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When Yin Yu takes a deep breath in, he inhales the water vapor inside the concert venue. There's an undertone of marijuana and a humidity from sweaty, dancing bodies and an electric pulse of light from the stage. The space is small, cramped. Claustrophobic. Dark. Just how Yin Yu likes it.
In a sea of black, torn clothes, fishnets, and piercings, Yin Yu is but one fan. He's used to being just one of many, though, so that's nothing abnormal. In fact, it's comforting.
At the office, he types away at one of many computers with old, dusty keyboards. He waits as one of many in line at the single working coffee machine in the break room. He sends a few emails, speaks with a few clients, and goes home. He's one of many who take the train to and from work. One of many who might stop at the convenience store at the station. One of many hard-wired to repeat the same routine, nine-to-five without so much as a ripple forming around them.
But at this concert, he has traded his boring, white collared shirt and tie for layers of black and purple. His septum piercing finally makes an appearance and the sheer fabric of his shirt reveals the ogre mask tattoo on his forearm. In a crowd of screaming, singing fans—front row—he finally feels like himself.
It's the opening set and the band already has the crowd going wild after playing a recognizable single. The lights are flashing, feet are stomping and swaying. Yin Yi's head bangs to the rhythm. He knows this song like the back of his own hand. His body even knows some of the choreography.
The lead singer belts out her thick, raspy vocals, beads of sweat already forming under her bangs. Yushi Huang's voice is incredible, able to weave in and out of soft and powerful lyrics. She's a shorter, stouter woman, simple in her classic black overalls. Beside her, Ling Wen harmonizes with back-up vocals and guitar. She brings an edginess to the song. Compared to Yushi Huang, who has a sweet face, Ling Wen is as razor sharp as her cat-like eyeliner and dark lip. The drummer, He Xuan always feels like a shadow in the background—he dresses plainly and lets his skills speak louder than his person. His percussion is unlike anything Yin Yu has ever heard.
There's one more. Amongst the band, he's the person that Yin Yu is in most awe of: the bassist, Hua Cheng.
He lingers towards the back right of the stage with a thick strap resting across his wide, but bony shoulders. With wild, ruffled hair that falls pleasingly over his eye, it'd be hard to see the eyepatch underneath from the back row. In the pit, though, Yin Yu can see the tiny cord that cuts across his face.
Some fans speculate that Hua Cheng lost his eye in an accident. Some think it's just an aesthetic choice. But Yin Yu doesn't watch his eyes all that much.
What Yin Yu follows are Hua Cheng's fingers and arms. Capped with black gel polish, the man's fingers are long and slender, each containing their own profanity in permanent ink. Instead of a cloth sleeve, Hua Cheng's long, sculpted arms are decorated by a full sleeve of butterflies that flow down from his shoulder and stop just before his wrist, and his body is barely covered by a shredded t-shirt and harness overtop. The aura he exudes is delicate but deadly. Yin Yu can imagine that being punched by this guy would be more insulting than it would be painful.
Those hands hold their own power, though. When Hua Cheng plucks, his fingers barely tickle the instrument, yet Yin Yu knows more than anyone that the four strings of a bass are thick, immovable, and hard to coerce into making music. Without technique and strength, an inexperienced player sounds timid. Hua Cheng has presence. He makes the feat look easy.
While He Xuan creates a sharp beat with exciting crashes of the kick-drum, it's Hua Cheng who masters it, controls it, breathes it in and out. Hua Cheng's bass line brings the heavy, intoxicating rhythm capable of moving the bodies of listeners. He effortlessly flows in and out with the drums, easing off to let Yushi Huang sing her chorus or Ling Wen have a solo. He's the very image of an ideal bassist; he knows when to support and when to shine.
Without him, none of the others would glisten in the spotlight. Yin Yu feels his chest thump whenever he listens. He's at this concert, knocked around by other fan's bodies, but lulled into a dream-like state by that bass and the beautiful man playing it. Yin Yu's fingers dance along an imaginary fretboard to pin down each note as he follows along to the music.
When he opens his eyes he can swear that Hua Cheng is looking in his direction. That singular sharp and oppressively all-knowing eye couldn't possibly be looking at him, could it?
No, the fairytale of the fan could never happen to someone like Yin Yu. He's not the protagonist, he's not the chosen one, he's not the hero, he's not the one that the spotlights center on. He's the boring, drab, colorless man that sits in cubicle four-thousand-and-twenty-seven of the sales department. He's the man who wears the same white button-up and the same black tie Monday through Friday. He's the person who orders sparkling water when he's being daring. He's just Yin Yu. And Hua Cheng is a rockstar who has literally every reason not to look at him.
Eventually, the music finds him again and he can't resist dancing. The rhythm puts his stray thoughts into homes where his shelter of a mind doesn't need to worry about them anymore. Everyone around him is moving, after all. The crowd undulates with the beat while on stage, Yushi Huang and Ling Wen approach the center. The fans in the front row go nuts when Ling Wen blows a kiss toward them.
Yin Yu looks up to meet Hua Cheng's gaze once again. It has to be Yin Yu's own wistful thinking. He can't let himself believe in fantasy.
Still, though, even if Hua Cheng couldn't possibly be looking at him; the man is gorgeous, like a vampire with perfect skin and silky hair, and Yin Yu steals the opportunity to gaze upon him and his fame longingly at every opportunity. Hua Cheng is everything Yin Yu's child-self wished he could be: beautiful, famous, loved. A musician who made it.
The vocalists retreat and He Xuan lightens the drums. That Fender gets closer and closer, louder and louder as Hua Cheng steps forward for his solo, switching his style from fingerboard to slap with swift flicks of his wrist. Instead of his delicate, polite plucking, Hua Cheng's slap bass is powerful and loud.
He's so close that Yin Yu can see the way sweat forms beads and falls across his pale skin like glitter. He can practically feel the silkiness of Hua Cheng's hair as it flies through the air, following the thrust of his hips to the rhythm. Even Hua Cheng's studded boot follows the music, leading the crowd in clapping along. This man can't be real.
He leans across the stage, teasing the fans in the front row. Someone throws a rainbow flag his way and he ducks down to catch it with the neck of his instrument—it ends up around his shoulders without even missing a beat of the bass line. The crowd screams at the boldness of their idol. Yin Yu's throat is just as hoarse.
That's when he meets Hua Cheng's eyes for a third time. And the man he admires so much winks. Not to the crowd. Not to the screaming pair of girls beside him. At Yin Yu. This can't be a coincidence anymore.
Having never felt more seen in his life, Yin Yu's thin lips part slightly to let out the last of his breath into a sharp gasp. He can practically hear each molecule of air that he takes in.
In the blink of an eye, light floods the stage, one massive bulb at a time and he is left standing amongst a dispersing crowd, barely remembering the closing song. For someone who normally notices each tick of time trudge by without anything significant to fill it with, the leap forward is unusual.
As though several thousand bricks pelted him during the final act, Yin Yu's head pounds. While he steadies his feat, dazed and dream-like, he wonders if any of it were real. By the time Monday rolls around and his coworkers ask him how his weekend was, realism might permit him to say 'good' instead of 'incredible'. Just an abnormal blip in his otherwise linear, average life.
But he turns around and collides head-first with something solid. Semi-solid.
As is his natural state, Yin Yu quickly apologizes before even daring to make eye contact, thinking—hoping—that whoever he bumped into will continue along without the need for further social interaction. The inky shadow that consumes his figure tells him otherwise.
Standing at least a head taller and just about as immovable as a concrete wall, the man that Yin Yu ultimately has no choice but to acknowledge remains. Dressed from head to toe in black, only two things stand out about him: a wired earpiece and a small maroon flame tattoo under his left eye.
"I was just leaving, don't worry," Yin Yu feebly sputters out to the security guard. He tries to shuffle past but the man side-steps in front of him.
The man points casually over his shoulder. "The band has invited you backstage."
Ten thousand bombs go off in Yin Yu's brain at once, shattering glass walls between expectations.
"M-me?"
The guard nods and starts walking. In a moment of bravery, Yin Yu follows.
Light peels away into a dim glow backstage, facilitated only by a few bulbs. Men and women wearing all black flit across the room moving speakers and wires. Even though he too wears all black, Yin Yu feels out of place, and soon, the guard leaves him to his own devices, permanently leaving him with an uncomfortable itch all over.
A quick glance around and Ling Wen and Yushi Huang are nowhere to be seen. He Xuan's drum set has already been cleared.
Yin Yu turns his ear toward a light plucking sound. The bass guitar is still plugged into the amplifier.
Hua Cheng sits casually, fiddling with the strings as if he were warming up for the show rather than having just finished it. His instrument lays strapped across his shoulder, a dark black line through his red outfit. Its sleek design more than fits its vampire of an owner. Not surprising since up close, Yin Yu can tell it was custom made.
It's not quiet. In fact, between groups of stagehands moving things around and the scraping of heavy objects, it's quite loud. He'll never get another chance like this, so Yin Yu musters just enough courage to shuffle closer and raise his voice above the noise.
"Hey, I'm Yin Yu." He waves timidly, taking the time to swallow. Remember to breathe. "I uh…I loved the set, and I love your music…" Think, Yin Yu, think! You have to say more than that! "Wow, that's a cool bass."
The man chuckles low and soft, and Yin Yu realizes that he's a real man and not a wax sculpture. Up close, Yin Yu spies the calluses on the pads of his fingers, no doubt from the effort it takes to move the thick strings on his bass. Hua Cheng's skin features a few dark moles, one under his eye that creases now that he's smiling.
What was so funny? He panics a little as Hua Cheng lifts the strap over his head, ducking under it to free himself from being a musician. He's a real man. He's really here. Oh God.
"Thanks," Hua Cheng says casually, crossing one long leg over the other, "Do you play?"
The answer is yes, but it doesn't want to leave Yin Yu's throat. Could he really say that anymore? It's been years since he has touched an instrument. He gave up that dream a long, long time ago. But saying 'no' would be a lie.
He settles for a bashful, "Yeah, a little."
Hua Cheng grins. "Just a little? I saw you in the crowd. If you had an instrument, I bet you'd be dangerous."
Yin Yu's heart races. Hua Cheng really was watching him. His brain isn't sure what to do with that information besides combust. "Y-yes, just a little."
"Play for me?"
Before Yin Yu can protest, Hua Cheng slips the strap of his instrument over his fan's shoulder. It's heavy, fittingly for how sturdily it was made, and Yin Yu is locked in. He can't back out now, even if the anxiety makes his heart race until it stops.
The strap lightly smells of charcoal and the neck like earthy, polished wood. It's a rather grounding scent to take in while Hua Cheng watches like an expectant king with a hand on his hip and his gaze turned downward. He's hard to look up at. What is Yin Yu in this moment if not his court jester?
He inhales a deep breath and when he exhales, it leaves his body with a shake. It has been years. What if he's just one big disappointment? His left hand slides up the neck of the instrument and his right toward the center. What hand positioning is it again? Foreign cannot begin to describe the loud colors and intricate design of it, but those four strings at least are somewhat familiar. The thickness, the weight, the slick feeling.
It's harder to coax the instrument to make music than he remembers, but he mashes his lips together, the grit causing the first few notes. Yin Yu's fingers glide between the pickups. He leans back against the concrete wall behind him, the rough, cool texture grounding the vibrating strings that ripple music throughout his body. Just play. Play like you always do.
The beat comes to him naturally. Like riding a bike, his fingers recall what to do without much thought. Yin Yu doesn't need to remember music. It just finds him.
Maybe confidence rattled around in his chest at that moment, because the bass line he plays is one of Hua Cheng's most iconic solos. It's a beautiful, powerful string of notes that accented the opening song tonight. Just for a moment, Yin Yu can pretend that he stepped onto that stage, that he laid down that layer, and that the crowd cheered their lungs out for him.
He imagines what it must be like to hear your own heart surge with adrenaline on stage, gazing out across a sea of singing voices. The crowd is here for you. Their desperate hands reach for you. When you play, they go wild. It's an out-of-body feeling that Yin Yu can't picture at all.
When Yin Yu silences the strings at the end of the last bar, he hears the leather of Hua Cheng's fitted shirt crease as the man folds his arms. Maybe he didn't like the performance. Maybe the King is angry that his jester stole his throne, if even momentarily. Yin Yu lifts his head nervously into the looming shadow of his idol, ready to face whatever judgment Hua Cheng might have for him.
The whites of the man's teeth shine like the moon under the backstage light when he smiles, but Yin Yu swallows nervously when he sees them; it's as if Hua Cheng is about to eat him whole.
"You lied," Hua Cheng says so low that it's almost a whisper that drifts from the tip of his tongue, a seductive form of devil speak.
"What?"
"You lied," Hua Cheng repeats. Yin Yu stares at him just about as blankly as he does nervously.
The steam coming from his ears as if his internal pipes are bursting due to the pressure doesn't help. By now even the emergency coolant is failing. His system is running hot. Overly hot. Yin Yu's eyes scramble for something else to look at and find the floor.
"Say it," Hua Cheng demands.
"Say what?" Yin Yu asks, ruffled to the point where he'd be surprised if he had any feathers left.
Hua Cheng smiles and his head tilts towards the instrument. "Bunny, you're good."
Bunny? Heat rising to his cheeks faster than he can breathe, Yin Yu tucks a rogue hair from his bangs behind his ear. "I u-used to be in a band…I guess I am…a little bit—"
"—Good?"
"Yeah, I'm pretty good," Yin Yu finally admits, handing the instrument back to its owner. "A little…I—"
"Shh," Hua Cheng hushes, accepting back his scepter. "Good boy."