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The guitar in his arms is old, a simple acoustic one once given as a present to a child, as is evident from the faded Pokémon stickers decorating its body. Charles adjusts his glasses before wrapping his fingers around the neck and placing the pads in the right spots for the opening chord. A slow exhale – a wavering sigh, really – escapes his lips before he starts plucking the strings with the holographic guitar pick he’d found lying around. Focusing on the music and the dance of his fingers on the fretboard as he switches between chords, he plays the intro of the song on loop, prolonging it for several minutes.
Then, Charles finally starts singing in a quiet, slightly shaky voice. As a kid, Charles had found the random French peppered into the song cool – sont les mots qui vont très bien ensemble – but now that he’s older the song has become rather corny to his ears. Still, it’s a pretty song and since it had come on on the 60s playlist George had randomly put on in their tour bus this morning, it had been Charles’s earworm for the entire day.
As he finishes the song, he hums the bassline no one is there to accompany him with, drawing out the outro as he had done with the intro. It becomes hypnotizing, almost dizzying. When he finally gets tired of it and falls quiet, the sudden sound of someone clapping comes from across the dingy, stuffy room. Charles fumbles, fingers sliding on the fretboard. The noise that results is like a startled exclamation. Amidst it all, he manages to drop the guitar pick inside the instrument.
A raspy and slightly accented voice speaks, “I thought this was the backstage, not the… stage.”
Charles – who’s busy shaking the guitar, trying to get the pick to fall out – glances at the disruptor. A young man around Charles’s own age, he estimates quickly, clad in simple jeans and a white t-shirt, a simple blue cap completing the understated outfit. Charles’s lips part; he’s about to ask him how he got backstage, but then he notices the VIP pass around the man’s neck. So instead, Charles only chuckles awkwardly as an answer, whacking the guitar and wondering how it could’ve swallowed the pick so efficiently. When the guitar finally vomits the piece of plastic on the floor, it lands at the stranger’s feet. The man crouches down to collect the pick and Charles winces; ‘dirty’ is a word that only begins to describe the state of the floor. Regardless, Charles accepts the pick back from the man. Their fingers brush when he hands it to Charles. The stranger’s hand is warm.
“If I’d known I had an audience, I would’ve tried to give you a better performance,” Charles says to him, twiddling the guitar pick. His face feels hot after all the fuss.
“Didn’t sound too bad to me,” the man replies. He stands stiffly in front of Charles, observing him from head to toe – almost like he’s checking him out. Perhaps wishful thinking, but regardless, Charles straightens his back a little and resists the urge to adjust the bandana wrapped around his head. “But I’m of course no music expert,” the man adds and finally decides to cross the room to Charles, who, in turn, now takes an eyeful of the man. His jeans are so tight Charles has to wonder if his legs have any circulation at all.
They’re very nice legs to look at, though.
“No?” Charles hums.
“I’m looking for Daniel,” the man changes the topic, fiddling with the pass around his neck. When Charles just gapes stupidly at him, he adds, “It’s Max.”
“Right.” Charles snaps out of it. He doesn’t know who Max is, or if he should know. Daniel’s a different story – the breakout star their band is touring with. “If you mean Daniel Ricciardo, he’s in a meeting.” Charles gestures towards the nearby door behind which George, Alex and Daniel had disappeared with the tour manager. “With the big boys.”
“Yes, the famous Daniel Ricciardo.” Max flashes a row of alarmingly straight teeth. He then tilts his head and considers Charles. “Were you not a big enough boy for this meeting?” His lips pull into a pout like he’s pitying Charles. His very plush and pink lips, Charles notes, and idly touches his warm face, hoping his cheeks don’t glow visibly red. He watches as Max drags a nearby chair closer and takes a seat in front of Charles, staring at him openly. He takes off his cap and puts it on the coffee table, then runs his fingers once through his short hair.
Charles laughs and shakes his head. “Somebody has to look after Margaret.” He pats the guitar.
Max’s eyes flick down to glance at the instrument. “Margaret?” He groans and throws his head back, inadvertently showing off his thick neck. There's a faint red mark near his Adam’s apple. Could be a hickey. Could be something else. “Mate, don’t say you’re one of those guys who’re really weird about their guitars.” Max’s wide-set blue eyes twinkle mirthfully. Pretty eyes, pretty full lips. Strong nose and brow and cheekbones. Charles finds he has such an intriguing face, hard to look away from. “Why are guitars always girls, anyway?” Max continues. “Like cars. If you ask me, I think cars are of course male.”
Charles’s chuckles at Max’s enthusiasm as he ponders the matter. He props up Margaret in his lap. “Maybe because she's rather curvaceous, no?”
Max tilts his head. “Of course, but it's still just a guitar.”
“Can't say I’m an expert on the genders of inanimate objects. Maybe you should talk to George. Since she’s his guitar.” Charles caresses Margaret’s neck. “Thought I could have some one-on-one time with her while he’s busy.”
“Oh, I see. Don't worry. I won't tell this George you were fingering his girl.” Max manages to keep himself wry and deadpan for about a second before the stony look on his face crumples and he bursts into laughter. His shoulders rise to his ears, and he hunches forward as delighted giggles take over him, shaking his entire body. His eyes turn into crescents, disappearing. After a while, Charles notices how he steals a subtle look at Charles, as if to check if the joke has amused him. Charles can’t help but join Max. “So, who’s George?” Max asks after a couple of failed attempts to stop laughing. A smile still tugs the corners of his lips. His face is flushed pink after the giggle-fit, splotches traveling down his neck. Charles wonders how far down the red goes.
“You really don’t know?” Charles tilts his head, grinning. Max shakes his head and looks at Charles, prompting him to go on. “He’s in my band, actually,” Charles explains and adds awkwardly, “Well – not my band, I should say. Alex and George, they’re the front men.”
The band would always be Alex and George’s, first and foremost. Charles was a later add-on. An outsider to their symbiosis.
“I see. Who are you, then?”
Max is back to scrutinizing Charles who almost wants to shrink under his stare. At the same time, he enjoys being the center of the attention of this striking stranger he’s stumbled across.
The more fame and fans the band accumulated, the more people sought out Charles’s company, eager to spend time with someone whose songs were climbing Spotify charts. Certainly, Charles isn’t famous-famous, only known enough that his DMs are clogged and unusable on every social media account, and occasionally, he’s asked for a selfie. Despite being familiar with Daniel, who moved in the same circles, Max doesn’t seem to know Charles, which makes him intriguing to Charles.
Widening his eyes and clutching his chest, Charles mock-gasps, “Seriously? Do you live under a rock? You don’t know who I am?”
Max leans forward and squints at Charles. The t-shirt he's wearing is really tight, showing off the shape of his chest. Charles tries to keep his eyes firmly on Max's face; it isn't too hard. “Your band must be big, then?”
“Oh yeah. We're huge.”
“Hm… And you’re the… guitarist? No.” Max glances at Margaret lying in Charles’s lap. “George must be the guitarist.”
“You’re getting there.” Charles’s cheeks ache from smiling.
“Then… you are the singer. Wait, no. If you were the singer, you would be in the big boys’ meeting, of course?” Charles nods and Max rubs his chin, taking Charles’s little game of guessing endearingly seriously, eyebrows furrowed. “The bass?”
“The bassist is the singer.”
“Ah. So drummer, then? You don’t look like a drummer.”
“What does a drummer look like?” Charles challenges.
“Different. I don’t know,” Max admits, shrugging. “Are you not the drummer?” When Charles shakes his head, Max pouts, drawing Charles’s attention to his lips. Hastily, Charles looks away. Max wrings his hands before leaning his chin on them. His eyes appear so innocent, so wide and blue, yet there's something devious about the man. A paradox. “What’s left, then?”
“Well, you see, I am actually the guy they hired to stand on stage and shake the tambourine.” Charles mimics rattling an invisible instrument. Not entirely a lie – there were a couple of songs where George and Alex had deemed keys weren’t needed and Charles got handed the tambourine.
“Impressive. The tambourine is, of course-” Before Max can finish, he trails off, eyes lighting up. He claps his hands once, then points at Charles like he’s aiming a gun at him. “Wait – you’re the keyboardist?” His voice cracks with excitement.
“Bingo.”
“Lovely. But of course, I think you were not so bad playing that guitar and singing. Very lovely. You were singing in French, right?”
Charles nods, then hastily adds, “But I’m not French, I’m from Monaco.”
Max raises his brows. “Monaco?” He doesn’t ask any typical follow-up questions, of money and casinos and fast cars, like people usually do. “It’s cool that you put French in your song.”
Chuckling, Charles shakes his head. “Ah… That was not my song, unfortunately.”
“No? George’s?”
“Lennon-McCartney, I’m afraid.”
“From The Rolling Stones?” Max nods sagely. Charles stares at him blankly for a second, but then Max is laughing again with that full-body way of his, eyes sparkling as he giggles. “I’m joking. What is your band called, then? If you’re as famous as you claim to be I of course must have heard of it?”
Charles clears his throat. “We’re called The Champions.”
“The Champions?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a bit… vague. Champions of what?”
“I don’t know,” Charles admits. “There are vaguer band names.”
“Like?”
“Yes.”
“Yes? There's a band called Yes?”
“Yes.” They both laugh at that. “There’s also like, uh-” All the other examples escape Charles’s mind. Awkwardly, he falls to silence, resorting to just staring at Max.
Max breaks the silence. “Then you go on stage and sing that song ‘We Are the Champions?’” He appears delighted by the joke. Charles remembers during their early gigs, when they’d been starting out, Alex would introduce them on stage with, My name is Alex and we are The Champions. That's a bit of a Queen reference for you.
“That’s not one of our songs. I mean, we do a lot of covers, just…”
“Too on the nose?” Max taps his own nose. It’s rather adorable.
“You could say that.”
“Play one.”
“Wh- What?”
“One of your songs.” Max nods towards the guitar. “Your band’s. Maybe I know it.”
Charles stares at Max’s face. His glimmering eyes. Smiling mouth, a freckle on his upper lip. Flushed cheeks. The open eagerness to hear a song from Charles.
Tonight, Charles would follow his bandmates on stage to perform for thousands of people, hear them chant their lyrics – his, and Alex and George’s. Now, he gets that same rush of anticipatory excitement with a crowd of one, Max’s eyes keen on him. Suddenly, he feels nervous; he never does, on stage, but usually he stands behind his keyboard, his instrument of choice. Now he only has George’s old acoustic guitar – and he’s only a so-so guitarist. All of the songs he’s written, the handful of them the band have recorded, have been built around keys. Charles has half a mind to grab Max by the wrist and bring him to where his keyboard is, so he can properly show his capabilities.
“You don’t of course have to if you don’t want to,” says Max, catching up on Charles’s hesitation.
“No!” Charles cuts in. He’s a professional musician for fuck’s sake. He removes the capo from around the guitar’s neck and tosses it on the nearby coffee table, considering what to play. They have a couple of songs with acoustic guitar but those aren’t that widely known. One time, Charles and Alex had stopped by a coffee shop and when ‘Defective Parts’ had started to play there, they’d stared at each other slack-jawed. The barista hadn’t believed Alex despite Alex’s insistence that he was the one singing the song, even when Alex had started to sing along. That had been the only time Charles had heard a relatively unknown song of theirs play in the wild, though George claims to have heard their song ‘Witch Hunt’ at a club once.
Charles gnaws on his lip and hesitantly places his fingers on the fretboard. ‘Sha La La’ has a heavy electric guitar line and thundering drums, and it doesn’t sound great when turned acoustic, but Charles attempts anyway, since the song has had a little stint of being popular on TikTok.
Charles strums the chords and sings sha la la la la on loop. He feels like a camp counselor at a bonfire, not a rockstar. After a while, it starts to sound stupid, so he stops.
“Did you write that one?” Max asks once Charles’s is done.
“No, Alex and George did.”
“Did you forget the lyrics then?”
“No, those are the lyrics.”
“Sha la la?” Max hums the melody completely off-key. “Mate, I think Alex and George are geniuses!” He snickers, shoulders rising to his ears again.
“It’s just the hook of the song,” Charles finds himself defending his bandmates – but can’t help but laugh, as well. “It has other lyrics, you know what- Okay, maybe it’s not our best work, but…”
“I don’t know that one. Play something else.”
“Play something else?” Charles mutters and narrows his eyes. “You are demanding, Max.”
Max only shrugs and sends Charles an unapologetic grin. Sighing, Charles picks another song. He looks at Max straight in the eye as he starts strumming a fast riff – hoping Max can’t pick up on that an erroneous chord or two slips in there – and raises his brows expectantly.
“Sorry, no,” Max says.
“No? That was in a horror movie.” An indie movie, but it seemed to have gathered its deal of devoted fans.
“I don’t like horror movies.”
“Ah, well. Very valid. Me neither,” Charles admits. He’s never ended up watching the movie.
“What’s that song called, then?”
“‘She’s the Killer.’”
“It’s… Did you write it?”
Charles shakes his head. “One of Alex and George’s, again.”
“Who tried to kill them? Or one of them? Is it about the movie?”
“Ah, Max, it’s about sex.” Charles almost winks at Max but retracts, remembering how the others are always giving him shit about his inability to wink properly. He chews on his lip instead.
“What kind of sex are they having?” Max’s question sounds half-genuine.
“You haven’t heard of la petite mort?” Charles asks.
“I don’t know French. Maybe you should show me what it means,” Max replies and meets Charles’s eyes, unflinching. Charles can’t shoot back a reply. He nearly squirms under Max’s unwavering stare. He has no idea if Max is fucking with him or if he genuinely isn’t familiar with the expression. He waits for Max to start giggling again, but it doesn’t happen.
In the silence, Charles can hear the clock ticking, the muffled voices of the people in the adjacent room. He can feel his own heartbeat. His face gets ever warmer.
“Okay, how about this one?” Charles interrupts their little charged stare-match and starts strumming the guitar again. “Surely you know this one, this is our most streamed.” He dares a glance back up at Max and sees him scrunching up his face, visibly thinking hard while jiggling his leg.
“I think… Maybe I know this one? It’s, of course, hard to say when you’re not singing the words.”
Charles jumps straight to the chorus and sings quietly, “Disservice when you came into my life you did me a disservice, duh- duh- duh- duh- duh- duh- duh- duh- disservice, you’ve done me a fucking disservice…” He’s nowhere near matching the energy Alex usually gives the song, but his lukewarm performance will have to do for now.
“I know this one!” Max interrupts brightly, excited like a kid on Christmas. “It’s you? I mean, not you, but you know. I’ve of course heard this many times. This is on Daniel's list that he plays in his car.”
“Well, Daniel’s obviously a huge fan.”
And Max is obviously close enough with Daniel to ride with him in his car. Many times.
Max only makes an indistinct noise as a reply. His focus has now shifted to his phone. Charles knits his brow, discontent that Max’s attention is suddenly elsewhere, on typing a message to someone. Desperate to get the spotlight back on him, Charles snatches the capo from the table and starts playing the song he’d started with, which had initially drawn Max’s attention. When he looks up, he’s pleased to find it has worked: Max is staring at his fingers that are adorned with rings, fluidly moving from chord to chord.
"You have nice hands," Max tells him quietly. His eyes widen, like he didn’t mean to say that. He licks lips and adds, "Of course, most of you musicians need long fingers."
Before Charles collects his thoughts enough to give a reply, the door behind them opens. The figure of Daniel Ricciardo appears in Charles’s periphery.
“Michelle, ma belle, something, something, French words I can't remember, can't remember…” Daniel hums to the tune of the song Charles is playing. Charles stops. His fingertips ache from pressing the strings too hard. He doesn’t play guitar often enough to grow calluses. “You know, I never got the appeal of that song. Probably because it has my sister’s name.” Daniel grimaces but his eyes instantly light up when he spots Max. “Maxy? You’re here?”
“Of course I’m here, I told you last time I’d come,” Max says to Daniel, frowning, and stands up. Charles watches Daniel pull Max into a brief hug and squeeze his bicep playfully.
“Well, I kinda thought I’d see you after the show.”
“Is now not a good time? I of course can-”
“No, no, don’t get ahead of yourself, Max. Hope you didn’t have to wait too long.”
“I had company, of course, so it was fine,” replies Max, glancing at Charles.
“Ah! Buddy Holly kept you entertained?” Daniel flashes a cheeky grin at Charles, who rolls his eyes at the nickname.
“Buddy Holly?” Max asks, sounding befuddled.
“Because I wear these glasses,” Charles tells him, tapping the side of his frames. He realizes he never told Max his name. “I’m Charles.” He pronounces it the English way, like he had now grown accustomed to.
“Charles,” Max repeats, whispering – Charles only sees the shape of his name on Max’s plush lips.
“You know, Buddy Holly’s actual name was Charles,” Daniel adds.
“Did he wear a bandana also?” asks Max. Once again, Charles has to fight the urge to adjust his headwear.
“No, that was not in fashion in the ancient 50s,” Daniel says, then turns to Charles, “You adding a new cover? ‘Michelle?’”
“No?”
“It’s just that I heard Alex and George in there talk about changing the covers for tonight,” Daniel blabs. It’s the first Charles has heard of it, but he doesn’t get a word in before Daniel continues, “Maybe you should change it to Maxy, ma belle? You’ve always wanted a song about you, haven’t you, Max?” Daniel pokes at Max’s side, which makes Max squawk and fold to protect his stomach.
“I have not said that, Daniel!” Max complains. “You always say these things that are not true!”
“It’s a song about some girl, anyway,” Charles cuts in. “Max should have his own song.”
“Yes, work on that, Daniel,” Max says and offers Daniel a teasing smile. Charles squeezes his fingers around Margaret’s neck.
The door opens again, and Charles sees George and Alex walk in, talking quietly with their heads bowed towards each other, in their own bubble. Charles is still not used to Alex’s bleached hair for the tour. George in his turtleneck looks less like a rockstar than Charles.
Once they’re close enough, Charles confronts them, making eye-contact with George. “Daniel says you’re changing the setlist. Again.”
George levels a stern look at Daniel, who only grins sheepishly. He spares one frowning glance at Max, as well, who’s tugging on Daniel’s sleeve, eagerly wanting to show something to him on his phone. George then opens his mouth, but Alex beats him to it, “Yeah, we did.” When Charles sighs deeply, Alex tries to placate him, “It’s in the band WhatsApp group. We didn’t change much, honestly. Just a little revamp.”
Shifting the guitar in his lap, Charles takes out his phone and finds the updated list Alex has sent. As he'd suspected, it's reconstructed entirely. The cover songs have been changed, but they’re nothing Charles hasn’t played before. ‘Monte Carlo’ has been moved from the first half to the second, which is a change he actually doesn’t mind, and ‘She’s the Killer’ is now the encore. A couple of other songs have switched places or been replaced with others. Charles wouldn’t call it a revamp, but he doesn’t voice his complaints.
“Charles?” Charles starts, looking up. It’s Max, who pats his shoulder and says, “It was nice, of course, meeting you. You should later play me one of your songs, also. One that you have actually written.”
Charles stares, unable to speak. His tongue might be paralyzed. Daniel, for some reason, is grinning like a maniac.
“You’re welcome to our show,” Alex saves him. “We always play ‘Monte Carlo.’”
Max nods, smiling, and lets Daniel drag him away. At least Charles manages to answer the little wave he gives him before the door closes.
“Charles?” This time it’s George wanting his attention, holding out his hands. “Can I have Maggie back? What were you doing with her, anyway?”
“She was out of tune,” mutters Charles and hands the guitar carefully over to George, who goes to place it on the table. A blue hat lies next to a stack of flyers and George picks it up. “It’s Max’s,” Charles realizes. “You know, Daniel’s-” He glances towards the door, wondering how far Max and Daniel have gotten.
Daniel’s what, exactly? Charles hadn’t figured it out.
“I know,” George huffs. “Might be a calling card. So you'd chase after him with it. Or one of us would. What should I-”
“Gimme that,” Charles finds himself telling George and snatches the cap from him. He doesn't get what George means. George looks amused and lifts his hands up in surrender. “Do you know him?”
“Do I-” George glances at Alex, hesitant like he’s asking for permission. Alex smirks and shrugs. “I’m familiar.”
“Is he part of Daniel’s crew? Like a roadie?” Charles wonders. But the VIP pass wouldn’t make sense in that case; he’d have a crew pass.
“I’d say he’s something else that ends with ‘ie’,” George chortles. Alex tries to kick him, but George dodges it.
“That means George thinks he’s a cutie,” Alex teases.
George huffs like he’s offended, “No! A groupie, Charles.”
“Just because you think he tried to come on to you, George, doesn't make him a groupie, though,” Alex points out.
“Come on now, mate,” George sniffs and arches his brow.
“Come on to you?” Charles repeats slowly.
“Remember that party with Martin Garrix a while back? The one that you skipped? Long story short that Max guy was there. But I don't think he was hitting George, mate.” Alex pats George's back. “And aren't you always saying you're above groupies?”
“Is he a groupie or not, Alex?”
Who's George?
Had Max lied?
Frozen, Charles looks at the hat in his hand. Something clicks into place. Max, who had sat in front of Charles and listened to him play his up-and-coming band’s modest hits, none of them written by Charles. Max, who had left with Daniel, a Grammy nominee. Charles was merely an opening act.
“Charles?” George calls out again. Charles makes a noise of acknowledgment, rubbing the cap’s visor with his thumb. “Where’s Lando?”
“Oh – he said something about nuggets and left.”
“Really? He isn't back yet? We have a soundcheck soon, you know what… I'll text him to bring me food, I'm starving,” George mutters.
“Tell him to bring something for me, too,” Alex says.
“And me,” Charles adds. He's been having hunger pangs. Absently, he scratches the itchy underside of his jaw with the visor of Max’s cap.
“Hey?” Alex says, eyeing Charles. “He’s just Daniel’s mate. Just leave the hat here, he’ll know where to come look for it. Like, people are always leaving their crap here.”
Charles makes a noise, but is interrupted by George, "Lando says he’s already eaten and left and will not go back to get us food." He announces it like that's the most devastating news he's ever had to deliver.
"Goddammit!" Alex groans. "Never mind, then. We'll order something. I'm feeling pizza. Charles?"
"Sure."
Before joining Alex and George to ponder over pizza toppings, Charles locates his backpack from the floor and slips Max’s hat inside, tucking it next to his journal.
Guess Max would know where to come look for it.