Chapter Text
“Brotherhood is a primary aspect of Phi Rho Eta, dude.” Donut shook his head in genuine disappointment. “You took a pledge.”
Simmons regretted joining that fraternity more and more every day. Sure, there were a few guys who could hold their own in a game of chess without totally kicking his ass at it like the chess club nerds, but was it worth all this?
“Look, I put up with… I support Caboose all the time.” Simmons defended badly. “This kind of thing,” He gestured vaguely. “It just isn’t my scene.”
“Have you ever even been to this kind of thing? ” Donut arched an eyebrow.
Simmons hesitated. “No, but I know myself and I won’t—”
Doc interrupted, his voice lighthearted and persuasive. "One show won't hurt you. And besides, we're already here."
“Finally! My legs are killing me!” Donut complained. “You couldn’t find better parking?”
“We’re downtown!” Doc argued. “You were there when I drove around 20 minutes looking for a spot, remember?”
The two bickered. Meanwhile, Simmons took a moment to scope out the venue. Built along the canal, old brick with thick crawling ivy, a pub called Errera, spelled in neon orange on a hanging sign outside.
He opened the door. A cool wave of air conditioning, the mingling scent of smoke and booze, crashing cymbals, a roaring electric guitar, and the buzz of a packed room.
Simmons turned to his fraternity brothers to make another case to escape, but they were already ushering him through the door.
York, North, and Delta strolled along the canal's edge.
“I can’t believe we let you drag us out to another show.” North shook his head.
“You’re doormats, really.” York quipped. “Besides, you need someone to keep you nerds regularly socialized.”
“Right. That’s why we’re here.” Delta said flatly.
“Can’t you hurry up and just get her number?” North asked. “You don’t even like this kind of music.”
“That’s the thing, I figured it out. I was never really listening before. I was just hearing. Not listening. But her voice… I could listen to her all day.” He sighed dreamily with his chin in his hand. Delta snickered and patted his back.
“Alright, loverboy.” North chuckled. “I’ll be your wingman… as long as you got the tab.”
“Hey,” York sniffed. “I never asked for a wingman.”
“You’re right.” Delta nodded. “You begged for two. ”
He and North burst into laughter.
“It wasn’t that funny…” York mumbled.
He’d had first seen Metastability play at this pub downtown called The Orchard. He was chatting with his buddies at the bar, not really paying attention to the entertainment. Until he was. The music was great, but the lead singer herself was so much more… he was captivated.
He dragged North and Delta with him across town to her next show. And to the next two shows after that. And he still hadn’t made a move.
York’s heart pounded as they approached the entrance. He felt an unshakable determination coursing through him. Tonight is the night.
“Just an ice water, please.” Simmons told the bartender.
Doc cleared his throat. “Uh, sure you don’t want to loosen up a little, Simmons?”
He glanced around the room and looked back at the bartender. “Make that an apple whiskey sour.”
“Lemon drop martini, please!” Donut smiled brightly.
“And a mojito for me.” Doc said. “Extra mint, thank you!”
Simmons sat and focused on his drink rather than the anxiety creeping up his spine. Looking around, he realized just how out of place he was in his pressed slacks, dress shoes, and red sweater vest. A pang of self-consciousness gnawed at him.
Donut and Doc tried to tell him. They had switched up their style a bit for the show, sticking with their colors but adding elements of edge. Eyeliner, black jackets with rips and patches, black nail polish.
Everyone else was dressed in shredded black clothes and massive matching boots. The crowd embodied a diverse array of punk and grunge styles. Vibrant mohawks, rat tails, mullets. Silver chains and gauges, heavy makeup, some were missing eyebrows or parts of them, tattoos, and lots of piercings.
In a bid to ease his growing discomfort, Simmons finished the last dregs of his drink, but only felt sicker. He ran a hand through his gelled-back hair realization hit him like a garbage truck.
He said aloud, “I look like a total tool.”
Donut gasped out like he’d been drowning and just reached the surface.
Doc laughed. “Yeah, like read the room! This isn’t chess club.”
“Can I fix you now?!” Donut begged and Simmons nodded miserably.
Donut snapped his fingers. “Alright, first things first, give me the sweater vest. Doc, put this in your purse, will you?”
“It’s an environmentally-friendly tote bag.” Doc remarked, holding up his pointer finger matter-of-factly. “Made from 100% recycled materials. Not 99%. 100.”
“Here’s your freakin’ medal. And Simmons’ ugly-ass sweater vest. Get it out of sight, please .” Donut held it with two fingers and recoiled as if it were radioactive. He then reached out and ruffled Simmons’ ginger hair. “Your hair has grown out a lot. Can’t tell with it always slicked back.”
“It looks silly.” Simmons lamented.
“Then cut it?” Doc suggested.
“No sillier than all that gel.” Donut retorted and reached out, swiftly unbuttoning the top button of Simmons’ shirt.
“H-Hey!” He flushed.
“Still fixing! Unbutton one more.” Donut directed. “And take one of Doc’s necklaces.”
“Fine, you convinced me.” Doc rolled his eyes and handed him a thin, simple silver chain. “Don’t lose it.”
“Want some eyeliner?” Donut asked Simmons. “Mascara?”
“Uh, no,” He cleared his throat. “No thanks.”
“Yo, Simmons!” A voice from the other end of the bar called out.
Doc leaned in curiously. “Who is that?”
Simmons squinted. “Some guy in my engineering class, York.”
“Well, go talk to him.” Donut shooed him. “Mingle. We’re gonna find Caboose and wish him luck. They go up soon so don’t leave. Caboose likes us right up front.”
“Uh yeah, yeah. No promises.” Simmons mumbled and crossed over to talk to York and his buddies. They introduced themselves as North and Delta.
York raised a brow. “Didn’t think this was your scene.”
“It’s not.” Simmons remarked with a nervous chuckle. “I’m here for this guy in my fraternity. He’s the drummer for Metastability.”
“Oh, we’re here for Metastability too.” North chimed in.
Simmons noticed their clothes. Faded black band tees and jeans. Nothing special, but still making an effort to blend in. He asked, “So, do you guys come to a lot of shows like this?”
North laughed and patted his old friend’s back. “No, no, York’s just a groupie.”
York rolled his eyes. “Okay, you can fuck off now, Dakota.”
The music ended and a garbled voice said something that sounded like Metastability. Kinda. It was enough for York.
He chugged the last of his beer, declaring, “Tonight’s the night, gentlemen.” Then swiftly made his way through the bustling crowd.
“Think he’ll really do it?” Delta asked earnestly.
North smiled. “Yeah. Like he said, tonight’s the night.”
Delta didn’t seem convinced.
Simmons said his goodbyes as he was dragged away by Doc and Donut, who pushed and prodded him up to the front row. He was left feeling strangely motivated by York.
Caboose was the first to take the stage, grinning and waving to the crowd before taking his seat behind the drumset. He was wearing his favorite bright blue athletic shirt, tactical pants, and boots, dressing it up with a blue flannel and a silver chain clipped to his belt loops.
“Michael J!” Donut cheered, waving to him.
“That’s Tucker,” Doc pointed at the next member to come up. “The bassist. Does vocals sometimes, too.”
Tucker wore a mesh black tank top, cut-out and asymmetrical, and short black leather shorts to match, showing off intricate tattoos. His shoes were Caribbean-blue, laceless, with thick soles. He had silver earrings, a slit in his brow, an undercut, and locs tied back in a ponytail.
“We like Tucker.” Donut commented, making a claw with his hand and growling suggestively.
“Felix,” Doc pointed at the next guy stepping up on the stage. “The keyboardist. And the band manager.”
Felix was a tall, wiry guy in a dark gray suit, with brown, greasy hair and dark, scrutinizing eyes.
Donut recoiled. “Ugh, I hate that guy.”
Doc nodded. “We do not like Felix. He’s a piece of work. He and the lead singer are constantly at each other’s throats. Speak of the lesser devil—”
“Carolina!” Donut cheered as she stepped onstage. “Queen!”
Carolina raised a brow at him. She had red hair, tied back in a messy bun. She wore a denim corset over a black lace top, a black skirt and fishnet stockings, and big black combat boots.
“And that’s the guitarist, Grif.”
Simmons happened to lock eyes with Grif. For only a fleeting moment but… those eyes made it feel like it could have been a decade. The deepest brown eyes, reflecting the glittering light above. His lidded gaze was tired, bags beneath his eyes apparent. They held so much depth and…Simmons couldn’t quite explain it yet.
He released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
Grif’s gaze shifted down to his orange electric guitar and Simmons watched, enchanted, as he began to play.
He had long, curly black hair haphazardly tied back. Bronze skin, which seemed to glow ethereally under the kaleidoscope of colorful stage lights. A bit of a stubble growing below chubby, freckled cheeks.
He wore baggy black jeans and wheat-brown work boots. His black shirt was bleached with a skeleton rib design, partially covered by a leather bomber jacket.
His fingers moved expertly over the strings of his guitar. His melodies rang out, echoing in Simmons’ chest.
The metallic resonance, the roar of the resonating chords, the rich timbre. Carolina’s strong vocals harmonized masterfully, showing great skill from both musicians.
Simmons glanced around the room, then at the other members of Metastability, and inevitably back to Grif. They didn’t seem quite as dark as some of the other bands there. Their sound was so distinct.
His heart skipped a beat then dropped. “It’s over?”
“They’ll play a few more songs.” Doc assured him.
Donut elbowed Simmons. “They have a nice vibe, right?”
“Yeah… Yeah, they do.”
The next song began and once again, Simmons found himself melting into the music, his senses fully engaged and absorbing every detail. The smooth and rhythmic thrum and twang of the bass guitar, the control and subtle rasp in Carolina’s tone, the keyboard providing that extra layer of melody. The drums set a steady beat in his chest, but he could distinctly feel his heartbeat. And that guitar…
As the band finished up their first song and the crowd cheered, Felix called to Carolina. She rolled her green eyes and whipped around.
“What?” She demanded loudly. Felix’s response was drowned out by the crowd, but Carolina heard and didn’t look too happy about it. She huffed, blowing a strand of red hair from her face.
York watched closely as she took a drink of water and caught the moment an idea came to her. She leaned over and said something to Grif, who nodded back. She got Caboose and Tucker’s attention too. They stole glances over at Felix, who seemed preoccupied with the settings on his keyboard.
York moved closer in curiosity. What are you up to, Carolina?
The third song began abruptly.
Hello again, friend of a friend… Carolina sang steadily, her gaze set firm ahead.
Meanwhile, behind her, Felix did not look happy. Eyes glistening with hate, mouth contorting into a barrage of nasty words. He looked like he was about to explode.
The band only played louder.
Felix ripped the cables from the back of the keyboard, lifted it above his head, and smashed it as hard as he could into the corner edge of the stage.
The crowd gasped. It felt like a moment when everything should go quiet. Almost everyone did. Tucker and Caboose stared on in disbelief. Grif kept playing. Carolina was still facing forward.
Felix crossed his arms expectantly.
She turned around slowly, then erupted in rage. “My keyboard, you fucking prick!”
Carolina sprung on him, tackling him off the stage.
The crowd lost it. York pushed through for a front-row seat.
Simmons was on high alert, fully expecting a keyboard (or chunks of it) to come flying into the crowd. He wasn’t expecting Grif to keep playing. The room went silent, the solo chords reverberating.
The hair rose on the back of his neck.
Grif was smiling, ever so slightly, until Carolina dove on Felix, then he burst into laughter. He kept playing, Tucker and Caboose eventually rejoining. The band provided the soundtrack to their brawl, looking like it had been a long time coming.
Most of the crowd had shifted to the fight, including Donut and Doc, but Simmons held his place in the front row, alone.
Totally immersed in the music.
Right, the music. He could hear Donut say.
“Come on, guys!” York begged. “She’s just gotta talk to the cops and then when she’s done—”
“She’ll probably be banned from this place.” Delta said.
“—She’ll be back in to pack up the stuff for the band." York went on. "Then I’ll make my move.”
North shook his head. “Dude, read the room.”
“The room is fine.” York waved him off.
“Read the situation .” Delta clarified.
“Yeah," North said. "Think she’s gonna want some fanboy hitting on her after all that?”
“Yes?”
North laughed. “Alright, then get a ride home from the other fanboy. We’re out.”
York groaned.
“Make good decisions!” Delta said as the door closed behind them.
They were probably right. Probably.
Wait. What other fanboy?
The song ended and Simmons was suspended, heart still pounding. Until Caboose’s voice broke through his trance.
“Simmons! You made it!” He said cheerfully, coming out from his drumset to hug him.
He heard his back crack. So did the rest of the room. “Alright, Caboose." He patted him. "Can’t breathe.”
“Where are Donut and Doc?" Caboose asked. "Did you guys see Carolina beat up Manager/Keyboardist Felix?”
“Stop calling him that.” Tucker walked up, rolling his eyes. “Ugh, now we need to find a new manager.”
“Ooh,” Caboose raised his hand but spoke anyway. “Simmons is smart, he could be our manager!”
Grif squinted at him. “What are your qualifications?”
Simmons blinked and stammered. “Um, I’m smart and—”
Grif clapped. “Welp, sounds good to me, guys.”
“Wait, you want the job?” Tucker asked incredulously.
Do I? Simmons thought.
“Not really a job if you aren’t getting paid.” Grif pointed out.
Tucker said, “We’ll all be getting paid if we can find an actually good fucking manager that’ll find us paying gigs. And not smash keyboards.”
“I can do that.” Simmons nodded. What was he getting himself into?
Tucker thought about it. “Well, we’ll have to talk to Carolina. But send us a resume or something, alright?”
“And a gift basket. Particularly one with snacks.” Grif said.
York waited at the bar, not worrying about a way home, just waiting for Carolina to walk back through the door. For his chance.
But Errera was nearly empty and the bar was starting to close.
York bought one of their branded lighters and busied his anxious mind, flicking it alight and closing it, over and over.
He was starting to feel like North and Delta were right. He’d get another chance, at the next show. Tonight just isn’t the night.
Suddenly, a hand reached out, snatching the lighter away. York nearly toppled off the barstool.
“Carolina…”
“Your buddies said you wanted to tell me something?” She said, her green eyes boring into him. “Well, what is it?”
Damn you, North and Delta!
“I hear you're down a keyboardist.” York said.
She laughed shortly. “No kidding.”
“I think you’re better off without him.”
“I’ve seen you. At our last few shows.” She sat down next to him. “What else do you think?”
“That you guys are leagues better than the rest of these bozos…” He trailed off, feeling her touch his shoulder.
She pulled out a little green plastic tag, stuck in the hem. The mark of the recent thrift store trip.
“Poser.” She said, “Who’re you trying to impress here?”
“That lead singer of Metastability. I’m a big fan. She’s a total smoke show.”
She stood up. “Alright, loverboy. What’s your name?”
“York.”
“See you around, York.” She smiled and stood up.
“Hey, can I get your number?” He asked.
She pocketed the lighter. “Not yet. Goodnight, York.”
“Goodnight, Carolina.”