Chapter Text
In complete and full honesty, Wilbur thought that band competitions were stupid. He considered them pissing contests with guitars. Music was such a diverse thing that comparing two bands in his mind would be apples to oranges. He sang in a band, he loved his band, and he wouldn't subject them to a battle of the bands if he was offered a thousand dollars.
A hundred thousand, however, was a completely different story. He didn't believe it when he found the flyer circulating online. He scoured sources, waiting to see someone say it was fake. A hundred thousand to the winning band, anyone was welcome to compete (given they could both stay in the area, just a bit south of the middle of the U.S., and passed the audition round, where it said only 50 bands would make it), and it allowed any sort of range between alt and indie rock.
After finding that, somehow, it was very real and sponsored by a large and influential studio, Wilbur re-thought his entire life's philosophy. He was young, not exactly rich but not horribly off, and the same went for the rest of the band. They would have to fly into the U.S. and, assuming that by some miracle they were chosen to move forward, stay for a while.
The second he proposed the idea, though, everyone else seemed to be in agreement. It wasn't for a few more months, giving them time to book flights and hotel rooms to last the entire competition (they figured they might as well stay; what was the point of leaving immediately if they didn't make it?).
They all had field days researching the city. It was touristy, too many shopping districts and restaurants and admittedly beautiful parks and museums. What everyone was focused on, though, was the giant, gorgeous theater where the event was to primarily happen. It had an art deco style outside, matching a theme of the area, and the inside was huge. It was a big deal.
Wilbur had his doubts, though, about if he had made a good decision or not throughout the entire registration process. He doubted himself as he got on the plane and as he and his band members, three of his friends from University and his kid brother, Tommy, arrived at a hotel a few blocks away, their complaining of baggage costs for equipment mingling with the other bands there for the same reason.
The hotel lobby was a swarm of bright hair and clothing and singing and accents from all over. His excitement mingled with anxiety and a wave of culture shock. He had been to America plenty before, but the diversity of the hotel made it feel like a new place entirely. He settled into his room finally, his bandmates in the next few rooms next door. There was a little less than a week until auditions.
…
Quackity only had to see that the offer was real to make up his mind, convincing the rest of his band to sign up for the competition, driving east the next month and booking hotel rooms. He was giddy. It was the kind of opportunity he had been waiting on for years. Though his band had been doing well locally, he had craved larger recognition.
His band was a four-person patchwork of people who looked like they barely fit together. Quackity was something straight out of the 2010 alt scene, a conglomeration of energy drinks, eyeliner, safety pin embellished clothing, and enough piercings to set off metal detectors. The rest of the band was much less idiosyncratic.
His bassist, Sam, was decently "normal" by most standards. Despite the neon green hair, he blended in pretty well with a crowd. His drummer, however, seemed to take normalcy as a goal to achieve, and achieve it he did. Noah, nicknamed Foolish due to his constant lack of logic and knowledge, usually shortened to Foosh, looked like any guy you'd see out on the street. He was good with his hands, an affinity for engineering and hitting things really hard. To top it off was a pianist, their youngest member, a kid who liked the color purple a bit too much, given a nickname appropriate to his favorite. They all sounded pretty damn good together.
The hotel they had booked was, to no one's surprise, crowded as all hell. He wasn't exactly tall, either, his more gifted in height bandmates helping him navigate the crowd. He couldn't believe how tall the average of these musicians seemed to be. Finally, given his room key, he happily dragged his luggage up through an elevator to the third floor. He took more time than his bandmates, trying to take in as much of the floor and anyone staying there as he could. Most people were already settled or still in the lobby, but he did see another band of five down the hall.
It was hard to miss one of the five; he was tall with the fashion sense of an indie Pinterest board. A much shorter and probably younger blond boy was poking him in the arm, holding onto bags of luggage. Quackity laughed to himself a bit over the two and went to his room, searching it for nothing in particular, and settling in. His audition date was in a little less than a week.
…
Wilbur thought that he could have dropped dead standing backstage. Another band was setting up on stage, their audition next. Stagehands were helping to set up drums, drag the piano to the place on stage it was wanted. Wilbur overheard a very faint run-through a crew member had with who he assumed to be the band's lead singer.
The first thing Wilbur noticed about the assumed singer was that he was short. He wasn't thinking it to be mean at all, it was just a fact. Wilbur wasn't even sure he was old enough to be there. The second observation was his style. He wore a black denim jacket, homemade patches scrawled with words he couldn't read clearly from the distance sewn in. Underneath looked to be another black and white t-shirt. His shorthanded, again, black, white fishnet stockings underneath. Wilbur was sure he probably lived off of energy drinks and takeout.
The activity onstage began to settle, and the lights changed from general audience fluorescents to LED stage lights. The band took their places and eventually a judge spoke.
There were 5 judges sitting in the audience section, clipboards in hand. In the middle, a woman stood up, her clothing seeming too professional for the setting.
"Good afternoon," she smiled. Wilbur wasn't alone in the assumption she was a performer herself, her voice carrying up to the stage loud and clear. "Thank you all for coming. Now, I know you've been through a million questions already, but I'd like to just ask a general run-through, okay?" The singer nodded.
"Perfect. I'm mainly just going to be asking you, uh," she lifted a sheet on her clipboard, then lowered it back. "Quackity. Is that correct?" The singer, Quackity, nodded again. Wilbur tried to engrave the name in his skull.
"So Quackity," the woman began again. "Can you please state your band's name for us?" Quackity leaned forward a bit to speak into his mic.
"Lila Morado," he said. The woman nodded down at her paper.
"Perfect. Crew will let you know when we're ready." The woman sat back down, the lights changing a little. Wilbur felt anxious just standing in the wings. He couldn't see or hear a cue, but saw Quackity nod to the man sitting at the piano. Once the first note was played, everyone was at attention, and the song started.
They sounded great. Wilbur was enjoying himself in the wing, watching the performance. There was real energy put into it, everyone clearly giving it their all. It was energetic, loud, passionate, a little sad in a way, and much more alt than indie. Wilbur kept himself from clapping, the anxiety of his band's slot being next.
The judges applauded, the main woman speaking again, "Thank you. You'll your notice next Saturday." The band gave microscopic bows and rushed to help the crew remove their equipment and exit to the opposite wing. The rest of his band came up to greet Wilbur, stagehands beckoning them on stage, asking a lot of questions, arranging a setup, doing mic checks. Tommy was left in the wings, his musical talent unneeded for their audition song. He had complained the entire week about it.
Also lingering in the wings was Quackity, recognizing the musician on stage answering frantic questions and helping his band set up was the same person down the hall from his hotel room. He was watching them set up as the rest of his band carried things to their van. He knew he would get help from them later, but his curiosity got the better of him.
Next, he noticed someone standing next to him that he didn't recognize. It was the blond kid from yesterday. Despite probably being younger, he was still much taller than him.
"Are you not in the band?" Quackity asked out of a mix of genuine confusion and a wish to know more. The taller took a moment to register the question.
"Wha- oh, no, I am, but Wil is a prick and said I'm not needed for this song." He crossed his arms even tighter before adding, "my name's Tommy, by the way."
"It's nice to meet you," Quackity kept looking at the stage. "Who's Wil?"
"My brother, the tall, ugly one. The singer." He pointed, but Quackity had already been looking at him. He nodded, seeing the lights change for the band. He held his breath.
"Good afternoon," the head judge said, chipper, though it was clear she was tired. "Thank you all for coming. Now, I know you've been through a million questions already, but I'd like to just ask a general run-through, okay?" She repeated the same line. Familiar now with the process a bit from observing, Wilbur nodded.
"Perfect. Now, your name is Wilbur, correct?" Wilbur nodded again. "And can you state the name of your band please?"
"Lovejoy."
"Awesome. Crew will give you a cue when we're ready."
Wilbur could see, this time, the illuminated put for stage crew, watching them shuffle and waiting to see any cue. After a minute, he saw a large card held to the glass that read "READY" in large bubble letters. He almost laughed. Instead, he looked around at his band, nodding to them to make sure they were ready too, and took a deep breath. The song started.
Quackity liked the song. He nodded his head along with it, trying to listen to the lyrics as much as he could. It sounded angry in a fun way, a bit too indie for his taste. He genuinely hoped the band moved forward (though hoped that if it came between him and them, he would prevail).
The song ended, and the pounding in Wilbur's head remained. The judges clapped and gave the same reply to tell them when they'd receive their placement results. Having already heard it, Wilbur just looked around. He noticed Quackity and Tommy in the wings, talking again. He barely remembered to help clear the stage for the next band.
Fully ready to leave, he saw Tommy waiting in the hall. Past him, though, was all of Lila Morado in a crowd in the hall. Now, Wilbur was not very impulsive, but something at that moment coerced him into waking up to them. They turned to look at the hall man approaching them.
"Uh, hey," Was Wilbur's ingenious opening. He was met with bland replies. He focused more on Quackity.
"You guys sounded incredible," he said. The band smiled politely.
"You did too," Quackity spoke up. Wilbur smiled. He noticed the rest of the band elbow each other. The one with the bright green hair spoke up.
"Hey, Q, we're gonna go wait in the van while you talk." Quackity snapped his head to look back at him, glaring. He excused himself for a moment, huddling with his band.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Quackity whispered.
"He's trying to shoot his shot," Sam hissed back. The other two seemed to be in agreement. "Give him a chance. He looks nice. Maybe a bit stupid, but nice."
Quackity rolled his eyes, growling at the three to leave, which they did. Wilbur was still standing awkwardly, only having heard hisses from their conversation.
"Sorry," Quackity sighed. "They're all idiots." Wilbur nodded, adding to the awkward air. Finally, he found something to say.
"You all have a, uh, interesting band name."
"Yeah, it's Spanish for purple lilac. I like flowers." Wilbur nodded, adding another mutter of compliment to the name. They were back to an awkward standing.
"It was nice to meet you, man," Quackity said, trying to break the silence. "I hope I see you in the competition." And though he was mostly just being polite, he still meant it. As he started to walk away, Wilbur stopped him with a "hey, hang on." Quackity stopped.
"Well, I figured that since we're going to be in this for a while, we might as well keep in touch, I guess?" He tapped on his phone a bit, handing it to Quackity on a blank contact screen.
Quackity smiled, taking it. He wasn't sure if this was Wilbur being shy and trying to ask him out, or if he really just wanted to make friends. He didn't really care as he typed his number in, writing in his name and using the phone to take a photo of himself as the contact image. Wilbur watched him raise the phone above his head, using his free hand to flip off the camera. Satisfied, he handed the phone back and waved as he jogged off.
Wilbur smiled down at the contact, "Quackity :]" now immortalized in a list of numbers. He turned and looked for his own band, apologizing for delaying them. Quackity was in his own sort of hell in his van.
"So, did he ask you out?" Foolish nudged him in the arm.
"No. I don't think so, I mean."
"You don't think so?"
"He asked for my number, but like. In a friendly way."
"Yeah, sure," Sam said from the driver's seat. "Friendly. Do you like him?"
"I'm not 14, I'm not gonna crush on a random guy I met."
"Oh, come on," Foolish said. "He's your type. Tall, soft boy style, older-"
"I'm going to beat you to death for fucking real this time," Quackity threatened emptily, the car laughing at him. He pushed his way out of the van as it was still pulling into the parking lot, flipping them off with an embarrassed smile as he walked into the hotel and went up to his room. He looked down the hall, half expecting to see Wilbur there. He didn't. He went to lie down.
Wilbur and his band arrived at the hotel about 15 minutes later, stuck using ubers due to their lack of car. Tired from the audition, they retired to their rooms. Wilbur was still looking at the new contact, constantly tempted to send a text. Finally gaining the courage, he shot a simple greeting.
Hey. It's Wilbur
He waited, seeing it marked "read" after a few seconds, typing dots taunting him in the corner.
Hi
Wilbur didn't have anything to say, really. He sent the first thing that came to mind.
How old are u?
Another second later, he regretted it.
That prbly sounded weird srry
I meant that in like a "can u go to bars" way not in a weird way.
I…
Ur right that did sound weird lmao
But im 21 so yeah. I can go to bars
Why? U asking me out or smthn lol?
Wilbur thought that this conversation must be providing the exact same feeling as taking his organs out with a melon baller.
Nah I was just wondering. Lots of bars in the area.
Besides I'm sure u get asked out pelnty
*plenty
Don't need me to add to the total
Mhm sure haha
And srry to disappoint but I dont really go out much
Who knows. Maybe you'll be able to change ny mind
After reading that text, Wilbur set his phone down. He wasn't going to let himself fall for someone he had literally just met. He felt drunk off of the conversation, which was never a good sign for him. He wanted to sleep, but his head was pounding. It was going to be a very long couple of months.