Chapter Text
The lights are so bright — a dazzling stream of swirling colors, a kaleidoscope that burns Dinadan’s dry eyes. The audience is a dizzying vortex of lumps all coalesced into a bubbling mass which lurches, shudders, and thumps a collective cacophony that reverberates through the concert hall. They’re an infectious bunch — their elation, joy, and hunger palatable in the air, and they scream the words back, an echoed feedback, a living breathing thing that feeds off of Gknights’s energy and Dinadan’s hoarse voice.
“Gknights! Gknights! Gknights!” The audience chants with a frenzy akin to Gawain and Mordred eating cheese out of the bag at 3 am.
(What’s better than a hyped out crowd to a band? Symbiotism at its best.)
(Gknights isn’t even really the name of the band if Dinadan is being technical, but that’s neither here nor there and Dinadan really can’t get into it right now. It’s the type of trivia that belongs to “fandom lore” or so Mordred snottily says.)
Music comes first, Dinadan reminds himself firmly attempting to jostle himself back into his headscape. Music comes first, no matter what nonsense Tristan or Gawain or even Mordred come up with to make this show “extra special” and “memorable” and “Dinadan, please, we swear this time we won’t light firecrackers on stage that was for Tristan’s birthday”.
The crash of Gawain’s cymbals jolts Dinadan back to the present — they’re almost at their last set and Gawain’s long since lost a majority of his clothes.
(“It’s a passion of mine, being shirtless that is. I believe I was sculpted to live in a nudist colony.” Gawain had once aptly said on Gknights’s first big interview and Arthur had given him so much shit for it at no avail).
There is no doubt later that pictures and gifs of Gawain shirtless will resurface on Twitblr or whatever with an accompanying photoset of the lucky fan waving the bits of fabric excitedly in the air. Gawain had stripped off his shirt before the second song even started but for all his theatrics he’s the most seasoned, most talented musician out of them all. He’s lost in the fever now, rhythm impeccable as always, and his hands and arms are flying streaks of brown against the backdrop of the image of a battlefield. Mordred is as stony-faced as ever, but his emotions are betrayed by his gentle swaying, bagpipes cradled against his chest. Enthusiasm is a good look on Mordred, Dinadan thinks. It makes him look softer but not more approachable, a bit more human. The Orkney brothers are two of the weirdest motherfuckers Dinadan has ever met, but they’re music royalty and prodigies of their own right. Gawain had catapulted into Dinadan’s life with the grace and speed of a hurricane on amphetamines, and Mordred had not so much as joined Gknights but self-appointed himself as necessary after he had sullenly told Dinadan point blank that his (Dinadan’s!) band was lacking panache and flair.
Tristan is, well, at least his hands are on his guitar, although his eyes keep straying to his harp. His shirt is unfortunate — Got Feet Pics? emblazoned across his broad chest, but Tristan has charm in spades and is handsome. The crowd eats up his eccentricity with glee, although even they can’t stand Tristan’s harp solos after a time. Ten minutes in and wailing over a girl will do that to you — there’s only so many ballads that you can hear about feet before you try to lunge for Tristan’s throat (or crotch by rocks) to shut him up.
(Mordred had once gleefully made a graph on it — how long Tristan’s harp solo could be and how long could their audience tolerate it until they went braying and wild for Tristan’s blood. Technically, it’s eleven minutes, but ten is a much nicer number.)
Lancelot is...he’s hitting about a good majority of the notes at least. Lance is jittery and nervous like the foal that Gringolet probably never was (because Gringolet came out of the womb as hell on hooves), and is prone to crying at inopportune moments. He slides comfortably into the sweet, sensitive type in a boy band aimed at tween girls: swoopy dark hair, kind eyes, and an amiable smile. But sometimes the stress lines around Lancelot’s mouth tightens and his expression shutters and grows dark — he twitches whenever someone mentions Elaine Corbenic and Dinadan has seen how he stares at Mrs Guinevere Pendragon, their producer’s wife, when he thinks she is not looking.
(Here’s the thing — Dinadan is always looking, looking at Lancelot especially. Sue him.)
Bass is new to Lancelot; in fact, music is an entire new avenue for him to discover. His inexperience shows in the awkward way he initially holds the bass before the first chords of the show are strummed, but he curls sweetly around it as the set drags on, his fingers still clumsy but eyes reverent as the stereo pounds the beat louder, louder, louder.
Dinadan closes his eyes. He knows the words all by heart and if he stumbles, it’s okay, the fans are there to guide him too.
A fresh wave of hollers erupt and curiously, Dinadan squints. The lights burn. Gawain has abandoned his drum set and saunters his way over to where Lancelot stands at stage left, one strong arm thrown around Lancelot’s neck as their heads dip close, whispers exchanged before they kiss and kiss. Mordred has dropped to his knees, his kilt a waterfall of blue, white, and pink, and his bagpipes start to bray. Dinadan nearly laughs at the affronted look on Tristan’s face — Mordred has taken the liberty of stealing the time allotted for Tristan’s harp solo.
Tristan eyes Dinadan and points to his harp, mouthing the word “dibs”.
OFFICIAL UNOFFICIAL GKNIGHTS FAN PAGE
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The thing is Gknights technically shouldn’t exist. They’re not what people call a “good band” and some critics say that even labeling them as a “band” is stretching it at best and an insult to music at worst. Their origin story is somehow worse.
The thing is, Dinadan has never had any illusions of grandeur, it’s just not in his nature. He’s not very flamboyant or ostentatious or out there — if the Orkney brothers are the violent wind whipping through fresh laundry against too-bright skies, and Lancelot is water, tempestuous and allusive, then Dinadan is earth, grounded, steadfast, and unintrusive.
But music, music has always been his thing though — Dinadan’s voice isn’t too high that it’s grating or too low that it blends into the raucous clash of riffs and cymbals. Dinadan can’t do much, not really, but dammit, can he sing. It’s as if every inhibition, every fear, every crippling doubt flutters away from his mind the moment a melody falls from his lips, rabbit-fast and twice as desperate to outrun the wolves, to be heard and listened to in kind.
In interviews Dinadan quietly talks of childhood dreams of being in a band, being famous, and yearning for the grating ache of composing lyrics and harmony in tandem, spinning and weaving cacophony into something real, and of spreading that warm, fuzzy feeling that only an album can elicit — but that’s not entirely the truth. Dinadan never thought he’d make it this far. Being a musician was always a fleeting thought in his weakest moments staring up at his bedroom ceiling despising his internship, his life, and the world in all of its ordinary, monotonous buzz.
Lancelot changed it all because, of course he did. Golden, gentle, kind Lancelot. Lancelot had known Gawain Orkney (a Tiktok, Instagram star known for his wildly inappropriate Wonderwall covers with a burgeoning YouTube career featuring his terrifying horse) who was the cousin of music producer and legend Arthur Pendragon. One thing led to another and with all the grace of a toddler chucking handful of marbles upon hardwood floors, Dinadan found himself stumbling upon a fantasy which he even barely had given himself the permission to dream about.
(Lancelot had refused at first to join the band, a fact which would forever leave a bitter ache in the back of Dinadan’s teeth. He had been the first person Dinadan had asked, the only person whose opinion mattered.
“Oh, I don’t know the first thing about music,” Lancelot had explained awkwardly, looking away. “I don’t play any instruments.”
Gawain Orkney, annoyance extraordinaire, had changed that all. Dinadan still couldn’t figure out how he did it — weaseling his way into Dinadan’s band, then weaseling Lancelot into joining Dinadan’s band and finally, weaseling his way into Lancelot’s heart. Probably by batting his stupidly long eyelashes and asking real nicely. Probably.
But with Lancelot came Tristan and then Mordred Orkney upped his brother by declaring himself as the band’s bagpipes player. No band needs a bagpipes player, but Mordred is terrifying and has the aura of someone who can drink four slushies from 7-11 without getting a migraine. But what a band does need is a producer, an in, someone in the industry to vouch for the band and their talent. And Gawain and Mordred Orkney have ties with the very elusive Arthur Pendragon of Pendragon Music.)
It should sting but it doesn’t — the fact that Dinadan is constantly overlooked, constantly underappreciated, constantly pushed aside for his glitzier bandmates, that on those stupid Buzzfeed quizzes Dinadan isn’t even an option to get on the numerous “Which GKnight’s Member Are You? :3” quizzes. Dinadan’s used to it and he no longer smolders with quiet resentment, or at least, his therapist Priamus tells him he shouldn’t because it’s shortening his lifespan and causing him to prematurely age or whatever. (Hello, Botox exists.)
“Today, we’re joined by Galahad of Siege Perilous,” the interviewer smiles widely, her voice is even but the high blush on her cheekbones betray her excitement. “A Christian metal band with a flair for the dramatic, dynamic, and the dying. In fact, that’s the title of your newest album, isn’t it?”
Galahad’s grin is accompanied with a toss of his long, golden hair. His teeth are impossibly straight, skin impossibly smooth, hair impossibly shiny — the message boards and forums will be in a tizzy by the morning, heralding Galahad’s angelic, almost inhuman beauty as proof that aliens truly were hiding in Area 51 all along.
“It is,” Galahad’s voice is low and at odds with the discordant, raccoon-like screeches that emit from him when he’s on stage. “I know it’s been long awaited, but I just want to thank all the fans out there once more for being so patient and understanding with me.”
“It’s been, what? Two years since Siege Perilous released new music?”
“Three.” Galahad corrects, his smile is unnervingly perfect. The interviewer looks blinded, a fervid light of devotion crossing her face as she gazes back at him. “Our new music video is going to drop next week. We’ve worked really hard on it all, tried a lot of new visuals, a lot of new sounds, a mix of old and new.”
The interviewer nods, “It’s an exciting time for the alternative music sphere. Word on the street has it that Gknights also—”
Galahad’s hand flies up to grip at the ivory rosary around his throat, the crucifix digging into his palms. “Excuse me?”
“Gknights,” the interviewer continues. “From what I’m aware of, you seem to be a big fan of them as well, correct? At least 60% of your tweets are directed towards Gknights’s bassist, Lancelot du Lac, and—”
Galahad’s eye twitches. “Lancelot du Lac,” he spits out with contempt, much like how small white children react when their parents plate them unseasoned, boiled broccoli and brussel sprouts for dinner. “du Lac is a fine man, is he not? Would a fine man just abandon his kid in a nunnery? Theoretically, that is.”
“Um,” the interviewer says, and really, what else can you say to that?
Galahad shakes his head, the scent of patchouli thick in the air. He smiles then, but it’s far more robotic, and way more creepy like a Furby’s angelsona. “The Dramatic, the Dynamic, and the Dying, shall we?”
“What’re you doing?” Dinadan attempts to peer over Mordred’s shoulders, like a pushy mother in a Disney Channel move. He frowns as Mordred jerks the phone away from his line of sight, however, the familiar background and logo is troubling. “Mordred.”
“What?” Mordred snaps — he knows he should play it cool, but it’s Dinadan’s “I’m Older Than You and By God I Guess I’m Your Mother While We’re On The Road” voice and it grates Mordred’s nerves, lights up every fire and bite in Mordred’s throat, he already has a mom okay? He doesn’t need another one and she’s awesome, thank you (fuck off Lamorak).
“How many times do I have to tell you to stop catfishing Tristan! If Arthur or Morgan catches this again, or God forbid, the press catches wind of this, the rep—”
Mordred maintains eye-contact as he types and sends another message. The imperceptible tilt to his chin and the haughty look on his face is all Orkney, but unlike Lancelot, Dinadan is a fortress and won’t crumble even from the onslaught of Mordred’s Bitchface Level 4.
“Oh, fuck yeah!” Tristan whoops as he bounces into the room, hair flying behind him. His bicep is around Dinadan’s neck choking him (when does Tristan have time to work out? Dinadan thinks to himself dumbly) as he shoves his phone smugly at their faces. “Look who just messaged me back? Isolde Feete! And you thought she was made up!”
“Isolde Feete” is obviously Mordred in a bad Snapchat wig filter. Mordred’s smug demeanor and Tristan’s crows as he details “her” profile (“She likes horses too bro! Do you think Gawain’ll let me take a pic with Gringolet for points?”) is almost enough to black out the sickeningly sweet picture of Lancelot and Gawain cooing and pawing at each other on the sofa (god, don’t they ever get tired?).
“I need a fucking drink,” Dinadan announces and slaps Mordred’s hand away from the bottle of shitty tequila.
“I’ve been working,” Mordred retorts as he pulls a shot glass from one of the compartments of his kilt. (Do kilts even have pockets? Dinadan wonders.) “I deserve it.”
Twistan OwO (Tristan)
Tweet: Isolde baby please come back I miss you so much xoxo
Tweet: Isolde please
Tweet: You’re the only one for me baby, the others aren’t you
Tweet: I love you
IsoldeWH
Tweet: Me?
Twistan OwO (Tristan)
Tweet: Not you. || RT @ IsoldeWH Me?
Tweet: Isolde PLEASE..
Yseult (Isolde)
Tweet: What. Is. It. || RT @ Twistan OwO Isolde PLEASE..
Twistan OwO (Tristan)
Tweet: ISOLDE!!!!!!!! (pleading_face)(pleading_face)(heart)(heart)(heart) || RT @ Yseult What. Is. It.
Tweet: Isolde’s the only one for me and her sole is so beautiful
Tweet: Fuck
Tweet: SOUL** I MEANT SOUL, ISOLDE I SWEAR
Tweet: ISOLDE
Yseult (Isolde) has blocked Twistan OwO (Tristan)
Arthur sighs into his hands. He’s been doing that a lot. In the background, Kay snickers and whispers a little too loudly to Bedivere that Arthur’s getting old, curmudgeonly even. (As if, everyone knows that Bedivere will forever be Mr Grumpypants in Mabinogirock, thank you.)
“Gawain...are you sure?” He asks for the sixth time because Gawain has the attention span of a dog gone wild at the park on the best of days. “Are you one hundred percent certain that these are the people you want to be in a band with?” Maybe Arthur’s begging, but hey, he wants the best for his favorite nephew.
“Yeah, of course,” Gawain spins in Arthur’s office chair. Arthur can’t even bring himself to tell Gawain to stop, it’s a really good chair for spinnies. “Why?”
“The vocalist’s good,” Arthur says slowly. “But the bassist...he can’t even play.”
Gawain extends one foot and brings the chair to a sudden stop. “But, Uncle,” he pouts. “I love him.”
“Oh my god,” Kay chokes on his granola bar and Bedivere thumps him on the back. “Oh, holy shit.”
“You’re a therapist?” Dinadan asks.
“No,” Priamus says because he has some self preservation and doesn’t want to be sued by some AJJ wannabe singer. Priamus does a lot of things, okay? — he puts his eggs in multiple baskets, he’s a philanthropist but the philanthropy extends to himself only because #selflove.
Dinadan nods. There is a moment of awkward silence in which Priamus is very deliberately staring at the door waiting for Gawain to return to free him from the situation at hand and Dinadan is staring very intently at Priamus in turn.
“Can I leave?” Fuck Gawain, Priamus has better things to do than wait.
“What? No, I was just going to tell you about my trauma.”
“Are you unable to understand words?” Priamus demands. This always happens, Gawain and his cohorts eat up his braincells with their Stupidity Vibes they inflict upon the air and every living being in a 5 mile radius. Some people actually have a job and have to work and are scamming some CEO on the down low and don’t have time for nonsense on a Tuesday night.
Dinadan takes another sip of Mordred Juice™. “Okay so, it all started—”
Priamus thinks that he should have let the gator eat him the last time he was in Florida.
“I’m in the band now.” Mordred Orkney is somehow in Dinadan’s kitchen. Dinadan’s doors and windows are locked. Dinadan lives on the fifth floor. There is no feasible way for Mordred to have entered.
“What?” Dinadan blinks stupidly because it’s 5:14 AM.
“Can you put the baseball bat down?” Mordred asks as he treats himself to the danish Dinadan was saving for breakfast. Dinadan makes a wounded noise as Mordred bites into it. “Baseball bats make me nervous. That and hair dye."
“Oh, yeah, sure. I just thought you were like...a burglar.” Dinadan says. “Wait. Hair dye?”
“Agravaine.” Mordred’s voice is muffled due to the fact that he’s stealing and devouring the only joy in Dinadan’s life at the moment — the danish that is, Gawain kind of already stole Lancelot and Tristan is well, Tristan. “I’m in your band.”
“I heard you the first time,” Dinadan says tiredly as he slumps on the kitchen table. “Is there a way I can pay you off? I don’t think I can deal with both you and Gawain. No offense.”
“Don’t bitch,” Mordred chastises. “Gawain’s not that bad, at least Gaheris decided against joining.”
Dinadan hums, mind serene and working overtime to protect him from the mental image of Gaheris Orkney anywhere near his vicinity. “Uh, can I go back to sleep now?” He’s pretty sure this is a fever dream. A really weird fever dream because he has no idea why his subconscious mind is plaguing him with Mordred Orkney who had once shown him his very impressive collection of daggers and knives. Dinadan knew he shouldn’t have eaten two week old pizza cold from the fridge.
“That depends,” Mordred says cheerfully. “Am I in?”
“Sure, man.”
Mordred nods solemnly. “Cool. Just need that in writing.” With a flourish, there’s a fancy ink pen and a paper in front of Dinadan. (“Hey, did you know that’s my own blood as ink?” Mordred says. And, christ, Dinadan really has to stop eating ancient, almost moldy leftovers.)
Mordred stands and pats Dinadan’s shoulder awkwardly, “I better be going. Anyways, you should really get better locks. Bye.”
(It’s not until Thursday when Mordred saunters in with his bagpipes during practice, beaming at Dinadan in hello that Dinadan realizes that he’s made a deal with the devil.)
GKNIGHTS’S OFFICIAL BLOG :3c
Entry #174 by Gawain Orkney at 2:53 AM
WHat’s uPpp it’s almost 3 am here and i gotta make it quick bc Mordred says it’s the witching hour or some shit like that and it’s not “””sAFEe””….anyways, our new album’s gonna drop soon!!!!!!!! Ty toe veryone for their encouragement, their patience, and their continued support it means so much to us all <3333 here’s a pic of my nipple piercings <33333
Edited at 11:34 AM by Gawain Orkney
Uncle Arthur hasn’t seen this yet because I haven’t gotten yelled for it LOL (: I hope everyone’s ready, this is licherally gonna be Album of the Year baby! G(awain) Knights <333 Also, yeah to everyone asking my piercing is titanium! (: My babey brother Gareth did it for me. Here’s the address to his tattoo and piercing parlor <3333 hit him up, tell him i sent you <333333
Edited at 1:05 PM by Arthur Pendragon
Hello everyone. Gawain is hereby banned from the blog until further notice. Stream GKnights’s latest album here in the link below and thank you for all your support.
AP.