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There’s something special about the smoking areas right outside of venues. Always dimly lit, always vandalized, always just close enough to the stage to hear the brick-muffled sounds of the music and the crowd. They exist in a strange liminal space, not quite the venue and not quite the street, a little pocket dimension of tuned-out light and music and color. Juan likes performing, he loves it, but he loves this too— this period of repose right after, a sliver of time for himself so he can come down from the adrenaline of the show.
Tonight was The Pillars’ first show at this venue, and it went well. It’s a smaller place owned by some Dutch guys, more of a glorified dive bar with a stage than a proper venue, but the ambience was good and the crowd was receptive. And they played well tonight. It was one of those days where the four of them just seem to sync up and it feels like the music is playing them instead of it being the other way around. One of those days where Juan is performing with his friends and he feels like he’s creating something. Those are his favorite performances, rare as they are. Most of the time, he just feels like he’s playing a part that doesn’t belong to him.
He leans against the outer wall of the smoking area, feeling the coarse brick wall through his shirt. It’s abrasive, but it grounds him, and he reaches into his pocket for his lighter. He's been trying to stop smoking for a while now, but old habits die hard. It used to be a way for him to let go when his anger issues were more of a problem— Juan would tell himself, I’ll let out my anger after this cig, and by the time he was done with it, the rage had usually already dissipated into the ether, immaterial as smoke. It was trading one vice for another, but at least this one didn’t hurt anyone except himself.
He takes a deep drag of his cigarette, closing his eyes against the warmth of it. Nowadays, he doesn’t usually have enough anger to smoke away. Instead, when he exhales, he imagines all the little post-show worries and doubts climbing up his throat and floating away somewhere where he doesn’t have to deal with them.
Juan opens his eyes at the sound of a door opening. A man makes his way to the smoking area, leaning up against the wall besides Juan, a respectable distance away. He’s taller, pale with straw-colored hair, and when he meets Juan’s eyes, he notices that they’re a pretty shade of blue.
“Hi,” The man gestures towards Juan’s cigarette. “Do you have another?” It’s a smooth British accent, carefully enunciated. Juan nods and pulls another cigarette out of his pocket, passing it to him.
“You were playing tonight, weren’t you?” The man asks as Juan lights his cigarette.
“Yep, with The Pillars.”
The man nods in recognition. “Yes, them. You’re the drummer, right?”
“That’s me.”
It’s quiet for a moment, the two of them sharing the companionable stillness that lives in every mutually-destructive space.
“You were very good.” The man says, and Juan smiles.
“Really?” He asks, even though he knows they were. He was a part of it, a piece of the machine the four of them become when they lock in, moving synchronously like a creature with strings for lungs and snares for feet. But Juan has always secretly liked fishing for compliments, so he tilts his head like he doubts the man’s words.
“Yes, you especially. You’re very expressive when you play. You’re fun to watch.” He says, and gives Juan a very warm smile. He doubts the man even notices the way his eyes linger on the tip of Juan’s cigarette with something like envy, quickly flitting up to Juan’s mouth before moving away. It’s not hard to connect the dots.
It always feels kind of weird when this happens. Juan gets hit on so much more now that he’s in a band, like playing an instrument is the secret ingredient to unlocking people’s desire. He doesn’t know what it is, and doubts it has anything to do with him. He wonders if this man would still want him if he knew that Juan is never even a fraction as cool as he is when he’s on stage. Honestly, in every other aspect of his life, he’s a complete and utter failure. But it’s nice for a moment, to feel wanted. He’s allowed to enjoy this fleeting blip in time before the illusion breaks and people realize he’s a lot more mediocre than they thought.
So he smiles back. “I’m glad you had fun. You should come to our other shows.” His voice is friendly enough, but he takes care to keep a polite distance. He prefers when fans don’t get to know him too deeply. It helps avoid any future disappointment.
“Actually, me and some friends of mine own a place not far from here. It’s more of a club, and a little more underground, but I’d love it if you guys performed there. I think the crowd would really like you.” The man says, pulling a business card from his pocket and handing it to Juan. It’s simple, black and neon green, and simply reads ‘THE POLISH CAVE’ with a phone number underneath.
“Oh. Who should I ask for, if I decide to go?” Juan asks carefully.
“Graf.” The man says, and then smiles. “That’s me.”
Juan chuckles. “I figured. I’ll tell my bandmates about it, and we’ll see. Thank you.”
Graf nods. “That also happens to be my personal number. In case you want to talk to me for any other reason.” He has a very direct, matter-of-fact way of speaking, and Juan thinks this might be the most tactful flirting of all time.
He gives another little laugh at that and nods. He’s trying to think of something appropriately ambiguous to say when the back door of the venue opens again, this time revealing a familiar face.
Foolish, the lead guitarist of The Pillars and Juan’s best best, emerges from the door with a smile on his face. Just seeing him brings Juan a little relief, though he’s not sure from what. “Juan, you won’t believe thi-“ He halts to a stop once he spots Graf. There’s a rather long and obvious pause. “Oh. Uh… Hi there.”
“Hello.” Graf says, nodding at him. “I was just talking to your drummer. I enjoyed the show today.”
Foolish’s eyes move between Juan and Graf, and his eyebrows furrow a bit. He seems a little distracted when he replies, “Yeah, thanks.”
There’s another period of silence now, and it’s no longer as comfortable. Seemingly catching the weird vibe, Graf clears his throat. “Well, I was just leaving. I hope to see you guys again,” He says, but he’s only looking at Juan, who waves goodbye.
Once he’s gone back inside, Foolish takes Graf’s place on the wall beside Juan. “What was that all about?”
“He was flirting.” Juan says, wiggling his eyebrows, and Foolish scoffs.
“Fans can be so weird sometimes.”
“I thought it was kind of sweet.” The card is still in Juan’s hands, and he plays with it idly.
Foolish frowns at him and vehemently shakes his head. “No, that guy had weird vibes.”
“I don’t think so,” Juan starts, but Foolish is still shaking his head in disapproval.
“No, trust me, he definitely does. Did he give you that?” He points at the business card, and Juan nods.
“Yup. Has his number on it.” Juan waves the card around in front of Foolish’s face. It’s stupid, but it’s fun to see Foolish get annoyed like this. On the outside, he’s a pretty difficult guy to bother, but Juan knows how to get to him like nobody else, and he knows for a fact that for some weird reason, Foolish HATES when fans hit on him. It’s like he thinks they’re all secretly stalkers who are gonna show up in Juan’s closet and tickle him in his sleep or something. And it’s like he has a sixth sense for it, too— whenever someone tries flirting with Juan after gigs, Foolish seems to magically appear a few moments later, right on time. It annoyed Juan at first, but it’s also saved him from a lot of awkward interactions, so he’s grown to expect it now. It’s kind of charming, in a way. Wherever Juan goes, Foolish is sure to follow.
Foolish’s eyes carefully track the business card as Juan dangles it in front of his face. Suddenly, in one swift motion, he snatches the card from Juan’s hands, rips it up into pieces, shoves them all in his mouth, and swallows them.
There’s a moment of pure, perfect silence as Juan processes what he just saw. He’s so shocked that he doesn’t even have it in him to be mad. He just stares incredulously at Foolish, who’s face has contorted into a strange, strained expression after swallowing down the cardstock. And he looks so unbelievably stupid in that moment that Juan laughs, loud and clear and unexpected, and then Foolish is laughing a little too, and then they’re both sort of just laughing beside each other while Foolish coughs and pats his stomach, as though he’s consoling it.
“You could have just thrown it away and made the same point.” Juan says, and Foolish smiles dumbly at him.
“Yeah. I don’t know why I did that.”
Juan pats him on the back and sighs. “It’s okay. I won’t get mad at you for that because you played well today.”
“You did too. I think that was the first time you didn’t fuck up the drum solo.”
“Oh, fuck you!” Juan says, but he’s grinning, and Foolish is, too. It’s hard not to smile when they’re around each other. That’s just how it’s always been. Anything difficult— talking, breathing, existing— becomes easy when Foolish is there. Whenever he’s absent, it’s like something’s not quite right, the machine missing its most vital piece.
“Let me try one.” Foolish says suddenly, gesturing at Juan’s cigarette.
He raises an eyebrow. “You don’t even smoke, stupid.”
“Yeah, but you do.”
A slow smile spreads across Juan’s face. “Ohh, I get it. You want to be just like me!”
“No, dumbass!” Foolish says, swatting at him. “I just want to know what it’s like, I guess. You smoke after every show and I’ve always wondered why.”
For some reason, it feels good to hear that. “Mm… Okay. I guess I’m a bad influence.” Juan says, but he’s already reaching for a cigarette to give to him.
“I do Kelpamine, I think I’m already pretty corrupted.” Foolish replies, taking it from him. “Hand me the lighter?”
Juan thinks about it, but something makes him shake his head instead. “I’ll light it for you.”
Foolish pauses, looking uncertain for a moment, and Juan wonders if he made things weird, but then he just says, “Okay,” and everything is fine again.
So Juan flicks on his lighter, and gestures for Foolish to get closer. “Come,” He says, and after a second or two of stalling, Foolish puts the cigarette to his lips and leans into the flame.
He’s close enough to Juan’s hand that he can feel Foolish’s breath against his fingers, warm, a little shaky. Is he unsure? Juan watches the way the light of the flame makes Foolish’s eyelashes glow. They’re pretty close, aren’t they? Juan could have put the lighter closer to Foolish so he wouldn’t have to get in his space so much, but… When Foolish looks up and their eyes meet, Juan watches as his eyes dilate, and he feels something deep in his gut, something like hunger. The cigarette has been lit for a while now, but Foolish still hasn’t withdrawn. If Juan kept the lighter on, would Foolish stay there forever, hovering by his flame? How long could he keep him like this, within arm’s reach, close enough to hear the sound of the other man’s nervous swallowing?
Sometimes, late at night when he’s by himself in the dark, Juan thinks about Foolish. They’re so close to each other all the time, like satellites in perpetual orbit. He wonders what it would be like to reach out and touch, just once. It could never happen, of course, there’s far too much at stake— the band, their friendship. But the fact that it can never happen is exactly why Juan allows himself to think about it. Only when he’s alone, only at the end of those long, grueling days they so often have before a big show. It’ll never happen, so it’s okay to wonder. He will never touch him, not like that, so it’s okay to dream of it, quietly under cover of night. Just an idle fantasy, a what-if. A hypothetical.
Now, with Foolish so close by, so obviously flustered, pupils blown wide and blushing and within reach, Juan can’t help but think that if they keep this up, it’s gonna be pretty damn hard to keep it a hypothetical.
He’s saved from any further impulsive decisions by the door of the venue slamming open, jolting them both out of their strange little charged moment.
Tina, their vocalist and Juan’s other best friend, looks very, very stressed. “Guys, I need your help. Aldo got into a fight with the bartender.”
Juan lets out an irritated sigh. “Again? Why does this happen every time?”
“Dude, I have no idea, I—“ Tina cuts herself off, eyebrows furrowing in confusion as her eyes land on the cigarette dangling between Foolish’s fingers. “What the hell? You don’t even smoke.”
“Now I do.” Foolish says, voice sounding a little dazed still, like part of him is still holding his cigarette over Juan’s flame, and Juan barks out a pleased laugh.
Tina raises a skeptical eyebrow, but shrugs it off. “Whatever, you guys are weird. Can you come in and help me? He called someone’s mom a puta.”
“Oh God. We’d better go get him.” He says, trying not to sound too bothered by it all. I suppose that’s what they get for having such a hot-headed bassist.
Foolish looks a little more put out by the interruption (Juan files that reaction away for later), but sighs and nods in agreement. “Yeah. Same plan as always?”
Tina nods. “I distract him, you grab him by the arms, Juan grabs him by the legs, and we book it.”
Juan nods. “Alright team. Let’s go!”
The three of them do their signature group handshake and head into the venue, and just like that, the moment is over. Juan will think about it tonight, of course. He’ll imagine what would have happened if instead of lighting Foolish’s cigarette, he had leaned in close and blown the smoke directly into his mouth. His mind will linger on the look in his eyes, scared but wanting, or the way he bristled once he spotted Graf next to Juan, or the dazed look on his face after Tina walked in on them. He’ll turn all of these little memories over in his head, hyper-examining and imagining and fantasizing and craving. But for right now, the moment is gone, dissipated into the night air like the bitter, intangible smoke of his cigarette.
—