Work Text:
1994:
With the simple flip of a switch, the technician brought the recording equipment to life. A few lights lit up, a cascade of tiny red bulbs as electricity flowed through the machine. A buzz begins to fill the room. The studio dog tilts her head slightly, then lays back down. Daron leans down and scratches her behind the ears, laughing breathily as her tail thumps against the floor.
Serj stands in the recording booth. His hair is a mess, strands pointing in every other direction beneath the headphones over his ears. He wraps his arms around himself as he surveys the state of the booth. Red walls and thick layers of black foam cover the walls. The room is largely empty, except for the microphone hanging from the ceiling. He adjusts it to his height then looks towards the technician expectantly, who flips a switch and leans own to his own mic.
“Just a minute, Serj. I’m just double-checking everything before we start. You know how equipment can be.”
Serj laughs, then says something. Daron can’t hear him. No one can, through the glass. He suddenly finds himself restless. He leans over to chat with Shavo, but he’s nodded off. Fair enough. They’ve been recording all day.
Daron stands up, hands shoved into his hoodie pockets as he approaches the fader board. It’s enchanting, the whole scene. The complex boards and equipment. So many sliders and switches and buttons, some labeled in chicken scratch and a few unlabeled at all. The tech looks at him, and with a smile, moves an unlabeled slider. He leans down under the desk and hands another pair of headphones to Daron, who’s so mezmerized that it takes him a second to realize what he’s holding. Pulling the headset over his ears, he looks at Serj.
“Alright!” The technician says. “Let’s get started. I’ll roll the instrumental and you start singing. Just let me know if you want it louder or quieter.”
Serj nods, fiddling with his headphones. A few seconds later, a familiar guitar riff floats through the headphones. Daron sits down in the chair next to the tech, full attention on his friend in front of him. His voice begins, gentle.
“The piercing radiant moon
The storming of poor June
All the life running
Through her hair…”
Daron realizes he’s holding his breath as he moves on to the next verse. Then the track erupts, drums and bass joining in, transforming the song completely. This isn’t the first time Daron’s heard him sing this song, not by any stretch, but hearing his voice so close to his brain has changed it completely. He can hear every breath, see the smile on his face as he sings the sustained tone. This was something entirely else.
He goes home that night and writes until his fingers begin to bleed.
2000:
Serj wakes up to knocking on his apartment door. He had passed out on the couch, something that became very apparent as he sat up. Grumbling, he rubs at his aching back. The clock on the wall reads 10:04. Who could possibly want him at this hour? The knocking comes again.
Maybe it’s something urgent. The police? No, he hasn’t done anything wrong, that they could possibly know of. Maybe someone he knew got hurt? No, the hospital would call, not knock. A psycho-fan who’s come to stab him? Serj stops abruptly in his path to the door. That is a possibility… He shakes his head and approaches his door. He looks through his peephole to see not just a psycho-fan, but System of a Down’s most psychotic fanatic of all-time: Daron Malakian. He idles outside the door, swaying back and forth.
He opens the door slightly, still hesitant.
“Um, hey Daron. Everything alright?”
“Oh, yeah, definitely. I feel great.” He says, a little too quickly. “I was just writing, but-I-got-stuck. I-mean-I-got-lyrics-and-the-general-idea-and-the-key-and-shit, butIcan’tforthelifeofmegetaninstrumentaltoworkwiththemelodyandIwaswondering--”
Serj puts a hand up. “You’re gonna have to talk a little slower. Christ.” He sounds annoyed, but that’s just because he’s still half-asleep. Daron coming by like this makes him very excited. Daron’s always been a bit of a homebody. If he actually leaves his house to visit, it means he has a really good idea that just can’t wait for their next writing session. He opens the door all the way. Daron doesn’t wait to be welcomed in. They walk together to Serj’s “home studio”, which is really just a glorified instrument closet. Maybe one day he’ll have a real studio of his own.
“So, what are you on?” Serj says, amused as he watches Daron rearrange his keyboard, moving it away from where it had sit flush to the wall. “Oh, let me guess, crack?”
“Nope. Speed. Want some?” He reaches towards his pocket, but Serj just shakes his head.
“I’m good.” Serj sits down at his keyboard and smiles. “So, what you got brewing?”
2004:
Daron sits, alone in the near-dark of the recording studio living room. He sits on the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table and synthesizer balanced carefully on his lap. He’s working on a song unlike anything he’s ever written before. His fingers hover above the keys, unsure where to even begin.
Part of him wishes Serj would walk in. It plays out in his head; coffee in hand, a tired quirk on his lips. Long curly hair. A comfortable hoodie and sweatpants.
What you working on? He’d ask.
Oh, just an idea I had. Once I’m done with it, it’s gonna be awesome. My best work, maybe.
Then Serj would say something witty, like the smart-ass he is. That’s not saying much, or, Even better than Annoying Car Alarm? Yeah, the latter. He’d definitely say that.
Shut up, asshole.
They’d both smile. Then he’d sit on the couch. He’d sip his coffee and prop his feet up and stare off at the wall as the intro plays. Then Daron would sing, a mere hum hidden under his breath.
Hey, man, don’t you touch my belt!
Standing in the sun, I’m about to melt!
Then his voice would trail off, nervously glancing at Serj. Yeah, that’s all I got so far...
Why is that you can sing in front of hundreds of thousands of people, but get nervous when there’s just one person? He’d say.
The honest answer is that he never liked singing in front of Serj. It gives him a complex. Because that one person is a better singer than me, he would think, but not say. Because that one person is a better singer and composer and lyric-writer than I am. Because he can write pretty songs without letting his fucked up head bleed through and ruin it. He’d feel Serj’s worried gaze burning into him, making him shift uncomfortably as he desperately searches for something else to talk about.
But there is no Serj. He went home three hours ago, and Daron scared him away a long, long time before that. His fingers dance across the keys, playing simple chords, but it’s not enough to distract him from his wandering thoughts. The countless hours they spent together in the studio, the warm hugs after a particularly good show, the way Serj watched over him so carefully as if he were still that naive kid he were when all this first began. But he just had to go and ruin it all. He ruined it all with the stupid shit he does when he’s high, the mean shit he says when he’s drunk, and the useless fights he picks when he’s both.
Now he sits alone in the dark studio, thinking about all the distance between them.