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starbuck09256 · 5 years ago

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A picture in the sand

Episode Fic

Unruhe

Pictures in the Sand

Author: @starbuck09256

For: Kasey Slippin Mickeys

Rating: Teen (I did use the f word not sorry)

First a huge Shot Out to @gaycrouton for putting this goodie together. Girl you are fantastic. I can’t wait to read your fic and everyone else's!

My prompt was Unruhe and that it should take place in Traverse City with another woman goes missing. I followed it mostly. I rewatched the episode about 9 times, which isn’t bad I like the ep anyway. Here is my angsty (as requested) interpretation.

Not gonna lie, I’m really terrible at procrastinating so this is very much not Beta’d I apologize for spelling and grammar errors. Just happy to barely make the deadline.

6am Dana Scully's Apartment

She wheels her suitcase next to the end table. Not paying attention she swings it to far and the picture frame on top falls and shatters to the newly stained wood flooring. “Shit” Scully mutters before moving her suitcase to find all the shards of broken glass. She picks up the frame staring at a picture of her and Melissa at a family picnic at the beach from a few years ago. Melissa’s glowing smile staring back at her, she traces the pattern of Melissa’s dress remembering Melissa spinning them around in the sand, letting the tiny pebbles crush against their toes. Like they used to do in San Diego. Melissa had been galavanting around the world and had just gotten back her smile to be with family, the lightest Dana had seen her in the last few years. Scully thought it was just because Melissa had finally gone to all the places she talked about endlessly in the dark confines of their shared room. Scully sighs, she remembers that dress Melissa wore in a different context too, one where she is helping their mom pack it away in a donation bin. Melissa so much taller than Scully, it didn’t make sense for Scully to keep it in the back of her closet as a reminder of the women who embodied the bright color and flowy design. The picture inside the jagged frame not scratched and torn right on the side of Melissa dress. The irony isn’t lost as she sits there on the floor where Melissa bled out in between the wood slates a bullet meant for Scully, a life meant for Melissa. She can’t help feeling that the last two years have been so unfair, she is no closer to justice for her sister, no closer to finding the answers of where Duane Berry took her. Now as the nightmares have increased she thinks of the women in Allentown all dying slowly, she wonders if she is next in line. If this picture of her and her sister will find its home on her moms mantle along with catholic candles that flicker in and out of all the lives tragically cut short by senseless violence. Scully presses the picture into the front pouch of her suitcase. Vowing to find a new frame to hold the precious photo right when she gets back from their new case in Michigan.

She’s only been to Michigan a couple of times. The only real fact about the state that she loved is no matter where you are you are within 7 miles of water. The water calls to her, always has, from years of watching her father navigate it’s depths to summers spent at camps with giant lakes that at night made you feel like you might as well be in the middle of the ocean. She remembers briefly staying once and seeing the shores of the great lake as it extended out for miles. From her seat at the window she looks out to the expanse of trees and meadows the clouds just above the horizon. Mulder shifts against her. His head resting in her lap on his coat. It’s been a weird few months between bounty hunters and his moms stroke he is more restless than normal. The case brought to them because of the weird photo of a girl seemingly screaming into the camera. Mulder ever elusive with his information he likes to dangle clues and hints to her but never the full story. It use to be fun, this game they play him trying to get her to open her mind to the fantastic to make connections and leaps with scraps of information. Now though it just gets on her nerves. Why not just tell her the facts? Does he think she is so closed minded that she will refuse to go? She wants to refuse. Start standing up for herself more, part of her is tired of seeing these women taken, beaten, lives destroyed in the end does it even matter the how? Is the why so important? What about stopping it? Lately she feels like they are only there for the aftermath, taken to a point so far outside of plausible. She’s getting tired of being taken herself. He mumbles in his sleep and shifts closer to her. That’s the real problem she thinks, how close they are and yet not at all. While they spend endless hours together, eating, sleeping in crappy motel rooms, driving miles and miles of road and for what? to be put in danger constantly?

The larger part of her though finds it still so thrilling. The challenge the way his eyes light up when he gets a new case and they go back and forth it's why he dangles clues and hints. He loves seeing her mind work, and in truth she loves the challenge. She looks at the photo again, the edging is distorted the colors blending together. She isn’t sure how you would capture an image like this, how the abductor took such a photo. She presses her finger down on the edge looking at the long lines on the side, a face to the far right what is that? A reflection? She wonders what the image is trying to say. She thinks of the photos of her and Melissa torn and stuffed into her roller bag under the seat. She thinks back to all the photos she has taken over the years the others that grace her mantel in tiny rows. Her brothers photo with his new wife how he blames her openly for Melissa's death. As if she didn't already blame herself. She thinks of those women in Allentown how they said they are all dying, the photos they showed her of others like them that have passed on. She has an appointment in 3 months for more scans. She joined the mufon group and has been getting emails of members passing away one by one. Leaving children and husbands behind. She would only leave behind sad plants and half finished articles for medical journals and Mulder. How would he do with a new partner, she thinks back to Jerry whom he just described as a colleague. Is that all she would be to him in the end? A colleague a good friend? There have been moments when she thought they would be more. Melissa certainly thought they would be. Melissa's’ constant insistence that Mulder was the compliment to Scully's stubborn soul. Scully wonders if this is going to be the end will he be her last? She's never missed having a lover. But lately she wishes her bed wasn't so lonely. Now as Melissa has pointed out she has in fact put everything and everyone on hold for this search of theirs, to find answers for him and now for her. In the past she has found men who are obsessed with things it seems. The latest one resting in her lap. She swallows hard, sleeping with Mulder would be a terrible idea, but if there weren't consequences because she would be gone in a few months? She tries to clear her conscience about it all, her recent scans were fine but the emails of more and more members with the same type of cancer in exactly the same spot are more than scaring her. Mulder is scared too, she now stops mentioning when another one has been laid to rest. She’s seen his fear shining into her eyes when she gets even a cold. Imagine what cancer from a lover would do to the man? She would never do that to him. If the dedication he has for his annoyingly little sister is anything. The rabbit hole he would fall down if they were more and she was taken by the disease from her abduction would kill him.

She thinks about her mother and father, how after his death the strong capable of anything Margaret Scully faltered. At first her mom said she could pretend for a few minutes in the morning that he was still at sea, that his smile would grace her eyes soon as he would sweep her into a deep hug that warmed her bones. Then she would remember, remember that time was short. Missy's death certainly didn't help. Losing a child is something that no parent should ever bare. She had asked Dana to give her antidepressants, and while it scared Scully to the core it renewed her mother's faith in God. That that was the only way she could keep going, knowing that her Ahab would be there waiting for a life eternal and her sweet daughter's spirit would be free. But Melissa's death had done the opposite for Scully, she has scene so much injustice so many things that make her doubt God's word that now she has become skeptical and even cynical in so many ways. Mulder has seen it in her and while she wears her cross everyday part of it is just because it reminds her of Melissa. It reminds her to try and fight. She will fight till the bitter end. Even if that is sooner than she wants to believe. Mulder shifts slightly again and she moves the picture through her fingers. Tries to put that skepticalness to the side. Tries to think like Mulder would. Why would the killer leave it at the scene? How did he get it beforehand? Was he stalking her? She taps on the photo again and moves back to the case file, shifting just slightly careful to not disturb Mulder.

She reads the report over and over until her eyes want to water at the dry dead air of the cabin. The sun is seeping through the light onto Mulders hair now, his features almost boyish in sleep. She is usually the one sleeping against him even if flying isn’t her favorite thing. She squirms in her seat a bit wishing secretly that Mulder would wake up so she can lay against his shoulder and catch a few minutes of sleep herself. She moves her hand, fingers brushing through his hair. She knows he doesn’t mind, though he still teases her a little when she does it in doctor mode. She sees his small smile and he starts to move. She gives him a soft smile back as he rubs his eyes looking at her with the translucent clouds shading the sun as it shines dimly on her hair. He reaches up and touches her cheek to sweep a stray strand off her face. “Your turn” it’s almost a whisper. She smiles gratefully as he moves and positions his jacket against his shoulder for her to rest against. She sighs as she snuggles into the warm fabric. Mulder pulls the shade down against the morning dawn as they continue to soar through the air.

2 hours later

She wakes dimly to the voice of the captain letting them know they are starting their dissent into Grand Rapids. Traverse city looms another 2 hours away along the lake coast. It’s interesting the rules they have made through the years. They never discuss a case on a flight and so that time has been devoted to them reading books sometimes playing cards. Arguing over which mythical creature is the most likely to exist. Or more often than not it’s like this morning's flight snuggled against each other asleep. She hears Mulders soft snores against her head. The last few months she has been more worried about his sleeping habits especially after she told him what she found in Allentown. More often he comes in with dark circles and the extra coffee through the day has not gone unnoticed. She can’t complain though, because despite all of this he still is there in the morning to greet her, with a steaming cup to chase away her own night terrors. Places like planes offer a few moments of peace that the other one is safe, and that they are together. She tries not to analyze it too much. Tries to rationalize the fact that they have been through some truly horrible things and are bound to have some strong ptsd and codependency issues. She doesn’t want to love him that way. She likes them just being friends. She wants a bit more out of life, especially if there is less available to her, seeing all of these things over the years she is wondering what she is really fighting for anymore if not for Melissa maybe she would have already left. Is it to be flying off to save women from abductions? Is she trying to find validity in her choice to prove to herself that giving up medicine to become an FBI agent was really the best decision? Is she now leading herself down a path to have another Jack or even worse another Daniel?

She knows that Mulder is in love with her. She knows that he has become just as dependent on her as she has on him. She doesn’t want that, she doesn’t want a world where the two of them can only exist with the other. She has become consumed by this quest of his and paid so dearly, and now here they are chasing a lead on a case they really have no business on. She knows that it’s about the picture. He sees something or knows something she doesn’t. She’ll have to wait for the drive into town to find out.

As they reach the drugstore she is lost in the sea that is the investigation, while she looks at expired film heating beneath it parts of the edging make sense, if the film is expired and the heat has distorted the edges. But the screaming that is odd, when she points these things out to Mulder he finally explains his theory. She sees a photo booth in the drugstore small and yet she wonders if the film has been tampered here too. Mulder must think something similar as he grabs her hand just as she finishes her questions to the owner. “This film shouldn’t have the same distortion if my theory is correct.” he mutters pulling her into the small intimate photo booth. She sighs “Mulder,” she starts but he pulls her down and she is sitting right next to him and he’s smiling and pointing to the camera. She gives him the look, the one that shows she is not amused, but he wraps his arm around her leans forward to start the series of 5 photographs of them. He tries to do bunny ears and the camera catches her laughing at it. She sticks out her tongue in the next and so does he. The third picture is just them stern and serious. The fourth a soft smile from both of them. The fifth begins to click and he makes a kissy face and her grin lights up the tiny booth. Its short lived and while she thinks the exercise is pointless the film proves to be unaffected. She waits for Mulder to throw the pictures away but he doesn’t he pulls out his wallet and tucks them in with a 20 dollar bill and 2 ones. She shakes her head, he asks the owner if they can take a few more photos with the same film. “I think the picture is the key to this Scully,” he leaves and she follows him out.

They drive to the girls house, pictures on the fridge of a normal couple. Lost in moments together, traveling, and laughing. She wonders if they will find this girl alive, if these will be the last time she smiles. She thinks of moments when her and Mulder where sure that it was the end. She thinks of the pictures of them in his wallet. What a stranger would think. What she thinks of this closeness that has grown between them.

He takes the camera “Watch out scully it’s loaded,” and he points it right at her but the picture that comes out is of the girl distorted again and she looks up at him confused. He starts to tell her more about his growing theory, how these pictures are the key Psychic photography. She hates this, she hates looking at cases and having him come up with something so crazy she has to try and wrap her mind around it. She always gives him the benefit of the doubt listens to his theories, but sometimes she just wants a simple explanation. Maybe she is just burned out. It happens to everyone with all the things that have happened to them she hasn’t had a chance to take a break. She wants to talk about this more but as always he is already getting ready to leave. “He was here I think he stalked her.” As they step out into the bright sunshine her phone starts to ring, letting them know that Mary has been found wandering and disoriented.

At the hospital Scully is faced with looking in the hollow eyes of the woman on the fridge, one that won’t be smiling again as pain and inevitable death beacon her near. The scans don’t lie, Mary is facing a very difficult road of recovery if that is even possible. As Scully stares at the scans as Mulder goes to grab them something resembling coffee she thinks of Betsy in Allentown, about those women with tumors at the same spot as Marys unfortunate lobotomy. Mulder has sense Scully's distance and luckily has chosen to back off, leaving her with the time she needs to figure things out. Scully is deep in thought when Mulder returns he sets down the coffee letting the steam rise up and wafted into her nose. It’s a beautiful smell coffee, seems the fine people of Traverse City understand its importance. Mulder touches her shoulder gently a sad smile across his lips as he stars at the scans once more. Just as the uniform officer comes in and tells them another woman has been taken. Anger boils through Scully, whomever this guy is he has no idea what he is doing and unless they find him soon she is afraid of another poor woman facing the same fate. Mulder throws the rental keys to her knowing that right now he needs time to look over the details from the officer, starting working up a profile right away. Precious time is ticking fast as she presses her foot down on the pedal. This is her strength driving fast and a little more reckless than Mulder ever has. It annoys him, how much she speeds and whips into places. It’s why he drives most of the time in reality. Because she got tired of hearing him complain about her going to fast, but time is of the essence. They are following a patrol car the blue and red lights flash into the fading sun. As they race around the corner. Mulder finally looks up at her his voice catches in his throat. “Mary will never be the same will she?” Scully shakes her head in sadness. “We need to find this person, and fast” She nods and throws the car into park, throwing her seatbelt off dashing to the scene. They need a clue, a hint, and hopefully something more than a screaming girl in a fucking polariod.

Just as they get there they realize that the rush wasn’t necessary, Scully needs to review the file as Mulder heads right inside to assist. Another man dead another woman taken and nothing to go on. Mulder doesn’t find any cameras or film, in the car as he was thinking through the profile he wonders about the word Unruhe, a place? A thing? A person? It sounds like it’s a word. He asks one of the officers to use the computer quickly typing the word into a search box as he continues shuffling through 1040s and spreadsheets. Scully walks in the file in her hand, a killer like this she thinks might have been there might have been at the scene. As they argue again over the photograph she feels the frustration of the day, of the inevitable failure that might await them if they can’t find something quickly. Mulder is ready to head back to Washington, to find the clues that have eluded them so that she can save the next victim. Both of them know that time is limited and Alice doesn’t have long, while she thinks him going back to Washington is a mistake, it’s really not that long of a flight and the bureau does have some fantastic resources. She sighs hangs her head and works her connection. It seems that for them, when they go their separate ways they form a complete picture in the end.

She watches as he races out leaving her the keys to the rental car as he hitches a ride back again. She works through the evening and well into the night in a small motel with a view of Grand Traverse Bay on Lake Michigan. She opens the window and listens to the water softly kissing the sand while the moonlight shines off the lakes black opals and into the darkness. Mulder calls her lets her know his planes has landed and he has been able to get a forensic photographer to help him first thing in the morning. She lets him know that Mary Lefont died and she fears that the same will be true for Alice if the construction owner has hired men off the books. Mulder sighs, “You caught that Scully, you found us a tangible lead as soon as I find something out with this photo I’ll call you it should help you refine it” She hums in response right now she is looking at a list of 300 people in the apartments next to the latest abduction. She sighs and says she is tired before hanging up. She knows that sleep will be hard fought tonight, it’s already almost 3am. She walks out of the hotel towards the Bay listens to the waves as they crash against the shore with a dullness. While the stars shine brightly out beyond the black depths of the lake she thinks of Mary, about those pictures of her smiling in those photos on the fridge. Her toes are in the rough sand from the lake, not like the sand that she and Melissa danced to in the photo. She wonders of Alice's family will have similar photos on their mantel of another woman taken in her 30s. She hopes that the station can pull up something on the construction workers, they need this lead. Regardless of the success Mulder thinks he will find she needs the tangible investigative skills of the mortal realm. She walks back to her room, letting the moonlight chase her form across the soft swirls of the water. She falling into a lifeless deep sleep while the dull ticking of Alice's life lingers in the background.

In the morning after she wrestles Gerry to the ground. She thinks back about the pictures she has of Ahab of the two of them at her medical school graduation, her white coat and his proud smile. She wonders after all the terrible things that have happened to her would he still be so proud? Or would his smile have dimmed like that glossy paper it was printed on. Would her own eyes shine as brightly as they did that day ever again? Or had the 3 months she missed, the sister she mourned be evident through the lense. She knew the risks was aware of the horror she would face. Lately she feels as if she is facing a far more looming nightmare. Another birthday another lonely night with no prospects of changing. Mulder and her might be pushing that line in the sand between acceptable partnerly behavior but it’s a not a road she is ready to take, nor is she sure she wants too. She loves him, she knows this after so many dangerous situations, hours and days spent together how could she not. She thinks of the other pictures she knows he keeps in his wallet. The one of him and Sam, sometimes she thinks she still sees that young innocent kid staring back at her. His devilish grin when he shows her the fantastic. The way his face lights up just a little when she pulls out his favorite sunflower seeds when he was sure they were out. Does he see it in her? Does he see the young agent who was new to the field but prepared for the boys club? Does he see the same smile and young ambition she once was so consumed with that she let the rest of her life slip away? She’s getting older her birthday just passing and she thinks about the fact that now she is as old as Melissa was when she died. She thinks about the pictures they won’t take, about the people now missing from the Christmas dinners, the Sunday brunch, the nephews birthday parties. Her phone rings and it’s Mulder he booked the first flight back and is already on his way to the precinct. She wants to know where Alice Bryant is she wants them to win one for once. Mulder wants her to wait until they can interrogate Gerry together. They are so good together, she knows. The two of them play off each other so well with suspects. Mulder seems crazy and she seems scary and she loves it. She loves the power it gives her. She loves seeing justice and fear mingle together in the room. She hopes they are scared, hopes that the suspects feel even the small degree of fear that they cause their victims to feel. It is that feeling that has kept her with the FBI, she loves being the one to find the evidence and then confront the suspect with her findings. Mulder is in a way the perfect partner for her. He steps back lets her take the lead, knows that if anyone will find something tangible to hang a case on it’ll be her.

Gerry gives them a location, and as they race to find her, she can’t help but be angry at Gerry seeing her as troubled. She isn’t troubled is she? Conflicted? Scared? Maybe. She doesn’t want to overthink a psychopaths words. She learned long ago from Mulders profiles how they use words and gestures to gain trust. Luther Lee Boggs being a prime example for them both.

Scully races up the hill hoping and praying that they can find Alice alive, and hopefully not as damaged as Mary, but as she makes it to the top, Alices still form crushes her thoughts. She touches Alices’ cold skin, her cheeks. Watches as the CS tech starts to take photos of the scene. More photos, more death, and now another body. At least Gerry is in custody. At least they saved the future woman that he might have tortured and killed. Mulder meets her at the car, her anger rolls off her in waves like the lake shore. Maybe tonight she will sit on the shore and cry, no one would be able to hear her sobs over the water. She wants to leave to go home and fix her broken frame try to not think of photos and sand and lives that could have been. She can’t drive and though she wanted to be in control she hands the keys to Mulder so they can drive back to their hotel and clean up. She needs to wash the failure she feels down the drain. It doesn’t work that way, Gerry shot the police officer that was processing him, they put out an APB but her mind can only race about possible new victims he already might be on his way to take.

They look at the photo of the officer on the paperwork, Mulder is right the photos are probably the key. God who else did Gerry take a photo of? Who else is going to deal with a madman telling them they are troubled and killing them to fix it?

Apparently the benefit of Traverse City being smaller than most major metropolitan areas is when you need to steal something you pick the same drugstore you stalked your victims. Gerry has assaulted the owner and taken more film. They walk through the drugstore one more time, she thinks of the apartment complexes on each side and tells Mulder as such as he once again puts money into the photo machine. She looks at him in curiosity, last time they went in this time he is letting it roll without them. HIs theory has developed and isn’t ready to share just yet, she knows he will explain in the car. She wants to get going, he tosses her the keys and she walks out into the bright sun.

She doesn’t remember much she remembers her foot hurting from the injection remembers the struggle as she tries to get her gun. She wakes strapped to a chair with Gerry in the dark corner as her eyes try to adjust to the light. Her arms taped down roughly the large sheetrock tool on the shiny metal table. She wants to plead in a responsible way. Gerry knows that this is the end, she can’t let him think that she will be part of his prize. She doesn’t remember much of her German important phrases and it takes her a few moments to come up with what to say to him. Especially since conversational german was the only class she ever got a B in. Luckily the words are there, as if her mind knows to channel the knowledge buried so deep. Gerry gets up to grab the camera, she sees her chance if she can get the tray she can cut her restraints and take him out. She needs to stall, she needs Mulder to have time to find her. She wants to give him time, She asks Gerry about his own Howlers about the trouble with his father. She channels Mulder and knows what brothers will do for sisters. Her own brother would do for her and Melissa. Gerry pulls the tray away and takes the camera to take her picture once more. She struggles with thinking that the photos she took with Mulder in that small cramped little booth won’t be the last ones he sees of her. He will see her on the floor of the padded room in a weird distorted photo that will filter into his dreams for years to come. But luck is on her side and she is able to convince Gerry to take a photo of himself. The camera flash is almost blinding, she knows he is sick she just needs to show him that this has always been about him and not anyone else. The photos come out in a small series of flashes, they wait for the polarization to show the image. She feels vindicated when they show him dead, show him his fate. That justice is finally with her. She just hopes it doesn’t plan on taking her with him. Gerry flips through the photos over and over. Questioning the images, like Mulder did. What do they mean? She hopes they mean that her life will be hers again, that she will be able to see the waves and shore once more. But Gerry thinks it’s about time, that his time is ending and he must hurry. Fear runs through her body a surge of adrenaline as she tugs and struggles against the restraints. She thinks about the time she almost drowned, how it felt struggling in the water, wondering why something so beautiful and peaceful would try to take her life. How she would gasp and flail her arms in sheer panic, like now as she hears Mulder calling her name. God Mulder please please prove that picture true and he does. Thank god he does. She feels him release her final bonds reach out his hand to take hers. She feels the storm calming inside of her, like Mulder is a life preserve her around her waist pulling her up against the tide. She walks out of the dark trailer, walks past the paramedics straight to the lakeshore. She takes off her heels, the prick of the injection still stings but the sand and the wind and the waves cradle her in their embrace. She takes a deep breath, lets the air of the misty water fill her lungs up. She takes a moment to look down at her feet in the sand and as she looks up she almost swears she sees Melissa in the distance dancing on a distant shore.

tagging @today-in-fic @gaycrouton @xfilesfanficexchange @improlificinsarcasm

#xfepisode2019 #mulder and scully #unruhe #s4 #fanfic #msr #angst #myfic #xfchallenge #so glad to be done #man I need a beer #this was a toughie #hope you like it Kasey!

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kimjongdahhwae · 6 years ago

Text

Crush Culture

Pairing: Jaemin x Reader Genre: Fluff, High School!AU

a/n: When you listen to a particular song and a scenario just popped out of your mind HAHAHAHA. In this case, the song is Crush Culture by Conan Gray. Listen to his EP entitled “Sunset Season” , 11/10 would recommend!!!

This is not proofread so I’m sorry for the mistakes. HSKHSKHSK

Anyway, enjoy reading. ________________________________________________________________

"Jesus Christ Yeri, stop looking at your phone and finish this project!" you retorted at your groupmate who is also your best friend.

"I literally stopped for like 2 seconds to check the time y/n, don't overreact!" she said and continued to type your paper in History.

"And you're literally using your laptop, why can't you just look at the time on your laptop, it's right there!" you grinned

"Shut up!"

"Obviously you're waiting for him to text you, well he won't," you said and continued to read other references on your laptop.

"This is why nobody likes you."

"Sometimes I ask myself why did we become best friends? Oh yeah right, because you love me," you said and made Yeri rolled her eyes and laughed.

High school is one of the shittiest moments in your life, with all the boys and girls trying to get noticed by their crushes or worse, being in a relationship. In high school, it seems like "who are you with" is more important above everything.

"Hey, sorry I'm late. I was up all night finding some more references," your other groupmate said while placing his bag on the table.

"Jaemin, we know you stayed up all night because you're playing video games with Jeno," you said, still focused on your laptop.

"I didn't say that," Jaemin said, opening his laptop while rubbing his eyes.

"You don't have to, because it's pretty obvious," you pointed at his laptop screen and his eyes widened when he saw the icon of the video game, still opened.

"See, this is why no one has a crush on you," Yeri said sarcastically.

"I'm too smart for them anyways," you joked.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It's a lunch break and you're currently eating in the cafeteria with Yeri.

"Why do they show their clinginess and affection here, IT'S A FREAKING SCHOOL!" you remarked, annoyed at the couple sitting on the table across you.

"Why are you so mad about couples doing their stuff, being sweet to each other or whatever. That's how they show their love for each other," Yeri replied and took a bite of her sandwich.

"I don't hate them, I despise them."

Minutes later, Jaemin arrived and took a seat in front of you while placing his backpack on the table.

"Did you print our paper?" you asked, he just nodded and yawned.

"You played video games all night again, why am I not surprised," Jaemin didn't answer and placed his face flat on his backpack.

You were surprised when Yeri slammed her left palm on the table while holding her phone on her other hand.

"Got to go guys! I just need to meet someone!" Yeri excitedly said and exited the cafeteria.

"Geez, what's up with people and their so-called crushes," you rolled your eyes and finished your lunch.

"What's up with you and your irritation towards crushes," Jaemin said, face still on his bag.

"They make me want to spill my guts out. People pursue their crushes but in the end, it will not work out."

Jaemin lifted his face and looked at you.

"What if you met someone and I don't know, you fell for that person?"

"I doubt it," you laughed.

Jaemin stared at your eyes.

"Just, what if?" he asked, and he seems serious.

"I don't know really, whatever happens, happens I guess?" you shrugged because the thought of you having a crush? Not gonna happen.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Jaemin, where are we going again?" you lazily asked and letting yourself get dragged by Jaemin.

"There's this new arcade that opened yesterday, Jeno told me about it," Jaemin stopped at his tracks.

"And why are you dragging me there instead of Jeno?" you crossed your arms. You just want to go home and sleep, or watch Netflix.

"We already went there yesterday! So I thought, why not I asked you to go with me?"

"Okay first, you didn't 'asked' me, you just told me to come with you somewhere."

"But--" Jaemin was cut-off by you, shushing him.

"Second, I'm tired. PE drained me physically and mentally. Third, I left my wallet at home. I don't have any extra money."

"Fear not! I'll treat you so let's go!"

Seems like this boy will never give up, you let yourself get dragged by Jaemin once again.

When you both arrived at the arcade, it was packed with high school students around your age and some kids with their brothers or sisters.

You and Jaemin bought tokens, courtesy of him of course because you forgot your wallet. He dragged you to the basketball game first.

"Let's battle!"

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah why n--"

"--you're ready to lose?" you said while grinning.

"Oh, it's on!"

"The loser will buy pizza!"

You and Jaemin went to every multiplayer game and tallied your scores who won on that particular game.

"Guess I'm buying you pizza before going home?" Jaemin asked when the two of you went out of the arcade.

"Of course, told you-you're gonna lose," you smirked.

"Well, lead the way miss y/n," he said and made a gesture with his hand.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You and Jaemin became close months after.

When you want to do something, go out or go to the library to study and Yeri is not available or busy, you text Jaemin. You two are always hanging out with each other's houses.

You're now waiting for Jaemin outside of the movie theater. It’ s Saturday so he asked you to hangout with him.

You [4:00 PM]: Wer r u? >:( Jaemin [1:03 PM]: omw, sorry :<

You sighed because you knew this would happen. Jaemin always wakes up late because of video games.

You smiled because you realized how you have gotten closer with Jaemin. Before, you two are just acquaintances. Now, he's like your second best friend. You thought of his mannerisms, his smile that makes your day, his deep laugh, his eyes that stared at your own pair whenever you two make a bet or debate about something.

Your phone buzzed again. You opened it expecting it was Jaemin, no it's Yeri. You're going to read Yeri's message, but Jaemin is calling you.

"Where are you?"

"I'm sorry! I'm walk--no running to get there on time, I'm buying fries to make it up to you."

"You better!"

You suddenly had the urge to pee, so you went to the restroom. When you got out, you heard someone---a boy said Yeri's name.

"She's not even that pretty, She's the one who's pursuing me HAHAHAHA!"

"Dude, that girl is head over heels for you."

"Yes, she even tried to kiss me, who am I to refuse?"

"Then you dumped her the next day because you said she's boring. You're kinda cruel, man."

The group of boys continued laughing, you couldn't resist yourself and punched the guy in the face.

"You boys are disgusting!"

"Who the hell are you?" he asked while holding his jaw.

"Dude, I think she's a friend of Yeri's," his friend whispered.

"Oh, that boring girl who likes me?" you punched him again at his comment.

"Just because you're a girl doesn't mean I'm not going to hurt you," he smirked and raised his arm but someone punched him first, and it's not you or his friends, it was Jaemin.

"Sorry I'm late, let's ditch this movie," he smiled and dragged you out of the scene.

You went to the playground with Jaemin, you're both currently sitting on the swing set. It's already 5:30 PM and neither of you are speaking about what happened earlier. Jaemin doesn't like this, he doesn't like it when you're quiet and thinking about things that are making you sad.

"Hey, do you want to get some ice cream?" he tried to broke the silence.

"Can I say something....for like a second? Do you know the real reason why I don't want to have feelings with anybody?" you blurted out, having the urge to vent out suddenly.

"Yes, you said they make you want to spill your guts out."

"That's not just it, I hate the feeling of getting hurt. They will feed you beautiful lies, kiss you and then they will forget you because they found someone new," you said, and then looked down.

"I really want to experience these things but, I can't bear the thought of someone leaving me for another. I don't want to experience this pain again. Just like what my father did," you said and looked at Jaemin, who is already looking at you.

You remembered the day your father left you and your mom for another family. You're 10 years old and just got home from school when you heard your mom and dad fighting in the kitchen, you faced them. When they saw you, they stopped but told you to go to your room.

Later that night, you were woken up by the banging of the door. You went outside to your room and saw your mother standing while crying in the living room, you saw your father already on the front door leaving. You called him and turned to you.

"Don't leave us, please. You and mom can fix this," you cried while hugging him.

"I'm sorry y/n, we can't," he broke the hug to take a look at you.

"Remember this, I love you both okay? I love you and your mom."

"If you love us then, why are you leaving?"

"I don't want to hurt your mother anymore. Give her the love I didn't give, take care of her," you father whispered while rubbing your tears away.

Then he stood up, went out and closed the door.

You told Jaemin about what happened, and how a year later you found your dad in a mall with another woman, holding a child.

"This is why I don't want to catch feelings for a person because, in the end, they'll fall out and will not catch you."

"Hey, not all men are the same," Jaemin said looking into your eyes, you didn't respond and just looked at your feet again.

"I will never do that to you. I will never hurt you," Jaemin whispered.

"What did you say?" you looked at Jaemin, shocked because of what he said.

You clearly heard him. You just don't know what or how to respond.

"Nothing," he shrugged. Once again, silence consumed the both of you.

Until both of you spoked at the same time but being the gentleman he was, he let you speak first.

"I want to go home, I'm worried about Yeri."

"I'll walk you home," Jaemin stood up and held out his hand for you. You took it even though you still feel the awkwardness earlier.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It's Sunday night, you and Yeri are having a sleepover.

"Are you sure your fine?" you asked her.

"For the nth time, I'm fine, he's not worth my tears anyway," he said and popped a chip in her mouth.

You're watching some horror film in your living room. You thought this sleepover because of Yeri, because of what that guy did to her but instead, you're the one who needs some advice.

"What's the deal between you and Jaemin?" she blurted out, making you jump because of his name.

"Uhh, we're fine? I guess?" you said and scrolled tweets on your phone.

"Y/n you're not telling me something. What did I miss between the two of you?"

"Nothing! We're just friends!" you said defensively.

"I know your lying," she smirked.

You gave up and told her the events that happened yesterday.

"Well, do you like him?" she raised her eyebrow.

"No? As I said, we're just friends."

"Well, in that case, you don't mind if he will have a crush on other people at school? or if I will have a crush on him?"

"N-no!"

"Think of a thing you've always wanted to do."

"Then?" this time, you're the one who raised an eyebrow.

"Then think of a person who you wanted to accompany you in doing that thing," Yeri said and smirked at your reaction.

"You smiled, I know you thought of Jaemin first before me," she pointed at your face.

"No I DID NOT!" yes, yes you did.

"I'm going to sleep. Sort out your feelings. I know you're still scared of experiencing these things and thinking that men are the same but Jaemin is different and I can feel it. He likes you so much and It's very obvious. You're the only one who can't see it," Yeri patted your head and went to your room.

You contemplated what Yeri said.

Yes, you thought of Jaemin first because he's the easy going type of person, unlike Yeri. You always want to hang out with him because his sense of humor is different. He's always making you laugh and sometimes it's the other way around. Seeing Jaemin's smile or laugh, and knowing it's because of you makes your heart flutter. He doesn't judge you at whatever you do and listens to your rants about life 24/7. He always walks you home even though his street is on the other side. He takes care of you.

Oh mY gOd DO I REALLY LIKE HI--

Your phone buzzed, it's a text from Jaemin saying he's outside your house.

You still don't want to see or talk to him because you're scared to face him. But it seems like your feet has a mind of its own and immediately walked towards the front door. You opened it and saw Jaemin, wearing a white hoodie, sweatpants, and his favorite sneakers.

"What are you doing here this late?"

"I can't sleep."

"And?"

"I've been thinking about what happened yesterday."

"Oh, Yeri's fine. She's sleeping in my ro--"

"No, the one when we're on the playground. About what I said. I really REALLY like you y/n. You're smart, and beautif--"

"I am smart but I AM NOT BEAUTIFUL" you really can't take compliments.

"Please let me finish first," Jaemin sighs.

"Riiiight, sorry."

"I know you're scared of these crushes and catching feelings stuff but I can't control mine. I really like you and I tried to change your point of view about it so I am trying to pursue you that is why I asked you what if there's a person and you fall for that person, and I tried to be that person so I'm always asking you to hang out with me or spend time with me but you still won't budge. I know you don't like me and you will never like me bu--" Jaemin is now fumbling with his words so you cut him.

"I hate to say this but,,,, I like you too? I guess?" there you finally said it.

"What?" Jaemin's eyes widened, slowly he's smiling.

"Uhhhh, what do people call it? Uhm,,, I have a crush on you gOSH this is so embarrassing!" you said and covered your face with your hands. Jaemin removed your hands and squished your cheeks.

"You're cute when you get embarrassed," Jaemin laughed you punched him playfully.

"Shut up! I hate you!"

"No, you said it yourself, you like me," Jaemin smiled widely. That soft smile that made you fell for him.

________________________________________________________________

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sofuckingchuffed · 8 years ago

Text

So I’m gonna write about my mental state below the read more so you can just keep scrolling without being confused and curious about this mysterious ‘keep reading’ post.

However, if you do read this, feel free to message me because I’m in a fucking rutt and I don’t expect anyone to be able to help... I just want love in the form of great SVU fanfics, or something, idk. I’m considering rewatching all the Raul eps for gif inspiration because apparently that show is the only thing making me happy these days.

So anyway.

I’m stuck. I’m trapped. I feel like I’ve fucked myself over so badly in regards to my job situation, and therefore my financial situation, and every time I try and think out a plan for myself I just distract myself with tumblr/fanfic/gifs/movies etc because I’m just fucking scared.

I started my first day working from home as a casual captioner today, and when I dug out my work laptop, I also dug out the official warning letter I received a month before my last day in that job (those events are not entirely unconnected – I had a meeting about said warning and then handed in my resignation the following day). I thought it would be kinda funny to read what they’d said now I wasn’t actually working there. Like, I kinda knew what they’d said because we’d discussed it, but I’d not actually read the letter yet.

So I read it… And I couldn’t even make it the whole way through before I was crying too much to actually read. And then when I composed myself I stupidly continued reading and ended up a mess again. And I’m not really sure why. It’s behind me now, so it shouldn’t be quite so upsetting. But it still feels so fucking unfair, and I’m still so bitter, and I blame that job for the ridiculous state of my mental health at the moment, even though that’s probably unfair – I’ve always struggled with depression and anxiety.

But like… I was so happy when I moved to Sydney and took that job. And I was happy for at least 10 months, I’d say, give or take. But by Christmas it was just kinda wearing on me a bit. The workload for our team had at least tripled since I started, and yet we had LESS staff than when I started. But I still thought I just needed a break… And then that wasn’t enough, but I thought surely my Hawaii holiday in Feb would put me in good spirits… And it did… Until I got back and was instantly miserable again.

Like, I was showing up to work every day feeling awful. I’d wake up with that all too familiar flutter of anxiety in my stomach, and I’d have to remind myself how to breathe for the whole fucking day, even when literally nothing stressful happened, because just BEING there stressed me out. Fucking existing stressed me out. And I was putting all my energy into getting the job done, not letting people down, smiling at people when they said “good morning” and “have a good night”, joining in on team discussions, when all I wanted to do was fucking disappear. And it was just getting worse and worse and March and April felt like the two longest months of my life (like, I legit even now, can’t believe it less than 2 months between me getting back from Hawaii, and me handing in my resignation).

And then on April 11 I got into the office and I had this email from our HR rep asking if I could make myself free to meet with him and my manager about my performance.

And I sat there while they brought up all these tiny things that I hadn’t even considered. All these tiny little things, like not offering to stay back and help while we were down a coord, not being 100% open to provide training for the Sales team, being ‘withdrawn’ from the team, not ‘being a team player’. Apparently ‘members of the team, as well as members from other departments’ had commented on my ‘negative attitude’. And it took everything in my power not to burst into tears, because all the things they were saying were probably true, it just meant I hadn’t been holding it together as well as I thought I had. And yet they’d never said a single fucking word to me. No one asked if I was okay, if something was going on. No one asked me to stay back, asked why I wasn’t joining in, why I wasn’t being helpful. No one fucking mentioned anything to me, so I thought things were business as usual, and I was putting in the appropriate level of effort (read: EVERY OUNCE OF IT I HAD) to get my job done, and get it done well.

And they brought up the TWO deadlines I’d missed and tried to make out like I’d not taken ownership of that and had tried to shift the blame onto other parties. Like, fuck no. No I did not. I went straight to Sales the moment I knew the deadline was going to be missed and let him know I HAD PERSONALLY FUCKED UP. Like, sure, when I was asked how it happened, I explained about lack of resources and whatnot, but I ultimately owned up to the fact that lack of resources wouldn’t have been a problem if I had noticed the looming deadline sooner. I owned my fucking mistakes – of course I fucking did, because I put myself down enough on a regular basis because OF COURSE IT’S MY FAULT, I FAILED AT DOING MY DAMN JOB.

And so I held it together, and I told them I’d take what they said on board, and I spent the whole fucking day on the verge of tears, and then the minute I could leave the office, I called my Dad, and I told him what happened, and I cried so damn much, and we discussed everything I’d been feeling and all my fears about what quitting would mean. And he told me to do it anyway.

And so I went in the next day and gave my 4 weeks notice, and I got the fuck out of there.

But it’s like it’s STILL eating at me. I literally feel like I’ll never be able to function out there in the real world again. I know that’s stupid and over-dramatic, but I am so fucking scared. I’m scared I’ll never be able to hold down a job because everything becomes too much for me in the end. I’m scared I’ll never have real dreams or ambitions. I’m scared I’ll never get anywhere that I want to go because of just that – I’m scared.

And this whole casual captioner thing sounds great in theory, but I currently lack the motivation. And the fact that I’m new to it means I’m slow, and being slow means I earn less money, and that makes me want to give up on the whole thing. And the more negative feedback I receive, the more I just cry. It feels like everything to do with this company makes me cry. Every. Fucking. Thing.

But I’m moving to Melbourne in 3 months. I can’t just find another job now.

And then it’s gonna be so hard for me to find a job in Melbourne with a trip to London booked for December that I can’t fucking afford.

And my parents are too precious. They can see right through me when I tell them I’m okay. They can see how scared I am, and they keep doing these beautiful little supportive things. Keep telling me I can come home any time. Keep telling me if I need money, they will give it to me. Keep offering to pay for my plane tickets, as though they have that kind of money anyway. They just want me to be happy, and it makes me feel so guilty for being so miserable.

And now I’m crying again, and this is the longest fucking rant I think I’ve ever done on this site, and it doesn’t even begin to describe what is going on inside my head.

I’m just scared. Terrified. I feel so alone, even though I know I’m not.

I’m so tempted to take my parents up on the offer to move back home, at least until I move to Melbourne, because I’m so fucking miserable here, and the week I just spent with them was the most care-free I’ve been in months.

But I hate that town. I hate that it’s so far away from everything fun. That’s why I moved to Sydney in the first place. And my parents drive me nuts. I love them, and I appreciate them, but I don’t think I could handle living with them for 3 months.

But I’m so, so scared… Of life. Of everything.

And most of all, I miss my ex best friend so much, every single day, and I hate that. I hate the doubt I feel about how that ended. I hate wanting to reach out to her and see if there’s still a chance to mend things. I hate that I feel like all of this would be easier if she was still in my life. I hate how isolated and alone I feel without her.

Ugh. And if you’ve read this, I’m actually so sorry because this is a self-indulgent mess and it’s actually kinda gross.

#i know I KNOW I should see a doctor #but I find that overwhelming in itself #i think I just find everything overwhelming tbh

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kpsandlcs · 8 years ago

Text

Tour

3/2 - Drive To Columbus

I get off work and Aaron and I grab the van. At first look, surely it will fit everything...it has to. Aaron never falters in reassuring that things will work. In his mind, they always will. It helps. We get to Aaron’s and start loading. It’s gonna be tight, but we do what we can. We arrive to get Peter and he’s got many items. How the hell is this gonna work.

“Did you use the stowaway yet?”

What the hell is that? He says nothing and starts opening a hidden compartment underneath the feet of the back seats. Woah. We load that up and sure enough, we’re golden. Off to pick up Gabe. I’m in the driver’s seat feeling the immense weight of a fuckload of gear and 3 people in the car and am skeptical this thing will get us around.

We get Gabe and start going to Columbus. Another human’s weight. Aaron can’t guess Grizzly Bear’s Veckatimest until “2 Weeks” comes on, which is alright. We kill about an hour as I tell them what my day job really is.

“Isn’t it crazy that for the average user, credit card companies are just capitalizing on my money YOU ALREADY OWN?”

It’s a fucking dastardly-ass scheme.

We get 1.5 hours from Columbus and have enough gas to get home when Gabe says

“Are we gonna be stopping again?”

“No way! We have enough gas and it’s like 1am”

“Ahhh….ummmm I maaaay have tooooo ahhhh Urinate-oooo”

This becomes a theme. But the goofy and pleading delivery was too funny for me to not reward.

We arrive at the Hampton inn and the check-in person was like “y’just made it. Was about to be gone for a few hours.” We’re tired as fuck. We get to our room and fall asleep.

3/3 - To Ithaca

Tonight is our first show in Ithaca. I slept like shit. Peter woke up an hour early to fucking work out. We get a scrappy breakfast from the lobby and Aaron hands me a tea bag that says “I Love Lemon” on it.

“It’s a love letter.”

We get going. It’s icy and Ohio-y. Aaron is driving, which I’m glad for. Right as we get on the highway, Peter says

“Would anyone care for a gorp?”

That = grape.

We spend the ride trading the aux cable and me trying to sleep. We get to a patch of snow which makes me hella nervous but, again, Aaron doesn’t give a fuck. We stop in an upstate NY town that I forget the name of, but was classically upstate...one of those “main street” type towns. We get to a rest stop and this place was crazy...cracked stone floors and a grocery area in the back that had a lot of offerings, but seemingly just spilled out into the back storage/trash area, where there were relics of the distant past everywhere...cardboard cut outs, random furniture...separating the front and the back was an archway, and above it was an old “video rental” sign, but like all wooden and bulky, and dusty as fuck...It was like walking into an abandoned Chuck E. Cheese, or something. Super unsettling.

We arrive in Ithaca and it’s all twilighty and pale pink sky and all that. We hit Wegman’s quick for dinner and Gabe talks about how the prices have doubled since he used to work there during high school. Peter roams around trying to find something to eat, because he’s on Whole 30. Perfect timing!

We get to the venue and start loading in. My keyboard stand “breaks.” Duct tape. (I later learn that all I needed was an allen wrench). I have a lot of history in this area - life changing concerts, day trips, hikes, food, sad escapes, past loves. I change into my Dan Deacon sweater which feels fitting. I’m dazed with a lack of sleep. My friend from Binghamton comes with a whole crew, which is much appreciated. The room fills up for the openers, which are intriguing experimental solo projects. Some college friends show up last minute before we start. The set was solid, but we ran into some sound issues and had to cut a lot of songs. I think we did alright, and people dug it. The whole crowd was intently watching, and laughing at every slight banterous comment I made. It felt like they were legit waiting to hear me all week.

I note that one of the songs I play is about someone in the room, but I had yet to see her.

I go to sell merch. My college friends who I haven’t seen in 6 months - didn’t really get to relax with them, as we need to tear down shortly after, and not to mention it’s late and they gotta get to their place too. This ends up being what always happens - tour is work. There are not many free moments outside of the car.

Someone asks me to sign their CD, a friend reveals she’s been listening to my EP on repeat, and someone nervously compliments me and mentions the music video. Woah.

It’s time to tear down so we have to go down these narrow stairs with everything and load our van which is in an alley and has the neighboring bar employees yelling at us to leave. We can’t get the damn van packed, though. It’s being a bitch. We finally get it after much stress.

Peter and I split off to get to the place we’re staying, which is the house of someone I know who is not there. Thusly, we don’t know his roommates. We park semi far away and lug heavy shit to the door. Knock. Nothing. Call my friend. Nothing. I knock on the door of the lower apartment and get a helpful young dude, who says I should just go right in. So I do. There is a dude standing atop the stairs looking confused.

“Hey, I’m Jesse - Does Remanu live here?”

“Uh….”

Someone else comes by.

“Hey, um, hi, what the hell is this? Why are you knocking at 11 and just coming right into our house? We don’t know you? What are you doing?”

Tired as fuck, nervous, and already shaken up, I just start stumbling to explain myself before he cuts me off-

“OH I’M JUST KIDDING WE KNOW WHO YOU ARE GET ON UP HERE! MI CASA ES SU CASA”

Wow.

We get upstairs and start unloading when a tenant starts enthusiastically talking to me.

“I was at the show! It was so cool!! It seems like you have a great following!”

Nope - just had an alright crowd that Ithaca Underground is good at catering to. But I learn that the narrative spawned by things like this is as good as your image, whether or not the story’s there.

The house is classically Ithacan. “Free condoms” jar in the bathroom. Plants everywhere. Tribal woodworking on the walls. “Capitalism is a pyramid scheme” poster on the wall. Welcoming attitude.

As Peter and I lay on the air mattress, I say

“I’m glad this is your first experience here, because this house is literally an Ithaca museum.”

3/4 - Ithaca -> Syracuse

I wake up to the view of snow lightly falling, and it was unusual how fearful I became of it as it took new meaning for this trip where I am underprepared and need to travel hundreds of miles. This is obviously at odds with my initial delight and feelings of home - Tennessee certainly has weakened my capacity for snow and the cold - making me a creature I swore I’d never become.

I’m off to meet an old friend for brunch -

“Hi so I am house sitting as well as dog sitting and the heat is broken and the dog is shivering, so I can’t leave him here. But also it’s not really comfortable to be at this house because it’s cold. So why don’t I take the dog to my house and we can make breakfast? But I don’t have eggs. So how about you get eggs on the way? But also I don’t really have coffee. So maybe you should also get coffee on the way?”

This is exactly what happens.

I set out in my fucking boat shoes (glorified socks) in inches of snow and am slipping all the way down the front stairs of the mysterious house. I finally get my bearings and am greeted to the classic Ithaca - the same open minded and welcoming place that it never fails to be. A man snow blowing says good morning. Students mill about. I stop in the Green Star which is a fair trade sort of grocery store. I help a delivery man get his stock cart into the store. “Thank ye much, sir.” I get my coffee and local eggs. I arrive at my friend’s house. She pulls up in a car and leads out a tiny dog wrapped in a red sweater. Holy fuck.

We go upstairs and after undressing the dog he immediately curls up in the sunlight of the window.

“His name is Peabody.”

WHAT

We go to the kitchen to make pancakes and eggs and get to talking about basically what happened over the past 6 years and how we’ve both felt a lot of damage and successes and how different we are now.

“Why weren’t you at the show? I played a song about you.”

“Well. I was curled up with Peabody because it was so cold last night, and we were watching TV, and…I fell asleep. And then I woke up at 9pm being like “fuck, there’s no way I can make it now.”

The song is called “Asleep.”

“You can hold this over me for like 1.5 years, it’s warranted.”

The thing is I wrote a whole album about this person in 2012 and I spent that last 5 years trying to get her to listen to it, and she wouldn’t.

Breakfast is delish, and we reminisce a lot about what it was like dating each other long ago. It’s really something how unprepared and ignorant I was at the time, but this is something I already have severely grappled with. It’s really quite good to have such an uninhibited conversation with someone so key to your life/past. It’s like being able to revisit era-specific weaknesses and moments in a tactile way.

Peter comes to pick me up in the van. I ask if he wants to meet Peabody. He says yeah, but doesn’t like small dogs. Whatever…

She hugs me bye. Peter and I go to pick up Gabe.

“What’s the best way to Syracuse?”

“Through Cortland. It’s like a place where everybody’s aggressively trying to mate with each other.”

Me: “And they’re all judges.”

Peter: “And they all love tennis.”

“Yeah. It’s a city of court judges courting each other on tennis courts.”

We get to Syracuse and my college friends await me. We go to armory square and snack/drink. Our waitress is a girl I TA’d 3 years ago. Insane.

We go back to my friend Jay’s apartment, which is where I stayed during that whole Utica deal last september. It feels similar, which is awesome. We’re drinking beer and eating burritos and laughing really hard. It’s time to load in down the street, so we get going.

The room is small, but works, and the crowd is paying a lot of attention. Show goes really great, especially with Jay on back-up vocals. I step outside to hang with my college friends. My one friend who’s helped direct the art of most of my past albums all of a sudden realizes that I just played next door to The Westcott theater, where he and I saw Reptar, Rubblebucket, and most importantly - Dirty Projectors.

“Shit, this is the Westcott? It’s been here the whole time?”

He gets wrecked realizing that we’ve literally been sharing a wall with one of the most important spots of our friendship and artistic development. All of those concerts rocked our worlds.

Peter and Gabe split off to Jay’s, Aaron and I split off to his house. On the way over, we talk about how touring is a real test of teamwork, and every bullshit ‘training’ and ‘seminar’ in school and jobs has never offered a real application of those skills such as it has been.

3/5 - Sunday in Binghamton

Wake up to a good ol’ family breakfast at Aaron’s. Peter and Gabe join shortly after. We eat and decompress before heading down to Binghamton. Snowy and sunny, it feels Hella Home-y. We arrive in Binghamton and hell is it dreary/sad. Everything is dulled, everything is grey, and it feels like nobody's around. We catch up with Eddie, who is hosting the show at his house, which is actually a commune that holds classes, dinners, and is a general stayover for nomadic types that need it. He leads us to the loft above ihs garage where we will play...it’s really nice. Wall outlets all over the place, nice carpeting. We load in early so all we have to do is set up, night of.

I drop off Peter and Aaron at Cyber West to get work done - Gabe and I drive to Target to get a “Quickie Blank Blank?” and pizza at Mario’s, listening to rap on the way obviously. I ran into a family friend in Target. Talk to the new owner of Mario’s while eating real pizza...Nashville pizza...just no.

We grab some beer and the Cyber boys and get to Eddie’s and set up.

“Hey, if no one shows up, we can just chill with some wine.”

But people DO show up. 35 to be exact. 35 people came to this weird garage hippie loft to see us play on a depressing as icy Binghamton Sunday night while the DORMS ARE CLOSED. It felt like a weird judgment day, where various people from pockets of my past all congregated in agreement. I knew everyone, but most didn’t know each other. I actually made a ton of money on merch that night. I spent like 40 minutes talking to everyone before they cut away. Shortly after, a member of the collective (the house) comes up to the now empty room, and says

“Gentlemen.”

He procures a small white rod.

“The band spliff.”

We all look at each other. None of us, at this point, have been keeping up with smoking in our lives.

“I’m sorry dude, we’re all too nerdy and responsible to partake.”

“Seriously? Really? Even for the road?”

“Ah...I can’t keep it in the van, it’s a rental. I feel terrible man. We’re all too lame and nerdy. But I realize this is considered GOLD to many a band. Thank you so much.”

We were too fucking responsible to smoke weed on tour.

After the show Eddie shows us his surprisingly sophisticated mushroom farm, which is essentially falling apart as he explains it to us. But, nothing he can’t control, nothing he hasn’t seen before, and nothing he can’t patch up.

On the way out, everyone in the living room is warm. Eddie and I chat about his future plans and current evaluation of self as we lock the door to the loft. The band and I head to my former neighbor’s house to have a v comfy night of sleep.

3/6 - New Yolk

We get up and cut down to Manni’s, which is in the square of the neighborhood I grew up in. Fresh made donuts, EVERY day. We get a half dozen of all sorts of flavors and Gabe and Aaron and I split them all, savoring every detail as Peter drove and probably gritted his teeth knowing Whole 30 would keep him from this hometown DELIGHT.

We have a long conversation about respect, friendships, dating, and these 3 boys really bolster my self confidence and self-respect.

As we get closer to the city:

Peter: “Alright man. Start playing like, New York songs.”

Peter: “Like Empire State of Mind and Billy Joel and stuff.”

Peter: “Someone honked!! *HONKS* Hey fuck you!! ...I love this city.”

We get a perfect spot for load in. We all split off to see respective people. I eat edamame/avocado toast in an assuming brooklyn cafe, and drink an americano.

Jay, from Syracuse earlier, comes to meet me. We post up in one of his favorite taprooms in Bushwick. We catch up on lots of things, musical and life-wise. An old mutual friend and continued collaborator shows up-he’s been engineering the Modern Instincts songs. Revelry continues.

We make our way to a vegan diner and the conversations continue.

“Yeah, well really spot mic-ing a quartet, it’s more there for body and leveling purposes, but the overheads dominate that tone, really”

Jay’s gonna sing tonight again.

We start loading in and MUAH this venue is everything I dream of playing. The front bar is golden, ornate. The stage is fairly elevated, and the wall behind is plastered in clippings of ANY kind - news, or softcore porn. When the wall stops, an industrious black guard railing protects the open end of the stage. Skeeball machines, photo booth. The sound guy is so easy to work with, and so good.

The place starts packing, and soon enough I’m looking out to a huge room of people - we fucking DESTROYED that place. We play our last song - Thinking In English (an old one,) which is easily the peak of the set. Enormous cheer. The mains start playing change-over music, when we start to hear ‘BA-SIC PRIN-TER *clap, clap, clapclapclap’, and the sound guy lowers the main. A fucking encore. On our first tour.

We don’t have another song, and we need to give the time to Quail Turret. But damn, that was the best.

I spend the rest of the night loving all of my friends, selling merch. I settle up with everyone - the booker is nice as hell. The sound guy said we were of the top tier bands he’s seen in his 1.5 years working there. The door girl asks if we need a place to stay. Man, what a success.

Peter and I head to my friend’s house and we settle in to sleep on his floor. I count the money from the past 4 days and look through the pictures so far. Never felt so cozy on a couch before.

3/7 - Philly

Rainy in Brooklyn. Peter and I solve a puzzle of getting the van, going up and down 4 flights with different heavy things, and making sure the auto-locking door doesn’t fuck up our whole charade while loading.

We get the other boys and get a ways out of the city before stopping in one of those ‘all in one’ rest stops. Coffee and chapstick. We congregate at the front doors on our way out.

Peter: “This would be a good place to buy a watch.”

I turn my eyes to see a tiny glass case with your typical array of luxury brand watches. Armani, Rolex. I look at Peter. His face is totally normal.

Aaron and I have always done this thing, but it got exacerbated on this tour, where we would misread signs with liberal exaggeration on the syllables.

Mcdonalds, Subway, Sbarro.

“Look, this stop has MOME-DONSON, a SRABAWOONI, and a SUH-BARRR AR AR ARHHH AH...:”

We drive to Philly. I put on Swing Lo Magellan because it’s warming up. We talk about musicianship. We talk about musicianship every car ride, and it’s amazing how much it evolves day to day for me, because I learn so much every day.

We drop Aaron and Peter off to do work/meet up with family, while Gabe and I go to get Cheesesteaks. Gabe does NOT pull his pants down. We wander into a bar that I realize I tried to book to pee. We get cash, and cheesesteaks, and laugh. Then we get blindsided by an ice cream craving. So we go near Fishtown and get icecream.

And then we go to this record store which is hella sad. I go to the back, and it’s all dusty and yellow. Though, I do find a Kyle Fisher record which I thought was super weird. It was like, new, amidst all of the standard used-record leftovers you always find. It kinda made me sadder.

Some pretty good music is on, like this really tasteful blend of 70’s psych americana stuff, like that smoky Doors stuff or the more stoic Beatles moments like Norwegian Wood. I talked to guy at the desk, and he told me who it was, but I already forgot. But he had a lot of real things to say about it, and clearly cared a ton, which lightened it up for me.

Gabe and I step outside and I ask him if he was bummed out at all? Tour downtime felt really stale to me. You get to this city you barely know and feel incredibly small all of a sudden, and then I guess the massive drop in relative energy it causes can put the lowlights on display.

Gabe: “Not really, I dunno dude. You’re depressing me!”

Paraphrased, and he says it with a flimsiness - he’s perfect for keeping the tour light and funny.

We get to the venue and start to load in. Up some narrow ass stairs...get to the venue. Tiny, all wooden. Wooden everything. The sound guy is a BAID-ACE (badass). Extremely positive, efficient, helpful, quick. There’s nowhere to store gear in this place. We’re basically shoving all of this shit in this 1 x12 foot (no joke) space behind the DJ booth. Which is literally the worst case scenario for gear storage.

One artist is Skeleton Lipstick - a delirious electro boy. I talk to him and ask him if he likes Tobacco, whilst in my Tobacco shirt. He does love Tobacco. We reference interviews we’ve read.

Stage is tiny, but we fit alright, and I kinda liked the feel of it.

Sound guy - “I’ll letcha know when you’ve got two left!”

Oh yeah, the person we’re staying with - she’s the inspiration for one of my songs. She shows up as we play our first tune. We get to this part where we do a transition between two songs. After the second, sound guy lets us know we have just one left. I play the song about her to close it. The songs ends in a fully distorted 1 minute synth solo, then just cuts off.

“I wanted to let you know you had two, but you jumped right into your next one!” It’s okay, sound guy. You were awesome.

We load out, which sucks. I meet up with namesake girl, and our mutual friend. She doesn’t appear to know what to say, which is fair. If someone showed up to my town to blast a dramatic orchestral synth-ballad with my name as the chorus in my face, I wouldn’t know what to do, especially in front of my friends who might not know the whole story. We’re sleeping at her place later.

The final band plays, and Gabe and I drink our discounted PBRs. I get barely tipsy and he asks if I’m drunk. For the tour, probably the drunkest I’d been, which is ‘not that.’

The really dickish door guy comes up to settle with me. Gives me this nicely written breakdown, and the payout, which is honestly not so bad. But the production fee was mega high, mostly to include the ‘promoter.’ Promoter? The guy that made the FB event page? I’m thinking so. Hella side eye.

We get outta there and get to the place we’re staying. Namesake girl comes out to help us in. She lives above like, an ethnic gift shop, I believe. Maybe it was a tattoo parlor. I forget, but it was a kitschy place of business. And in a way, you had to like enter the business to get to the stairs that lead to her place.

We get up there and we’re all sitting around and visiting for a moment, which is nice. It hadn’t happened too often at our overnights yet, so it was cool to actually have a moment of hanging out. We tell stories. No one talks about the show.

The girls turn in upstairs, and the band and I are all laying down for bed now. At this point we started doing this thing. There’s this band we played with a long while back called Noelle Tannen and the Filthy No-Nos. At the time, I kept forgetting the latter half of the name, so I picked a random filler. Like Noelle Tannen and the Green Tigers, or something. So I brought it up, and we started doing it again, for like an hour. It devolved into this super weird place.

Noelle Tannen and the stupid idiot morons.

Noelle Tannen and a couple of chairs.

Noelle Tannen and that 5th pocket they advertise on jeans, that you’re like, where the hell is it? And then you realize it’s the little pocket made for keys or whatever INSIDE of the main right pocket

So like it’s Noelle Tannen but, you walk in and there’s a huge draft and you realize you forgot to wear socks, so you put some on and it’s a bit better.

3/8 D-Ceptive

We wake up. More Noelle Tannen for like an hour. We gather our shit, and shower. I neaten up the blankets and put a note on it

“Thanks so much for letting 4 weird boys stay. Let us know if we can ever help in Nashville. Good luck with flipping cigarettes and jet lag.”

Texts,

“I hope it was more good than weird to hear a song about you.”

“Definitely a first. But good”

We stop at this cafe which is surprisingly good. I feel my throat starting to get scratchy. We talk about Aldi. Also, prior, we went into an Aldi and were like what the fuck, EVERYTHING is a knock off...and the graphic design is SO close to the original.

We get the hell outta Philly. We get 30 minutes from DC when Gabe has to pee. We pull off. First gas station we go to has no bathroom. We got to the 7/11. No bathroom. Where the hell does anyone URINATE on this street, then? We go to the McDonald’s up the street. Gabe gets a full big mac combo. He’s also been driving. Aaron makes a joke so funny that I drop my keys in the McDonalds.

We go to a suburb north of DC, and it’s amazing how robust and corporate even this suburb feels. Still plenty of tall buildings. We catch up with one of Gabe’s best friends, who’s now living here. When he has to go, Gabe and I explore a bit while Peter and Aaron do work. Metallic silver ball installation art. We come across this brewery and get a pseudo dinner and beers. Spice Girls comes on...Gabe and I have our longest heart to heart yet.

Additionally, 3/8/2017 will be forever known as Ass Wednesday.

My throat is still scratchy and I’m getting mucusy. Fuck. I have 3 more days to sing.

We reconvene, I’m feeling like Philly again, except this one’s weirder. DC’s vibe is so strange. Philly felt like, at least dingy and like you could grab hold of some of it. DC just felt like, immovable. Impossible to influence.

We get to the venue which is this teensy cramped slab inside of this bustling strip. There’s a neon sign they don’t light at any point. More narrow ass stairs. We get to the top and it is tiny - stage is an alright size, though...it’s dirty as fuck, there’s stickers everywhere. And it’s DARK as hell. It’s hard to make out anything a few feet in front of you - like the merch for example. Not that anyone’s buying. The sound guy - I can barely understand what he’s saying. I get none of the information I need without my deliberate asking. Weird to me.

The opening band plays and they were dope as hell! And they liked us a lot too. At least we got them out of this night. I hope to stay in touch with them.

It’s clear no one’s really gonna show. I ended up drawing 6 people though, which is honestly a lot! And originally it was going to be 8, but two couldn’t make it. That’s a lot more than my Philly draw. It’s a shame that the night had to be such a dud, because I felt I pulled my weight.

Peter’s amp light wouldn’t turn on, my keyboard died towards the end of the set, and my throat was scratchy. We did all right. Tear down is a bitch because we can’t see anything.

The sound guy has to ask me to tell the sound guy he’s ready to cash out. Lotta self efficacy, here. I go up and he’s legitimately laying down on his back...for real, no one could be bothered.

$10!

We get to my friend’s where we’re staying...parking is a major bitch. Crowded as hale. It’s nice to see my friend again, and we talk about Dirty Projectors and Delicate Steve.

3/9 - Long Drive To Sanctuary

We get up early because my friend has to catch a bus. We gather our shit and are all carrying respective piles of that shit down a block and a half to the van...7 hour drive ahead of us. My only stipulation is that we listen to Bitte Orca, because it’s sunnier than when I put on Swing Lo Magellan. To me that’s obviously how it goes.

As we exit DC, I see it in this totally different light...Regal. Robust. Shining, golden! Ornate. It’s all cramped, and there’s all this architecture, and all these embassies all lined up and neighboring each other, flags everywhere...as we leave, we cross an enormous white bridge, passing elegant statues. It was quite the changeup.

We stop at a Wegman’s in Woodbrige, which is contained in this shopping center, which felt so odd...sterile...like the buildings were just a little too big, and too clean - too separated from humanity. And the way the sun shone on everything, it was like a page from one of those I Spy books. This is something I think about all the fucking time and severely colors my mind, so the I Spy thing makes a ton of sense to me. Would love to know if you get what I mean, here.

We get going to Charlotte, and yes, put on Bitte Orca - we also listen to a ton of Flying Lotus, the new Thundercat, and Hiatus Coyote.

We arrive at my parent’s town house, which is in a development. We sit on the couches as a golden sunlight peers through the main window, and I think we all felt pretty tranquil.

We FEAST at Mario’s.

We get to the venue, which is definitely the diviest one yet. It’s just a scant bar with some rugs in the corner and a PA. Hella broken tiles outside the bathroom.

The opener cancels 15 minutes after he was supposed to show. Yeah. Quail Turret’s filling in.

The second band plays, I booked them because I was really diggin their album. They brought a handful of people that stood right around the perimeter of their setup and lightly head-nodded, which I thought was neat. They were good too.

We played to a bunch of my family, which is always weird. I cut the song Ironface out because I thought it would be too slow/emotional for them. E-Slow-Tional.

Door girl pays out really well! And the sound guy takes a new excitement when he says “Hey guys, definitely hit us up if you want to do it again!”

...we probs won’t

3/10 - End

We stir awake. Dad makes huge breakfast...so good. We hang out with my fam a bit, and I feel like I’m too listless to connect. It’s been a theme lately, but I guess I’ve always kind of been like that, too.

We hit Mario’s before we head to Hendersonville to get like, 3 pizzas, a salad, espressos and San Pellegrinos to go. Yeah. My dad gives us all a tour of the massive kitchen. I step out of the back door for a sec while the other guys are checking it out. I’m in like the trash room outside basically, which has an open ceiling...sun is leaking in over the edges. Thing about driving and sleeping in close quarters with 3 dudes all the time is that you don’t realize that you’ve literally had no alone time for days and days.

We get going to Hendersonville.

“What kind of heavy shit do you like?”

I put on Treats by Sleigh Bells.

We get to Hendersonville, and it’s this adorable little one road mountain town. We stop in this music store, which Peter gets willingly stuck in as he talks guitars with the old dudes. Aaron and Gabe and I come across a timbale which was hilarious to us for reasons too stupid and long to explain.

We find the coffee place we’re playing in, and it’s really cool. The point person let us know the deal and pretty much said it was gonna be dead tonight, but we could do whatever we want and call it a night an hour early.

We set up, which takes a while

“Woah...you guys have a lot of gear.”

The thing about this show is that I told the booker we were like a full out band, and he was all -yeah yeah, do you want this show or not?

We set up and it is EMPTY. I drink a free white russian and eventually a high end wine. We end up just chilling and drinking fancy teas/coffees/alcohol as per show payment. We play all of the BP songs either like half as loud or half as fast...it was pretty trippy to try out.

“Man, I’m sorry we didn’t bring anyone out. What did you guys agree on for payment over the email?”

I tell him.

“Oh….”

“What, is that way too high?”

“No, way too low…”

He pays us extra, and buys a tank top. We end up making more than philly and DC combined. How ironic that this little coffee shop in the middle of nowhere is the place that believes it’s up to THEM to bring out people...any other venue proper is pretty dickishly strict about saying “the only reason people come is if you bring people out, so all promotion is on you.” Lot of merit to the ideology, and also a lot of bullshit...if you own a venue, it’s also up to you to make sure you get some business, if you want to stay open.

We have a long drive through the night to get to Nashville, and Peter asks me what’s next for BP. So we talk about it for like 1.5 hours and it’s super energizing, and amazing how new my perspective has become on music in the past week.

I don’t think an illustrious ending is needed here. Tired and agitated, we rush the fuck home and drop everyone off.

Thanks for reading, please feel free to reach out to me.

#tour #journal #retrospective #music #indie

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racetrackthehiggins · 8 years ago

Text

Johnny and the Delinquents: A Murphamy Rock Band AU

warnings: brief unspecific references to child abuse, alcoholism that was mostly in the past, lots of swearing, men who suck at talking, my aggressive inability to write lyrics, and John Murphy singing a cover Can't Help Falling in Love BECAUSE FUCKING EVERYONE ELSE IS RIGHT NOW.

apologies: on how long this took, and also the sheer number of JTHM references in here. I spent the early 2000's writing JTHM fics and it turns out the name Johnny is FOREVER linked with that so there's that. Also I know nothing about music besides singing so I'm sure I got a lot of that wrong and also I apologize for the stage names...I thought it was funny

and last but not least, a note: I'm pretty sure this is gonna be my last work in the 100 fandom, at least at the moment. thank you all for sticking with me, and who knows, maybe I'll return to the 100 in the days to come!

below or on ao3

Murphy answered the phone, because it was Jaha. As much as he hated his new manager, he had also learned better than to blow him off. “Y’ello,” he said, because he knew how much it irritated Jaha.

He was exhausted and had earned his uninterrupted sleep. He and Emori had a show that went until two the night before and then they had gone out for drinks. The City of Light had been months in the making, but their fifth major gig had gone splendidly, and he blamed the combination of sleepy, hungover and deeply satisfied on why he completely missed what Jaha said.

“It would be a really good opportunity for you,” Jaha said. “Everyone else has agreed,” Jaha said. “The publicity would really help The City of Light, and you know how much I want to see you all become a success,” Jaha said.

Murphy could tell there was something Jaha wasn’t saying, but didn’t know what it was. Jaha could be infuriatingly cryptic. Everything had been better before he had done a summer at Burning Man and come back frustratingly zen. “Okay,” Murphy replied. “What is this great opportunity?”

Jaha’s long pause was telling enough and Murphy really wanted to hang up, but resisted because Emori would be irritable if she knew he was blowing off their manager. “A reunion of Johnny and the Delinquents. Don’t hang up.”

Murphy took his finger off of the end-call button reluctantly. “No. I’m not doing it.”

Jaha continued like Murphy didn’t say anything, which he always, always did. “Album and tour, a couple of photos of you all hugging, and you’re done.”

“I believe I already said no.” Murphy felt anger already bubbling up from within him like a volcano of rage, but so far he’d kept his voice quiet enough that Emori was still passed out and he hadn’t threatened anyone or even cursed.

His anger management counselor would have been so proud.

Jaha took another long pause to find his words. “You’re contractually obligated. They expect you in New York in a week.”

Murphy could feel his blood pressure rise. “Excuse me?” he said, and it all went downhill from there.

The second he hung up with Jaha he called Raven. “What the actually fuck is going on, Raven?”

“I dunno,” she said, and he could tell she had a wrench in her mouth because he had known her long enough to know what that sounded like. “Just the sound engineer.”

Murphy rolled his eyes. He might be across the country, but he was not in a different reality. “I know you know, so spit it out.”

“Apparently your split from The Delinquents wasn’t ever made official—now that Kane’s in charge of the label, he wants the publicity from a reunion tour. Plus technically you’ve been in breach of contract for five years.” She paused. He tried not to fidget. “But that’s just what I’ve heard. I’m only a lowly engineer.”

Murphy took a deep breath and counted to ten. There’s background noise on the phone, something that sounded like voices.

Raven came back sounding too chipper. “Octavia wants to know if you still have your combat boots or if she should order you another pair.”

He hung up. Emori was still passed out in bed. He didn’t want to wake her. He looked at the clock. It was 9:23 on a Saturday, so he left the room, still dressed in his gig clothes, which he realized he hadn’t taken off, in search of somewhere serving brunch. He’s pretty sure getting mimosa drunk at brunch was acceptable.

He stormed back into the hotel two hours later, and five mimosas tipsier.

Emori was sitting up in bed, repainting her nails, black on black, which he, drunkenly, thought must be a metaphor for something. She looked up at him expectantly.

He stared her down. “I am contractually obligated to do a reunion-thing. I don’t know how long it’ll last.”

Emori nodded. “Okay. When you are going?”

He sighed and slumped into the bed across from hers. “Friday. But I’d prefer never.”

She shrugged. “It’s almost the summer. You know I go every summer to teach some humility to those little rock camp shits. This summer wasn’t going to be any different.”

Murphy nodded. “I know, I just felt like we were finally getting somewhere, you know?”

She nodded again. She was very understanding when she wasn’t being destructive or angry. He liked that about her because he hated that about himself. “The City of Light could wait. Go finish out your contract, and if we’re still feeling it, we’ll keep going. And if not, we’ve had a good run.”

He wanted to hug her, but Emori hated hugs. “You’re the best guitarist I’ve ever worked with,” he said instead.

She laughed, and it was clearly at him. “Nonsense. You’ve worked with Bellamy Blake.”

And that right there was the problem.

He spent the rest of the week in a much nicer hotel that he bullied Jaha into paying for, and occupied his time looking through the lyrics he wrote for that last album that never happened and trying to get back into the headspace of Johnny.

It was harder than he expected. Johnny had been all about righteous anger. He was a violent character, vicious and hurting and eager to watch the world burn, and the music he had created had been the area of pop-rock that flirted with metal and punk. Murphy’s more recent work had been a solo album, that was embarrassingly depressed and almost entirely about heartbreak and acoustic, and his work with Emori, which was a neo-folk duo.

He didn’t want to be Johnny again. Johnny was an idiot, and Murphy liked to think he had learned something since then. He thought about seeing them all again, and it made his chest ache. Murphy probably hadn’t learned shit.

The week ended too quickly and then he was flying into JFK which was not his favorite, but at least wasn’t Newark, and wishing maybe a little more than he should that the plane would crash and his untimely death would cancel the contract for him.

“Who’s picking me up?” he texted Raven as he took the escalator down. It has taken forever to get off the plane and he was irritable and exhausted.

She texted back immediately, “why should i know im just the sound engineer,” followed second later by, “the blakes.”

Murphy looked up from his phone and saw Bellamy standing at the bottom of the escalator in his usual public disguise of a baseball hat and sunglasses.

“No,” he said, pushing past Bellamy and heading for the baggage carousel.

“John,” Bellamy said, and it almost sounded like he was pleading.

He managed to snag Murphy’s arm in his hand, but Murphy shrugged it off. “I’m taking a cab.”

Bellamy sighed. “We’re going to have to work together.”

Murphy sneered at him, but his heart was beating a mile a minute. “We’re not working right now, are we?” He turned around and stormed off to get his bag. Octavia was sitting on it, sipping something from a Starbucks cup.

“Do I at least get a hug?” she said, and he was so mad he wanted to say no, but he never had a problem with her.

She hugged him tightly, and she was still using the same shampoo that smelled like coconuts and he spent so much of his youth in the Blake’s basement so even the smell of her hair sort of felt like a home-coming, but then he remembered Bellamy and he wanted to cry.

“I saw your interview. About Skycrew. You guys sound good,” Murphy said, pulling away.

Octavia grinned at him, easily, like they hadn’t been out of touch for half a decade. “Thank you. We’re unfortunately on hold at the moment. Lincoln’s in rehab.”

Murphy managed a sympathetic smile. “Sorry to hear that.”

She shook her head. “No, it’s good. He’s getting help. Besides, I’ve been waiting for this reunion for ages.” She handed him another Starbucks cup that she must have had squirreled away somewhere. “I heard your new EP with Emori. It was really, really good Johnny.”

Murphy nearly choked on his hazelnut mocha (and was a little pleased to see that she had remembered his favorite drink). “No, no, no, no, no and no. Same rules apply as before, you use my stage name, I use yours, and I have no compunction calling you Babydoll in public.”

Octavia scowled. “Fine, Murphy. You win this round. Now, c’mon, if we hurry we’ll miss the worst part of rush hour.”

She grabbed his bag and started wheeling back in the direction of Bellamy, who he realized hadn’t followed them.

“Octavia, wait,” he said resolutely. “I should take a cab.” He was strong of body and mind, and his will could not be broken. Or something.

Octavia rolled her eyes, but the look was softened by the smile she offered him. “You should sit in the back with me and eat the cupcakes I got for you from Melissa’s.”

Murphy was the weakest of willed. “The mini cupcakes?”

Octavia laughed. “Come on!”

So he did. The car ride would have been awkward, in no small part because Bellamy kept shooting him these furtive looks in the rearview mirror, but Octavia was talkative and kept him from focusing too much on the back of Bellamy’s head.

“So what about Clarke?” Murphy asked, halfway to Manhattan.

“She and Lexa just finished a tour as Wanheda, so they were planning on a break anyway. She’ll be flying in tomorrow, and they asked if anyone would mind if Lexa hung around, and considering they’re the hottest couple of the season, we all said no problemo.” Octavia stole a cupcake from him, but he still had twenty left, so he chose not to complain.

Bellamy from the front said, “We would have asked you, too, but none of us had your number.”

Murphy very obviously turned to smile at Octavia. “It’ll be nice to see Clarke again in person. I caught Wanheda in Chicago, they’re very…” He tried to think a word that wouldn’t sound backhanded.

“They’re a lot,” Octavia said with a smile, and he smiled back. “Finn’s not coming back, but considering he didn’t do the last two albums with us, I’m not sure anyone will notice. Wells won’t be available for the tour, so he’s a no go. We’d love to get Mbege back, but he’s not responding to any of our calls since…”

Murphy nodded. “I’ll call him.” Mbege would come back for him. They’ve toured together twice since the split, and they were still as close as they’d ever been. He pulled out his phone and texted him, because calling was for losers.

Mbege texted back, “when and where?” so Murphy mentally patted himself on the back. He would be going into this experience with at least Mbege and Octavia on his side, maybe even Clarke. Things could have been a lot worse.

Things could not have been a lot worse.

“I’ll stay in a hotel,” he said to Octavia, because he was not making eye contact with Bellamy.

Octavia sighed. “We don’t know how long it’s going to take to record the album, there’s no need to throw away money on a hotel room when Bell has a perfectly good spare room.”

Murphy’s palms were getting sweaty. “What about your spare room?”

“Clarke and Lexa called it,” she said, and sounded so honestly apologetic that Murphy almost felt bad for how angry he was getting.

“I’ll get a really cheap hotel,” he bargained.

Bellamy spoke up for the first time during this exchange. “And you’ll have to also pay for transportation. I’m two blocks from the studio. We don’t have to talk if you don’t want, but you know the writing will go faster if we’re in the same place.”

Historically, Murphy wrote the lyrics, maybe half a melody, and Bellamy filled in the rest. Murphy didn’t give a fuck about history.

“Fine,” he spat, and he wasn’t yelling or swearing or punching anyone, so he figured he was doing okay. He dragged his bag into the spare room and slammed the door.

The bed was comfortable, and lying on it, he felt more out of place than he’d felt in years. He called Emori.

“How’re The Delinquents?” she asked without a greeting, because that’s who she was. He usually found it charming. Currently, he found it beyond irritating.

“I want to go home,” he said, because if she could speak in non-sequiturs, so could he.

“Give him a chance,” she said back.

He hung up and barely felt guilty. He spent so many nights of his youth in the guest room at Octavia and Bellamy’s house, desperate to get away from his mother and her shouting, and he had been so angry, Johnny had come naturally.

He was tired now. He was tired of the music and the attention and tired of acting and of Bellamy and of the person he felt himself becoming.

He fell asleep in his clothes and woke up to the sound of someone knocking quietly on his door. When he dragged himself out of bed there was no one there, but there was a tray with a cup of coffee and a real New York bagel.

It was nice, as far as peace offerings go, but nowhere near enough to make Murphy forgive him.

Bellamy was scarce all morning, and Octavia arrived at noon to take him to lunch. They got burgers and shakes and she sat across from him and waited for him to stop chewing.

“So do you know where this album is going?”

He chewed more slowly to give himself some time. While the band had always done edits, the actual meat of the stories had always been his. The first four albums were the evolution of Johnny, and everyone was waiting for the fifth, the last of the Johnny story, to end it somehow satisfactorily. He had been writing those songs right before the split. He had maybe half an album in notes. They were all concept albums, all a linked story. He wasn’t sure he hadn’t lost the concept.

“Maybe,” he said after a long pause, swallowing.

Octavia took a thoughtful sip of her milkshake. “The last album,” she reminded him, unnecessarily, like he hadn’t been listening to it non-stop, “ended with Johnny in his darkest place. Since the split happened so quickly after, a lot of the fans thought that it was sign. That Johnny died.”

Murphy nodded. He’d been skimming through forums for days. “I was thinking I could maybe go with that. Johnny in the afterlife. Johnny in heaven, Johnny in hell. Maybe being reborn.”

Octavia’s face turned thoughtful. “Huh. Not really dead, but changing into something different. I like it.”

“I don’t want to keep doing Johnny after this,” he blurted, and was embarrassed. He used to be so much more sarcastic, caustic, even. He missed that part of himself, maybe a little.

Octavia put her hand on his, which was more comforting than he wanted it to be. “I don’t want you to run away after this. There’s definitely room for you in Skycrew, or we could all start something new. Just don’t leave.”

Murphy absolutely was not crying in a Schnippers. “I can’t face Bellamy, O. I just can’t.”

“Think about it,” she said, and lead him out into Manhattan. She sent him away in an Uber; he couldn’t really blame her, plus he had work to do.

With Octavia’s support, the lyrics began to flow more readily. He sat on Bellamy’s inexcusably comfortable sofa and accessed his anger, which was easier than he would have liked. The comfortable couch only served as another reminder that Bellamy had built something successful—and comfortable—without him, while he had spent the past five years wallowing in his crappy one bedroom in fucking Wisconsin of all places.

By the time Octavia burst into Bellamy’s apartment with Clarke, Lexa, Raven and Jasper in tow, he had solid melodies and words for a few songs. Bellamy followed behind the group, looking around angrily, but Murphy ignored him, because he would much rather hug Clarke.

“Murphy!” she exclaimed, and gave him a very rewarding embrace. “So good to see you!”

“Clarke,” he said, because he was good at not being mushy. “I saw Wanheda in Chicago. You were great.”

Lexa smiled at him, and he shook her hand firmly once Clarke had released him. “We appreciate it, thank you.” Lexa was strikingly beautiful in a could-easily-kill-you kind of way, which tended to be the sort of women Clarke went for.

Raven slung an arm over his shoulder and gave him the most heartfelt side hug he’d ever experienced, which was nice, but unnecessary, because the two of them had kept in contact.

He and Jasper fist bumped. They had never been close—Jasper wasn’t even really part of the band—but they had hung out enough that a greeting was expected.

“Anyone want a beer?” Octavia called as she skipped into the kitchen, returning with an armful of bottles and corn chips, placing them all on the low table in the living room and ushering them onto the couch. She turned to Murphy and said, “I called Mbege, he can’t come tonight, but we have the studio tomorrow to start a rehearsal-slash-jam-sesh tomorrow assuming you write at the speed you usually do. That okay?”

Murphy nodded and threw his notebook to Bellamy, who was sitting in a separate chair as close to Murphy as he could get while not being on the same couch, and who promptly fumbled it.

“Nice one, Bell!” Jasper called, extended his bottle for a toast. Murphy reluctantly clinked with him.

“Shut your face, Jasper,” Bellamy replied, settling the notebook on his lap and flipping through it.

Bellamy had seen his writing since the age of seven, so the rush of anxiety that made his chest ache was completely uncalled for. Bellamy had read his first ever poem, which had gone, “I like my friends/I like the sun/I miss them both/When the day’s done,” and it didn’t get much worse than that. He sat still to keep from hyperventilating.

Bellamy scanned the lyrics and scraps of music he’d written around it and looked skeptical. “We’re doing Johnny as Jesus?”

Murphy’s face flushed hot with anger and embarrassment. “No, Johnny’s not that forgiving,” and turned away from him to face Clarke, who had her concern hidden badly under her curiosity and immediately engaged him in the backstory for the new album.

“I’m thinking more Dante than Jesus, yeah?” she asked him, and his breathing came more easily.

He’d always sort of loved Clarke. She was so unattainable in high school, popular and beautiful and honor roll smart, until one day she had walked up to him and said, “Bellamy said you’re starting a band, and I want to join, if that’s okay. My name’s Clarke Griffin,” and had shaken his hand so professionally. She was like a sister, but better because she didn’t have the baggage of growing up with him to affect her love for him.

“I like it,” Clarke declared after nearly an hour of intense plotting, and turned to Bellamy. “What would you change?”

“Oh,” Bellamy said. He looked like a deer in the headlights, like he thought he wouldn’t at some point have to weigh in on the situation. “I guess it’s pretty good.” He held up a page covered in Murphy’s scribbles. “How do you feel about this one in a minor key? Maybe acoustic?”

Octavia scoffed at him. “We don’t do acoustic.”

Clarke frowned. “Why not? Everyone’s expecting us to have grown as artists. They want the music to be familiar, but innovative. Bellamy’s not suggesting doing an acoustic album, just a song. I think it could be the kind of twist that people will like.”

Murphy nodded because words were too hard. He wanted nothing more than to leave. He looked up and met Bellamy’s eyes and it was like he’s twelve again, or fifteen, or eighteen, or twenty, because now he was almost twenty-five and the only thing that had changed was that his dream had gone from fantasy to impossibility.

He looked away. “I’m gonna turn in, if that’s okay.”

The others tried to stop him, and he could hear them, but he didn’t listen. He closed the door softly, resisting the urge to slide down it and cry like he wanted to. He lay in bed and looked at the ceiling. He missed it the night before, but there were stick-on stars, like there used to be in his guest room in the Blake house. He stared at the stars and felt homesick for a place that was never his home.

He didn’t remember falling asleep, but woke up several hours later when there was a tentative knock on his door. The clock by his bed said it was 4:30 am. It had to be Bellamy, it couldn’t be anyone else. Murphy wanted to scream.

Instead, he counted to ten. His therapist would have been so proud.

Bellamy was standing there when he opened the door, eyes cast downward. “Could we talk?”

“I wasn’t aware we had anything to talk about.” Murphy’s hands were clenched into fists. “So if that’s all—”

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” Bellamy said desperately. He’s backlit, barely, by a light in the kitchen, but Murphy could see the bags under his eyes, the deep sadness in his face that never used to be there. Serves him right, Murphy thought, and tried to feel vindictive but he couldn’t muster it. “You were my best friend and I didn’t…”

It’s the “were” that made Murphy regret agreeing to come. He should have tried to weasel his way out of the contract. He should have gotten a hotel room. He should have—

“I’ve regretted losing you every single day.”

“You ran! You left! I left you 80 voicemails, trying to fix this, trying to make sure you were okay and somehow, I’m the bad guy! You didn’t lose me, because you never had me, and as soon as I’ve completed my contract, I’m gone and you will never see me again.” Murphy hands were shaking and his chest felt tight and his face was burning and he was so angry he might start crying and he hated that.

“John.” Bellamy sounded choked up, hurt almost, and it hurt Murphy more than he thought it would.

“Get the fuck out of my room.” He looked at Bellamy, whose face echoed the exhaustion and pain he felt. He sighed, and offered, “please.”

Bellamy retreated slowly with a look that said he’d really rather stay. But that was okay. Murphy had gotten used to not getting what he wanted, Bellamy Blake could afford a taste, too.

The next day went better, thankfully. The label had rented out a studio around the clock for three weeks, like they were the Beatles or something. After their first couple of albums, Murphy thought they would have killed for studio time like this. Currently, three weeks felt like centuries.

Despite how much he would have given to avoid the situation altogether, he and Bellamy worked like they’d been practicing for the past five years instead of avoiding each other like the plague.

Performing together again would be like riding a bike, Murphy thought, showing up last despite the fact that he and Bellamy lived closest to the studio; it would hurt like hell when he fell, but he’d have to just keep trying, anyway.

Everyone was tuning when Bellamy called him over to the upright piano he had set on the left side of the studio. He threw his shoulder bag on the floor and didn’t bother greeting his bandmates; hardly a minute had gone by that he hadn’t seen them and so the need for greetings had quickly evaporated. He sat down next to Bellamy without being asked, and Bellamy tried not to smile at him.

Bellamy’s stupid half-smile made a full body tingle rush through him, and he was resentful of his stupid body’s stupid feelings.

“I still can’t read your chicken-scratch,” he said, and pointed to a corner of the page where Murphy wrote what might have been lyrics, but also could have been a chord progression. Or a phone number.

“Lyrics,” Murphy clarified. “The rhyme is off though, and I can’t seem to fix it.”

“Hmm,” Bellamy said, looking over the page thoughtfully. He always used to help Murphy; it’s nothing new, but it makes Murphy’s head ache. “What if we,” he started, and Murphy got caught up in the “we” for so long he didn’t realize how animated they’d gotten until Octavia started laughing.

The candid picture that Clarke took of the two of them sharing a piano bench, huddled round a notebook like they were still the best of friends, became the bane of Murphy’s existence. She uploaded it to twitter with caption, “guess what’s coming?”

Not an hour later, someone unearthed a picture of them doing the same thing years before, with Murphy perched on Bellamy’s lap, and put the pictures side by side. Murphy wasn’t sure if praying for death would actually be appropriate.

“It’s not so bad,” Octavia said, scrolling through her favorite Delinquents tumblrs during their lunch break. “Ooh, this fanart’s pretty accurate, even though I’m not sure either of you gets off on choking.” The long considering look she gave him made him regret all parts of their friendship. “Do you think you’d be more of a bottom or a top with my brother?”

He thought about Bellamy, his long, strong, fast as fuck fingers which earned him his stage name, Twitch.

That thought had brought up a whole slew of feelings that Murphy had actually thought he had buried, as a semi-adult well into his twenties should have. Bellamy’s dexterity had been most of his fantasy life during his teen years, considering he didn’t have a reliable internet connection and who needed porn when he had a best friend like Bellamy?

Despite being a plain fact of his youth—the sky was blue, the grass was green, the thought of Bellamy’s fingers gave him a woody—it was also something he hadn’t actively thought about. His first few post-Delinquents years had been spent getting drunken blowjobs behind various concert venues, and the past few had been spent sharing hotel rooms with Emori who gave him judge-y looks when he had hookups, but judged him more when he masturbated in their room, assuming, wrongly, that she was asleep.

So it wasn’t as though he never thought of Bellamy, or his long slim fingers, or the afternoons spent in his basement watching Futurama and eating cheetohs, and being so far gone on him that the his fingers were even sexy covered in cheetoh dust, but instead that he hadn’t gripped his dick and actively imagined Bellamy’s long quick fingers there instead.

He had been in a funk for the rest of day. Half a song had been written and recorded, but not nearly enough if they were planning to finish in three weeks.

And now he just felt guilty. He stared at the door separating him from Bellamy and Bellamy’s loud 11:30pm moping. It wasn’t like Bellamy would come in without knocking, or like Bellamy could possibly know what he was up to. Fuck it, he decided. Fuck you, he then clarified to himself.

Murphy threw himself onto the bed and unzipped his pants. He closed his eyes and he could almost imagine Bellamy leaning over him, unzipping his pants instead, staring at him longingly, which wasn’t really a hard expression to conjure. He’d wrap his palm around the head of Murphy’s cock and—

The teakettle whistled shrilly.

Murphy groaned in frustration, hand falling apathetically onto his stomach and dick still bobbing obliviously. This was a mistake. He sighed again. He couldn’t keep that image of Bellamy in his mind, anyway. Instead it was replaced with the look of sheer panic that Bellamy had worn right before the split, his elegant fingers clenched into tight white fists, and he felt nauseous. His cock softened obligingly, and with one last look at the door he decided he would just go to sleep.

The fact the he could hear Bellamy in the kitchen humming the first ballad they had ever written together didn’t help at all.

When TwitchxJohnny was trending the next day, Murphy was reluctantly glad that at least they were sticking to their stage names, and couldn’t help but think that in a karmic way, he had brought this on himself.

They meshed much the same way they always did. Clarke had only become a stronger guitarist, Bellamy one-upping her and tooling away on the piano if the song called for it, Octavia doing her thing on bass and Mbege kicking ass on the drums.

Murphy, as usual, felt a little like the Davy Jones of their group, casually waiting for someone to hand him a tambourine or maracas. Despite his feelings, he had grown as a writer, and it was obvious that the group felt the same, deferring to him instead of Bellamy, which was both incredibly reassuring and deeply saddening.

By the third day, they’re on to their fifth track. Murphy missed this, even when he and Emori had finally hit their stride, there was always something between them that made their rehearsal times seem to drag.

The Delinquents’ music was buoyant, vibrant and adrenaline fast, and Murphy missed the quiet swell of The City of Light a little bit more than he thought he would, but this music was like being on a rollercoaster and he’s surprised at how much he missed the thrill.

Mbege got it. He had ended up in several indie bands, but was clearly thriving banging away with The Delinquents. The fact that he spent all his spare time glaring at Bellamy didn’t hurt either. He took Murphy out and around the town after that first week, supposedly to re-introduce him to New York, but really so Murphy didn’t have to be in that tiny apartment with Bellamy.

Mbege was really too good for Murphy.

“I’m so sorry, J2, you know I’d let you crash if I had any room,” he told Murphy several times when they were drunk off their asses and Murphy’s anger had turned to sadness.

“Don’t worry about it, J1, you’re still my fave.” And it’s true. Mbege’s friendship mostly relied on Murphy spending time with him when he had it. They wouldn’t talk for months, and then when did, it was like nothing changed.

Getting to work with him again was in many ways the balm to living with Bellamy. They avoided each other at the apartment, worked in each other’s pockets at the studio, and then tried to spend the evenings as far apart as they geographically could while staying in the same city and apartment.

“Do you think you two will ever get over it?” Mbege asked him, dropping another beer in front of Murphy. No seemed like too simple an answer.

It got harder during the second week. Murphy’s voice was embarrassingly unused to the amount of screaming and abuse he used to regularly subject it to. He left the studio every day with his voice shot, coughing, and after almost a week of this, Bellamy burst into his room one night holding a cup of Murphy’s favorite chai blend with a large quantity of honey.

“Thank you,” Murphy whispered and waited for Bellamy to leave. He didn’t. “You could sit,” he said after a long moment, because he knew Bellamy would just hover awkwardly indefinitely if he didn’t offer.

“Thanks.” Bellamy sat at the edge of the bed and stared out Murphy’s window. “This is kinda like—”

“—Midnight snack sesh,” Murphy said, because he was thinking it, too.

Bellamy smiled wistfully and it made Murphy’s chest ache. He was seriously considering going to see a cardiologist. “Remember? Every night after recording, we’d go out for a snack.”

“We were so fucking young then.” It had mostly been fast food, eaten quickly in Bellamy’s third hand Ford before they passed out from sheer exhaustion. He can’t remember a single one of those nights individually, but the summation of them was like a warm weight in his chest, a burning orange glow. “Clarke thought we were going to get fat.” Murphy smiled reluctantly.

There was a moment when their eyes met, and Murphy was unsure how he ever gave this up. How he didn’t fight harder. How could he have not fought harder?

Bellamy broke eye contact first. “Worse things have happened,” he said as he stood. He hesitated at the door, back to Murphy. “Good night, Murphy.”

“Goodnight, Bell.”

He drank the rest of his tea by himself and set the cup down, like an adult should do, instead of smashing it, like he wanted to.

Bellamy came back the next night, and the next, and it was almost okay. They didn’t always speak, but there was something between them, closer to what Murphy remembered.

It was the second to last day when Bellamy called a band meeting in the middle of recording. They had seventeen tracks which was excellent because there were always a few that were better in their heads than in their ears. Octavia shot him a warning look and crossed her arms over her chest, so Murphy knew this was something that the Blakes have discussed at least.

Which could be either really good or terrifically bad.

“I don’t like the way we’re ending the album,” Bellamy said, and made sure he met all of their gazes.

Mbege rolled his eyes. “Jesus, Bell, and you wait until now to say anything?”

Clarke shook her head, determined, as always to be the most levelheaded. “Let’s hear him out.” She reached very subtly and squeezed Murphy’s hand, which he appreciated, because he hated this.

Bellamy took a deep breath and tried to gather his words.

“Any fucking day now?” Murphy muttered and tried to avoid Bellamy’s gaze at all costs.

“The last song is still too angry.”

Murphy scoffed. “Yeah. Johnny’s angry. Johnny’s always been angry. That’s sort of his defining characteristic.”

Bellamy scowled, turning his whole attention on Murphy. “Yeah, but we all agreed, years ago to a five album sequence. Do you think it should end on an angry note? You and Octavia keep talking about growing and changing, and the entire album feels like a growth until the end.”

Murphy wanted to bite back, wanted Bellamy to look away and never look back. “End on a familiar note, is there a problem with that?”

He could see Clarke making panicked eyes at Octavia, but neither one cut in. “Don’t you think Johnny deserves more than that? Don’t we all? It’s our story, too.” Bellamy had always been a master of mixed signals, but the anger and, Murphy thought, hope in his face was beyond confusing and Murphy couldn’t believe it actually took him this long to realize they’re having two different conversations.

“How would you end it?” he asked, and pretended like he didn’t sound hoarse.

Bellamy’s eyes were boring into him. “I don’t know. Contentment doesn’t suit him maybe, but, I dunno, I…”

Octavia spoke up, but didn’t look any happier. “Optimism.”

Clarke nodded slowly. “Might be nice.”

He was furious. He didn’t get to have optimism, so why should Johnny? He wanted to yell and scream and throw stuff, because Bellamy didn’t seem to have a problem throwing this back in his face. “Fine, I’ll see what I can fucking do,” Murphy said, because he was a professional, before storming off and bunkering down in a conference room.

He was a good writer, had become so with sweat and effort. An anthem, he thought, because if he couldn’t be angry he’d be emblematic. It still was angry, when he finished an hour later. It was angry and it was an anthem and it was hopeful, and he felt 1/3 of those things, but maybe he’d earned some hope.

He brought it back to the room, and tried to ignore how broadly Bellamy smiled when he saw the words.

And then the album was done. It felt like they had just started, but then he and Bellamy were ushered into a meeting with Marcus Kane, who Murphy only hated slightly less than Jaha.

Kane smiled and gestured for them to take the two seats in front of him. Maya stood off to one side, and Murphy had only met her once, but he liked her. She was way nicer than Jasper deserved, but he couldn’t help but feel that her presence at this meeting was a bad omen.

It might have been her very uncomfortable smile.

“Gentlemen!” Kane greeted exuberantly, and looked at them both expectantly.

Bellamy nodded a weak a hello and Murphy managed an, “Uh, hi,” by utilizing all of his personhood skills.

Kane was still smiling, but his smiles didn’t reach his eyes as a rule and Murphy wasn’t convinced he wasn’t a robot or a pod person. “I heard the album, and it’s great, just great. I wanted to talk to you both about the tour. We’re pushing the timeline a little, so the album’s going to be in stores in five weeks, and then the tour will start one week after that, which gives you six weeks to get prepared, figure out choreo and costumes and whatever else.” He gestured to Maya and she gave a tentative wave. “Maya will be on the tour to do hair and makeup.”

He turned his full attention on Murphy. “The dreads were very popular, would you consider—”

“Nooooo,” Murphy interrupted. “No, the days of white-boy dreads are long gone.” Bellamy laughed, and Murphy pointedly didn’t look at him and pretended like he wasn’t blushing.

Kane frown said he was going to insist, but Maya, who he had clearly underestimated, came to the rescue. “What if did pulled back twists? Like in the promo pictures for the second album?” she asked and he nodded quickly. Anything was better than the dreads.

Kane nodded, smiling tightly. “Alright, twists it is. Maya, could you give us a moment please.” Maya left quietly and Kane gave them the exceedingly tight smile again.

It could only be a bad sign.

“I know this is…uncomfortable to talk about, but part of the appeal of Johnny and the Delinquents has always been the chemistry between the two of you. I don’t know the details of what happened, and I don’t want to. I don’t care what happens in your personal life, but on the stage, I need you two to behave how you always have.”

Bellamy choked, then croaked out a weak, “yessir,” and Murphy contemplated shoving a paperweight down Kane’s throat.

“Yeah, fine,” he said finally. “What-the-fuck-ever.”

Kane nodded decisively. “Excellent. Glad we’re all clear on that. Now then, John.” Murphy bristled. “I need you to have a more active online presence. Soon as you can. Periscope would help, twitter, the works. We’ll also be getting you on some late night programs, so play nice.”

He promised he would try but he meant it about as much as Kane meant his whole, let-me-be-your-father routine.

As soon as the CD’s were pressed they released a single, and then Johnny and the Delinquents job was hyping the hell out of it.

Kane got him on a late night show starring a white man in a suit, which was better than Murphy was expecting. He didn’t think his name carried any sway anymore. He sat on the comfortable chair in his Johnny clothes and smirked at the host and the audience and all the folks who had tuned in to see him flash his canines.

“So I’m sure you get asked this all the time,” the host asked him. “But what happened? Five years ago, Johnny and the Delinquents were truly on top, and then suddenly, nothing. Nothing for five years. So what happened?”

Murphy thought about what he could say, what Kane would want him to say. He finally settled on, “I decided y’all could use a little anticipation, so I took a long drunken sabbatical.”

He laughed. “And based on your pre-sales, you were not wrong. Where It’s Going, out this week!”

After Kane explained how very disappointed he was in Murphy, they both agreed he should try and stick to social media. Periscope, he stressed again.

Periscope helped with nothing. He used it, though, streamed rehearsals and coffee breaks. He wandered through the chaos of set-up for their first concert with his phone out and ready.

“This is Raven,” he whispered, showing the internet Raven as she yelled at a stubborn microphone cable. “She’s the best.” He walked a little further, stumbling upon Jasper, Monty and Miller. “This is Jasper, I guess he does lights, I dunno, say hi Jasper.”

Jasper smiled into the phone and said, “Hi, Jasper,” because Jasper was the worst.

Murphy tilted the phone away from him. “This is Monty and Miller. Monty does something…and Miller sleeps with him? I’m unclear.”

He was already walking away but in the corner of his screen Monty yelled, exasperated, “Craft services! We fucking feed you!” and Murphy couldn’t help but laugh.

He harassed Maya as she braided Octavia’s hair, and they were laughing so hard Murphy was barely holding up the phone when Bellamy appeared, right in front of him and said, “Hey, could we talk?” like they haven’t been living in the same tiny apartment for months and now was the perfect time to speak.

The broadcast cut off so suddenly that twitter was filled with gossip. Clips of the last three seconds of that video were looped all over twitter and tumblr and vine and Murphy couldn’t escape from his own awkward fumbling on his iphone and the pained expression on Bellamy’s face.

“What?” Murphy asked, gripping his phone in his shaking hands.

Bellamy glanced from Maya to Octavia to Murphy and grimaced. “Privately?”

Octavia scowled at Bellamy, glaring. “We’re not listening, are we, Maya?”

Maya smiled serenely at Octavia. “We are not, Octavia.”

“So please,” Octavia continued savagely. “Feel free to speak openly here.”

Murphy thought he could be in love with her in that moment (if, in reality, he wasn’t so horribly gone on her brother). “Well?” he said, and Bellamy frowned.

“I just wanted to—I wanted to talk to you before we—look, can we do this in private? Please?” Bellamy’s jaw was clenched tight and Murphy almost felt bad but he also felt vicious and self-righteous and living in Johnny’s pocket had made his anger so much easier to access.

“This is private,” Octavia insisted, still glaring.

“Very private,” Maya agreed, sealing one of Octavia’s braids with a load of hairspray.

Bellamy’s face fell, realizing he was losing and preparing to wallow. Murphy sighed. “I don’t have anything else to say, Bell. I don’t.”

Bellamy nodded slowly and backed up, turning around and running off with his symbolic tail between his very nicely muscled legs.

Octavia cackled, and Maya chuckled along and Murphy felt like he was maybe drowning.

He didn’t want to talk to Bellamy. Not at all. He didn’t think there was anything that hadn’t been said, and the tentative truce that they had formed couldn’t hold under the weight of real friendship. He wasn’t ready for that again.

Besides, he figured, storming off into his dressing room. He had a show to prepare for, figurative pounds of eyeliner to apply to his face, and twenty minutes of vocal warm ups.

The next day, sitting in Kane’s office, he wished he had maybe tried to talk to Bellamy a little bit harder than not.

Kane’s Disappointed Dad face was out in full form, and Bellamy was staring fixedly at his knees. Murphy couldn’t take his eyes off the computer on Kane’s desk, where a video of their last concert was playing. He had been aware, at the time, that he didn’t want to look at or dance on Bellamy, but he hadn’t thought that it had shown.

Watching the video, the tension between them was palpable. They barely made eye contact, and Murphy had kept far away from Bellamy’s part of the stage. It was painful to watch, like two strangers instead of people who had been best friends.

Kane cleared his throat and waited for them to look at him. “This, as I am sure you know, is unacceptable. I don’t care how you two feel about each other, really, I don’t. You have a job to do.”

Bellamy sucked his teeth and Kane glared at him. “Maybe—just throwing out some ideas here—maybe fake gay undertones shouldn’t be part of our job?”

And why did that make Murphy’s heart ache? There was almost nothing between them now, but hearing Bellamy be so cavalier about his feelings, the ones he had had since middle school, made Murphy want to drink. Heavily.

Kane scowled and folded his hands neatly on the desk. He stared at Bellamy for a long time before turning to Murphy and studying him as well. “I don’t know what went down five years ago. I don’t care. I do know that your fans are showing up for you, in droves, to try and capture the magic you had before. And you’re disappointing them. Your fans want the childhood friends who decided to start a band together, not the jaded folk artist and playboy rock star. Get your shit together, get your act together, and for fuck’s sake, try and remember that your fans are paying good money and all you have to do is remember what you liked about each other.”

Murphy glanced at Bellamy, who was staring at him, and so their eyes met, and Murphy couldn’t look away.

“Good,” Kane said. “Glad we’re agreed.” He excused them together and they walked silently out of the room.

“We should probably talk,” Murphy suggested once they hit the hall. It was surprisingly deserted.

Bellamy looked at him in surprise before fishing his phone out of his pocket. “Later? I gotta meet O in Brooklyn in 20 minutes. Wish me luck?”

They were currently in the Upper East Side. Murphy grinned. “There’s not enough luck in the world.”

Bellamy’s face shifted into a confused smile and he started backing up towards the elevator, eyes fixed on Murphy. “Later, yeah?”

Murphy nodded. “Yeah.” Later, they would talk, and they would work some of this shit out.

Clarke found him first. “Listen,” she said to him, grabbing his upper arm and herding him into a break room. Murphy glanced around anxiously, but Clarke had always been good at sensing what rooms were empty. “We’ve tried to be supportive without being overbearing, we’ve kept our distance, and we haven’t asked any questions, but this is getting out of hand, John. What happened with you and Bellamy?”

She led him to chair and looked at him expectantly until he sat down. She kept standing, and moved off to make him a cup of tea.

It occurred to him that Octavia was probably grilling Bellamy in Brooklyn, probably with less tact and more public yelling and he had never been more grateful for Clarke’s friendship in his life. That could have been him. “We fought, I quit, end of story.”

She walked over to him with a mug full of tea and honey and stood in front of him in full disapproving glory. She handed him the cup and crossed her arms, every inch the intimidating front woman she had grown into in Wanheda. “I don’t know what I did to make you think I was an idiot, but I’d appreciate it if you at least came up with a better story.”

“Clarke,” he started, sighing, but she interrupted him.

“Murphy, five years ago my family was ripped apart and no one will tell me why. Do you think this was easy on me? On Octavia? Do you think we liked having no idea what was happening with you, if you were okay? With Bellamy moping and crying and drinking and sleeping his way through everyone who looked his way?” She wiped an angry tear out of her eye and glared. “I’ve been accommodating and I’ve been kind but I am exhausted and sad and I need to know if this is something that can be fixed or if I’ve lost my family for good.”

Murphy was embarrassed his find his eyes were teary, too. “Yeah,” he said. “Okay.” And he told her. “It was the after the last show we did for Goblins, the one in LA? Bellamy came up to me after the show.”

They had been sweaty, still covered in stage makeup and hours worth of musical grime, tired and delirious and bright and happy. Raven was packing up the van (or rather gleefully directing her underlings to) and Murphy was in the green room chugging plastic water bottles and trying to decide if he had it in him to go outside and greet the roadies or if he would just retreat to his hotel room and wait for morning.

Bellamy stuck his head in the door. When his eyes fell on Murphy he smiled lazily, and Murphy felt a flood of warmth like the stage lights hitting him all over again. “Hey, Murphy.”

He would have blushed if his face hadn’t already been red from exertion. “Hey, yourself.”

Bellamy had invited himself in, then, like he always did. They had been sharing a space for so long that they frequently forgot about personal space. He smiled, and then Murphy’s phone buzzed. He frowned instead. “Who is that?”

Murphy looked at his phone and then blushed even harder. “That guy. From the show in Philly?” Bellamy’s face still clearly asked for clarification so Murphy made with the clarifying. “We’ve been talking a lot. He’s in town. Wants to see me, I think.”

Bellamy was still frowning. “Are you going to see him?”

Murphy sighed, standing up and stretching. “I guess so.” He smiled at Bellamy, but it was a weak smile. “Can’t keep chasing my dreams forever.”

Bellamy scoffed and gesturing grandly around the green room. “That’s literally all we do.”

“Yeah but—” Murphy sighed again, tried to align his brain with his mouth. “It’s different now, isn’t it?” It was different. Wells was gone, Finn was leaving. Raven had gotten into MIT and Clarke was talking about college, plus Monty and Octavia were talking about settling down with their respective boyfriends, like they weren’t too young for that shit and Murphy—Murphy was chasing after Bellamy’s shadow, just like he had done his whole life.

When he looked up, Bellamy was close to him, so close to him Murphy could hear his breaths, could practically taste his sweat. “It doesn’t have to be different,” he said vehemently. “We can stay the same.”

Murphy shook his head. “I can’t stay the same. I need to stop chasing.” He smiled, melancholic. “Don’t I deserve some happiness, too?”

“Yeah.” Bellamy was so close he could feel the whisper of his words and then Bellamy was kissing him and Murphy was so caught up in the sensations he could barely process what was happening until Bellamy pulled away.

“Bell,” he said, and tried to close the distance between them, but Bellamy shoved him backwards and he hit the makeup table—not hard enough to hurt, but enough so that his things went flying.

“I’m sorry,” Bellamy said, and then he was out the door.

By the time Murphy was up and into the hall, Bellamy had disappeared into the throng.

When Murphy got to the hotel, Bellamy’s stuff was gone, and no one—not even Octavia, who would have absolutely lied for him but had no poker face whatsoever—knew where he was.

So he texted him. And he called him. Left message after message and email upon email and finally after five days he got a call from their manager politely demanding that they fix their shit, or Murphy, the volatile lead singer, was going to get the axe.

And Murphy was angry, the deep, hot, seething sort of anger that he had only felt before for his mother, that he channeled on the stage but never really let himself soak in anymore because he had been so depressed in middle school and high school and he had excised that anger through music and friendship and now he was adrift, and the figure that he had chased after for so many years was nowhere to be seen.

He thought, what would I have said in high school? And so, calmly, politely, he phoned up their manager and said, “fuck you, I quit.”

And then, he told Clarke, sitting in the recording studio, in the breakroom, “I drank for a week, and I thought about moving to Australia, and then I put out an album of me crying for seventy minutes. And now here we are.”

Clarke reached out and gripped his hand tightly in hers. “I love you, you know that?”

He was teary eyed again, and his voice was shaky with it. “Yeah, I do.”

Clarke nodded decisively. “And Bellamy is an idiot. But he loves you, too.”

“Clarke—“

She shook her head. “No. I know he fucked up and he hurt you, I get that. I do. But he loves you and he’s been trying.”

Murphy could feel himself getting angry but he swallowed it. His first thought was, fuck Bellamy. Fuck Bellamy and fuck the fact that he got to have Murphy’s family and Murphy’s job and Murphy’s life while Murphy had to settle with trying-hard-and-not-quite-making-it. “And I haven’t been.”

Clarke smiled at him. “You’ve been trying. A little. But he’s been trying a lot. Meet him half way?”

Murphy nodded, and stood up, figuring Clarke was done with him. She squeezed his hand and stood gingerly. “Good,” she said. “Now let’s go find Lexa, she has a proposition for you—before you have that interview to get to.”

He couldn’t remember anything about an interview but he hadn’t really been paying attention, had he? He hadn’t been trying. They found Lexa in the lobby, scaring off paparazzi with a glare. She smiled at them as they approached, which was much more friendly than he expected from her. She absolutely terrified him and he really liked that about her.

She laid out her proposition and Murphy immediately accepted, before being ushered into a company car by Clarke, presumably taking him to the aforementioned interview.

He texted Raven on the way. “Where exactly am I going?” he asked her.

“not ur calendar & am in fact doing important sound stuff,” she replied, followed almost immediately by, “casual fan interview, should mostly be a puff piece, but wat do i no im just the sound engineer.”

He got out of the car in a small cupcake café on the lower east side, which he wasn’t expecting, but considering Murphy remembered literally nothing about the interview, he supposed that wasn’t shocking. He walked in and looked around anxiously at the pastel covered café, glad he was in his civvies instead of his Johnny regalia.

“Mr. Murphy?” He turned and was face to face with a girl who was definitely younger than him, wearing a very professional outfit that did nothing to age her up. The French braids didn’t help, either. “Hi, I’m here to interview you! My name’s Charlotte. I’m a music blogger. I started SoundSiren?”

“Hi,” he replied, and reached out to shake her hand. It then occurred to him that he had heard of her blog before. “Oh! Hi, yeah I know you. Can I ask a stupid question before you start recording stuff?”

She laughed, a real sounding and very charming laugh. “Of course!”

“Why are we in a cupcake den?” He had been avoiding looking at the glass case because Murphy was weak and the cupcakes smelled like exactly what he deserved after the past few hellish days.

Charlotte grinned mischievously. “I heard they were your drug of choice.”

He smiled back but was instantly filled with guilt. He was pretty sure his drugs of choice were, in order of most destructive to least, Bellamy Blake, tequila, Bellamy’s twitter account, vodka, Bellamy’s old anonymous livejournal account, rum, and then cupcakes.

“You heard right,” he said, and let her lead him to a table, already covered in cupcakes.

“I wasn’t sure which kind you like,” she said apologetically, gesturing to the smorgasbord of cupcakes.

He laughed, and felt more prepared for this interview than he’d felt for anything in months. “Oh, you are definitely on my good side.”

She smiled and slid into her seat, Murphy following. She pulled out her phone. “Do you mind if I…?”

He hated having audio recordings of himself wandering through the internet, but despite himself he trusted her. Murphy nodded and bit into a red velvet cupcake. The girl had good taste.

“So,” she asked picking a caramel cupcake, “how does it feel to be back in New York?”

“Like a kick in the balls,” he said, and she laughed.

“Just like old times, then? Speaking of, how’s the band meshing after years apart?”

Murphy paused, chewing. She scribbled something onto her phone with a stylus. He hoped it said something like, “he chewed contemplatively,” instead of “he stared stupidly into the distance and messily devoured a cupcake.” He had seen her blog before and she could be ruthless when she wanted to.

“We’re coming together,” he said finally. “There were some road-bumps, but we’re family, you know? Even when we hate each other, we still love each other. And I think that comes across in the new album.”

Charlotte’s face turned a little guilty even as she said, innocently, “was last night’s concert one of those bumps in the road?”

Murphy choked on a piece of cupcake. “Yeah,” he wheezed and tried to remember how to swallow like an adult. “Definitely. But we’re working on it, and it’s only going to get better.”

“Good,” Charlotte said, and beamed. “I saw the show last night and it was…”

“A work in progress?” Murphy offered.

Charlotte laughed. “That’s a good word for it. Do you mind if I ask—what went wrong?”

Murphy paused and used the opportunity to cut into another cupcake. “I think there were some miscommunications. Some bad blood that we needed to excise.”

“Metaphorical or literally?”

He thought about how badly he had wanted to punch Bellamy’s face in the night before. “Metaphorical blood letting,” he clarified, “literal talking.”

Charlotte laughed again, and very kindly changed the subject. “So I asked my readers what they were most interested in me finding out, and surprise surprise, they want to know who is the inspiration for “Brainfreeze” and “Kill the Moment”?”

Murphy polished off the cupcake and moved onto a chocolate one covered in glitter. “Who says they’re about anyone? Let alone the same person?”

Charlotte pounced. “Well, general fan theory is that before your character, Johnny, died at the end of Goblins, he was developing feelings for someone. The imagery in “Brainfreeze” and “Kill the Moment” are very similar; wanting to stay in the moment that’s occurring right now, but wanting to see what happens next. All this rising to the high note of “Finger Guns,” before the album ends abruptly, presumably in Johnny’s death.” At his incredulous look, Charlotte blushed. “I’ve been a fan since I was in middle school,” she admitted.

Murphy laughed and wiped the chocolate off his mouth. She made another scribble on her screen. “There was someone in Johnny’s life—we intended to give him an accomplice. But his life didn’t turn out that way.”

“And your life?”

Murphy could feel the self-deprecating smile unfurl across his face. “My life didn’t turn out that way either.”

Charlotte gave him a very sympathetic look before visibly changing gears. “I was very excited to hear a studio version of “ ’07,” which has gotten consistent concert play, but has never been recorded until now. What made you decide to change that?”

Murphy sighed. He loved almost every song he had ever written—and he loved ’07. That said, if no one asked him about it for the rest of his life he would die happy. “People have been asking for you it, you know? I wrote it for our first album, We Who Are About to Die, but it was cut for space reasons, and so we could end on “Salute,” which clinched the reference, you know?”

Charlotte nodded avidly.

Encouraged, he continued, “So we’ve been trying to squeeze it onto somewhere, and Octavia—er, Babydoll suggested it be the bonus track, and we all agreed.”

Charlotte nodded. “Well, it sounds great! Definitely well worth the wait. And I believe you wrote it for your mother, correct?”

Murphy’s heart started pounding loudly in his ears. “No,” he heard himself say. “I wrote it about my mom, but I wrote for me. My mother was terrible—honestly if it wasn’t for Mrs. Blake I doubt I would have survived high school. When I turned seventeen, she disappeared and I haven’t heard from her since. So “’07” was for me to excise those feelings. She made my life hard enough when she was in it, she has no right to make it harder now that she’s out of it.”

She looked at him, impressed, or maybe even proud, and he reached for another cupcake because he’d earned it.

He got back to the apartment before Bellamy that night, and, exhausted, fell asleep before he heard Bellamy return. He figured, as he drifted, that they would talk in the morning, when Bellamy didn’t feel so angry from fighting with Octavia, and he didn’t feel so exhausted from spilling his guts out to small bloggers.

The article was up the next day, and Murphy was glad that Charlotte had made him seem engaging and funny and had left out that he had eaten a total of seven cupcakes.

Talking about his mother had, in some ways, put things into perspective for him. He was actively hating Bellamy because he had committed himself to it, even though it made him miserable. If happiness was his end goal, then he should try to make that happen, instead. Which probably meant reconnecting with Bellamy, even just to see if he could.

He walked out into the main apartment area, still skimming through the article, and looked up, when Bellamy made a soft, surprised sound.

“Good morning,” Murphy offered, before grabbing a piece of toast off of Bellamy’s plate and stuffing it into his mouth.

Bellamy gaped at him, open mouthed and floundering. “Um. Hi.” Even fishlike and baffled, Bellamy still managed to seem aloof and available and charming, and in the morning light as a new and improved Murphy, he realized he was just as head over heels as he’d ever been.

“You sleep well?” he asked, and tried to play it off like they had this kind of conversation on the daily, like two grown ass men.

“To be honest, I’m not sure I’m awake,” Bellamy said and then winced. “Sorry, that was—sorry.”

Murphy shrugged. He almost certainly deserved that. “You ready for tonight?”

Tonight was the real start of their tour, their biggest show ever and at Madison Square Garden (the Madison Square Garden, was this even the real life), before their stateside tour began.

“Honestly?” Bellamy asked, rolling his shoulders. “I feel like I’m about to vibrate out of my skin.”

“Yeah,” Murphy agreed. “It’s great, right?” Murphy held his gaze for a long moment, and his body hummed. He felt energized, centered and a little horny.

Bellamy swallowed hard and turned away, which was good, because it meant he missed how much Murphy stared at his throat. “What are your plans for the day?”

Murphy would give the amount that Bellamy’s voice didn’t waver an E for Effort. “Not a whole lot. You?”

“Nothing.”

Murphy tried to smile openly. He wasn’t really an open kind of guy, but he didn’t want Bellamy to think this was a trick. “Wanna order pad thai and watch Pulp Fiction?” which really shouldn’t have been a tradition but absolutely was.

Bellamy looked stunned, open and vulnerable, and the shitty vindictive part of Murphy wanted to laugh in his face, but the rest of him wanted to cuddle down on the couch with Bellamy Blake, thai food, John Travolta, and Samuel L. Jackson.

“Yeah,” Bellamy said. “Yeah, okay.”

Pulp Fiction had lead to Kill Bill which had lead, inexplicably, to Charlie’s Angels, and when they left, together, for MSG, Murphy more at peace than he had felt in years.

Because they were all big name stars now, they each had their own dressing room, not just a green room. Maya had emailed them all very specific schedules of when she expected them to be sitting in their rooms waiting for her, and Murphy was cutting it close as he spotted his name on the door. Or well, Johnny, but he’d take it.

He had just reached for the handle when Bellamy said, “Wait.”

Murphy turned around, conscious that every ticking second brought him closer to Maya’s subdued and quiet (but still probably dangerous) wrath.

Bellamy fidgeted, which made Murphy nervous too, before pulling something from his pocket. “I know, I—we—there isn’t really—here,” he said, and passed Murphy a tarnished silver nut on a chain. “I’m not sure if we do this anymore, but it was from before, so. Have a good concert. It’s from that night, but I—I should go,” he said, and ran.

Murphy squeezed it tightly in his hand and walked into his dressing room.

Bellamy had, at some point, created a tradition for them, whereby he stole a piece of the venue they did the last show of a tour in, and gave it to Murphy at the start of the subsequent tour. It was a silly tradition that resulted in stupid pieces of memorabilia like the dumb necklace in his hand.

He put it on over his head and sat down to wait for Maya. He looked in the mirror. He was stupidly in love with Bellamy Blake, but maybe, just maybe, Bellamy Blake was stupidly in love with him, too. He began applying the first of many layers of eyeliner and smiled.

Maya came by to do his hair and rolled her eyes at the way he couldn’t stop smiling. Raven came by afterwards and was even less amused.

“This is a microphone,” she said, holding the microphone in front of his face. “Microphones are for singing into, they are not for dropping, me entiendes?”

“Mhmmm,” he said dreamily.

Raven took a deep breath, and then whacked him with the mic.

“Hey!” Murphy yelled indignantly. “You’re the one hitting people with them!”

Raven nodded. “Right. Because they are my mics. And I know what they can take, like a light smack against the empty head of a dumbass. And I also know what they can’t take, which is being flung into the ceiling by the same empty headed dumbass.”

“It was funny though, right?” he asked, smirking.

Raven rolled her eyes but he knew he had won.

Tonight was going to be amazing.

And it sort of was. Unlike the night before, it had gone down without a hitch. Murphy had remembered how to properly stalk and run and throw himself around the stage including not one, not two, but four backflips (take that Brendan and Josh), and had engaged in some really questionable grinding on two microphone stands and also Bellamy, to the loud approval of the audience. He was surprised to find he felt like Johnny again.

They reached the first encore way too soon, in Murphy’s opinion.

He sneered into the mic while his bandmates tuned and hydrated. “What’s good?” he asked the crowd, and they screeched. “I’m Johnny,” he said, and paused for the cheers. “And these are my Delinquents. On my right,” he pointed to Octavia, “the beautiful Babydoll on the bass. Next to her, the incomparable Sandman on guitar,” he pointed at Clarke, who gave him and obliging sting on her guitar. “My pal Thanatos on the drums, and of course, Twitch, who doesn’t even need an instrument to play you.”

He blew Bellamy an exaggerated kiss and the crowd shrieked again. Bellamy rolled his eyes, but it felt so much more like their normal patter. Murphy grinned again. “Thank you, New York, you’ve been great!” he said, and then sauntered off stage. The others followed, and they huddled off stage while the audience chanted, “Johnny, Johnny,” over and over.

“Hey,” Murphy said to Bellamy, pulling him aside physically.

“What’s up?” Bellamy’s eyes were glued to the spot where Murphy’s hand was attached to his arm.

Their stage manager was already prepping them to go back out, but Murphy refused to be rushed.

“Hey,” Murphy said again, and then cupped Bellamy’s face and pulled him into a kiss. He could hear Clarke’s gasp and Octavia’s cackle and Mbege’s obnoxiously loud wolf whistle, but he ignored them. This was his moment. “I love you,” he said, and then ran back on stage.

The crowd roared again, and Murphy had never been in front of so many people in his entire life. “We got a surprise for you tonight,” he said, as Lexa marched on stage, looking like she could kill. “Lexa from Wanheda is here to play for you lucky delinquents, so make some fucking noise!”

The crowd did, as crowds are known to, and they began their first encore. Lexa was an incredible bassist, and Murphy was definitely going to tap her for their next group project.

Their first two encore songs went better than he expected, and as he desperately chugged water before their last two songs, he turned to see Bellamy actually smoldering at him.

He hadn’t wanted to play “’07” in public but Octavia had insisted. In part, he assumed, because it was one of only three songs where she got to sing back up. It was still one of his best, but also personal and way too relevant. It may have been written about his mother, but he could have written the same song about Bellamy.

He sang the entire song without checking on Bellamy again, which he counted as a personal achievement. “’07” ended in a false cheery tone that he loved and he waited for the cheers to die down.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Clarke motioning for the other’s to put their instruments away, and he was as, always, extremely grateful for Clarke. Lexa switched out her electric bass for an acoustic one and her eyes twinkled as theirs met.

“We got another surprise for you lucky criminals!” The crowd exploded with cheers.

Lexa began playing the melody on her bass, which was way more affective than he thought it would be and he gripped the mic and began to sing. “Wise men say, only fools rush in,” and the audience cheered its approval.

His hands were shaking, Jesus, more than they had ever shook in his life. He wanted to turn around and look at Bellamy but he didn’t let himself. Bellamy had to know, he was smart and he knew Murphy, and wasn’t that the problem, anyway? Murphy had let himself be hurt and he knew he was setting himself up for the same exact fall. Fool me once, shame on you, fool me a hundred times and shame on love.

“But I can’t help falling in love with you.”

Lexa nodded at him, and he managed to take a real breath before he kept singing. The final time through, as he sang, “Take my hand, take my whole life, too,” he tilted his microphone out to the audience, who obligingly sang along.

He felt the hands on his shoulder spinning him before he could register it. His hand was still outstretched, the mic aimed at the crowd when Bellamy swooped down and kissed him again and he dropped the mic and Raven was absolutely going to murder him, but he could hardly care because Bellamy Blake was playing tonsil hockey with him in front of the biggest crowd they’d ever played for and he was pretty sure he wasn’t dreaming.

The crowd was deafening or Murphy’s heart was just pounding so loudly in his ears that when Bellamy pulled away, his equilibrium had gone to shit—and it had to be the noise because there was no way he just got weak in the knees.

“Don’t run away this time,” Murphy said against his mouth.

“Never again,” Bellamy said, and Murphy reluctantly detached himself.

Lexa had just finished playing and was smiling at him smugly, which both meant that Murphy had impeccable timing and that he and Bellamy had made out for possibly an embarrassingly long time.

“Good fucking night New York,” he hollered, and ran offstage, dragging Bellamy behind him.

“We should talk,” Murphy started, but Bellamy interrupted him.

“I love you,” he said. “I love you and I’m in love with you and I’ve spent the past five years hating myself for chasing you away.”

“Oh,” Murphy replied, and prided himself on his sharp wit. “Well in the case—” and let Bellamy pull him into a kiss again.

Behind him, he could hear Octavia say, probably to Clarke, “I’m beginning to think we made a huge mistake.

“I don’t know,” Lexa replied, managing to sound introspective and domineering all at once. “I think they’re cute.”

Epilogue

“So,” Charlotte asked, and smiled charmingly at the webcam. “What can you tell us about your new project?” Her set-up had improved in the last year, and instead of a cell phone and some cupcakes, she had a full a video portion of her website and a studio to match, although her hair was still in two little braids.

“Well,” Murphy said. “It’s massive. It’s a coalition between Skycrew, Wanheda, City of Light, The Delinquents and Lexa’s old band, Tree People. It’s me, the Blakes, Lexa and Clarke and their old bandmates Anya and Gustus. We have Mbege—Emori and Finn are going to be on selected tracks—and we have Lincoln, who is finally fighting fit and the kind of badass a band of this size really needs. We strings and a trumpet, more drummers than I personally know what to do with and so many guitarists that I literally can’t make a g-string joke without risk to my life. Oh—and we’re calling ourselves Polis.”

Charlotte’s excitement was very poorly hidden, but he liked that. It was nice that she had asked to interview him first, nice that he could finally do a press interview in his civvies. “I can’t wait to hear your new stuff! When does the album drop?”

Murphy grinned back. “It’s called Power to the People, and it’ll be out mid-march. But actually, we wanted to surprise you and your viewers with our first single.”

Charlotte’s disbelief was so genuine he almost laughed. It was replaced by excitement almost instantly. “I—thank you—this is such an I honor—I—”

“It’s called “Arcadia,” why don’t we take a listen?” he said, and nodded to Bellamy off camera, who had taken over her sound equipment, and let it play.

Afterwards Charlotte whispered to him, “I’m going to cut the part where I’m all googly-eyed and cry in the middle of your new single okay?” and Murphy nodded, because he was nothing if not accommodating.

She gathered herself and looked him in the eye. “Mr. Murphy, I know I shouldn’t, but I have to ask. How are things with you and Mr. Blake?”

He glanced at Bellamy off screen, who was smiling a reluctant, dopey smile, the way he always did when Murphy did interviews. “Things,” he said, still looking directly at Bellamy and feeling possibly contentment. “Things have never been better.”

#long post #murphamy #murphamy fanfic #the 100 fic #murphamy fic #implied clexa #jesus i'm so sorry #gabriel writes fic

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