Work Text:
Hansa Studios – 1990 – Before the creation of Achtung Baby
U2 were staying at the Berlin studio, scraping their minds for any glimpse of creative spark. The tension was clear. As the season changed to autumn, and the leaves lost their colour, the band was also losing its patience. Bono’s temper was on its last legs, and Edge was there to back him up. Larry and Adam almost felt neglected. It felt like Lanois and Eno were having a game of tug of war; the band being the rope.
It was a cold evening; the studio was buzzing with all types of energy and voices, the sound of footsteps echoing down the corridors. Adam had stepped outside for a smoke, the city humming around him. Cars rushing past, drunken groups of people stumbling and laughing, their chatter carrying through the night air.
The match flared in Adam’s hand, the glow catching against the chill as smoke curled into the deep sky. Behind him, the back door opened.
“I’ve been looking for you. Wondered where you went.”
The voice was unmistakable. Larry's voice. Rough but warm, carrying that restless ease he always had. A cigarette hung from his lips as he stepped out, the ember glowing in his glossy pupils.
“Needed a break?” he asked, crossing his arms over his chest, smiling.
“Needed a pause from all the chaos for a minute.” Adam sighs, exhaling smoke. He hands Larry the little matchbox.
“Ah. You and me both.” Larry takes the box, lighting his cigarette. He inhales deeply, the ember glowing bright as he leans against the side of the building. “Can’t seem to catch a damn break, can we?” There’s a tired but amused gleam in his grey-blue eyes, his smile crooked and charming.
“Never.” Adam looks at him, his eyes shine with each glow of the inhale; his eyes are beautiful. He shakes the thought away mentally, not wanting to linger on the subject for too long.
“It’s like a never-ending cycle. Tour, album, back on the road again. If only we could get this damn album written.” Larry pauses, blowing smoke into the night sky. There's a certain weariness in the slope of his shoulders, something Adam doesn’t catch during practice. Exhaustion, maybe. He glances sidelong at Adam, his gaze lingering. “You holding up alright?”
“Not too bad.” He huffs. “I’m just... tired. We haven’t had a break in what seems like forever. It’s just night after night after night. We need a week by ourselves without any interruptions, like we did in Amsterdam last year during the tour.”
“Preachin’ to the bloody choir.” Larry sighs, raking a hand through his hair. “But you know how it is. Management, the label, the fans... they’ve got their expectations, and we’ve got contracts to fulfil.”
“Yeah.” He sighs. “After a while, though, the audiences seem less like fans and more like an angry mob demanding more. Takes the enjoyment out of performing, y’know.” He has another drag of his cigarette. “Never get any time to think either.”
“Angry mob’s a good way to put it.” Larry agrees, his voice a grumble. “I swear they’re less interested in the music and more obsessed with the show of it all. I can’t tell if they’re screaming for a song or just waiting for Bono to say something political again.” He glances at Adam’s cigarette, eyebrow raising. “You’re blazing through those, aren’t you?”
“Hm? Oh.” He looks down at the cigarette in his hand. It's probably the 9th one he’s had that day.
“Trying to set a record, are you?” He teases. Then he watches him for a moment, studying the worry lines on his face, the faint dark circles under his eyes. “How much sleep you been gettin’?”
Adam rubs his face with his free hand and huffs. “Not much.”
“Thought so.” He exhales more smoke, tilting his head at Adam. “You look knackered.” His tone is gentler now, laced with concern.
“I feel knackered. I need a break.” He mumbles. “Don’t know how much longer I can keep doing all this.” He confesses. The pressure, the stardom, the non-stop practicing and bickering. It's tiring.
Larry’s expression softens, a quiet understanding in his gaze. He's no stranger to burnout. He drops his cigarette, grinding it under his boot heel.
“We all need a break. This place is brutal.” He pushes off the wall and takes a step closer, studying Adam’s face. “You thinkin’ about leaving?”
Adam huffs and shrugs. He has. He doesn’t want to tell him that. Honestly, it’s Larry’s company that keeps him going during times like this. He flicks his cigarette onto the floor and stamps it out. Larry catches the hesitation in his response, his senses picking up on it instantly.
“Don’t give me that shrug.” Larry steps closer, his eyes narrowing as if trying to read Adam’s thoughts. “I know that face. It’s the face of someone considering something stupid.”
Adam looks up at the city lights and the gleaming stars, refusing to meet Larry’s gaze.
“I just-” His voice cracks. “What if it’s not the right choice?”
The vulnerability in his voice, the cracks in his facade. Those are things Larry can’t just ignore. It tugs at something deep within him, stirring both concern and affection.
“Look at me.” He murmurs, stepping so close that their shoulders nearly touch.
Adam swallows and looks at him, feeling like he needs to forcefully drag his eyes to meet Larry’s own. Larry’s eyes pierce through his, searching for the truth, for the words he’s too scared to say. His expression is serious, but there’s no judgement in his gaze; only a mixture of understanding and perhaps a hint of worry. When he speaks, it’s in a low murmur, where nobody else would be able to eavesdrop.
“Be straight with me. You’re thinking about quitting the band, aren’t you?”
Adam nods. “Yeah.” He rasps out, frowning.
Larry doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shout. He just stares for a moment, the streetlights flickering in his worried eyes.
Then, softly: “I’d miss playing with you.” He kicks at the pavement, suddenly restless. “But... if it’s breaking you? Then sod all that noise. No music’s worth losing yourself over.”
“I’m scared, Larry.” Adam croaks. “What if I regret it? What if I think of a better solution after it’s been done? What if I can’t speak to you as much?” His eyes linger to the floor.
Larry’s eyes soften at the raw fear in his voice, the uncertainty. He's seen it before, that anxiety, that doubt, but never from Adam. A part of him, maybe a selfish part, wants to tell him to stay, that the band needs him, that he needs him, but he swallows those words down. His hand reaches out, resting on Adam’s shoulder.
“Hey. Look at me.”
“Hm?” His gaze drifts back.
Larry squeezes Adam’s shoulder, just a little. “You think I wouldn’t find you? Wherever you go, whatever you do... I’d still be there.” A crooked grin tugs at his lips. “Might turn up hammered on your doorstep with a bottle of cider and a broken drumstick. Wouldn't be the first time.”
Adam grins at the thought. “...Thank you... Larry.” He says quiet, but full of gratitude.
Larry’s hand slides from Adam’s shoulder to the side of his neck, thumb absentmindedly stroking along his jawline. He takes a moment, studying his face. There are so many things he wants to say: how he can’t imagine playing the drums without him, how his presence on stage makes ever show ten times better, how his laugh is what gets him out of bed most mornings. He keeps those things to himself, instead saying:
“You’re damn hard to replace, y’know.”
“Anyone can play bass, Larry.” Adam mumbles, borderline self-deprecating.
Larry scoffs at that. “It’s not just the bass. You've got this-” He pokes him lightly on the forehead, “and this-” His finger moves to his chest, right over Adam’s heart, “that I’m talkin’ about.” He pauses for a moment. “People may be able to play the bass, but they can’t play it like you.”
Adam hums a small laugh as Larry pokes him. “You’re gonna give me an ego.”
Larry chuckles, that deep, rumbling sound that Adam loves so much.
“And that’d be a bad thing, would it?” His hand returns to Adam’s shoulder. “God forbid you start thinking highly of yourself.”
“Shut up.” Adam mumbles playfully. He shivers slightly from the cool breeze.
Larry notices that shiver and frowns faintly. “You should’ve grabbed a jacket before stepping out here.” He slings his arm over Adam’s broad shoulders. “C’mon, lets head inside.”
They both walk back into the studio, ditching the conversation, hoping to not get dragged into writing more percussion bits that will get scrapped a few hours later.