Chapter Text
The stage lights are bright as the Heavy Metal Popstars start their last song of the concert.
The crowd is buzzing with anticipation, a sea of excitement as Lightbulb gives the rest of the band her cue.
They roar as the song begins. It's a fan favorite, after all, and they've been waiting for it since the start of the concert.
Tapey is the lead singer for this song, a rare and wonderful treat. Poppy usually leads, but they're doing backup vocals this time. Their voices blend together to form a beautiful harmony, which the fans delightedly sing along to.
Metag works with Lightbulb to keep the rhythm, their bass creating a gorgeous baseline that keen ears will appreciate. Lightbulb is free and fast on the drums as always, playing her heart out with silly tricks and her winks at the audience.
Paper and Starfruit play along to the melody. Starfruit was always loud and bombastic, flinging out notes with lightning quick fingers, and though Paper is quieter, he's no less unique, providing his own flair to the song with his trusty keyboard.
Every note they hit leaves the audience reeling. People are screaming, cheering and jumping and just singing the lyrics, hugging their friends and lovers and even strangers. Concerts have a way of bringing each other together, and the Heavy Metal Popstars have always been known for their especially life-changing performances.
Tapey and Poppy belt out the last note together and the crowd goes insane. They cheer and wave and thank everyone for coming, we love you, as the lights go dark. Already, people are gushing about how magical it was before they even leave the venue.
If only the band felt that way, too.
-
It's silent when they enter the dressing rooms, which was mostly a blessing nowadays. Peyton isn't complaining out Poppy being out of sync and Stephen does make a jab at Metis for missing a chord. It's as peaceful as it could be.
No one talks, or laughs, or even makes a sound. They hand over makeup remover and strip out of their costumes and it's calm. Liv learned to appreciate a silent cleanup after a show, even though silence is her least favorite thing, like, ever. Silence means no arguing, which means she doesn't have to be the peacemaker or shut things down, which means she doesn't have to pretend she isn't anything but running on empty.
She doesn't think about when post shows were filled with laughter and cheering and and sighs of exhaustion or relief or joy, cause it'll just make her sad. When they replayed it in their heads and out loud, about how the crowd roared at a part or comforting each other after a mistake or something, anything good-
Nope. No sadness. Today was a good day.
They change into their disguises, and they're ushered out of the venue. Not a word, still. Liv refuses to feel lonely.
Today was a good day.
Taylor leans into her ear and murmurs "you did great" before they file into their separate cars and go back to the hotel.
They used to carpool. When it was just Liv and Peyton and Taylor, they would pile into Liv's old truck and have a sleepover after every gig. They'd drink and eat her famous Cookie Pizza and rewatch their performance on loop until they passed out.
What happened? She thinks, but never says. She won't say it. It'll just cause another argument. No arguments.
Today was a good day.
The hotel this time is... nice. A little expensive for her tastes, she always appreciated the cheaper places (they used to stay in shitty motels before they hit it big- it makes her nostalgic), but big comfy hotel beds are always good.
Nobody to share it with though. Liv runs a hand over her eyes. She has got to find a club.
She eyes her bottle of vodka, left on the counter after pouring some into her coffee this morning. It's tempting, she thinks. Well. Performances are always stressful and she could only drink enough for a buzz-
She can't. She has practice tomorrow, and she promised Tess she'd try to stop. She turns away from the bottle and tries to find something else to do.
She tries watching TV. Remembers that hotel TV sucks ass no matter how expensive it is. Goes on social media. Maybe she should look for posts about the concert, like old times, or- or maybe Fan already posted something on his blog.
They looked together in the beginning. Liv, Taylor, Peyton. Stephen too, after he joined. They'd scour social media for every comment, every post, reply to the ones they really liked. Have silly little after parties when they hit a milestone of some sorts.
What happened? She thinks again, helplessly. Where did it all go wrong? Where did she go wrong? Why couldn't she keep them together? Why couldn't-
She laughs, but it comes out as a sob. Her phone drops out of her hands as she presses her hands to her eyes, willing herself not to cry. She won't cry, lights can't shine bright when they're sobbing their eyes out.
But she's all alone in her room, with no one to watch her. She's not Lightbulb, the captain or the drummer or the mediator right now. She's just Liv, sitting sad and lonely in her room. Nobody's there to see her fall apart.
So she does. Liv curls up tight as she can, sobbing her eyes out. Today was supposed to be a good day. But it wasn't. It never will be. Because good days used to feel good and not like she avoided a hurricane at sea. Because good days used to be filled to bursting with laughter and hugs and smiles, when she'd come back to shared hotel rooms and takeout from the nearest place. Because good days used to mean happy days.
She runs herself ragged with sobs until she passes out from the exhaustion, alone in her too big hotel room.
Today was not a good day.
-
Each brushstroke is placed with merciless efficiency, deliberately taking up every inch of the canvas.
Their colors are perfect. The sketch was one of their better ones, so they didn't need to change much during the final painting.
Pierce paints the way they do everything recently; soulessly.
The painting is a procedure. A process of steps with a beginning and an end. They paint for the grade, and nothing else.
(They faintly register footsteps from the doorway, a key fumbling with the lock).
They take a break to let the canvas dry, and attempt to feel anything but numb when they stare at it.
It's souless. There is nothing of them when they look at it. Their hand trembles. They want to rip the canvas to pieces. They want to leave this place and never come back.
(They barely notice a door opening, a voice, growing more urgent as time goes on.)
You always run, don't you? Their traitorous mind supplies. Their grip on their brush tightens. That's your first instinct, to throw a tantrum, to run, just like you ran from-
"Pierce!!" The voice in their ear shouts, and they jump. They glance up at the owner, annoyed, who levels them with just as much exasperation in his own look. "Are you listening?"
Pierce sighs, valiant in their attempt to not to send their roommate a glare. They were trying to dissociate in peace, thank you very much. "What, Fabian."
"I was asking if you knew what time it was," Fabian, their loud, annoying, unfortunately really good friend responds, carrying something in his hands. A bag? Actually they don't really care. "It's already six, have you even eaten anything?"
"Yes, I-" they start to snap at Fabian, see the worry in his eyes, and their anger flags as guilt quickly replaces it. "Yeah. I- I ate something earlier."
Fabian narrows his eyes. Or maybe he's squinting. He isn't wearing his glasses, so it's anyone's guess. "How long ago is earlier?" Oh. He's narrowing his eyes. Dammit.
"...Three?" The way they answer sounds more like a question. It might have been two, or one, they didn't really fucking remember. "Listen, you can't expect me to memorize the hour I ate-"
"That's true," Fabian interrupts, and they know that he's not trying to be annoying but they really want to punch him in the face right now, "But I can expect you to eat this. Right now."
He waves the mystery bag in front of them, and they begrudgingly take it out of his hands. They open it up, and the sweet, rich scent hits them before they even see what's inside.
They're pastry puffs. Warm and fresh, from the bakery across the street. Neither of them can usually afford it... How did he... "How did you get this?"
But Fabian's already walking across the room, shucking off his coat and shoes, placing his bookbag on the table. "You know, the customary thing to say when someone gives you something is 'Thank you.'"
They'd usually tell him to fuck off with his sarcasm, but they're still cradling the bag in their hands like it's a treasure. The smell is comforting, and enticing, like their body already knows it's going to be delicious. Pierce's stomach growls as if in agreement. Fabian read them to pieces. They suddenly feel like crying.
"...Thanks, Fabian."
Fabian just hums an affirmative, because he's frustratingly perceptive and knows that Pierce would freak out if he makes any bigger a deal out of them not snarking back at him for once.
They place the pastries on their bedside table, gently, reverently. They leave their canvas to dry in the corner, wash their paint-stained hands, and savor the pastries for all they're worth.
Don't think I've ever cried over sweets before, they think. Fabian mercifully ignores their quiet sniffles as they eat the puff pastry.
Mary would have laughed at them, they know it. Come on, what're you crying for? She'd chuckle, and probably steal a piece of their puff pastry while she's at it. They'd huff and shove her arm, she'd shove back, and they'd play fight until they were wheezing with laughter and-
No. No Mary. Today already sucks as is.
And I took it out on the guy who got me pastries.
They look over at Fabian, typing away on his laptop, and take a deep breath. "Sorry," they mutter, the words feeling heavy on their tongue.
Fabian perks up. "For what?"
There's a sudden flare of irritation in their chest at the decidedly stupid question, stupid Fabian and his stupid need for them to always elaborate, is he trying to rub it in- "For being a dick," they grit out.
Fabian softens, and the rage gets doused immediately. "It's okay, Pierce."
Pierce looks away from him, curling up. Why do they always get so mad at him? He was just asking a question. He was just asking a question, and they keep getting angry at him. Why does he waste his time on them? Why does he-?
"Pierce. Pierce. Hey, Painty."
He's on their bed, hands hovering over their shoulders. They're hiccuping, they didn't even realize. This is pathetic. This is embarrassing. They shouldn't be- "I'm sorry," they choke out, and Fabian wraps his arms around them, deliberately tight. Grounding.
He was never great at touch, when they met. He got in their space, sure, was always leaning into them or placing a hand on their arm, but intentional, tactile contact was never his strong suit. He learned it, for them.
They hate that they made him learn. They hate that they make him deal with their shit, that he never objects, they hate- "I'm sorry," they rasp, clinging to his jacket like a life line.
"Shh, c'mon, it'll be okay, Painty." He rubs circles into their back as their sobs increase in frequency. Any words of reassurance are drowned out by the ones in their head, resurfacing in their mind over and over again, like a mantra.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.