Chapter Text
Wilbur always feels a twinge of nerves before he goes on stage, a tiny, little voice screaming in the back of his head.
Tonight’s no different. From backstage, he can see the audience - crowds of people coming to watch him sing, to listen to his band play. There are always so many what-ifs when he performs. Will the amps work? Is his mic on? What if a string breaks? What if they mess up?
For the fifth time, he checks the tuner attached to the head of his guitar again to make sure it’s perfectly in tune -- it is. He takes a deep breath, letting his lungs expand and the familiar concert scent fills his nostrils, all sweat and dust and crowds and people. It’s not pleasant, but it feels normal. Familiar. He’s done this many times before, and he’ll do it again tonight. The cloud of butterflies in his stomach quiets a little, but the back of his neck is still tingling with the scarily exciting feeling of anticipation.
But when he glances at his bandmates right before they’re supposed to walk out, and they grin at him, as nervous and giddy as he is, he only feels… excited. He feels ready to make everyone’s eardrums bleed. He feels ready to blow the roof off this place.
“Ready?” Phil asks, holding his red Gibson SG bass close.
“Ready,” Wilbur nods, and the lights on stage go out. A stagehand gestures for them to go, and the four walk out.
Wil knows exactly where to go; they practiced this in the sound check. His confidence growing, he picks up his cable and plugs it into his slate blue Telecaster. Techno, to his right, is doing a last-minute tune for his guitar too, a beautiful wood-grain sunburst Gibson Les Paul. He fiddles with a vast array of pedals on his board on the floor, making sure he’ll get the right sound. Tommy settles into his seat and pulls out his drum sticks, making sure every tom, snare, cymbal, and hi-hat is in its place. Phil is plugged in, ready to go. Wilbur nods to them, stepping up to the mic.
“Hello,” he says, his voice echoing around the room. The lights switch on, blue and purple illuminating them from behind and bright pink and yellow in front of them, right in their eyes. He blinks a little, trying to adjust his eyes. Tiny dust particles dance through the air in front of him, swirling around like tiny fairies glowing from the stage lights.
The crowd begins to cheer, a monstrous roar rising all around them, but the lights in Wilbur’s eyes make them seem invisible. All he sees is an inky black abyss in front of him. He bites back a nervous smile. The sound of amp feedback begins to grow behind him as Techno and Phil prepare themselves. Wil holds his Telecaster close to his chest and can’t help but grin.
He feels no nerves now, only the high of being on stage, ready to perform, and the confidence of knowing you’re going to kill it. The butterflies are gone. He’s ready. The band is ready, revving to begin.
This is it.
Tommy, from behind his drum kit towards the back of the stage, stands up. He screams into his mic, “WE ARE THE SLEEPY BOYS AND WE’RE HERE TO MAKE YOU THINK ABOUT WOMEN, DRUGS, AND ANGRY SHIT!”
He counts off, clicking his sticks together and shouting, “ ONE, TWO, ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR! ”
A giant crash sounds from behind Wil as Tommy starts the song off with a booming drum solo, diving straight into the intro of a huge stadium rock song, and Techno plays the opening riff. In Wil’s peripheral vision, all he sees is Techno’s wild mane of long, pink hair as the sound of his guitar thunders all around them. He’s shredding a crazy solo, his hair in his face and thirty-second notes springing from his fingers moving across the fretboard like a programmed machine. Phil’s grooving with them and slaps his bass, a perfectly complex line that’s perfectly syncing with Tommy’s rowdy drums. Wil plays rhythm guitar, helping to add to their sound and make it more full. Wil waits for them to finish the intro before stepping up to the mic, ready to begin the first verse.
Tommy hits the cymbals in a fill before transitioning into the verse with a more staccato, exciting, hi-hat heavy beat. Phil’s bass really shines through as Techno turns down his guitar volume, playing a punchy riff. Wilbur grabs the mic, letting his guitar hang from its strap.
He starts to sing, his raspy voice full of emotion: “Wasting your time… you're wasting mine. I hate to see you leaving, a fate worse than dying. ”
Wilbur closes his eyes and lets himself get lost in the music, letting it consume him in a swirl of bright, colorful sound. Tommy’s drums are yellow, flashing brightly and mixing with the pure blue of Phil’s bass. Techno’s guitar burns red and true, and the whole song is a mix of dark and light colors coming together in a beautiful, colorful, harmonious symphony.
And he doesn’t always love having synesthesia, but it’s moments like these that make Wilbur grateful for it.
Opening his eyes, the colors still omnipresent in his mind's eye, he continues: “Your city gave me asthma, and that’s why I’m fucking leaving. ”
He finishes singing the verse, joining back in with his guitar for the pre-chorus. Phil harmonizes with him, and their voices blend effortlessly.
“So shout at the walls, ‘cause the walls don’t fucking love you. ”
Tommy, grinning a fabulous smile, slowly builds tension into the chorus. There’s an air of anticipation growing in the room as everyone knows the song is about to reach its peak, like the feeling of going up a steep hill on a rollercoaster and preparing yourself for the glorious feeling of flying down the other side. Everyone’s on their toes, ready for the banging chorus.
Wilbur practically screams “Because the walls don’t fucking love you!” and Tommy unleashes a monster fill while Techno hits one of his foot pedals on the ground, unleashing a roar of distortion. An enormous wall of sound blasts from their amps as Techno’s solo is reaching a new level of volume, and Phil’s bassline is holding them all together but going crazy. The stage shakes beneath their feet from the pure volume of sound they’re making, and Wilbur feels fucking amazing . There’s nothing like this. He’s on top of the world, in a blur of color and shape and sound in his head and he feels alive.
Wilbur strums his guitar like it’s the last time he’ll ever strum it as he belts his lyrics into the mic, “There’s a reason London puts barriers on the tube line.”
Phil backs him up, singing along in harmony, “There’s a reason London puts barriers on the rail.”
They launch into a cacophony of beautiful chaotic music, all distortion and feedback and a thumping bass line that’s everywhere and all over the place and clashing drums and roaring guitars. The audience is going mental. Techno’s pink hair is all in his face, a smile peeking out from under his bangs as he and Wilbur face each other, twins shredding their guitars in perfect sync. They’re like a single entity, breathing together through their music and feeding off each other's rhythms and energies.
And the chorus begins to wind down, taking a softer, gentler tone as the song comes to a close. Wilbur finger picks in a simple pattern and the other members of the band slowly drop out, until it’s just him and his guitar.
Wilbur plays a couple measures and sings one last line, almost whispering into the mic, “ There’s a reason… ”
He plays one last chord, letting it ring out and echo around the room. His forehead is slick already, his hair slightly sticking to his face and a huge grin on his face. This is what he wants. This feeling . Techno next to him looks up and smiles back. His ears ring a little bit and he feels fucking amazing.
Dream never feels nervous when he walks on stage. He knows his songs perfectly, each bend and riff perfectly ingrained into his brain and every note he plays, he plays with purpose. His songs are crafted to be a perfect emotional journey, lyrics written to match the instrumentals and the instrumentals to catch your ear and keep you on the edge of your seat. He doesn’t mess around; he’s an absolute perfectionist when it comes to his music and every beat is tight. His guitar is like an extension of his body, rhythm is as easy as breathing. Constantly, he reworks his songs until they’re pristine and there’s no possible way anyone in his band could make an error. George and Sapnap are used to him being this way. They trust his process because they know they sound good. And they do. And they always win. And Dream’s used to being the best. And when he’s not, it pisses him off.
As he watches from the audience in the venue where he plays every Saturday night and his band always is the favorite, something about the band that’s playing is weirdly… magnetic ? They’re raw and angry and they’re making a whole mountain of sound, and his eardrums are ringing because they’re playing so fucking loud . But at the same time, it’s not repulsive. There’s purpose; choices in the chords, like that diminished chord that’s obviously deliberate. The musicality, the synchronization of the drums and bass is perfect! And -- Dream scratches his head -- a major third chord added to the instrumental bridge? It breaks up the three chord structure of the rest of the song - it’s not everyday you see one of those…
And who the hell is that guitarist? Dream is dumbfounded, watching him in his zone on the stage. Honestly, he has never met a guitarist who could match his skill, but this guy is the real deal. A mane of pink hair and gold jewelry glinting on his fingers, he’s interesting looking, to say the least, but his playing is hypnotizing. He looks completely at home, in the moment, like he’s playing in his room instead of in front of a hundred people. His technique is fabulous, and it’s obvious to Dream that he’s a classically trained musician as he absolutely shreds his guitar neck and takes a crazy solo.
The singer, on the other hand, is a totally raw musician. He doesn’t play as perfectly as the pink haired guitarist, but Dream finds he actually doesn’t mind. There’s something about the way he carries himself that shows his pure passion for his music. He’s really, really tall, and has curly brown hair coming out of his beanie in short, tight swirls. He sings and plays with so much emotion, and Dream can feel each and every emphasized syllable hit him in the heart. The pink haired guy and the singer are locked in together, playing their guitars in harmony, and it’s a perfect balance between raw musical talent and refined skill, and the sounds they’re making are flooding the room like a tsunami.
The drummer looks like he’s younger; he’s blonde and has a boyish face, but goddamn, the kid can play. The bassist obviously knows what he’s doing too. He looks like Kurt Cobain with his long-ish blonde hair and slouchy posture. And he’s not center stage, but his steady, thumping bassline and the occasional riff really ties the whole song together. He and the drummer have great chemistry, too -- Dream can tell because they’re constantly glancing at each other, making sure to match up their separate beats and work together as one rhythmical entity.
Dream likes it. A lot, actually. He likes it too much for his own comfort, and that’s why it’s pissing him off.
Dream can always pick out the idiosyncrasies in a band - where their timing is off, where they don’t have chemistry, where the dynamics don’t quite mesh, where their songwriting decisions don’t work out. But… with this band - what did the drummer call them at the beginning of the song? The Sleepy Boys? - he can’t pick out anything wrong. They’re fervent and loud and natural and perfectly imperfect. He’s used to being superior, the best! And Dream is fuming. Because for the first time, he’s found someone he thinks could match him… even beat him.
Dream scratches his chin, contemplating. Already, he can feel himself getting competitive. I guess I’ll just have to invite them to a battle of the bands. See who’s really the best.
The Sleepy Boys exit the stage after they finish their set, and all of them have a giddy adrenaline high they get after they absolutely crush a gig. Wilbur slumps against the wall, exhausted but feeling great, laughing and wiping the sweat from his forehead. Tommy follows close after, drumsticks clutched in his fist.
“AW, HELL YEAH!!” Tommy screams, grinning like a madman.
Wil laughs and high-fives Techno. “That was fucking awesome!”
“Techno, mate!” Phil pants and slaps Techno on the back, “You played amazing.”
“I mean, I played pretty great too,” Tommy butts in. “But yeah, Techno did alright.”
Wil unslings his guitar from around his shoulder. “Are you kidding me? He plays like fucking Slash. You were great out there, Techno.”
A little embarrassed, Techno pushes his hair out of his eyes. “You guys give me too much credit, I swear…” Phil laughs and begins packing up his bass. Techno’s wrapping his cord when they hear a voice coming from the shadows backstage.
“You guys were pretty great out there.” A stranger none of them have met before steps out from behind the curtain.
“Oh, uh… thanks,” Wilbur says.
“No, really. I’m honestly really impressed.” In the dim light, the stranger looks tall, about Techno’s height, maybe even a little bit taller. He’s got green eyes, a sprinkle of freckles across his nose, and purposefully shaggy, dirty blonde hair. A smiley face tattoo is visible on his neck right above the collar of his shirt.
Phil, ever the friendly presence, smiles at him. “Thanks mate, we appreciate it.”
“First time playing at the SMP?” the man asks and leans casually against a wall.
Wilbur nods. “First time, but it’s a nice venue. We really liked it.”
The stranger smirks. “My band plays here all the time.”
“Oh?” Phil raises his eyebrows. “What’s your band?”
“Dream Team,” the man answers.
“Never heard of it,” Tommy blurts.
Resentment flashes across the stranger’s face, a slight look of annoyance creasing his brows, but before anyone can comment, his face is back to his normal cool expression. “Well, if you become regulars, you’ll get to hear us play. We’re pretty decent.” His voice oozes false modesty. He’s good, and he knows it. Turning to Techno, the man points at him and says, “You, my friend, are quite the guitarist.”
Techno grunts, “Thanks.”
“What’s your name?” He holds out his hand.
Techno grasps it, feeling the other man’s strong grip. “Technoblade. You?” His fingertips are all super calloused. Techno thinks, He must play guitar, maybe bass. Either way, he plays a lot.
“Clay. But everyone around here calls me Dream.” Dream eyes him up, a slightly aloof expression on his face.
Techno notes his demeanor warily. “Nice to make your acquaintance.”
“And who are you guys?” Dream gestures to the rest of the band.
“I’m Wilbur,” Wilbur says, “This is Tommy, and that’s Phil.” Phil smiles and waves; Tommy just pouts and crosses his arms.
“Well, it was great meeting you all,” Dream takes a couple steps towards the door. “You guys got something special, I’m telling you. We should play together sometime. And… you-” he points to Techno, “- I’d love to challenge you to a shred off one day.” With that, he turns on his heel and walks out the door.
The band members glance at each other for a second, slightly incredulous.
“What a raging prick,” Tommy spits.
Techno nods in agreement, slinging his guitar case over his shoulder. “That was really strange. He gave me weird vibes.”
Wil just rolls his eyes. “He was trying to be friendly.”
Techno shakes his head. “I don’t know man. Something about him… it doesn’t sit quite right.”
“I don’t trust ‘em,” Tommy declares.
“You’re paranoid.” Wilbur punches him in the shoulder.
Tommy hisses, “Hey!”
“Loosen up. We just fucking blew the roof off this place! That was the best show we’ve ever played, lads. I think this is cause to celebrate!”
And so, they put Dream out of their minds and celebrate. The band, each other, music, everything. This feeling. Wilbur wants to remember it forever.