On With The Show

25

"You've got it smudged on your face, a little bit."

Tommy blinked, then turned toward him. "Is it really that visible?"

Vince laughed, soft and crooked. "Not bad, just a little raccoon chic." He reached out without thinking, thumb hovering near the corner of Tommy's eye. Tommy laughed - nervous energy radiating off him in waves. Vince licked his thumb, 

"Don't. I like it."

Nikki's husky voice made Tommy lean back in his chair slightly. Vince dropped his hand, and tommy looked in the mirror... "Don't? Nik, I look like a racoon, Vince said so."

"I say bull," Nikki walked over, and Tommy smiled without meaning to - eyes catching on Nikki's pants. His movements weren't catlike, exactly, but they had a deliberate rhythm to them. Like he owned the space.  Tommy stayed still, catching a whiff of Nikki's scent: cigarette smoke, mixed with the cheap soap they used at his apartment, and a hint of something earthy and herbal. His eyes wandered, reaching Nikki's smudged eyeliner. For the briefest moment, there was a twinge in his chest.

Calm your shit, Tommy, he thought to himself - cut short by Nikki's firm, calloused fingers holding his face in place, making two quick lines below his eye.

"Now it looks intentional," Nikki muttered, voice low.

*

 Tommy wondered if you could melt under lights. He looked up, and his eyes nearly fell out of his head. Surely this wasn't the standard - was it? How did anyone focus, especially when the rest of the place was dark? Or did that help - no, the dark would make this feel brighter, not dimmer. God, he was going on stage tonight, under these lights that could for sure melt metal. His fingers spun his drumsticks around - over, under, let it go, catch one, catch the other, repeat - the rhythm the only thing keeping him grounded. He let out a small puff of air - 5 minutes til the bar opened. Not empty, not a packed bar - why was he so tense? He had played shows before, before everything with -

She's not going to ruin today. No, today is for him, and Vince, and Mick, and Nikki -

God, what about Nikki? Nikki said this was a band he had faith in - that Tommy was someone he had faith in. If Tommy let him down...

"Goin' back for a smoke."

Before Tommy knew it, he had gotten up from his stool, carton of cigarettes he'd taken from Nikki's nightstand in his hands, before going to the back rooms. The lights, Vince and Mick getting ready, the microphone feedback... God, why did he think this was a good idea?

He flung open the back door - propped it open with a cinderblock, the alley cracked and uneven beneath his boots. The air was cooler out here, not fresh (where in LA can you find fresh air? Tommy had lived around there his whole life, there's no way this was fresh) just less... dense than indoors. Tommy leaned against the wall and shook out a cigarette with fingers that wouldn't stay still. He dropped it once, cursed under his breath, and lit the second one with hands cupped to block the breeze. The lighter clicked twice before it caught.

The first drag hit fast. Sharp and bitter. He coughed once, eyes watering slightly, then forced himself to take another. It steadied him—barely. At least it gave him something to do with his hands. He exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl up and vanish into the night.

Five minutes. Just five more. Then lights, noise, maybe disaster.

He thought about Nikki's eyeliner again. The way he didn't even flinch when he'd said, "I like it." The way he'd drawn those lines under Tommy's eyes like it was nothing.

Tommy pulled the cigarette from his lips and stared at it like it might give him answers. It didn't.

He took another drag, then one more. Before he knew it, it was down to a little stump - only the filter left. He crushed it under his boot. His fingers still smelled like it as he pushed the door open again.

*

They started with the song Mick hated.

It wasn't planned, not really, but Nikki kicked it off anyway. Loud and clumsy on purpose, just to catch your attention. That chugging, ugly bassline he'd half-written in a motel room, too much coke in his nose, too much KISS in his head. Mick had told him flat-out it sounded like a discount Gene Simmons riff. Nikki said good, and played it louder.

Now, under the lights, it didn't matter. The bar wasn't even half full, but it felt like it was vibrating under his boots. The monitors sucked, and Vince had already gone hoarse during soundcheck, but the noise was real. The way the air shifted when they hit that first chorus: that was what Nikki played for. He didn't play bass the way he was supposed to. Never had. He couldn't read sheet music, didn't know his scales, didn't care. He played like he wanted to rattle the floorboards loose. Everything he loved - T. Rex, Sabbath, Bowie, New York Dolls - they didn't sound clean either. They sounded like sex and glitter and cheap beer. Like they wanted to take your head off and then kiss you on the mouth.

The second song was sloppier, faster, something new they hadn't even rehearsed properly. Vince fucked up a lyric and laughed into the mic. Tommy didn't miss a beat. His drumming was tight, relentless, a little showy in that way Nikki secretly liked. He'd toss and catch his sticks like they were nothing, but held a beat like it was gold.

Nikki turned slightly on stage, half-out of instinct, half-out of the magnetic pull that Tommy had without realizing it. His hair was falling in his face, eyeliner still smudged, but those two little black lines Nikki had drawn were holding up under the sweat. It made Nikki feel... weirdly proud. Tommy was magnetic, and Nikki was metallic - drawn together in some inexplicable way. Silently, he thanked whatever gods existed that nobody paid attention to the rhythm section til a band got big.

He looked happy back there, or if not happy, then wired. Tuned in. The kind of alive that only happened when he hit a groove. Nikki watched the way he moved: shoulders loose, mouth slightly open, chewing the inside of his cheek. Fills within fills, adding more complexity to his sound than Nikki thought necessary. 

That was the thing about their sound. It was a mess. A loud, swaggering mess. But sometimes, when it locked in just right, when the floor vibrated and the feedback squealed and someone in the back actually screamed or clapped around - those were the moments that Nikki understood faith.

He turned toward the drums again. Tommy's eyes met his for half a second. Just a flicker. A flash of teeth. And it was there again, that same tension they always felt outside - curling hot and stupid in Nikki's chest.

*

The feedback screeched - there was a small group on their feet in front of the stage. Vince slammed the mic back onto the stand, dragging Nikki to the front, Tommy and Mick following.

Motley fuckin' Crue. Motley Crue. Motleyfuckingcrue.

It felt right. The blood in his veins was electric - he could see it on Mick's face, too - this gig was different. Something about it set it apart from every other gig they'd played before starting this. The lights dimmed, and the sweaty, testosterone-fueled hug felt right more than anything else. 

Tommy's head instinctively buried itself into Nikki's shoulder, Mick looked like he was able to tolerate the contact. Vince wasn't stupid - but he wasn't about to bring it up. 

"First round's on me," Mick's voice came from the back. Gruff, but something softer in it today. "After that, I'm gone, John's in the crowd."