Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Samantha Lawlor slammed her door. She knew it was the immature thing to do, if her parents could even hear it over their bloody arguing. "I'd move out if we didn't share a mortgage!" she heard her mother shout, muffled by the house's thin walls. If she were her brother, Brendan, she'd play some music on her record player to drown them out. If she were her sister, Ann, she'd suck it up and do some homework. If she were her twin, Conor, she would...what would she do? More importantly, what would she do? Instead of coming to a conclusion, she sat on the edge of her bed. It was a twin, fittingly, but she didn't really care as she buried her head under one of the pillows. Maybe she should invest in a record player. 

She could hear Brendon's music. It was loud, as always, but it was also fun. She could also hear Conor, since they shared a wall, playing his guitar. Huh. So that's what he did. Sam played the violin, but her parents couldn't afford lessons anymore, so she'd stopped. Conor had kept playing even after his guitar lessons stopped, she guessed. 

"You stupid bitch!" her dad shouted. She put the other pillow onto her head as well. 

The next morning, when her parents called a 'family meeting' and sat everybody down around the table, she was 100% sure they were announcing their divorce. They were not. She sat down at the table next to Conor, giving him a brief smile. Her mum turned the TV down. 

"Well, as some of you may have noticed, your mother and I really are under a lot of pressure at the moment. Like the rest of the country." Her dad began. "I haven't had a single commission this year. Your mother is down to a three-day week. It doesn't look like it's going to get much brighter. So we had a look at our accounts, and...well, we-we see we could make a significant saving if we altered the education situation."

"Education situation?" Sam asked, just as Conor asked, "What education situation?"

"They're taking you out of school," Brendon cut in. 

"What?" 

"No! No," her dad continued. "We're not taking you out of school. We're transferring you from one school to another."

"Why?" Conor asked.

Sam rolled her eyes. Great, just great. She didn't really pay attention to what else they said; she got the idea. Slandering Brendon for dropping out of college, backing up their decisions...all the usual. The next morning she woke up late. Way to make a good first impression.

Her parents had already bought the new school uniform, about the same as her old school: plaid skirt, white shirt, grey jumper, tie. She left her hair down, hoping it wouldn't frizz up during the day. Conor was hogging the bathroom, so she got her stuff together while she waited. 

"Jeez, finally. Are you ready to go?"

He shoved a piece of toast in his mouth. All she could understand were the words need...bag. 

"Just hurry up!"

They biked to school. They could've walked, but they wouldn't of made it in time. The school was...not nice. Kids were forming a circle around a pair of boys fighting when they got there, which was just lovely, and others were snickering and laughing at the twins. In their first lesson, the school's lead Brother Baxtor came in. 

"Morning prayers are at quarter to 9:00. The canteen is located just below the PE hall. They serve chips and bars." He looked Conor up and down. "We have a strict black-shoe policy here, Mr. Lawlor. Your parents should have read it in the introductory rule book, page 142."

After glancing at Sam, Conor mumbled, "I don't have black shoes, sir."

"Well, you're just going to have to get a pair then, aren't you? And report to me first thing in the morning with them. Good man."

At lunchtime, Conor got a black eye from a boy with a shaky buzzcut. "God, Conor, day one and you're already making enemies."

"You should've just danced."

The twins turned around. A small ginger boy with a heavier Irish accent than the two combined said from a seat. 

"Danced...?" Sam began.

Rather than answering her question, Conor asked the boy, "Who is that pyscho?"

"That's Barry Bray. He'll be out for your blood for the year."

"Why?" Sam asked.

"'Cause you've shown signs of weakness."

"How do you know him?" Conor asked.

"He lives in the same flat as me. His ma and da are drugs addicts. But don't worry. You just need to come up with a plan for the year. A solution. Here. Check it out."  The boy handed them a hand-made card. Darren Mulvey - Business Solutions. "Call me anytime."

"There's no number," Samantha commented. 

"Oh, no, we don't have a phone. Just call around, yeah?"

After school, Sam found Conor and Darren stood by the gate. "'Been looking for you," she said, smacking Conor's shoulder.

"Hush! Darren was just telling me who the girl across the road is." She followed his gaze. Across the road, standing on a staircase to a large house was a pretty girl with brown eyes, sunglasses, and a cigarette hanging out of her mouth. She stood with her hands in her pockets, looking out - no, down - as if she was above everything. 

"I don't know. She's always there."

"She's beautiful," Conor said.

"Yeah, good luck. She doesn't speak to anyone. Stuck-up cow. She said her boyfriend's a drug dealer. She's not interested in any of the boys in school."

"Then why is she standing over there all the time, then?" Sam said. Without an answer, Conor crossed the road to go and talk to her.

Darren pulled a face. "Brave. Hope your brothers got thick skin. And he's ready to be rejected, hard."

Sam scoffed. "Give him a chance."

He shrugged. "Surprised she's even talking to him. Sunglasses off and everything."

She frowned. "Oh lord, is he singing?"

"Hey, hey, she's writing something."

"Quiet! He's coming back."

The two of them looked up at Conor as he fast-walked across the road. "We need to form a band."

Chapter Text

 "Eamon! Go and get the bleeding door!"

Eamon stood up from his bed, not bothering to put down the rabbit he'd been holding. He'd answer the door, tell whoever it was that Ma was busy, then go back to his room. That was the plan, of course, until he realised the people knocking were his age. 

He knew one of them; the ginger kid, Darren. "Hey Eamon, what you doing?"

"Nothing. I was just feeding me knew bunny. How are you, Darren?" He studied the three kids in front of them. He obviously knew Darren, short, ginger, heavier accent than even him. The other two he'd never seen before. One boy, one girl, though she was slightly shorter than him. They shared some facial features, but she had lighter, longer hair than he did. And she was very pretty. 

"Cool. This is Eamon. Eamon, this is Conor. He’s new in the school, and he’s putting together a band. And that's Sam, his twin sister."

Eamon looked at the two of them. The two of them looked at him. He looked at Darren. "So?"

Next thing he knew, all three of them were in the living room with him, and Darren was going on about him being some kind of genius. The living room was cramped with all the music equipment. He looked at Sam. Oh God, she'd already been looking at him. He pushed his steel-rimmed glasses up with his index finger and dropped his glance. "Um, I'm gonna go put my rabbit down," he told them.

When he came back, Conor was quick to say, "Wow! Where did you get all this gear?"

"Well, my Da's in a covers band. Weddings, parties, pubs."

Darren continued his gloating. "Eamon can play every instrument known to man, can't you Eamon?"

He shrugged. "Probably."

Both twins raised an eyebrow. 

"Show them," Darren urged. 

Eamon went through the instruments quickly: bass guitar, drums, keyboard... "Wow," Conor began. "So--" Eamon raised a hand, then began the next wave: African balaphone, Indian flute, Uilleann pipes, a shaker, finally a conga drum.

"What do you lot play yourself?"

Conor was obviously thinking on his feet as he said, "I'm...more of a singer."

Eamon looked at Sam. "You?"

"Oh, no, I don't--I'm just here because he is." She gestured at her brother. 

"You used to play violin, didn't you? Quite good, as well," Conor added. He coughed. "I mean, I'm sure you could...do something if you wanted to."

"What makes you think I want to?" she asked. "Conor also writes songs."

"Only lyrics! Words. But I haven't put them to music yet."

"So what do yous want from me?" Eamon cut in.

"We wanna hire your instruments," Darren decided.

The twins looked at each other. "No way!" Conor said.

"Yeah, you've gotta be in the band, you're amazing. Right?" Sam asked, looking between Darren and her brother. Eamon could feel his face heating up. He pushed up his glasses again and looked at his shoes. 

"I mean...are you into that, Eamon?" Darren asked.

"What kind of music are you going into?"

"I don't know yet," Conor replied.

"You have to know what you're going to play. What are you into?"

"I'm a futurist."

"What does that mean?"

"Like no nostalgia. Not like your dad’s band. Not looking backwards. Just forwards." 

"Cool. Like Depeche Mode?"

Conor glanced at Sam. "Uh...okay."

"Or...Joy Division?" Eamon tried again.

"Riiiight."

"Or Duran Duran. What do you think of them?"

Conor relaxed slightly, refused to meet his sisters eye, and robotically said: "The jury is out on which way those guys will go. They’re a lot of fun, and James Taylor is one of the most proficient bass players in the UK right now, giving them a funky edge."

"John Taylor," Eamon corrected.

"Hm? Oh, of course...uh, all the ladies love him?" he said, though it sounded more like a question. "Right, Sam?" She rolled her eyes and didn't answer.

Eamon and Conor made eye contact, sizing one another up. Eventually, Eamon relented. "I’ll be in the band. I’ll play guitar. And help write the songs. We can rehearse here because my Da’s in Saint John Of Gods."

"Is that a pub?" Darren asked, speaking for the first time in a while.

"No, Darren. It’s where alcoholics go to get off drink and stop beating up their wives and kids." 

Silence.

"Right--" said Darren.

"And neighbours."

"Okay--" Conor tried.

"And the police." 

Silence.

"Maybe we should continue the meeting in the kitchen," he offered. "Tea, or something."

Chapter Text

The four of them sat around the table, but Samantha had her eyes on Eamon. He sported a light brown mullet, what she could only call a grandpa jumper, and steel-rimmed glasses. He was quite shy, struggled to meet her gaze, and constantly used his index finger to keep his glasses from falling down his nose. She couldn't tell what to make of him. Clearly he was talented with music, and musical artists. God, she'd seen the way he'd interrogated Conor. To the point he'd just parroted what Brendon had been saying in front of the TV the other night. 

"Who's going to be the manager?" Eamon asked.

"Me," Darren decided.

"Have you ever managed before?"

"No...I'm just breaking into the market." Conor and Darren, the perfect pair, just as clueless as one another, she thought.

"Nice. How are we going to cut things up?"

"I’ll draw up contracts?"

Eamon's mother cut in. "Do you need a pen?"

"Ma...we're trying to have a band meeting here?" She poured tea into his mug, smiling. He continued, "Gotta have everything straight first. Get everything down on paper. Otherwise you can get ripped off by the big record labels when they come hunting. That’s what my dad says."

Big record labels? For three scrappy Irish kids at their Ma's dining table? Right. Sam thanked Eamon's mother for the tea, but it was much too hot to drink, so she just stared at the steam coming off of it, listening to the conversation. 

"So, when do you want to rehearse?" Eamon asked.

"Not the weekends. He’s got a job packing shelves in Quinnsworth on Saturdays. You’re not leaving that job. Not for any jaysis band," his mother called. He grimaced.

"How about Mondays and Wednesdays after school?" Conor offered.

"Sounds good," Eamon agreed.

"Yes, that's fine!" his mother accepted. He grimaced even more.

"Right, we can’t get any peace here. Let’s continue this meeting out the back."

"No smoking!" his mother shouted.

"Ma! How many times do I have to tell you? I don't smoke!"

Sam followed the three of them into the shed out back. It was cramped, even with only four of them. Eamon drew on his cigarette, lighting ones for Conor and Darren. He turned and looked at her, then padded all of his pockets. "I--Uh--I don't know if I--" He awkwardly took the one out of his mouth and offered it to her. "Here?"

She looked at him, then took it, resting it between her lips and taking a drag. She passed it back. His face went awfully red. Conor looked between the two of them squinting, so when they made eye contact she shook her head, then mouthed: I'll tell Mum.

Tell Mum what? he mouthed back.

Piss off.

Darren stared at them and pulled a face. "No secret conversations during band meetings. And I can choose that because I'm the manager," he decided.

"Well technically I'm not in the band, so--" she tried to argue.

He shrugged. "You come to band meetings, you're in the band."

"But--"

"Ah, ah, ah, I'm the manager."

"That doesn't mean anything!"

Eamon cleared his throat. "Other members?"

Darren thought for a minute. Being new, Conor and Sam both came up short on ideas. Darren didn't. "There’s a black guy in 3B?"

"So?" Sam asked.

"Be cool if he was in the band."

"...Why?" Conor asked.

"He’s the one colored guy in the whole school. Probably in Dublin! Having a Golliwog in the band would give us a real edge."

"You can't say that," Sam said.

"You can't say Golliwog," Conor agreed.

"Why not?"

"Trust me," Conor said. "You just can't." Eamon shook his head in agreement.

"Plus, what if he can't play anything?" Sam asked.

"You can't play anything," Eamon said. "And...you're in the band." They looked at one another. His face reddened. Oh God, did hers? He offered the cigarette. She took it and looked away without another word. 

"It doesn't matter!" Darren declared. "He'll be able to play something. He's black! We'll go talk to him, 'kay? For now...Conor, Sam, you make the flyers. Eamon, keep being good at music. I'll draw up those contracts. I want the flyers in school by tomorrow, and after school we'll meet by the gate to talk to the black guy. Right?"

"...Right," Conor agreed unsurely.

"Right!" Darren deduced. "Go team."

Chapter Text

Mum wasn't home when Sam and Conor got back. Neither was their father. They sat upstairs in Conor's room. "That girl across the road," Sam began. "What did you two talk about?" She liked Conor's room, always had. It was cozy. He too had a twin bed (ha, ha), but his walls were covered in posters. His desk was covered with scrap papers. Lyrics, she wondered? His coats hung on the back of his door and his extra school tie was tied to the wardrobe door knob. 

She was sitting crossed legged on the bed, him at his desk chair. Whilst he took off his shoes, he answered, "Her name's Raphina. She's a model."

"Raphina," Sam echoed. "Raphiiina. Pretty. I like it. Continue."

"And she's going to London soon. I asked if she wanted to be in our video, for our band, but I just wanted her phone number. And-and...Oh, yeah, she made me sing. Bloody embarrassing, that was. Oh, God, you should've heard." He cleared his throat. "Take on me." He sung, raising his eyebrows for approval.

She pressed her lips together before bursting out laughing. "I hope you didn't sing like that to her."

He pulled a face of mock offence. "Excuse me! Well your opinion doesn't matter, because it worked. She wrote down her name and her phone number and she said she'd be down for it. So, um, yeah. Suck it."

"And if your band's not very good?"

"Our band," he corrected. "Remember, your in it now, according to Darren."

"What good's a rusty, out of practice violin player gonna be to a futurist band? Or what, am I gonna film your videos? Help write song lyrics?"

Conor clicked his fingers. "Yes. Yeah, you can do exactly that! And-and if we can get you to learn like, oh I don't know, an easy instrument so you can be on stage with us...keyboard? Could you learn the keyboard?"

"First things first you need a song, idiot. Can't shoot a music video without music."

"You and Eamon can help me out with that. Speaking of, you and Eamon..."

"Me and Eamon what?"

He pulled a face. "I see the way look at one another." 

"Don't be an idiot, Conor. Try not to be, at least. We shared a fag, alright? No big deal."

"He didn't share a fag with any of us."

"That would make him look gay, Conor."

"Please, he already looks a little...y'know, with that mullet."

"He does not!"

"OK, defensive much."

"Can we go back to talking about Raphina? Err, how old is she?"

"16. Moving on--"

"Music. Let's write that first song, yeah? Any ideas?"