Work Text:
William scrolls through the text messages again, top to bottom, bottom to top. Once, twice, three times before he stops at the most recent message.
Pete: No go on the EP. Writing is good. Sound is wrong. Thought I should be the first to tell you.
William slumps against the wall of the green room and sighs. How is everything they do always wrong, yet still praised? There’s no winning.
William: Alright. Any other ideas..?
Pete: I’ll let you know. I’m thinking..
Pete is already typing another message. William is unwilling to continue the conversation and swipes away from it before the typing bubble can disappear. As he shoves the phone into his back pocket.
They’ll have to figure it out. Another path, another sound, another approach. It’s not new to them to be rejected. One moment they’re the new band you have to know, predecessors of the likes of Fall Out Boy. The next outshined on their own tour by a mega hit from their friends in Panic! With every album release, they’re hyped up, redefining the sound of the "emo" genre, only to get a pat on the back when sales fall through. And now? Somehow, the "soundtrack of the summer" is playing full blast in the middle of MTV’s New Year’s Eve party, at the end of a cold December. Life is ironic like that.
Right now, there’s a crowd, semi-manufactured and carefully dolled up, just out of his sight, and he needs to knock this performance out of the park.
He lingers by the side of Butcher’s drum kit as they wait for the cameras to cut to them, the two scene queens in the distance to finish reading off their scripts. They’re all dressed in their Halloween discount shop fairy wings and net tutus, clinging to an oversized book of fairytales. Their words were almost indecipherable, a mess of internet slang like “the shizz” chosen by the writers to excite the crowd. Record labels, producers, both always had something to say about the band, whether raising them up or tearing them down. It was always a struggle for approval, and now, it seemed like they decided on their disapproval. Which, right now, is enough to make William’s stomach twist.
The accompanying anxiety and dread is not getting any better as he steps forward and wraps his hand around the mic, tilting it on the stand. As he falls into his usual elegant yet energized pattern, he slips his hand down to pick up the scarf by its corner. Instead, he finds nothing, no silk to pinch between his thumb and index finger to drop at the start of the song.
As the lights kick on, green, blue, and purple flashing around him as the camera turns to him for an opening shot. It all feels weird, even as he tries to break into something that tries to resemble energy and excitement, but it feels forced, practiced. None of it is as flowing and relaxed as his normal self. He’s not ready for this.
And neither is anyone else. Mike sounds like he’s never tuned a guitar in his entire 24 years of life. All the fussing in the world will not fix it in the next six minutes. It doesn’t keep him from pressing on and off of his pedal, making the sound warble like a worn out cassette tape as he tries to adjust.
William continues on anyway with a messy, forced smile as he belts out lyrics, listening to the off-kilter mess even as he floats around, or tries to, around the stage, leaning into the crowd as they sing with him, blissfully unaware of the issues that William feels plaguing them.
On the last reprise he lifts the microphone stand and vaults towards the ceiling, towards the lights flashing overhead.
A crackling and a sudden spark accompanies a sudden spray of glass that emits itself from the ceiling. The lights die in an instant and the shattering sends the crowd into screams. Girls reel backwards, squealing and covering their faces as they back away from the stage, in a confused mix of delight and horror as the lights blow out overhead.
Perfect. William grates his teeth as they’re plunged into the dark. The crowd clamors around as he lets the mic stand go loose in his hands. It slides through his grasp and to the ground as the swell of defeat overwhelms him.
As the floodlights of the venue kick on, he slips off the stage and takes careful steps over the crushed glass, as he goes to make a few apologies to the crowd. Most of them are still in a daze before he heads to the back. His eyes are quick to scan the halls and peek into cracked doors for Gabe, no doubt gone already to prepare for the party he’d already invited William to.
Minutes later, he tries to gather himself in the greenroom where he slumps into an overstuffed chair. He curls up there for a moment, smaller than he should be able to, but the internal dread is enough to make him want to disappear. How can they keep getting everything so wrong?
Mike and Sisky are still packing up gear as he lays there, catching glimpses into their conversation. In the distance, Mike rants about how “The sound guy has no fucking idea how to make it sound like we’re not drowning in sludge at the bottom of the ocean.” and he “Would’ve sounded better playing out of the goddamn bathroom speakers.”
It’s an apt description. Tonight was a far cry from the hard work Mike puts in that results in them sounding impressive. Even if someone still comes around to call them sell outs later. Sisky tries to brush it off with a few lighthearted comments about how they could always play underwater as some sort of Guinness World Records stunt.
How could they sound that bad? On national television, no less. On Year’s Eve? There’s a reason they didn’t get the EP approved. There’s a reason they can’t fill a venue, there’s a reason that every album they make gets the most wishy-washy reaction that they can imagine.
There’s a reason for everything that plagues them.
With the last of their gear packed, Sisky comes over and pats William’s shoulder as if to offer some comfort. What follows is a suggestion that they go out to the party that Gabe was hosting up in the artists’ lounge a few floors up. They take the elevator up in silence. The ride is just long enough for William’s shoulders to relax from where they’re bunched up around his chin.
Any relaxation fades the moment as they step out of the elevator and into the sky lounge. It’s dark, and loud, and laden with silver, glittering streams. Everything that a club aims to be on New Year’s Eve, but everything that William wants to avoid. He finds himself in a sea of noise, conversations, and laughter so loud it echoes over the thumping baselines pumping out of the speakers spread throughout the venue. It’s everything that William should already be used to, but that his nerves are running too thin for tonight. His head throbs as he steps inside, looking for Gabe, who he can’t seem to spot even now.
He wades through the crowd, touching a few shoulders and giving soft spoken greetings as he makes his way towards the back, occasionally straining his neck as he scans the area as he searches for a place that might be quiet enough to tuck himself away for a few minutes. Long enough for him to draw up some new ideas about how they can keep moving forward and recover from this complete disaster.
Instead of an escape, William finds Gabe. He leans against a wall in the corner with a cup in hand. Everything for him looks so casual, natural. He’s caught up in a lively conversation, as is a typical Gabe thing to be caught in. Gabe has always thrived being the center of any conversation, able to entertain with any story he can recite of his last 10 years in the business. If William wasn’t so exhausted, he would slide up next to Gabe, listen to the stories he’s heard a million times before while wearing his usual calm and collected smile, but he can’t muster it right now.
William lingers, watches one girl in the cluster that surrounds Gabe presses closer to him, almost tipping into him like she fits there. She’s exactly where William wants to be. Should be.
As the jealousy threatens to make him act out, he cuts his losses, and to avoid interrupting the entire party, he instead heads back towards the elevator, and then makes a quick hard right for the stairs that are marked NO ROOF ACCESS FOR PATRONS.
He’s not a patron, technically, he’s an artist. That should make him special enough. Who knows how much longer he can claim that title, he thinks. He takes the steps two at a time and crashes through the door to step onto the roof with heavy feet.
As he gazes out over the ledge, the lights, the noise, and the constant murmur of traffic below provide him a moment to catch his breath. His eyes trace the streetlights as the evening unravels in his mind. No matter how loud the city gets, it’s not as overwhelming as his own thoughts. From up here, life seemed small, yet not at all simple. Figuring everything out seems never ending. Tours, records, interview. It’s all complicated, and maze-like, too many potential paths and too many dead ends and one-way streets to manage. This whole thing couldn’t last forever, right? He could at least give himself a few minutes of peace before the ball drop marks the crashing of his career clean into the new year.
He climbs onto the ledge, watching over the corner as he pulls his legs against his chest. The door to the rooftop cracks open, and William twists around in a rush to determine if he needs to adjust himself. To look like he’s almost normal for a few minutes.
A slow exhale escapes him as he relaxes. It’s just Gabe, who’s looking at him with an understanding if tired expression, his eyebrows knit close together as if to study William.
“Hiding out? You’re giving Dashboard Confessional a run for most heartbroken emo tonight.”
William just groans in response. “How’d you even find me?” The whining gives way to his obvious annoyance, but Gabe doesn’t stop.
“Mike said he saw you dip. But you never go back until everyone else is done.” William knows it’s true too, how long he’s stayed leaning against outside of the bus in the July heat because the rest of them were still chatting about their varied opinions on some shit like 80s Norwegian synth pop, and he doesn’t want to be the one to kill the vibe. Gabe is already making his way over to the edge of the rooftop, where Bill sits on the corner of the building ledge, legs bunched up as he stares into the distance, eyes following the headlights of the cars so far below them.
“Talk to me, Bilvy.”
“I can’t!” William fires back, snappy, tired, and exhausted.
William knows Gabe means well, even if he doesn’t want to hear it right now. Doesn’t want to talk about the EP, how terrible they sounded, how he’s never caused such blatant chaos on stage before, much less for everyone at home to see. Even less so, does he want to bring up the girl draping herself over Gabe, hanging on as if she was afraid to lose him?
“My life is falling apart!” William says, exasperated. “You don’t understand. My career is in shambles. I blew up an entire light fixture on national television! Happy New Year’s to me!” he shouts, as if the ball drop just in the distance is, in fact, counting down to his inevitable destruction.
Gabe’s face washes over with pity. He knows, of course, he saw it. But he also knows the William he’s always seen. More elegant than tonight, more outspoken and bubbly, not crushed by the weight of his own expectations. They fall into a quiet discussion, William laying out all of his issues in one rushed, run-on word dump.
Everything he says, Gabe has an answer to. If he wasn’t so desperate to fix it all, it would be irritating.
No EP with the label?
Fuck that shit, print it yourselves and sell it out of the bus.
No equipment for that? He knows a guy.
Forgot the scarf? Fake it till you make it.
Broke the light? They’re all already too drunk to remember that come tomorrow. He’ll help cover the replacement.
As they go back and forth, until it dawns on William. That’s just the type of person that Gabe is. The person to find a solution. To keep finding them. William finds himself on an island and Gabe sends a rescue team. It’s just him pulling William out of the depths, but it works.
Gabe crawls onto the ledge behind him, pulling William back to lean against him. William believes he’s exhausted every excuse and reason, that all possibilities point to these issues lingering forever. Yet, Gabe coaxes him with a quiet mix of encouragement, a few light-hearted jokes, and any ideas that can remind William that life will keep going. Anything to soothe the wounds that keep threatening William. It feels like Gabe knows how to fix anything, except for the question William continues to avoid, until it comes out all at once.
“So you weren’t flirting with that girl downstairs?”
“What?” Gabe says, in a way that suggests he might pity William’s overactive mind, and shakes his head. “No, she was fucking wasted. We had to call her a cab. She was about to fall on her face.”
William nods, a wave of pity and understanding washing over him. Being wasted would be a relief at a time like this. Of course, no matter how much Gabe pushes his larger-than-life persona, he would make sure she made it out of here in one piece.
“Listen…Everything will work out. You gotta relax, Corazón. You’re gonna start sprouting gray hair.”
“Yeah. I can see the LiveJournal gossip posts already.”
“Oh yeah?” Gabe prompts, nudging William in the side.
“WILLIAM BECKETT GRAY HAIR??? EARLY RETIREMENT???”
William laughs, picturing the mess the fans create all on their own. He’s seen it before. They were mad just because he cut his hair a few months ago, William thinks. Discussions for days. He takes a pause as he waves one hand out in front of him, as if to picture the feedback in front of him. He’s only half enthused but dramatic in the way he sprawls his fingers as if to draw the scene out in front of him.
“In the comments section: User FueledByCookies: It looks like dust bunnies! Time to retire to the golf course!”
Gabe laughs out loud. It is true. Some of them would say that he knows it well enough. No one had hesitated to call him any insult in the book when he started Cobra Starship. William’s seen all of those, too.
“As if there isn’t a swarm of girls who wouldn’t still love you even if you woke up tomorrow covered in neon green stripes.”
“Would you still like me if I had neon green stripes?”
“I’d love you in any color.”