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He's not supposed to be here. He sticks to the shadows, mostly. Hides in the rafters. Listening. Observing. Falling in love over and over again from afar. Safe at a distance. He isn't meant to be in the spotlight like this.
"That was good. Let's take it again, okay buddy?"
The guitarist's voice is soft. Deep. Soothing. He's always liked listening to it. Never once has he thought it would be directed towards him, though. Never once did he dare to picture himself practicing beside him.
It's wrong. It's all wrong. Of course, he sounds perfect. He has every line memorized. Every note. Every word. He knows them better than he knows himself at this point. But they aren't for him. This isn't his place. He isn't meant to be a band ghoul. His hands start to shake as he nods curtly. Silently. It doesn't go unnoticed.
Nor does the way he stumbles on the intro. The way his shoulders stiffen. The way his tail starts to curl towards his ankles. His uniform vest feels too small. The strap of the fantomen, too heavy. The mask and balaclava, suffocating. He breathes hard through his mouth, fingers trembling as he tries to find the notes again. He knows this. He knows it better than he knows himself. But it's not for him. The goggles of his mask fog with tears, and he can no longer see in front of him.
"Hey." There's a hand on his shoulder now. Hard. Grounding. Safe. The echoing of the rhythm guitar line- more perfect than he thinks he could ever play it- has gone quiet now. "What's going on, little spectre?"
He's never had a name before. It's strange to him, the things the band calls him. Shadow. Spectre. Haunt. Rafter Rat. Phantom. They feel odd. Just as out of place as the rest of him. And yet, when Aether says it now, it's comforting. Affectionate. Soothing. Everything about him is so soothing.
"I can't do it." He says weakly. "I'm not supposed to be here. I can't be one of you. How am I supposed to replace you?"
"You're not." He states plainly. "Try not to think about it like that."
"B-but I-"
"Look. You've been watching us rehearse for years now. You sound good. Real good. The others like you. Papa likes you. I like you. That's all that matters. Don't worry about comparing yourself to me."
"That's easy for you to say. You're not the one on the stage, in front of all those people who already love you."
"Don't worry about all those people." Aether shrugs. "They'll either like you or they won't. It doesn't matter. Just play out there the way you play in here, and you'll be fine, little Phantom."
Aether takes his shaking hands from his guitar and holds them in his own, gently knocking their heads together, and he lets go of the breath he was holding, closing his eyes and focusing on the touch. He doesn't know how he'll do it, but he knows Aether's right. He knows what he's doing. He knows this better than he knows himself. He's been watching. Hiding. Waiting.
".....Can we take it again? One more time? From the top?"