𝙄𝙍𝙄𝙎

Forth On the Forth

MARCH, 1995

Their forth show on the forth of March. The irony wasn't lost on Dave, though he didn't have it in him to make a clever remark about it when they stepped onstage. The moment his boots touched the wood, he could feel his nerves tightening in his stomach like they always did. The house lights had dimmed, but the room was still too bright for comfort. The Velvet Elvis was wall-to-wall with people, bodies pressed up against the front of the stage, drinks sloshing in plastic cups, everyone waiting for something loud.

Dave didn't like talking into the mic. Not yet. He kept it simple.

"Hey, we're Foo Fighters," he said with a stiff smile, his voice carrying awkwardly through the PA. "Thanks for coming."

Then, he counted off, "One, two, three, four", and they were in.

The band crashed into This Is a Call like they'd been playing it for years. William's drums pounded with the urgency of a train charging off its rails. Nate was locked in, and Iris's guitar tone cut sharp through the haze. The song didn't sound nervous, it sounded alive. Dave's fingers moved automatically, and somewhere in the noise, he found his place.

Iris sidled closer during a break between songs, leaning just a little into his space, her lips near his ear. "You good?" she asked, voice just loud enough for him to hear over the crowd's cheering.

Dave nodded, a little breathless. "Yeah," he murmured. "Just... still feels weird."

She smiled and bumped his shoulder with hers. "You're doing fine, Rockstar."

Their back-and-forth played out like that all night. Quiet exchanges between songs, a smirk here, a glance there. They'd lean in, whisper something just out of earshot of the mics, and then drift apart again like magnets tugged by an invisible wire. The crowd couldn't hear what they were saying, but they noticed. Their closeness, the private jokes, the way they seemed to orbit each other even when they weren't standing side by side.

It added something extra to the show. Not polish. Not bravado. Chemistry.

Dave relaxed a little more as they pushed into Good Grief, Iris nailing the riff with a kind of assurance that brought the song alive. He glanced back at her during the chorus, she met his eyes with a quick grin before returning to her fretboard.

The energy in the room climbed with every track. No matter how unsure Dave was between songs, when the band was playing, everything locked into place.

Later in the set, as they tuned for a slower number, Dave stepped toward the mic and shifted his weight from foot to foot. He looked back at Iris.

"Alright," he said, voice louder now, more sure of itself. "This next one's a little different... and I've got someone pretty great singing it with me."

He looked toward Iris again, giving a soft grin before continuing.

"You've been hearing her shred all night, but now you get to hear her sing, too. This is Iris."

A few cheers rose from the crowd, and Iris gave a shy wave as she stepped up to her mic, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Dave turned back toward his guitar, strumming the first few gentle chords of Big Me.

The moment the song began, the energy in the room shifted, softer, lighter. They stood close together, voices weaving delicately, gazes meeting often, lingering in quiet moments. And when they sang, "But it's you, I fell into," neither of them looked away.

It was only a few minutes long, but it said more than either of them had all night.

The back room was just as cramped and rough-edged as the venue itself, one flickering overhead light, a ripped couch, an amp doubling as a seat. But to the Foo Fighters, it might as well have been a green room at Madison Square Garden. The show had gone well, better than well.

Dave dropped down onto the couch with a thud, his damp t-shirt clinging to his back. His heart was still beating hard, and his voice was a little frayed from the set, but there was a grin pulling at his face that hadn't left since the last chord of Exhausted.

"That felt good," he said, rubbing the back of his neck, looking around at the rest of them.

"Best one yet," William agreed, grabbing a bottle of water and taking a long drink. "Tighter. Louder. Less... chaotic."

"I didn't trip over anything this time," Nate added with a smirk. "Which I'd consider progress."

Dave turned toward Iris, who was sitting on the edge of a battered amp case, legs crossed, fingers still lightly drumming against her knees like the show hadn't left her system yet.

"You were awesome," he said. "Seriously."

Iris gave a half-shrug, a quiet smile playing on her lips. "You too. You didn't seem nervous this time."

"I was," Dave admitted. "Still am. But something about having you guys next to me up there... makes it easier."

There was a brief pause, the warmth of shared success settling in around them like a blanket.

Then Dave clapped his hands together. "Alright. Time to get serious for a sec—van talk."

Everyone groaned half-heartedly, but they leaned in.

"My manager's looking at that red Dodge I told you about," Dave said. "It's old, kind of ugly, but it runs. And it's got enough room for us, the gear, and exactly one questionable decision per day."

"Sounds perfect," Nate said.

"No A/C," Dave added. "And probably no working radio— but we might get it fixed."

"Perfect," William repeated, smirking.

"When are we getting it?" Iris asked.

"Soon. This week, hopefully. We'll need it ready before April. Watt's tour isn't going to wait around."

They all nodded, the weight of the coming month hitting them—hard touring schedules, long drives, no stage techs, no roadies. Just them and their gear.

But none of them flinched.

"You guys ready for that?" Dave asked, looking around the room.

William leaned back and cracked his knuckles. "Absolutely."

Nate gave a thumbs-up. "Born ready."

Iris gave him a quiet look and said, "Yeah. Let's do it."

Dave smiled again, the kind of smile that stuck even when he was dead tired.

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A/N

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