Chapter Text
"I will literally kick a fucking hole in your bass drum."
"Good morning to you, too, Jun. Seems like you're up for buying me a new Pearl kit?" Soobin opposed Yeonjun's grimace with a smile. "You know I've been wanting a Studio Select, Blue Oyster."
"Can't be so pretentious with that bad of taste."
Soobin rolled his eyes. "Like you don't brag about your fucking guitar wall. Pot calling the kettle black."
"At least I can say I have a collection. Your single drum kit is fucking sad," Yeonjun retorted.
Soobin batted at him, dismissive with a single drum stick of hickory in hand. "Right, because I actually use it. Talk yourself up, like I give a damn."
The studio was stuffy. Nothing unusual, but with five bodies crammed after long hours, it sometimes became overwhelming. Soobin could feel the sweat drip down his neck, to the point of his shoulder, but its effort to cool him down was fruitless.
"Recording booth. Now," Taehyun interjected, right before Yeonjun was about to crack an insult of many at the drummer. The occupation of the booth was expensive, especially in the overcharged LA music circle, and with that, they were quick to file in, one after the other.
"You guys should've had your shit set up by now," Taehyun chided as he adjusted the mic stand to the perfect height, so the windscreen would meet his mouth in a precise position. He held an eye of veiled impatience. "We've been here for, what, three hours?"
"You've been here for three hours," Yeonjun corrected, looking right at Kai and Taehyun. "I just got here."
"You just say shit to say it," the shorter boy prodded an inner cheek with his tongue, visibly annoyed. Kai raised his eyebrows in silent agreement, but said nothing, opting to adjust his own mic stand like it was of second nature. "Being a late comer is not a personality trait."
Yeonjun shrugged, "Like you and Kai don't show up late all the time, frolicking hand in fucking hand."
He wasn't wrong, but it didn't excuse his lack of punctuality. As for Soobin, on time, but with a thinned patience this early in the morning, was especially annoyed with Yeonjun's decision to be a brat. Was brat the right word for a grown man who didn't so much throw tantrums as he did attempt to rule those around him?
If Soobin were to keep it short, Yeonjun was presumptuous, and knew it, too. It seemed as though the guitarist's main objective was to be an annoyance for the sake of destabilization. While it could be bearable due to adapting to his consistencies, Soobin really wasn't feeling up to it right before a recording session.
"I have my shit together," Soobin said, sitting himself on the throne and footing his bass pedal just to back himself up. The boom of it went all the way up into his chest. "Yeonjun, though?"
In tandem, the four band members turned to the fifth in question. Yeonjun was, indeed, nowhere near prepared, but nothing unexpected. The world could be seconds away from losing its last leg, and he'd still be amid his first yawn of the day, if he so felt like it. Guitar strapped over a shoulder, pick in mouth; The amplifier had yet to be heated, and the effect pedals were lying on the floor, unplugged cables in a knotted mess.
"Are we really surprised?" Beomgyu mumbled, fiddling with the tuning keys of his vintage Falcon Bass for good measure. "Too busy fucking with Soobin."
"Shut up," Yeonjun hissed. "This takes no time."
Kai's mocking laugh was drowned out by the hum of Yeonjun's amplifier, freshly switched on. The guitarist leaned over, plugged the pedals into their assigned inputs and outputs in disregard of the knots and tangles, then looked up at his band mates with a cheeky grin, the black of his hair casting shadows across his cheekbones.
"Well? Let's fucking get on with this."
★★★
"Have a drink. You've been tense as fuck all day."
"Fuck no. If I have one, I'll have ten more. You think I want to bang on the drums for two hours tomorrow with a headache?"
Yeonjun frowned, retracting the whiskey glass he was offering to Soobin. Cigarette smoke flowed down into the glass, where it spun like a micro tornado, before dispersing. Soobin never loved the taste of cigarettes, but Yeonjun was ever the opposite of him; Off the edge. He couldn't have one without another five to finish it off.
"Tight ass."
Soobin grimaced, watching Yeonjun take a puff with a glimmer of cockiness in the eyes. To his dismay, the guitarist blew the smoke right in his face. Soobin waved an arm and dodged, but choked in defeat.
"You can be a real asshole," Soobin coughed, feeling the residuals of secondhand smoke in the shallow of his throat.
With a laugh, Yeonjun smiled against the rim of his whiskey glass, "Yeah. Starting to feel like it's my job, hm?"
Matter of fact, plainly obvious — Soobin wasn't a fan of Yeonjun. Rather, there were times Soobin wondered if his feelings waded into hateful territory, but while he wondered about his disposition of Yeonjun, he was certain the elder had decided long ago Soobin was the bane of his existence.
To hate a band member something the media would fucking love to get a scoop on. Soobin didn't want the trouble, so while he was at the mercy of both the media's preying agenda and his enemyship with Yeonjun, he remained laying low, dealing with the dynamic in the only way he knew how; Fighting back, but only just enough to keep Yeonjun at bay, enough for the band to survive. It was the easiest option, after all.
"Whatever floats your boat, I suppose. Not my problem if people fucking hate you, hm?" Soobin mimicked. As if Soobin were a fly easy to bat away, Yeonjun promptly ignored him, lifted a leg and put out the cigarette with the sole of his worn leather boot. After so many times, the rubber was showing signs of abuse.
Finally, he responded, "You should probably know by now that my goal in life isn't to ensure people like me. I mean, except fans, but that's easy when you're born for it, ya know? Can't say the same about you," Yeonjun giggled wryly. It had the potential for cuteness had Soobin not been so caught up in Yeonjun's attempt to ruffle him up.
Soobin sighed, seemingly defeated over a bickering that was as ordinary as all the others, "I'm too tired for this."
"Tired, already? We hit Houston two days ago. You should be wired." Yeonjun was readying to light another cigarette, but paused in his ministrations.
"Not in that way," the drummer wiped the perspiration off his forehead with the back of his hand. "Just. Fucking. Tired."
The elder gave Soobin a hard look, dead in the eyes but all knowing of what Soobin meant. Yeonjun took to it by throwing his freshly lit cigarette right off the balcony, careless of whether or not it landed in someone's hair. Or perhaps, rained down on a homeless man just at the right moment to make him think some fabricated God had bestowed him with a free smoke.
This was all nonsense, that Soobin knew; but he couldn't help thinking of such trivialities, even with Yeonjun looking at him as though he were a roach he so badly yearned to step on. But rather than make another attempt to urk Soobin, Yeonjun turned away, slid open the balcony's glass door and disappeared into the dark space of the suite's living room.
The man was far from dumb. Yeonjun fully understood Soobin's words of I'm tired were code for fuck off.
★★★
It had been exactly three months since they'd hit the studio, completed the album and dropped it. What followed was congratulatory feedback with the positive uproar of having hit Billboard's top fifty for the first time in the band's career.
In downtown Austin, the next day would be their fifth concert of the band's second US tour. Unlike the first, this one departed from the locality of the West Coast, and instead hooked itself down South, up the East Coast, and sloppily cutting through the Midwest on its way back to California. After tomorrow, they'd leave the confines of the Texas heat and hit the road just a stretch up to Nashville.
Soobin wasn't necessarily seasoned with touring. Sure, the band had hitched as an opener for a bigger artist, which only lasted during a single Summer. But that short three months didn't ensure he could handle a nomadic lifestyle that would go on for over six months, especially considering they were only five venues in, all of which contained audiences attending for only them. They weren't an opener, they were the act. Their venue sizes had increased, and with that, so had the anticipation of their showings.
To abstain from the anxiety of finally having made it, Soobin held onto the impending adrenaline of zealous fans. While they, too, could fuel the nervousness, it was this same fuel that kept his gears turning. If not for them, their band name would have never made it onto the Billboard chart. Soobin wouldn't have achieved a dream that is considered out of reach for most.
In all its cliche, cheesy glory, there resided a truth behind it. And with this, Soobin knew he had to show his appreciation through his presence on the stage; drum until his fingers felt close to breaking off, pedal the bass enough times to make his shin lock up, sweat bullets and hope the crowd could see all of his work seeping out of him.
With the stage lights out, the venue overhangs took their place, and the shrill of fans faded just as the smoke machines were shut off. The magic was gone, but the leftovers still ran in Soobin's veins. He was sweating up a fucking storm, just as he had been for the last two hours, but the backstage was drastically cooler than the front. Staff walked to and fro in effort to clean up for the night and get ready for a new day beholding the occupancy of a fresh artist.
Despite Austin's humid heat, Soobin relished in the separation from the stage to where he sat, cornered in the back on a sofa's waterproof upholstery, practically melting into the cushions. His arms fucking ached, lower back tight as a rope, but the pain was more familiar to him than his own reflection.
Life as a drummer was more sacrificial to one's body than, say, a guitarist's. As Soobin liked to say. Yeonjun, who dealt with mild shoulder pain and calloused fingers, a bout of tight joints in the fingers from time to time. Soobin silently fathomed, understood, and compared. Just as Yeonjun or Beomgyu, he sat on his throne every single day knowing of such pain, and he fucking loved it.
A sacrifice had never felt so good, even in the dead of night, when he'd wake himself up just from turning his wrist wrong, and be forced to put on a brace for the sake of the next day's performance. To put it simply, Soobin would rather writhe in the aftermath than never sit behind a kit again.
Passion did this to people, to it seemed — birthed a flair of dramatics.
"Good fucking show," Kai plopped himself right next to Soobin with a handheld fan practically glued to his face. "Is it the heat, or are Texan fans just fucking crazy? You guys saw that mosh pit, right? Some guy literally punched another in the face. He was on beat, too. Like- Bam! Just as you hit the bass drum, dude."
Soobin laughed hard, then snatched the fan right out of Kai's hands. The younger man frowned, but took it in stride when he noticed just how much Soobin was sweating. "All I saw was security trying to make their way through the crowd. I'd go fucking insane living here in this weather. Swear to God, Hell isn't this humid."
"Californian weather would never do this to us," Kai sighed.
"Ready?" Beomgyu sidled up to them, guitar case strapped to his back. "Taehyun's already on the bus."
"Yeah. Jun, though?" Kai asked.
The bassist pursed his lips, gripped the strap across his torso, and raised a brow, "What do you think he's doing?"
Soobin leaned further back onto the couch. The upholstery was itchy against his bare shoulders. "I suggest we leave him right here in Austin. Everyone in favor, say I." Beomgyu stared at him. Kai sighed.
"I think we should go wrangle his ass and get him on the fucking bus," Beomgyu deadpanned. He seemed the slightest bit irritated, but Soobin more than understood — he was fucking annoyed, himself.
"I'll do it," Soobin huffed, lifting himself up from the sofa in reluctance. "No need to tell me where he is."
★★★
"Fuck."
Give Soobin a dollar for every time he had caught Yeonjun in the act, and he'd be swimming in green.
The drummer hung under the bathroom's door frame for a hot second in an attempt to muster an ounce of patience. It was of no use really considering Yeonjun was panting in the farthest stall like a dog in heat, and Soobin was inevitably going to be the cockblocker of the century. Why he'd chosen to put himself on the chopping block, only God could tell.
He sighed once more, then crossed the restroom, one that stunk the way all venue restrooms did after a show. Beer-ladened piss and the residuals of body odor. When Soobin knocked on the stall once with a pause, and twice with irritation, he could hear Yeonjun groan in annoyance.
"Gimme two — Ah, shit... seconds."
A signature, resounding pop of tongue on cock spilled through the stall's cracks, and then a stranger's voice whispered, "Who the fuck is that?"
"Choi Soobin, drummer, songwriter. Might know him." The man in question laughed at his own lackluster sarcasm. "Yeonjun, get the fuck out or we're leaving your ass here."
"Wait, for real? Dude, you were sick tonight," the faceless stranger, with a voice deep and scratchy, complemented. To be quite fucking honest, Soobin did not care for the flattery. He was tired and sweaty and just about ready to kick a particular guitarist's ass.
"Yeah, thanks," Soobin deadpanned. "Yeonjun."
The stall door swung open. Yeonjun stood there, just half a head shorter, hair thrown every direction, fingers busy with zipping up his jeans. "Soobin. God, you know how to ruin all the fun."
The drummer snorted, then promptly turned his back on the elder, expecting him to trail behind. Yeonjun did, but not before sticking his head back into the stall and whispering, "And you know how to make a man's night."
Soobin physically cringed; a shiver that sprang from the back of his neck and down to the heels of his feet. Yeonjun was a terrible flirt, having experienced it in other walk-in's with fans the guitarist had taken interest in. This time was not special from the others, and neither was the faceless man lingering in the stall. Yeonjun would definitely not be able to remember the dude's name by tomorrow.
Nonetheless, Yeonjun's lack of courting skills were saved by his looks and the guitar over his shoulder. Something about the guitarist of a band; They always got the best of lust-ridden fans. The men, the women, everyone was the same, and so were those wielding the instrument.
Soobin almost pitied Yeonjun for falling into the stereotype.
By the time they made it onto the bus, the other members were preparing for a night's sleep on the road. Kai was already passed out on the sofa right behind the driver's seat, occupied by none other than petulant Yoongi, who knew how to drive a bus like it was his only purpose in his life. Perhaps, it was.
"About fucking time," Yoongi said. He stuck his phone down into the cupholders and looked right at Yeonjun, who had just made it to the top step. "Keep it up and I'll drive off without you next time."
Yeonjun quirked a brow, hand on the hip, "You said that last time, and the time before that, and—"
"Move," Soobin interrupted to nudge at the guitarist, pushing past him so Yoongi could close the bus doors.
"It's someone's bedtime," Yeonjun giggled, teasingly.
"Yeah," Soobin sighed. "Shower first, and then I'm passing the fuck out."
"Use all the hot water and I'll make sure you don't get a wink of sleep," Yeonjun warned. Soobin shifted to look at the elder with drawn eyebrows, standing right above Kai who was slumbering in ignorance.
"Maybe I should since I had to drag your ass outta the fucking venue bathroom."
"I need one of you to get in there and shut the hell up," Yoongi butt in.
Foot on the brake, he shifted the bus into drive, and lifted. Smoothly, they wheeled off the venue property and onto the streets of late night Austin. Soobin wouldn't miss the state's heat. It thinned out his impatience, like oil in a red hot pan. Especially his tolerance for Yeonjun, who groaned like a brat of a child and settled into the couch across the aisle from Kai, where Taehyun was attempting to sleep.
"Dude," Taehyun mumbled, sleepy and irritated, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion, but daggering all the same. He kicked at the guitarist. "Get the fuck off, Jun."
"God, you're fucking moody. Why aren't you taking one of the bunks?"
Shower done, Soobin slipped on an aged, band t-shirt and clean briefs. Fuck pants in this weather. The bus had stellar air conditioning, but the post-concert heat had yet to purge itself from Soobin's body. Beneath his shirt, sweat threatened to stick to the cotton, the one he'd bought from a resale shop long before they formed as a band of their own.
"Mötley Crüe was possibly the lamest band to ever join the scene," Yeonjun eyed Soobin's shirt, old and thinned, still holding onto the resale shop smell even after years of washing; dusty, musty, something like an old person's closet. Yeonjun looked at it as though he could smell the hint of mothballs from three feet away.
In particular to Soobin, Yeonjun always felt the need to give an unwarranted opinion, whether it be on Soobin's habitual comfort of holding his drumsticks like play things, the hair gel he used, the sound of him sniffling, all the way down to the shirts he wore.
"Ass talk. Mötley Crüe were the coolest fucking rockers. Tommy Lee? Definition of badass," Soobin tittered, ruffling the sheets right next to Beomgyu, who had taken one side of the bed long before anyone could fight for it. As for Taehyun, it seemed Yeonjun had finally given him peace to sleep on the couch. "Talking as if White Snake doesn't exist."
"I don't give a damn about White Snake."
"Right," Soobin laughed through his nose. "Because I definitely didn't hear Fool for Your Loving blasting in your headphones just the other day. Mötley Crüe went harder than they ever did."
Yeonjun ran a hand through his greased out hair, having yet to step into the shower. The fleeting thought of his cock still wet by a stranger's mouth crossed Soobin's mind, but the drummer forced himself to shake it off, a frigid cringe wracking his shoulders for a split second. It didn't do much — the bodily shake to rid one's thoughts, but it seemed like a good enough force of movement.
Shove and shove and shove, Soobin thought, and in consequence he wrung his fingers till they ached and a furrow in his brows came to be. The sudden image of Yeonjun's mouth gaping out of what couldn't be mistaken for anything other than pleasure was there one moment, and the next, beginning to fade. Soobin shoved again, and this time hard enough to stuff it into a consolidated drawer, filled to the brim with intrusives. Locked with a key he'd thrown into the distance.
"I like one song," the guitarist said. "At least I don't listen to Home Sweet Home on a regular basis."
"Hey, ain't nothing wrong with a classic rock ballad," Soobin retorted. "Listened to a few, wrote a few, recorded a few. You're a fucking hypocrite sometimes."
Yeonjun conceded in silence, other than the contempt on his face that was not of inner reflection, but directed at Soobin with calculating eyes; you are below me. With that, he crammed himself into the bathroom for an overdue shower.
Going on three years, Soobin still didn't quite understand what made Yeonjun tick. Sure, the adrenaline of the stage, the pleasure of a desperate fan's fuck, the brackish hit of a cigarette, and the heavy taste of whiskey satisfied Yeonjun. Soobin may not have aligned with such indulgences, other than a few too many shots, but he understood most of it.
What stripped him of comprehension was Yeonjun's craving that surpassed all — powders. Yeonjun wasn't quiet about it. In fact, so blatant, he seemed to show off the deal. And the other band mates, they were like fish taking the bait.
Like everything else, Soobin didn't get it. Maybe he was stupid, maybe he was too smart to wrap his head around it. Something so small, his brain couldn't fathom whittling down into to match size. Either way, he sat in the back and watched the renowned bane of his existence influence the youth of the band, and indulge in such success. For a single line tracked down one of their nostrils and to the throat, Soobin could practically hear the boost up of Yeonjun's ego. Ding, ding, ding. Something like a casino slot machine.
This made Soobin circle around his underlying questions. Was that what made the man keep going? That forced Yeonjun out of bed with the energy to argue with Soobin? Was it the addictions of having too much money to spend?
Perhaps it was something innate — Yeonjun being one unique son of a bitch. Soobin was simply the target for such unique charm, if there was one kind way to put it — an eccentricity within the elder that could've been used for the better, but instead was laid flat on Soobin's back with a harsh slap, like an open palm on bare flesh.
The other members weren't really amusing enough for Yeonjun to perturb. The guitarist got along with them in the ways Yeonjun got along with everyone; just a little, just a smidge, just enough. The only one who really clicked with him was Beomgyu, but that was because the bassist got along with many. He was timid when he needed to be, excitable at the best of times, but perhaps a tad dry. It seemed as though Yeonjun liked that — the easiness in Beomgyu. Soobin couldn't fucking tell.
Beyond all else, it was the coke that strengthened Yeonjun's ability to pull them in. He was a drugged out pinnacle of a rockstar who managed to professionalize the lifestyle and keep going. Aside from that, what kept the members' patience from wearing thinner was the man's talent.
An unadulterated, gilded nature behind the body of a guitar. He could play in his sleep. He could sing you a song with just six strings. Yeonjun was unfathomable in his work, a rarity of sorts, and the band fucking knew it.
The fans did, too.
Soobin wasn't so sure whether there he held a resentment beneath himself for such talent or for Yeonjun's habit of taking it all for granted. The ignorance and lack of appreciation was simply a symptom of a sour personality. Either way, there was a mix of many things Soobin bore, but resentment was the easy one to check off the list. The rest of what followed, of course, was nothing welcomed.
★★★
In that mix, was a singular, standing force. An emotion Soobin pushed back any time it dared to rear its ugly head.
"You think I'd look good with blonde hair?"
Soobin swiveled in his seat, the one in the far corner of the bus' pseudo-living room. "And you're asking for my opinion, because...?"
Yeonjun's mouth twisted in annoyance, but it was close to a pout. With a mouth so full, it was easy for it to take shape of something innocent, but Yeonjun was far from fitting into the ideals of an innocent young man. He just had a pouty mouth to him, is all, and Soobin definitely did not fixate on the candy pink color of such skin.
"You're the only one in the band who's bleached their fucking hair," Yeonjun deadpanned. In thought, he played with his fringe, eyes crossing just to get a look at the tips of raven. Soobin watched as he let go of the strands and settled on what the bus window beheld.
First day out of Austin, the landscape outside the bus windows had changed from city, to hills, to flatlands, to forested highways. The roads stretched for countless miles, with lines of tall pines bordering. This far out, the sky was a blanket of stars, as though someone had taken a needle to the darkest of fabrics and pricked small holes all throughout it, allowing a glow, once hidden, to make its appearance. The holes were aplenty, so many stars that flickered, some at standstill, that even without the moon, Soobin could see the outlines of the pines alongside the road, washed in tinsel-silver.
Beauty to behold, Soobin still didn't give much of a fuck about the scenery, but at least they'd driven out of hill country. His stomach wasn't a fan of the up's and down's. At least here, sitting across from Yeonjun, he was able to look at the elder without a twist of nausea in his abdomen.
With a hum, he said, "Yeah, but only once, like, two years ago. And it turned out orange."
Yeonjun groaned, parting himself from the window scape to throw an eye of annoyance at Soobin, "Point is, you have experience."
Soobin decided to give the elder what he wanted, but only an ounce, "You'd look fine."
"Just fine?" Yeonjun laughed, eyeing Soobin from the couch behind Yoongi, who'd stayed quiet in his driving through the long hours. "Admit it — you think I'd look sexy."
The driver was a damn-right sweetheart, but overall not one for many words. Unless, of course, Yeonjun struck an annoyed chord in him. That was when he'd go on a spiel. Lucky for him, he was not on Yeonjun's roster this particular night. With this, Yoongi took to swallowing in the yellow lines of the road with focused, professional eyes. Soobin was certain he wasn't even listening to anything outside of the drone of passing cars.
Soobin took a moment to wrap up a response in his head. To fuck with the guitarist, Soobin feigned a gag, "I'd be lying, if I did."
Soobin was lying to begin with.
Yeonjun was what he proclaimed himself to be. Everyone knew it, Soobin included. The fans ate it up like starved civilians, the label's marketing and stylist teams served Yeonjun's looks on a silver fucking platter through solo photoshoots and magazine features.
Yeah, the guitarist definitely stood out. If Soobin wanted to be brutally honest with himself, Yeonjun's ranking was the highest, surpassing Kai and Taehyun, who centered the stage with their mic stands and harmonies. Beomgyu, with his long hair and a bass too big for his body. Soobin, throned in the back, behind a kit that spoke of his identity more than his own face.
Yeonjun gave the drummer a hard look, steely in the eyes, a grin on his face that reminded Soobin of a cat's hiss, "Afraid I'll look better blonde than you, right?"
"More worried about you getting bleach in your eyes, your brain is that gone," Soobin gave a cheeky smile.
★★★
"So, it's hot here, too." Soobin sighed.
"Did you expect it not to be?" Taehyun laughed. "Sure as hell isn't Texas, though. It was, what, in the nineties during the Austin show? At night?"
"Eighties," Yeonjun interjected. "But the humidity made it feel like a hundred, according to Accuweather."
The four members looked right at him. Dumbfounded, he said, "What? So, I regularly check the weather online. You guys don't?"
Silence proceeded, followed by Beomgyu bring the first to head for the bus doors with his bass strapped across his back. Soobin could feel the merciless summer air drafting through the open doors.
Sixth concert, plenty more to go.
Soobin was elated, to say the least, even with the familiar tightness in his chest induced by performance pressure. They had hours left, which would be filled with prep and practice, but Soobin was always a worrier. There was no such thing as enough practice.
This venue was much like the last; Outdoors, with the roof slanted and of thick tin, gigantic cement pillars cornered and centered to stabilize. The fans who had bought the cheapest tickets were bound to get seated behind those pillars or on the grass, so far from the stage they'd look like tiny ants scattered about on a myriad of vibrant beach towels.
Nothing new. Soobin had his favorite venues, this wasn't one of them. They'd had yet to perform here, but the drummer loved concerts with strictly GA ticketing. No seats gave room for fans to go fucking crazy, and that's what Soobin liked to see. Still, he couldn't remember a concert from the band's tours that didn't lose it. The only shows that did end with the boys feeling empty were the ones before they hit the charts. Small venues, small fans, small excitement.
Those days were over. From here on out, the band had seen the change on a physical level. Mosh pit after mosh pit, drinks flying, fans red in the face, shoes scuffed, the every-so-often flashing of tits.
Soobin wasn't one to note it, but Taehyun never let go of those particular moments, given that his seldomly shown, obnoxious side reeked off of him at the sight of one tit. It was borderline annoying to Soobin considering his innate lack of interest — not that he'd ever admit it to anyone.
The round of a breast never felt quite right in his palms, but could he blame a rockstar who was offered such things without qualms? Not really, unless Yeonjun came into play. That fucker needed to chill out.
Out of the bus and into the backstage, every member readied themselves for the pre-concert runnings; The soundcheck performance, the instrument gearing, the social engagement with the usual band crew, but also the venue staff.
Gearing up was a breeze, if Soobin ignored Yeonjun's penchant for taking all the time in the world. Soundcheck went as needed. A lot of fans, give or take fifty, paid to come in early and watch, to which the band were welcoming to.
The members enjoyed talking with fans, so long as they treated them like people. Asking them questions about their lives as musicians was always invigorating, something Beomgyu or Taehyun were especially enthralled with. Kai just adored getting to know every fan's name and what their favorite song was, sometimes even picking bias - oftentimes, a new girl with hair short, her skirt even shorter, and eyes that parted from his body. If Kai liked her enough, he'd request that the band and staff add a specific track onto the setlist.
Soobin was friendly. Not toot his own horn, but he noticed their fans had a liking for him due to his kind and pleasing interaction. The social media posts proved it. He wanted his fans to know he gave a fuck with as much casualness as possible. When he was nice, so were they.
They could be a girl, a boy, an old man for all he cared - if they loved the band's music, he would look into their eyes and try to remember that face. Burn it into his memory, keep it in a box that he could pull from the drawers of his brain when he needed musical motivation.
Sure, there were times a fan or two was rotten. They'd ask invasive questions about his personal life, sometimes even alluding to sex. When he didn't reciprocate, they'd respond with a sense of bitter entitlement. Still, these self-proclaimed fans were far and few between. It was only a handful of times he had to rightfully tell someone to fuck off.
As for Yeonjun, he never cared how it went, unless someone didn't favor him — in which, he'd give the cold shoulder like a jealous child. He talked to fans as they all did, but there was always an underlying intention that Soobin found quite unsavory.
The guitarist would edge his way to the stage, crouch down like a tiger ready to pounce, and ask an exceptionally pretty fan, "Who's your favorite? Oh, me? Why is that? "
Less of an interaction so much as an ego boost.
Soobin understood the need for reassurance from fans. After all, wanting to share your music and make it on the charts and be known was already a form of narcissism he had long since admitted to, but that didn't mean it was his only reason for wanting to know fans. The support of the people kept him going, whether it be through a phone screen, the screaming of an audience, or personal meetings.
But like he was born to be, Yeonjun was different. He played the role of the flirt, the one band member that gave all the hardcore fans the deluded idea that they may someday be special to him in more ways than one. To be frank, it drove Soobin mad, even if the bands he admired were the same as the guitarist.
To put it into perspective, Mötley Crüe fucked their way through the crowd. However inspiring, in the prime of his career, Tommy Lee was a one-hitter, stripper-loving, cocaine-snorting bastard with now a whopping four marriages to boot, and Soobin just… wasn't the quintessential rockstar. And maybe the drummer sometimes wished he was, when he'd look at Yeonjun with a white nose, joint in hand, and someone on his arm during an occasional after-party.
Beomgyu, Taehyun, and Kai were tamer than their guitarist, but far off from the all-docile Soobin. The three were younger and driven by the spark of fame far more than him, which sometimes led the boys down a night of booze and faceless girls and, if they stumbled upon it, powder. But always, always, it was Yeonjun who rolled the bill, spilled the white, and chopped it with his card.
Meanwhile, Soobin veered off into the far corners where he'd wash down a beer; sometimes two or three, maybe five more, ten, and then a number he couldn't count past the haze. Still, the farthest he'd go was alcohol.
He knew better, in spite of his desperation to be what others considered a fucking rockstar. It was one thing to inadvertently adopt the status of a wannabe, another to be the embodiment of a rocker, and a whole other fucking ballgame to actually fall into the stereotype of an alcoholic, girl-fucking, cokehead band mate.
Soobin hoped he was, simply, a definition not meant to be understood. You could call him fake deep, but he was intent on reforming what it meant to be a rockstar. It didn't have to be about the sex and drugs. It could be about the adrenaline that came with the cacophony of a cymbal and the pounding of a bass drum roaring through the chest.
Regardless of his sentiment, the drummer always ended up beside himself when he'd be shoved into a crowd of strangers and pulled this way and that by his band mates. He'd have to watch them stumble into the bathroom and take a line to the nose off of a marbled countertop. Snot out blood into the sink, and do it all over again.
Perhaps, Beomgyu, Taehyun, and Kai weren't as tame as he'd said before. He just wanted to lighten it up for the sake of himself. Nonetheless, the fault laid with Yeonjun, and there was no one that could convince Soobin otherwise. The guitarist introduced them to the industry's dark side. It took time, but he did. And it was the younger members who had eagerly followed behind.
Revolving, a spindle in perpetual motion, Soobin resettled with the knowledge of his band mates being unyielding forces. In three years' time, he'd taken a hitch on its axle too many times to count. Dizzy, but anticipating; Soobin meeting fans ahead of the show set off a flurry of excitement in him. It had been a while since they last let fans in for soundcheck. It set him into overdrive. He was more than ready for the Nashville showing.
★★★
When it came, it was as exciting as he'd expected.
With no opening act, fans didn't have to wait for the band to come to the stage. And when they did, amidst fog that captured the neon lights and shaped the color into vibrant distortions, the flames spouting twenty feet tall, the roar was fucking breathtaking. Soobin was certain he'd never get used to it; the power that electrified itself through his palms gripped around his drum sticks, all the way up his arms, and into his head.
On stage, Soobin was himself, but elevated. Like a chest opened up, holding all of what made him the drummer he was, the key held in the hands of those in the crowd, screaming their names, singing to their songs, shedding tears of mixed emotion.
From the back, the drummer watched. His band mates had a way with their stage presence. Kai and Taehyun on solo mics, freeing them from the designated stands to dance around each other, seasoned and professional. When the steady climb of a song would begin, by the hands of Soobin and Yeonjun, they'd toe the edge of the stage and crouch, just feet away from those in the GA. It made the fans go fucking crazy, hands reaching out for men that were untouchable.
Beomgyu was on the milder side, but didn't hesitate to float from one end of the stage to the next with that vintage Falcon bass he'd worked hard earning, dragging his plugged wires behind him. Each pluck would compliment Yeonjun's own, giving an emphasis to the song that would feel empty otherwise. When he'd kick a foot up on the monitor speakers, close enough for the audience to see the sweat drip from his long hair, a roar would thunder across the venue.
And then there was Yeonjun. Famous for taking the stage as his own, smiting the air with his Stratocaster, striking to the eyes in its shade of Cobra Blue. Soobin caught the sight of him past one of the kit cymbals, falling to his knees in the dramatics of rock performance. He'd lean back, neck exposed and gleaming with sweat to the youthful crowd of those both in awe and lust. Narrowed, he'd stare into those same people - men and women - with a look close to teasing.
As a Strat slinger, his presence was as strong as the guitar itself. He knew how to manipulate the rush of the crowd, the strings beneath his fingers, the movement of song. Noiseless pickups gave space for his solos to shine, just as the man did himself; A beacon competing with the stage lights, and ultimately winning.
Soobin always lost himself in the moment. From the eyes he'd catch in the crowd, to his band mates, who'd sidle up to him and sing or play right in his face, like the re-imaginings of the rockers in the eighties - over the top, almost too much for the stage, but the fans consumed it without complaint, and rather, with gluttony.
Eventually, the concert would unravel. An end to the rush was something to be mourned, but the band made sure to go out with a fucking bang.
A song fading, the lights following behind. The crowd would continue their buzzing of screams and cries. And, expectedly, the chant of a wanted encore would begin. Desperate, demanding, defiant against the finality of a show to not be forgotten.
"Let's do this shit," Taehyun said, each and every time, when they'd freshen up within a solid two minutes behind the stage. Cobra Blue to Cerulean Ibanez, Vintage Falcon to Satin Black. Soobin always stuck to Hickory, the drumsticks meant for a hard-hitting rocker. Returning to the stage, the fans would scream as loud as they did during the initial opening. Drums kicking, guitar spitting, bass thrumming, vocals of sickeningly sweet ambrosia.
Then, a final chord. The lights would go out for good. The smoke would fade. The crowd would die out, but the adrenaline lived past it all. If not for the rush in his system, Soobin could find himself wondering if it were all a dream. It was the physical jitters of excitement that reminded him of where he was - feet on the venue floor, drum sticks held in his sweating and aching hands, clothes saturated as though he'd stepped out into torrential rains.
"It'll never get old," Beomgyu sighed, just as they'd swept off stage and away from the lingering onlookers, into the cold draft of the backstage.
"Never," Yeonjun responded, softened by a performer's satisfaction.
"Catch me at eighty years old still banging," Soobin said, pressing an ice pack to the back of his neck.
"With arthritis and all," Yeonjun laughed hard.
For once, without an air of derision, the drummer reciprocated with a laugh just as strong.