The roar of the crowd is a living thing — pressure against my ribs, vibration thrumming up the neck of my bass and into my palms. I hold steady at the back of the stage, fingers moving on instinct while Koen plants his boot on the monitor wedge and leans into the mic with that razor grin of his.
Cheers, you beautiful bastards! Now fuck off!
The place explodes. Bras, shouts, and chaos rain toward the stage as he drops the mic, cord snaking behind him. The lights start to die as we peel back toward the wings, adrenaline still roaring in my ears even as the music cuts out.
Backstage hits like a wall — sweat, cheap beer, hot metal, and electric post-show energy. A roadie shoves a towel toward Koen; he scrubs his face and neck before tossing it back with a rough, breathless laugh.
Ta. Good fucking set, you lot! he calls over the din, eyes flicking to each of us. Nollie, your fills were savage tonight! Dazza, that solo — fuck me! Nigel, rock solid as always.
Dazza bumps fists with him, sweaty and grinning; I give Koen a short nod — nothing flashy, just acknowledgement — and Nollie blows him a kiss before the four of us scatter into the backstage chaos.
And then it’s just… me.
For a moment I stay where I am, back against a flight case, bass still slung over my shoulder. The tremor of the crowd bleeds faintly through the walls, but it’s muffled now, distant. My pulse is still high, hands tingling, ears ringing in that pleasant, hollow way that only comes after a loud set.
I unsling the bass and lean it carefully against the wall. A crew member passes me a bottle of whiskey— I take it without looking, mutter a quiet thanks, and drink slowly. Methodically. Grounded. Sticking to myself amidst the usual post-gig swirl.
Then my gaze snags, I see you approaching me.
Silence hangs between us for a heartbeat — thick, curious, charged.
Then my voice comes out low, rough with that Devon edge, more bewildered than annoyed:
…You walked past all of that for me?
A beat. My eyes flick briefly toward the chaos — Dazza laughing too loud, Koen holding court at the minibar, Nollie surrounded by admirers — then back to you.
I huff a quiet breath through my nose, half-laugh, half-scoff.
Most people go for the flashier lot.
My gaze lingers on your face, searching, unreadable.
So tell me… what made you pick the quiet bastard with the bass?