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Razor always had difficulties verbally showing how he felt, that was until around his seventh birthday. All the guests had showered him with gifts and presents, more than anyone would ever need. Many of them would be discarded after the week was through, having found interest in another wrapped box. The cheap guitar with its stickers already falling off in the package was supposed to be one.
It was as if that piece was coated in glue, never leaving his side, and when it did the only reason was due to restrictions from public places like supermarkets. By the end of its two week lifespan, the pale blue paint was discolored and chipped, showing the burnt brown wood underneath. The chords were weathered and had been replaced twice in the last few days. It wasn’t meant for what Razor was doing: creating music. The guitar was a toy, but to him it was everything: his voice, project, calling, list going on.
The next holiday marched around and thankfully his parents had the inclination to get a proper instrument. And from there, Razor could finally explore what it meant to be a musician.
His ears were constantly listening to some variety of artists and genres, fingers picking at strings for a new song, mouth humming lyrics not yet formed. The whole process from birth to distribution mesmerized him and took hold, catching each waking moment he had.
He knew that this was his passion, but also understood that if this was his dream, it couldn’t be a solo project.
It was mere coincidence that he crossed paths with him that day, but in the now present, Razor swore it was fate.
It was their junior year, getting ready to start the filing that was college applications. Him being an only child, his parents wanted what was best for the future, which Razor understood and respected. Even if the deal was bullshit: if you can sign to a label before graduation, then you can pursue what you love.
It’s like being tripped at the starting line, he grumbled to himself, clutching his bag’s straps tighter. If he held on with even an ounce more strength, he’d be almost positive it would break apart. How am I supposed to even find someone to play with? Or a label to take me on?
He tapped his fingers along the cold metal, the hollow lockers chiming and singing. Trying to create a stable melody, his feet stumbled and paused while a voice lured him in. As if a siren was calling for him, the song was so vibrant yet low that Razor needed to know more.
Most of the school was gone by this point, having clubs or buses to catch. Razor was the last to leave the building along with his English tutor minutes after, so he pondered from who this melodic sound was coming from. He closed his eyes to hone in on the rhythm that was surrounding him, to then turn towards the art’s hall.
Probably the choir, he hypothesized, only to realize that they did not meet today, making his curiosity simmer linger. In the crook of the hall was a room most soccer and track students left their schoolbags, as they weren’t allowed after a student named Chongyun tripped on a wild strap on the fake grass.
He was about to turn back around when he heard the tune stop and a door open wide, showing a doe-eyed captain, not prepared to have an audience. “Razor? Did, uh, how long have you been there…?”
Razor blinked as the track star rubbed the back of his neck, awkwardly shifting weight on both feet. “You sound good.”
Approaching quickly, looking around for anyone else, he gripped Razor’s shoulders, smiling in desperation. “Can you forget about all of this? No one knows… I-I’m not even a singer, so-”
“You are a singer. Good singer.” Razor couldn’t tell but Bennett was one more objection away from pulling out all his white hair strands in frustration.
“First of all, I’m not . And second of all, what do you know about music anyway?!” Ah, the second step of grief: Anger. Not potent, but the flare of passionate debate rising.
If he had his instrument strapped onto his back, he would have shown him wrong, but he didn’t so he settled for his voiced roster. “Drums, keys, songwriter, and favorite is guitar.”
Internally, Bennett screamed to himself about how aggravating the whole situation was, but externally he upheld his sane perception before pleading with his eyes and voice. “What is it going to take for you to realize I can’t sing?”
Razor thought for a moment before remembering an event he’d been trying to apply for before realizing he couldn’t do it on his own. He needed a partner in passion, or skill at the very least.
He pointed to the printer paper attached to the hall’s gray bricks, all the while pinning Bennett into place.
The track captain took a moment to decipher what he meant by the motion before taking a step back, face contorting into horror and amazement. “You want us to do the talent show?... Together?!”
Razor made no movement to show he was joking, face plain and stoic. “Deal?”
He contemplated, for a long time, or what seemed like a year or three. Huffing once he looked at the clock behind Razor, showing his track meet would be beginning without him soon. Tapping his foot, Bennett ran his hands through his messy silver hair before complying with his wish, with one exception. “Okay, fine, but I need to make it to my meet, or else Coach Tartaglia will bench me. Let shake on it: If I do this for you, then you need to buy me dinner afterward.”
He left his hand in the air for a mere second before Razor almost yanked it off, nodding and promising to stay true to his word. “Dinner afterward. Thank you.”
Peeling himself out of the grasps, he patted his back before dashing off to make it to the field in limited time. “I’ll meet you in front of the school after the first bell. Don’t be late!”
###
“So, that’s how ‘Bad Good Luck’ started?”
Both nodded on the interviewer’s couch, Razor clarifying as best he could with the audience’s eyes pressuring him to confess every last detail. “Yes. Mostly, but it was for fun not professional.” Bennett piggybacked his comment with some clarification. “I was focused on being a track star still, but eventually Razor and I got an email from an agency after our performance somehow got uploaded and viral in a week. I had to make a choice” He turned his head and smile towards his bandmate, resting his hand on Razor’s knee. “and I chose Razor.”
The host’s eyes scanned them for more information but knew they wouldn’t give without some push. Curling her fingers together, she leaned forward enough that the blonde locks were falling over her shoulder. “And when did the relationship start?”
Obviously, the crowd hummed in “oooo’s ” and some gasps, but it was no secret that they had been together, seeing as their engagement rings flashed under the studio lights. The lyricist locks hands with his partner and squeezes delicately to indicated he needs help finding the words.
Bennett already jumps onto it and veers the question towards an avenue they can control, lightly gripping his partner’s hand. “You can hear more about our tricky relationships with past love on our new album ‘Ripped and Repaired Love Letters’-
Razor breaths, looking as his vocalist fiancé sways the world with the same tone and voice he once had tripped into. Who am I kidding, I’m still entangled in it. And he had no intention of falling out of love, both with the man and with the music.