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Connor loves music. He wishes he could say he loves making it, but the truth of the matter is, that Connor isn’t good at that. His voice isn’t dreadful, but it isn’t anything to write home about either. He doesn’t have the patience or the interest to lean an instrument, and he’s definitely not a lyricist. He likes to think he’s good with words, but definitely not when he’s supposed to set them to music – or the other way round. Whichever, really.
What Connor is good at is talking about music. Connor loves music, and he gets music, and he talks about it like only a lover can. So while the rest of O2L sing, and write, and play their instruments, Connor designs posters, and blogs, and talks people into giving them gigs.
That’s sort of how they landed here, at Battle of the Bands. Not how they landed at the finals of course, that’s down to lots of practicing, but Connor is the one who sweet talked their way into the competition one day past the entry deadline.
He’s relatively certain it wasn’t just his honey tongue but more that they still had a slot to fill that allowed them into the competition, but whatever it was, O2L certainly took advantage of it. They’ve advanced through the rounds steadily, their pop punk sound bubbly and cheeky enough to please a lot of people. So now they’re here, at the state final, about to play three of their songs for a fair amount of people, and a panel of five judges. Connor’s certainly glad his job here isn’t to perform, but to man the merchandise booth each contestant is allowed.
Everyone has brought something to sell, demo CDs most of all, but they mostly look like what they are – homemade little things of college kids with no access to money or, it seems, art school friends. It’s lucky then that Connor’s design obsession makes them stand out, their artwork sleek and recognizable; almost professional, if Connor does say so himself.
Their only competition in this field (and their fiercest competition on stage; Connor’s done his homework) is Troye and the Helenas. Troye and the two girls make this sort of alternative, almost danceable synth pop that Connor honestly adores. He may own a copy of their self-released EP – for research, of course – and if they weren’t the competition, Connor would be helping them win. They’re absolutely amazing, and the fact that Troye, the singer, lyricist, and de facto front man, is drop dead gorgeous, well-spoken, bright, caring, gay, and all around just exactly the kind of guy Connor wants to take on lots, and lots, and lots of dates certainly doesn’t hurt either.
Though if Kian asks, Connor is entirely unaffected by Troye’s sky blue eyes and raspberry pink lips.
The boy and girl behind Troye and the Helenas’ booth are a nauseatingly adorable couple, and Connor finds himself constantly caught between rolling his eyes, and cooing over them. After a while, the girl catches Connor’s eye, and waves at him before she grabs her boyfriend’s hand and drags him over.
“Hi!” she chirps. “I’m Zoe, and this is Alfie. We’re with Troye. How about you?”
“I’m with O2L,” Connor says, pointing up at the sign over their booth. “I’m Connor.”
Zoe goes to say something else then, but they’re interrupted by Troye himself, grabbing both of Zoe’s shoulders and leaning down so he can speak directly in her face.
“You have to sing with me.”
“What?” Zoe says. “Why? Did something happen? Is Alex—”
“Her voice just went. She can’t make a single noise,” Troye explains, his own voice sounding frantic.
“But—” Zoe tries to protest.
“Please, Zoe. You know Blue always gets people. And you know the song by heart. You sound fantastic, and you know that genius that Kayla is with the production, she sounds like a dying walrus when she sings.”
“You should do it,” Connor pipes up, pulling Troye’s surprised focus. “Blue is amazing. It’ll probably win you the thing.”
Connor’s not sure what he’s doing, but he doesn’t want Troye to lose on such a flimsy thing as his duet partner’s voice failing.
“Who’re you?” Troye asks.
“I’m Connor. I’m with O2L.”
“You run their blog and such, right?” Troye asks.
Connor tries not to blush. He didn’t think anyone would take notice of him. “Yeah, um. That’s me.”
“You’re great. You make them look so much more professional than they are. Not that—sorry,” Troye says.
“No, I know what you—thanks.”
Troye nods and stares back at Zoe. “Please, Zoe. Please. I’ll owe you forever.”
“Come on, love. You’ve sung with Troye loads,” her boyfriend coaxes, hand on her back.
“Not on stage!” Zoe protests, but one look at her face as she peers up at the intense hope in Troye’s is enough to let Connor know she’s already given in.
“He wouldn’t ask if he thought you couldn’t win him this,” Connor helpfully points out and again wonders why he doesn’t just shut up.
The other three also seem to be wondering about it, but Zoe sighs after she’s done wrinkling her brow at Connor, and nods her had at Troye.
“Fine. I’ll do it.”
“Yes! Oh my god, thank you, thank you, thank you!” Troye shouts and wraps Zoe up in his little arms. The hug looks a lot firmer than his small frame suggests. “Come on, we’ll go practice. It’ll make you feel better.”
“I’ll just stay here at the booth,” Alfie says, giving his girlfriend a parting kiss as Troye drags her away. For a moment his eyes flit to Connor, but Connor doesn’t know what to do with the expression he’s wearing.
When Troye flies off the stage directly at Connor after they’re announced as the winners, Connor’s not sure what to do either. He figures kissing Troye back is a safe bet. They can work out the details after.
The End