Chapter Text
Welcome to the Concert for the Crown!
If you’re reading this, you’re interested in joining Corona Records in the quest to find the one band to rule them all. The rules are simple: rock the hardest, and you’ll be crowned the king!
Bands will go head to head over a two-month period, where each week listeners will vote for who they want to move forward. The top three will be announced on October 30th, with the final winners declared after an epic concert on the 31st!
Prizes include—
“Wait.” Varian looks up from his phone and catches Eugene’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “They’re doing the final concert on Halloween?”
Humor lights in his cousin’s brown eyes before they dart back to the road. “What, like you’ve already made plans?”
Lance turns in the passenger seat to waggle his eyebrows. “Maybe he’s got a date.”
“A date,” Eugene repeats, tone full of doubt.
“A theoretical date,” Varian plays along, “that is now ruined by this concert.”
Eugene snorts as he pulls onto the side street behind the Snuggly Duckling. It was one of those roads that was technically a one-way with no parking, but no one on this side of town gave a shit about parking etiquette. Or any rules, really, considering the bar they were about to enter.
Varian has never been to the notorious Snuggly Duckling—as seedy as this place is, they did check IDs—but Eugene is insistent that the bouncers won’t care as long as Varian is with him. Still, the idea of getting into trouble with the law isn’t something Varian is very keen on. His dad will kill him if he gets arrested again.
“This is also assuming that we make it to the final round and win.”
“Hey.” Lance sticks a huge, sausage-y finger in his face. “None of that talk, little man. If you want something, you need to manifest it into the world. If you only manifest negativity, the universe will give you negativity. Good. Vibes. Only.”
“We really need the vibes tonight,” Eugene agrees. He looks pale. Nervous. Thrown off his game. Varian feels a pang of sympathy for him.
This was his ex’s dad’s bar, after all.
Varian understands, from a logical perspective, why Eugene wants to see Stalyan’s show tonight at the open mic. For one, they’re scoping out the competition. Stalyan has made it pretty clear on her Instagram that she’s signing up for Concert for the Crown.
She was likely entering the contest out of spite. She used to be Eugene and Lance’s frontwoman, but after they broke up, she dropped Eugene and Lance like they were hot and made an entirely new band within just weeks.
Game recognizes game, and Stalyan was just as capable of coming back with a vengeance. It makes sense that Eugene is a little nervous—but Varian also has the sneaking suspicion that he's still a little hung up on her even though he says he’s not.
Deciding to test the waters, he jokes, “Scared of your ex-fiancée?” He’s barely said the words and large hands have clapped over his mouth.
“We don’t say the F-word,” Lance stage-whispers.
Eugene waves them off. “This is more of a show for her dad. The Snuggly Duckling is hosting in the Concert for the Crown, and if we want any chance of even participating we’ve gotta extend an olive branch to the Baron. Show him there’s no bad blood.”
Something tells Varian that this Baron guy wasn’t going to just roll over that easily. But whatever, they were already here. Might as well.
Eugene fist bumps the monster of a bouncer at the door. “Atilla, my man! How’s the baking going?” Varian isn’t sure if he means literal baking or marijuana, because he can smell the stench of the devil’s grass all the way from out here. He wrinkles his nose and shoves his hands into his pockets, keeping his eyes on the stewing of glass shards on the cracked sidewalk as Eugene schmoozes his way past checking IDs.
It works. The bouncer waves the three of them inside, eyes lingering on Varian for an instant too long. The Snuggly Duckling is divided into layers—the top, the bar; the bottom, the venue. The black stairway they descend is full of stickers. The stench of weed, cigarette smoke, and sweat is practically palpable in the air.
The stairs lead out into a room that’s painfully crowded, full of people chatting loudly over one another. The haze of body heat and sweat is suffocating. Even though the band is still getting set up, Varian’s ears ring from all the noise. As they maneuver their way through the sea of bodies, Varian has to resist the childish urge to grab onto Eugene’s elbow so he doesn’t get lost.
Thank god Lance is so huge. The crowd parts for the big man like water, people too afraid to be trampled by the six-nine-nothing guy who’s jacked to all hell.
“They’ve gotten popular,” Eugene observes once they reach the rickety-looking mobile bar. Even though this was his idea, he’s starting to look a little green. He remedies this by ordering a double.
“I thought you said Stalyan just started this band." Varian nearly has to shout over the noise. “They don’t even have a name. How can they have fans already?”
“Oh, they have a name,” says the bartender with a huge, bulbous nose.
Big Nose says something else, but Varian doesn’t catch it. The crowd starts screaming like they’re all about to be axe murdered, and he turns and stands on his toes to try and see what could have brought this on. A girl with twin dark braids and hoop earrings large enough for a seal to jump through takes her spot on the drums, while some lanky blond heads over to the electric bass and slings it over his shoulder.
Huh. Varian squints, trying to get a better look. Something about the way that guy moves seems kind of…familiar?
He can’t dwell on it, because the crowd goes absolutely ballistic when Stalyan gets on stage. She’s like a sexy gazelle, long legs accented by the shortest leather skirt Varian has ever seen and maroon platform boots that are laced all the way up to her knee.
She walks on stage like she owns it (which technically, she kind of does), and at his side, he feels Eugene stiffen.
“Daaaaauuumn.” Lance lets out a low whistle.
“Hellloooooo Vardaros!” Stalyan croons into the mic, voice like honey. “You wanna hear about the prick who broke my heart?”
The crowd screams a chorus of hell yeahs and wooos. One particularly rambunctious dude screams FUCK THAT GUY and Eugene starts sweating.
“This is fine,” he insists. He looks a little too close to hysterics as he clutches his plastic cup. “She probably means someone else.”
Stalyan nods to the bassist and the blond shoots the crowd a crooked grin. He’s in all green and black, like punk rock meets army brat, and the lights lower enough to glint off a golden metal cuff in his ear.
Varian feels like a bucket of ice water has just been dumped over his head.
No. No, that couldn’t be—there was no way—
Thought you were a good one
But you left me behind
Now I’m back with a vengeance baby
Gonna make you wish you were mine
Eugene is having a crisis on his left, Lance is screaming something in his ear on his right, but Varian tunes it all out. His entire world has narrowed in on that bassist like a fucking sniper scope. His heart clamors inside his ribs, unable to do anything but freak out as he stares, jaw hanging, at that bassist.
It’s been five years, but it’s him. It’s undeniable.
Varian feels the rest of the song wash over him in a numbing wave. The crowd’s hysterics were like nothing to him now. The final cords play, Stalyan is saying something, but all his other senses fizz out.
Because that’s when Hugo looks up from his guitar and meets Varian’s gaze head-on from across the crowd. Time slows. Stops.
Varian is suddenly fourteen again, trembling and helplessly smitten for the boy who ruined his life.
Panic grips his heart, igniting the primal choice between fight or flight. So, Varian listens to his instincts. Varian runs.
He’s up the stairs and out the bar door, the late summer heat hitting him in the face but doing nothing to stop the goosebumps on his arms. He drops his hands to his knees and sucks in as much clean air as he can, but it’s still not enough.
His stomach rolls and he swallows thickly to fight back nausea. He’s not going to throw up because he saw Hugo. He’s not.
But, also.
How? How is Hugo even here?? He and his mom had moved away years ago, why is he back in town now? It’s not important. Hugo was here, shattering Varian’s world with his very presence without even trying. Varian almost laughs, feeling giddily hysterical. He considers bolting across the street into traffic and letting himself get hit by a car.
Because hell, Varian hasn’t thought about Hugo for years. Since before his parents broke up, since before Mom had—
Bile rises in his throat and Varian pulls so hard at his hair it hurts. Nopenopenope, don’t think about Mom. Not right now, or else he’d really lose his shit. He’s past having breakdowns about her in public, damn it!
He successfully steers his train of thought away from Ulla and back toward what the fuck just happened. Hugo used to be his best friend. His more than a friend. His entire world. They lived next door to each other. They went to science camp in the summers and music classes after school. The Hugo he knew was snarky, funny, clever, talented—but, simultaneously, a two-faced liar and an absolute dick.
And—oh god. Hugo was in Stalyan’s band. If they entered the Concert for the Crown, they’d have to play against each other. He’d have to see Hugo regularly, know that he was in the crowd watching Varian sing, and Jesus Christ he’s going to be sick—
“Kid? Hey, Varian! Where’d you—oh shit.”
Varian comes back to himself. He’s squatting down on the curb, breath coming in rattling, ragged pants. The large hand that presses gently in between his shoulder blades helps ground him, gives him enough clarity to remember the breathing techniques his therapist taught him.
“That’s it,” Eugene murmurs lowly. “Deep breaths, in and out.”
Eugene’s guidance helps, and slowly, Varian can breathe again. He’s slightly aware that people are giving them a wider birth on the sidewalk, shooting awkward looks of pity and confusion. It’s fine. He’s used to those by now.
“Sorry,” he says eventually, still shaking but together enough to speak. “Sorry I just—”
“No, no, it’s okay.” Eugene smiles at him. “It got a little rowdy in there. Easy to get overwhelmed if you’re claustrophobic.”
Varian grits his teeth. He wasn’t upset about the crowd. If anything, he’s grateful for it, to put a hundred bodies between him and that blond bespeckled terror.
“You want me to walk you back to the bus station? Lance and I are gonna stay for their second set—”
“No,” Varian says firmly. His knees crack as he rises to his feet. “I’m fine. I’ll stay.”
Eugene shoots him a dubious look. It’s one of his Big Brother expressions, one that says you’re saying you’re fine but clearly you’re not. “You sure?”
“Yeah.” Varian balls his hands into fists in determination. He isn’t fourteen anymore. He’s no longer the scrawny kid with a crush on the older boy who lived next door. He wasn’t fucking scared of Hugo. “Let’s go.”
Heading back down the stairs feels very much like a funeral march. He can hear the thumping of the bass all the way through the walls of the staircase, matching the frantic rabbit beating of his heart.
Reentering the crowd, they pad across the sticky floor and locate Lance, huddled up in a wing squinting at the stage. “Their equipment setup is really good,” he shouts over the music. “Like, really good.”
“Probably financed by daddy,” Eugene mutters, but it’s obvious he’s not looking at any of their equipment. His eyes are locked on the scantily clad drink of water he once called his betrothed.
Varian refuses to even look at the stage. Nope, he’s not gonna look. He’s just going to stare at that dubious stain on the wall and not look away for the rest of the night—
Comin’ in for the kill
Did you think it was a thrill
The way you stole my heart?
Chew me up, spit me out,
I’ll give you somethin’ to cry about!
There’s a loud squeal of fingers on cords, and then the bass breaks off into a solo, backed up by the drummer. The crowd goes nuts. Varian can’t help but take a tiny peek, and he regrets it instantly.
Up this close, he can see the way the lights are glinting off the thin frames of Hugo’s glasses, glistening on the sweat that’s on his brow and dripping down his neck. Even though it’s in a ponytail, strands of hair get in his eyes, but it doesn’t look like he cares, too lost in letting the music guide his body. His fingers are everything, flying across the neck of the guitar like it was automatic, like he was born to do this, be on that stage, make people scream. Hugo was talented as a kid, but now? It was like he’d been personally blessed by the gods of rock and roll.
Varian mentally compares the noodly blond he knew when he was fourteen with the living breathing punk rocker in front of him, and his mouth goes bone dry.
Hugo grew up and walked straight out of one of Varian’s wet nightmares. It’s so unfair.
He feels as though he’s aged twenty years by the time they’ve finished their set. The crowd is still cheering, heckling for an encore, and Stalyan grabs the mic, “We are Latrodectus, and we’ve sunk our fangs into you!”
Over the screaming of the crowd, Lance frowns, confused. “Lacto-who now?”
“Latrodectus,” Varian corrects. “It’s a genius of spider. Commonly known for the widows"—he glances at Eugene—"the ones that eat their mates.”
The big man pales. “That’s the most terrifying band name I’ve ever heard.”
Eugene leaves no comment to this revelation, moving through the crowd now that it’s started to disperse as they mingle before the next band starts. He’s on a mission, striding confidently up to the stage door.
He knocks once, and is received by a man with a crooked nose and a lazy eye. He’s got an irritated air about him that can only come from being a stage manager on open mic night. “Rider.” The way he says Eugene’s stage name makes it sound like it’s physically painful.
“Hi, Weasel. Just need a quick five with Stal, be right back—” Eugene tries to nudge past the man to get backstage, but the guy doesn’t budge.
“No backstage access to groupies,” he sneers.
“Wha—I am not a groupie!” Eugene cries, offended. “You know me! I’ve played here, like, fifteen times! I’ve bought you Dunkin’!”
“It’s fine, Anthony,” sighs a female voice behind him. Weasel moves out of the way as Stalyan takes his place in the doorframe, still glaring at Eugene over her shoulder.
“Hi,” she says coolly. Varian is very comfortable in his sexuality, comfortable in knowing that he leans more toward men on bi spectrum, but woof. She’s got a perfect hourglass body, glistening with sweat and glitter. Her once-perfect smokey eye is tastefully smudged, and strands of her hair are slipping out of the top bun to curl around her flushed face.
“Hiiii,” Eugene openly oogles, and Varian kicks him in the back of the ankle to get him to focus. “Er—you did great. Your new group has a great sound combination.”
Stalyan’s frigidness doesn’t falter. “You’re sucking up.” It’s not stated as a question. “Why.”
“Please don’t let your dad ban us from the competition,” Lance cuts in. “Pleasepleaseplease.”
Stalyan rolls her eyes. She’s probably used to these two and their antics. She's been on again, off again with Eugene for over four years. Varian has only just reconnected with his cousin since starting college and bumming a room out of his uncle’s house.
“The guidelines say any band can enter,” Stalyan recites. “So unless you morons forgot how to read, I don’t see how you asking my dad for a favor is my problem.” Her blue eyes narrow. “Wait, who’s your new frontwoman?”
“Try frontman.” Eugene slings an arm over Varian’s shoulders and yanks him forward. Varian resists the urge to shrink away from this viper’s critical eyes.
She laughs once, sharp and stinging. “That’s your gimmick? Robbing an elementary school to replace me?”
Varian clenches his jaw. He’s nineteen, not an infant. It’s not his fault his body decided to stop growing after tenth grade.
Eugene beats him on the defense. “Hey, just you wait till you hear my baby cousin sing. Kid’s got pipes for days.”
Stalyan isn’t even looking at Varian anymore, her gaze completely zeroed in on her ex. Sheesh, if looks could kill… She steps forward, getting right up into Eugene’s space, barely keeping an inch away from their bodies. Eugene looks like he’s going into cardiac arrest.
“I look forward to hearing it sob when I kick your ass next week in qualifiers. Now get the fuck out of my bar.”
“Technically, it’s your dad’s—” Lance gets cut off when the door to backstage slams shut. “Well, that was rude.”
“Could have been a lot worse,” Varian offers lamely. Hugo could have popped his head through that door, and Varian could have gotten arrested for aggravated assault.
“Yeah,” Eugene lets out a breath through his nose, looking as though he’s waking up from a dream. “Yeah, let’s get out of here.”
Varian is repacking the napkins with a specific kind of vengeance when the song from last night drifts over the coffee shop’s speakers.
It makes him stop, physically, and recenter himself. He’s not in a bar watching Hugo pornographically play the bass. He’s at work, but somehow, he just can’t seem to get away from that bastard.
“Is that even allowed?” he wonders.
“What, the song?”
He jumps when someone answers the question he thought was internal. Catalina raises an eyebrow at him from where she’s cleaning a table. “Didn’t you read the rules on the Concert for the Crown’s website? Every song entered into the concert gets recorded—or at least part of it—and played on the radio for listeners to call in and vote. That way it engages in the entire tri-state area and not limited to those who can get to the venues.”
“Oh.” Maybe he should have kept reading after the Halloween thing. “Yeah, but—it’s not even September yet. The contest doesn’t technically start until next week. Playing a song to gain popularity before it starts seems like cheating.”
“Of course it’s cheating,” Kiera pipes up from across the counter. She’s scrolling on her phone, probably looking at knife sharpening tutorials again. “Have you met the Baron?”
“I met his daughter. She was kind of terrifying.”
Catalina hums. “Imagine that, but blond, and like, ten million times scarier, and then you’ve got the Baron.”
Varian looks at her quizzically. “How do you even know that?”
“Ever heard of this thing called the internet?”
Varian flips her off.
It was easy to forget though, that technically, the Baron did have his own record label. Baron’s Beatz. It was much smaller compared to Corona Records, and was notorious for signing one-hit wonders like Quaid the Blade and Iron Collector. Even though they hadn’t signed anybody who made it big in a while, the people of Vardaros defended it tooth and nail. It was this backwater town’s only claim to fame.
Maybe that’s another reason why Stalyan was so bitter about Eugene leaving. From what Varian understands, his cousin was lined up to the record’s next golden boy, the thing that would save them from financial ruin.
It didn't matter what kind of commitment it was, Eugene was notoriously terrified of it.
The door to Scowley Crowley’s chimes and Varian’s heart drops through the crust of the earth. It’s two of the band members from last night—the girl with the black braids and hoops, and Hugo.
Varian isn’t proud of the way he ducks behind the trash bin, but hey, he’s a man in crisis.
“What—” Catalina says, but Varian tackles her and drags her over with him.
“Shutupshutupshutsup,” he hisses. His heart feels like it’s dancing a Zumba, fully as uncoordinated as a white soccer mom.
His sixteen-year-old captive peeks her head over the lip of the can. “Do you know her? Is she like, your ex or something?”
Varian shakes his head. He’s not into those tomboy grunge types. “No.”
“Ohmygod, is he?”
“No.” He answers too quickly, and the little ginger she-devil picks up on the nervous trill in his voice.
“Look at me and tell me he’s not your ex.”
“He’s not my ex,” Varian says, distinctly not looking at Catalina. It wasn’t a lie. Technically, he and Hugo never had a label.
“Look me in the face, Varian.”
“OH, I’d LOVE to take your order, but I’m on break.” Kiera’s loud voice cuts through Varian’s internal screeching. “Sure wish the guy who’s SUPPOSED to be on counter right now would do his JOB.”
Murder. Varian is going to murder these children in cold blood.
He wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans. Be cool, be cool. Just because he recognized Hugo doesn’t mean Hugo is going to recognize him. It’s been five years. Hugo’s probably met tons of people in five years, there’s no way he’s going to even remember Varian.
He gets out from behind the trashcan with as much dignity as possible in this weird-ass situation. The girl with the braids is openly staring at him as if jumping behind a trashcan when customers come in isn’t normal barista behavior. Hugo, thank god, is scrolling on his phone.
Varian’s hands are shaking as he punches in their orders. The girl—she tells him her name is Vex—orders a black coffee. Hugo, ever the basic bitch, gets a fucking pumpkin spice latte with extra syrup and cream, even though it's August. He’s still looking at his phone though, aloof attitude somehow even more infuriating than his usual smirkiness.
“Thanks, uh.” Vex squints at his nametag. “Var? Is that, like, a lopsided C? Is your name Car?”
Varian opens his mouth to correct her, but another voice answers before he can. “Varian,” Hugo says, a smile playing on his lips. “His name is Varian.”
He nearly drops the cup in surprise. For the second time in twenty-four hours, baby blue eyes lock with emerald green.
All the oxygen has been sucked out of the room because Varian can’t breathe. He hopes the electrical jolt he feels is only because of recognition, but even he’s not that stupid. He’s helplessly overwhelmed, staring at the boy he once loved who has reappeared to him in the demonic form of an infuriatingly hot man with an undercut—
“Oh.” Vex glances curiously between the two of them. She’s not the only one watching—Catalina and Kiera have pulled up front row seats to watch Varian combust. “I…didn’t know you guys knew each other?”
“We’re friends,” Hugo says, never once breaking his stare. Varian lets out a strangled noise. Because unless he’s gotten a sudden bout of selective amnesia, there was no way they were friends.
“We’re acquaintances,” he corrects sourly. He all but shoves the drink into Hugo’s stupid beautiful hands. His fingertips brush against leather—did he wear those gloves all the time? “We grew up as next door neighbors.”
Catalina murmurs, “Interesting,” as if she’s taking notes over there on a napkin. Varian whips around to glare at her.
Hugo laughs, the sound rich and unfairly as perfect as the rest of him. Varian would have to be an idiot to miss the smarminess that’s there, too. “I wouldn’t say we were just neighbors. We were so close back then. And say, since I just got back into town, I’d love to catch up.”
Varian doesn’t even blink. “I’m busy.”
Hugo raises an eyebrow—the left one, with the stupid piercing in it. “I didn’t even ask you to do anything though.”
“I’m busy always.”
“Oh yeah,” Vex says, as though suddenly remembering. “You’re entering the Concert for the Crown as Rider’s new frontman, right? Stal told me about that after you guys crashed the show last night.”
“We’re playing again tonight if you wanna bask in our presence again.” Hugo offers it as though it’s something Varian would actually want to do. As if he would want to watch this bastard skillfully play music, showing off his talents, looking really really good while he did it—
“We’ll be at the Glass Slipper,” Vex adds, and that brings every churning venomous thought in Varian’s head to a screeching halt.
“Wait. You’re serious?” The pair nod. Varian can’t help but gape a little. The Glass Slipper was a real venue. Like, one that had an actual stage, not some basement space with a sticky floor and weed making the wallpaper curl. “How did you guys get a slot in there? Aren’t you like, freshly formed?”
“Stal has connections.” Vex shrugs. “She wants to play as much as possible before the contest opens next week. We can put you guys on the list.”
“The list?” He’s still taken aback that he somehow now has connections to someone with connections enough to get booked at a venue that requires a list.
“Real snazzy, right?” Hugo smirks and whips out his phone. “Gimme your number and I’ll text you the details.”
“No,” Varian says, and then makes a strangled noise when Kiera flings herself across the counter to grab Hugo’s phone. His heart jolts. “No!”
The worst part about working with twins is when they use their weird telepathy. Catalina acts as a human shield while Kiera taps away at the screen. He can’t help but whine, “Angry whyyyy.”
“Maybe next time you shouldn’t bail on counter,” Kiera sing-songs, then hands Hugo’s phone back with a triumphant look. “He’s in there as Science Brat.”
Varian seethes, “Oh, you are the worst—”
Sensing an oncoming duel, Vex starts to back up toward the door. “Uh, okay. We’ll catch you later, then.”
“See you tonight, Sweet Cheeks!” Hugo calls, and Varian’s stomach flutters involuntarily at the old nickname. Once they’re gone, Varian allows himself to fully collapse to the floor, pressing his face into the sticky footpads Mrs. Crowley said helped her knees.
“I’m going to die,” he breathes.