Chapter Text
Pond's POV
I’m in a closet with a broom. The last chords from my guitar strings still vibrate on my fingers. Somewhere in the distance, the crowd chants, but they won’t be getting an encore. Not because I’m an asshole. Well, okay, I am an asshole. But, instead, it’s because: I now undeniably have stage fright, and I don’t know where the hell it came from.
Somewhere around that sold out show in Tokyo, I felt its cold creep up the back of my neck when I looked out at the screaming fans, their silhouettes a blur under the hot, blinding-white stage lights, and I haven’t been able to shake it since. In fact, it’s only gotten worse.
Why? I ask myself. And then it turns into a plea. But why?
My lungs are on fire and my breaths are too damn short. I try box breathing like I watched in that YouTube Video, “How to deal with panic attacks.”
If anyone saw me now, this would absolutely kill my career.
As if on cue, the door swings open.
A girl in a tight black leather skirt, intentionally ripped tights, and black lipstick looks up at me. “You know what they say about closets?” she asks.
What is happening? What the fuck is happening? “They’re good for storage,” I say between breaths.
“What happens in a closet, stays in a closet,” she whispers, running a hand up my chest.
“A closet is like Vegas?” I ask.
Didn’t I always want this? Didn’t I always want to be a famous musician?
And my band and I can’t get more famous than this, selling out wherever we go. Big cities court us because we’re good for business. Lines around blocks. Fans shouting our lyrics back at us.
I guess, I just thought it’d be different.
But how?
No stage fright?
No girls following you into closets?
Her fingers land on one of my shirt buttons, and she pops it open.
My phone vibrates with a text. I check it, ignoring whatever she’s doing with my shirt, because whatever it is, I’ve felt it a million times before, and it somehow reads as boring.
The text is from my manager, Xavier.
Xavier: Where are you?
Me: Funny story.
Xavier: Well, I’ve got news.
Me: You want an encore?
Xavier: Fuck the encore. It’s better to leave them wanting more.
Something coils in my stomach. This can’t be good.
Me: What is it?
Xavier: Your lawyer just called. He can’t get you out of what happened with that exec. You’ve been court-ordered to do community service tomorrow morning in Melody Bay.
My insides tighten, coiling harder and harder, compressing into a small ball. Not my hometown. Not now.
Xavier: Sorry, man, there’s nothing we can do.
Me: When is it? Mon-Wed? And I’ll be back for rehearsal Thursday?
Xavier: Oh no. It’s six months.
Me: SIX MONTHS?
Xavier: Correct.
Me: What about the tour?
Xavier: It’s over now. The label can’t argue with a court-order.
Me: Can you get me out of it?
Xavier: Already tried.
Me: I’ll do literally anything.
Three dots.
Xavier: I hope you like animals.
Animals! Gah! I’m allergic. And I might as well be allergic to Melody Bay.
Then something bizarre happens. A strange thought bubbles up from the depths of my dark soul. I wonder if he’s home.
It confirms what I’ve always known: I hate Melody Bay.