Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Darlin had no idea what they were looking at. 

One moment they were peacefully scrambling notes down as they skimmed through a passage in their history book and the next, they had a poster, a flyer, and a very happy looking Asher in front of them. They were almost scared to ask what exactly had him beaming, on account of knowing that whatever it is, he’d probably succeed in dragging them into it, and unfortunately, they would most definitely either absolutely despise it or completely love it. ( and if the past was anything to go off of, they would probably–begrudgingly–enjoy it)

Well, no point ignoring him. That’d probably just make it worse. 

“What is this?” They ask, pushing the papers off of their textbook and notepad. Darlin did try to look busy or unamused or indifferent and you gotta give them credit for that, but you also have to understand that Asher is not even remotely close to the kind of person that makes that possible. Point made by his blissful ignorance of whatever hint they were trying to throw, in place of shoving the poster back over their textbook, the boy himself plopping down in the seat across from them. 

“Battle of the Bands!” Asher said ( more like yelled, which landed him an appalled look and a stern shushing from the librarians ) 

Darlin, to their credit, managed to keep every comment they had to themself, opting instead to just stare. Asher, of course, was Asher and just… smiled. Darlin sighed, silently cursing themself for being so weak as to give in so quickly. “Okay fine, I’ll humour ya.” 

They closed their textbook, painstakingly slow, not that this had any effect whatsoever on Asher of course. Then they shifted slightly in their seat to face him. “Why are you showing me this?” 

Darlin was starting to wonder if Asher's face was just stuck in a smile. Then they wondered if it hurt. 

“Cause I want you to be our vocalist!” 

They blinked, “What?” 

“Ya know~ the lead singer in a band-“ 

“No I-“ Darlin sighs, resting their elbow against the back of the chair as they turn to now fully face Asher. ( Maybe they were humoring him a little too much? ) “I meant, what do you mean ‘ our’ and why me ?” 

“ Weeell ” Asher drew out the word, once again shoving the poster in their hands. 

“We’ve got a drummer and a bassist and guitarist, which is me obviously.” He smiled, gesturing to himself. Which only got an eye roll from Darlin. “Anyways, we’re missing a main vocalist and I figured who better than the person who’s already the pride and joy of the music club!” 

Darlin thought that was a gross over exaggeration. They weren’t the pride and joy of the music club, they barely even really participated, it just so happened the president heard them singing to themself in the hall and decided they absolutely needed to be in the club. ( and despite what people apparently thought, they were really bad at saying no ) Hell, they didn’t even really do a convincing job at acting and most of the projects were plays! Then again, they figured maybe having three awards saying something along the lines of “ best vocals ” was a reasonable place from which Asher jumped to making them the vocalist. Which leads them to the other part of their questions; who was “we”?

“Right.. uh” Darlin reaches up their necklace, fidgeting with the pendant as they spoke. “Who exactly are your drummer and bassist? Who’s we?”

“What I’m hearing iiiss~” Asher leans toward them, smile not once having left his face. ( now Darlin was really starting to wonder if it hurt) “You’re thinkin’ about it” 

They shrugged, honestly unsure themself what they were thinking. Bands meant performing and while they knew their voice didn’t suck, they had no idea if it was really “band material”. They said as much, “Just curious Ash, dunno what I think yet cause ya haven’t told me shit”

Asher, to his credit and their slight amusement, only laughed. “How bout you come over tomorrow and see for yourself?” 

“Well that just sound like a damn trap.” 

Asher shrugged, “Only one way to find out, right?” 

Darlin was about fifty percent sure they were gonna regret the next words that came out of their mouth. “Yeah, fine” 

And with that, Asher left them to go back to their “boring history homework” ( which they were pretty sure he hadn’t even started yet despite the due date being tomorrow ) with a squeeze of their shoulder as well as both poster and flyer tucked between the pages of their notepad. 

~~ 

Darlin stood on the porch, rocking back and forth on their heels as they tried to gather up the courage to ring the damn doorbell. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t been here before, they’d been invited to plenty of hang outs, they just also tended to say no to most of the said invites. They could hear muffled semblances of whatever was going on inside, which only really added to their apprehension. Darlin was just about in the middle of debating the benefits of turning tail and leaving when the door opened. Now who opened the door? well that they didn’t expect.

“Hey,” David said. Honestly, as if the fact he practically towered over them wasn’t enough, he also sounded like he could punt them right into next Tuesday too. 

“Uh hey” 

The two of them sort of just stood there for what felt like eternity and a half. Darlin was once again debating, this time on how it would look if they just mumbled an apology and turned to leave. And they were about to do just that, until Asher came bouncing to the door. 

“You actually came!” He said, grabbing them by the wrist and practically dragging them inside. “I’ll be honest I was halfway convinced you were gonna bail!” 

Darlin offered a faint smile as they sat, pushed up against the corner of the couch despite the large amount of room present. They scanned the room; a half set-up drum set, guitar, bass, mics, headsets, soundboards, and everything else under the sun. Darlin almost jumped when a plate was offered to them. 

“Snacks?” Milo asked, currently snacking on a wafer stick. “They aren’t here for decoration.” 

Darlin mumbled a thank you as they took the offered plate. To his credit, Milo had given them a great spread of everything from sweet to salty to savory to sour. They probably wouldn’t even end up touching half the plate but it was the thought that counted, right?

Asher and David came back into the living room, carrying a case of soda cans and speakers respectively. “-they technically haven’t said yes yet but they’re here and i think that’s a good sign!” 

Well he was certainly optimistic. Darlin was pretty sure Asher hadn’t meant for them to hear that, so they pretended they hadn’t. It reoccurred to them they had come with the intention of meeting the band Asher was so energetically roping them into. Then they realized they already had. 

“Wait.” They blurted, head almost immediately tilting down to hide their eyes behind their hair as they spoke. Darlin could feel all the eyes in the room turn to look at them, and while yes they had certainly gotten better at shrugging off the feeling of burning under any gaze, that didn’t mean the struggle was gone. To add to the humour of the scene, they seemed to have lost their grip on the English language. “I uh-“ 

Asher recovered the quickest, “Yeah this is the band! or the makings of one, anyway” 

That was one thing Darlin definitely liked about Asher, he could be an absolute anomaly of pure joy and chaos but he also knew how to read the room like a forecast. 

“David’s on drums.” The boy in question was currently knelt on the floor fiddling with the speaker wires, graciously giving out a huff of acknowledgement at the mention of his name. 

“Milo’s on Bass” 

“And I’m fucking amazin’ at it, too.” Milo called from the kitchen, where he apparently was refilling his snack platter. ( darlin didn’t even notice he’d finished everything on it? already? they were pretty sure it was full when they got here )

“And I’m on guitar! as you already know” 

Darlin sort of just sat there staring at their palms. Honestly, they had no idea the boys even knew how to play, let alone that they would have ever thought about starting a band. And to ask them to be in it? Was that a unanimous decision? or an attempt by Asher to get them to hang around more? 

“Hey,” Asher said, he tried not to lean toward them too fast, only slightly worried they’d jump up and run out the door. “Look I- We aren’t tryin’ to make any decisions for you but,” he swallowed, swirling the soda can he held in his hands. “well ya know, we’d love to have you, if you decide you want in?” 

Darlin let that sit, humming as they turned the thought over in their head. 

What could staying at least the rest of the night hurt? 

“Play something for me?” they asked. 

“Sure!” Asher beamed, to which David cleared his throat and pointed at the mess of equipment. 

 “Ah- lemme just- help David finish setting up” 

~~

“Technically, I haven’t said yes yet,” Darlin pointed out, fiddling with their mic stand. 

Asher gasped, rushing over to them from across the room. He almost spilled the drink in his – stereotypical, they had no clue where he got – red plastic cup in his haste to blurt out, “But you’ve been coming every night!” 

Milo laughed, leaning against the wall, bass in hand, absently plucking at the strings, “Doesn’t mean it’s a yes, they could just be leadin’ us on.” 

“Or they want you to beg, Asher,” David chimed in from where he stood over the mess of wires he had told them all to clean up. ( which, based on the state of his furrowed brows, no one had done )

Darlin shrugged, finally happy with the height of the stand. They sat on the bench pushed up against the wall next to them. They had, in fact, been coming every night for about two weeks. Asher had taught them everything on their set list, they’d even run all the songs a couple times, and the competition ( because incase we’ve forgotten, this all started for that damn battle of the bands ) was only another month and a half away. 

“Hey! I’ve been begging this whole time ! Ya gotta gimme something here Darlin~” 

The room filled with laughter as Asher made a show of pleading hands and an attempt at puppy dog eyes. Well, room was sort of a loose term here since they were actually in David’s garage. They had originally planned on using Asher’s living room but his parents were fed up with the blaring music from 7 to 11:30 pretty damn quick ( all of one day, actually ). Either way, Milo came with snacks so Darlin didn’t care. 

“We gonna put some rehearsing in this rehearsal or what?” Milo had now opted against leaning casually to instead drag a stool to the spot he’d decided was his the moment they moved into the garage. ( why a stool? darlin didn’t know, but they certainly weren’t gonna question it ).

Darlin tapped a finger to the mic, hiding – or more appropriately, trying to hide – their snickering at the glare they got from David, who unfortunately had his head right next to the speakers as they did it. “Hey I’ve been ready since I got here” 

“It’s not my fault you’re all heathens” David grumbled as he walked away from the wires ( which Darlin was pretty sure just gave up on ), taking his place behind the drums. “Asher, are we starting, or what?” 

“Yeah, yeah, lemme just-“ Asher picks up his guitar, giving it a pre-emptive strum. He turns to the group, apparently satisfied with himself, “Alright. David, start us off!” 

To his credit, David only rolled his eyes, “One, Two, Three, and~”

~~

Let this be a lesson that completing something doesn’t always mean you’ve succeeded. 

“Man, that was ass.” Milo – very aptly – pointed out from where he was filling a cup to the brim with what Darlin was about thirty percent sure was orange juice? Well, ya gotta respect the guy for staying away from alcohol. That’s not to say they thought drinking was a completely bad thing… point proven by the beer David had split between three cups. 

Asher was on the floor ( neither david nor darlin were sure that was exactly sanitary? but hey, to each their own form of breakdown ), his still mostly full cup of now flat beer dangerously within ‘knocking over towards the electronics ’ distance. David was slumped on the bench, staring into nothing, the hand not holding a cup tapping mindlessly at his lap. Darlin figured they may as well join in the existential dread, thus ignoring previous thoughts of unsanitariness ( yeah sure, let’s say that’s a word ) and lowering themself to sit on the floor, leaning forward resting both elbows on their legs.

“I don’t understand!” Asher threw his hands up in the air, though from his current position – completely flat on the ground – he looked kind of like a toddler asking for uppies . “We’ve been doing so good, what happened?”

“For starters, you were too fuckin’ loud” 

Darlin looked over when Milo spoke, he had somehow finished over half the juice in the pitcher between the moment they watched him pour a full glass to now. Asher propped himself up on his elbows, glaring at the other boy. 

“Was not!” 

“You kinda were, Ash, we could barely hear Darlin and they’re supposed to be main vocals” David chimed in, his now empty cup abandoned on the ground next to his chosen perch. He wasn’t exactly looking at anyone in particular, but Darlin couldn’t figure out if that was because he was angry or disappointed. They didn’t know which one would be worse. 

“Oh yeah? says the guy who was offbeat half the set!”

“If I was so offbeat, why didn’t you say anything during the set?” 

Asher was full on sitting upright now, hands waving around as he listed off everything he figured went wrong with their rehearsal. Darlin pulled their knees to their chest, trying to listen but unfortunately drifting farther with every word. They wondered if they were supposed to interject, to give their opinion on what went wrong, but they weren’t any sort of musical prodigy or genius to do that, were they? It just so happened they had a good voice to them. Darlin was just about to bury their head behind hair and denim when they realized the other three people in the room were looking at them. 

“Uh- sorry, what?” They asked, lifting their head up as they let the grip they had on their legs relax. 

“We wanna know what you think.” Asher pointed out, to which David only huffed, leaning back against the wall with a – apparently newly filled – cup back in his hand. Must’ve been a really bad night if he was going for a second drink, but that wasn’t really their shit to comment on. 

Darlin stayed quiet for a moment, figuring out the most diplomatic way they could put what was admittedly a shit show. “Well, everyone has off days-“ 

Darlin felt like the oxygen had been vacuumed up and out of their lungs as Asher caught their eyes. How honest were they supposed to be? Did he want them to just side with him? Why did what they thought even matter? They could almost feel their skin burning as they tried to catch their breath again, heart pounding in their ears. Darlin was on their way down one of their patent pending spirals when they felt a hand on their shoulder. 

“Hey,” Milo knelt next to them, his gaze hovering just above their eyes so they could choose to meet his if they wanted. “You okay?” 

Asher was pursing his lips now, eyes drained of any humour or mirth and replaced with concern. David came up behind Milo, offering them a glass of water that they hadn’t even noticed he went to go get. Darlin opened their mouth to respond but found their throat dry. Asher got up, walking over slowly, putting out a hand to help them up, which they took after another moment of getting out of their own head. 

“Sorry I-“ 

“No,” Asher interrupted, eyes wide, almost frantic. “No don’t apologize I-“

“We kind of put you on the spot,” David supplied, to which Asher nodded, his hands wringing in his lap. 

“Look,” Milo said, pulling a chair closer to where they were all now huddled together. “Why don’t we just take tonight as a uh, worst case scenario , hm?” 

“Let’s go through what we all think,” David shifted in his seat, “For starters, we should turn up main vocals or take backing down a notch.” He said this as he watched Darlin, gauging his next words by how likely it was to kick off their instincts to run off. When they nodded slowly, he continued, “And yes, I need to stop rushing through some of the songs.” 

“Milo needs to stop getting lost,” was exactly how Asher decided he should phrase his input. This of course only landed him a – probably lighthearted – punch from the boy in question. 

“It ain’t my fault a fourth of the damn songs sound so similar!” 

“Yeah well it’s not like you don’t know what song is up next-“ 

Darlin decided this was better. The playful banter and the physical violence was a better fit for the group than a mini civil war. David got up as Milo tackled Asher, taking the chair previously occupied by the former, next to Darlin. 

“I don’t see how we’re ever supposed to have a formal conversation with these two.” He said, taking a sip of whatever drink he had – Darlin suspected that god awful generic soda Gabe always brought to barbecues – and offered them their pick of the snack platter, or what was left of it, anyways. 

“Maybe we can have it for ‘em” Darlin jested, taking every brownie bit off the plate. “Ya ever tune your damn drum?” 

David threw an m&m at their head. 

~~

And that’s how the night went on. They would pick up rehearsal again tomorrow, hopefully take what little constructive conversation they had had tonight and use it to not “ sound like ass ” as Milo would put it. Practice makes perfect, that’s as true as you make it out to be, but Darlin – the whole band, for that matter – learned tonight that sometimes, ya gotta cut yourself some slack and take a break. 

So if by 11:00 in the evening they ended up playing video games in David’s living room? Well, they’d just write it off as team building. 

And besides, a month and a half, that was still plenty of time

Chapter Text

David rapped his knuckles against the door of Asher’s hotel room, the rings on his fingers making the sound a satisfying series of thuds. This, however, was the fourth time he’d had to repeat this in the span of thirty minutes, and he was growing increasingly frustrated. “Asher, I swear we’re about to leave without you.” 

The door swung open, revealing the man in question with his hair still wet and his shoes still not on. Despite the sight of David staring at him with a very tired expression, Asher barked out a laugh. “Relax buddy, we’ve got a whole three hours before we open.” 

“Dude, get your ass out here,” Darlin called from where they were already waiting for the elevators with Milo. If David wasn’t serious about leaving Asher behind, someone sure as shit was. At least, Darlin clearly was, Milo was too busy bobbing his head along to whatever song of theirs was playing in his earphones and moving his fingers on an imaginary bass along with it to truly be paying attention. Darlin leaned back against the wall, hair falling over their shoulder as they tilt their head back, “Need I remind you, your hair alone always sets us back by half an hour.” 

That actually earned a chuckle from David, who pushed Asher back into his hotel room, told him to get his damn shoes on, and threw his jacket at him as he stumbled out the door. Miraculously, all right as the elevator reached their floor. Asher shoved Milo out of the way as he raced in, as if he wasn’t the one they were all waiting on. David and Darlin shared a look of amused annoyance when the other two started bickering as Asher held Milo’s headset just slightly out of reach. 

David leaned down to whisper to Darlin, “How much you wanna bet they’ll fight the whole ride to the stadium?” 

Darlin snorted, pushing the button for the ground floor and leaning back as the doors closed, “I ain’t taking a losing bet.”

That was a good decision on their part, because the two didn’t stop sniping at each other even as they reached the stadium. Which honestly kind of impressed David and Darlin because they didn’t think there were so many ways to piss a person off, yet Milo and Asher managed to continue doing just that.

In summary, it was a really loud car ride. 

—

Darlin was met with a gazillion flashing lights the second they left the privacy of the car. They were pretty sure there weren’t supposed to be any paparazzi here at all, but unfortunately, their team could only do so much, and they knew this. So instead of glaring all the way to the door, they took a deep breath, plastered on the realest looking smile they could muster, and pulled their cap as far over their face as they could. 

It had only been a few months since the publicity nightmare their ex had concocted blew up on every social media platform and they didn’t particularly feel like being the center of attention again so soon. This was admittedly an impossible task, but thankfully, they had a great band. 

Asher came up on their left, arm around their shoulder, blocking them from at least one half of the hoard with his own body, smiling and being an undeniable charming sensation as he did. David and Milo stood to their right, giving the cameras every angle under the sun for pictures of them and none of Darlin. The four of them walked the short distance from the car to the entrance like this as the guards did their best to get the cameras to back off.

Darlin let go of the breath they had no idea they were holding as soon as the doors shut behind them, David brought them over to a sofa in the lobby’s waiting area, catching them as they fell forward, running his hand in circles on their back as they caught their breath. Asher and Milo sat across from them, chatting with their manager, Arden, as she ran them through the schedule of final preparations; hair and makeup, wardrobe, sound check, and opening. She excused herself and called for the room to be emptied, leaving just the four of them. 

Darlin ran a hand over their face as they pulled away from David. 

“Thanks,” they whispered, reaching for the bottles of water on the table before them. 

“Arden wants you to know they did their best to keep the cameras away but-“ Asher paused, fingers twisting around a loose thread on his worn down jean jacket, “well, you know how they are.” 

Darlin offered a smile and nodded. Gulping down the water and pulling their knees to their chest, off-white couch be damned. 

“Not that that’s an excuse for their behavior,” Milo supplied, looking toward the door with half a mind to barge out there and berate every single one of those privacy violating assholes. He managed to refrain, though barely, if his fist clenching at the fabric of his pants was anything to go by. 

David hummed, picking up the folder Arden left on the end table containing the schedule she’d gone over with Asher and Milo. He turned to the others, flipping through the contents, “As much as I want to make good on that glare Milo is directing to the door, are we up to getting a move on these things?” 

—

Marie smacked Asher’s arm as he reached for the flat iron, he whined as she pushed him back against the chair, earning the laughter of Darlin, who was getting their makeup done in the chair beside him. Their artist sat on a stool in front of them, dabbing glitter onto their cheeks and collarbones as they scrolled aimlessly on their phone. 

Marie had barely needed to do anything with their hair, on account of the fact they already had a haircut that needed minimal to no styling, and they swung their head around so much on stage that everyone had just accepted it was better untouched (they always managed to end the night looking like they’d stepped out of a magazine cover anyways so it worked out). 

Unlike Asher, who everyone had decided did need his hair styled because otherwise he’d walk onto and off the stage looking like he’d just crawled through an air vent, which meant Marie was taking every precaution necessary. 

They’d both just come from wardrobe, where they were handed their clothes immediately upon entry, rushed into respective changing rooms, adjusted by about three people respectively, handed a myriad of different accessory options, and finally sent over to hair and makeup, where they currently sat. 

Asher came out of it in army green cargo pants, a sheer mesh top he was currently picking the gems off of (but don’t tell the stylists that), an oversized jacket with their faces screen printed on the back, his usual converse which he’d vetoed a brand new pair of boots for, and the fingerless gloves he’d been begging for the last three months. 

Darlin on the other hand was rocking the combat boots they’d gotten from their latest designer collab, distressed knee-length jean shorts paired with a chunky studded belt Milo was probably gonna try to steal, a shirt from their last concert that was a half size too big (but they liked it that way), and all the chains they could convince their stylists to let them wear.

Asher grinned as his makeup artist came back over to his chair, carrying a whole stack of palettes they’d found in supplies, and got back to ‘making him pretty’ . Darlin sat back, letting the glitter and the rest of their makeup set, as Asher was once again still being worked on while the rest of them were ready to head to sound check. 

“Guess we were wrong,” Milo said as he came into the room, checking his hair and makeup in the mirror (again). He had apparently changed the entire outfit the stylists had given him, swapping out the red vest he’d been given for a skin tight black tank top, the distressed dark wash jeans for a bleached grey straight cut pair, the bomber jacket for the leather jacket he’d stitched patches onto himself, the boots for platform converse, and the ton of jewelry for just a simple chain necklace and belt. It was truly a wonder their stylists weren’t fed up with him. “Your hair is gonna set us back a full hour at this point.” 

Asher laughed, then immediately apologized as his makeup artist scolded him for moving his head just as she was about to perfect his eyeliner, “Hey, awesomeness requires dedication, okay?” 

“Awesomeness?” David repeated from where he was leaning against the doorframe, having gotten a coffee and bagel from god knows where since he’d finished getting ready first as usual. That’s not at all to say he looked rushed, simply that the stylist had barely needed to adjust anything nor received any complaint regarding his clothing. 

As always, every piece of his outfit paid homage to something or someone. He sported a jersey from their hometowns college over a black long sleeve turtleneck, loose black jeans he’d gotten custom embroidered with snippets of their song lyrics, high top sneakers he’d had for god knows how long, a single large chain necklace gifted by his father, and his usual carefully collected and crafted ring stacks on his fingers. “Is that even a word?” 

“What can I say,” Asher tried hard not to move too much as he spoke, which evidently wasn’t too successful judging by the way his makeup artist was pursing her lips, “I’m a regular Shakespeare, just look at our songs!”

Darlin snorted at that, finally looking up, eyes sparkling from the sheer amount of makeup and gemstones, “We wrote our songs together, Ash.”

He only grinned again in response, thanking his makeup artist as she finally finished working on him and seemed more than happy to race out of the room and take the break they were already 15 minutes late for. Marie gave him one last hail mary spritz of hairspray as she set down her tools and stepped back to admire her work, probably because she knew it would be gone at the end of the night. 

A lot of people questioned why Marie was their only hairstylist and why the band insisted on taking her with them everywhere. Most assumed it was just because she was Milo’s mother and they were all loyal, and while that was certainly part of it, it really had more to do with the fact that they all loved her work, her company, and well, her.

Though, it was a well known fact that most of their team—from management to security to beauty to everything else in between—had been with them since they started because in Milo’s well put words in an interview from a few weeks ago, “ya don’t gotta fix what ain’t broken.”

“I’ve done about all I can, Asher.” Marie quipped as Asher laughed and thanked her, to which she gave a disbelieving hum. “Thank me by not ruining my work, hm?”

“No promises!” Asher called after her, already giving Marie’s skill a run for her money with a few cursory swings of his head. He at least received a sweet – though amused and probably exasperated – laugh in return.

“Oh good, you’re done,” Arden came into the room with an earpiece and holding a clipboard, “They’re ready for sound check, just head up to the stage.” she then left just as quickly, yelling at someone for something over her earpiece. 

“Well ya heard her,” Milo hopped up from where he’d been lounging, tugging on his jacket and making one final miniscule adjustment to his hair, “We ready?” 

“Absolutely not,” Darlin said, hopping off their chair, boots thumping as they hit the ground and chains rattling as they headed for the door. They ducked past David and into the hall, turning back to look at the others with a shrug, “But let’s kick ass anyway.” 

“Hell yeah!” Asher yelled, running after them, almost knocking over a stage light and into a trio of stage crew. 

“He’s nervous as fuck, isn’t he?” Milo asked as he stepped past David. 

“Absolutely.” David said with a smirk, pulling the door shut behind him.

The two shared a laugh as they headed after Darlin and Asher, at a more reasonable pace, of course. They also made sure to apologize to the stage crew Ash had almost toppled over.

—

Darlin stood still, staring at the empty stadium seats as a member of tech got their mic pack on. Their heart was already racing, a mix of excitement and absolute terror thrumming through every vein in their body. 

This was a long shot from the fear they’d felt at the band's first big show, but they’d be lying if they ever said you got used to that feeling. It certainly wasn’t helping that they couldn’t shake the thought of this being their first concert since their dirty laundry was aired out for the whole world—and used to turn everyone against them.

Unsuccessfully, they knew, but still. 

Darlin whispered a thanks to the crew member as they gave the mic pack a final confirming tug, then went to sit at the end of the stage. 

“You alright?” Milo came up beside them, looking out over the dimly lit VIP section as the stadium staff gave it a final once-over. 

They were both quiet for a moment, letting the noise of everyone else rushing this way and that wash over them. 

Darlin let their shoulders drop, posture relaxing for what felt like the first time this whole week. 

Milo sat next to them, one leg drawn up with his foot staying flat on the ground, the other folded loosely. His posture was easy—or as easy as it could be—fingers absently tracing the bleached lines on his jeans. 

Darlin huffed out a breathy, nervous laugh. “Scared shitless, but that’s per usual, I guess.” 

Milo laughed with them, “Yeah, but I meant more…” He paused, gesturing vaguely at the air. “You know.”

They did know; they had just been thinking about it, in fact. Darlin shrugged, not because they were trying to play off Milo’s well-placed concern but because they had no clue how to put their situation into coherent words. They drummed their hands on their lap, an attempt to keep from picking at the skin around their nails. Darlin sighed, shrugging again—slower.

“I’ve… been trying not to think about it,” they admitted almost hesitantly, attempting to gather the incoherent mess of thoughts and emotion into something that resembled structure. Everything spilled out in a single breath, “But every time I take a second to breathe it- it just all comes back to the surface and I- I remember there are people out there that are- are bashing me for a story I never wanted published..” 

Milo didn’t speak right away. He just nodded, slow and steady, like he wasn’t going to rush them or offer advice and try to fix anything. Instead, he offered exactly what they didn’t know they needed; someone to just be there .

“Yeah,” he said finally. “I hate that so many people saw your wounds and asked if you started the fight.”

Darlin blinked, caught off guard by how precisely he’d nailed the situation. They let out a quiet, surprised laugh. “That’s… weirdly poetic for you.”

“It’s been a long three hours and a lot of feelings,” he said with a shrug. “Sue me.”

They were quiet again. But this time it was different. Lighter. Darlin pulled their knees up to their chest, arms resting loosely across them, cradling their face, eyes staring back at nothing in particular. “It’s just hard. Trying to come back from something when people already made up their minds.”

“You’re not coming back for them,” Milo said, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re coming back for you. And for us. And for every single person waiting out there right now, ready to scream our lyrics along with you like a scripture. That matters way more than some internet randos with bad grammar and worse takes.”

Darlin smiled, small but real. “You’re better at this pep talk thing than I expected.”

Milo stood, dusted off his pants, then offered a hand. “I’m full of surprises.”

Darlin took it.

As they stood, the lights began to shift—stage lighting warming up, flickering in layered golds and reds. They could hear Asher yelling something obnoxious (probably at a stagehand who had the misfortune of simply being there) from the wings and David’s steady voice trying to rein him in before he made a fool of himself—more than he already had, at least.

Darlin turned back to look at the rows upon rows of soon-to-be-filled seats as the rest of the band gathered together. Their heart still pounded, but now it beat alongside something else—anticipation.

Milo squeezed their hand once before letting go, a quick gesture they’d gotten used to over the years. “Let’s go remind the world who the hell you are.”

—

The stage was dark. The kind of darkness that burned an electric anticipation under your skin. The crowd was already roaring, their voices a thunderous cacophony, rising and falling like the breath of a beast waiting to pounce. 

The band gave each other their final pre-show encouragements as tech handed Darlin their mic. They took a deep, calming breath as they brought it to their lips, hands trembling slightly. 

Asher put a hand on their shoulder. “You got this,” he whispered. David and Milo nodded. “Knock em dead, Darlin.” 

And that was all they needed.

Their voice boomed from the speakers, echoing through the stadium as they spoke into the microphone.

“You ever feel like the world just wants you to burn?” 

The crowd erupted like a match to gasoline—roaring, screaming, stomping. The lights shot on in a synchronized explosion, flooding the stage in color as smoke billowed from the wings. With the symphony of cheers and screams as their theme song, the band emerged from the haze, a level of drama they’d originally planned as a gag—but that the crowd was absolutely eating up. 

Darlin stood center stage, head bowed, mic in one hand, the other clenched into a fist. Their chains and loads of body glitter caught the lights, lighting them up like they were on fire. Asher dashed to one side, jacket flying behind him as it caught wind, hyping up the crowd, a streak of chaos and charisma. Milo was down on one knee at the other end of the stage, earning waves upon waves of screams from the fans he was serenading. David’s silhouette stayed cool and composed behind the drums—steady, lethal rhythm. Then he dropped the first beat.

David’s drums hit like a heartbeat returning after a flatline—loud, deliberate, alive . Milo’s bass came in after him, vibrating through the floor and crawling into every chest in the room. Asher’s guitar wailed like a warning, distortion curling like smoke through the chaos.

Darlin’s head shot up as the spotlight landed on them, an almost wolf-like smile on their face and looking like they’d been born for this. 

They didn’t just sing the first verse—they confessed it, roaring into the mic like they’d been holding it in for months—which, in a way, they had. Their voice was raw and unflinching, holding steady even as the first notes clawed out of their throat like something finally breaking free. Each lyric struck like shrapnel, every word a truth they were bleeding for, and the crowd took every hit willingly, screaming the words right back like they’d been starving for this.

The stadium became a pulse. The crowd a single living, screaming entity. Thousands of strangers screaming lyrics like lifelines—like prayers they’d memorized.

Darlin moved like they belonged there— finally . Hair whipping, boots stomping, mic gripped like a weapon. They met every eye they could, daring anyone to look away. The stage wasn’t a place of fear anymore—it was armor, it was revenge, it was home.

Asher matched their fire with his own kind of chaos, fingers flying over his guitar like he was trying to wring lightning from every note. He played like the world was ending and he wanted it to end loud. At one point, he dropped to his knees during a solo, head thrown back, the chord progression ripping through the air like a war cry. The crowd screamed his name, and he winked at them without missing a note.

Milo kept the bottom end grounded, but there was nothing subtle about the way he did it. He stalked across the stage like he was hunting something, leaning over the edge into the front rows, bass slung low and snarling through the speakers. He had a way of locking eyes with the fans—like he saw every one of them, like their energy was fueling his. At the bridge, he and Darlin moved in tandem, back to back, heads bowed, the air electric between them before the drop slammed back in.

And David—David was the spine. The heartbeat. He didn’t need to be flashy; he didn’t have to move an inch to command the entire stadium. His drum fills were precision strikes, every hit perfectly timed, driving the song forward with relentless intensity. Even when the lights stuttered or the crowd surged, David never faltered. The others could throw themselves into the chaos because they knew he’d be there to anchor them.

During the second chorus, the lights flickered through a rainbow of color, casting wild, shifting shadows across the stage. Confetti cannons fired like thunderclaps, and the scream that followed could’ve cracked the sky.

Darlin stood at the edge of the stage again, looking out over the sea of people. This was more than a comeback. It was a declaration.

They dropped to one knee as the bridge came in low and slow—just their voice and Milo’s bass rumbling like distant thunder.

“They told me to be softer,
So I sharpened my teeth.”

Spotlights flared white-hot.

“They tried to drown me,
But I taught the water my name.”

The music crashed back in, full force, a tidal wave of sound. Asher’s guitar screamed, Milo’s bass surged, David’s drums cracked like lightning. Darlin rose with the crescendo, head thrown back, voice furious and passionate as they belted the final chorus.

The stadium was fire. Sound. Chaos. Communion .

By the time the song ended, Darlin was breathless, heart hammering, sweat glittering like stardust. The crowd was a single roar. A thousand hands up. A thousand voices screaming for more.

They turned to the band, and the four of them shared a glance—exhausted, elated, defiant.

They weren’t just surviving.

They were undeniable .

They had the whole night ahead of them, and by god were they going to set the world on fire.

Chapter Text

No one tells you just how quickly a month passes.

The air in the garage had more than just the smell of soldered wires and half-finished soda. Now, it carried the low buzz of something real—of expectation, maybe nerves. It had been a while since that one dumpster-fire of a rehearsal, and somehow, no one among them had called it quits. Darlin thought that was either admirable or deeply concerning.

"Alright, from the top," David called, tapping the edge of his drumsticks against the snare with a steady, practiced rhythm. His voice was even, but the way his brows drew tight said he was just as keyed up as everyone else. Maybe more.

“Wait—wait,” Milo cut in, bass slung low across his torso, one finger raised like he was about to make the world’s most important point. “I’m missing a string.”

David blinked. “What do you mean you’re—how do you just lose a string?”

“I didn’t lose it,” Milo defended, already digging through the cluttered crate beside him. “It’s just... absent.”

“Same thing.” David groaned, flopping back against his stool like he’d been personally attacked.

Darlin watched from their spot by the mic, holding a bottle of water they hadn’t opened in twenty minutes. They were used to this by now; the pre-rehearsal chaos, teasing, half-finished equipment repairs, delay (always the delay). But this time, there was something simmering beneath the surface, namely, their being a mere two days out from Battle of the Bands.

Two days.

“Maybe we should skip this run and do vocals-only practice,” Asher offered, his guitar already tuned and hanging across his chest. He gave Darlin a look—half question, half encouragement.

Darlin shrugged, rubbing a thumb along their water bottle’s label. “I don’t see what other option we’ve got.”

David clicked his tongue, twirling one drumstick in his fingers like he was prepping for war. “Sure, but let’s actually play something today too, preferably with all the necessary strings?” 

Milo grunted in acknowledgment, fingers now deftly threading the replacement string into place. “Five minutes.”

Asher looked over at Darlin again, this time with something softer behind his eyes. “You ready?”

Darlin twisted the cap off their water bottle, finally taking a drink, then inhaled deep and nodded, turning to the mic. The moment the music began—even with just the subtle rhythm and the hum of Asher’s guitar—it was like flipping a switch; nerves gone, doubts muted. This part, they could do.

They sang.

It wasn’t perfect, not at all. There was a part where they stumbled over lyrics, a second they fell behind, a slight crack. But it was strong, it was entrancing, it was… passionate. They flowed through each line, voice and soul laced with what they now realized they had been lacking before—conviction. 

As the song came to an end, a breath passed over the room, unnoticed but unanimous, almost like a shared exhale. No one dared to speak so soon, none wanting to be the first to blink and snap the tranquility. Then: “See? That’s the kinda shit that’s gonna get us on that stage,” Asher said, practically glowing. He looked around the garage like he was seeing it for the first time. “We’re ready.”

David nodded, but slowly. “Yeah. If we don’t psych ourselves out.”

Darlin gave a quiet laugh, taking another sip of their water. “Big if .”

Milo tossed them a protein bar from where he sat with a now completely strung bass. “Eat. You’re gonna need energy to carry our asses.”

Darlin caught it midair, inspecting it with a raised brow. “What makes you think I’m not the one being carried?”

“You’re literally the reason we stopped sounding like hot garbage,” David said flatly, startling a laugh out of Darlin. A small laugh, but a real, genuine laugh. 

Things had changed. Not just the music, not just the fact that they could now name all the knobs on the soundboard or that Milo could rewire his amp with his eyes closed or that Asher had stopped accidentally elbowing people during solos (okay, mostly stopped). Point is, they’d changed; Grown. The band wasn’t just a thrown-together thing anymore, which seemed like a hell of an accomplishment for two months.

“I still haven’t said yes, y’know,” Darlin said after a beat, unable to resist teasing.

Asher gasped, hand flying to his chest like he’d been shot. “Darlin, noooo. After everything? After the snacks? The late nights? David’s garage?! ”

David threw a drumstick at him.

Darlin grinned, the last of the tension finally ebbing away. “You’re right,” they said, plopping into the folding chair they had long claimed as theirs and leaning back. “I’m in.”

It wasn’t some grand announcement. No music swelled and no one cheered. Instead, Milo raised a fist in victory, David cracked the smallest of smiles, and Asher? He just beamed like the sun had decided to show up in person.

Milo clapped his hands together. “Right, whatta ya say we get on to that rehearsin’ shit we talk so much about?” 

David scoffed, sitting back up. “Bout time, because we’ve got two days left to tighten up this set or die trying.”

“Dramatic,” Asher muttered as he walked past Darlin, who only laughed. He then amended the glare he received from David with: “I mean- very motivating.”

He wasn’t wrong though. They had exactly two days left, and then they'd be on that stage with three songs, one shot, and maybe— maybe —a chance to prove they weren’t just some garage band with a name they couldn’t really explain and a half-decent vocalist.

Darlin looked around at them. Asher, who dreamed bigger than his guitar case. Milo, who pretended not to care but had memorized everyone’s parts. David, who kept them steady, even when he was falling apart under the weight of it all. And themself, still unsure, sometimes—but now, with something solid beneath the uncertainty. Not just a voice, not just a place behind a mic, but a part of something. Something that had teeth and heart.

“Well, we’re not gonna win just by showing up,” David said, snapping them back to the moment. He adjusted the height of his hi-hat and tapped it once, twice, like he was checking the heartbeat of the song before it even began. “Let’s run it again from the top. Clean. No stops.”

“No pressure,” Milo muttered, strapping on his bass like it was armor.

Asher strummed a quick chord, then another, and smiled when they rang clean. “Let’s show them what we've got.”

—

Someone should really write a manual on how to survive your first real show, starting with telling you that even brushing your teeth in the morning feels like battle prep. 

Darlin pulled up to David’s garage just as the last of the early June mist burned off the pavement. The sky was bright, obnoxiously hopeful, the kind of blue that made everything look a little more like a coming-of-age movie than real life. Maybe that was fitting.

Inside, the garage looked exactly the same—and completely different. The same tangle of wires, the same snack cart and minifridge, the same dent in the drywall from that one time Asher dared Milo to backflip off an overturned milk crate. But today, there was a new kind of electricity in the air, and it wasn’t coming from the power strip clinging to life by duct tape in the corner.

David was already in his seat behind the kit, tightening a cymbal with the focus of someone defusing a bomb. Asher leaned against the wall near the guitar stand, arms crossed, jacket tied around his waist, eyes flicking toward the open garage door every few seconds like he was waiting for a storm. Milo sat on the amp with a bag of powdered donuts in one hand and his bass in the other, stringing through warmups like he’d been born doing it.

"Hey! look who decided to show up." Asher said when he spotted Darlin. His voice was easy, but there was something buzzing beneath it, like a low-voltage current running under his skin.

“You’re late,” David added, without looking up. But he didn’t sound mad—more like he needed to say something to let off steam.

“I’m literally two minutes early,” Darlin replied, stepping into their usual corner by the mic stand and dropping their bag with a soft thud.

“Emotionally late,” Milo said, offering the bag of donuts like a peace treaty. “We’re all emotionally late.”

Darlin had no idea what he could possibly mean by that, so rather than commenting they took one of the offered donuts and sat on the edge of the folding chair, which until further notice was still technically theirs. They looked around, as if this garage hadn’t been their entire schedule for the last two months. 

For all the noise they’d made in this garage—for all the yelling, laughing, late nights and awkward harmonies—it felt too quiet today. Like the room was holding its breath with them.

“You guys sleep?” they asked, if only to break that silence.

Asher scoffed. “Define sleep.”

“I stared at my ceiling for four hours and learned five new ways to hate my own breathing,” David said.

Milo raised his hand, which was covered in powdered sugar. “I dreamed I was at the Battle of the Bands but forgot my bass and had to beatbox.”

Asher nodded solemnly. “That’s horrifying.”

Darlin smiled around the powdered sugar. It was nerves, sure, but it was also something else—momentum. Like they were all standing just before the drop of a roller coaster.

“Last run?” David asked.

Asher raised an eyebrow. “We really playing in here? Right now?”

“Why not?” Milo said. “Garage roots. Good luck charm.”

They didn’t plug in fully. No mics, no amps, just the stripped-down version—acoustic, raw. A pulse-check. Something small, just for them.

Darlin stood at the mic stand out of habit even though it wasn’t on. They closed their eyes. Took a breath. Sang the first line.

The others followed like they always did. Tight. Focused. Imperfect in the way all live music is, but full of something they couldn’t fake—care. That hard-won thread between four very different people who had decided, for whatever reason, to throw themselves into the same orbit and stay there.

The last chord faded into the dusty quiet. No one said anything for a moment.

Then Milo cleared his throat, which everyone mercifully decided not to point out sounded like him swallowing down tears. “That’s the best we’ve sounded unplugged.”

“Feels like something’s clicking,” Asher agreed.

David nodded. “Good. Because the next time we play that, it’ll be for a couple hundred people. Some of them with clipboards.”

Darlin wiped their palms on their jeans. “So, no pressure.”

“Exactly the right amount of pressure,” David said. “Let’s move.”

—

You could have made a pretty good movie montage out of them that morning. Guitar cases snapped shut with crisp finality. Cables were rolled with slightly more care than usual. Asher attempted to label the pedalboard bag with duct tape and a Sharpie before giving up halfway through writing “DO NOT CRUSH.” David double-checked the sticks in his kit bag three times. Milo ran a cloth over the neck of his bass like it would make a difference. Darlin stared at the lyric sheet in their notebook and tried not to let their eyes blur the words.

“Y’know,” Milo said, carefully sliding his bass into its case, “I think this is the first time we’ve packed without losing something under the snack cart.”

Asher tilted his head. “Give it five minutes.”

David closed the back of his dad’s SUV, which had been unofficially dubbed the tour van (despite the lack of touring). “Everyone triple-check. We leave in ten.”

“Has anyone seen my capo?” Asher asked immediately.

Darlin straightened from where they had been kneeling, shoving the odds and ends of their things into their backpack. They pointed to the snack cart. “Ya check in the backrooms yet?”

“Rude,” Asher said, but he smiled. “Thanks.”

The garage had never been tidy in the time they’d used it to rehearse, but as they stood in it now—bags zipped, gear stacked, the room finally cleared of clutter—it suddenly looked like a place they were leaving behind. Even if they were coming back to it after the contest to celebrate. Win or lose.

Darlin lingered near the door a moment longer than the others, fingers brushing the edge of the mic stand still in its corner. They weren’t superstitious, but something about leaving without acknowledging this room felt wrong.

They gave the stand a nod, then they turned and followed the rest outside.

—

The school auditorium looked different from this side of things.

The stage had been set up with minimal effort—some old lights, scuffed black curtains—but it may as well have been Madison Square Garden with how it made Darlin’s pulse spike. They’d all been here before, of course—school plays, awkward award ceremonies, that time Asher got detention for stage-diving during the spring talent show—but never like this. Never as a group of performers, let alone as contestants. 

The hum of soundcheck echoed through the building, broken by the occasional voice yelling “One-two! One-two!” into a mic too close to the speaker.

They entered backstage just as someone was returning a violin (why a violin? None of them dared to ask) to the green room. One group dashed past them with a full lighting cue list taped to their amp, another carried fog machines over to their designated corner, and another ran past wearing matching glitter jackets. Matching Glitter Jackets .

“Is glitter cheating?” Milo asked. “It feels like cheating.”

“It’s a choice,” Asher said, staring after the band, “but not one I envy.”

David checked his phone. “We go on fourth. After that synth-pop duo. We’ve got about twenty-five minutes.”

Darlin sat on the amp, wringing their hands to hide the slight tremble. They had claimed a corner near a broken-down prop tree from last year’s production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream . Fitting, in a way they couldn’t exactly put into words. The others started unpacking, not wasting any time. They excused it with the desire to do a final rehearsal, but it was really more of a poor attempt to keep busy to avoid throwing up from terror. Milo handed them each a bottle of water, downing the contents in three gulps himself. 

“Drink. Breathe. Don’t die,” he said, with a shrug that he tried to make as convincingly nonchalant as possible. 

David stepped into the middle of the room and looked at each of them, taking on the role of their grounding force as always. “We’ve put in the hours; we’ve earned this. Screw the nerves. Screw the fog machines and the glitter. We’re going out there as Moon Bound, and we’re going to kill it.”

“As long as we don’t start with the bridge again,” Milo muttered.

Darlin laughed. Just enough to steady themself.

Asher reached into the side pocket of his case and pulled out a small wrapped object, handing it to Darlin. “For luck.”

It was a throat lozenge. They laughed.

But they took it.

—

Backstage was filled with too warm air and the clatter of tuning pegs and the low murmur of voices trying not to be nervous.

David was seated on his drum stool—he’d insisted on bringing his own, because of course he did—headphones on, eyes closed, tapping the air like he could will the set into perfection ahead of time. Asher stood off to the side, adjusting his strap for the third time in five minutes, muttering chord progressions under his breath. Milo, somehow both the calmest and most chaotic of the group, had his bass in hand and was eating a banana with the casual confidence of someone who hadn’t just admitted to almost throwing up in the school parking lot.

They heard the muffled clapping of a hundred-person audience as the latest contestants clambered down from the stage, jumping up and down in their group hug before settling down again in their corner. Moon Bound held their breath; the anxiety they’d thought faded rearing its head again.

“That’s two down,” Asher whispered from where he was peeking past the curtain at the stage the theater club stage crew was setting up for the next performers. “We’re up after this.”

Darlin nodded, their throat dry even with the one and a half water bottles they’d already downed. The synth-pop duo was already plugging in—two kids in mirrored sunglasses and glitter lip gloss adjusting their pedals like seasoned professionals. The crowd let out a polite cheer as the lights dimmed again. Which, they had to admit, was a lot of dedication for a high school program, especially with an auditorium so unkept, but that was just the theater and music club for you.

“Okay, so we definitely should’ve gone with glitter,” Milo muttered, plucking at the strings of his bass.

“No time for regrets,” David said, pulling his sticks from his back pocket and rolling them in his palms. “We’ve got what we’ve got.”

And what they had, for better or worse, was raw. No frills, no matching outfits, no smoke effects. Just them, their instruments, and the kind of chemistry that only came from messing up a dozen times and choosing to come back anyway.

“Anyone remember how to breathe?” Darlin asked, voice low.

“Pretty sure I skipped that part of rehearsal,” Asher said, finally letting go of his guitar strap and looking at them all. “But hey. Whatever happens—we go out there and play like we mean it. That’s what matters.”

Darlin stood, letting the nerves twist into something they could use. “No second chances,” they said.

“Only encores,” Milo added, with a smirk that didn’t quite hide the shake in his hands.

A low hum signaled the end of the synth-pop set, which was followed up by a rain of applause. The stage lights flickered to a dim and what little breath any of them had remaining was sucked right out of their lungs as the stage manager came to get them.

Showtime.

They gathered in a loose huddle. They had no grand ritual or choreographed handshake or premade chant like any of the ones they’d seen the other groups repeat like a mantra. Just a shared breath, a glance, a kind of quiet knowing, and a reassurance in the mere presence and reliability of each other.

“Moon Bound,” David said softly. “Let’s give them a reason to remember the name.”

—

“Up next, we’ve got a four-piece with something a little different—give it up for Moon Bound!”

The stage lights surged.

Darlin squinted at the sudden brightness, heart pounding in their ears. The crowd was a blur of faces in the dark, too far to read, too loud to ignore. They took the mic.

Milo found his spot to the left, Asher to the right, David settling into the pocket behind them. The sound tech gave a thumbs-up from the wings. A soft hiss as the amps came alive.

Darlin glanced back, caught David’s eye. He nodded once.

Then the count-in: “One, two—one, two, three—”

And then—Music. And Darlin stepped forward.

They didn’t remember the exact moment the nerves bled away. Maybe the second verse. Maybe the last chorus. Maybe not until the final note echoed and the crowd cheered —loud and real and for them. But at some point, they stopped thinking and just sang.

David set the pace, crisp and clean, every hit of the snare like a steady heartbeat, grounding them. He was all focus, jaw tight, eyes flicking between the kit and the rest of the band, holding it all together like he always did. No hesitation, no missed beats—just pure rhythm driving them forward.

Asher came in next, guitar slung low, fingers dancing across the strings with an energy that felt like it had nowhere else to go but out. He moved with the music—not flashy, not rehearsed, just real. He locked eyes with Darlin during the pre-chorus, gave them a quick nod that somehow said you’ve got this louder than words ever could.

Milo followed, bass lines humming beneath it all like a pulse, steady and surprising all at once. He bounced slightly on his heels as he played, mouthing along to the lyrics even when he wasn’t at a mic. At one point, he spun toward David and gave a dramatic head-bang that made David roll his eyes mid-fill—and grin.

And Darlin—Darlin sang like the words mattered. Like they were telling a story only they knew, and everyone in the room was lucky just to hear it. The first verse was tight, cautious, but by the second chorus they were leaning into the mic, voice rising clear and bright and alive. Their hands weren’t shaking anymore. Their feet found the rhythm. They belonged here.

The bridge hit, and Asher stepped forward, taking a short, gutsy solo that sang like heartbreak and defiance. Milo and David locked into his rhythm, lifting it higher. Darlin stepped back, letting it happen, catching their breath just in time to come back in—

“ …and I’m not falling back to Earth, not this time… ”

The final chorus hit harder than any rehearsal ever had. Louder. Sharper. Unified.

By the time the last chord rang out and the lights dimmed just a little, there was a beat of silence—like the room needed a second to process. Then the applause came. Wild, loud, no polite clapping here.

Moon Bound looked at each other.

They’d done it.

And for the first time, it felt like the stage belonged to them.

—

They stumbled offstage, breathless, hearts pounding, laughter bubbling up like soda shaken too hard. The auditorium lights washed over the next crew of performers setting up, but Moon Bound was already gone, slipping behind the curtain and into the too-warm backstage hall like they’d just walked out of a dream.

No one spoke for a second. Then—

“Holy shit ,” Milo wheezed, still gripping his bass like a lifeline. “We did it. We actually did it.”

Asher was grinning so hard it looked like his face might split open. “Did you hear them? Did you hear them? That was a real cheer.”

David exhaled, long and low, finally letting himself lean against the wall and laugh. “We didn’t even mess up the bridge.”

“I almost forgot a lyric,” Darlin said, wide-eyed and dazed in the best way. “But then Milo did that weird little spin, and I don’t know—it just came back.”

Milo pointed at them mid-chug of his second water bottle. “You’re welcome. That was a spin of destiny.”

Darlin half-laughed, half-collapsed into their chair, adrenaline still running hot through their veins. “My hands are still shaking.”

“Same,” David muttered, wiping his palms on his jeans. “But no one could tell. You sounded good , Darlin. Like, actually-good good.”

“We all did,” Asher said, flopping down next to Darlin and ruffling their hair despite protest. “We were tight. We sounded like a band. ”

There was a pause. Not because no one had anything to say, but because there was too much to say. Then, slowly, they each looked at one another—at the scuffed shoes and tangled cords, the sweat and smiles and wide, awestruck eyes.

Whatever happened next—whoever won—this moment was theirs.

Milo was the one to break it, holding up an invisible mic and clearing his throat dramatically. “This has been Moon Bound,” he said in a low announcer voice, “thank you and good night.”

David chucked an empty  water bottle at him. Missed.

They laughed, loud and unfiltered.

Outside, another band was mid-set, but back here, in the crowded backstage corner they’d claimed as their own, Moon Bound wasn’t worried about them. Not right now.

Because they’d gone out there scared—and came off stage something more.

Winners or not, they’d played their hearts out.

And that was enough.

—

They stood side by side near the front of the stage—hands twitching, shirts sticking slightly with sweat from the backstage humidity, all somehow still vibrating from their set. Most of the crowd had settled back into their seats, whispering in anticipation, and the smell of fog machine and auditorium floor wax clung to everything.

The host—a senior in a glitter vest, because of course—held an envelope with theatrical slowness. “Okay, folks,” he said into the mic, grinning wide. “You’ve all been amazing tonight. Seriously. But you didn’t come here to hear me talk. You came for the winner.”

A hush fell. Darlin could feel Asher bounce once beside them, couldn’t tell if it was nerves or just leftover momentum.

“In third place,” the host said, “we’ve got Neon Tuesday!”

Applause. A loud cheer from stage left, where the synth-pop duo hugged and bowed.

“In second place—Golden Hour!”

More cheers. The matching glitter jackets glinted as their group stood, hands linked, grinning hard even through disappointment.

Darlin swallowed. David’s fingers drummed fast against his thigh. Milo had his arms crossed, his jaw clenched so tight you could probably crack a peanut on it.

“And finally—your winner for this year’s Battle of the Bands…”

The envelope tore.

“… Moon Bound! ”

For a second, they just froze.

And then Asher made a sound halfway between a laugh and a yell, and David grabbed Darlin’s shoulder like he couldn’t believe it, and Milo actually dropped his bass case from sheer shock. The applause was real. Loud. Deafening.

They stepped forward as one—still dizzy, still disbelieving—and took the mic, trophy and all, Darlin blurting out a “thank you” that didn’t even begin to cover it.

—

The garage looked exactly the same and completely different, again.

Empty cans and candy wrappers littered the floor. Someone had found Gabe’s ancient Christmas lights and strung them up haphazardly over the drum kit. The trophy stood proudly on the snack cart, surrounded by a shrine of donut bags, half-eaten pizza slices, and Milo’s banana peel (which no one wanted to touch, out of superstition now).

David sat behind the kit on his precious drum stool, lazily tapping a rhythm against his thighs. “Still feels fake,” he said.

“Right?” Asher replied from the floor, lying flat with his guitar across his chest like a comically large and hard teddy bear. “Like, what if we hallucinated that whole part? What if we’re still backstage , passed out?”

“I’d believe it,” Darlin said, curled up in their usual folding chair, sipping from a bottle of Gatorade like it was champagne. “My brain hasn’t caught up.”

Milo was the only one still standing, somehow, and raised a paper plate like a toast. “To Moon Bound: four emotional disasters with surprisingly good harmonies.”

They all laughed. Then clinked their drinks—paper cups, soda cans, whatever was on hand.

As the laughter faded into music again—someone had pulled out an old speaker and queued up their latest demo—they sat back, letting it all wash over them. The nerves, the noise, the flickery stage lights and roaring crowd, it was all done now.

And they’d won.

Darlin looked around at them—their friends, their band—and smiled.

“Same time tomorrow?” Asher asked.

David snorted. “Only if someone brings real food.”

“Deal,” Milo said. “But I’m keeping the trophy in my locker. It’ll scare off the pre-calc gremlins.”

“No way,” Darlin said, already reaching for it. “We’re sharing .”

They bickered over it for the next ten minutes, but no one really cared who held it. Because they all had something better now—music, each other, and the kind of night they’d still be talking about when they were old and lame.

Moon Bound had arrived, and they certainly weren’t going anywhere, not anytime soon.

Chapter Text

The lights had dimmed to a softer wash now, casting the stage in a gentler glow. The last notes still hung in the air like smoke. The crowd was still humming with adrenaline; cheering, whistling, breathless and wild. Darlin dropped to sit with their legs dangling off the edge of the stage, mic in hand, wiping sweat from their brow with the other. Milo collapsed onto a nearby amp with theatrical exhaustion. Asher leaned on his guitar, still catching his breath, grinning wide. David was toweling off behind the kit but stayed close, listening in.

“Holy hell ,” Milo panted, bass still slung low across his chest. “You guys broke the sound barrier.”

“Now that-” Asher grinned. “That was the sound of emotional catharsis and mild hearing damage.”

David was already halfway through a bottle of water, eyes scanning the audience like he was taking mental snapshots. “I don’t think we’ve ever played tighter.”

Darlin leaned forward, almost talking directly to the fans staring back at them in the front row, voice hoarse but steady. “Thank you for that. Seriously. We, Moon Bound, we’ve been through hell and back to get here, and the fact that you showed up, sang with us, lost your voices with us… it means more than you know.”

A collective awwww rippled from the crowd. Someone shouted, “WE LOVE YOU, MOON BOUND!” followed quickly by “MILO MARRY ME” and a roar of laughter from the pit.

Milo gave an exaggerated bow. “Let’s talk terms.”

David leaned into his own mic, dry as always. “No marriages until we finish the setlist.”

The whole stage laughed. For a few golden minutes, it was all warmth and laughter and teasing. Fans shouted out their favorite lyrics, someone asked if Asher would ever release his solo from the third song as a ringtone, and another just screamed “DRUM GOD” at David until he flushed and shook his head.

Darlin soaked it all in. The chaos, the love, the lightness . For the first time in weeks, their chest didn’t feel like it was locked in a vice. The crowd was still roaring in love, support, pure glee. A few fans in the front wiped tears from their eyes. Someone yelled “WE LOVE YOU, DARLIN!” and Asher dramatically bowed in their direction, pointing. “We all do,” he added.

—

Toward the back of the venue, a hand shot up during the final Q&A pause.

“Darlin?” a voice spoke into the microphone a crew member handed her—clear, if a little unsure. “Can I ask about the… the song your ex said you stole?”

The question hung in the air like a wire pulled taut. The crowd’s mood shifted. Whispers flickered through the space. Even the lights seemed to hesitate.

Milo’s fingers flexed where they gripped the neck of his bass. Asher’s mouth drew into a tight line. David, standing now, looked out past the lights like he could find the speaker in the crowd. Ready. Protective.

Darlin’s heart didn’t spike this time. It didn’t even tremble.

“Yeah,” they said, simply. “You can.”

Darlin didn’t flinch. They didn’t look surprised. If anything, they looked… calm.

They glanced at the others briefly, then stepped forward and raised the mic.

“The story’s out there,” they said. “He made sure of that. And I knew the second it dropped that it was gonna get messy.”

Their voice didn’t shake. Not once.

“The version out there is… what it is,” they began. “I wrote that song after the breakup. He said I stole it, but the truth is, it’s all mine. About what I went through, about what I was feeling. He heard it. He knew that, knew exactly what it was about. 

They exhaled slowly, feeling the band behind them. David steady as ever. Milo radiating tension. Asher glaring into the lights like he could melt the memory of the headline right out of existence. A few scattered murmurs came from the crowd. Some supportive, some uncertain. Darlin’s voice stayed calm. 

“I’m not trying to drag him. I’m not even trying to make you pick sides” Darlin said. “But if I didn’t get a say in being dragged into the drama, I do get to choose when I tell my side. And I chose now . In our words. In our music.”

They let the weight of it settle.

“I don’t need to change everyone’s mind,” Darlin finished. “I just needed to tell the truth.”

Stillness. Silence for one heartbeat. Two. 

Then one person started clapping, from the center. Then another at the front. Then a swell; bigger, louder, warmer. It wasn’t thunderous, but it was solid. Real. Acknowledging.

Milo breathed out audibly. Asher threw an arm around Darlin’s shoulder. David gave a nod, proud , like that’s our vocalist .

Darlin smiled; not wide, not showy. Just enough, just honest.

The applause hadn’t fully died down when Darlin raised the mic again, quieter this time. No dramatics, no big lighting cue. Just their voice.

“I wasn’t sure if we were gonna play this one tonight,” they admitted, eyes scanning the crowd. “But after that question...”

A pause. The hush felt earned now. Sacred.

“This was the first song I wrote after everything went down. After the breakup, after the headlines, after the silence. It wasn’t clean. It wasn’t strategic. It wasn’t... calculated.”

They glanced back at the others. Milo gave them a slight nod. David clicked his sticks together. Asher adjusted the tone dial on his guitar, gaze unwavering.

Darlin turned back to the mic. Voice low and steady.

“It was just pain. And anger. And me, trying to make sense of being blamed for my own bruises.”

They shifted their stance, grounding themselves.

“So this one’s for anyone who’s ever been told they were too loud , or too much , or too broken . For anyone who’s had their story taken and rewritten without consent.”

The crowd was already murmuring in anticipation, some recognizing the lead-in. Hands were going up, phones already raised to record.

Darlin’s voice dropped to a near-whisper.

“This is called Not Your Ruin . And I wrote every damn word of it.”

A single spotlight flared. Milo’s bass entered first, low and simmering, like rage held just beneath the surface. Then Asher’s guitar: sharp, staccato, chords that cut more than they soothed. David’s drums came in like footsteps on broken glass, steady and deliberate.

Darlin stepped into the first verse with a snarl beneath their tone:

You kissed me with a match in your mouth
And called it love when the house burned down…

Each line landed like a blow: sharp-edged, aching, angry. Their voice wasn’t clean. It cracked in places, raw with memory, but that only made it stronger, only made it more real.

By the time the chorus hit, the band surged behind them, instruments crashing like waves, the lyrics exploding from Darlin like a dam breaking:

So strike me down, make me your liar
But I rise every time, just higher
I’m the ember you can’t bury
I’m the spark that memory carries

The crowd screamed with them—no, for them. It was no longer just Darlin’s pain. It was theirs, too. The bridge hit low again. Stripped back. Just voice and bass, like a heartbeat pressed to a bruise

I smelled smoke in your apologies
And I’ve been choking on your name

A pause. No music, just breath.

I burned, but not for you again.
The ashes mark where you had been

Then the final chorus slammed in louder, faster, and angrier. David’s drumming thundered. Asher’s guitar howled. Milo’s bass snarled.

Darlin stood center stage, not begging to be believed but daring not to be ignored.

You made your throne of doubt and shame
But I’ve still got my name

By the time the last chord rang out, Darlin was breathless, fists clenched, chin raised.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was reverent.

Then, eruption. The crowd roared. Screamed . A thousand people calling Darlin’s name like they’d just witnessed something sacred. Some were crying. Some were shouting the chorus. Some just stood there, stunned.

But no one stayed quiet, not anymore. And for the first time since the storm started, Darlin didn’t feel like they were drowning in it.

They’d survived the fire. And they were still singing .

—

Later that night, the city outside flickered like the inside of an old jukebox. Neon streaks on wet pavement, distant sirens folded into the rhythm of nightlife. But inside David’s hotel room, the noise had softened into the familiar kind they actually liked: rustling pizza boxes, muted laughter, the occasional thump of someone’s foot against the wall.

David had commandeered the single armchair, legs slung over one armrest, a bottle of ginger ale balanced on his stomach. Milo sat cross-legged on the floor, chewing a banana with the same level of commitment he gave to bass solos. Asher was lying belly-down across the foot of the bed, scrolling through photos fans had already posted—most of them grainy, half-blurred chaos shots, but glowing all the same.

Darlin was curled up near the head of the bed, hoodie half-zipped, still wearing their eyeliner like war paint and glitter flecks clinging to their cheekbones. They had a donut in one hand and a slice of lukewarm pepperoni in the other, making no attempt to eat them in any particular order.

No one said much for a while. Not because there was nothing to say but just because silence had finally stopped feeling like pressure. For once, it wasn’t tense or sharp or waiting for the next hit. It just... was.

There had been other shows. Bigger ones. Crazier ones. But this one felt heavier. Sharper, somehow. Like it meant something more.

“People are still posting clips,” Asher muttered, turning his phone to show them a blurry video from the crowd of Darlin, lit up like a blade under stage lights, screaming the lyrics to the closing song. The comments were already a wildfire of reactions.

Darlin looked over at them, chewing the inside of their cheek. “Thanks, by the way. For letting me answer. For not stepping in.”

David shrugged. “It wasn’t ours to answer.”

“You said it better than we ever could,” Milo added. “Like. Way better. I would’ve blacked out and called my mom.”

That earned a few tired laughs.

Darlin smiled, soft and real. “I don’t know if it changed anything.”

“It doesn’t have to,” Asher said. “You told the truth. And you owned the damn stage. That’s more than most people get.”

“And no one could’ve heard you tonight and thought it wasn’t yours,” David added. “No one who really listens.”

That seemed to settle something. Not fix it, but settle it.

Milo tossed a banana peel toward the trash can and missed spectacularly. David followed it’s failing trajectory with a mix of confusion and mild disbelief on his face, “Do we always buy this many bananas or do they just multiply?”

Darlin gave a tired laugh. “They’re comfort bananas.”

David raised an eyebrow. “There are like twelve of them.”

“It was a lot of feelings tonight,” Milo defended. “Don’t judge my fruit therapy.”

Asher raised his soda can. “To fruit, fame, and fearless call-outs.”

They clinked cans, crusts, and donut halves in lazy unison. Because half meaningless toasts in the middle of post concert haze seemed to be their thing.

There were still battles waiting for them, online and in their inboxes, but here, in the glow of city lights and hotel lamps, surrounded by crumbs and glitter and the kind of company that feels like safety. Here, it was enough. And sometimes, enough was everything. 

—

The morning after felt like waking up inside a voicemail. Muted, disoriented, half-unfinished thoughts hanging in the air.

The hotel conference room they were borrowing felt like every green room and backstage lounge they’d ever loitered in: cold coffee, free fruit, and chairs designed by people who’d never sat down. A screen flickered against one wall with the words “Media Strategy: Post-Statement” in stark, corporate font.

Darlin slouched at the table in a hoodie they vaguely remebered taking from Milo's closet in college, hood up like they could hide from the fluorescent lights, sunglasses on for extra defense. A genre of fashion they would like to dub rockstar camouflage . Asher was already there, stretched dramatically across two chairs, wrapped in a wool cardigan he'd purchased on a whim, nursing an iced coffee and sipping at it like it was fine wine. Milo came in late with a comically large smoothie and a banana tucked behind his ear like a pen.

David was standing, not because there weren’t enough seats, because there were plenty, in fact. He just didn’t sit during meetings. He stood at the whiteboard with a notepad in one hand, an uncapped marker in the other, and the look of a man who had made three spreadsheets before breakfast and regretted none of them.

Arden (manager, mildly terrifying) and Brooks (publicist, still smiling even when internally screaming) sat opposite each other at the far end of the mile-long table, mid-sip of matching coffees and whispering, eyes flicking between tablets and phones like stockbrokers watching a crash.

“Okay,” David said, tapping the marker like a gavel. “We need to talk about the press cycle.”

“Can we not ?” Milo muttered, flipping his banana over and examining it like it held the answers to life itself.

“You can’t outrun the internet, Milo,” David replied.

“You can mute every notification and pretend the internet is a social experiment,” Milo countered. “It’s called mental health .”

“You posted a TikTok an hour ago,” Asher said, not looking up from his phone. “You were singing into a protein shaker and calling it ‘vocal recovery’.”

“That was performance art,” Milo said with a flourish. “Also, protein is recovery.”

Brooks leaned forward, trying not to laugh. “We really need to focus. There’s heat coming off last night, and it’s not just fan buzz. There are three op-eds already out, and one music blog is trying to spin it like Darlin wrote a breakup anthem. Emphasis on the ‘break.’”

Asher bit into a croissant. “Can we say it’s about an unnamed, emotionally unavailable, very flammable ex and leave it there?”

Arden gave him a deadpan look. “Only if you want every headline to say ‘Moon Bound Calls Ex a Walking Matchbook.’ ”

Milo perked up. “Honestly… kind of iconic.”

Darlin said nothing, unwrapping a granola bar with the energy of someone holding an explosive device.

David stepped in before things spiraled. “We need to get ahead of this. Not because we’re ashamed, because we’re not letting someone else narrate it. Darlin, you okay leading on the press stuff?”

Darlin glanced around. Everyone else had gone quiet. Milo gave a thumbs-up with his banana. Asher raised his iced coffee in a silent toast. David nodded once, firm.

“Yeah,” Darlin said. “I just.. don’t want this to be a feud. That’s not who I am and I don’t want to be known for who hurt me.”

Brooks shook her head. “That’s not what we’re doing. We’re giving you space to control the narrative. Just, talk about what you turned it into, how you made grief into art. That’s the story.

David leaned forward, scribbling something on a legal pad. “What if we keep it tight? Talk about the song , not the ex.”

Brooks gave a thumbs-up. “Strong move. Power in omission.”

Milo leaned in. “Also, if you want to leak a diss track instead, I did write an entire verse comparing him to a gas station candle.”

Asher looked up, intrigued. “Which scent?”

“‘Midnight Regret.’”

Darlin cracked a smile, small but real. “Tempting.”

Arden, bless her iron will, didn’t even flinch. “There are a few options. Late Night with Carson wants a couch segment. NPR wants a Tiny Desk. We can do either, both, or neither, but we need a plan.”

David uncapped the marker again, scribbled a list. “I say we stagger appearances. Lead with NPR, since it’s intimate and music-first, that makes it about the songwriting. Then Carson after, when people are already talking.”

Milo raised a hand. “Can I wear the glitter pants again?”

“No,” said David, Arden, and Brooks in unison.

“You’re all afraid of my power,” Milo muttered, sipping his smoothie with wounded pride.

Asher pointed at David. “Let him sparkle, man. It’s Pride month.”

“It’s every month with Milo,” David said. “Also, he got glitter on the snare and now it squeaks.”

“You’re just mad my pants have more stage presence than your spreadsheets,” Milo shot back.

“Your pants caused a lighting issue last time,” Asher added, not unkindly. “Too reflective.”

Milo tossed a crumpled napkin into the trash. “Well, if anyone wants to talk trash, I’m available for a messy TikTok live at all hours.”

Darlin held up a hand, still chewing. “Okay, but seriously. Can we all agree? If I’m doing these interviews, no one’s stepping in to ‘clarify’ or ‘soften’ what I say. I just want people to hear the song, to let the lyrics do what they need to do. It’s not about him . It's about what I lived through.”

“You’re the captain on this one,” David said. “We’re the crew. And occasional cannons.”

Brooks grinned. “That makes me the PR pirate.”

Arden sighed. “Please don’t brand this.”

Milo leaned back dramatically. “I’m just happy to be the comic relief.”

“You’re the wildcard with a camera,” Arden said.

“Same difference.”

Darlin looked around again. Somehow, through the under-slept, over-caffeinated chaos, this felt okay. Not fixed. But not heavy in the way it had been when they were keeping radio silent against the press.

“I just want people to hear what we’ve made, what I've made,” Darlin said quietly. “And know it’s ours. Even the ugly parts.”

“You sang like your lungs were on fire last night,” Asher said. “No one’s doubting it’s yours.”

“And if they are,” Milo added, “they can meet me in the DMs. I’ll send them poetry. Passive-aggressively.”

David checked his watch. “We’ve got a team call with NPR in twenty. Please put on real shirts. And don’t curse in the prep call.”

He looked directly at Milo.

Milo blinked. “I make no promises.”

Arden stood, grabbing her laptop. “We’ll send over talking points. Brooks’ll prep soundbites, but feel free to go off-script, just not off-planet .”

Darlin saluted. “No metaphors about flaming vengeance, got it.”

“No, no. Lean into the flaming vengeance,” Asher corrected. “Just don’t say ‘burned his name into my heart with a sonic dagger’ again.”

Milo gasped. “That was poetic .”

“That was deranged, ” David said, already emailing a calendar invite, ignoring the fact that that was technically—definitely—Arden’s job.

Darlin cracked a half-smile. “Let’s burn the next stage down,” they said. “But like… metaphorically this time.”

Arden sighed. “One venue fire and suddenly you’re a liability.”

They all laughed and shuffled to their feet. Darlin lingered in the doorway as the others filed out, laughter echoing down the hall. They looked back at the conference room: the scattered coffee cups, the empty chairs, the messy whiteboard. At the top, in all caps, David had written:

TELL THE TRUTH. OWN THE STORY. DON’T FEED THE TROLLS.

Underneath, someone (Milo) had added:

GLITTER IS NOT A CRIME.

Their phone buzzed with a new notification, another article, another reaction, another piece of the narrative spinning outward. But they didn’t check it, instead, Darlin smiled.

Let them come. The band was ready.

—

“…and that’s when the raccoon took the sandwich and just—vanished,” Milo was saying, hands gesturing wildly as if trying to summon the beast back into existence. “Gone. Like a cryptid. I still think about him.”

The interviewer (Tasha, warm-voiced and sharp-eyed behind her glasses) laughed, nearly knocking over her tea. “Moon Bound versus The Trash Bandit. That’s the next concept album, right?”

Asher nodded solemnly. “It’s already in drop-D tuning.”

“Genre’s emotional rodent-core,” David added, deadpan.

Tasha chuckled, “You’re all chaos. Beautiful, collaborative chaos.”

They were huddled together in the cozy NPR studio, the walls papered with records and shelves stacked with everything from signed vinyl to small bobbleheads and an alarming number of coffee mugs. The band was squeezed into the makeshift set: David perched neatly behind a compact drum kit, Asher tuning his guitar even though he wasn’t planning to use it again, Milo lounging on a stool like he’d invented gravity, and Darlin in their usual quiet gravity, sipping tea from a mug that said Crying Is Just Emotional Hydration .

The interview had started right after their stripped-down set, three songs, one acoustic bass drop, two spontaneous harmonies, and exactly one near-catastrophic mic tangle when Milo tried to moonwalk mid-song and tripped over a cable. They were still riding the post-performance glow. Everyone looked more relaxed now, jackets off, makeup slightly smudged in that effortlessly cool way.

Tasha leaned toward David, teasing, “Okay, drummer question. You always look like you’re doing math while you play. Is that real or just your concentration face?”

“It’s real,” David said. “Sometimes it is math. And sometimes it’s me trying to remember if I fed my cat.”

“Did you?” asked Asher.

“...Unclear.”

“Band vote says yes,” Milo offered. “She has an independent spirit. She probably fed you .”

“She’s got more followers than me,” David muttered.

“Justice for Luna,” Darlin said under their breath.

Tasha turned to Darlin with a smile. “And you—you had this moment mid-set where you just paused, looked at the crowd like you were taking a photo with your mind. What was going through your head?”

Darlin blinked, caught slightly off guard by the sudden turn, but not thrown. “Honestly? I was just… soaking it in. There’s something surreal about hearing a thousand people scream lyrics you wrote alone in your bathtub while crying into a burrito.”

“I told you that line belonged in the press kit,” Asher whispered.

“And I said no because I respect journalism,” David muttered.

Milo leaned into the mic like it was a confessional. “I once wrote half a bridge in a Taco Bell parking lot during a breakdown. Spiritually, I feel seen.”

The group laughed again, and Tasha waited a moment, letting the laughter settle before gently pivoting, she adjusted her mic. “I have to ask, whose idea was it to bring a full lava lamp setup to NPR?”

Milo pointed at David with both hands, who, to his credit, didn’t even blink when he answered. “Aesthetics are a form of sonic preparation.”

“He thinks if the vibe is right, we’ll play tighter,” Asher said, deadpan. “He also organized our set list by emotional trauma level.”

“That was one time,” David muttered, sipping from his travel mug. “And it worked.”

Darlin leaned forward. “He called it ‘The Spiral Scale.’ It went from wistful to vengeful .”

“Pretty sure that’s also how my last relationship went,” Tasha said, laughing. “Okay, okay. Focus. You’ve played sold-out shows, you’ve survived glitter-related tech difficulties, and you made half the internet cry last night. How does it feel waking up the morning after that kind of show?”

Milo raised his hand. “Like being hit by a sentimental train.”

“Ice bath of serotonin,” Asher added.

“Emotionally dehydrated but spiritually caffeinated,” Darlin offered.

David nodded. “I got up at six and rewired our in-ear monitors.”

They all devolved into a fit of laughter, entirely amused by their own banter. The knack Tasha had for keeping a conversation flowing through laughter and wit was incredible. She had a way of directing the interview so no one felt ignored or passed over, case in point: “Now—Asher, someone online called your solo in Vices & Verses a ‘ spiritual awakening via guitar ’ Thoughts?”

“They’re not wrong. I blacked out during that solo. I came back and there were four pick fragments embedded in my palm.” Asher deadpanned.

“We burned sage after that set. For safety.” Milo leaned toward Tasha as he spoke, a theatrical show of whispering something Asher wasn’t supposed to hear but certainly did anyway if the grin was to be judged.

Darlin grinned. The lightness in the room was real. Earned. Like the band had all agreed, silently, that they’d keep things funny and soft until the heavier questions came. But it hung there anyway.

“And speaking of moments on stage…” she said, voice still warm but a bit more measured now, “Darlin, I think everyone’s still feeling the weight of what you shared at the show last weekend. That speech before ‘Not Your Ruin’... it’s been everywhere. It hit people hard.”

The air changed—but not in a bad way. Just… quieter. Focused. Still safe.

Darlin lowered their tea slowly. “Yeah,” they said, voice softer. “That moment kind of hit me hard, too.”