Chapter Text
“Where’s my money, Gus?”
Okay so maybe Luz has a flair for the dramatic. It’s only natural, right? She’s put her heart and soul into this EP. She bought an actual Gibson, like, a Les Paul Standard, none of that ‘Classic’ bullshit, and certainly no Epiphone.
“Where’s my fucking money, Gus?”
So now Luz Noceda is standing tall over one Gus Porter, the fat (slim) capitalist (left-wing) bureaucrat (who hates paperwork) that cheated the aspiring guitarist of the bright future she always envisioned.
Unfortunately, the paper-hating bureaucrat in question does not lift his eyes which are still glued to his ridiculously huge phone which, at this rate, should qualify as a tablet.
“Once you get that 100K listens, you start getting your money,” the young man replies lazily from the sofa, completely unperturbed by the scary (and badass! and awesome!) young woman (still older by two years, suck it, Gus) looming over him.
“I’m never gonna make it at this point!” Luz changes her tactic and steps back onto the carpet to resort to humiliating whining. “What kind of a sucky label do you run if you’re not gonna promote me?”
“Hey!” Finally, Augustus fucking Porter decides to look up from his shovel-sized phone, sitting up on the blatantly poser red sofa. “I am doing the best I can, all right? I got you, uh, google ads and stuff. Not like I know what I’m doing here. You’re the first artist I’ve ever signed. If you want some good promotion, go get a manager or something. I don’t have the budget. If you recall, I’m funding this out of my own money.”
Luz plops down on the sofa, straightening the flannel shirt that she’s wearing on top of her Minor Threat T-shirt because Luz is an actual punk and not a poser like Gus who’d only wear “basic colours”. Also it physically hurts her to see the guy in the same pair of skinny jeans that she’s sporting because Gus is so clearly obviously a capitalist poser while Luz is a punk queen — in addition to being the goddess of everything awesome.
Except that title should probably be reserved for someone else. Both titles, in fact.
Dammit. Luz isn’t sure how she should feel about Amity fucking Blight getting a Grammy. On the one hand, Amity is an amazing vocalist, the new voice of Gen Z punk, basically the entire reason why the genre has been experiencing a rebirth. Getting modern herbivore Tiktokers to chant angry punk lyrics and slam in mosh pits to overly distorted power chords is no easy feat.
Then again, a true punk would’ve just thrown away the damn award (which Luz is never getting because Luz is lame and her EP is lame and her producer is lame) — but no, Amity had to play the polite girl and bow and give a passionate speech which obviously fell on deaf ears. Seriously? Preaching to those millionaires is like posting about climate change on Twitter or fighting for gender equality at the Oscars. The fucking sheep with their fucking mindsets controlled by those tear-shedding rich fucks that nod and spend on charity to get their tax deductions — and not a damn thing ever changes! That’s not the punk way to do things, Amity Blight!
Okay, maybe, just maybe, Luz is being unfair because she’s more than a little envious of Amity because they’re the same age and Amity Blight is from the same city and Amity is an international star at twenty-two and Luz is just… Luz.
And also maybe — just maybe! — Luz has had a crush on Amity Blight since her first performance six years ago, and maybe — just maybe!!! — Luz has a bunch of photos of Amity saved on her phone to gaze upon before passing out drunk in bed. Just maybe.
“You have a lot of money, Gus.” Luz glances at the phone out of the corner of her eye, expecting to see Gus following some obscure right-wing forum (like all capitalists do!) but no, it’s just a Forbes article. Close enough, Forbes writes about the money-bags for the money-bags.
How come my childhood friend is a rich kid? Also, how come my Mom, a middle-class vet, is friends with Gus’s dad, who’s a fucking TV host? Truly millionaires should be made history. ...Maybe after Gus helps me record a really well-selling EP, after which I become a millionaire too and, uh, do the opposite thing and just take the money and make a pile of it and burn it as a symbol of anarchy and nonconformity. Take THAT, Amity Blight!
...Why am I thinking about Amity Blight again?
“I don’t have that much money! I pitched one idea to the Valley, one idea, Luz. A hundred thousand dollars is not that much, believe it or not.” Before Luz can open her mouth to counter how that’s ten times more than her entire life’s worth in savings, Gus gives her the old good Porter grin. “A hundred thousand listens should be achievable, though. Go promote your Spotify and your YT Music on your socials. Get involved!”
“I don’t have socials and you know it!” Luz groans and smacks her forehead (when she should be smacking her friend-slash-producer). “I should have broken your face seventeen years ago when you stole my Togepi figurine.”
“I didn’t steal it!” The twenty-year-old immediately protests. “I grabbed it and I lost it!”
Luz smacks her fist in her palm, trying to change her face into the sheer embodiment of fear. Which obviously does not work on Gus. “It is worth almost two hundred dollars nowadays! Not to mention the emotional price of it!”
“I was three!” Gus takes a deep breath and gets up from the sofa, his bunny slippers a shark contrast to the otherwise decent office. “You know what, whatever, you fucking poser nerd. I will get you a Togepi figurine from Ebay. An original one.”
“You better get me that hundred thousand views!” Luz snarks once again on her feet, which feel a bit too cold in socks but Gus has his stupid European no-shoes rule.
“What if I told you I got you a concert?” Gus turns around sharply for dramatic effect but almost slips on the carpetless part of the floor, what with the bunny slippers and all.
“I would say you’re full of bullshit,” Luz responds just as her heart is beating rapidly, eager to jump out of her throat because wow a real concert Luz never prepared for a concert what is she supposed to play who is gonna support her how much time does she have to rehearse fuck she always has trouble with anything that’s not 4/4 and—
“Hey, Noceda, breathe, breathe!”
Luz realises that Gus has been shaking her by the shoulders for quite a bit and pushes the manhandler away. “Chill, I’m fine. Just, uh… What’s the set gonna be like?”
“Nothing too fancy, just a small club, two mics, a hundred-watt amp, so, uh, grab that acoustic with the Fishman that you have.”
“Acoustic? I only have like three acoustic songs!” Luz shrieks, almost about to tear her hair out. Thankfully, her everpresent beanie saves her the fate of getting bald at twenty-two.
“Well, go full Rise Against on them! Do the Greg Graffin! Like, just, play the fucking chords of your songs and sing. Besides, it won’t matter, Amity Blight only cares about the first song newcomers play at her club. Then she either applauds — so you can play whatever — or disapproves, in which case you can just pack your shit and leave.”
“AMITY BLIGHT?!” All right, now Luz really is hyperventilating. Also, of course, Amity fucking Blight is a filthy capitalist like Gus, owning a club and God knows what else?!
As much as Luz is attracted to Amity, she’s infuriated with her just as much. It’s a strange kind of relationship — especially considering that Amity Blight has no idea Luz even exists.
“Yeah, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.” Gus smirks. “So please don’t blow it. But if you do blow it, I will pretend I don’t know you. And I will ask Willow to do the same.”
“Why would I blow it? Psh, Amity Blight.” Luz waves her hand in the air dismissively but it turns into a sad, pathetic handwave of defeat. “She’s a vocalist, she can’t even do music . It’s not like she’s super talented or my idol or my crush or I would sell my soul to let her play a concert with me and take my virginity afterwards.”
“That…” Gus blinks. “That was oddly specific. But hey, yeah, tomorrow at ten. You have almost thirty hours to practise! Well, excluding sleep. Anyway, don’t be late. Willow will pick us up at eight for the sound check.”
Later that night, when Luz watches one of Amity’s earlier performances, she cannot help but fantasise about meeting the stunning diva. In her beer-eased mind it goes a little like this:
AMITY: Hey there, stranger.
LUZ: Hey there Amity. How was that performance of mine?
AMITY: Oh, fantastic. The real essence of punk captured on acoustic guitar. Would you like to make out now and then go on tour where we get married and adopt seven cats for our beautiful non-capitalist mansion?
LUZ: Yes, totally, thank you for asking!
In reality, Luz turns her attention back to the already-cracked screen of her phone. Well, her Mom is working double shifts and it’s not like Luz is making any significant money. Which is of course a very punk thing, but Luz is a smart anarchist who understands that in a society like this money matters.
Meanwhile, on the screen, Amity is fire, spreading across the stage, her back to the drummer, then suddenly facing the bassist, a couple jump-steps towards the edge, and freezing, freezing right there at the edge, holding that final note of the bridge… And then she’s fire again, roaring into the mic for the final chorus, old-school, no outro, no extra bars at the end — the guitars die with a hiccup at the last syllable of the last word, a fiery unity of music and vocals.
Luz releases a breath she has been holding and puts her phone down.
Well, the concert shouldn’t matter. Because if Amity Blight is gonna be there, I am gonna fuck up anyway. In the worst possible manner.
_______________
Some people might think the real dilemma of punk rock is whether left-wing libertarianism is a sustainable non-ideology in a world that opposes individuality by dividing itself into left-wing supporters of government participation and right-wing libertarian hillbillies.
No, the real dilemma is whether it’s a punk or a poser thing to puke your guts out before your first concert when the girl you have a crush on sits right there at the table in front of you, looking at her phone in disinterest, tailed by the amazing talented pink-haired bassist of her band, the one and only Boscha.
Also if Luz wasn’t so chickenshit mortified right now, she would ponder on why the rest of the band only go by their stage names while Amity goes by her full legal name. But, again, Luz is chickenshit mortified and is considering puking on the stage in front of her and running away, possibly abandoning her guitar and Willow (who is supportively sitting at their table) and Gus (who is not-so-supportively standing by Luz’s chair on the stage).
“All right, whatever you do, don’t play that indie folksie shit you wrote for the acoustic, all right?” Gus pats the mortified woman on the back. “Not that kind of crowd, right? Just play some songs from your EP. I know your voice is crap and you’re scared you’re out of tune so you sing really quietly; so I cranked up the mic to the max. Don’t try to carry any strength, just try to hit the notes. And, uh, don’t fuck up too much. But if you do, I’ll get you a cab cuz you can’t ride with us if you fuck up in front of Amity Blight. Sorry, Luz, I have an up-and-coming label.”
With that tirade, the slim fucking poser who evidently tries too hard to look like Jordan Peele (with the beard but without the humour) hops off the stage to fully reveal to Luz that everyone is staring at her and that AMITY FUCKING BLIGHT has glanced at her and then returned to her phone with the same lack of interest.
Yeah, I’m gonna fuck up. This is gonna be the worst fuck-up in the history of fuck-ups.
Luz clears her throat. “Hi guys. I’m Luz Noceda and, uh, I am gonna play a few songs for you. T-the first one is called…” Oh fuck fuck fuck fuck Amity is looking at me oh fuck those eyes why am I such a horny mushy creep! “It’s called All My Insecurities, it’s a single of mine.”
“Fuck,” Luz hears Gus mumble to himself before he conveniently faceplants right next to his salad while Willow comfortingly pats his back.
But then Luz doesn’t see anything because she closes her eyes — like she always does when performing — and everything fades away; the world, the club, Gus, Willow, and even Amity.
Then Luz starts to pluck at the strings, her fingerpicking a bit too quiet so she amplifies it a bit by tugging the strings a bit harsher, afraid to mess with the amp, and the sound becomes sharper, more aggressive, so contrary to the sad, bitter lyrics that sound more like a cheesy pop song than an acoustic punk ballad. Well, so much for ‘no indie folksie bullshit’, starting out strong, Noceda.
Then Luz begins to sing, and God, she sounds terrible, doesn’t she. The first verse is so weak, so pathetically horrible, a meek, awful bleating that will haunt her for years; yet by the chorus her voice grows a bit stronger and by the second verse she can at least hit the notes — at least she hopes so! — and the second chorus comes from the heart, right through her chest and her throat and her soul, right towards Amity. Because, in all honesty, it was Amity who the song is about, and Luz is grateful that the lyrics she wrote are so obscure that Amity will never know it, and will probably just berate her or — best case scenario — give her a couple of seconds of applause.
All my insecurities look sharper in your eyes,
Every breath you take runs through my chest.
All that’s left for us is what we’ve left behind.
And maybe… perhaps it’s for the best.
And maybe… perhaps it’s for the best.
Luz keeps sitting there with her eyes closed even as the coda dies on her fingers. Of course she never really thought she’d perform this live — or, well, perform anything live — so she just played the, erm, ‘studio’ version, which — surprise surprise — ends with a lengthy fade-out. How do I get a fade-out IRL? How do real musicians even fucking do it?
But Luz doesn’t have to, as she is interrupted by someone clearing their throat right in front of her.
The guitarist’s eyes open and, despite the lights illuminating the stage, Luz can only focus on one person: Amity Blight, standing right before her, in the same attire, but now also spotting a leather jacket on top of the blouse.
"Hey, you." The rock star looks at the sitting woman coldly, but with a spark of curiosity.
"Yes?" Luz blinks. Uh… What is one supposed to say to their secret crush who’s also a kinda-sorta punk rock goddess?
"Your phone number."
Okay, did NOT expect that. "Sorry?"
Amity sighs and rubs the bridge of her nose impatiently. "I need your phone number, you retard."
"More like, guitard," Boscha snickers from the table, but Luz cannot find it in herself to shift her attention away from the marvellous diva in front of her.
Then, with a swift motion, Amity leans down and gets her hand in Luz’s pants. Except, well, not like Luz imagined it (yes okay she totally imagined it more than once): the pale hand roughly takes out Luz’s cheap mid-ranger from her jeans’ pocket and ( why didn’t I set a passcode ) Amity quickly types something, then takes out her own iPhone from her own pocket and types something with even more precision.
"There.” Amity hands the phone back to the shocked performer. “Tomorrow we're rehearsing. I messaged you the details. Be there at ten. Don't be late."
With that, the green-haired goddess with a vocal range of over four octaves snaps her fingers and Boscha gets up from the table, following the band leader to the steep stairs leading to the exit.
For a moment, Luz watches the two women leave, then her eyes shift to the shocked faces of Gus and Willow, and then to her own phone clutched firmly in her hand.
"What the actual fuck."