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The venue was dark and crowded, milling with anxious, faceless bodies. Chris watched them from backstage, an apprehensive feeling building in the pit of his stomach. Chris always got nervous before a show, whether it was full to the brim or empty like a morgue. Usually the full to the brim gigs made him nervous to the point of incapacity, and right now the place was packed. Chris was quaking helplessly, his knees knocking.
Jonny came up behind him, resting his chin on Chris’s broad shoulder. Together, silently, they stared out into the sea of people. Jonny could feel him shaking and pity twisted his heart.
“You know, there’s no reason to be afraid,” Jonny said soothingly, his lips near Chris’s ear. “What’s the worst that can happen?”
Chris shook his head, taking comfort in his best friend’s presence, but not enough to calm him. “I don’t know, Jon… But I can’t help it. I’m so scared.” Chris sighed, his voice tortured. “I know it’s foolish…”
“Stage fright?” Damon asked, appearing out of the shadows like a portent of things to come. His voice was nearly taunting. Chris eyed him a moment, hesitating – weighing his options, perhaps – and then shrugged noncommittally.
Jonny straightened, his hands bunching into fists at his sides, aggravated eyes on Damon. What a pillock he had turned out to be. Repeatedly, Jonny had watched Chris extend the olive branch to Damon, only to watch the egocentric dick snap it in half. Repeatedly, Jonny had watched Chris bleed in shame and embarrassment – only to take to his feet and try it again. Damon was a snake, not one to be trusted at all. It was all Jonny had not to push him away, snarling like an animal. ‘Stay the hell away from Chris,’ he raged silently at Damon.
Damon must have lost interest in the idea of torturing Chris to blow off some pre-show stress or he heard Jonny's plea because he turned away to talk to Alex. Jonny relaxed and reached out to squeeze Chris’s hand – a secret consolation – but when their fingertips brushed, Chris jerked away and disappeared down the hall.
“Nervous bugger, isn’t he?” The taunting note was back in Damon’s voice, in the laughing, cold question. Jonny glared at him and stalked away.
It was quiet, and Damon was alone. Again. He snorted derisively, his cocky demeanor melting away, and looked down at his hands as if he didn’t know what to do with himself. The tile under his expensive trainers was scratched, worse for wear. He tapped his foot and felt it bow slightly with damp. The back rooms were those of a tiny, loud little club, not the upscale arena they were actually in. But somehow, that didn’t bother him.
He heard a shrill ripple run through the crowd. The roadies must have been putting the finishing touches on Coldplay’s set. Damon snorted again, his hands on his hips. For such an innovative guy, Chris Martin certainly could have picked something a little more entertaining than a bloody glowing globe. They used the minimum of lighting – nothing fancy, at the most colored lights that gave the stage an eerie, surreal glow. Briefly, Damon through that their sparse use of electronics made their sets all the more powerful, but then he shook his head. They didn’t make it ‘powerful,’ they made it *boring.* It wasn’t called a show for nothing; music was important, of course, but making it flashy was half the fun. Then again, maybe Chris just didn’t think that way.
“Damon?” Alex called from the next room. “Come watch!”
Curious, Damon followed the sound of Alex’s voice. The dark haired man had found a gap in the makeshift walls of the set, a perfect vantage point to watch Coldplay rock out in their sensitive way. You could really only see the scruffy back of Chris’ head, but he radiated as he moved and swayed and sang with all of his might. Damon didn’t realize how long he had been standing until the last song ended. His legs ached as the crowd erupted in cheers. Alex had wandered away some time ago, losing interest.
Chris wiped beads of sweat from his brow and the strong line of his jaw as he stumbled backstage. Everyone clapped him on the back and he smiled his blinding, breathless thanks. Then it cleared, it was quiet again – well, almost quiet; the hum of the audience and the clatter of voices was always there – and Damon was alone with Chris. Again. He always managed to get himself tongue-tied and make an ass out of himself in front of Chris. But wait… Why did he care? What did it matter? What the hell did it matter what Chris bloody Martin thought of him?
It was silent except for the crowd, snatches of shouts floating towards them, and the airy even sound of Chris’s breath. They were alone together, a few short feet apart.
A man yanked open the flimsy wooden door of the green room, a man Damon didn’t recognize, and caught Damon with his eyes. “Blur is on in five, mate,” he snapped, and then shut the door.
“Good luck,” Chris told him, his honeyed voice hoarse and weary. “They’re here to see you anyway.”
Damon cleared his throat. “I know,” he murmured. He turned and went to find his bandmates in the last five minutes before showtime.
- - -
When the show drew to a close, Blur dutifully played an encore and then retreated backstage. Alex threw himself onto a threadbare old couch, wiping sweat from his brow. Damon kicked Alex’s feet out of the way and slumped down beside him.
“So… how was that?” Graham asked.
The room was quiet a moment before Alex cackled with delight and nearly pummeled Damon with his feet in a fit of excitement. “That was so awesome! Bloody brilliant! It was great! Wish I coulda been out there to see Coldplay, though.”
“We would’ve been mobbed,” Damon sniffed.
“Yeah, yeah, but it woulda been so much better if I could’ve… I dunno… seen it. Chris just seems as if he’d get so *into* a show.” Alex sighed, almost dreamily. “Kind of ironic that we’re musicians but we can’t even go to shows.”
“Unless we’re the ones putting it on,” Graham said, lighting a cigarette.
Damon shrugged, slightly irritated. Dave was nodding sympathetically at Graham and Alex, as if he had run their words over in his minds a thousand times before. Maybe he had. Damon had too, occasionally, but definitely preferred the lush, sometimes stressful life of the rock star to that of a floundering, desperate fan. He’d much prefer to have the fans than be them.
“Speaking of which,” Dave said, clearing his throat. “Where are the other guys?”
Damon cocked his head, listening for the lusty sound of Chris’s voice, but heard nothing. He thought he heard Guy’s impish laughter for a moment, but then shook his head and shrugged at Dave. “Maybe they’ve left already.”
“There’s only one bus,” Graham said. “They’ve couldn’t have.”
“They wouldn’t do that anyway,” Alex added, a childish pout in his voice. “They’d stay behind and congratulate us.”
“You think they’d bake us cookies too?” Damon mocked him.
Graham laughed. “They just might, you know.”
Will and Jonny suddenly burst in, elated expressions on their faces. “Guys!” Will shouted, clapping his hands and striking a pose. “Brilliant! Quality! And we had the best seats in the whole bloody house!”
Jonny was giggling helplessly, a hand over his mouth. He looked slightly drunk.
“Serious, though.” Will coughed, then beamed at the Blur boys, all of whom (save for Damon) were laughing and nodding at Will. “When I was in school, you were like me favorite band. I always wanted to see you live or something. Ironic, innit?”
“Just a little, yes,” Damon said dryly.
Will was unfazed. He clapped his hands again and then whooped. “Now starts the long trek to the hotel! Who’s excited?”
“Me, oh, me!” Alex pumped his fist in the air.
Will winked. “Nah, nah, it’s not that bad. Chris is mighty entertaining on car rides, ‘specially if you piss him off. He loves that. So we’re leaving once everything’s packed, all right? Phil said the drive was about a half hour. I lied about the trek thing.”
“You could probably walk if… if you really wanted… or something.” Jonny was definitely more than a little drunk.
“Uh… sure, sure.” Will turned and motioned for Jonny to follow. The two slammed the door behind them as they left.
The room was silent a moment as they all recovered from that recent onslaught.
“Is it just me, or did Will strike you as… kind of completely insane?” Dave asked thoughtfully.
“Crazy,” Alex said. “Definitely off his trolley.”
TO BE CONTINUED (maybe... probably not)
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