Chapter Text
Inside his ears, the metronome was a rhythmic, comforting click. Sweat was beaded on his brow as his bass guitar was shoved back into his hands. The feather-light touch of multiple make-up brushes danced across his eyelids and cheekbones before a water bottle was pressed to his lips. He took a sip, and then the swarm of bodies around him suddenly dispersed.
Even beneath the stage, noise dulled by his in-ear monitors, he could hear the roar of the crowd—their begging for one more song .
“One, two, three, four,” counted in the producer from his in-ears.
His fingers flew over the strings of his bass, playing the introduction to the song. If possible, the noise of the crowd tripled.
The speed at which the stage rose beneath his feet was dizzying, but all it did was amplify the adrenaline pumping through his blood. The sight of him made the crowd descend into hysterics. Hundreds of lights directed at him hindered him from seeing the faces of the crowd; it didn’t stop the wicked grin overtaking his face.
“Do you have time for one more song, L.A?”
It’s no surprise that the response from the crowd was incomprehensible, but it was the loudest cheer he had heard all night. Maybe even throughout the entire tour. He turned his head, still grinning, to look at his drummer. Albatross grinned right back.
Drumsticks crash against his drums, overbearing and resounding throughout the arena. It went silent again, and the crowd cheered before Albatross had even finished.
Then it was Doc and Lippmann’s turn, their fingers flying across the strings of the guitar. Again, where silence was meant to follow, there was only screaming.
The bass that followed vibrated within his soul. It wasn’t Chuuya’s finger’s creating the canorous sound this time, however. It was Iceman’s, stoic as ever, even as he created something so beautiful.
Screaming, then the utter contrast of the keyboard played out over the speakers. Piano Man’s head was tilted back, looking absolutely cutting underneath the spotlight. It was never a tiring sight to witness.
Everyone knew what would come after the next pause, and the energy throughout the arena increased tenfold. He wanted to grasp onto the moment with both hands, inject it into his veins until he knew nothing but this feeling. If it weren’t already set in stone, he would’ve delayed the final song a moment longer. Keep the crowd teetering on the edge of their seats, the anticipation alive in them for just a few seconds longer than expected.
His next cue from his in-ears came far too soon. “One, two, three, four.”
“Without gods, without guidance . . .”
His heart pounded wildly inside his chest, but the lyrics were steady as they left his mouth. It was the final night of his world tour, and it filled him with just as much excitement as it made him mournful.
The tour for his latest album, The Hour of Death , had become more to him than just a string of concerts. Writing the album alone had been cathartic, but travelling all around the globe, performing with his live band The Flags had been utterly inconceivable—in the best way possible.
When the song no longer called for his participation with bass, he swung the guitar behind his back and unhooked the microphone from the stand. The vibration of the music resonated in his chest. He could’ve stood there forever, in that song, with that crowd, on that stage.
Before he knew it, he found himself halfway through his encore and title song, The Hour of Death . He’d moved across the entire length of the stage, making sure to pay each section of the crowd attention.
He found himself drawn back to his band. Albatross’s braid swung wildly as he put his all into the final performance. Bending over the top of the drumset, he sang directly at the drummer. It gained him another grin from Albatross, who continued to play even without looking at the drums.
The crowd was screaming along to every single lyric, and the energy of it all had him practically bouncing across the stage. His shoulder bumped against Lippmann’s. It was clear that The Flags were just as determined to make the night rememberable as him. Back-to-back with Lippmann, he made sure that his efforts never dulled in comparison to theirs.
It wouldn’t be the last time he’d play this song, but something about it struck him. Tonight had been the last night with this specific setlist; he’d never perform a concert exactly like this ever again. Belting the outro of the song, he channelled all his conflicting emotions into his voice.
The last, final note reverberated in his throat. The Flags continued to play the ending of the song as he moved to stand at the front and centre of the stage.
“Thank you, L.A!” He thrust his arm out to the side as he addressed the entirety of the crowd. “You have made this final night completely unforgettable.”
People had always told him how their music touched something within them. Those words meant more than he’d ever be able to express, but getting to see the truth of those words in their rawest form—the screams, the cheers—was an undeniably surreal feeling. Whenever he wasn’t on stage, he was counting down the days until he’d be back again.
“Please give my wonderful band a round of applause for all their incredible work this tour—” They hardly needed any instruction. Their cheers nearly drowned out his voice as he listed off his bandmates. “Albatross, on the drums. Iceman, on the bass guitar. Piano Man, on the keyboard. Doc and Lippman, on the electric guitars. Without them, this tour wouldn’t have been what it is.”
Unhooking the in-ear monitors from his ears so he could fully hear the crowds cheering, he grinned. It was almost deafening, and he loved it.
“And a major thank you to the crew behind the scenes, because none of this would’ve even been possible without them.”
More and more cheering, and his heart squeezed inside of his chest. He wanted to stay on the stage forever, but he could count the seconds until the sight would be stripped away from him.
“Thank you so much, Los Angeles. Have a great night!”
Swooping down into a bow, the lights flicked off as the stage descended beneath his feet. The next few minutes were a blur. He was assaulted by the sudden bright overhead lights of the hallways beneath the stage. Someone handed him a water bottle, and another began to dab away his sweat.
He was quick to take the cloth from the assistant, not wanting to put them out even if it were technically their job. Before he knew it, the halls beneath the stage were filled with raucous noise, barrelling straight for him. An arm wrapped around his shoulder and he winced.
“Incredible,” praised Albatross. He knew trying to get rid of Albatross’s arm would be futile. Instead, his finger curled beneath the expanse of his choker, unsticking the sweaty accessory from his neck as his drummer rambled. “Take a selfie with me.”
Before Chuuya could even process his request, it was no longer a request. Albatross had hiked his phone high up into the air, grinning, and snapped the picture. His finger was still hooked beneath the choker, lips parted in bewilderment in the photograph.
“Jeez, we could’ve at least taken a proper one,” grumbled Chuuya, but Albatross was already tapping away on his phone.
He finally pulled away from Albatross only to have another set of hands press onto his shoulders. “Good job tonight, Chuuya. An exceptional show as always.” He tilted his head back to find Lippmann. “Time for a vacation, yes? Where should we go?”
“Greece,” picked Albatross instantly. “Lounging in that glorious sun for the next few months. . .”
Doc shook his head. “Too sandy. Let’s return to Yokohama.”
“You only want to return to Yokohama for the Old World ,” stated Piano Man. He looked amused, and not totally against the idea. Still, he proposed a different idea. “Chuuya will only join us if we go to France.”
It used to bug him how well they knew him. Now, it just barely got under his skin. He frowned at them.
“I have to work on my next album,” he told him.
All five men stared at him in silence.
It was out of the ordinary for all of them except Iceman.
Albatross was the first one to break the silence. “Come on, Chuuya, you cannot be serious! You just finished tour for your last album,” he exclaimed.
“So? I’ve already started working on my next one. Since I’m done with tour now, I should dedicate all my time to it,” Chuuya explained.
It looked like Albatross wanted to reach out and shake him but was too shocked to do so. “Jesus Christ, man, when do you sleep?”
“Not a lot, considering you were in the bunk above me on the tour bus,” grumbled Chuuya.
Albatross waved his hand around, as if waving away his complaints. His arm found itself back around Chuuya’s shoulder, practically forcing him to walk down the hall. The rest of The Flags fell into step behind them.
“That’s all in the past. Tour is over! Let’s look into the future, like France!”
“My album—”
Iceman finally spoke. “Work on the album in France.”
They knew him far too well. From the very first suggestion, they had already begun to break down his walls. He was surprised the term workaholic hadn’t been thrown around yet.
“I don’t know. We’ll talk about it tomorrow,” decided Chuuya.
Their argument was cut short when they reached the back exit of the arena. There was a crowd of fans waiting outside for them, and they all took their time to sign autographs and take photos with them.
By the time they shuffled into their car and made it back to the hotel, they were practically dead on their feet. Albatross bounded into their shared hotel room and immediately collapsed onto his bed.
As tired as he was, Chuuya went through the careful process of his night routine, before he too collapsed into his own bed. He barely had the energy to turn on his phone, but he did, checking for any notifications.
He found the exact notification he was expecting within seconds.
From : Ozaki Kouyou (11:43 PM)
Outstanding closing night, lad. There are many praises to be given. There is a reservation in place tomorrow night for us to have a proper conversation. Mori will be joining us to discuss your plans moving forward, too. Talk soon.