Chapter Text
To attain perfection, a degree of suffering is necessary.
Pain is a given. At times, he even welcomes it.
This particular breed of pain, however?
“Yo, Dex! Check me out! Is green my color or what?”
Is so far beyond the boundaries of what he would normally consider tolerable, he’s tempted to surrender and let it win. Just this once.
Dex closes his eyes, counts to five, and restarts his chord for what feels like the hundredth time in the same hour. His fingers move over the pattern – as familiar as breathing at this point – deftly strumming while the sound of footsteps steadily grows louder. Any attempt to drown out the impending disruption proves useless as a figure inserts itself into the corner of his vision, their hip cocked.
“Come on, be honest. Does this make me look like an asshole?”
Dex gives his offending intruder a brief, withering glance, then returns to his chord.
“You always look like an asshole, Disco.”
“Oof. Yeah, I walked into that one, didn’t I?”
There’s a chuckle – that easy, good-natured one that Charlie breaks out whenever he’s doing damage control. Infuriatingly cool-headed as ever, even when insulted to his face.
Gods, Dex hates him.
Except, he doesn’t really. But he also does, sometimes – especially when the aforementioned asshole decides to not leave and proceeds to attempt whistling along to Dex’s chord.
He’s starting to regret not practicing in his own place now, even if the acoustics are nothing compared to The Encore’s.
Thankfully, the whistling fades after a minute. He hears Charlie wandering off to another corner of the large room to do who knows what. Maybe soul-searching and realizing what an arrogant jackass he is (unlikely). Maybe preening himself in the nearest reflective surface (very likely). Whatever he’s doing, Dex hopes he stays there.
And he does. At least, for a couple of minutes.
Precious few minutes, blissfully Charlie-free. Dex settles into a pleasant trance as he drifts seamlessly between different chords, filling the lounge with Ragnarock’s soft, metallic notes. So immersed in his practice, he almost forgets he’s not alone. It’s not until the other side of the sofa he’s sitting on dips does he get woefully reminded of that fact. Startling slightly, his hands halting mid-tune, Dex lowers his electric guitar with a sigh.
“Is there a particular reason why you're being more insufferable than usual?” He rolls his head towards Charlie, shooting the man on the end of the sofa a glare. “If you're bored, might I suggest bother–”
He freezes, expression momentarily going slack in shock.
Charlie, oblivious to the guitarist’s sudden stillness, sticks a lollipop in his mouth.
“Sorry, I should've known you were getting into the zone. Want me to leave?” he asks.
Dex stares.
“What,” he says slowly, dark eyebrows pinching together, “are you wearing?”
The drummer looks down at himself, then at Dex.
“It's– wait, didn't you say I look like an asshole?”
“I did, and you do,” Dex agrees immediately. “And now I'm wondering what drove you to the style switch-up.”
What's glaringly obvious now had gone over his head earlier when Dex was more interested in his chord than the man interrupting him. Charlie's current outfit is… eye-catching, to put it simply; he's replaced his signature yellow jacket for a neon green bolero, and his trumpet pants for tight black jeans - but those weren't what had robbed Dex of speech.
No, it's the black fishnet crop top Charlie's wearing beneath the bolero that Dex is struggling to process. The sorry excuse of a shirt clings to his chest like a second skin, leaving his midriff bare and–
Is that body glitter?
Yes, yes it is; there's a faint but telltale shimmer across Charlie’s abdomen that confirms Dex’s suspicions. Jesus fucking Christ.
Not only that – Dex's brain lurches like a geriatric steam train – a trio of thin chain link necklaces sits upon his collarbone over the crop top, connected to the spiked collar cinched around his throat. The silver sparkles under The Encore’s lighting, hanging tantalizingly low in the dip of the drummer’s pectorals.
Overall, the entire portrait he paints is indicative of… something.
Something that Dex strategically chooses not to address, for fear of his own mental sanctity.
Charlie idly twirls his lollipop between his fingers, unbothered by Dex’s scrutiny. “Just thought I'd branch my wardrobe out a bit. Try on some new things, see what works and what doesn't.”
“Branch your wardrobe out,” Dex repeats dubiously.
“Is it…” An uncharacteristic flicker of self-consciousness appears on the drummer's face, “...bad? Weird-looking? Should I change back?”
Dex considers him silently, lips pressed thin in thought, then shrugs and turns his attention back to Ragnarock.
“You're fine, Disco,” he says neutrally, not looking up. “Wear what you want. You always make anything work, somehow.”
Charlie is quiet for several beats. “That… might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
Dex grunts. “And it won’t happen again, so don’t get used to it.”
There’s that laugh again, giddy and slightly breathless.
“You know, Dex, I–”
Something slams from another room, followed by a distinct and guttural bellow.
“WHAT THE FUCK IS UP!”
Stix yells over the ruckus, softer, but no less scalding. “Motherfucker, what'd I say about kicking my doors? You’re gonna bring this whole place down one day!”
Rolling his eyes, Dex re-adjusts his grip around Ragnarock and resumes strumming, not noticing how Charlie abruptly goes very still beside him.
The sofa shifts. Dex raises an eyebrow as Charlie stands and begins, for lack of a better word, fussing with himself. Smoothing down his clothes, fixing his hair, and mumbling a string of words too low for Dex to catch. It’s a far-cry from his typical self-assuredness, and Dex finds himself curiously tracking the drummer as he paces towards the back of the lounge.
Another set of doors noisily swings open, and just like that, any remaining hope of him practicing in peace goes up in smoke.
“Well, well, if it ain’t The Machine!”
Dex braces himself as a pair of heavy boots stomps their way to him.
”Please don’t–”
A big, bandage-wrapped arm encircles his shoulders and drags him into a headlock. Soon after, a gauntleted knuckle descends upon the top of his head and roughly noogies what hair he still has there.
“Practicin’ outta operatin’ hours, are ya? Aren’t ya just the hardest workin’ lit’le peach!”
There’s a special type of agony associated with Hemlock’s brand of “affection,” Dex muses. It’s certainly not the same as what he endures on a daily basis with Ragnarock, but he likes to think it helps him build character. Somehow.
Even if Dex would really prefer that Hemlock not do this to him every. Single. Day.
Eventually, Hemlock releases him, but not without landing a slap against his back that nearly makes him double over.
“Ahh, just fuckin’ with ya, mate. I know you’re good for it.” He starts to turn. “You 'ere by your lonesome?”
Gingerly rubbing his neck, Dex shakes his head. “No, Charlie’s–”
Hemlock stumbles, loudly and clumsily. He manages to right himself before tripping over his own ridiculously long legs, stifling a swear.
From all the way in the back, Charlie’s voice rings out, unusually timid.
“Hey.”
Something clicks in Dex’s mind as he arranges Ragnarock in his lap.
After a pause, Hemlock hesitantly responds.
“Hey.”
Click, again. He plays, fingers moving instinctively, but every other part of him remains on high alert and he doesn’t yet realize why.
His ears pick up the bassist’s and drummer’s conversation against his volition.
“You’re lookin’...” Hemlock trails off.
“Yeah?” Charlie prompts silkily, voice practically a purr. “Pretty punk rock, right?”
“Yeah. Really–” Another pause. Did Hemlock just gulp? Without an esophagus? “-pretty.”
What the fuck is happening, Dex thinks desperately.
He plucks a quick, nervous tune that goes unnoticed. All along his neck and down his back, his skin prickles with anticipation. He's struck, abruptly, with the unbearable urge to look. But something else – likely his self-preservation instinct – keeps his gaze safely diverted. A gut feeling tells him it won't last forever, however; with each hushed sound he catches, Dex feels his resolve crumbling piece by excruciating piece.
Someone giggles. He thinks it might be Charlie – hopes to the Gods it's Charlie – because trying to imagine the alternative is liable to make him start foaming at the mouth.
Curiosity rears its treacherous head. His body buzzes with it, no longer interested in practicing. Maybe just a peek, he reasons. If they didn't want an audience, they would've gone somewhere else.
With severely misplaced determination, Dex carefully tilts his head over his shoulder, unaware that he's about to make an irreversible mistake.
The first thing he sees is Hemlock's towering figure, the bassist's back to him; the second thing he sees - his fingers fumble over Ragnarock's strings as a choked noise gets stuck in his throat - is Charlie, half-hidden behind the other man's bulk, leaning almost his entire weight against Hemlock's front. The drummer's head is cocked coquettishly to the side, shades drooping just low enough to reveal his come-hither eyes. As Dex continues to watch in horror, Charlie gently tugs his bottom lip between his teeth before murmuring something that makes Hemlock violently flinch. Dex's jaw falls open at the same time Hemlock's hands twitch towards Charlie's waist.
He might have made a sound, either from his mouth or Ragnarock. Within the next moment, he's strangling the guitar's neck in a vice-grip and Hemlock jumps as if he's been electrocuted.
"Shit. Shit," Hemlock says, backing away from the drummer. He knocks over a chair in his haste and pays it no notice as he puts more distance between himself and Charlie, inexplicably terrified. "I, uh... Just remembered somethin'! Them pigs at the station still got a 'old on me pass!" He attempts a laugh that comes out slightly too high pitched and just on the edge of hysterical. "Bettah go get it!"
Before either Dex or Charlie could comment, Hemlock all but vaults across the room in what Dex is relatively certain is a Guinness record-breaking speed. The doors to the lounge are still swaying on their hinges by the time Hemlock reaches his last obstacle, and it's only when Stix launches into another furious tirade about the treatment of his beloved Encore does the reality of the situation finally sink in.
Hemlock, Dead as Disco's rough-and-tumble bassist and fearless revolutionary, has just fled the premises like a rabbit late to its tea party.
Silence descends upon the lounge. Dex holds his breath, eyes rapidly flitting between the doors and the drummer, the latter of whom has yet to move after Hemlock's impromptu escape. The mood in the room has turned stagnant and brittle; he fears that if were to make a single sound, he may shatter what pathetic semblance of concord still lingers.
Ultimately, it's Charlie who breaks the ice. His shoulders sag from the sheer volume of the sigh he expels.
"Damn," he says quietly.
Dex recognizes the dismay in his voice - knows it intimately, even. It's a familiar ache that visits him on days where he feels like no matter what he does, he will never reach the pinnacle he so badly seeks. Coming from Charlie, it sounds... wrong. Unnatural. He's supposed to be the sunny, lively member of Dead as Disco, not sulky and dejected.
That's Dex's thing.
And as much as he despises Charlie's guts and his effortless talent, he can't deny that seeing the drummer in this state makes his stomach churn uncomfortably. If he'd been anyone else - Benny, Arora... Hell, Prophet - he could stand up right then and there and comfort Charlie; offer some kind words of encouragement and possibly coax a smile out of him. But, he's not. He's Deckard Voltaire, moody perfectionist and - he'll admit it - horrendous at feelings.
Even so, he still has to try, high chance of failure be damned. He hesitates briefly, trying to find the appropriate words.
"Hey, Disco-"
"Don't."
Charlie isn't looking at him. The man sighs again, running a hand through his hair, then turns his back on Dex.
"Sorry. I'll just... I'll be in the dressing room. Give a holler if you need me."
The drummer slowly drags himself towards the backstage area, but pauses by the doorway. He glances down at his unfinished lollipop and, without a second thought, flings it into a nearby bin.
Dex sucks in a sharp breath.
Charlie finally leaves. He's alone again in the lounge, just like he wanted. But instead of relief he feels, it's a foreboding tide of dread that has made its home inside him.
"Oh," he whispers, "This is bad."