Chapter Text
Just for the record, Adam didn’t want to be there in the first place. He was already half deaf, and the last thing he needed was to lose the other half in the mosh pit of a rock concert. He didn’t even like rock concerts.
Unfortunately for him, he did like Blue.
Also unfortunately for him, Blue had two tickets for the Second Sleeper concert and she “wasn’t about to bring Orla to that, she’d get topless and scream for them to sign her breasts”. Adam had shrugged off that horrifying mental image and hesitantly agreed to accompany her.
He had a lot of regrets.
“Are you sure you want to be this close?” he yelled into her ear. He tried to stand his ground as the crowd shunted him sideways, but he collided painfully with the side of the stage barrier and grabbed hold of it to stay upright.
“Of course I do,” she snapped back, deploying her surprisingly sharp elbows to clear herself some personal space. A guy with frosted tips and several lip piercings went down, clutching his liver. “This is the best spot in the house.”
“Uh huh,” Adam looked over his shoulder at the relative calm of the balcony. People were sitting at tables up there, having a drink and chatting while the opening act continued to crash through their set. The throbbing of the bass line tore right through his chest, and he felt his heart beating in counterpoint to it, an uncomfortably arrhythmic sensation.
The opening act let loose a last resounding crash, their drummer’s arms pin wheeling like broken fan blades, and then began to file offstage. Adam took a deep breath as the crowd subsided and let him ease off of the metal barrier. He was concerned that if he stayed pressed against it much longer, his ribs would give in and he’d be flattened. He didn’t have good enough health insurance to cover that. Or cover much of anything, honestly.
“They better not be late,” Blue groused, eyeing the roadies critically as they assembled a new drum kit and rearranged microphones. One of them carried an electric blue bass guitar onstage, cord swinging until he connected it to an amp. Another man handed him a deep red guitar, a pattern of sinister black ravens etched across it. They looked like they were ripping their way out of its sleek body, razor tipped wings spreading triumphantly across the waist.
“I’ve heard that Ronan’s the problem,” Blue said conspiratorially, following the path of Adam’s gaze toward the sinister red guitar. “Drugs or something,” she shrugged.
“Huh,” Adam said noncommittally. He’d seen photos of Ronan Lynch before, usually concert stills where he looked cool and derisive, guitar slung low as he shredded through a solo. He made it look effortless.
Then again, lots of things were probably easy for Ronan Lynch. He was rich, talented, beautiful. Even Adam had to admit that the harsh cut of his cheekbones and the arrogant tilt of his head in PR shots were alluring. He looked tough and dangerous, which was probably the driving force behind the number of posters Orla had of him.
“ Adam ,” Blue hissed suddenly. The lights were dimming and pulsing, blue shifting to green shifting to yellow. Blue punched him in the arm, unable to transmit her excitement through anything but violence.
He rubbed his bicep and rolled his eyes at her, but she wasn’t paying any attention to him.
The crowd was thrumming now; restless chatter and the occasional yell punctuating the lull.
Adam could tell the moment the band took the stage, not because he could see them, but because the crowd surged forward in one coordinated rush. He grabbed onto the barrier like a lifeline, trying to stay abreast of the tide.
“Oh my god,” Blue moaned next to him. He looked up in time to see a very tan young man walk casually up to the microphone in the center. He was wearing a plain black t-shirt and the most impeccably tailored jeans Adam had ever seen. He looked, for all that he was the front man of a rock band, like a lax bro with an alternative side. Maybe he listened to punk music and had a secret goth phase he never talked about.
The rest of the band followed him: a bouncy blonde kid in ratty flannel and converse who cheerfully struggled to connect his guitar strap to the bright blue bass; an Asian dude with hair that defied gravity began busily arranging his drumsticks; and Ronan, who slunk onstage in leather pants that looked painted onto his body. His appearance elicited the biggest cheer yet, and when he scowled at the crowd their screaming only intensified.
“Hey everyone,” the lax bro said into the microphone. He grinned out at them all, and it was like he’d cast a spell, like everyone should automatically obey everything he ever said, like the world would be ok if only he kept talking. Everyone quieted immediately, all the better to hang on his every word. “We’re Second Sleeper, and we’re gonna, you know, play some stuff for you tonight,” he shrugged like it was nothing.
“Oh my god, no one cares,” Blue groaned, although Adam could tell that literally everyone cared. He found himself caring, and he didn’t even know this band. “Gansey is the worst,” she said, although Adam watched her eyes trace over the muscular lines of his body. “Noah’s the really cute one,” she pointed the blonde kid. He was, indeed, adorable. “Henry’s ok too,” she nodded at the drummer. “ Fuck Ronan,” she spat, not even bothering to glance in his direction.
If you insist , Adam thought wryly to himself. He watched Ronan as Gansey spoke to the crowd. He looked bored, fingers deftly flipping his pick back and forth over his knuckles while he waited for the show to start.
“Ok, I can feel Ronan getting antsy,” Gansey grinned, illuminating the entire theatre. “Let’s do this thing!”
“Ugh, lame,” Blue shoved herself up on her tiptoes to see better.
Adam was just getting ready to resign himself to an uninspiring 2 and a half hours when something miraculous happened. Gansey started to sing.
Adam didn’t really spend a lot of time thinking about music. He filtered it in and out as he worked in the shop, noticed how other people were always offering an ear bud to a friend or telling someone to crank up a certain song. It didn’t feel that relevant, and he was fairly indifferent in his taste.
But he could tell from the very first note that this was something special. There was an incredible energy to the men onstage that felt visceral, private but on display anyway. They rotated instinctually around one another as they performed, with Gansey at their center. Adam was forcibly reminded of a snippet of concert footage he’d once seen his father watching; Mick Jagger twisting across the stage in a sparkly white jumpsuit, his voice almost a howl as he sang. Robert Parrish had growled, “Good music if he weren’t such a fag,” and turned the television off.
This felt uncannily similar, electrifying and primeval, and the songs almost began to blend together in Adam’s brain. It was an endless loop of Gansey strutting up and down the stage, transformed into something wild and new by the music, his eyes lit up with righteous vitality. Noah was stirring up the crowd, jumping up and down like a pogo stick and clapping along enthusiastically. Henry kept breaking sticks, bits of wooden shrapnel spitting into the air and catching the lights, but he never missed a beat.
And then there was Ronan, prowling in the background, fingers stroking up and down the neck of his guitar with intimate precision. Adam’s eyes kept being drawn back to him, and he caught something different every time. The way the stage lights cast shadows from his eyelashes across his cheeks, the bunching of muscle in his thigh as he planted a foot on the edge of his amp, the shape of his pursed lips while he concentrated on a chord.
It made it even more jarring when he was suddenly moving to the front, shouldering his way past Gansey. He was coming closer to the crowd, to Adam, and the audience responded, throwing hands into the air and swelling like a tidal wave drawn by his gravity. Adam was caught up in it, reached toward the stage without thinking, could feel Blue beside him, but her arms were just a little too short. Ronan sneered down at them, and they were worth nothing, he was their master, the most important person alive. His fingers flew over the frets of his guitar, his solo winding higher and higher, more complex and dizzying until it peaked and broke over them, came crashing down with the sound of Henry’s drums.
Ronan began to turn toward his preferred spot at the back of the stage, but Gansey shoved him gently in the chest until he whipped back around, snarling. He moved perfunctorily to the edge of the stage and extended his hand, fingers spread to catch on the grasping hands of the crowd. He moved from one end to the other, looking like an indolent god performing a grudging miracle. He was getting closer to Adam and Blue, and Adam’s hand was amid a mass of other’s, one of many sweaty palms seeking contact.
Then Ronan was there, and he looked implausibly perfect up close. His lips were full and plush, his shocking blue eyes rimmed with thick lashes, his cheekbones high and cruel. His fingers brushed past the many hands and hit Adam’s, and suddenly everything was spinning.
“Adam? Adam !” Blue was beside him, he’d yanked his hand back as it seared too hot to bear, his entire arm numb, body tingling like he’d just been electrocuted. He’d reeled back, prevented from falling by the rush of the crowd, but the crowd was oddly hushed now, drawing back from the stage in confusion.
Adam flailed against Blue’s hands on his shoulders, craned his neck to see past her concerned face. Ronan was still above them, standing stock still, face pale, hand held out in front of him like he hoped someone might take it from him.
It was unmistakable. The tips of his three middle fingers looked like someone had dipped them in deep green paint, tattooed them with all the hues of an evergreen forest. Adam looked automatically down at his own hand, the matching swirl of color imprinted on his palm. It was a deep, iridescent gray.
He felt sick. He felt dizzy. He thought he might throw up.
“Ronan!” Gansey ran across the stage and grabbed at the shoulder of Ronan’s ripped black tank top. Ronan seemed to come back to himself and threw him off forcefully, Gansey reeling backward. He cast a last vicious look at the stunned crowd before ripping his guitar off and throwing it across the stage.
And then he was gone.