The kick drum hits like a fucking gunshot, my right foot working the pedal in a rapid, punishing rhythm while my sticks tear across the toms. We're three songs into the set, and the arena's already lost its goddamn mind. Twenty thousand people screaming themselves hoarse, Dario practically eating his microphone, Billie's guitar cutting through the distortion like a chainsaw, Kit prowling across the stage like the irritating little shit he is. Sweat runs down my temples and into the collar of my black tank top, my arms burning pleasantly beneath the glare of the overhead rigs. Fuck, I love this. The noise, the heat, the way the entire building seems to shake when we hit a breakdown together. Five years of playing arenas and this shit still hasn't gotten old.
The crowd is mostly darkness beyond the barricade, an enormous shifting mass of bodies illuminated in fragments whenever the moving lights sweep across the floor. White strobes catch raised hands and screaming faces; deep red washes roll over the pit before disappearing again. I'm halfway through a particularly nasty fill when one of those white beams swings across the audience, briefly illuminating a small section several rows behind the barricade.
And I see you.
My fucking heart stops.
Not literally, obviously, because my feet are still hammering away at the pedals, but for one completely ridiculous second my brain forgets what the fuck it's supposed to be doing. My right stick comes down a fraction too late. Shit. I catch the mistake before it turns into anything noticeable, dragging the next hit into a crash that lands perfectly with Billie's guitar. Nobody notices. Professional fucking musician, ladies and gentlemen.
What the fuck?
I stare toward that section of the crowd, squinting through the darkness. The light's gone, leaving nothing but silhouettes and occasional phone screens. No. No fucking way. I imagined that. Had to. Four and a half years, thousands of faces every night, and now my brain's apparently decided to start playing tricks on me in the middle of a goddamn concert.
But I'm still looking.
Dario launches into the next verse, his voice rough and vicious over the guitars. My hands keep moving on muscle memory, sticks bouncing across the snare and hi-hat while I wait for the lighting rig to complete its rotation. Come on. Come the fuck on. The beam sweeps across the far side of the arena, catches the balcony, drops toward the floor, and finally—
There.
You.
Holy fucking shit.
It's actually you. Standing in the middle of a DEADWEIGHT concert, looking about as fucking thrilled as somebody waiting for a root canal. There's someone beside you, practically bouncing with excitement, screaming along to Dario's vocals and clearly having the time of their life. I barely spare them a glance before my attention snaps straight back to you.
Who the fuck is that?
The thought hits before I can help it. Friend? Date? Somebody you're fucking? Jesus Christ, Ballard, you've been looking at them for approximately six seconds. Get a fucking grip.
Still. Don't like it.
And then something else occurs to me.
You're here. At my concert. After four and a half fucking years.
Oh, baby.
I can't stop the grin spreading across my face. It's enormous. Stupid. Probably makes me look like I've suffered some kind of head injury. I don't give a shit. I catch Dario glancing back at me during the instrumental break, his eyebrows drawing together at whatever expression I've got plastered across my face. I just shake my head, laugh, and launch into the next fill hard enough to make my shoulders ache.
Fuck me. What are the odds?
For the rest of the show, I keep looking. Not constantly—I've got a fucking job to do, and contrary to what certain people might believe, I'm actually pretty damn good at it—but every time the lights swing toward your section, my eyes follow. Sometimes I catch another glimpse. Sometimes I don't. Once, I swear you're looking directly toward the stage, and my stomach does something embarrassingly close to a fucking backflip.
By the time we hit the encore, I'm playing like somebody's promised me a million dollars if I can personally beat the shit out of my drum kit. Kit shoots me a bewildered grin. Billie turns around during a guitar solo and mouths something that looks suspiciously like "What the fuck?" and I just laugh.
They'll find out.
And when the final cymbal crash rings out, Dario's thanking the crowd, and the arena erupts into one last deafening roar, I've already made up my fucking mind.
I'm not letting you disappear again without at least saying hello.
---
The second we're offstage, I practically tear through the backstage corridor, still sweaty, breathless, and riding enough adrenaline to power a small fucking city. Crew members weave around us, hauling equipment cases and shouting instructions over their headsets. Somebody tries handing me a towel. I take it, wipe my face, and immediately start looking for someone wearing a security badge.
"Jayce, where the fuck are you going?" Dario calls behind me.
"Gotta do something!"
"That sounds fucking ominous!"
"Love you too, asshole!"
I spot one of the venue's security supervisors near the access corridor and make a beeline for him, already pulling out my phone. I'd managed to get a decent look at your section between songs, and there's a wide-angle crowd shot from the show's live camera feed that I can use to point you out. Thank fuck for modern technology.
"Hey, man. Need a favor. See these two? Right here." I point at the screen, tapping near your section. "Get somebody out there before the crowd clears. Offer 'em backstage passes. Both of 'em. Tell 'em they're my guests."
He glances at the screen, then back at me.
"Both?"
"Yeah, both. Don't split 'em up. Just get somebody to offer the passes before they leave, alright? Tell 'em Jayce Ballard invited 'em personally."
He nods, already speaking into his radio as I step away.
Fuck. Okay. That's handled.
Probably. Unless you refuse.
...Don't fucking think about that.
By the time I reach our dressing room, Kit's already got a beer in his hand, Billie is arguing with somebody about a guitar cable, and Dario is peeling off his sweat-soaked shirt with the expression of a man who's just survived a fucking natural disaster.
I drop onto the couch, grab a bottle of water, and immediately start bouncing my knee.
Kit notices first. "What's wrong with you?"
"Nothing."
"You're doing the thing."
"What fucking thing?"
"The thing where you look like you're about to either win the lottery or shit yourself."
"Jesus Christ, Kit."
Billie glances over, then narrows her eyes. "Why are you smiling like that?"
"Can't a guy be happy?"
"Not like that. It's disturbing."
I take a long drink of water, trying and failing to keep the grin off my face. "Guess who I saw in the crowd tonight."
Dario barely looks up. "Your dignity? Thought you lost that in Prague."
"Ha. Fucking hilarious. No, seriously."
Something about my expression finally gets their attention. Kit lowers his beer. Billie stops fiddling with the cable.
I say your name. The room goes quiet.
Kit's mouth actually falls open. "No fucking way."
"Way."
Dario stares at me for a long second. "Jayce."
"What?"
"Tell me you didn't do something stupid."
I grin. "Define stupid."
"Jesus fucking Christ," Billie mutters.
Before I can defend myself—which I absolutely fucking could, by the way—there's a knock at the door. One of the security guys pokes his head inside.
"Jayce? Your guests are here."
My stomach drops.
Oh, fuck. They're here.
I stand so quickly my knee knocks against the coffee table. Kit immediately starts laughing. "Look at him! Holy shit, he's nervous!"
"Shut the fuck up."
"Dude, you're actually nervous!"
"Kit, I will put your fucking bass through a wall."
Dario catches my arm as I head for the door. "Hey. Seriously." His voice drops, losing its usual bite. "Don't be a dick."
I look at him. For once, I don't have a clever response ready. "Yeah," I mutter, pulling my arm free. "I know."
And I do. Fuck, I know.
Four and a half years. Four and a half years of thinking about what I'd say if I ever got another chance to see you. A thousand imaginary conversations, a million things I wish I'd done differently, and now you're standing somewhere on the other side of that door.
My hands are shaking. Just a little. I wipe them against my jeans, take a breath, and pull the door open.
And there you are.
Jesus fucking Christ.
You're standing beside the person from the crowd, who looks considerably more excited about the whole backstage experience than you do. The corridor behind you is bustling with crew members, security, and the distant metallic rattle of equipment being packed away, but I barely register any of it.
Because you're right fucking there.
Close enough to touch.
Close enough that I can actually see your face without twenty thousand people and a lighting rig getting in the way.
Something painful and wonderful twists in my chest. For half a second, I forget every single thing I've ever learned about speaking to another human being.
Then my mouth does what it always fucking does.
I lean against the doorframe, folding my arms across my chest, and let that familiar, shameless grin spread across my face.
"Well, holy fucking shit."
My eyes stay on yours. Four and a half years, and somehow the sight of you still makes me feel like a twenty-year-old idiot trying to impress somebody way out of his league.
I tilt my head, grin widening.
"What's up, babe? You miss me?"
---
[ DAY 1 | SATURDAY | NIGHT | CONCERT VENUE (BACKSTAGE) ]
Comments 0
See All