Chapter Text
When you were younger you had a lot of dreams. You wanted to study abroad somewhere - London, maybe. Get a cool accent by the time you were done your senior year in high school and have shitty stories to tell when you got drunk at even shittier house parties. You wanted to shave the side of your head and maybe go to cosmetology school. Then you'd quit cosmetology school after realizing your passion was to be a veterinarian or therapist, and grow your hair back out. You'd go to college, go to parties, show up to exams still drunk. Kiss a bunch of people, fuck a bunch of people. Whisper to classmates about who was good in bed while in line to get your diploma at graduation.
But you didn’t do a lot of that. You didn’t study abroad and only got a degree in liberal arts at my community college. You didn’t do anything overly cool with your hair, either, and certainly didn’t have a GPA to get into a good school for vet med.
So it’s no surprise to me as to where you currently are. In front of you is a large, dark gray wooden desk. A desktop computer takes up most of it, with scattered papers and random pens lying on the surface in such a way that you almost wonder if someone made it look like that. Like they were a top tier slacker who wanted to look just busy enough so they wouldn’t be bothered with other menial tasks. On the walls are a variety of posters for music artists: pop singers, bands. And in the very center was a vinyl CD that was framed. The reason you were there.
When a man finally enters the room, you don’t pretend like you weren't looking around. But your posture does go just a little more straight. He rounds the wooden desk before sitting in his leather chair, one leg crossing the other as he clicks on his mouse to shake his computer out of sleep mode. He browses for a few minutes, the skin by his eyes crinkling as he reads what’s on his screen. Your resume. You wonder what he thinks when he reads through it.
“Y/n?” His voice is full of questions and concerns.
He doesn’t respond to you for a few moments. The man in front of you is older, probably hitting around fifty. He doesn’t wear anything fancy besides a gold watch on his left wrist and a nice wedding ring. Otherwise there’s no indication that this is a manager for a record label.
“Well, y/n,” he finally says, leaning back in his chair as his eyes meet yours. “You got no experience in the music industry, and I see nothin’ about assistant experience. Gonna be honest, kid, not sure why HR set up an interview with you.”
Your eyes narrow. This was to be expected. But you need money, and you need a place to live for most of the year since your not speaking to your mom. Being the assistant to a touring band gives you all of that and more.
You will not walk out of this fucking office without a job. You are nothing if not overly sensitive and stubborn.
“Fair,” you shrug. “But let me plead my case before you throw me out.”
He sighs, but doesn’t seem overly uninterested. “Alright. Lemme hear it.”
“You’re right. I have no experience in this. But that’s what makes me the perfect person for this. Any other person who walks through these doors doesn’t have shit - excuse my language - to prove like I do. They won’t work until they can’t see straight like I will. I know what it’s like to be hungry and have to prove your worth something to eat.”
The more you talk, the more you notice he leans into his seat to listen. You didn’t think you'd go off on a tangent like this, but fuck it. You have nothing to lose in this situation.
“My whole life consisted of assisting people,” you continue. “I won’t give you the traumatic details that’ll pull at your heart, because I know you don’t care. But the shit - excuse me again - I did, how I did it, how I took care of people around me, made me into the only person you’ve interviewed that’ll be a good assistant. Assisting a band is a cakewalk.”
He says nothing for what seems like hours. He just stares at you as if he’s registering something in my goddamn soul that makes you want to squirm. But you don’t. You sit straight, keep your eyes on him.
And then he laughs like fucking Santa Clause, and you actually squirm in my seat.
“Damn, girl. You always this confident?”
You consider lying, then decide it’s not worth it. You shake your head.
“This ain’t a small time band. First country wide tour and they’re already sellin’ out. They’re gonna be big. You won’t get a goddamn moment of peace. You sure you want that?”
You haven’t had a moment of peace since you were born. You don’t crave it. “Yes.”
Another moment of silence. And then he’s reaching out his hand to you. “I’m your boss. Nice to officially meet you.”
————-
To your left are two suitcases and a totebag, all filled to the brim with whatever earthly possessions you thought would be necessary for a few month tour. In one hand is your vape, and clutched in the other is your phone that has not stopped ringing since your Uber dropped you off at the bus station. It’s your mother, and you don’t have it in you to answer.
Your nerves are already shot at the prospect of being surrounded by strange men for months on end; you don’t need to send yourself to an early grave by speaking to your birth giver who may or may not be under the influence.
Fuck. You can’t believe you're actually doing this. ‘Asensia’ was the band’s name. A band that was known for their perfect blend of screams and clean vocals. One of their hits got popular on Booktok, and the rest was history. It helped that all the members were attractive and just mysterious enough to pique the interests of the masses. They didn’t do the mask thing, but their social media accounts were wiped clean; the only posts they had were random, blurry candids and some promo for the tour. You did as much research as you cared to do - knew their names, where they were from, what instruments they played. But your only conversation thus far was an introductory text message thread started by their manager, Bill. The same man who hired you. You didn’t save their names as their contacts, opting for them to just be known as whatever the fuck they do in the band.
Drummer: New assistant??
Guitar and scream vocals: yup
Guitar and clean vocals: Damn we that big now?
Guitar and clean vocals: Shit I won’t complain
Guitar and clean vocals: What’s good new girl?
Bassist: Hello.
Guitar and scream vocals: lol
Me: Hi I’m y/n :)
Drummer: Y/n?
Bassist: Y/n.
Guitar and clean vocals: I think I've heard that name before
Guitar and scream vocals: l oh fucking l
You didn’t respond much in the past weeks leading up to the tour. Your job didn’t start until you landed your feet on the tour bus. It’s not that you didn’t want to be on friendly terms with everyone you'd be working with, but…you didn’t want to get too comfortable. Comfortability made you a fucking moron, and after your stunt to get this job, you didn’t have the luxury to look even remotely dense.
The tour bus in front of you was your new home for the next few months. The young girl in you who had so many dreams of traveling and doing stupid shit was excited. But it was that same child that had to be a live-in manager for her parents, and it was that same child who was nervous to do it all over again.
You were a contradiction. A contradiction that was hitting her vape like her life depended on it.
Too deep in life and it’s fucked up teachings, you don’t hear your new roommates. Turning around, you smile and pretend that you didn’t contemplate all the decisions you've ever made that brought you to this very moment.
“New girl!” The lead vocalist grins, his sunglasses falling down slightly as he comes to stand in front of me. Gojo. The fans ate him the fuck up, especially when he was on the guitar.
“Hey,” you wave slightly, feel stupid, and let your hand drop.
“Helllllo.” He’s gorgeous in a way that’s unsettling. You almost feel bad for him; it can’t be easy being fawned over. “Nice to finally meet ya. First tour? Exciting, huh?”
You're known to speak until your throat hurts, but he takes it to another level. But you don’t find myself minding it. “Exciting, terrifying. A bunch of other adjectives.”
“You’re too much,” says someone new as they join us. Bassist Geto. You wonder what size he gauged his ears to. “Hello, y/n."
“Hi. I like your plugs.”
His fingers touch one of them. “They’re old. My nice ones are packed."
“Too much pain,” Gojo makes a face that’s a mixture of faux pain and horror. “What’s wrong with you?"
“Tour!” The voice that comes from behind me is booming. Like that one uncle at family parties that gets shit faced and yells just to yell. Asensia’s drummer, Todo. “Ooh fuck, it’s tour day!”
“Tour day!” Gojo quickly joins in on the yelling.
“TOUR DAY!”
“Tour daaaaay!”
“Y/n!” Todo beams when he looks at you, muscles straining his shirt. “It’s tour day!”
Realization hits you that the correct way through this scenario would be to join in. “Right. Tour day!”
“You can tell him ‘no’ next time,” Geto says next to you quietly. “They get carried away.”
Crew members soon start to show up, getting luggage and equipment packed away. After losing count of how many people were running around, panic sets in because fuck, you didn’t expect there’d be this many people.
But you didn’t need to assist them. You just needed to assist Asensia and ensure they didn’t ruin their image during their first ‘real’ tour. But as conversation flows, you realize you're short one member.
“Where’s the last guy?” You ask, eyes narrowing as you get ready to…well, assist.
No sooner do you ask does a car pull up. And out of that car exits the most attractive man you have ever seen.
Choso Kamo is Asensia’s guitarist and scream vocals. While Gojo is the beloved front man, Choso is the one that gets the filthiest, dirtiest comments on social media. He follows no one on any of his accounts and posts so little that you'd know nothing if not for random interviews and little facts dropped in the band’s group chat.
Tall, muscular. Choso’s dark hair is long and set in two spiky buns at the back of his head. There’s a dark scar that slashes across his nose, and even darker bags under his eyes. He wears an old band t-shirt that he fashioned into a muscle tee and fuck. The biceps. The goddamn biceps.
Crew members are quick to unload his luggage for him. He stretches his arms over his head before he walks towards us, looking completely bored. “Yo.”
“Yo! ‘Bout time,” Gojo is the first to speak. “What were you doin’ last night? You stopped responding in the group chat.”
“Nothing important,” Choso replies, still completely bored.
“No one important you mean?” Todo grins at the implication of his question.
He sighs, running a hand over his face. “Still not important.”
Choso does not greet you like his band members. He does not acknowledge you or make any notion that would indicate he even knows that he's standing next to you. And for some reason, that angers you. You're going to be making this grown man’s life infinitely easier for the unforeseeable future, and he can’t even give you the common courtesy of acknowledging that you exist.
Before your mouth gets me into trouble, Geto speaks up. “Have you introduced yourself to our assistant?”
Choso finally looks down at you, dark eyes boring into yours. There’s no malice in his eyes, but there’s certainly no friendliness. There’s a quick flash of an emotion you can’t quite name, and then it dissolves back into disinterest. “Don’t need to. She knows who I am.”
Lovely. This is absolutely lovely. You feel the sudden urge to insult him and make him hate his life. “He knows who I am.”
He snorts out a laugh, and that’s the most emotion you've gotten from him this entire time. “She won’t last.”
“You’re the most unimpressive person I’ve met.” You know you need to treat them with respect seeing as if they want you gone you'd literally have no choice but to leave. However, you didn’t have the patience to be hazed or bullied in a new position.
“She’s an assistant who thinks she’s in a position to talk back. She won’t last.”
“She - I - have a fucking name.”
“Well!” Gojo quickly interrupts us. “This is fun, huh?”
Choso rolls his eyes. “I’m picking out my bunk.”
Todo joins him as he walks towards the tour bus, and you're tempted to push past them both so you don’t have to get a top bunk. The last thing you want to do is climb up a bunk every night when you're exhausted from running around all day. You stay put though, making small conversation with Geto and Gojo, who’re nice enough to introduce you to some of the crew members.
You try to memorize everyone’s names, their positions. You feel naive for not realizing how much work went into putting a band on tour. No, not just a tour, but a good one. Lights and sound and props. You're told we’re missing the photographer, but he’s not scheduled to show up until tomorrow when the first show happens in the next city.
Did you bring enough dry shampoo? You really, really hope I did. Your phone buzzes in your hand again, and with a sigh you finally open up your text messages.
Mother: Since ur ignoring me just know I was only calling to wish u good luck!!!
Me: Thanks
There isn’t enough time to sort out mommy issues. You make sure your expression is neutral and not showing any signs of distress and walk towards the tour bus. The inside is nice; one long, faux leather couch takes up the right side. Across is a two seater couch, with a small table in the middle. On the left is a counter top with a sink, a microwave attached to the counter above it. There’s a sizable refrigerator next to that, and a TV hangs on the wall across from the couches.
Your tote bag is in the narrow hallway where the bunks are already, and you make a mental note to find out whoever brought it in and thank them. It’s late when all the needed people are finally in the bus, and the boys of Asensia are climbing into their bunks. While they talk amongst themselves you find my bunk, and promptly lose your shit.
Your bunk is on the top. And while you didn’t want to deal with that, that’s not the reason you were angry.
Laying next to your legs is Choso. Your eyes meet his for just a moment before looking back at the empty bunk above him. You whirl around, trying to see if there’s any other alternatives, but there isn’t.
You will have to climb above this man (metaphorically, of course) every single night for the next few months.
“Hey,” Choso says, and you realize he isn’t speaking to you. “Someone tell the new girl I said welcome to tour.”