sex. Really good sex, she mused to herself, smiling. If that guitarist and the singer weren’t fucking, it was a miracle of self-restraint. She clicked her fingers at the bartender, gesturing idly to her empty glass. The set was about to wrap up but she may as well enjoy the show while it lasted.
***
The guitarist and the singer, in fact, were unfortunately not fucking. But the way they had sung together made Skips feel like they may as well have been as the band headed backstage, all panting and breathless after their last song, drenched in sweat and elated with adrenaline. The crowd cheered and shouted for more, but they were so close to collapsing it wasn’t even close to a distant possibility for them. Half three in the morning and he had work at nine. Brutal, but it was the life he’d chosen. Playing guitar with the band was the only time he felt like himself, the only time he felt real, he wouldn’t sacrifice it for anything.
His eyes wandered over to his singer, his mask hiding his gaze from you. Which was exactly how he liked it, from behind it he could watch you for as long as he wanted, taking in every curve, every freckle, every bead of sweat making its way down the back of your neck and making him feel things he wouldn’t ever tell you. Did you even realise how your act on stage had made him feel, he wondered as the band trudged into the green room, did you know that when you stroked his mask it had set his blood on fire and made him want to throw his guitar away and kiss you right there, right then? He could still feel your warm body against his shoulder from when you’d leaned against him. He forced himself to set his guitar down nonchalantly, as if the moment wasn’t lasting for eternity in his mind.
“Bit pitchy at the end there, Blake?” a cultured voice broke through his thoughts, the base guitarist flopping down onto the worn and frankly quite disgusting couch, arms spreading wide over the back in a picture of effortless cool.
Annoyed, you kicked at his heeled boots. “Say that again and I’ll shove Eddie’s drumsticks up your ass,” you spat back, but a grin betrayed your anger as all bark no bite. You never were good at hiding your emotions, your face like an open book that was way too reader-friendly.
He laughed, dodging out of the way easily and putting his feet up on the coffee table, littered with old energy drink cans and magazines. “Easy, live wire, you’ll cause a spark.”
Eddie removed his military jacket with a sigh, fluffing his hair up in an attempt to cool down. “Leave her alone, Volt. You were great,” he said tiredly, reaching out to pull you into a side hug and kissing your cheek. Out of the stage lights, the similarities between him and Volt were hard to ignore, but it was hard to tell if they were actually brothers or just really good-looking in the same way.
Skips felt a jolt of jealousy as you smiled sweetly and leaned into Eddie’s chest, hugging him tightly. He would have paid all the money in the world to have you touch him like that, with easy affection and care. Not that he invited that sort of contact with his demeanor around the band, so you weren't to blame of course. Maybe if he was more like the brooding but caring Eddie or rakish and flirtatious Volt you would feel comfortable enough to gift him with the same soft touches and sweet smiles.
Still, he’d chosen this outfit, this shadowy visage. It helped him feel confident; his voice pitched lower and holding more authority than it usually did, his posture taller and movements more assured than they ever were without it. Of course, it meant that none of his bandmates had ever seen his real face or even knew his real name, so dedicated he’d become to his persona. Eddie and Volt had formed the band first and Skips had been brought on as a guitarist after he answered their audition call with a taped copy of his best work. They’d spoken through zoom at first when working out the logistics of the band and visual style, and he’d always kept his camera off. Once, when Volt questioned it, he’d simply said that he had stage fright and could only perform at his peak if he wore a mask, and surprisingly both men had accepted it without pushing further. Their care had surprised him, and as time progressed all of their outfits had become more elaborate. His simple crow mask had evolved into the full ensemble he wore now, Volt had embraced the gothic David Bowie-esque styling with an enthusiasm that wasn’t surprising, and Eddie had finally been persuaded to don the military jacket after Skips had given him a copy of The Black Parade.
Once you'd had joined them, their outfits were already set in stone and you'd jumped right in with them. They’d cycled through some singers before you, none really fitting with their tight-knit trio. Eventually, Eddie relented and put out an ad on facebook, and you’d responded within minutes. At first Skips hadn’t been impressed, scrolling idly through your instagram and TikTok to get a read on your personality and styling, not finding much to go off. You seemed to be a very private person. He’d sat in the corner at the auditions, face hidden in the shadows of his hood as he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jacket and slouched low in his chair, watching disinterestedly as this unassuming girl walked in. You were dressed too simply, too boring to be part of their performance, like you’d just come from the library or a college lecture. Your glasses had slipped down your nose slightly as you handed some photos to Eddie that made him sit up a little straighter, Skips finding out later that it was shots from your previous performances where you’d looked distinctly less nerdy. Had he seen the pictures too, he’d have signed you on the spot.
Of course, Skips didn’t know that at the time and instead scowled at this newcomer from within the shadows. You were replacing Benji, their previous singer who’d been as close to a best friend as he’d ever had and who’d left them hours before a show without a word, breaking Skips’ heart. So naturally, he hated whoever tried to take his place despite how much Benji had hurt him.
But then you had started to sing and it felt like dawn. Your voice blazed through his bleak soul and mercilessly shone light into every corner, and he’d been head over heels ever since. You’d never seen his face or heard his voice, or even knew his real name, but he loved you with every fibre of his being.
To be fair though, he also didn’t know your real name. He thought he heard it once but it was so long ago that he couldn’t remember. Blake was a nickname granted by Volt at their first rehearsal when you came in holding a coffee cup with the name scrawled messily on it. When he’d questioned it, you’d simply shrugged and said the barista misheard, although you didn’t know how he’d got there from what you’d actually said.
Who cared? You were his songbird, his penumbra. And you were currently looking expectantly at him while he daydreamed like an idiot.
He blinked. “What?” he asked.
You snorted. “I asked if you thought it was a good show.” Reaching out, you flicked his mask gently. “Dumbass.”
“Oh!” He cleared his throat, sinking back into the uncaring aloof nature you were used to. “Yeah, it was good. Best we’ve done, I think.”
Your smile widened. “Me too. You were really great. Like really, really great.”
Were you blushing? No, you must just be flushed from the performance, he rationalized as he watched you take a long chug of water from the freebie bottles the venue had provided.
“Thanks, you too,” he replied in his deep shadow-self voice. Was it too corny to call it his shadow-self? Whatever, the band called him Shadow so it wasn’t a reach. And it was an understatement to say that you were great or even really really great. To him, you were always a miracle onstage, vibrant and full of life and power and raw emotion. You could command an entire room to their knees with your voice and you probably didn’t even realise it. You could certainly command him to his knees with just a look.
Clearing his throat, he began packing up his guitar and shove stuff back in his backpack. “Anyway, I gotta head out. Got work tomorrow.”
“Today!” Volt corrected helpfully from the couch.
“I hate you,” Skips growled.
Eddie placed a hand on his shoulder as he made to leave. “Good set tonight, honestly. Try to get some rest,” he said quietly, eyes looking at him with sombre concern.
“I’ll be fine, you don’t need to worry.”
The other man laughed wryly. “Yeah, I do.” A squeeze and his hand dropped from Skips’ jacket. “Get home safe.”
Skips nodded, giving Volt a nod before turning to you. “Text us when you get home, ‘kay?” he told her gruffly, voice low and rumbling in his chest.
Surprise filled your eyes. “Right, sure!” you said, voice a little too high. Must have been sore from the set. “See you next weekend, Shads.”
He nodded at the nickname for a nickname and left, waiting until he was safely a street away before finally removing his mask. Cool early-morning air kissed his face and he sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. His heart hammered in his ears, heat curled pleasantly in the pit of his stomach and he had the same thought he always did after finishing a show with you.
I am so fucked.