5. an incurable addiction to stage lights
It was snowing.
Big white flakes of it. Arthur could see them, whizzing by the window of his compartment. HE could barely make them out against the blreak grayish sky. They flew past in a blur, spinning once, twice, before blowing away into the distance.
Arthur shifted his long gray coat to the side and yawned. It was past two hours since he'd stepped on the train, the train taking him back home, back to Liverpool. London was nice, sure, but the underground scene in Liverpool was by far better than London's. And the capital city was starting to get under his skin for some reason. Perhaps it was just the accents. Or maybe it was just him. Either way, he was glad to be going home.
It was odd, Arthur mused absently, how fast the past two months had passed. He was probably only saying that now, sitting here on a train at the beginning of winter holidays, but he couldn't help but remember how he'd spent the months in the stairwells, with Mathias and Gilbert. Gilbert would be humming absently, Arthur fingering riffs on his guitars, and Mathias tapping his sticks on whatever surface he could find—the walls, the windowsill, the banister, and sometimes even Gilbert's head, given the chance. Then on Saturdays they would sneak out and have a proper practice in the abandoned warehouse behind Jager and Sadik's flat, with amps and drum kit and everything. It was coming along nicely, their band, Arthur supposed, looking out the window. They'd managed several covers of a couple of songs (relatively easy in skill level, though, he thought) and even attempted an arrangement of some American pop songs (at Gilbert's urging) which they got through. Barely.
It was good, though. Gilbert practised his bass constantly, and Jager taught him some vocal exercises that he did at lunch. It attracted their fair shares of odd stares, but Gilbert got better. And Mathias? Well, Mathias was just amazing. In the short two-month period, they'd gotten pretty far. Everyone, even Mathias the slacker, put out during practice and in between.
And now he was going home. Gilbert had borrowed his bass for the holidays, so it was just him and his guitars. It felt quite lonely.
He had to admit, he had gotten used to the companionship of the band. Mathias was silly and did whatever he liked, which was often grounds for a good laugh. As for Gilbert, he and Arthur still clashed head-to-head more than he'd like. Mathias often had to act as a mediator between them, but it was getting better. Arthur fought less with his roommate now than he did before, save for maybe their music tastes (well, bits of it), and the time they actually went to bed. But Gilbert was proving likeable and funny, and Arthur was slowly getting used to it. Slowly.
Actually, the only thing that Arthur really could not stand about Gilbert was Francis and Antonio.
Well, Antonio he could handle; the boy was not much more than a sadly oblivious sheltered child. Francis… Francis was a different story.
There was one particular night where they were all gathered in Arthur and Gilbert's dorm and studying (well, cramming, really) for exams. Arthur had been sitting by himself going over algebraic functions and popping crisps and biscuits into his mouth as he worked, when Francis had come over and asked him a question.
He didn't even rememeber what the question was. All he remembered was that frog's face close to his, those blue eyes oh-so-innocent and shy. Like that was going to sway him. It was like the frog didn't know what personal space was! Arthur had tried not to breathe in Francis's overpowering cologne and leaned away, muttering something like "go away." He hadn't wanted to take in too much breath.
Arthur wrinkled his nose at the thought of the French boy and leaned back into his seat. Best not to think about the slimy frog that the train was taking him away from. Instead—he groaned to himself slightly—he ought to think about home. Family. If he was right, then Erin and Liam woudn't be home until next week, and Ian would be off running around. Rhys—well he was always off smoking so who cared about him, really? The lad was always up to something dodgy, and Arthur didn't care to find out or get involved. Maybe he should just take a walk as soon as he dumped his stuff at the flat. Why hadn't he thought of that earlier? He was an idiot. A bloody idiot. He needed to take a walk around Liverpool again, like he always used to.
A voice on the loudspeaker crackled to life and announced that they would shortly be pulling into the Lime Street station, and Arthur stuck his iPod in the pocket of his jacket and stretched. Sitting in one place for such a long time did funny things to one's behind. He grabbed his bags and hauled him out of his compartment.
He felt better once he'd stepped out onto the street. It had been so long since he'd breathed in good old Liverpudlian air, cool and fresh in his lungs. He tucked his scarf in a little tighter and walked on. Well, a taxi took him to his flat, but he walked by himself up the stairs and through the door.
No one was home. Arthur felt a slight breath of relief as he picked through the disgusting dump that was their living room. In the months he'd been away, the dirt had built up into a thick layer on the carpet. On top of that a thick lining of dust covered the furniture. Ale cans still littered the carpet, and he gave a little shudder of distatste. Arthur wondered bitterly where Uncle John was. The old fart was supposed to look after them and keep the flat clean, but did he? Considering the mess, Arthur thought otherwise.
He dumped his stuff in a hidden place where Ian and Rhys wouldn't find it and mess with it, and headed out again.
It had been a long time since he'd taken a walk like this. He'd missed Liverpool. London had the Thames and the Tower and the Bridge and the big clock that had a fancy name, but it had nothing on Liverpool. He missed the city, the heritage, the familiar streets and buildings, the old and new skyscrapers and buildings and the pale sky. The sky was the same everywhere in England, but here, here Arthur could look up and smile and breathe in and say home.
Liverpool. Home.
He went down to the docks again. Albert dock. He went there only sometimes; there were usually too many people there for his liking. It was a tourist trap, it was, but he wanted to go there right then. The Beatles Story. Like if he could stand there long enough he might absorb Lennon's genius. Say the word to himself. Beatles, Beatles, Beatles. She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah.
The wind picked up and blew through his hair. It was cold, the shivers ran through his coat. He tucked his scarf around him closer, and stared at the white letters, ignoring the people that streamed past him, speaking all sorts of different languages and armed with cameras. The Beatles. Beatles, Beatles Beatles. What was he doing here? Inspiration? The dream to be great? He could feel it humming underneath his feet here, the sheer greatness and legacy of the Beatles. To be like them… if he could feel like that for an instant, if he could stand on that stage and hear the roar of the crowd… if he closed his eyes he could almost almost almost see it…
"Kirkland?"
Arthur opened his eyes and turned around to see Gilbert standing there, red jacket and jeans and everything. His pale cheaks were flushed from the winter chill. He was looking at Arthur with a surprised look, looking almost as equally as shocked as Arthur felt inside. He'd always been well aware of Gilbert's Scouse accent, but he'd never really processed that Gilbert was from Liverpool… until right then. With Gilbert standing in front of him, mouth slightly open, eyes round, hand half-raised and a single finger pointing at Arthur. Hell, Arthur hadn't even seen him on the train… but then remembered Gilbert had actually gone home a few days earlier.
"Er… Hi," said Arthur, feeling very awkward.
"Damn, Kirkland," Gilbert said. "You look… horrible."
Arthur looked down. He thought he looked fine, but he was starting to feel his skinny jeans slipped on a little bit too easily. Maybe he hadn't had enough to eat. It was a good thing that Roma hadn't seen yet; he would've gotten the scolding of his life.
"You should come round my place for dinner," the German boy continued. "My mum's making scouse."
The expression was so odd to Arthur's ears that he laughed. "What?"
"Yeah… like the stew." Gilbert raised an eyebrow. "Are you saying that you've lived here in Liverpool all your life and you've never ever had scouse?"
"No," Arthur said defensively. "I didn't know that it was a soup."
"Stew," Gilbert corrected. "Come on, you really need to have some. It's the best. And," he said, smiling conspiratorially, "I've got something to show you."
"You mean.. about…?" Arthur frowned.
"The band." Gilbert's violet-red eyes twinkled. "Exactly."
Arthur stared at him for a second.
"Sure," he said finally. "Why not."
Gilbert grinned. "Awesome."
.
"I'm hoooooome," Gilbert drawled, as he opened the door. He stomped on the mat to shake the snow off his trainers and walked inside easily. Arthur followed him into the flat, feeling suddenly out of place with his ragged punk clothes and bright red hair. The place was nice—not super-nice, but nicer than Arthur's flat. The walls were painted in soothing earthy colors and decorated with the occasional picture frame of Gilbert laughing at the camera, along with a younger, serious-looking blond boy and an older woman who had Gilbert's mischievous smile. Arthur felt a pang of loneliness looking at the photos, and thought of Roma.
"Arthur come on," Gilbert said, his voice drifting from farther inside the flat, and Arthur realized with a jolt that Gilbert had walked on without him. He hurried to join the other boy in the kitchen, where he sat at a table drinking a mug of tea. An older woman—Arthur recognized her from the pictures—stood at the stove, stirring something in a pot. It smelled of beef and carrots and all sorts of things that made Arthur's stomach growl.
"Mum," Gilbert said, hopping off his stool. "This is Arthur. Arthur, this is my mum."
"It's wonderful to meet you," Mrs. Beilschmidt said. She smiled, wiped her hands on the apron, and held a palm out for Arthur to shake. "Gilbert has told me so much about you!"
Arthur self-consciously took her hand, nodded as friendly as he could manage, and sat down. She placed a mug of tea in front of him, and he smiled awkwardly in thanks.
A small boy who Arthur also recognized from the photos walked into the kitchen, the spitting image of innocence and seriousness. His blond hair practically glowed as he looked up at his mother with blue eyes.
"Mutti?" he asked. "When will we have dinner? I'm hungry."
"Soon," she said consolingly. "We have guests now, come say hello"
The little boy glanced at Arthur blankly, shrugged, and promptly turned and trotted off. Arthur felt a frown creep onto his face.
"What… what just happened?" he asked.
"That's just Ludwig for you," Gilbert said with a laugh. "Adorable kid."
Arthur, seeing how the boy had just given him the cold shoulder, didn't think Ludwig was as cute as Gilbert gave him credit for. He wasn't about to challenge that, though. It wasn't a good fight to pick, and he'd already got a good idea of what would happen when he picked a fight with Gilbert.
"Gilbert, you and your friend ought to go play some video games to pass the time," Mrs. Beilschmidt said. "Until we have dinner, all right?"
Gilbert shrugged. "Sure. C'mon, Artie."
"don't call me that," Arthur protested, but the other boy had already gotten up and walked off, mug of tea in hand. Arthur sighed, got his own mug, and followed him into the next room, where a PlayStation 2 was set up. Gilbert was crouched in front of the console, fiddling with the buttons and wires that surrounded it. Arthur sat down.
Gilbert looked up. "Do you want to play Rock Band or Halo or what?"
Arthur shrugged. He didn't have video games at home, and he'd never bothered to try the ones Lovino had (as if Lovino would let him near the thing). It was too expensive and Arthur never really had time for that sort of thing.
Gilbert popped one of the disks in the system, and then handed a fake, plastic guitar to Arthur. "Have you ever played rock band before?"
"'Rock Band'?" Arthur wrinkled his nose at the guitar. It was far too light, and there were fake-looking buttons and decorations on it. It was just too… odd. Even the strap felt wrong to him.
"The video game," Gilbert explained. "Judging by that expression on your face, I'd say not."
"No, we never were able to afford this kind of thing." Arthur put his fingers awkwardly on the fake fretboard.
"Oh." Gilbert blinked. "Well, my dad used to do this a lot with this sort of thing. Video games, computer games…"
"Used to?"
"Yeah. He… died a couple of years back," Gilbert said quietly. His hands stopped fiddling with the controls. "Pancreatic cancer."
"Oh," Arthur said, taken aback. "I'm sorry. I… I mean, I know how you feel. I lost my mum when I was little. To, uh, sickness."
"I'm sorry," said Gilbert sincerely, and Arthur felt another bond forming with the German boy, a bond that only people who have lose a parent at a young age felt. It was hard to explain, that bond, something of unspoken and deep. Like a deep understanding of the other person that neither of them fully comprehended.
After a brief silence, Gilbert spoke. "I'm sorry for bringing that up," he said, turning back towards the system. "Yes. Okay. Let's play Rock Band."
"Yeah... about that, I still don't really quite… get it." Arthur blinked in confusion as Gilbert, laughing manically, hit the start button and brightly colored discs began to move across the screen. "Agggh!" he cried, fumbling with his guitar. "I don't know what's going on!"
Gilbert howled in laughter, still hitting notes easily. "Yess! I'm winning!"
"Shut up!" Arthur said, his eyes fixed on the screen. "You aren't winning!"
That wasn't true. Gilbert had a longer streak of notes and was colleciting al sorts of random bonuses. He was steadily beating Arthur in points, and when the song ended, he was in first place.
"Argh!" Arthur groaned. He fell back onto the couch, fake guitar still slung over his shoulder. "That wasn't fair at all…"
"Sure it was," Gilbert grinned and fell back on the couch.
"Shut up," said Arthur, but he was grinning. "I thought it'd be more like actual guitar."
"Aaaaand it's really not?" Gilbert laughed and shrugged.
Arthur yawned. "So what is it that you wanted to show me? Because I get a feeling that it isn't a video game."
Gilbert's eyes lit and he sat straight up. "Oh, yes. Yes yes yes." He disappeared briefly into his room and returned with a neon orange half-sheet of paper. It was just over the size of a postcard with big black letters on it.
Arthur raised his eyebrows. "What's this?"
Gilbert whipped the flyer in Arthur's face. "I, the incredibly awesome Gilbert Beilschimdt," he declared, "have gotten us a gig!"
"A what now?" Arthur blinked.
"A gig, you idiot!" Gilbert said, laughing (no doubt at Arthur's face). "A real gig with just us playing and not with the nannies Jager and Sadik either!"
"Really?" Arthur said, and bobbing and weaving, managed to snatch the flyer. "Where's this again? …"
.
"A 'Battle of the Bands'?" Roma read from the flyer. He glanced up at Arthur and Gilbert, who were standing side by side in Roma's living room. "Isn't that a little ambitious for a band like yours?"
"What's that supposed to mean?" Gilbert complained. "What, aren't we good enough?"
"No, you guys are pretty good," said the Italian, putting the flyer on the coffee table. "It's just I don't think this is quite your level."
Arthur's mouth dried up. "Really?" he croaked.
"Really."
Silence.
"I'm not trying to discourage you or anything," said Roma, "but if you guys want to do it, then that's your decision. If not, then well, whatever."
There was a sudden knock at the door, and Arthur and Gilbert, who had been standing there, dumbfounded, jumped. Roma stood up. "I'll get that," he said, and left.
Arthur sat down. Hs guitar case, still in hand, thumped on the floor heavily. Gilbert exhaled. They weren't expecting to see Roma return with Mathias Kohler.
Or rather, Mathias Kohler in those clothes.
He'd styled his hair in a wild fan as usual, but he'd put in streaks of turquoise blue in to accentuate its paleness. He then had a white T-shirt with a grungy design splashed across the front, along with text that Arthur couldn't read; it was loaded with tons of embellishments and dirty-looking splotches. Arthur thought that maybe it was something in some kind of Nordic languages, because it had a lot of umlauts and letter O's with lines through it. Over that he had bright red and green suspenders attached to dark grape-purple skinny jeans. To top it off, he had a silver dog-tag necklace around his neck and nerd glasses with plastic lenses.
Gilbert stared. Arthur stared.
"What the hell are you wearing?" Gilbert asked, eyes wide.
Mathias looked startled, then broke into a smile. "Oh… you mean, this?"
"Yeah," Gilbert said, with a strange look on his face. "That."
"Oh…" Mathias started. "Well, I was starting to think that all my football shirts weren't very drummer-y so I sorta kinda went shopping… Uh," he added nervously. "If that's okay."
Arthur laughed. "No, no, it's great. Now only if we got Gilbert to dress like that too," he said, eyeing Gilbert's saggy jeans and old t-shirt.
"Hey!" the German protested, but he was smiling.
"Okay, you silly boys," Roma said. "If you really want to go through with this, then you're going to need a set list."
Arthur looked up and was reminded of how much he'd really missed the Italian man when he was at SPQR. It wasn't anything mush or sappy like that. There was just this warm, happy, safe, feeling that bubbled up inside him whenever he was around Roma. Like nothing bad could ever touch him.
"So what songs do you already know?" asked Roma. He opened a package of biscuits that Arthur swore didn't exist till then, and began chomping away.
"Uh, Gilbert looked at the other boys. "Um… 'Take Me Out' by Franz Ferdinand…?"
"Anything else?" Roma pressed on.
"Er…" the German blinked and scratched his white-blond hair. His reddish eyes flicked towards Arthur. Arthur just shrugged. He didn't have much else to add. Their repertoire was pretty limited.
"How long are you going to be playing?" Roma consulted the flyer again. "What, thirty minutes?"
"Er, yeah." Gilbert again.
"Well, then, you're going to need some new material." Roma reached under the coffee table. "I think these would be good."
A pile of sheet music popped out from nowhere and Arthur took one and read it slowly. "The battle's in two weeks," he said rather uncertainly. "Are you sure we can learn this in that short amount of time?"
"Positive," said Roma, looking into Arthur's eyes.
"Well, yeah, actually," Gilbert said, scanning one of the pieces. "I mean, we've already tried some of these, haven't we?"
"This one looks really hard," Mathias commented, waving a paper covered entirely in ink-black notes. "Really… really hard…"
"Oh, that," Roma said, casually biting into another biscuit. "Well, that one takes practice. You don't actually have to do it."
Mathias put the paper down, still slightly white in the face. "So many notes," he muttered under his breath. "So… so many…"
"Nonno, nonno!" cried a familiar voice. "I'm home!"
In bounded Feliciano Vargas, flushed face smiling like always and a thick blue sweater thrown over his shoulders. His hair curl bobbed up and down as he slipped off his shoes and Arthur felt his face laughing slightly; Feliciano always had that bubbly, happy aura about him that made everyone want to smile.
"It's good to see you, Feli," said Roma. "We're just trying to think of a set list for Arthur and his friends here," he began, but was interrupted by Gilbert.
"Bloody hell," he yelled. "Bloody, bloody hell!" And with this he promptly ran up to the little Italian boy—who was looking very confused—and grabbed his cheeks, stretching them until Feliciano's face was deformed severely. He kept stretching them and letting up so that Feliciano's face rather resembled an accordion, and Gilbert the accordion player.
"Ahhhhhh?" Feliciano said through his stretched-out mouth. "Whaaaaaff goin' on?"
"You," Gilbert began, with one of the most un-masculine expressions on his face that Arthur had ever seen, "are so bloody adorable!"
Arthur stared. Across from him, seated comfortably on the sofa, a biscuit still in his hand, Roma was in hysterics, spraying little bits of Danish cookies across the room (which, as usual, Arthur ducked to avoid). On the contrary, Mathias looked extremely awkward, staring at Gilbert with a sort of strained, confused amusement. His nerd glasses were still perched on the bridge of his nose, but they kept slipping, and Mathias would often raise a finger to push them up. But in his dumbfounded state at the present he forgot, and they fell of his nose altogether.
Arthur slapped a palm to his face.
When everyone had recovered and Feliciano had retreated to his room to—well, Arthur didn't really know what—they'd all settled down and Roma had asked them one last question.
"All right then," he said, shuffling the sheet music together and putting them away under the coffee table. "What about… a name?"
A heartbeat of silence. "A name?" Mathias echoed blankly.
"Yes. A name. You know, for your band."
More silence.
"Les Beats," said Mathias.
"The Coal Miners," said Gilbert at the same time.
"Fantastik," said Arthur simultaneously.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Roma said. "Okay. How about we… er…"
"Fantastic?" Gilbert said to Arthur, with a raised eyebrow.
"No, 'Fantastik' with a 'k'." Arthur took out a pen and scribbled it on the back of one of the sheet music. "Like this."
"I like that," Mathias said. "It's brilliant. And quirky. And misspelled."
"And not long enough," said Gilbert.
"Who said it had to be more than one word?" said Mathias.
"I dunno, I just don't like it like that."
Arthur thought for a second. "Okay, how about 'Fantastic Boggle Nerds'?"
"I'm not sure if—" Roma began, but he was again cut off by Gilbert.
"Hell yes!" he exclaimed, and exchanged a sloppy high five with Arthur.
"And then we can shorten it to FBN!" Mathias said, matching the German's enthusiasm, and laughed.
"FBN it is!" Roma said, but his voice wobbled a bit uncertainly, and as he wrote it down, Gilbert snickered.
"Very nice," he whispered to the other two boys.
Arthur scoffed good-naturedly. It was going to be a long two weeks.
.
It never really struck Arthur how many wires went into a thirty-minute stage performance until right then.
They were just all over the floor, spilling out of boxes, flowing out of plugs, covering every single spare inch of stage. Arthur, walking through the dimly lit space, thought he might trip over one at any moment. The area smelled heavily of alcohol (a smell that always put Arthur on guard) and it was very warm, warm that even though the stage lights weren't at their brightest, he could still feel beads of sweat rolling down his neck and to the collar of his shirt. It was probably a bad idea to wear his tight leather pants and purple jacket but he figured he could just throw his jacket into the crowd during the show.
Around him people were milling around, carrying stage equipment and amps and instruments. Most of them were very tall, very burly people with stubble and tattoos completely covering their arms. They wore bandannas around their foreheads and leather vests and t-shirts. A lot of them were buzzed by the beer; Arthur could see the slightly flushed look that gave them away.
"Oi, Artie," Roma said from across the stage. "You could at least help out here and set up, yes?"
"Right," Arthur said quickly, after seeing Roma's impatient "Come on!" expression. He hurried to lift a pre-amp stacked on top of a normal amp, and Gilbert, on the other side, grunted.
"Is it just me," the German said in a strained voice, "Or do I get the feeling that we're going to lose?"
"You're the one who signed up for this!" Arthur managed to say through the effort of lifting the amps. Barely.
"These people are like, three times our age!" Gilbert groaned. "We're screwed! Going to fail!"
"Don't jinx it," Arthur ground out between his teeth.
"It's true!"
With this they set down the amps and straightened up to help Mathias assemble his drum set.
"I think I'm forgetting all my bass lines already," Gilbert muttered to his band-mates. "It's just trickling away, it is…"
"You think you've got it bad," Mathias said darkly. "I feel like I'm going to throw up on my floor toms."
"I still haven't seen my guitar since we got here," Arthur whispered, setting down the crash cymbal. "I swear Lovino stole it or something…"
A brief silence while they worked.
"…yeah, we're going to fail," Gilbert said, half to himself and half to the kick drum.
"No you're not." Roma's face loomed over them, and Mathias gave a great shout, knocking over a cymbal.
"Stop lying, Roma," Arthur said crossly. "I haven't even seen my bloody guitar yet!"
"Oh, that," the Italian said, and produced it, seemingly out of nowhere, with a flourish. He laughed at Arthur's face of shock and shrugged.
"Just wanted to keep it safe for you, is all," he said. He brushed hair off his face and stepped back. "Well, I'm off to the crowd. Best of luck to all three of you!"
"Wait, you're not coming?" asked Arthur.
"I have other business to attend to," Roma said with a wink. "No worries, Jager will be around to give you emotional support."
The three of them blinked confusedly as he walked off, one hand waving to them as he left.
"Well, I think we ought to set this up backstage," Mathias said, "because we really don't need it right now." Arthur followed his gaze to a group of university students dressed in suits walking towards the stage, all of them carrying various-sized equipment and amps.
"Shiiit!" Gilbert groaned as they hurried off the stage. "I thought we were playing first!"
"Apparently not," remarked Arthur dryly.
"What are we playing again? I forgot," Mathias whispered.
Arthur fished a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to him. "Set list," he said to the Dane's confused face. Mathias nodded and pored over it, sticks in hand.
Somehow the first band got set up very quickly and started playing. It was the group of college prats in suits from before, and no matter how stupid they looked, really, they were fantastic. They never rushed and despite their uptight, formal attire, they had energy and charm to their sound. Arthur got a sinking in his gut, a we're-not-going-to-make-it-out-alive feeling, one that confirmed Gilbert's declaration. He could feel the nervousness rattling around in him, his hands shaking like crazy, his knees wobbling. He tried to swallow, but it felt like he was chocking back hairballs.
Evidently the other two felt the same way. Mathias was clutching his drum sticks so hard his knuckles shone white, and he kept swallowing nervously like he was afraid of throwing up on his toms, like he'd said before. Gilbert had sunk to the floor, his head in his hands his pale face paler than pale. He kept muttering little snippets of German mixed with English that didn't seem to make any sense at all.
"Can I see them?" a soft, feminine voice said. It came from over… over somewhere.
"Usually, we don't allow non-performers backstage," said another voice, masculine and deeper. "But… they look like they could use the support."
"Thank you!" said the first voice, and then footsteps. Boots. Like the leather-slouchy boots Elizaveta Hedervary always wore.
"Hey," she said, walking in. Her green eyes blinked in surprise at the three boys. "Oh… are you all right?"
"Scheisse, Scheisse, Scheisse!" Gilbert muttered. "Peanut butter pancakes, ich heisse—" He cut off his stream of nonsense when he saw Elizaveta's curious gaze.
"I'll say no to that," Mathias said tightly. He still looked like he was going to throw up.
Arthur shook his head. He didn't have any objection, either.
The Hungarian girl blinked for several more seconds, then broke out into a grin. "I've got the perfect cure. Do as I do, okay?"
All three of them watching her intently, Elizaveta rolled up the sleeves of her coat and got down on all fours. "Come on," she urged, ignoring Gilbert's rapidly reddening face (his eyes, Arthur noted, were trained on the neckline—the low neckline—of her shirt). "On your hands and knees, all of you!"
They did as she told them. It must have been a silly sight, them on hands and knees on the dirty floor backstage. Because it was.
"Now," she said. "This is a simple drama exercise. I want you to all growl like a rabid dog!"
"What?" Arthur asked.
"That's easy enough for you," Mathias muttered under his breath.
"Do it!" Elizaveta sat back and put her hands on her hips, glaring at them with a look so reminiscent of their extremely strict history teacher that they all tensed up. "Growl!"
"Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!" they growled. Arthur felt very ridiculous.
"Louder!" she demanded. "I can't hear you!"
"RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!"
"Uh… sirs?" A person with a fancy headset looked in on the group. "Are you ready to go now? Because, uh, we're ready for you."
"What? Oh. Oh, yeah." Gilbert cleared his throat, and (it seemed to Arthur) suppressed a giggle. "Yeah, we're good."
"They're waiting." The fancy-headset guy left.
The three exchanged glances. "Well…" Mathias said. "What do you say we give 'em a show, yeah?"
Arthur laughed, and Gilbert grinned wickedly. "I say," the German declared. "We give them a hell of a show!"
"Let's do this!" Arthur agreed, and guitar in hand, his bandmates by his side, he walked on.
It was very tall. Very hot. Very big. Very intimidating. Arthur thought he might fall off the stage any minute; it seemed the world was so unsteady. Or maybe that was just him. The crowd was a huge, faceless monster perched beyond the stage (which really wasn't that tall, looking back in hindsight, but Arthur's vision was warped and weird), waiting anxiously for them to deliver. Arthur's head pounded, his chest was empty and hollow, like his heart was so nervous it was trying to escape. What I wouldn't do for that, too. To get the hell out of here.
What's wrong with you? said another voice in his head. You want to be here, don't you? You like performing, and you are going to going to go up there and play your bloody heart out, like you do with every single bloody performance.
"Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god," Gilbert muttered. "Oh my god."
"Smile and nod, just smile and nod," Mathias whispered.
Arthur forced a grin on his face, forced his feet to move, forced his eyes to look at the crowd. A hug black mass of people awaited him. There was chatter, yes, but overall people looked happy and curious. Their eyes, shining red and green from the colored stage lights looked up at the band with interest. Arthur could hear them talking.
"They're so young!"
"The drummer looks faintly sick."
"Do you think they'll be any good at all?"
"Who knows, honestly?"
Mathias sat down—Arthur thought lucky little ! he gets to sit!—at his drum set and crossed his sticks. Gilbert tapped the microphone and shrugged to adjust th e bass strap. Arthur swallowed and took his place at the left side of the stage, and tuned his guitar quickly. He took a deep breath, to call his nerves, but if anything, if anything, if made the nerves worse. God, he just wanted to be anywhere but here, just run off the stage and go…
Go where? Home? Arthur scoffed. He was home already. Onstage. Lips dry, head throbbing, knees wobbling and blood pounding in adrenaline rush.
"Helloooooooo Liverpool!" Gilbert said into the microphone. The crowd clapped and cheered, and this added fuel to Gilbert's fire. He grinned and laughed.
"Well, first of all, we'd like to thank the wonderful, wonderful people at Mickey's for providing us with this wonderful opportunity. Even though we suck."
Laughter. Arthur had to admit, Gilbert was a natural. His smile, his charm made everyone in the audience laugh… he just had that naturally outgoing aura that drew people to him. Including Arthur. Not that he'd ever admit it.
"We'd also like to thank all the other bands for being so awesome and making us sound like complete rubbish." Gilbert laughed, and so did the audience. "Okay, well without any further ado, our first song!"
Mathias tapped his sticks together four times and started off with the drum intro, quick and upbeat. He stood and felt the beat, nodding his head, feeling it sort of breathe through him, and beside him he heard the German breathe and begin.
"If I retreat…"
Arthur felt this rush, his hands unsure and shaky on its own, as his first entrance loomed closer and closer… It was only five notes, five short and quick and tinkly, but they were notes that led into the rest of the song.
"Make way, we're taking over here!" Gilbert sang into the microphone, and Arthur couldn't agree any more. They were taking over. This was their moment. They were here, they were ready, ready to take over, ready to make this their show. Set this place on fire!
The guitar was white-hot electric and on it, his fingers worked the steel strings, lick for lick, and he spun to the song. It flowed through his limbs and his brain, cold and energizing against his skin, but hot and electrifying at the same time. It was a peculiar feeling, but he couldn't get enough of it; he was addicted to it, to all of it, the bright lights and the roar of the crowd and high-pitched voice of the guitar, the sheer rush of adrenaline in his chest. It was better than anything, better than any high that Rhys could ever reach, better than alcohol or drugs or anything. Arthur didn't need pills. This, this was his drug.
"Let's kill tonight, kill tonight, show them all you're not the ordinary type…"
.
Gilbert was laughing as he walked off the stage, thanking the crowd and bass in hand.
"Awesome!" he said. "Pure, undiluted awesome!"
Arthur himself felt as giddy as his dormmate, his heart still pounding inside him. Everything was clearer and brighter, and he couldn't resist smiling. He couldn't disagree, either.
"Wotcher!" Roma exclaimed as they walked up to him. The Italian hugged Arthur briefly (causing the Brit to turn redder than he already was), clapped Gilbert and Mathias both on the back and then leaned back, a mockingly stern look in his eye. "Now go clean up; there are bands coming after you and you ought to respect them by clearing out."
"Yes, sir," said Mathias with a straight face, and laughing, they went to get their amps.
The band setting up next was very nice to them. They were about the same age as the first group, except they dressed more like normal people, with jeans and t-shirts. The oldest one honestly didn't look much older than twenty-five, with brown hair that flopped over onto his forehead. He somehow ended up working alongside Arthur in setup.
"You've got talent," he said, his brown eyes warm and kind.
Arthur ducked his head to hide his smile. "Thank you."
"No problem," replied the other bloke, and he proceeded to disassemble Mathias's snare from its stand.
The bubble of happiness burst when they finished packing away of the guitar cables. Not that their packing away annoyed Arthur at all. He was actually relieved to have been done with the clear out—cables were irritating to wind up. No, what burst his bubble was a very loud and obnoxious voice of a sixteen-year-old boy with thick eyebrows, green eyes and auburn hair.
"Oh, no," Arthur murmured. The horror was slow to come, but it was sinking in, and it was sinking in hard.
"What is it?" asked Mathias.
"He's going to kill me, he's going to bloody kill me," Arthur said, his voice barely more than terrified croaks.
"What?" pressed Gilbert.
Arthur swallowed and looked pointedly at his older brother of two years. The brother he hated the most.
Ian Kirkland was sitting in a crowd of people that were all about the same age as he, and all of them were wearing the same kinds of clothes: a roughly worn wifebeater stained with dirt, dark jeans and some sort of jacket, whether it was a bomber jacket or leather jacket or something else. Ian himself had a fitted denim jacket with sleeves rolled up and collar popped to frame his face. In on hand he had a cigarette and in the other a bottle of scotch. His face was twisted in amusement, as it always seemed to be nowadays. He stood casually, leaning against a wall and talking to some girl.
Arthur ducked behind Mathias's tall frame and hoped to god or whatever deity was up there that Ian wouldn't turn to look at him—
No, it was too late. Ian's eyes had caught sight of his brother, and they'd lit up with a malice that Arthur was all too familiar with. A hand beckoned him to come closer. A sneer scared him away. The blond boy swallowed and herded his bandmates away from Ian, still shaken and quivery. The giddy, happy, bubbly joy was gone now, replaced with dread.
"Who was that?" Gilbert said anxiously as they kept walking.
"My—my brother," Arthur said tightly, but his voice jumped an octave. Gilbert snickered, much to his annoyance, but Mathias was sensitive enough to ignore it.
"Your older brother?" the Dane asked.
"Yes. Ian." Arthur pressed his lips together, but then he ran into someone, someone who smelled like Drakkar Noir. He gagged and looked up slightly. That was a bad move. He could literally feel his face turn white.
"Hello, Artiekins," sneered Ian.
Arthur still tightlipped with shock and horror, said nothing. Gilbert next to him seemed to tense up.
"I saw you up there onstage." Ian jerked his head. "D'you want to know what I think?"
Gilbert opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, but a warning glance from Mathias cut his voice off. Arthur swallowed bitterly and waited.
Ian leaned in close enough that Arthur could smell weed on his breath. Arthur had to fight the screaming urge to move. Whether it was to run or to hit Ian (something he'd never been able to work up to) he didn't know, but it took every bit of self-control for him to not move.
"You," Ian said slowly, "suck."
Arthur said nothing. He couldn't' say anything. He was barely aware of Gilbert trying to escape Mathias's grip; his throat had closed up and his tongue had turned into lead.
"What could you possibly hope to accomplish by being in a band that sucks? You won't amount to anything!" Ian laughed. "There's my two cents. I'm off now… I've got women waiting for me, see."
And with one last sneer he disappeared.
The words echoed in Arthur's head emptily. Never amount to anything, never… amount.. sucks, you suck… a band that sucks… never amount to anything…
"Arthur?" Roma's voice floated out of nowhere. He couldn't hear except for the words in his head, echoing over and over again. God Ian was right. What was he doing, starting a band with two other people who barely knew how to play their instruments? The music in him had been silent since the month had started, and he hadn't written a song in forever. At this rate he wasn't going to. Like he was never going to achieve fame, like he was never going to fulfill that vision of glory from that adrenaline-shot night, he was never going to amount to anything; he was a waste of space, a waste of time, a waste of breath—
"Arthur!" and suddenly there was a warm, firm hand on his shoulder. "Arthur, snap out of it!"
The Brit turned to see Roma, and his insecurities broke. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a faint croak.
"Hey, it's fine, it's fine…" the Italian said. "Let's go.
Arthur's emotions crashed around in his stomach, stabbing his insides over and over again… no, not even Roma's arm around him would stop that.
"Tell me what's wrong. Really."
Arthur blinked blankly to Roma's gaze and said nothing.
"Arthur."
"He said… he said that we sucked," Arthur said quietly. "I was… never going to amount to anything."
The Italian man was speechless for a minute. "Oh, Arthur," he said finally, and gave his protégé in a bone-crushing hug. They stayed like that for a minute or two, Arthur's stress and worthlessness melting away in the arms of the only father he'd ever known.
"I'm sure you did fine, Arthur," Roma said. "That performance there, that was brilliant. You were wonderful, Mathias was on the beat, and Gilbert's voice was brilliant. That performance was magic."
And Arthur believed him. Roma believed in him, so he believed in him. Anything that came out of that mouth was true.
Except then they found out their place.
They didn't place first.
Not second.
Not even third.
In fact, Fantastic Boggle Nerds didn't place at all.
.
Author's note~
I'm sorry this was so late! . School hates me. Let's put it that way. And also, we're moving into our new house so no computer for the moment. I've had to type at least 40% of this chapter at school… I'm at school right now. Agghg!
This, unfortunately, means slower updates. Hopefully this long, 7160-word chapter made up for the intermission. The next chapter won't be too long, I think so I'll try and get it up quickly, promise on Iggy's brows XD
It's actually better if you follow me on tumblr (thelastfortyfeet dot tumblr dot com) because 1) I tend to update earlier there than on Fanfiction, 2) I put previews there sometimes and 3) I put doodles of Arthur and crew there sometimes too. So … extra bonus stuff, find me on tumblr. Yeah /sweatdrop
The song they're playing is "Let's Kill Tonight" by Panic! At the Disco. I'm not sure if they're known at all in the UK but it is a damn good song!