Chapter Text
CH1
Berlin
It's a total coincidence. It's got to be.
Mitch stares up at the marquee of one of Berlin's music halls, reading a very familiar but long-missed name that a line of excited people stand in line to see. He hasn't kept up on his former friend bandmate's career for years, so of course he wouldn't have known that Avi Kaplan's European tour would bring him to the very city where Mitch has been hiding out in between his own tours.
Avi Kaplan. The name brings up memories of gentle green eyes, a sculpted beard, slick hair that curled at the ends. There was a time when Mitch had a "thing" for the notoriously (and tragically) hetero bass singer, but with the not-so-secret strife caused by Avi's leaving PTX, the legal issues that locked up dozens of original songs and threw a wrench into the group's plans for over a year, a lot of that attraction had faded. Mitch and Kirstie had immediately unfollowed him on social media, Scott omits any mention of him in public, and only Kevin still speaks to him on occasion.
Those two had been meat and potatoes, though, and they'd always been close from the beginning. It is different for Mitch, who harbored thoughts of possibilities involving converting Avi someday, and the betrayal he felt at Avi breaking things off with the group. It had felt like Avi had broken things off with Mitch.
And now, here he stands in his oversized overcoat, hands fisted in his pockets, reading the name that hurts as much as it comforts, six years and half a world away from the last place they had spoken.
Avi Kaplan. In Berlin. Where Mitch is supposed to be disconnecting from the rest of the world. It seems the world comes to him, no matter what he does.
"Mr. Grassi?" An American voice speaks his name.
Mitch hasn't even noticed that some kind of production assistant with a headset and a tablet has broken away from the door to approach him. He tries to cover his surprise and isn't sure how successful he is. "Yes, that's me…?"
The man smiles; it's a real smile, not a professional baring of teeth. "Would you like to come in? Mr. Kaplan always keeps tickets aside for his former bandmates."
He…what? "I…he does?"
"It's a standing order, yes. Every venue, every date." He taps the screen of the tablet. "Yep, here." He shows Mitch the screen and sure enough, there's a ticket listing with "Mitch Grassi" and "VIP" and the word "any" in the date field. It's almost ridiculous because no one has ever said anything about it, which then makes more sense after a moment of thought. Because if Mitch had been told, how would he have reacted? With anger, disdain, offense?
But right now, Mitch hears himself say, "Sure, I'd love to," almost automatically, and he's being led smoothly into the venue by the PA, right past the line and the bouncers and half a dozen club employees as though he'd rehearsed the process. He does get looks, first annoyed by some of the people waiting to get in, then the inevitable recognition sets in, and he raises his shoulders to avoid any further curious gazes.
He's too late, it seems. The whispers begin, and they follow him like wind rustling leaves. Mitch knows this sound. He also knows how to respond to it; there is always an image to maintain. Fans can be both a beautiful support and an unforgiving monolith of disapproval depending on their perception of their heroes from moment to moment.
So he smiles and waves, and pauses for a few people to take selfies and shake his hand and profess their love of his music or him or PTX while he continues to move forward. He tries to avoid the uncomfortable questions about his presence there from the shippers and the stans who are trying to put things together for some kind of reunion of Avi with the band.
The assistant also guides him through the growing throng, smooth and professional and pleasant. Just enough to make the fans happy, but the moment he sees Mitch's patience begin to fray, the guidance becomes more insistent and he says loudly enough for the fans to hear, "Mr. Grassi, the show will begin shortly. We need to get you to your seat. Entschuldigung, Leute," he adds to the crowd. Most of them get the hint and back off, though there are always a few who grumble.
As soon as they approach a set of stairs off the lobby, away from the crowd, Mitch quietly says, "Thanks. You've done this before, I guess?"
The PA laughs. "That's why Mr. Kaplan hired me. I've handled talent of all levels of fame. He's one of the easier ones I've had to wrangle, but I also remember what it was like to work the line for a couple of K-Pop groups. I'm not sure which was worse in those days–the Korean fans, or the Americans."
"Both equally crazy. Er–passionate," Mitch corrects himself, and the PA grins.
"I'm Paulo," he says as they turn down a narrow corridor of curtained doorways. The curtains apparently offer privacy in a series of small private boxes. Mitch is led to one that overlooks the stage in such a way that he can see the setup head-on. Excellent positioning. As he takes one of the few seats–just two rows of four–and unbuttons his coat, he can see that most of the others are also filled. Up here, no one seems to notice Mitch, or at least they don't recognize him, for which he is thankful. "Let me know if you need anything. Of course, drinks are comped, and you are invited backstage after the post-show meet and greet."
"I don't know if I can–" Or should–
"Mr. Grassi," Paulo interrupts him, suddenly serious, "Please consider staying. I know that it would mean a lot to Mr. Kaplan if you talked to him, even if it's just for a few minutes. I've gotten to know him pretty well after working with him for two tours. I don't think he would mind me saying this, but…he keeps these tickets on the books for a reason."
"Oh." Mitch has never thought about how the split might have affected Avi. Yes, it threw PTX's plans off, but maybe Avi had gotten the short end of the stick. He hadn't been able to use his own name professionally for two full years, and there were at least a hundred songs Avi had written himself that languished unheard that whole time. At least Mitch had the rest of the group, a new bass singer, and his own projects like Superfruit and Messer. And his own damn name on his own music.
Avi hadn't. He'd sacrificed two years of his professional life in order to go it on his own. How would that have felt to Mitch, who knew what it was like to live and breathe music, to lose that ability for so long? Like losing an arm or a leg, that's how it would have seemed.
Maybe it was time to mend fences, or whatever the saying was.
"Thanks. I'll…I'll stay. Can I get a drink? Chardonnay?"
Paulo smiles. "We'll send it right up. Enjoy the show."
***
Apparently, Mitch has arrived in time for not just the concert, but the sound check as well. A couple of scruffy hipster-ish musicians arrive on stage first, causing a murmur of excitement among the normal VIP ticket-holders who have been let in early. Mitch is curious as to what exactly he is about to see. He recalls that Avi favored the lumberjack look, that he was always a little nerdy, a little shy when he wasn't performing.
What sends the fans into a frenzy, however, is not what Mitch expects when the man himself takes the stage.
Mitch can still see some of the young man he remembers, but it's only shadows. Long, curling hair cascades over his shoulders and the beard has grown to epic proportions. Avi wears a body-skimming floral shirt, skinny black jeans, and low-heeled boots that look like they have traveled the world. He could have stepped off the cover of a 1970s record album. The shirt is unbuttoned halfway and the sleeves are rolled up to show his wiry forearms, and the glint of simple jewelry catches the light as he moves: a single earring that Mitch is pretty sure he remembers, a dull silver pendant necklace, a couple of rings.
The eyes, though, and the smile–they're the same. There might be a few lines at the corners of his eyes, but even from his vantage point, Mitch can see the pale green irises. And even behind the truly remarkable beard and mustache, the same wide, toothy smile nearly blinds him. Avi's hair has lightened, too–more chocolate with length than the near-black it used to appear when it was shorter.
It's Avi, the same Avi he knew, then again, it's a completely different person. As he goes through the sound check, playing a haunting song about the moon and answering questions with ease, something is missing. Mitch leans forward with his chin in his hand, eyes narrowed. It's not until the end of the pre-show and the rest of the crowd filters in that it hits him: the tension is gone.
In that last year, even before Avi sat down with the group and broached the subject of leaving, he had been tightly strung about something. At first, they all just brushed it off as touring fatigue or the like, but when he began snapping at Kirstie and just going through the motions during recording, it became apparent that something was truly wrong. He wanted new music, new originals, things that he could get his teeth into. He'd wanted to tour less, to stay closer to his family and his ailing mother.
Those last days leading up to their final show together in Vermont, Avi had stalked around like an animal looking for a way out of a cage. There had been blow-ups, anger, accusations of greed on all sides. The sides being Avi, the rest of them, and the lawyers.
Always the lawyers. They had widened the rift between the bandmates who had once been close as family, and ruined the relationships beyond repair.
Avi returns to the stage with a new energy. He is relaxed, joyful, even. The camaraderie he has with his new band comes easily, and he picks up one of the guitars with practiced confidence. After the sound check, Mitch is expecting something soft like the moon ballad, but instead, Avi picks out an octave of high and low notes that the audience loves, then launches into what Avi probably calls a "rockin'" tune about telling the truth while he's a fool.
And Mitch? Mitch is blown away.
Like, he has always known that Avi had something inside him that wanted out, and he's heard him hit notes in a truly impressive range, but this–it's warm. It's clear. It's masterful. The Avi on stage before him is smiling, whistling through his teeth, calm and steady and obviously happy. The wiggling hips and frenetic bass gymnastics have given way to long, rich notes and near-perfect posture. His feet are planted firmly on the ground, his hands easily forming chords and sparkling accompaniment to overlay his singing.
At the end of the song, which has built and built into a glorious crescendo of piano and drums and bass guitar on top of Avi's own performance, with his eyes closed, a satisfied smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. The audience goes wild, and with that, the concert begins in earnest.
Song after song pours forth from the man that Mitch does and does not recognize. He thinks he recalls some snippets of lyrics or melodies from the times that Avi worked on his own music while on tour or in idle moments, but everything is so much more than those proto-songs had ever been. And the lyrics! They range from soulful and sultry, to defiant, to simple good-times rock-n-roll. The crowd knows every word, and Avi encourages them to sing along with him.
Which turns out to be a good thing, because there's a moment during a song that Avi sheds his guitar to clutch the beautiful microphone with both hands. He sings over a loop of his own growling bass about oncoming change, when those shadowed green eyes happen to catch on Mitch's, and for the first time that night, Avi falters.
The audience supplies the lyrics flawlessly, singing at the top of their lungs: Nighttime, mornin' time, and we're goin' strong/Headed up, down the river so at the next line, Avi recovers with Oh Lord! But now he's seen Mitch, and his intense gaze keeps returning to the box for the rest of the song.
Mitch can't avoid it now. He's going to have to stay, if for no other reason than to maintain his dignity. Slipping away undetected is no longer an option.
And if he's being any kind of honest with himself, he doesn't want to leave. The music physically hits him in the center of his chest, the stomping and clapping and the pure, raw energy of the song has captivated him. There's an artlessness to the music that Mitch cannot imagine in any of his own projects. PTX and Superfruit are and were heavily polished; even Messer requires plenty of production to achieve its certain sound. But this new Avi is organic, stripped back to acoustic elements. He hits his low, low bass notes, but there's so much more to him now. It's like those notes are just part of his ability, not the reason for his existence.
The song ends amid cheers and shouts, which draw forth one of those gleaming smiles from beneath the beard. Avi grins and steps back from the mic for a moment to confer with the group behind him. Surprise registers on their faces, but they all nod. Avi is completely the leader here, which is a funny thing for Mitch to notice only now, after half a dozen songs. Even on their worst days, PTX has always been mostly a democracy. Seeing Avi call all the shots is…odd, even as it makes perfect sense.
"Danke, danke!" Avi calls out to the crowd, which answers with the typical excitement at hearing an American artist speak their language, however simple the message. Mitch is reminded of how thrilled their Japanese audiences were to hear a simple "Konnichiwa, minna-san!" during a show. Avi goes on, "We're going to shift gears a little here. There's someone who needs to hear a particular song, and I'm happy to oblige. This is from my first studio album, and it's called 'My Queen'."
The lights fade down until there's only a single spotlight on Avi, and the moment his long, sure fingers pick out a melody in the Phrygian dominant key, the audience goes nearly silent. They know what's coming, even if Mitch doesn't.
After the fierce depth of the previous piece, the delicate tenor that emerges from Avi's throat is almost jarring. The notes swoop around the words, unhurried and gentle, mesmerizing.
Your amber eyes, they heal
They hold me in their light
My sunshine in the morning
They cast away the night
My Queen
My Queen
My Queen
Mitch could kill him.
Mitch is the target of the song. He sinks back in his chair, feeling suddenly exposed to the rest of the room. By the end, Mitch's heart is pounding. Like the rest of the audience, he cannot look away. These are heartfelt lyrics, almost worshipful. From the title and the direction, Mitch expected a sardonic takedown, but what he gets is soft and resonant.
Avi used to call him his queen; he used the term whenever Mitch was being extra sassy or feeling low. It was a reward for a particularly witty remark, or a gentle reminder that even when things felt like they were too much, Mitch was royalty far above the cares of the common people. It had been a running joke, a meta reference that most people thought was an ironic nickname, but Mitch had always known that when Avi said it, he meant it. And he only ever used it for Mitch–no one else.
My Queen
My Queen
My Queen
So when the last notes die away, while the crowd cheers, Mitch's vision blurs. He's crying, because he knows that song was completely for him, and it's been out there for years, and he's just now hearing it for the first time.
Avi meets his eyes only once more; there's a slight smile as if he knows he's destroyed Mitch in under three minutes. He switches his focus to the audience then, signaling to the pianist to strike up a soulful chord. The new song reminds Mitch of the kind of thing he might hear in a Southern Baptist church, which is funny, because Avi is proudly Jewish. Then he starts to listen to the lyrics again, and yet again, Avi catches his eye as he sings Had a love but they had enough/Gave it all but they gave it up. Mitch sucks in a breath. There is something profoundly personal about that line. He's going to ask Avi about it when they meet, when they talk later.
When they talk. It feels surreal. They haven't said two words to each other in literally years, not since the ink on the separation documents was still wet, and now Mitch is sitting through the rest of an absolutely excellent concert in Germany in order to speak to a man who was once his friend.
He tries to pay close attention to the rest of the songs, though at this point, he is too shaken to really listen. He's already rehearsing the things he wants to say, the things he wants to ask. Like, why are there ghost tickets reserved for a set of people who never planned to interact with him again?
All too soon, the show is over. The last notes fade and the crowd whistles, cheers, yells for just one more song in a variety of languages. Avi obliges, as any good musician does, and he re-emerges to the stage with his unusual Craviola guitar, fine-tuning it as he walks to the mic.
"This is one more message that I'd like to share with you all tonight," he says, his voice just as rich and smooth as it was at the beginning of the concert. "Please take it as intended; I promise that I mean every word."
It's another of his softer songs, and it begins, I dove into the dark, and I swear I almost drowned…
There's a sweet harmony that the reverent crowd picks up at the chorus:
All is well, all is well/Heaven, Hell, wherever I go, all is well in my soul; All is well.
This time, Mitch doesn't look away, and neither does Avi.
***