Chapter Text
The bar was small, dark, nondescript, and sparsely populated only by regulars that didn’t give a damn about anything but getting to the bottom of their drinks. In Neil’s opinion, it ticked all the boxes for a good venue, but his eyes still darted around the place incessantly, cataloging exits (3 in total: front door, side door, employee door behind the bar), the quickest routes to those exits, and faces- at least the ones he could see in the dim lighting. In the back left corner of the room, the one that held the most murky blackness due to a blown bulb that hadn’t yet been replaced, Neil sat on a borrowed stool, with a borrowed mic and speaker that the owner had dug up from the back room. The only things that Neil could concretely call his was the guitar in his hands and the duffel bag resting at his feet.
Neil didn’t need cash, courtesy of the faux-inheritance his mother left him, but the rational part of his brain knew that the money wouldn’t last forever; though it also knew that the $50 and free meal he got for gigs wouldn’t really make a difference. There was a lot of easier ways of getting cash, sure, but with Neil’s life of run-and-go this was the most convenient. He wouldn’t let himself think that maybe he did this because it broke up the monotony of his life; maybe he did this because it was the only part of his childhood he couldn’t give up.
Settling back on his stool, he gave an experimental strum of his guitar to make sure it was all in tune, before settling his calloused fingers in place and gently plucking out the first notes. He started his gigs the way he finished them; without preamble, phasing in and out of silence so naturally it’s as if you wake up in a daze when it’s permanently gone. Introductions were for people who wanted to be known, it sent shivers up Neil’s spine just being heard.
The covers he played were songs heard and learned on long car trips with his Mother; she didn’t mind the habit as long as he kept it to himself, as long as the guitar wouldn’t hinder them if they needed to run. He listened to the songs and tried to translate them by ear, and was thankful that the radio stations were so repetitive as it meant he could correct his mistakes or re-listen to parts he couldn’t remember. The breaks in-between gave him artistic licence; those he was also thankful for as it meant he could make the song his. Because of this, he tended to get lost in the songs whenever he played them; his fingers instinctively picking out melodies, his mind on car seats and smoke and his Mother’s gentle singing. On bad days the songs brought to mind smoke of a different kind, the rip of dried blood peeling from vinyl car seats, the smell of salt. Neil felt eyes on him and he knew he was getting too caught up in the music, so he reigned in his voice and hunched over in his seat, the pose uncomfortable with his guitar in the way. Even so, he kept his eyes on his fingers and kept playing, willing himself smaller, making his stage presence so weak that the eyes would just bounce off. However, he could feel the heavy weight of scrutiny the entire night, and Neil ended up collecting his money and leaving the bar paranoid and on-edge.
Taking the side exit was a natural response to Neil’s growing suspicion, the door opening to a dimly lit alleyway. The weak light from the streetlamps shining through the exits at either end cast weird shadows that gave Neil jitters when he looked into them. Neil never knew where he stood with darkness; he never knew when it was friend or foe.
A small sound to his right, shoes scuffing on worn concrete, told Neil’s instincts that tonight it was going to be the latter, and he took off running in the other direction, guitar bouncing against his back, duffel safely tucked underneath his arm. It was too late when Neil realised that the right exit wasn’t the only one sealed off, and the world moved in slow motion as a leg came up in a roundhouse kick straight into his stomach. The next 30 seconds were shown to Neil in fractured increments; the colour gold, concrete rushing to meet him, the scrape of it on his face and hands, his knees undoubtedly forming bruises beneath the fabric of his jeans.
“Andrew!” a gruff voice said, the sound distorted from the ringing in Neil’s ears, “God, I did not just spend an entire night in a bar not drinking for you to break him the first chance you get.”
Neil’s lungs finally stopped spasming inside his ribcage and he gave a great wracking inhale, the oxygen scraping against his throat and threatening to burst him with how much his chest expanded to accommodate it. His vision had begun to steady out, and he looked up at the figure towering above him as they gave a noncommittal grunt.
“Something tells me he won’t be broken so easily. If so he’d be a terrible disappointment.”
Neil gave a spluttering cough and managed to lift his hand up in a shaky attempt of flipping the bird at the silhouette named Andrew, before wrapping an arm around his middle and beginning the slow struggle of getting to his feet, his duffel thankfully still secure on his shoulder. He’d have to check his guitar for damages once he got out of this mess.
Turning his head to the side, Neil spat and then slowly wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Who the fuck are you?” he growled at the figure, his face still mostly obscured in shadow.
“Look at me, and if you’re still that much of an oblivious idiot ask that question again,” the figure replied, before stepping closer; enough that what feeble light there was made his face visible.
Even if Neil didn’t recognise him by the facial features, the stark black number 2 tattooed on his cheekbone would be a dead giveaway. Neil took a step back, his limbs suddenly trembling, his blood seemingly ceasing its circulation. Kevin Day, piano prodigy, said to rival Bach and Mozart in terms of both playing and composing; though he was always the second to Riko Moriyama’s first, even though Riko played violin. The world was taken aback by the news of Kevin’s abrupt skiing accident, and subsequently the fact that Kevin would never play again. He dropped of the face of the earth, the tabloids suggesting that he was too ashamed to enter the real world, and that perhaps he was too sheltered to do so. They said that spending his entire life at Edgar Allen Music Academy left him unprepared for any semblance of life outside of music.
Neil didn’t want to think of the last time he saw Kevin. Back when he still played classical, and when his father made them watch as he carved a man up alive. The whole ordeal was burned into his memory, but most of all he could see the man’s hands; the fingers cut off at each joint, one by one, leaving 14 little pieces and a palm in place.
“Are you going to ask again?” said Kevin. He phrased it like a question even though Neil knew that it wasn’t. He dumbly shook his head. “Good,” Kevin continued. He gestured to the man next to him, “this is Andrew Minyard, and you are Neil Josten. We got your name off of the bar manager.” Neil once again nodded; he was glad that he wouldn’t have to say his name in front of Kevin, Neil knew that if he tried he might slip up, and as he cast a wary look towards Andrew he knew that any kind of small slip up would cause a very big problem.
“What do you want?” Neil asked. This time, his voice was less of a growl and more measured, controlled. He’d managed to keep the tremble out, a mask descending over his features. He covered his shaking hands with his sleeves.
“I want you to be our band’s lead singer,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Neil’s brain froze for a second, re-wound, and then slowly stuttered back to life.
“Band?” he asked first, the bewilderment apparently evident on his face by the way that the corners of Kevin’s mouth turned down, “but I thought your career was over? You can’t play.”
At that Kevin’s frown turned into a full-on scowl.
“Evidently you thought wrong. I predominantly play with my left hand now, the right I use for synths. Andrew plays bass, his brother Aaron plays drums, their cousin Nicky plays guitar. We can all sing decently but decent isn’t good enough if we want to make it; that’s why you’re here.”
“Why me though?” countered Neil, “you could’ve asked any singer in any dingy bar and yet you chose me. I know for a fact that I’m not amazing,” he made sure of it, really, “why don’t you go annoy someone else with your deranged attempts at clawing back into relevance.”
Kevin was seething now, but even so he continued, forcing out words between clenched teeth.
“That’s true. Your technique is shit, your stage presence even worse, and you don’t even have your own equipment, however,” his face smoothed out into something that looked a little bit deeper than determination, “you play like you have everything to lose, and we need that.”
Trepidation made Neil sick to his stomach. In the low light, it wasn’t surprising that Kevin didn’t recognise him, but Neil didn’t know if that would hold steady in the day. Accepting Kevin’s offer would go against everything his Mother would have wanted for him, everything she told him to do that night on the beach.
“Listen,” Andrew’s voice shocked him out of his inner thoughts, “you’re hanging onto that duffle bag for dear life, you look like something chewed you up and spit you out, and you’re so jumpy you look as if you’re going to take off sprinting at any moment. Either you’re on some kind of hard drug or you’re homeless, but I’m going to assume the latter,” this is the most that Neil’s heard Andrew speak, and he was almost surprised at the bored tone of his voice, the bruise forming on Neil’s stomach spoke volumes of the pent-up energy Andrew held. He was wary of the way Andrew had picked apart his nervous habits and his appearance, it was true that Neil hadn’t had anywhere decent to sleep since he got to this town; this gig would have bought him some groceries and a couple of nights in a shitty motel.
“If you humour Kevin I’ll make sure you have a place to stay and food to eat, at least until you decide to fuck off or until Kevin gets rid of you. Deal?” he raised his eyebrow and waited for an answer.
Andrew had made sure to specify the temporariness of the deal; he was aware that he had given Neil the option to run if he so chose, and the fact of that wasn’t lost. Neil mulled it over in his mind, weighing the pros and cons, and decided that the arrangement was almost too good, but impossible to resist. There was a chance that playing in this band would allow Neil to actually live instead of just survive, even if it was just for a little while. Before he could lose his nerve he looked Andrew in the eye and nodded, his grip on the strap of his duffle white-knuckled in its extremity. Neil noticed his hands were no longer shaking.
“Fine. I agree.”
“Good, happy now Kevin?” Kevin pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes at Neil, but nodded nonetheless.
“Good,” Andrew repeated, “now let’s get out of this alley. I’m fucking freezing, and it’s around time for Neil to meet his new housemates.”
He could probably read the alarm in Neil’s eyes, “deal starts tonight, you’re coming home with us,” he elaborated, his voice slow and steady,
“I’m fine,” Neil said, he needed time to gather his thoughts, to armour himself.
“No excuses,” Kevin spoke up, “you’ll need to be up early for practice tomorrow anyway, it makes sense to travel with us. Come on.”
He started walking towards the street, leaving Neil and Andrew in their own private staring match.
“For the record, I don’t trust you,” Andrew said, “but if it’ll make Kevin stop whining about how lackluster our singing voices are I’m willing to settle.”
“The feeling’s mutual,” Neil replied. He’d have to be very careful around someone who could see through him so quickly.
“Glad we’re on the same page then.”
Andrew waved his hands in an ‘after you’ gesture and Neil followed after Kevin, walking slow enough to ensure that Andrew was always in his peripheral vision. He was itching to check the roots of his hair, but he kept his hands moving naturally as he walked. He could check them when he had a bathroom to himself; when he had time for the absurdity of the situation to hit him. Until then, he followed behind Kevin, one foot after another.