He’s a visionary. He’s five feet of rage and stupid mistakes, wrapped in ten layers of hair gel and spray-painted leather and screamed lyrics that leave his voice fifteen shades of hoarse, colored red with reckless pride. His shirts are so tight that every roadie chick and overage drag queen can slot her fingers into the gaps between his ribs and slur baby baby I can feel your heart. He brushes off every hopeless sucker that falls at his feet, chasing every uninterested pixie instead. He hopes they can fix him. He knows he will destroy them. Every song he writes is filled with the kind of hate and burning love that only fills hearts well past three in the morning, drunk on whispered secrets and sometimes stolen vodka. He’s a steel-toed Casanova, the picture-perfect punk menace that parents stay up late to reprimand. He fancies himself the king of the world and gets off on his own insignificance, burying his face into his own wadded-up jacket, hoping no one will notice. He is teen angst personified, and he is perfect at it.
His name is Romeo Montague, and he’s the sullen lead singer of The Stolen Roses, opening for Catechism Cacophony, playing for one night only at the Wolf Whisker Bar, be there or be square.
M swigs down the last of his Coke, by now beyond flat. He doesn’t need the fizz for a buzz, doesn’t need alcohol to get drunk. He’s a whirlwind on his own. Between his flamboyant stupidity, Rosaline’s insane ideas, and Romeo’s explosive temper, The Stolen Roses are marked for disaster. At this point, Ben is the thin glue holding the whole operation together.
That’s the drummer’s job, anyways. The heartbeat, the backbone, the steady beat.
The show gets on like a house on fire. Romeo and Rosaline play off each other effortlessly, crashing into one another like meteors. Rosaline is a legend on her battered pink guitar, flipping her dark hair out of her face. She wears heavy black platform boots and tiny colorful skirts, growling at the men who stare on the street or grind into her in the pit. She’s exactly Romeo’s type. M sees the stars in his eyes, reads her name between the lines of hastily-scribbled love songs, destined to get lost in the crush of screamed vocals and the same four chords repeated until M is dizzy with the pattern of his callused fingers on the neck of his bass. He loses himself in the familiar rhythm, spinning around the stage until he can’t feel the sweat dripping down his neck. He’s nothing but music.
That spring night they play like they never have before. So what if no one shows up? So what if they’re only the opener? So what if M’s thighs sting where his leopard-print jeans chafe against his selfish mistakes? He has his band and the whole weekend ahead of him to sleep off the high that comes with a show.
“Goddamn,” breathes Romeo in the wings. “Rose, that was — that was fuckin’ amazing.” His breath is hot against M’s shoulder, dampening the pink denim of his jacket. M can practically feel the metal of the pop tabs sewn in clouding with condensation. He can’t afford studs, sue him.
“You say that every night,” drawls Rosaline, draping herself across Ben’s wide shoulders. Onstage, someone with a green mohawk wails into the shitty mic. It’s May and already hotter than the hell M doesn’t believe in anymore. There’s no way he’s going to survive this summer. “You say that every night we play. I was fuckin’ terrible, everyone saw, you know. Fucked up the intro for I Hate You.”
“You didn’t fuck it up,” says Ben mildly, shoving her off. “But you are very sweaty and you’re making me hot, so quit that.”
M’s still buzzing from the lonely orange soda and the thrill of playing a set. School gets out in two weeks but he wishes they were already on the road. This summer they finally got the coveted tour spot, playing some shitty festival tour of the East Coast with four other bands. M doesn’t care. He just wants to get the hell out of Pennsylvania. God, can’t anyone see he’s suffocating? It’s not the boa draped around his sweaty shoulders, or his overgrown black hair. It’s the monotony. It’s familiar like paper cuts are familiar, not like the hand of a best friend. Even though their every song sounds the same, even though they’re barely good enough to open the show, playing is still better than anything he could ever hope for. And this, their first tour, is going to be legendary.
“Hey oh! Earth to Mercutio!” Romeo waves a hand in front of his face, disturbing his fevered reverie.
“Sorry, sorry, honey. What’s next?” M pushes his hand through the mop of hair sticking to his forehead.
“Party. Afterparty, actually.” Rosaline purses her messy blue lips. “Ben’s designated driver. Let’s pack up the shit and fly, fuckers!”
M can see the butterflies pushing against Romeo’s ribs. Fucking romantic.
They rush through the sticky crowd, heads pounding in time to the kick drum onstage. M gets a jab in the ribs and a jeer or two, words like flamer and queer swimming in his brain. “Kiss me on the mouth,” he screams, flicking his tongue at the crowd at large. Rosaline laughs and elbows her way past them. She tugs his stupid boa on her way past him. He whoops hoarsely, throat raw with stage high.
They spill into the parking lot. “Thank God it’s cooler out here,” says Romeo. M agrees. Ben’s rusty Thunderbird is parked at the edge of the lot, his drums crammed into the trunk. M slides in next to a speaker and their box of Mic Stuff, jeans squeaking on the suede. He pulls off the wretched boa and throws it at Ben’s head.
“Ugh, sweaty!” he shrieks, settling in behind the wheel. Romeo leaps in after him, already sliding one of his shitty mixtapes into the tape deck.
They peel out of the parking lot to the sound of The Clash and cassette hiss and the muffled screams of Catechism Cacophony through the bar’s walls. M leans over Rosaline, sticking his head out the window. The blessedly cool air ruffles through his hair. God, he has no idea how he’s going to last the two weeks until tour.
A boy in too-tight jeans and a homemade T-shirt catches M’s wandering eye. His eyes are wide, blue, blown out with alcohol and rimmed with eyeliner. M considers taking his hand. He wants to ravish this boy in an alley somewhere. His lips look soft, bitten, red, but then some girl with buzzed hair pulls him through the crush of people and M can’t see him anymore.
So he looks for Romeo instead. Rosaline’s gone already, Ben sits shyly in the corner, talking to a girl in fishnets. M considers waltzing over and teasing the couple, but decides against it.
He finds Romeo pouring half a beer over the balcony. “Don’t wanna be drunk,” he mumbles, and that’s a first. He’s too young to drink anyways, sixteen and wide-eyed against M’s tall frame. M understands. He can’t get drunk anyways, but God he wants to sometimes. People who can spit poetry like Romeo or himself need it sometimes, when the world gets too much.
Romeo’s bleached hair, styled in a shitty faux hawk, falls over his deep blue eyes. His black jeans have a hole in the knees. They cling too tight to his thighs and fall loose around his boots. M is eighteen, knows better. Knows he’s going to hell anyways. Knows nothing is going to happen so he lets himself want, want so badly, want like he wants out of their stupid little town. God, he’s a wreck.
“I wanna find Rosaline. Come on.” Romeo pulls M’s hand back into the house. They look in every room but the bathroom. No luck.
Finally, they find themselves in the yard again. The grass is soft and cool where M lays down in it. Romeo flops down next to him. The music and raucous shouts get louder and louder, and both boys know some neighbor will call the cops about the noise sometime soon. Time is running out.
A girl spins on the balcony, dark hair shining with the dull streetlight in the alley. Beside him, Romeo sucks in a breath. She shrieks with laughter, sounding happy, not smothered in the haze of alcohol.
“M. Look,” breathes Romeo.
“Yeah, I see.” M has known Romeo since forever. Long enough to know that the boy is already falling, swept up in the rush of lust at first sight. “You gonna try and talk to her?”
“Yeah.” He’s already leaping to his feet. M watches his bleach-blond head bob through the crush of people, searching for the balcony girl. His chest aches.
He throws one straggling end of the boa over his shoulder and heads inside.
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