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fanfuckingfic · 4 years

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You Move Like Real People Do

(Choreographer!Jimin x Ecologist!Namjoon x Singer!Reader)

Summary: Sometimes loving someone is just too easy. It just sinks into you so deeply or floats you away so high either way it shouldn't be hard to hold on to.

Wordcount: 2.6k

Warnings: (Sappy fluff, polyamory, lots of talk about bog bodies, excessive amounts of admiration, the songs are literally Hozier’s and you should listen to them if you haven’t, oh my god this is so self indulgent)

A/N: I haven't written in like 3 years and I've never tried bullet fic style so please be nice :( also I love Hozier so much oh my god I literally just built a whole universe in my brain around his music + bangtan and I think Movement fits Jimin so well and LRPD is a sick song and Joon is a just weird nerd but anyway please enjoy and lemme know what you think!

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Namjoon is an ecologist and Jimin is a choreographer and Y/n is a famous indie-rock blues singer/songwriter (literally just fucking Hozier because I love that man with every bit of my heart).

You and Joon are early risers and spend mornings sipping coffee and reading together on the couch while you wait for Jimin to get ready for the classes he teaches alongside being a choreographer so they can kiss him good morning and wish him a good day when he leaves.

You’re sure to put extra honey in his green tea to-go cup, and he kisses you both quickly on the cheek before scurrying out the door.

They both kind of fiddle around with their day cause Joon is a professor at the local university and only has classes twice a week and finished grading that last assignment yesterday.

So now he's watering his plants and terrariums in the greenhouse porch you all have and your sitting there fiddling with your guitar, messing around with some chords sometimes writing them down sometimes not.

Casually you ask Joon which student had the best paper.

“One student went out of their way to be a kiss ass if that counts.”

You ask how he means with a chuckle.

“Well you know how I've been writing a thesis about bog bodies and what-not?”

“Yes of course, love, you only remind me of the phenomenon every chance you have.” You look up at him with mock disdain.

His eyebrows furrow, “I thought you liked talking about the bog bodies” He pouts and you honestly can't even try to deny it.

“I do, I think it's kind of beautiful- not like dead people that's shitty- but when you describe how the swamps and bogs preserve them and how they’re found.” You take in a deep breath mulling over your words for moment.

“You make things like that sound so beautiful, Joonie. Even if I don't get half the big sciencey words you say. It sorta sounds like people falling in love with something they shouldn't but doing it anyway.” You smile to yourself thinking of him talking to (mostly at) you.

Namjoon still gets flustered easily by your and Jimin's creative ways of declaring your love.

He hears Jimin's tinkling laugh in your music and his own words in your songs, sometimes he feels like he doesn't love you both back enough but you both are quick remind him that he doesn't show love through notes and twirls

He shows them through flowers he picks and the way he's always willing to interrupt himself to explain something when he sees confusion in either of your eyes, because he knows you want to but wont stop his train of thought, you both want to understand what he's babbling on about because you love him.

(And he looks so fuckin hot when he goes on his passionate rants about certain bacteria being the back bone for an entire ecosystem how could you not?)

He blushes and clears his throat.

You always find the beauty in everything, can turn just about anything into a love story, a poem.

He loves that about you and Jimin you're both so able to make the world more beautiful with your bodies and minds. You both love that he adds so much sustenance to that beauty.

“You're right, bog bodies deserve love, just like any real person does. But a student wrote their paper on them and used me as a source in their reference page.” He huffs, still amused by the students' tenacity.

“Any real person, huh? You gave them an A didn't you?” You absorb his words before deadpanning.

Namjoon doesn't answer and instead bends down to kiss your lips then your forehead before he goes back to being very interested in how his Venus fly trap is doing.

Some days when your writer's block is extra bad and you've been struggling to come up with lyrics that mean anything or chords to go with them, Jimin asks if you want to come with him to the studio.

He's just experimenting with some new choreography so it's just you two.

He notices when you get into these slumps you can't quite reach your way out of and staying in the house all cooped up trying to get inspired by the same things you see everyday isn't going to help.

It's a classical piece a dance company hired him to choreograph, wordless dancing was always his forte.

Feeling the music move through him and around him, throw him to and fro. He likes to feel like a tool of expression- like an instrument to be played.

You watch him work and think and move, over and over again, something just slightly different each time just slightly closer to what he wants.

He's breathless by the time he comes to sit next you against the back wall he saw you staring the whole time and loves how he can still make you and Joon speechless and swooning even after all the years together.

“Sometimes I forget you're real, you know, when you dance.” You murmur head on your knees still in a daze after watching him.

Jimin quirks an eyebrow and smirks.

“The hell does that mean?” He simpers, knowing you're probably about to say something that will completely floor him and make him fall for you even harder.

“You just stop looking real I guess, you look like if I reached out to touch you, you would still just be barley out of reach, like driving towards a rainbow or a mirage, ya know?”

He quirks his head, not really understanding what you mean but trying to.

“You're just so good at using your body to show a concept you almost kind of become one. I don't know, mostly, I just feel like I'd chase you forever if you really were unreachable like that, I don't think I'd mind.” You shrug and reach for his hand to fiddle with.

He exhales in surprise. He was absolutely right. Floored.

“Would you dance with me? Running after me doesn't sound as pretty as us dancing together forever.” He asks twisting you fingers with his.

“I don't think I'd have a choice not wanting to dance with you would be like not wanting to breathe.”

He sighs dramatically. “Babe! How am I supposed to be okay after you say shit like that? Huh?” He laughs and shoves your shoulder playfully.

You laugh and fall over pulling him with you.

Namjoon comes by later with drinks from the cafe he knows Jimin loves and finds you both slow dancing in the middle of the empty studio.

You both pull him in between you and continue to sway back and forth. It's sweet and romantic and your drinks go cold before any of you are ready to let go of each other.

Your latest album was amazing and you're about to go on tour and you're nervous to be away from your guys for so long cause last time you went on tour you weren’t as famous and such didn't go to different countries to perform.

You're gonna miss them terribly and they miss you twice as bad and they definitely bawl their eyes out when your tour bus is out of sight.

They tried really hard to keep up the smiles for you cause you deserve the success and the recognition without guilt or reservations but wow the house is so quiet without your absent-minded humming and strumming and no knew pieces of paper with potential lyrics scattered around the countertops.

You all keep in touch of course- face-timing at least once a day with both or either of them and you ask them not to watch any recorded performances cause you don't want them to spoil it for when you come back and do your final home concert.

Your reason being: you left two songs off the album you wanted to perform on tour.

So now it's your last concert before you get to sleep in the same bed as your loves again, they arrive early but you're still too busy with sound check and your drummer having boyfriend problems to get more than a hug and kiss to each of them.

They don't mind though they know how concerts are for you. You love them- you get to give your fans a bit of your soul and they all give a bit right back.

They meander through the crowd towards the front not too close though. Your manager tried to get them to stay backstage but they both wanted to get the full experience since they did as promised and had steered clear of any footage of the concert.

When you walk out everyone lights up and the energy in the whole concert hall shifts.

You smile so bright and they're close enough they can see the surprise on your face when you look down into the crowd and see them. Your eyes soften and get a little misty but ever the professional you trudge on.

Song after song you work the crowd into the comfort of your melodies and words have people screaming, crying and eating out of the palm of your hand so easily.

You get to the end of your set, Namjoon and Jimin know- you'd asked them for help when planning the show. They knew which songs you were gonna sing and when but it didn't occur to them it seemed just a bit short until now when you're clearly your throat and asking for the house lights to be brought up just a bit.

“The next two songs are love songs, I would sing about political injustice and grieving a metaphorical loss all day if I could-” the crowd hoots a few times with their chuckles and Namjoon and Jimin feel surprised grins growing on their faces.

“but I'm just too in love to not write a song or two.”

You strum a tune he’s only slightly familiar with, its something he’s heard you tweak for the past year or so.

“The lyrics of this one are a bit odd and terribly specific to a certain person so bare with me.”

The auditorium murmurs a laugh again knowing your lyrics more often than not are.

“I had a thought, dear, however scary

About that night, The bugs and the dirt

Why were you digging?

What did you bury, before those hands pulled me from the earth?

I will not ask you where you came from

I will not ask you, neither should you

Honey just put your sweet lips on my lips

We should just kiss like real people do”

The piano sounds and the haunting harmony from your back up singers makes Namjoon’s heart race.

He knows what you're singing about, Jimin knows too he might not get it as well as Namjoon does right now- some of the things Joon talks about are just slightly too icky for him- but he does know that if he could dance about Joon’s brain he would.

He smiles when Namjoon's hand squeezes his, his eyes unable to look away from you and the little story being told between you two right now.

“I knew that look dear, eyes always seeking

Was there in someone, that dug long ago

So I will not ask you, why you were creeping

In some sad way I already know

I will not ask you where you came from

I will not ask you and neither would you

Honey just put your sweet lips on my lips

We should just kiss like real people do”

Noli timere Namjoon hears the words being dragged and stretched in your vocals and his heart clenches.

“I could not ask you where you came from

I could not ask you, neither could you

Honey just put your sweet lips on my lips

We could just kiss like real people do”

Your voice tapers off and the strums slow as you open your eyes and hold his gaze meaningfully.

Namjoon is left feeling like he's floating.

You wrote a song about something he cares about, you wrote him a song about one of his favorite things even if it is a very creepy weird thing.

You took all the thoughts he poured into your ears and made it something people could love just a little bit easier. He almost thought he couldn't love you more than he already did.

“This next one might be a bit less niche but if you've ever seen your lover dance you would know exactly what its about.”

The heavy dip of bass vibrates their feet and a resounding clap comes to fill the air as the surprise and tears come his eyes.

“I still watch you when you're groovin'

As if through water from the bottom of a pool

You're movin' without movin'

And when you move, I'm moved”

Jimin’s hand comes to his mouth and you smile mischievously into your mic.

“You are a call to motion

There, all of you a verb in perfect view

Like Jonah on the ocean

When you move, I'm moved

When you move I'm put to mind of all that I wanna be

When you move I could never define all that you are to me”

You look directly at him making sure he knows this is his song.

“So move me, baby

Shake like the bough of a willow tree

You do it naturally

Move me, baby

You are the rite of movement

Its reasonin' made lucid and cool

I know it's no improvement

When you move, I move”

Jimin laughs wetly at your joke. You’re wrong- he thinks- your body is absolutely and improvement of any situation.

“You're less Polunin leapin'

Or Fred Astaire in sequence

Honey, you, you're Atlas in his sleepin'

And when you move, I'm moved

When you move I can recall somethin' that's gone from me

When you move, Honey, I'm put in awe of somethin' so flawed and free

So move me, baby

Shake like the bough of a willow tree

You do it naturally, move me, baby

So move me, baby, Like you've nothin' left to prove

And nothin' to lose, move me, baby

Ooh, ooh, ooh

Oh baby, oh baby

Move like grey skies

Move like a bird of paradise

Move like an odd sight come out at night”

The sudden crash of the band coming together to put music to your declaration makes goosebumps rise on Jimin's skin, Namjoon looks between you both and his heart melts softly in his chest. Just the admiration between you both enough to make him fall all over again.

“Move me, baby

Shake like the bough of a willow tree

You do it naturally, move me, baby

So move me, baby

Like you've nothin' left to lose

And nothin' to prove, move me, baby

So move me, baby

Shake like the bough of a willow tree

You do it naturally, move me, baby”

The calls and hums of you and your back up singers echo quietly before applause assaults their ears, the cheering nothing short of deafening.

You bow and wave backing away from the mic for a few moments- taking in the last show you'll be doing for a while- before walking off stage.

Namjoon knows he should be pulling Jimin with him towards backstage so they can smother you with love properly but hey can't move Jimin has tears streaming down his face and Namjoon is too awestruck about you remembering him going on about the last words of a poet who had written about the bog bodies and how you always just cared so much about him and Jimin.

Eventually they do move through the leaving crowd towards security, the guards already aware of their faces escort them.

They knock on the green room door with your name next to it.

It swings open so quickly they flinch back and the woman barreling into their arms throws them back at least a foot.

“I missed you so much” you all but sob into their chests. Clinging tightly to their shirts.

They share a look over your head all too endeared with your clinginess having missed it terribly for the past months.

“We missed you too angel.” Jimin sighs into your hair, much closer to your head than Namjoon.

Namjoon hums in agreement then sniffles making you both turn your faces up to look at him, Namjoon crying was a really rare thing well maybe in comparison with you and Jimin who will cry at an emotionally manipulative commercial without hesitation.

You're both slightly shocked to see tear tracks on his adorably reddened face and him struggling to control his breathing.

“Ooh Joonie.” You coo then pull them both into the green room and start wiping at his cheeks. He sniffles again and it's absolutely precious.

“Y-you sang about b-bog bodies!” He sobs hauling you off your feet pushing the air out of your lungs.

Jimin laughs and sniffs wiping at his now wet face too.

“You guys liked them? They weren’t corny?” You wheeze as he sets you back down between them.

“Are you kidding?! You referenced Sergei Polunin, that's so corny, babe.” Jimin pets your cheek and kisses it tenderly. “Of course we loved them.”

“I'm gonna put my song in my thesis, its gonna open a whole flood gate for the romanticism of them.'' Namjoon says, mostly to himself, still shaky with tears.

Jimin pulls you both in for another hug and in a similar state to Namjoon says, “I’m gonna choreograph both of our songs. I’m dropping all my projects for it- right now.”

You laugh and shake your head before pulling back to take them both in again still not over how long it’d been since you got hold them.

“You wanna go somewhere? Get a welcome home drink or meal or candle or something?” Jimin asks, putting your hair back into place as best he can.

“That diner with the shakes on 5th is probably still open-” Namjoon starts but you shake your head.

“Can we just go home? I missed you so much.” They both nod with the softest smiles and each grip a hand.

Your tour bus dropped off most of your stuff at home earlier that day so Namjoon just takes your backpack and Jimin pulls your guitar over his shoulder. But not before asking with a smirk-

“Did you say Fred Astaire in sequins?”

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Thank you for reading <3 Please like and reblog if you enjoyed reading this! It’ll lets me know if I should write more or not

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waveridden · 6 years

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FIC: the neon limelight

The story behind Neoscum is like something out of a movie. (Or, a day in the life of a rock band. 3.5k, gen)

AUcember || read on Ao3

In the front of Xanadu, the infamous semi-truck-turned-tour-bus, there is a letterboard hanging precariously from the top of the cabin. It’s a smaller version of the kind that you’ll see outside movie theaters and churches, the kind that would light up if it were plugged in. This board isn’t plugged in, and it’s held in place with a combination of nails and duct tape. The message is changed once a week, by a different member every time. This week, the letterboard reads in mismatched letters, “BALLS 2 THA WALL TILL U FALL.”

The letterboard is one of the many personal touches in Neoscum’s infamous tour truck. There’s a futon bolted to the wall, a bunk bed, a crow’s nest-style hammock, and entirely white leather seats. There are also Polaroids taped to the wall, which bassist Pox tells me are mostly her work. There are five or six for every stop on their tour so far, and every stop on all of their tours. All in all, the four walls of Xanadu are cluttered.

This kind of clutter wouldn’t be a surprise to any Neoscum fans - at least, not any fans who have seen the band’s social media. “They know we’re dirty,” says Pox, with an exaggerated wink. “If they follow us on Instagram, they know we’re dirty.”

“They know we don’t always do laundry,” adds Zenith, the band’s drummer. “They know a lot about us. We don’t have a great concept of TMI.”

“Or just a low threshold,” Pox says. “We’re comfortable with people seeing our true selves. If that means posting pictures of Zenith’s dirty laundry on Snapchat, then that’s what that means today.”

The band’s social media presence is a lot like the interior of Xanadu: a little cryptic, a little eclectic, incomprehensible until you look closely enough to see the pattern. Six days before the release of their fourth album Neon Americana, a fan discovered that the fourth word in each installment of the band’s Snapchat story from the last month spelled out the tracklist. It’s not clear which of the band’s members masterminded this long con, and none of them own up when asked. It’s this kind of mystery that defines Neoscum: flawless execution, but for no clearly comprehensible reason.

“Of course there’s a reason,” Pox says, when I ask her about the Snapchat story. “It’s not about who did it, it’s not about the tracklist. It’s about having fun and making people pay attention. Haven’t you ever wanted someone to pay attention to you?”

The story behind Neoscum is like something out of a movie. Lead singer Dak Rambo was making a name for himself with country music, but he was small-time at best. Squirt Purpler, more commonly known by his stage name of Tech Wizard, was playing the keyboards in a live band on a Chicago stand-up comedy showcase. The two of them met and started recording independent experimental music. Before long, they reunited with Rambo’s old friend Zenith, a drummer from the Seattle punk scene, and met Pox, a bassist and songwriter who was shadow-writing pop hits. With the addition of Max Epstein, a folk guitarist making waves online, Neoscum was complete.

The musical tastes of Neoscum, much like the rest of the band, work despite having every reason not to. “You can go to twelve different record stores, and they’ll all have us sorted differently,” says Purpler. “I think it’s great. We’ve got a little bit of everything, we’re all over the place. Who needs to only be one thing?”

Neoscum’s first album, Death Race, charted as a metal album, a rock album, and an indie album. Their second album, ratcandy, landed firmly on the pop charts, and their third album Time To Kill A Dragon was a country album. With the release of Neon Americana, Neoscum have cemented themselves as both everything and nothing: the album was a blend of techno, R&B, and every other genre that the band had ever worked with. The album is more than two hours long, and tells the story of a road trip from coast to coast. Tracks blend seamlessly from one genre to the next, creating the image of a chaotic, cohesive nation. It received universal acclaim after its release.

“The album was Pox’s idea,” Zenith says. Pox is the one foreign member of the band, a transplant from across the pond. She’s infamously secretive with her personal life; the closest anyone has found to a hint about who she used to be is an online demo of a song dedicated to someone named Pandora. “The first tour we did, the one after Dragon came out, was the first time she’d ever seen most of the country. It was completely new to her, and I think she was enchanted by it.”

Pox is not the group’s only songwriter, but she is the mastermind behind album concepts. The whole group credits her with the idea for Neon Americana. There are rumors that she had a meticulous journal, keeping notes about every city she stopped in; there are rumors that she wrote the entire album on the tour. Pox doesn’t confirm or deny any of them, either publicly or when asked. Instead, she insists that the album is a collaboration, a meeting of the minds.

The one thing she does take credit for is the idea behind the tour. “I saw all the big cities last time,” she explains, twirling a lollipop between her fingers. Xanadu is in the middle of Kansas, between tour stops, and Pox is dipping into her secret sugar stash. I have to close my eyes whenever she wants candy, because I’m not allowed to see where she keeps it. “We went to New York, Los Angeles, Chicago, all the places that everyone stops. And I wrote songs about them, we all wrote songs about them. But there’s only so much of a picture that the big cities paint. So when we started planning our second tour, I said that I wanted to see smaller towns. I want to go the places that nobody else goes.”

The tour, formally titled “The Small Town Neon Americana Neoscum Second Tour Extravaganza Party” and colloquially called “the second tour”, is entirely focused on small cities and small towns. There are no stops in New York, or in Los Angeles, or in Chicago. The biggest city that Neoscum is visiting will be Rochester, Minnesota. The venues are small, and the crowds are all enthusiastic. I’m joining them for two shows in Kansas, in towns that have never had big names perform before.

The band is all enthusiastic about the concept behind the tour, all for different reasons. “I never got to go to big concerts when I was a kid,” Purpler explains. “I lived just far enough outside of all the major cities that it was too far to drive for anything less than an emergency or a once-in-a-lifetime thing, so I never saw any bands growing up. It means a lot to me that we get to give some small town kids that performance.”

For other members, it’s less personal: Rambo says, “I like driving. Anything that gets us driving is good. Those real small town ones, the ones where the pavement hasn’t been touched since 1984 and the grass looks like it’s going to crack if you touch it? That’s the good shit, baby. We’re seeing a lot of those lately, and I am loving it. Everything’s tiny, it’s the way this country is supposed to be, you know? It’s just us and those kids who get to see a cool band.”

And for Epstein, the quietest of the band? “There’s less stage fright in a bar than in a stadium.”

The band’s first stop is in Josephine, Kansas, and they immediately start in on a whirlwind series of pre-show rituals. Rambo drives Xanadu to the outskirts of the town, to a sign that says the town’s population, and they all pile out of the truck to take a five-man selfie next to the sign. Once they’re inside city limits, Zenith starts playing ABBA - not on the truck’s high quality sound system, but on his phone’s speaker. He doesn’t stop until they pull up outside their venue: an outdoor amphitheater for an afternoon show. Epstein recites a poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Pox opens the door with her left hand and her eyes closed, and the band all take the amphitheater by storm.

They’re ruthlessly fast in their setup: Purpler talks to the venue coordinator while the rest of the crew makes sure everything is to their standards. Zenith and Epstein manage the band’s tech setup as Rambo and Pox manage the equipment. From start to finish, it takes them under thirty minutes to have everything in perfect shape.

“We don’t fuck around with these things,” Zenith says. He’s nearly as cryptic about where he came from as Pox is, but he at least has a traceable career. He has no last name to speak of, and he has never explained why he’s missing an eye. But he’s competent, both as a drummer and as the band’s self-proclaimed tech guy, and he has a reputation for being mysterious. “We’re here to do a show, we’re going to make sure it’s perfect. It’s not like it’s hard to be prepared, to get things done the way they’re supposed to be done.”

The amphitheater in Josephine is packed, not just with locals but from people in surrounding towns. There are teenagers and middle-aged men and elderly women, all sporting Neoscum merch. All of them are buzzing, talking about songs that they hope to hear and things that they hope to see. Neoscum is notoriously flashy with their concerts. It’s not unusual to see pyrotechnics, or costume changes, or people swapping instruments. One tour video, which went viral, showed Pox attempting to play Zenith’s drums with her feet in the middle of a show.

“We don’t plan anything for our actual shows,” Epstein tells me, five minutes before the curtains go up. “We have a set list, and we normally play all the same songs off of it, but if something seems unplanned, that’s because it probably is. None of us like playing by the rules, or doing things the same way every time. Not even me.”

Epstein is known for being the most relaxed of the band’s members. He’s the least likely to try and haggle with grocery store clerks (as Pox has done), share obscure knowledge of advanced physics (Zenith), get stuck on top of a telephone pole after a dare (Purpler), or win a blackjack jackpot (Rambo, Epstein’s maternal uncle). He’s the least spotlight-happy of all of them.

He’s also the most forthcoming about his personal life. Epstein graduated in the top quarter of his high school last and joined Neoscum not long afterwards. He has a sister, seven years younger, who recently received a kidney transplant. He says that his biggest inspirations are Bob Dylan and Yo-Yo Ma, and his uncle Dak. He’s the most likely of the band to be singing, humming, or playing his instrument in his spare time. He’s the mediator of debates and the filmer of shenanigans. He has a prosthetic left arm and right leg, and he refuses to let anyone call him “the disabled one” in the band.

Epstein says that his reputation as “the boring one” doesn’t bother him; if anything, it’s a relief. “Those guys are my family,” he says, echoing a sentiment that the whole band has shared at one point or another. “But they’re all kind of fucking crazy. I don’t want to be in the news for even the less weird things that they do. Except for that time Z got to be in the news for knowing thermonuclear physics, that was pretty cool.”

Sixty seconds before the curtains go up, Rambo goes around the band. He gives Pox a warm hug, Epstein a kiss on the left cheek, Zenith a kiss on the forehead, and Purpler a kiss on the right cheek. He looks at me and winks, and says something I can’t quite make out over the cheering crowd outside. I’ve only known Rambo for two hours, but I already understand the charismatic rock star allure that everyone claims he has. He seems more at ease on stage than he does off, and when the curtains rise, he shouts, “What the fuck is up, Kansas?”

Kansas lets him know what the fuck is up. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen a man not even remotely cowed by thousands of people screaming at him.

There is a list of rules in Xanadu, taped up next to the letterboard. “It’s for you,” Purpler explained, not long after I boarded the truck. “And for everyone who visits us, but it’s mostly for you right now.”

The rules are simple. Feet on seats are fine, but shoes on seats are not. Dropping food is okay as long as you clean it up. You never challenge someone to a fight if you wouldn’t actually fight them. You don’t talk about Lil Marco - the band’s nickname for the producer Big Marco who attempted to sue them after the release of Deathrace. You don’t say the word “Grammy,” because it’s a jinx, and nobody needs a Grammy anyways.

The list contains nearly forty rules, and I’m sworn to privacy about most of them. “Nobody needs to know the way we do things,” Rambo says. “Not really, you know? Fans get weird. Gotta keep some things a mystery.”

The last rule on the list is don’t say shit about other people’s shit in interviews. It’s obvious where the rule came from. On the drive from Josephine to Troy, I ask Rambo about the rule, and his lips thin. Rambo is a friendly, jovial man: before he was a rock star, he was a trucker, a country singer, and an unabashed sex worker. But there’s no humor on his face as he thinks through his response. “It was fucked that TMZ did what they did,” he says. “People are entitled to have secret personal histories if they want them. I don’t care that Morrows was up for reelection in Colorado, and I don’t care that they thought it would be okay. Digging up people’s stuff is - it makes it easy to forget that we’re people too. But we’re people too.”

Rambo is, of course, referring to a now-infamous exposé that TMZ published, revealing a link between Purpler and incumbent Colorado governor Fayglin Morrows. The connections aren’t especially clear, but it’s obvious that Morrows was a family friend to Purpler’s parents, who were killed in a hate crime when Purpler was four. The entire band followed their newest rule to a T, and none of them publicly discussed the article or the incident, including Purpler. Morrows went on to win reelection in Colorado, although the race was subject to a recount.

“It was hard for all of us,” says Zenith, “and by that I mean it was mostly hard for Tech, so we were all pissed. We were trying to keep him out of the limelight, trying to let him keep his past to himself.”

“I don’t think it matters where any of us are from,” says Purpler, in his only interjection into the conversation. “I know what I need to know about everything, and nobody else needs to know anything. We all know where the band’s politics stand, and we share the personal stuff that we want to.”

Neoscum is full of outspoken socialists: Epstein in particular has been vocally critical of healthcare reform policies, and the band has made a name for themselves by participating in protest marches. And nobody has to look any further than the band’s social media to see their openness about their personal life. But the band is firm when they put down boundaries. TMZ never issued an apology to Purpler, despite the influx of fan petitions and demands for one; the fans still stood by Purpler in his wish for privacy. He later thanked them for their support in a public statement, marking the first and only real time he addressed the TMZ article directly.

It’s clear from early on that the band’s “don’t say shit” rule applies while talking to me. Zenith and Pox almost form a protective barrier around Purpler with their bodies, and even Epstein comes down from his perch in the crow’s nest to watch me. They’re defensive of one another, and as soon as the conversation moves on, everyone relaxes. It’s hard to say if they do it intentionally or subconsciously, but the meaning is clear either way: they have each other’s backs, at all times.

The pre-show rituals in Troy go the same as the rituals in Josephine. This performance is the same evening, at a bar called the Electric Cowboy Lasso-Swingin’ Doogie-Wrasslin’ Party Zone Gambling Hall and Microbrewery. Rambo seems to know everyone there, from the bartender to the regulars. “That’s just Dak,” Purpler says. “He’s always like this. He has friends everywhere.”

At the Josephine concert, Purpler and Zenith switched instruments for two songs. At the Troy concert, everyone stays where they’re supposed to until the second-to-last song, when Pox takes Max’s acoustic guitar and sits in the center of the stage to sing an acoustic ballad. It’s not a good fit for the trucker bar, but they’re all rapt and silent as she sings, and a fan’s video of the performance went viral the following day. (Eagle-eyed fans noticed that this was the song that she dedicated to the mysterious Pandora, but Pox hasn’t commented, and neither has the rest of the band.)

The most interesting part of the show comes afterwards. Strike happens in a neat fifteen-minute timeframe, and then the band is in the bar, drinking and laughing with the rest of the patrons. They’re patient and friendly with autographs and selfies, but before long, the fans clear out of the bar and leave only regular patrons. Rambo is introducing people by name to the band members, and before long they’re all piled into a corner booth, talking over each other. They eat food off of each other’s plates and poke each other and finish each other’s sentences. It lasts for several rounds and a couple of hours. “Family dinner,” Zenith calls it at one point, and it’s exactly that.

Rambo insists on dropping me back off at my office in Lawrence, even though I’ll get there in the wee hours of the night. He doesn’t seem at all bothered by staying up all night driving. The band goes to sleep in what seem to be normal places for them: Epstein in his crow’s nest, Pox in the passenger’s seat, Tech on the bottom bunk, Zenith on the futon. Only Rambo stays awake, and he answers my questions quietly, like his voice will wake them over the noise of the truck on the road.

“It’s impossible to describe what these people mean to me,” he says, in a candid moment. “You know, this job, it’s changed all of our lives. I’m never going to have to worry about where I’m going to stay the night again. Max, he got his sister’s operation paid for. Pox and Z and Tech, they all have opportunities to figure things out that they couldn’t have had two or three years ago. And we’re paying that forward. We’re doing these shows in little towns, it’s fucking great. Have you ever been to a small town? Some of them are awful, but some of them are just full of people who wanna be happy. And we make them happy.”

We reach Wichita at four in the morning. Rambo lets me out the back gate of the truck and tells me I’m always welcome back, as long as I’m not a dick to his people. For the next three days, I receive random texts from him: pictures of the band, videos from venues, and misspelled rough drafts of tweets that he wants me to correct. They taper off, and I’m left following along with the band through the news and through Twitter, just like the rest of the world.

My single day with Xanadu feels like a dream, an illusion of Polaroids and jokes that I only half-remember. I can’t help but wonder if that was intentional. I caught a glimpse of Neoscum as people, a fleeting glimpse that falls second to the truth that they project to the rest of the world. And then I, like the rest of the world, am paying attention to them. Just like they want me to.

Argus Armstrongman is an independent contributor to Lone Star Publications. You can follow him on Twitter @argus_asm or read more of his contributions here.

#neoscum #neoscum fic #waveridden.fic #aucember18 #this is one of my favorites #thank you tam for helping me not write a journalistic nightmare! i hope!

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