#lc2l

He has his first solo concert in Europe. Not counting the promo events, or the industry shows, or the monopolized Open Mic Nights.

The first show in a concert venue, which was booked in advance, with tickets sold that have his name on them, printed in all-caps.

Of course it’s tiny compared to the stadium they were in last night opening for Ariana. A theatre most used for plays with a single bathroom backstage in place of a dressing room and where Candace had had to drag them all out to the alley where the van was parked for the pre-show pep-talk so they couldn’t be heard on stage over the support act.

But Simon has a support act now. There are other solo shows booked, in and around the Ariana dates. Every day Candace is making calls and emailing contacts and adding things to the calendar pinned up on the inside of the van. Filling up all the gaps.

Which is good. It’s great. They’re gaining momentum and Simon is getting better at jumping from show to interview to show, at catching sleep in bursts crammed between commitments, at finding products that cover up the exhaustion on his face. And now he’s got a solo show, and Candace is In Talks about the second album that he might be able to work with a songwriter to put his own songs on, and he’s in Europe again for the first time in… months.

“This could be the start of bigger things,” Candace had said in the alley, while Simon bounced on his toes to keep warm, already dressed in his show outfit of a black mesh tank and jeans slashed open on the sides. “So drink it all in tonight, we’re only going bigger from here.”

He’d thought he was used to it by now, the noise of the crowd, the sight of phone lights spread out before him like stars, but it turns out it’s different when they’re all there for him. When they’re screaming his name before he’s even stepped on stage, rather than him having to slowly win them over. When he runs out onto the stage and the screaming ramps up and hits like a wall and he can feel the smile stretching at his cheeks that he can’t even pretend to hold back. He might cry, actually has to sniff a few times, turning away from the crowd to pull himself together.

There were so many moments he thought he wouldn’t get to have this. When the label said his songs weren’t good enough, when the graphs showed sales were falling, the shows where he opened and the crowd barely seemed to notice, the phone call in Texas to ask what the plans were for the tour break only to get Rachel’s Assistant ‘Ms McKenzie has decided to cull her list and focus on acts with more commercial appeal.’

“Sim-me! Sim-me! Sim-me!” The crowd chants, falling into rhythm and his heart seems to speed up to match Sim-me Sim-me and it doesn’t matter that it’s three hundred people rather than ten thousand, he spins around to the mic and there’s enough light from the spots and the phones to pick out faces. Girls with glitter dots around their eyes, boys in black eyeliner edged with gold, people in Simme T-shirts, waving signs saying DANCE LIKE THIS, people who came to his show who traveled and paid money and got dressed up because they wanted to see him.

“Oh my god, hi. Hello. Hi. I love you.” There was a script, he thinks, but he has absolutely no idea what it said. It’s only thanks to the set-list taped to the floor by his mic stand that he can even remember what he’s meant to sing. “Hello Cologne. This is the first official show of what I think we’re all agreed is the Chaos Tour.”

They laugh along with him and they cheer and Simon can only hope he’s still capable of singing around this wild, insane grin on his face because it absolutely isn’t going away. “Thank you for coming. Thank you for supporting me. The fact that I’m here, the fact that we can do this at all, is all because of you talking and filming and sharing and streaming and this was my dream for so long I can’t say thank you enough for making it come true.”

The fight is lost, the fight is over, he is absolutely crying as they scream again, someone shouts 'Simmers forever,' and more people shout 'Simme,' and the exhaustion melts away like it was never there.

He’s not cold, or tired, or lonely, or afraid. It feels like getting his song picked for the jubilee, like seeing Wilhelm running after Sara’s car, like everything.

“Now I hope you’re all here to dance,” he says. “Because all of us up here, We Wanna Dance.”

Kevan hits the intro, the backing track hits the beat, and every single person in front of him starts singing. Every word, thrown back at him. Screaming, applauding, chanting his name.