Terror Twin [Def Leppard] #Wattys2016

XX: Stagefright

August 16, 1986.

Rick stretched his back, plopping himself down on the stool behind his kit. The roar of the crowd was prominent, even with his headphones protecting his ears. He was tempted to take a few practice swings at the instrument, but he knew the noise would blast through the speakers.

The crowd was loud and energetic, even though the headliners were going on after the Leppards.

Joe was standing next to Rick, ready to leap off the platform as soon as the banner with their logo was lifted.

Joe couldn't rid himself of the smile. The energy the crowd was giving off outside was sifting into his own mood, and he felt bold. Bold enough that he considered stage-diving.

Thankfully, his senses were kindly returned to him as the banner started to lift.

Joe leapt down from his spot, raising his hands in the air and starting to clap. The crowd followed right along, just as hoped.

"I said, welcome to my show!"

The battle cry rang out as Phil struck the first note.

"We got the whole damn night to go!"

Phil quickly realized this would be one of the best shows they'd ever play, a show he'd never forget. Every chord, every strum, felt perfectly natural - almost as if he was playing it from his soul, and not his memory. Phil always thought Stagefright would be the best opener they'd ever have.

The older guitarist crossed to the front of the stage, one foot propped up on an amp. Phil leaned out over the crowd, grinning widely as he cranked out his first solo of the night. He was high on the crowd, high on the music, high on life. The energy was toxic. Phil glanced over at Steve, tearing through the heavy riff of Rock! Rock!, and grinned to himself. You lucky bastard. You've got it all.

•

Steve stumbled onto the bus, exhausted from a successful show. He didn't feel good, though. His stomach was flopping all over, and he felt as if he'd pass out on the floor. He dumped his guitar on the stand, stripping down to his boxers to escape the fever burning inside of him.

Fuck, what's wrong with me?

He couldn't tell whether he felt better under the covers or on top of them. Sweat was dripping down his freezing cold body, and not long after, so did the tears.

Sleep came so slow it was agonizing. None of the others were on the bus, and Steve didn't know why. He wanted Phil.

Sick.

Sleep.

•

September 1, 1986.

Phil was surprised when he realized the tour was over three shows later. They were on their way back to Sheffield from West Germany, but Phil wanted more. Everything had been perfect. Joe's writing had been coming along, so they'd have songs ready to record when they got back in the studio. Rick sounded better than ever on his kit. Every member was in sync at the moment, and Phil never wanted it to end.

"Aye, Steve." Phil smiled over at his boyfriend, who had just left the bunk area. Steve grinned in reply, tying a knot in the sash of his robe.

"How'd you sleep?" Phil murmured, moving closer to Steve and wrapping his arms around his love's waist.

"Better." Steve lied, arms around Phil's shoulders.

"Good." Phil booped his nose against Steve's, a small giggle escaping past his lips. Steve forced a smile. Phil let go, trotting over to their makeshift kitchen, which was basically a mini fridge and a microwave. There was a reason they always bought takeout.