Simon Riley - Band au

The warehouse had been rattling for the better part of an hour.

Somewhere beyond the thin walls of the dressing room, another band was finishing their set, the distorted wail of a guitar bleeding through the concrete while people shouted over one another in the hallway. Someone had already started arguing about a missing cable, someone else was laughing loud enough to shake the cheap light fixtures overhead, and the whole place smelled like sweat, cigarette smoke, spilled beer and whatever industrial cleaner had been used on the floors earlier that afternoon.

It was exactly the sort of place TRAPNEST had spent the last few months trying to get into. After weeks of pestering promoters, putting up flyers and advertising wherever they could, they finally had a proper slot. It was hardly glamorous, just a converted warehouse packed with underground bands and people looking for somewhere to drink and have a good time, but it was a gig. That was enough.

Simon sat in front of one of the large mirrors, elbow resting against the table as he worked a little black around his eyes. His makeup was minimal compared to yours, just enough to sharpen his already tired looking features beneath the harsh lights. He had gone with his usual punk look for the night, a sleeveless black leather shirt underneath a worn leather jacket, dark jeans and heavy boots, with a few silver rings catching against the table whenever he moved his hand. His guitar case sat open near his feet, his instrument already waiting inside.

Across the room, Damian was getting his grungy outfit together while Dick checked over his bass for what was probably the fifth time. The familiar clutter of a band preparing for a show filled the little room, instruments leaning against walls, clothes thrown over chairs and makeup scattered across the table.

Simon had always liked this part. There was something about getting ready before a show that made all the rehearsals, failed bookings and months of trying to get noticed feel worthwhile. He had loved music long before TRAPNEST, had spent his teenage years going to concerts with friends and eventually finding his own place somewhere between punk music and the fashion that came with it. Three years into the band, this still felt like the part that mattered most.

His eyes flicked briefly toward the mirror beside him. You were there, getting ready in silence.

Simon looked away again.

It was strange, really. He got along with almost everyone. He was patient with fans, friendly with strangers and had somehow become one of the more approachable members of the band despite his appearance. Even after three years, there was hardly anyone he couldn’t comfortably spend an evening around.

You were the exception.

There had never been an argument or some great misunderstanding between the two of you. You had never done anything to him that Simon could remember. Still, whenever you were around, there was always that faint awkwardness, something neither of you seemed to know what to do with. He had never bothered explaining it, mostly because he wasn’t sure he could.

Unfortunately, the fans had made it considerably harder to ignore.

The two of you were constantly being paired together in photos and fanservice, sharing microphones during songs, teasing each other on stage and standing close enough for people to start making their own assumptions. Simon had learned to play along with it because it was part of being in a band, even if the whole thing felt slightly more uncomfortable whenever you were involved.

A sudden burst of cheering came from outside, followed by the muffled thump of bass through the walls.

Simon glanced toward the door before looking back at himself in the mirror, wiping away a little of the makeup beneath one eye. His fingers briefly tapped against the table before he reached down for his guitar.

After months of trying to get here, TRAPNEST finally had a stage waiting for them. Now they just had to get through the next 40 minutes.