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The West Coast sun shone bright and high in the sky, casting unrelenting heat waves across Los Angeles. Brian leaned against the cool concrete wall of the recording studio, ignoring the sweat trickling down his back. Beside him, Pat shielded his eyes as he took a swig from his can of Coke.
“It’s hot.” He complained.
Brian hummed in placid agreement.
“Isn’t Summer meant to be over? It's September.” Pat peered into his empty can, looking for his last sip.
“We’re in LA.” Brian deadpanned, “Summer’s never over.”
A sleek, vintage car turned into the parking lot. The pair watched as a tall man in leather combat boots stepped out, lugging an instrument case on his shoulder as he walked toward them.
“Hey, guys.” The man said between the toothpick in his mouth.
“What's up, Scott?” Pat replied, extending an arm to greet the other man.
Brian kept his gaze forward in silence.
“Not much. What’re you guys doing out here?" Scott asked, hazarding an unsure look at Brian with light blue eyes.
Pat scratched the back of his head. “Uh, there’s a problem with some equipment. Bobby said it’d be a while. Rivers isn’t even here yet.”
Scott perked up at this. “Well, if the big boss ain’t here, surely we don’t have to be, right?"
Even if the engineers took all night to fix the studio up, and Rivers never showed; Brian could wait for him, alone, stranded in the Hollywood heat.
“I’m starving," offered Pat.
“Come on, we’ll take the Chevy." Scott nodded to his car. “Coming, Bri?"
Brian’s eyes darted to Pat, then Scott. If he was going to wallow in self-pity, he could at least do it over an iced tea.
He nodded lightly. “Alright.”
Scott beamed, patting Brian on his back as they walked across the lot. “Attaboy."
“Strike, baby!”
The sound of pins hitting the gutter resounded across the lanes.
Scott pumped his fist and played an air-guitar lick as he strutted back to the booth. Pat heckled him on, chugging a Miller Lite.
After the studio, the trio drove to a local diner and discussed whether rock was dead—Pat was hopeful, Scott was skeptical, and Brian thought the whole debate was pointless. They sat there for hours, raucous as a group of teenagers, much to the chagrin of bored waitresses and tired regulars. After Scott almost threw a fork at Pat, they decided to cool off at a West Hollywood bowling spot, trading shoes and sips of cheap beer.
It was 7:14pm when Brian’s cell buzzed with a message from Rivers.
come to the studio asap -RC
“Uh guys? I think they’re ready at the studio.” Brian said, glancing up to his bandmates.
Scott had a bright pink flush on his cheeks, and Pat could barely find a grip on his next bowling ball. Brian shut his eyes and felt sore between his brows.
“Great,” He muttered under his breath. Rivers would be furious if they showed up to the studio drunk.
His phone buzzed again.
where r u.
need a ride?
Pat’s ball almost immediately hit the gutter. He let out a victorious cry, with Scott cheering him on, much to the ire of the booth next to them.
Brian typed out a reply.
Scott, Pat and I are in WeHo. Should be there in 10.
Rivers responded immediately.
hurry
What a diva, Brian thought.
“Alright guys, we gotta go.” He announced to the others, breaking up their attempt at tallying scores. “Scott, you okay to drive?”
Scott grinned winningly. “Of course, little birdy.”
Brian tried not to smile at the pet name Scott had given him. He had to dislike Weezer’s new bassist on principle—Mikey was important to Brian, a friend and confidante and fellow soldier against the tyrannical reign of one Rivers Cuomo. Mikey and Brian shared a lot; interests, upbringings, music tastes, even appearances. Scott, however, was a Marine from the Midwest, and Brian was a vegan that grew up on Presley and Prince in the South. They couldn’t be more different.
Somehow, Scott had managed to charm his way into Brian’s heart. Something about his toothy, boyish grin and bright eyes and crude jokes were so endearing to Brian. Pat was whipped, too. It helped that Scott wasn’t an asshole, unlike other bassists he’d known.
The sky was a canvas of orange and pink by the time the trio were back at the Sage and Sound recording studio. They walked into the live room, where Rivers was hunched over an amplifier. Brian immediately noticed the tension in the air; recording studios should never be this silent.
Unfortunately, his bandmates did not pick up on this.
“Rivvy,” Pat cried out, “Finally! Let's go!”
Brian cringed, scrunching up his face.
Rivers turned slowly. He was wearing a shirt and maroon jumper with khakis, freshly pressed and hair styled neatly. His five o’clock shadow was shaved off entirely. He looked much more put together in comparison to the other band members, who’d been driving around in the late-summer heat.
“Are you drunk, Pat?” Rivers questioned, eyes dark and thunderous behind horn-rimmed glasses.
“Hey, we had to pass the time somehow.” Scott shrugged, coming to his bandmate’s defense. “It was only a few.”
Rivers threw a murderous look at Scott. “You could have been practicing. I left the sheet music and tapes here.” His voice was even and seemingly calm, but the occasional quiver gave away the simmering rage underneath.
“We have 10 days in this studio. We’re running out of money. We have to go on tour to make enough money to book recording studios. Meanwhile, I’m this band’s manager, frontman and songwriter. I’m doing everything. The least you three could do is show a modicum of interest.”
The room stood still in shocked silence.
Pat sobered up, face falling. “We’re sorry. Let's play, alright?” He said, exasperated.
Brian’s chest was tight with anxiety. He’d been relaxed with Scott and Pat, too distracted by their sunshine to be dragged down by Rivers’ shadows.
Then Rivers glanced over at Brian and it felt like the sun was coming back up again. It was an uncertain glance, as if questioning Brian. His mouth was in a tight line, almost frowning, but his eyes were no longer stern and harsh, softer around the edges. Brian was taken aback and furrowed his brows in confusion. He’d never known Rivers to be anything but concretely resolute in his decisions and emotions. It was unsettling.
Rivers let out a breath, as if letting go of his ire. “We’ll start with track five. Drop D tuning.”
Brian moved closer to Rivers to collect his Gibson, but Rivers caught his arm instead and pulled him close. The touch was gentle but firm, like a parent’s. It sent shivers down his spine.
Rivers’ eyes bored into his. “I expect better from you.” He said in a low rumble.
As Rivers let go of Brian and turned towards his Stratocaster, Brian let out a breath he forgot he was holding.
The Hollywood sun somehow burned brighter with each passing day, the studio growing more humid, leaving the band in a dizzying, heady haze of fatigue and dread.
On Friday, the band had been holed up in the studio til 3am because Rivers wanted to try nine different keys for one song. When Pat and Scott finally walked out of the studio, Rivers kept Brian back to practice another terrible chord progression he’d written while he yelled at a drum tech.
Brian had come up with an improvement to the progression on his unplugged Explorer when Rivers walked into the live room and slumped at the keyboard. Brian put his guitar down and hovered over him.
“Have you, uh, spoken to Mikey yet?” He asked timidly.
Rivers didn’t reply. There was a pause, long and full of tension.
“I- um, I was thinking of… I don’t know, seeing him, maybe.” Brian added, hesitant.
“You should be focusing on our next studio album.” Rivers said calmly, beginning to play discordant, flat notes.
Brian gritted his teeth, suddenly enraged. “Are you serious?”
Rivers turned around slowly and looked at his bandmate. “Brian.” It was a warning.
“He’s in psychiatric lock down after touring with us. He almost killed himself, for crying out loud! Aren’t you even a little concerned?”
Rivers’ eyes were intense, black and beady like a deathly crow. From this angle, darkness shrouded his usually boyish features. Brian blinked, his heart skipping a beat.
In a low voice he said, “If you don’t start prioritizing this band, and keep worrying about these… distractions—don’t bother showing up tomorrow.”
Brian could barely hide the disgust on his face. “Good night, Rivers.” He spat, and stormed out of the studio.
His knuckles gripped the handles of his bike til they were white. Brian took a long, shaky breath. The night air was chill and breezy, unlike the hot, heady mix of rage, self-pity and desire that clouded his head.
By the last day of sessions at Sage and Sound, Brian was holding on by a thread—actually, so was the entire band. Even Karl wasn’t around as much as he usually was. Rivers’ dark cloud had caught everyone in its toxic, torrential downpour, eating at their passion and energy like acid. Brian was constantly berated for timing, off-key singing, and just generally existing. And they were only recording demos at this point.
At 10pm, the engineers left the studio. Their time had finally run out. Scott and Pat may as well have sprinted out the doors. Rivers didn’t even notice them leave, too occupied with workshopping the tone of track nine—head down, frowning over the keyboard and his composition notebook—in this state, Brian didn’t think anybody could make Rivers look up, let alone leave the studio.
Brian decided to wait since he and Rivers both biked to the studio, and it’d probably be safer to ride across Hollywood with a buddy.
He read over the sheet music Rivers had notated over. His eyes gravitated to the lyrics in particular, trying to understand what kind of headspace Rivers was in. What did he want to accomplish with album four? What was he feeling? Who was he writing about?
Suddenly, Rivers stood up. “I’m done.” He announced, packing up his things. “I’ll figure this out on the tour bus.”
He walked past Brian out of the live room.
“Well, hey! Uh, what about using the minor key?” Brian suggested, following Rivers down the hallway. “You know, it’d sound kinda ‘Pink’-ish, I think.”
“Not what I’m going for.” Rivers argued, turning the corner to the break room. “The contrast is more interesting.”
“I know, it's just… I don’t know, kinda trite, I think.” Brian watched as Rivers opened the fridge door and pulled out a container of half-eaten sushi.
“Well, guess what, Bri?” He turned, facing Brian. “I'm the Supreme Overlord of this album, this band…” He slammed the fridge door shut, “And you, too.”
There wasn’t a hint of sarcasm in his voice.
“And it's not trite. It's tried and true.” He pouted slightly.
The guitarist sighed in exasperation. Nobody could say he didn’t try to contribute to this band. “Whatever, Rivs.”
Brian headed toward the couch and melted into it, muscles aching and bones tired from non-stop strumming and picking and barring. He couldn’t remember the last time he ate.
Meanwhile, Rivers stood at the kitchen island and shoved vegetable California rolls into his mouth with his fingers. Some Japanophile.
Brian rested his neck against the couch and stretched his legs out on the coffee table, laying almost flat. It felt good, like he was a plant unfurling to meet rays of sunlight peeking through the canopy.
The feeling didn’t last long, though, as Rivers’ insults bounced around his head. He felt a headache coming on, and threw his skinny arms over his eyes for some blissful darkness.
As Brian sat there trying to count to one hundred through deep breaths, he heard the faucet running and footsteps approaching, warmth emanating from his right side; a thigh brushed up against his.
“Tomorrow we’ll go over the melody on track seven. Your finger-picking needs work.” Rivers stated plainly.
Brian felt his face grow hot with anger, but didn’t remove his arm from his face, not wanting to look at his bandmate for fear his headache would grow stronger. “Have you considered that your songwriting sucks? That that might be the problem?”
Rivers huffed. “I’m just being honest, Bri.”
There was a long pause between the musicians that stretched on for an eternity.
“Why are you so hard on me?” Brian asked, voice quiet and shaky with rage.
The question ate at him. Even Scott, who Rivers had known for a grand total of 10 days, didn’t get as much flack as Brian did—and for the smallest errors, too. It wasn’t like Rivers’ guitar skills were always up to par in that studio. Even Pat got a mere death glare for his drums being too loose, but nothing like the string of insults Brian got for a missed cue.
Rivers let out a soft breath, “Bri.” He almost whispered, reverent and stern.
Brian slowly lowered his arms, glancing at Rivers. He had a soft smile on his face, which took Brian aback and made his chest tighten.
Then Rivers looked down and placed his hand, pale and soft, on Brian’s knee. “Brian.” He whispered again, like a prayer.
Brian sighed quietly, letting the warmth of Rivers’ touch bloom against his skin. He trailed his hand further up Brian’s thigh. Brian thought the ceiling might cave in on them.
The guitarist let out a shaky breath. “Rivers,” his voice was low and hoarse, like a plea.
“Brian.” Rivers whispered in response. His face began to inch closer to Brian’s. The air filled with anticipation, tension, heat . And although this wasn’t entirely unfamiliar territory, Brian was as nervous as a schoolgirl. He didn’t want this to be taken away from him. He wanted it to be right .
Brian rolled his head away, hiding the high flush on his face. But Rivers kept inching closer, the warmth of his hand radiating through Brian’s thigh.
“I want you to be perfect, Bri.” Rivers’ breath was hot on Brian’s jugular. “Perfect for me.”
Brian was paralyzed. His headache had vanished, replaced with a dizzying, thick fog of longing and want, want, want .
Rivers’ lips grazed Brian’s skin and he bit down on his lip—heart thumping as he saw stars. At the same time, Rivers’ fingertips danced over his crotch.
“Ah!” Brian yelped, immediately turning bright red with embarrassment.
“Shh,” Rivers said between kisses planted on Brian’s long neck.
His hand snaked underneath Brian’s waistband, and Brian stilled. “Rivers,” He pleaded, “Don’t-”
Rivers cut him off by pressing his mouth to Brian’s, tasting of vinegared rice and LA tap water. Brian was helpless in front of his bandmate, his friend, his leader .
He tried his best to keep up with Rivers’ tongue, but Rivers’ hands were distracting, pulling at his hair and cock. Rivers played Brian like his Stratocaster—efficiently, deftly, and with extreme focus and precision.
Brian could do nothing but give in to Rivers—his skin and scent and sick, twisted game. He placed his hand on Rivers’ cheek, a touch that kept him tethered to the ground, lest he float away and be lost in space forever.
“Come on, Bri.” Rivers’ voice was breathy with exertion as his arm pumped, muscles in his forearm flexing.
Brian was close—bright spots in his vision dulled the intensity of Rivers’ dark stare, sending him into a lustful haze.
Rivers thumbed the tip of Brian’s cock, sending him over the edge. Brian came suddenly with a stifled cry. Rivers’ name was on his lips, Rivers’ face was behind his tightly shut eyelids.
But when he opened them, he was cold. Rivers was at the faucet, washing his hands. Washing himself of Brian.
Brian felt like a spaceship tumbling into a black hole, losing control, spinning away from the sun’s heat and into the depths of darkness. He knew this would happen, even if a part of him was hoping and praying it wouldn’t.
Sitting upright, Brian ran a hand through his mussed hair. “Rivs.” He croaked, staring at the floor.
“I- I can’t keep doing this.”
Brian glanced up, eyes glossy and desperate. Rivers was staring at him from the kitchenette, a dark silhouette looming in the distance.
“You can leave whenever you want.”
He turned and left Brian, who tried to calm his erratic, unsure heart.
The sun sliced hot, violent rays of light past the thick glass of the tour bus, causing sweat to bead at Brian’s forehead. The band had started for Oakland at 5am, kicking off what Rivers called ‘The Midget Tour’. Sure, it was a fitting name for a 17 day tour, Brian thought, but it was still juvenile.
17 days. Brian didn’t know if he could do it, in all honesty. Just a few days ago, the band were arguing in the studio; now they’re arguing on the Interstate.
“We might as well take advantage of our downtime," Rivers says explaining, head down in an NME magazine. “Album four needs a lot of work, and this way we can save money by paying for fewer days in local studios.”
“That can’t be how it works," Pat argued. “Plus, when are we supposed to relax? When am I meant to call my kid and wife?”
“I also have a family, spark plug.” Scott interjected.
Rivers visibly bristled at the nickname. “Sometimes, we make sacrifices for creative greatness.” He said simply, flickering his gaze to Brian in what felt like a strange phantom.
After a statement that resolute and delusional, what more could anybody say? The bus fell into uneasy silence.
Somewhere near Fresno, Karl took a seat beside Brian. “How’s it going?” He asked in hushed tones, a polite greeting smile on his face.
“I could be better,” Brian half-joked, and nervously glanced around the cabin to make sure nobody—namely, Rivers—was paying attention to them. “Are you okay?”
Karl paused, smile fading. “You know, this… isn’t everything. There’s more out there.” His eyes were serious and full of intent.
Brian thought about this—every day. He was a pinch hit band member, somebody who was brought on in an emergency. If he hadn’t been at the right place at the right time, would he ever be in this band? What really qualified him to be here?
He wondered if Scott ever experienced impostor syndrome like this. Maybe he should ask.
“Couldn’t I say the same to you?” Brian retorted, smiling fondly.
Karl let out a breathy chuckle. “I guess we’re all kinda stuck here. But—” he placed a gentle hand on Brian’s forearm, “you’ll never know if you never try.”
He glanced up at and met Karl’s kind, sympathetic gaze. He was so lucky to have this family, as dysfunctional as they were. Brian placed his hand atop Karl’s in a quick brush of skin. “Thanks, Karl.”
“Anytime.” He beamed, “I mean it.”
He stood up and walked across the cabin, and Brian felt at ease for the first time that month. He watched as Karl’s tall figure strode past where Rivers sat—and couldn’t help but notice that the frontman wasn’t looking at his magazine anymore. He was staring at Brian. Without his glasses, his gaze was intense and direct, and Brian could see the darkness around his eyes. He didn’t look particularly angry, lips slightly parted and eyebrows lifted.
Brian knew this look. He’d seen it in the studio break room days ago. It wasn’t simply rage—it was possessive and manic. There was something else there, too, murky and clouded by Rivers’ intensity.
Perhaps it was love.