#drummer!reader

It was never supposed to lead to this.

You were just the drummer for a local girl band playing in the same area Vans’ Warped Tour happened to be playing in over the weekend. You weren’t even apart of the festival, only playing outside by some stands selling vulgar tshirts and hotdogs. It was modest, but still— you felt like you’ve really made it. Even in the back, playing the drums behind your guitarists and lead singer, you wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

Well, almost anything.

The news of My Chemical Romance’s newest drummer quitting had spread like wildfire over the last couple of weeks. He had already been so new and for him to quit right before a major tour was practically begging for the information to leak, leaving the band with no choice but to bring in substitute drummers for each of their sets. It piqued your interest when you heard about Patrick Stump standing—sitting, really— in for the role of drummer. But Patrick was the lead singer of Fall Out Boy and had other pre-existing commitments, meaning he couldn’t continue on forever with My Chem…

Which is the reason you now find yourself in the current position you’re in. Your bandmates staring back at you intently, biting their lips in anticipation while a man with a headset and a badge labeled with both “Tour Manager” and “My Chemical Romance” laminated onto it with a glossy finish. You could feel the sweat prickling on the back of your neck, your eyes flickering between your friends and the rather impatient man.

You had intended to tell him no, and that you can’t just abandon your friends, but your lead singer cuts you off as soon as she notices you move your lips.

“She’ll do it” She says firmly.

You shake your head, standing up in protest. “Gabs, no— I don’t wanna just be some hired gun that gets let off at the end of the night. Not when you guys need me.”

The man informs the four teens in front of him, with a sour expression on his face, that if the drummer (meaning you) can learn the setlist before the show tonight, that would be ideal and if not then there’s other people the job could go to.

“You will be taking this if it kills you.” Gabby grits through her teeth, her stare boring through you. You try to look at the others, see if they’ll take your side, but it seems that they all stand with Gabs, and all share the same expression that says more than enough—that it’d be stupid to pass up this opportunity.

So that’s how you had found yourself sitting next to two other guys, one maybe a bit older than you, the other much older than you, though both gripping cheat sheets that looked just like yours with shaky palms. You didn’t blame them, though, their reasons for not wanting to screw it up might be entirely different than yours but still important nonetheless. One had his iPod headphones in his ears turned up just loud enough you could hear the rhythm of drums stand out. You’ve listened to My Chem plenty of times, sure— even if you weren’t a fan it’d be hard to escape them these days.

One by one you’re ushered to a room in the back of a small building where you can hear them. It’s sorta like an audition process, with the first guy leaving 4 minutes in and the second guy, the younger one who’s pants you notice are sagging, lasting all of 30 seconds before they’re calling you back to play. You quickly shuffle through your bag to retrieve your drumsticks, almost tripping over your own feet in the process.

You should’ve expected more than just the Tour Manager— Brian, he called himself— back here to seemingly evaluate you, but in your rush to at least figure out how to pretend you know what you’re doing you didn’t even take a moment to consider being judged by a band member, let alone the four that remained.

One wore glasses and held a cup of coffee from a local chain you recognized. Another—dark haired, with a lip ring— bounced his leg incessantly. A curly haired guy sat hunched over his guitar, rubbing his temples. The only one you actually recognized was the frontman, Gerard. He almost looks like some regular guy outside of the costumes from the music videos you’ve seen at your friend’s houses. You introduce yourself quickly at Brian’s request, your hands becoming shaky for reasons you can’t place, with the room feeling smaller than when you walked in. Nobody looks up at you for very long.

“How many left?” The one with glasses asks Brian, rocking on the soles of his feet.

“She’s the uhh, last one, looks like. We’ve got the room for another fifteen minutes and should be making good timing for sound check.” Brian says quickly, scribbling stuff down on his clipboard while the guys nod in unison.

You force yourself to tearing your eyes away from the band members and onto the floor in front of you, leading you to look at a drumset that’s different than your own in several ways that you won’t have any time to adjust to.

A throat clears to the left of the room, where Gerard sits. You look over to him, eyes flickering between the members again. You expect these guys to be impatient, with how they all look practically dead on their feet and it isn’t even noon. You’re surprised they haven’t sent you on your way yet. After all, you don’t really fit the poster look they’ve given themselves. And you’re a girl. You’re brought out of your semi-spiraling by Gerard’s mouth moving, with words coming out— words you should be paying attention to!

“I’m um.. I’m sorry, can you repeat that?” You mentally facepalm yourself, and a couple of the band members snicker to themselves but Gerard waves back at them to hush.

“Geez, okay.” He sighs, bags clinging under his eyes. “First off— have you ever even auditioned before? Brian here told us you’re in a band.” You shake your head, bracing yourself to be dismissed for any minor detail. It’s ridiculous, and you know that. Still, your luck wasn’t looking too great from where you’re starting out from.

Gerard clasps his hands together, checking his watch and chewing in his lips in thought. “That’s fine, uh… well do you know anything from the setlist? Off the top of your head?”

“Yeah, that last guy couldn’t even play Helena— that’s our closer, man!” The one with dark hair laughs.

“I can play Helena.” You blurt, waiting for a sign to continue. Gerard just gestures to the set.

You ended up lasting longer than the first two.

It started off as you expected, you hummed your way though Helena’s tempo. They had asked you to play two additional from the setlist from memory. Each one felt distinct and different from the other, almost like it was intended to make you slip up, and with this unfamiliar drumset, you did. Several times.

The first time was the most memorable, at least for you. The others could have been viewed as purposeful, a “stylistic choice,” if you will. Your right hand had reached for a tom that wasn’t where your own kit kept it, only to be met with a brief, dull crack! You could feel heat rushing to your face as everyone’s heads turned to look up at you in that moment, your movements hesitant just for a beat…

You nearly apologized out of compulsion. Instead you dug your heel into the kick pedal and jumped back into the groove as if the mistake had never happened.

From then on you watched and anticipated your own moves with as much precision as possible, not missing foot melodically tapping in front of you.

You did however, miss the silent nodding along. Ray looks up from the floor toward you, nudging Gerard with his shoulder. Frank had stopped bouncing his leg and instead decided to be just fixated on your movements as you had been.

At any moment they could’ve dismissed you, you want to allow yourself to at least be a little hopeful that they didn’t. You like to think you did the absolute best you could, having never actually auditioned for anything before. Your band with your friends had been formed with you in mind for the drummer in the first place, and so it didn’t make sense for you to audition like your bassist, Gene, and your rhythm guitarist, Lucy, did.

Moving past the songs you had time to prepare for, you had been given a drum chart with the expectation to play to the best of your ability— “whatever feels natural” or whatever the guy with the curly hair— Ray, you remind yourself— had pointed out from beside Gerard, his forehead going to rest on his palms as he stared at the floor. No doubt this wasn’t exactly ideal for them, and they had a show to play. You wondered if at least have a stand in for tonight available, seeing how quickly they were able to turn down the others.

Once you were done, trying not to make your labored breathing too apparent, they had sort of hushed themselves and formed a lazy huddle. You were dismissed from the room almost immediately. You had expected a weight to have been lifted off of you upon coming to the end of the audition, but instead it felt as though the air around you had just gotten heavier, pulling your lungs and shoulders down with every defeated step you took out of the small building, the clap of your cheap sandals against the flooring louder than you remember…

The sun freely shone in your eyes as soon as you walked out of the tinted front door, you could already feel sweat start to build up under your clothes from the unforgiving summer weather. You sighed, whipping out your black mobile and waiting for the other line to pick up.

You knew Gabby well enough to when she answered the first thing out of her mouth would be a bombardment of questions, you just answered what you could, partially being interrupted by questions from Gene, who had been in the background, until they were satisfied and you could finally ask to either meet back up with them or for a ride home so you didn’t have to walk in 90° weather. She hangs up as she’s shutting the door to her car. You’ll buy her ice cream or something else on your way back as a thank you, you suppose.

Finding an area underneath a couple of trees, you wait, unsure of just how long it’ll take for her to get here. If you look behind you, you can see part of the tour, with the booths and the stage in the distance. The booths you had been playing at earlier, and the stage you no doubt were not going to get a chance to play on. But that’s what you wanted in the first place, right? To just play with your friends. It was there idea for you to audition, not yours. Still, there’s a weight in your chest you just can’t place.

Bzzzt!

Your Nokia vibrates, you feel around for where you had put it only a few minutes ago. Your pockets were empty, leading you to fish around in your drumstick bag.

Bzzzt! Bzzzt! Found it!

You click the answer button, not looking at the caller ID— you assume it’s Gabby or Gene, they must be here somewhere, you squint your eyes to see through the bright California sun but there’s still no sign of them or the car.

“It’s a building at the end of seventeenth— bright yellow roof.” You say, zipping up your bag and holding the phone to your ear with your shoulder.

“Where’d you run off to?“ Brian’s voice cuts through, muffled by static and some loud noises on the other end. Your surroundings seem to fade into the background, your search for the girls forgotten.

Subconsciously, you lungs stagnate while you hold your breath, anticipating his next sentence.

“You still there? This is that er, girl drummer, right?” He asks. Despite nobody actually being present, your cheeks heat up as you realize your mistake.

“Yes! I’m here!” You exclaim. You bite your lower lip, not sure where the sudden eagerness came from. “Is everything alright?”

“I asked if you’d wait outside the room, not the damn building, c’mere!”

“Sure, sure, for uh… more auditioning?”

“No, that’s done. Now if you’re not back here in 30 seconds you’ll lose the gig.”

Oh. Oh! Oh my god!

You start toward the door as Brian hangs up, breathing out a sigh of relief. Your body feels lighter, practically running as another caller enters the line.

This time it actually is Gabby, you can see her green Honda Civic pass, the creak of her breaks as she pulls up behind you. But by then it’s too late to go back, you’ve already shut the door behind you without time for a second glance.

You’ve played at this particular location plenty of times and you always enjoy the energy of the crowd every single time. You and your friends/bandmates played as much as you could, some of them being original songs and others being covers of other songs by your favourite bands. This time, you all mutually agreed to play a song by a band you all loved and made sure that you were ready before the night came for you to perform.

This place will never cease to mean a lot to you. You’ve made so many amazing friends while watching other bands perform and it’s a place for you to just scream and shout at the top of your lungs. You always think about how much it has done for you while you sit behind your drumset on the stage before one of you has to kick off the song.

Playing the drums used to be a way for you to let out any anger and any other emotions without actually hurting anyone but now it’s one of the things that brought you and your friends together before forming your band. It’s important to you no matter how many times your parents make not-so-subtle comments about it not being a one hundred percent sustainable career path and that it was a phase you’ll grow out of, even though it’s been years. While you love them dearly, you still wish that they would be a little less judgemental of something you enjoy.

You don’t let any thoughts consume you as you let the song carry you, hitting every beat as the bass vibrates through your body. You never get tired of nights like this and sometimes you wish they could last forever. Sometimes, it’s moments like this that makes it feel like home and you don’t want it to end.

The rush is still there even after you finish the song and join the crowd for the next performance with your friends. The night is just filled with loud music and screaming and jumping around and you just know you’re going to end up sleeping in late the next day.

“Having fun, eh?” a deep voice with a thick accent says loudly from behind you over the music.

You turn around and see a tall guy with many facial piercings and a studded leather vest looking at you. You’ve seen him around enough time to know who he is. Every time he performs, he’s always performing with a different band, claiming he doesn’t believe in consistency.

“Tonnes! Here to enjoy the show, Hobie?” you ask as you turn around to face him.

“That’s for me to know and you never,” he answers nonchalantly and you smile as you shrug your shoulders.

“Suit yourself,” you reply as one of your friends grabs your wrist and pulls you through the crowd so you’re closer to the stage.

You don’t know how much time passes and frankly, you don’t care. But eventually, you do get tired and you want to go home so you and your friends leave. You all end up separating along the way until it’s just you until you hear that familiar voice calling out your name.

“You following me, punk?” you question with your hands in your pocket.

“I happen to embrace that term, but no. I just happen to be going this way too,” Hobie says as he walks alongside you. “What was that song you and your mates played tonight? It’s quite catchy.”

“It’s a song by one of our favourite bands. ‘Sweet Blasphemy’ by Black Veil Brides,” you say as you glance at him.

“They sound cool. I might check them out some time,” Hobie says and you hum as you keep walking.

“That song always stood out to my friends and I. It just says everything I’m thinking,” you sigh.

“Music always says something. Everyone is always able to relate to something,” Hobie says and your black-painted lips turn upwards into a crooked smile.

“Are you gonna perform next time? Maybe with a new band? I mean, since you don’t believe in consistency,” you laugh and Hobie nudges your arm with his elbow.

“You nevermind that,” he chuckles which just makes you smile.

“I’ll be honest, I can’t imagine being in a different band all the time. These are my friends and we’ve done too much together to just dip and join a new band just to dip again and join another,” you sigh and Hobie nods as he looks forward.

“You’re committed. I respect that,” he says and you just shrug your shoulders. “What do your folks think of your killer passion?”

“They don’t exactly hate it but they just think I could do something more meaningful and have an impact on the world,” you reply as your shoulders sag.

“Who says music can’t be meaningful and have an impact on the world?” Hobie questions.

“That’s what I said but I guess that’s just how parents are. They want what’s best for you but they want it done their way,” you sigh but smile. “But enough about that. Maybe it’ll be you on that stage next time.”

“We’ll see,” Hobie laughs as he watches you leave.

ENDNOTES ─── to get notified as soon as possible, follow @faeslibrary turn on post notifications.

© 2023 faerieemetal. do not copy, repost or translate.

*****

“Please?”

“No.”

“…Pleeease?”

“…Noooo.”

“Pretty please?”

“Why are you like this, Munson?”

“Because I’m desperate and will do anything. You’re my only hope.” He batted his unfairly long lashes and you were melted candle wax. “Please?”

You spun around quickly and walked away, leaving Eddie Munson to stand alone on the sidewalk, watching after you, arms thrown out wide in exasperation. Then you called back over your shoulder. “I’ll be there. 6:30. And you better have a kickass set or I walk.”

And that’s how you found yourself nearly exiled from your family for joining Corroded Coffin, a ‘sure-fire ticket to hell’, according to your mother.

*

“Ladies and Men - I know you’re not too gentle out there - please put your sweaty hands together again for Corroded Coffin!”

With a lazy flourish and a flash, the faded lights spin back and illuminate the tiny stage.

The back of the stage is shrouded in shadow and from the darkness a creaking sound echoes. Four doors swing open and from the deep black coffins standing upright along the back, four bodies emerge. It was, admittedly, your only party trick.

You step out and forward, taking your place behind the drumset. Your eyes watch as Jeff finds his placement, Gareth then takes his mark, and finally Eddie Munson steps up to the center microphone, one hand holding his guitar steady while the other grips the mic, pick trapped between pointer finger and thumb.

“Big thanks to you all for coming here every week - I know you don’t come for us, you come for the liquor, BUT-“ Eddie’s voice reverberates through the undersized venue, “we can’t seem to chase you away either. So that’s something.” He shrugs and pulls his hand from the mic, letting it fall to the face of the guitar as it begins to strum its intro to the first ever song the band had written.

As Eddie begins, you take your seat, sticks in hand, poised in waiting over the snare drum, foot at the ready for the first bass kick you so anticipate every night. That bass drum kickoff is one of your favorite moments. Taking your cue, Jeff and Gareth join the fray, the bass and keys filling the empty air with metallic thrums and heart-thumping rhythms.

As was with every performance to date, the night flies by in a whirlwind. You toss your head back and forth in rhythm with your beating and the sweat rolls down your forehead and the back of your neck. The tshirt you wear sticks to your skin and the black jeans you love inhale heat and trap it against your skin.

It’s a sweaty existence under the stage lights despite their dilapidated appearance, but the thrill is worth it all. When the crowd of four, or six, or if you’re lucky, nine cheers for the finale, you raise up to stand, your sticks in one hand and a water bottle in the other. The final song of the set comes to an epic conclusion with one final double beat, then you turn the bottle upside down and let the water splash down over your face, through your hair, and over the top of your tee. It’s an end of show tradition, your attempt at cooling down while disguising the sweat-matted mess you become over the course of the set. You have to look somewhat presentable in case you meet a fan - if there are any.

To the sounds of fading applause, you retreat to the back dressing room - really it’s an old storage room your band had demanded be transformed into a dressing room for your now regularly scheduled performances. Eddie gives his post-show high-fives-turned-hugs to Gareth and then Jeff. Then he turns to you.

“Another sick beat, Y/l/n.” He repeats his greeting to you and he feels the sticky wet of your shirt and the wet tingle of your hair against his cheek.

“Nothin compared to you, oh fearsome leader.” You pull away and feel Eddie’s hand at your back, the heat soaking through the already overheated portion of your back.

“Who’s down for a little after party at my place?” Eddie asks as he turns to place his beloved ruby toned baby into its case. Post-show rituals are a must, but you’re shocked to hear silence meet Eddie’s request.

Jeff looks guilty and Gareth is a tangle of nerves. Gareth speaks first. “I would, but I- I can’t. I’m on the cusp of being banned from the band for the rest of my life if I don’t make it home by curfew.” He runs a hand through his hair and turns away to avoid the daggers of disappointment he knows Eddie is throwing at him.

“And you, Jeff? Do you have somewhere to be, too?” Eddie looks to the other boy who can’t seem to keep eye contact.

“Sorry, man. I made plans for tonight. First date, gotta make a good impression or it’ll be my only date. Can’t be late.” Jeff checks his wristwatch. “Which I’m almost late for anyway. Lucky she’s out there waiting.”

Gareth slaps his friend on the back, you give him a smile over your shoulder while you pack your bag and secure your sticks into their holder.

“Okay okay, so I can see this band means NOTHING to you people.” Eddie exaggerates his expression and throws his hands up dramatically.

“Eddie,” your tone is almost scolding, “you can’t be upset that they have lives and you don’t.”

“Oh I don’t have a life?” Eddie steps up closer to you, eyebrows raised in question.

“No, you don’t. Other than being here and wasted off your ass at home. Tell me I’m lying.” You step up to challenge him, chests inches away.

“You didn’t mind being wasted off your ass with me last week.” His narrowed eyes and snarkiness is invigorating.

A chorus of “ooooh” sings out from the other boys and they back their way out of the room, letting you and Eddie to have it out.

“Maybe I felt bad for you having to drink alone on a Friday night.”

Eddie deflates. “You don’t have to make it sound so pathetic.”

“If you’re pathetic, so am I.” You spin and bump his shoulder with yours, reaching down for your bag. “Let’s go, loser. I’m not getting any younger.”

And with that, you grab Eddie’s arm and pull him toward the back door where his van awaits.

Then after loading up all of your equipment - amps, instruments, and a pack of warm beer you found hidden behind a pile of boxes - Eddie drives you both to his trailer in a comfortable silence, a necessary reprieve from the pounding of the previous few hours.

As soon as the van comes to a stop, you hop out and let yourself into the home. You drop your bag by the door and head to the fridge, tossing in the warm pack from the Hideout and cracking open a cold one - the first beer of the night. Eddie reaches past you and grabs one as well, but he drains his immediately and collapses on the sofa, exhausted.

“I forgot a change of clothes, so I’m stealing something of yours. I’ll be right back.” You set your can on the counter and attempt to shake out the remaining moisture from your hair before heading down the hall toward Eddie’s room.

“The wet look is hot, Y/n. I think it’s the reason the crowd comes back every week.” His sing-songy voice reaches you and you stop in your tracks.

A heat creeps up your cheeks. You should be used to his antics and comments by now, but you can’t deny the thrill of chasing your band leader’s approval and attention.

You spin to face him, hair still tinged with droplets of water. You walk slowly, almost menacingly, over to him. When you’re standing just over where he is slumped on the couch, you lean down and shake your head one more time, laughing as drops go flying in every direction. You were truly well and soaked after the show, and Eddie was feeling first hand how long it takes for you to dry off.

“Ah, what was that for?!” Eddie leans away and half-falls-half-crawls off of the couch, then stands up and makes a show of wiping his face off. You straighten and look at his surprised expression.

“Well if one wet drummer can bring four whole people to the show, imagine what a wet lead guitarist could do.” You step closer, a mischievous glint in your eye, and Eddie steps backward. You see your target on the table behind him, and you subtly reach down to retrieve it.

“I’m not sure that’s completely necessary actually.” There was a nervous quiver to Eddie’s retort. His breathing had intensified and his heart’s pace picked up at the close proximity. He had meant what he said, you looked great wet. And now, standing so very close to you, each detail of your face a work of art, he was nervous like he had never been nervous before.

You scrunch your face up as if thinking deeply of his rebuttal, but you have something already in mind. “Oh, but I think it is. Here, let’s practice.” And with a swing of your arm, you bring up the open water glass that had been left on the side table for who knows how long, and pour it atop Eddie’s head, snickering as you watch the streaks of water slip through his tangled web of hair and down over his face.

It all happens so fast, Eddie is shocked. But he recovers quickly enough to grab you before you could scamper away. “Oh no you don’t.” He utters as he wraps his arms around your middle and pulls you back, toward him, your back connecting roughly with his chest. Then he shoves his head into your neck where his hair tickles and the moisture seeps into your skin.

Your laughter rings out in the trailer, filling the trailer and your heart.

After Eddie loosens his grip and you manage to spin to face him, you let out another laugh at the look on his face. His curly hair is now plastered across his forehead, a few strands stuck to his mouth. You reach out without thinking and brush them out of the way, your fingertips sending tingles over his skin at the touch.

“I was right.” You grin cloyingly at him, suddenly very aware of how vibrant his eyes were and how warm his body felt so close to yours.

“About what?” His eyebrows furrow in confusion.

“The wet look works on you too. You’ll drive the ladies mad.”

“I don’t care so much about that actually.”

Now it’s your turn to be confused. “Isn’t that every guy’s dream for a band?”

“Eh, for some,” he shrugs, “probably. But when you already have what you want, those things don’t really matter.” His eyes grow serious and you are taken by surprise. He’s looking at you with such genuine curiosity and intrigue. You have never felt so exposed before, the way he looks at you is so… passionate.

“So you already have what you want? And what is that?” Your voice doesn’t feel like your voice. It’s softer and more timid.

“I’ll give you one guess.”

Eddie is impossibly close and his bottom lip nervously tucks itself behind the top, a nervous habit. You find yourself noticing these kinds of details and it sends a fluttering feeling through your stomach.

You tip your head slightly up and down in a subtle nod, your hint to him that if he was going to go for it, you wouldn’t object.

So he did. Eddie presses his lips to yours hesitatingly to which you happily reciprocate.

And it was like a switch was flipped, one moment you were almost nervous - quite out of character from your usually boisterous selves - and the next you were hungry and desperate.

You feel Eddie’s hands slide around your body, roam across your back and down to your backside.

Your arms loop around his neck and you pull him impossibly closer. Your lips battle for control, feeding a hunger you had both suppressed for weeks, months.

You feel Eddie’s tongue swipe against your top lip and you and you eagerly accept, the battle for control now a war.

But the war is short-lived as the ferocity settles and you both sink into a contented waltz, lips dancing in perfect rhythm. His hands still roam your body, finding skin beneath the skin-tight shirt. And your hands slide out from around his shoulders and instead grip onto the curled strands of his still-wet hair. You sink your fingers into his mane and he smiles against your kiss.

“You were right.” Eddie mumbles against your lips, the friction of his whisper sending chills along your cheeks.

You smile and pull back just an inch, hating the distance but not being able to miss the opportunity. “Say that again, I like to hear that.”

Eddie twists his head to laugh, but turns back to you with a serious look. He nudged your nose with his. “You were right.”

“I was… about what, exactly?” You ask, smiling up at him. New admiration for the metalhead shines in your eyes and he relishes in it.

“The wet look. I think we might need to do this again next time.” He winks and your heart almost beats out of its chest.

Two weeks later

“Here they are… Corroded Coffin!”

A round of applause precedes the inevitable emergence of the four band members from the signature coffins aligning the back of the stage. As always, you each take your place and ready yourselves for that momentous first downbeat.

You throw your sticks in the air and hit the tom hard, giving your whole self to the performance. You hit each beat with precision and grin madly at the rush it brings you. Then you look up, your hands and feet following instinctive repetition, to watch the back of Eddie’s form silhouetted in the dirty yellow lighting beyond.

Eddie throws his head back and you watch in awe as his wild tresses are tossed around.

A few times throughout the night, Eddie turns his back to the crowd, facing you head on, as he shreds his solo and you meet his energy with a tremendous twang of the cymbal and the rumbling power of the bass pedal.

The crowd, having tripled in size in the past two week, cheers unrelentingly for the high energy performance. Then as the ending nears, you revel in the sweet sound of the audience asking for more. So you give the people what they want.

The encore, something you had never actually had to give before, is beyond epic. Jeff is pulling out moves you didn’t know he had, Gareth has a wild glint in his eye. And Eddie is absolutely radiant with utter elation. This is a dream coming true one week at a time.

At the final clash of the high-hats, the final beat of the drum, and the final strum of the guitars, the song comes to an epic conclusion.

With one hand holding your water bottle and the other holding your beloved sticks, you raise to your feet and tip the bottle, feeling that cold refreshment wash over you. Looking up just in time, you catch Eddie doing the same, your eyes glued to the way the water droplets shine as they fall over his curly mane and down to his band tee.

It’s addicting, the sight he makes. And you know instantly why the crowd had increased since his first attempt at the action last week.

The wet look… yeah, it’s a real crowd pleaser.

*****

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The other guys have already left through the back of the building.

“You would’ve gone with them if you hadn’t wandered off.” Brian sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. He takes a card out of his back pocket— a black laminated lanyard with bold words printed onto it. 

“Backstage pass, just tell ‘em you’re the drummer. I don’t have time to hold your hand through this.”

He hands you loose papers— schedule, a copy of a setlist. You shove them into your duffel, your drumstick bag sloppily peaking out of it.

Pulling the lanyard over your head as he waves you off, you exit out of the back of the building.

Your phone has been buzzing nonstop ever since you Brian called you back. You don’t have time to check it, opting to put it on silent for now and fill your friends in on everything when you’re done. Whenever that will be…

Getting through security is another ordeal entirely.

One guard studies your badge for potential counterfeit, asking for any other forms of identification.

“I uh, have a drivers license, is that good?” You ask, pulling the card from your wallet. They nod, mumbling something into their radios and waving you through. 

The prospect that you’re probably already too late gnaws at the back of your brain, but as you step to the “backstage” you realize you really can’t turn back anymore. It stretches for at least half a mile, with more semi-trucks and smoking electrical wires than you had anticipated. The place was packed, as well, looking almost like the booths out front. Workers bustling, a couple of bands rehearsing, and some skateboarders you have to dodge. Noises from the vehicles and the bands make it almost impossible for you to hear yourself think. You stop for a second, pulling the papers out of your bag to see if they can provide any answers…

Okay… Where exactly are you supposed to go?

Before panic has a chance to settle in, someone in an event polo notices you standing in the middle of the walkway, looking you up and down before glancing at your badge.

“Who are you with?” They ask, their voice raised so you can hear them over the chaos. You flip your badge around, revealing the shiny “My Chemical Romance” print on the back. The stranger gives you a quizzical look, raising your lanyard to get a closer look at it, forcing you to step a little too close to them than you’re comfortable with.

“My Chemical Romance, hm? You look a bit young.” You just nod, not wanting to draw any attention to yourself by backing up. 

“You seem new, c’mon, lemme show you where to go.” A toothy grin spreads across their cheeks, seemingly inviting until they drop your lanyard and take your wrist in a grip that has your hand growing cold from the pressure.

You’re dragged through crowds, reaching a couple of buses near the back when you spot them. It seems the employee does too, because he takes you by the shoulders and places you in front of him. The band, previously strumming their instruments, stare up at the two of you. 

“Sorry to bother you guys” The stranger says, trying to garner their attention as if they didn’t already have it. “Just had a kid here claiming she personally knows you guys? Hm?” Their lips curl into a line as you look behind you and then toward the band. 

“It’s not like that, I was just lost—“ You try to deescalate, but you’re cut off by Gerard, a cigarette halfway hanging out of the corner of his mouth. 

“We know her.” The frontman explains. “She’s the local we got to do drums.” 

“Should’ve led with that.” The stranger grumbles, letting go of your shoulders and disappearing into the crowd behind you.

You stand there for a split-second, processing, before walking over to the group.

“I’m so, so sorry he just saw I was lost and came up to me and saw my pass, and—“

“Hey, don’t sweat it. You’re here now, that’s what matters” This time the one speaking was Ray, a handheld fan blowing in his face, causing his curls to fly about like tiny pieces of cloud. 

“We go on in an hour, so I suggest trying to familiarize yourself with the setlist if you haven’t already.” Gerard says, stamping out his cigarette and taking a long gulp of water from a bottle that has no doubt been sitting in the sun too long. 

“What about soundcheck?” That makes the guys laugh, you can feel your shoulders hunching in on you at the sound.  

“This—“ Frank gestures to the mess of guitars and an awkward setup of equipment boxes as chairs, an open box of drum pads not going unnoticed by you. “—is soundcheck.“

“But Brian said—“

“Brian gives it too much credit.” Frank waves the thought of it off, like it’s a routine occurrence. “Take him with a grain of salt. Matter of fact, take us all with a grain of salt and your life’ll be much easier” You laugh breathily at that, taking a seat on a box.

“So how long’ve you been playing?” He asks. 

You count the years of your fingers, holding them up to him. Frank whistles lowly. 

You glance over at the equipment, your eyes landing back in the stack of drum pads. 

“Mind if I use these?”

Ray responds, already seeming to know what you’re asking about and not bothering to look up from where he’s tuning his guitar. “Sure, they were just kinda left with us so if you need ‘em, knock yourself out.” 

Two minutes. You peak your head just slightly out of stage right, gazing out toward a sea of people illuminated by the smoldering sun. Thousands of cheers erupting as the band before you wraps up their set. You’ve never seen that big of a crowd in one place before, let alone been at the very front of it.

“First big crowd?”

You jolt as your focus is broken, whipping your head around to reveal Gerard, who’s seemingly noticed your natural state is in a bundle of nerves. You give him a nod. 

“Don’t look at ’em.” He shrugs.

“…What??”

“I mean it. Pick somebody in the front row if you have to. Focus on your set more than anything.”

You inhale sharply, being guided forward by the other members. Ray gives you a double thumbs up while Gerard immediately steps toward the front of the stage, introducing the band and saying some words you might’ve heard if Mikey didn’t nearly collapse in front of you, catching himself before his gangly form lands on his guitar. Looking down, the stage is littered with ropes of coiled cables. Shoving your drumsticks in the waistband of your pants, you lean down to at least try and gather some of the bundles and drag as many them out of the center of the platform as possible. It seems a stagehand notices, taking the cords from you and continuing your efforts.

“No idea how they’ve been playing like this all day,” Frank mutters, passing you and ending up on the left of Gerard, who was still having a conversation with the crowd.

You sit at the drumset that was left by the other bands, adjusting the seat so your feet can reach the kick pedal.

Your eyes scan over the set, the rack tom sat a little higher than your own, most likely to adapt to the many male drummers. The floor tom a little farther away. You reached instinctively to fix them—

Ray struck the opening chord. Your ears perk up, your head following suit.

It takes you a second to register what song you’re supposed to be playing. It was the first on the list, you know this one! You know this one!

You know— that you’re late. Shoot.

You start up, around where you should be in the song, only a few moments lost as Gerard starts to sing. Multiple members glance back at you as you play, sweat beading your forehead despite the stage largely obscuring the sun. You can’t hear your bass pedal over the sound of the crowd screaming and singing along.

Hopefully, you think to yourself, any minor mistakes made will be drowned out.