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"Are you sure it looks okay? If anyone is talking about how my make up was sloppy and asymmetrical tomorrow, I will blame you for it, specifically.” Malik had spent a long time honing a perfect balance of glamour with a devil-may-care attitude in his look, he couldn’t have anything ruin this. Too much work had been put into it. He’d picked the clothes for Ryou and Bakhura, too. They might know how to write music and play instruments, but they couldn’t dress themselves for shit. Bakhura mostly wore exercise clothes and Ryou always looked like he stayed in the library for fun after study group was over. Being born with an eye for fashion and ending up stuck with these two was a curse, truly.
“Everything looks symmetrical to me,” Bakhura said. “You look sharp. Or, uh, whatever the rock ‘n’ roll version of sharply dressed is. I can’t wait to ruin it after the show.”
Malik scoffed. “Your eagerness to destroy art disgusts me.”
“Sounds hot,” Ryou said flatly, closing the book he was reading over his finger.
“You want an invitation?,” said Bakhura.
Malik sighed. “Can we save the flirting for later? We have to be ready in approximately right now minutes.”
Bakhura opened his mouth to protest, but Ryou beat him to the punch. “I’m totally ready right now—ready to get in your pants.” Ryou smiled sweetly and set his book down.
“Save it! I’m being serious right now.” Malik was digging his nails into the palm of his hands.
Ryou laughed. “I’m sorry! Um, I do know it’s nerve-wracking.”
The three shared a dressing room in the backstage of the high school auditorium as they waited for their time to go on stage in their studded pleather and with their bangs styled to be three times their normal size. Their instruments were already on the stage. Their audience was slowly filing into the auditorium. There wasn’t anything left to do to prepare, they just had to wait to go on.
There was a knock on the door.
“You can come in!,” Bakhura shouted.
A girl in their year opened the door a crack and stuck her head through. “My Turn! is done with their set up, you can move to the wings of the stage now.”
—
Soon they were being introduced and called onstage. The freshman emceeing the faceoff played the role with enthusiasm, making a sweeping hand gesture while saying “Give it up for Next Year’s Royals!”
Malik walked onstage, holding his arms up and smiling at the crowd. Bakhura and Ryou followed shortly behind him. Ryou counted off to Bakhura before starting the drum machine with a mechanical, driving beat. Bakhura came in on guitar, filling the negative space with a rich, somber sound.
On top of that, Malik sang:
I drown out your voice
listening to the radiator’s humming.
You never gave me a choice.
If I died today, would you say I had it coming?
There’s too many humans
and not enough monsters.
There’s too many humans
and not enough monsters.
There’s too many humans
and not enough monsters.
The lyrics had grown out of the line repeated for the chorus, which Malik had found in an old notebook of his. He was fairly sure a different part himself, an alter, had written it. The one who called himself Darkness, like he was some sort of evil emperor or supervillain. Even so, the phrase was the right amount of rebellious and dramatic for rock lyrics.
As Malik sang, the words he’d written and rehearsed simply fell into place. All that nervousness turned into energy. In practices, he’d always pay close attention for any possible error. But here he was moved by the music, as though he was a vessel for his own song.
When the song had finished, Malik beamed and waved both his hands high above his head to the cheering audience. “Thank you so much, truly, from all of us!”
Malik bowed slightly, Bakhura and Ryou followed suit, and they all walked back into the wing of the stage they had entered from. Malik glanced at his bandmates and whispered, “that went better than I expected.”
Bakhura pressed a fist against Malik’s shoulder with a light shove. “We all knew you had star quality, but don’t let the fame go to your head.”
Ryou chuckled lightly. Malik felt his face heat up.
The emcee started talking again and fear set back into Malik’s chest. This was a competition. Right.
Next Year’s Royals sat down and watched as their rival band, My Turn!, entered the stage from the opposite wing. There were four of them, all relatively dressed down, aside from the ridiculous hairdos and punk accessories of the guitarist and bassist.
While the competition was ostensively friendly, Bakhura had beef with My Turn!’s bassist and, by extension, Malik did, too. Malik personally didn’t know exactly what had gone down between Bakhura and Atem, they didn’t really talk about things like that in depth, but he knew that he hadn’t seen anything get Bakhura as pissed as Atem could. That was enough to stand behind.
My Turn!’s music didn’t particularly impress Malik, but they definitely knew how to play. Their song was fairly straight ahead—loud, driven, simple. The girl who was their singer, Anzu, put on a good show, though. She jumped, she swayed, she knew how to sound like she was shouting without straining her voice. Even in her t-shirt and jean shorts, with neatly bobbed hair, her energy gave her presence. She was the one who suggested the event, who knew who to talk to reserve the auditorium, and, as far as Malik was concerned, she was the real competition.
When the song finished, Anzu closed their act by saying “This is the first time Domino High School has hosted a battle of the bands, so we didn’t know how this would turn out. Thank you to everyone who took the time to be here tonight!”
“Hey! No need to do my job for me!,” the emcee said with a scoff as he entered back onstage. He made a small gesture to tell Next Year’s Royals to come back on and they did so.
Malik’s chest felt tight and heavy. He smiled at the audience. If nothing else, he knew his brother and sister were out there rooting for him, in spite of how much trouble he made for them.
With both bands standing onstage, the emcee continued. “This has been a pretty good show tonight, don’tcha think? But we’re not just here to hear the music, this is also a competition! You’re gonna vote with your enthusiasm, so can I hear you make some noise?”
The small crowd clapped and whooped.
“Just like that! Now, who here wants Next Year’s Royal’s to win?” Applause. “What about My Turn!?” More applause.
The difference was plain to hear. My Turn! had won. The emcee has everyone vote again, this time starting with My Turn!, but it didn’t change anything. Atem looked smug. Malik’s teeth were clenched behind his smiling lips.
Anzu took a mic and accepted the victory. “Thank you for supporting us! Don’t forget to give your support Next Year’s Royals as well! They’re really talented and they put their best foot forward tonight!” was amongst her remarks.
There was no doubt she meant it, but Malik didn’t want her pity.
Back to the emcee. “Everybody here tonight was part of something really cool, so let’s give one last round of applause for everyone who worked hard to make this happen!”
Malik didn’t look at his bandmates as they all walked off stage. This was stupid. This was so stupid. He’d worked too hard for this. Why did he think he could win a popularity contest? He rubbed his eyes as tears welled up in them. He knew he was smudging his make up. Didn’t matter. He already had made a fool of himself in front of everyone. “Dammit,” he groaned. “These people have no taste.”
Bakhura was scowling and placed a firm hand on Malik’s shoulder. Malik tensed at the touch and then relaxed. Bakhura spoke quietly. “We’ll be alright. We’ll... we’ll get ‘em in the long run.”