Chapter Text
Daron had little understanding of himself by the age of 17.
He loves to draw, mostly on himself. Eyeliner enhances his already large eyes, making them appear enormous. Henna gives his body intricate patterns — like those from his father's paintings. And every day everything can be new: the color of his lips, his eyebrows, the design on his hands and feet.
He loved the drums — once upon a time, in his distant childhood. But he loved his father more, so now he preferred the guitar — it could be turned off or taken away, if you were being obnoxious, son.
He could sing, but it wasn't like Slayer — he loved them. It came out high-pitched and choppy — his voice was treacherously lacking — pathetic and not at all rock-like.
He loves the stage, but he doesn't like people. And they inevitably stare at him the moment Daron steps on stage. His voice then becomes even smaller, and he only wants to look at the floor.
Daron needs a stage, but without people. It turns out to be a studio — a teenager walks in with a guitar and a modest "hello."
His first band is called Snowblind — and they don't even cover Black Sabbath. They don't do cocaine either—they play jazz and talk about girls. Daron comes to the studio after or instead of school; he doesn't really like his band — he falls into music like a rabbit hole, and he doesn't care who he does it with. Not yet.
This time the guys left early, and Daron was left alone, singing "Seventeen":
She's only seventeen
Still she gives me love, like I've never seen
He loved this track because he was 17 and there was nothing in his head except music, the desire to get in a van and run away, and a callus that hadn't yet turned into a wound.
— Because we aren't serious when we're seventeen? — Daron flinches and turns around, his face twisted in surprise. A curly-haired man smiles at him—Daron notices his sharp nose, beard, and the cheerful look in his brown eyes.
— Hey, relax. You sing really well,— the man extends his hand. — Serj. I play keyboards in Forever Young.
Daron clears his throat and squeezes his hand.
— Daron. I'm in Snowblind right now, — Serj hand is large and warm. Daron doesn't want to let go. — I'm on vocals and guitar.
— You’re a cover band of Black… — Serj began, his eyes sparkling playfully.
— Nooo, — Daron interrupted. — We just... well, you know, play stuff, and Snowblind sounds nice. In fact, that's what they were already called when I joined.
— I'd love to record a Snowblind cover one day, — Serj said dreamily. He walked into the back of the studio and started setting up the synthesizer. — My band dumped me today, and I drove home from work to see them. Will you join me at rehearsal, Daron?
Daron could still make it to his last classes and cheat on a couple of tests — while the teacher whines about how he's a little devil, Damien from the Omen movies, and will never amount to anything worthwhile. Daron grimaces at these thoughts and pushes them out of his head.
Daron turns to Serj, clutches his guitar, and smiles:
— No problem, Serj. What are we going to play?