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Kayn's first performance had been... well. Kinda shit.
But in his defense he was like thirteen with an electric guitar and a sister who was determined to beat that bitch Kat in the middle school talent show. They had – but only because she'd been disqualified because knife throwing on stage still counts as bringing a weapon to school.
Still, even their screeching Pentakill cover (with no one on the drums) had lit a fire in him that not even a decade of getting kicked in the balls by life could extinguish.
His first actual performance had been mostly better. He was on bass by then, wearing it low and leaned back, his hair long and braided and his first tattoo curling down his arm. He looked good – still does – but he'd been young and invincible in a way that only a seventeen year old hotshot could be.
The club had been small, but that didn't matter, the gig was paid and the crowd was hungry. Their eyes had raked over him and he'd looked back, fingers flying, teasing his tongue over a canine.
He'd had his first taste of whiskey that night, and the first taste of salty skin under his tongue and between his teeth. Had found out that being on stage isn't the only thing that sets his blood on fire.
It'd been a good time – the parts of it that he could remember – until it wasn't.
He's not sure who threw the first bottle, but he knows he threw the last punch.
Then they threw his shit to the curb, so... probably even.
But he'd had no idea what a good time really was – or a good performance – not until he met Rhaast.
He'd been reduced to busking during the days and fighting in an underground ring at night, his moderately pathetic soundcloud gradually accumulating views from people who occasionally reached out to him with pretty words and not much else.
He's honestly not sure when Rhaast showed up – somewhere between plucking strings in a subway tunnel as people chucked coins at him, and taking the punch to the temple that rocked him to the mat.
All he remembers is the countdown.
There's one in both, you know?
Before you go on stage, they lead you off, make sure everyone is on beat together.
Before they declare your limp carcass the loser, too.
They even both have the roar of a crowd, waiting for you. For you to get up. For you to take the stage.
So... what are you waiting for, Shieda Kayn?
He'd gotten up and given them a hell of a show.
Or, he thinks he must have, because he walked away with bloody knuckles, enough cash to pay his rent for a few months, and a growl in his voice.
Oh, and Rhaast in his head.
Yes, and that.
Not that having voices in his head had fixed everything all at once.
Not that I ever promised to fix anything.
But when he got picked up by his next band he was fiercer, brighter, burning hot and leaving the crowd wanting more. He'd shred whatever was in his hands – guitar, mic, drums, whatever. He'd dominate the stage, sweat and blood dripping. People screaming his name, on and off the stage.
But the reek of envy always follows talent.
And people always loved throwing dirt on his name. It didn't matter that he was what rocketed the band into the little bit of fame they managed to scrape together. Or that almost all the lyrics were his.
Ours.
Theirs.
They called him an attention whore.
And a regular whore.
As if either of those were a bad thing. Maybe they should try being the one people want for a change and stop blaming him for their own shortcomings.
It's not our fault they're unworthy of greatness.
But maybe it was their fault about that broken nose.
He had it coming.
Or that very small, almost insignificant car crash.
Cheap brand anyway.
Or the girl – no... guy?
Both.
Or the partners who were delusional enough to believe they were exclusive.
When only we are exclusive.
He can admit things tend to go a little sideways when they're involved.
But nothing about you has ever been straight anyway.
So it made it all the more surprising when something finally... clicked.
Not like a voice sliding into his head like it was always meant to be there.
Nothing could be like us.
Or the fizzing-popping-sizzle in his veins when the stage lights come up. Or the way time slows to nothing with a fist flying at him, seconds before he's got veins under his teeth.
Something better.
Like six shared grins backstage. A boxer's bounce and bob – arms shaking out and limbs loose. A bubblegum wink and swaying hips with a finger gun aimed true. Two sets of hands on turntables, fierce and playful as they duel. An arm flung around his shoulder, head bobbing and fingers tapping to a hummed beat, not pushing but supporting.
Somewhere we can shine and be reflected, as we deserve.
Somewhere he's not constantly on eggshells, because greatness recognizes greatness.
And together they're pretty damn great, if he does say so himself.
And we do.
Triple platinum great. Don't need to drink or fuck the frustrations away great.
Fame and fortune great.
Maybe even friends and family great.
...perhaps.
At least people who aren't praying for the death of a rockstar every night.
As if legends like us ever die.
So yeah, his first performance may have been shit, but every legend has to start somewhere – otherwise it'd be a pretty boring story.
And we're just getting started writing ours.