Chapter Text
"People keep sending me this fucking video, man. I'm like, 'what the fuck even is this?'"
Leko, quietly reading his book in the corner of the production office, perked up. Not at the sound of his boss's voice, but at the familiar jerky guitar notes of Fabienk.
"I know that guitar part," Leko said. "You've found Angine De Poitrine, haven't you?"
"That shit's so fucking weird, man." The video tech was standing behind the production manager's desk, where they were both staring at the production manager's laptop. The KEXP video that got the two aliens so popular was clearly not impressing the two. Those jaded fucks. Leko was used to the oldhead attitude of anyone who'd spent more than a decade in live production. Sometimes he wondered why the hell any of his older coworkers stuck around. Was the money that good?
"It's weird and it's awesome," Leko declared to them both. "It's so much fun. I wanna see them live so badly."
"I dunno, I just like... don't get it. Yeah, cool costumes, whatever. The music is weird." The video tech shrugs. "And everyone thinks it's the greatest shit since sliced bread. I just don't get it."
"It's fun!" Leko says again. "I dunno, it's visually interesting. And the music is fun."
"I like how floppy the drummer's nose is." The production manager says.
"Not like Primus hasn't been doing this shit since forever, ya know?" The video tech starts to go on. It's a familiar rant. Something about Gen Z not being original. Something jaded. If Leko had the energy, he might call the man out on his curmudgeon-ly ways. But tonight, the young stagehand was just too tired for this. So Leko opened his book and tried to ignore the lambasting of what had brought him so much comfort.
Hours later, the stagehands finished packing up light fixtures and instruments and cable looms and whatever else tonight's artist had brought. Tonight was some bedroom pop artist that Leko had never heard of. They hauled all those roadcases into their trailer, and off the tour went to the next big city. A quick cleanup of the stage and the green rooms, and Leko was clocked out and waiting for an Uber to take him home. 12:37 AM. Could've been worse.
Inside the uber, the Boston skyline sped past Leko's window. He knew his phone was full of text messages to answer- his roommates asking for time to pay their utilities. His sister drunk texting him. His bandmates wondering when they were going to record their songs. He was wrung dry. He had too many people relying on him for too many things. It was his fault, always trying to be responsible. Always taking things on. What was he gonna do, let things rot around him? He was strong. He could be strong for the people around him.
But it was killing him. It truly was. He was tired all the time. He felt a surge of irritation every time someone asked him for any little thing. To put it simply, the little stagehand wanted to cry for help.
Little things were comfort. He liked his job, he liked moving heavy things and building sets and curling up backstage with his book once the show was on the road. He worked for a mid-size music venue in Boston, called The Ruthanne Theatre, that got a decent run of artists and DJs come through, most of whom Leko had never heard of. His job wasn't always easy. But it kept him fed and housed. And it didn't make him want to kill himself. And most recently, he had that goddamned KEXP set playing every morning when he'd be getting ready for work.
Angine de Poitrine. Who knew why Leko felt so emotionally attached to these polka-dotted aliens and their strange microtonal music. His first reaction to that KEXP set was not unlike that of his boss. Strange, yes. But Leko, childlike at heart as he was, felt his heart swell whenever he'd see the alien brothers online. Klek, his flopping nose, his eyes peering from his mouth. Khn, his ropes of golden hair that swayed as he played his guitar. Leko was smitten.
It was 1:15 in the morning when he finally got home. He checked his phone one last time. All those Instagram DMs. All those emails. All those texts. He poked around, answering none of them. He went onto Angine De Poitrine's Instagram page instead, just to see how they were doing. They'd been touring Europe, it seemed. All those triangle hands in the audience... Leko wanted that more than anything. He wanted to see the aliens up close. He wanted to maybe look into Klek's eyes, maybe to say hello and how are you and can I hug you please...
Please, please come to Boston someday... Leko drifted off to sleep with a prayer he hoped the aliens might answer someday.