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feralwritings · 23 days

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dissonance

part two

word count: 5.2k

part one | masterpost

tag list: @cam-peggio

There are several things about this tour that are daunting.

First, the fact that it's exclusively an arena tour.

Steve Harrington isn’t a small act. His music, the folksy sorta rock that he’s a master at, is a genre that is growing ever popular. His songs are raw, his midwest twang disappearing in the low rasp of his baritone. He’s popular, at the height of his career, with an exceedingly bright future ahead. Being on the same bill as him is a very, very good thing.

It’s still a little scary, though.

Daisy Chain isn’t a young band - they’ve been together since they were teenagers, over a decade ago, but were only actually signed a few years ago. They’d released two independent EPs, two signed albums and were currently in the process of writing a third. Arena shows hadn’t been on the books yet, and Reader had grown comfortable on smaller festival stages and mid-sized venues. The looming prospect of the audience growing, even if they weren’t necessarily there for them is daunting. That, and the fact that UDR had consistently reminded them since they signed on for the tour that this was their very last chance.

All of these thoughts roll around in her mind as she does her last minute packing, running through her house to make sure that she has absolutely everything before the shuttle gets here.

Their first show is at the Forum, which in and of itself was insane. She’d been to this venue tons of times as a concertgoer, either in the nosebleeds or in the pit, had even been to a Corroded Coffin show here before the podcast had aired. She hates to admit it but their showmanship was pretty impressive. Still, it was a hundred dollars that she regrets spending.

It wasn’t as though she’d been a fan, she’d known of them, several of their songs sat comfy in her Spotify for a few years, even before being signed to the same label.

They’d never officially met, either, and the first time that either of them were on the others lips was during that podcast.

She physically shakes that thought from her head. She’s moved on, mostly, hoping that something like that would never happen again.

She doesn’t feel unsafe, necessarily. She knows that her girls have her back, and she knows that each of them would probably kill for her, if the circumstances were right.

Steve, for his part, has an impeccable reputation, is famous for donating ludicrous amounts of money to various causes, has been spotted at various marches, not overtly political but keeping acceptance and the fight for equality at the forefront of his activism. It wasn’t performative either, consistent in his humility about it all, shaking off praise when interviewers and journalists showered him in it. Reader just had a feeling about him, a solid sort of trust that she knew wasn’t going to be broken.

She’s got the last of her picks packed into their little bag when the doorbell rings, and she jogs to open it.

And there Eddie is, muscle tee and skinny jeans in the LA sun, sunglasses perched on his nose, hair tied up to keep it off his neck.

“Hi,” he says, sliding his sunglasses on top of his head, smiling, “You ready to go?”

Reader gathers herself quickly, nodding, “Yeah, everything’s packed.”

“Good,” Eddie nods, “You need any help getting it out of here?”

She does, but doesn’t want to ask for it, doesn’t even want to accept it, but her stubbornness gives way under the prospect of lugging her Pelican case down the stairs by herself. She can do it, but she would rather have some energy left for the show tonight.

She steps to the side, allowing him to saunter into her home. He takes it all in, eyes wandering over the various decorations. His eyes land first on her record wall, and he grins, approaching it.

“You got some good stuff here,” he says, thumbing the sleeve of the Metallica vinyl affectionately.

“Thanks,” she grunts, already heaving a stuffed backpack over her shoulder, securing it before bending to pick up her amp.

Eddie turns, before rushing over to grab her amp from her, before slinging a duffel over his shoulder.

Together, they load her gear into the back of the shuttle, along with everyone else’s. It takes a couple trips, and she trudges back up the walkway to lock her door.

She looks in on her home, feeling a little pang of sadness, not knowing who she’ll be when she returns.

She closes the door and locks it, jogging down the walkway to climb into the shuttle. The rest of her band is there, packed onto one side of the aisle, the Corroded Coffin boys on the other.

“Hi!” Chrissy says, reaching across Robin and Nancy to squeeze Reader’s hand, “Are you excited?”

Despite everything, she is excited. Playing at the Forum had always been a dream, a goal of hers and tonight, that dream is going to be realized.

She nods, smiling warmly at Chrissy, “Yeah, I am. It’s gonna be awesome.”

They dissolve into conversation, recounting various shows that they had seen at the Forum, about how someone had been dropped on Chrissy’s head while crowd surfing and she had to be in a neck brace for a week and a half.

They drive for a little while longer, finally arriving at the Forum with more than enough time to spare. Soundcheck isn’t for another couple hours, and the show isn’t until this evening. A lot of hurry up and wait occurs when you’re a musician, and it's those quiet moments that Reader likes a lot - hanging with the bands and reveling in the mutual anxiety and thrill of having been given a chance to do what they love.

The whole time, though, on the shuttle and when they arrive, disembarking from the vehicle, Reader can feel Eddie’s eyes on her. It’s not oppressive, more annoying, and when a bunch of burly men come to unload their gear for them, Reader watches in vague interest, and Eddie watches her.

They haven’t met Steve in person yet, only talked to him briefly on the phone, so when a loud voice echoes throughout the parking garage, followed by several cries of greeting, Reader turns to see Robin, Nancy and Chrissy embracing Steve one by one.

He’s dressed casually, in a white t-shirt and jeans and a pair of Timberlands, a baseball cap sitting backwards on his head. His hair is unstyled, freshly washed, curling around his ears. When Reader and Eddie approach the little group, Steve folds her into a hug that smells like expensive cologne and a hint of lemon. She covertly inhales, making a mental note to ask him what cologne he wears, and steps back to look up into his face.

”Hi,” Steve greets, “It’s so nice to finally meet you.”

”Likewise,” Reader grins.

”Eddie!” Steve exclaims, having just spotted him, “Hey, man!”

They hug, in that macho weird way that men do, and together, the little group heads into the venue.

Even from the back end, it’s magnificent. They walk past the artist wall, names of every artist who’s ever performed there emblazoned in white, and Reader runs a finger across some of her favorites.

When they get to the auditorium itself, that’s when it really starts to set in. Rows after rows after rows of red seats line the wall, the section just in front of the stage has been cleared out, the barricades already set up. Lighting technicians are running various configurations, so the whole place is alight with different colors, making it all feel almost dreamlike.

In the quiet, with the soft conversations of the group around her, Reader takes it in. It’s not a perfect circumstance, by any means, there’s the possibility of losing their label hanging over her head, and the fact that she’s about to spend six long months in tandem with the band, and by extension, the man that almost ruined everything, and thus far, hasn’t made any move to make it better is pressing in on her brain.

At the end of the day, it was a stupid, throwaway comment, but the hypervigilance born from being a female in the music industry is barbed, and so she has a hard time letting certain things go. Yeah, some shit comes with the territory, but most of the time it’s never expected that you see or talk to them ever again, but here she is, forced to tour with him, pressure coming in from all sides.

But here, now, it feels a little bit better. The stage glistens as she looks at it, almost warm, and inviting, and she can picture their band up there, doing what they do best, and the knot in her chest eases a little.

Even so, Eddie hasn’t done anything openly malicious yet, and part of her doubts he will.

The other part, though…

***

Sound check goes well, and soon, early birds are lining up outside, and the tension rises. They’re really doing this, they’re really performing here, at the Forum, and within the next few hours, Daisy Chain is going to have eighteen thousand pairs of eyes on them. Give or take.

Their green room has gone quiet as they get ready to perform, almost silently applying makeup and fixing their hair and outfits. It gets like this, sometimes, before a particularly important event. She knows her bandmates well. Nancy is analyzing all the ways it can go wrong and coming up with plans to counteract it. Robin is checking her pulse every few minutes, Chrissy is rolling her chair side to side as she curls her hair, leg jiggling as she bounces it.

Reader’s well… she’s doing her normal routine, convincing herself that she actually deserves to be here, that she can actually sing and play guitar well enough, that this isn’t a colossal waste of time and money, and that it’s actually okay that she didn’t finish college.

When the five minute call comes through the intercom, they all look at one another.

They do their pre-show handshake, linking pinkies as they head down the hall towards the stage.

”Break a leg!” Someone shouts behind them, but by the time she turns to look, they’re already backstage, and she’s having her guitar slung around her neck by Danny, their guitar tech.

”Thanks.” She chokes out, adjusting the strap so it’s a little looser, and she looks into his face as he smiles up at her, gleeful in his support.

”Good luck, you guys are gonna do awesome!” And with that, he’s darting away to help Nancy, and Reader is left to take her position in front of the microphone, staring at the white, billowing sheet that covers the stage from the view of the audience.

She glances down, spying the set list that is taped in front of her mic, ten songs in all. A shorter setlist than Corroded Coffins, a much shorter setlist than Steve’s. They’re opening for the opener, who’s opening for the headliner, and the bottom of the food chain feels a bit cold.

Robin’s stick’s clack together in the air four times, and on the fourth hit the sheet drops, the lights go up, and they start playing.

Muscle memory takes over entirely, which Reader is grateful for. She hits her notes, doesn’t miss chords on her guitar and engages with the crowd. By the end of their third song, she’s out of breath and thirsty, so she skips over to her water bottle and takes a long swig, before turning to the crowd.

”Holy shit,” she says, rather earnestly into the microphone, and the crowd cheers and laughs at her stunned expression, “I mean, holy shit. This is crazy. Hi!”

There’s a dull roar of greeting from the crowd, and she laughs before introducing their next song.

The rest of the setlist goes by easily, and it’s some of the most fun that she’s had on stage in a while, and she remembers, from the top of her head to the tips of her toes that this is what she was meant to do. There really isn’t anything else out there for her to be doing, nothing that would ever come close to feeling like this.

Once their set is done, and they’re taking their bows before heading off stage, she catches a glimpse of Eddie, watching from the wings. He’s got his arms crossed, a calculating, somewhat sour expression on his face as he takes her, the band, and the crowd in. The cheers are loud, so loud that she can hear them past the barrier of her in-ears, so Eddie’s disdain, whatever the cause may be, doesn’t stick much. Not that it should, his opinion, his approval, is not something that she’s intent on getting.

She gives him a glowing smile as she passes, feeling cheeky and bubbly from the reception that they got, and after changing into some comfier clothes, the girls go into the VIP section to watch Corroded Coffin, and eventually Steve.

The VIP section is off to the left of the stage, not so much a tent and more of a room with walls of curtain on three sides. There’s a little tinge in Reader’s chest about this, feeling a bit boxed in, but the view from behind the section isn’t impeded, so she can’t really feel too bad. There’s snacks and water bottles, comfy enough chairs that she can curl up on.

The space in between the end of Daisy Chain’s set and the beginning of Corroded Coffin’s is filled with a rather genre heavy pre-show playlist, droves of people moving out into the main venue to use the bathroom, peruse the concessions and merch tables. As Corroded Coffin’s set dwindles closer, people begin to file back in, and soon, the boys are walking out to raucous applause.

They’re flamboyant in their acceptance of the praise, taking exaggerated bows and playing right along with the crowd. As Reader watches, Eddie bends to grasp some of the hands of the girls at the barricade, and the resulting screams of joy, horniness, shock or a combination of all three reverberate through the venue as they kick up into playing their first song.

Heavy metal rattles through the walls of the venue, amelodic and loud. It’s not that she doesn’t like metal, she loves it, but there’s a petty little grudge still lodged in her chest, which makes it easy to find things wrong with their music in particular.

Eddie spends a lot of time peacocking, leaving Gareth to pick up the slack in terms of the guitar playing. The rhythm section of the songs stays neglected throughout their whole set, and the resulting music sounds a bit thin, lacking. That’s not to say he’s not talented - when he’s actually singing and playing, the music takes on a whole new feeling, thicker, more robust, deeper, and during a few songs Reader finds herself bobbing along to the beat.

Eddie’s eyes catch hers a few times. He veers to the left side of the stage a bit more than the right, and there’s a distant, nagging sort of feeling that his exuberance on stage is targeted. By the fourth time he tries to catch her eye, she’s on her phone, unaware of the effect it takes on him, and near the end of their set, he neglects the left side of the stage entirely.

After the hour and fifteen is up, they take their bows and adoration and trudge off stage, and within the next half hour, they’re joining Daisy Chain and various managers and publicists and Steve’s team in the VIP section.

“Enjoy the show?” Eddie asks Reader, plopping down in a chair next to her.

She looks up from her phone at him, shrugging, “Yeah, it was cool. Christ, you’re sweaty.”

She doesn’t really mean to say it, but doesn’t quite feel like taking it back, and Eddie simply nods, slumping back in his chair as he waits for Steve to come on stage.

She’s tired, hungry, and is seriously considering going back to her green room. It’s not like she needs to be here, but she wants to be, to support Steve and finally see a show of his in person, as tickets got snatched up within hours of going on sale. There’s nothing contractually rooting her to the spot, keeping her ass in this chair, but she stays all the same. The building excitement from the crowd is almost palpable, coming out in waves as Steve’s time slot looms ever closer, and within the last five minutes before his set, people are chanting his name, stomping their feet, and Reader can’t help the grin that’s stretching across her face as she stands from her chair and approaches their little barricade, leaning against it.

Nancy, Robin and Chrissy are soon to follow, and by the time the lights go out and Steve’s intro starts, their cheers are lost in that of the crowd, newfound energy coursing through her as Steve steps on stage, his acoustic slung lovingly around his neck as he sings out the first few notes of one of his most popular songs.

Reader knows it, because of course she does, and she finds herself singing along to nearly every lyric that Steve has, completely enamored. She knew he was talented, but witnessing it in person is something else entirely. There’s a grit that accompanies his voice that wakes something deep in her chest, and during one of the ballads she actually finds herself with a lump in her throat and unshed tears in her eyes.

She’s so taken by him, by the performance itself and by his sheer charisma that she doesn’t notice that there is something a tiny bit off.

About halfway through his set, he’s talking to the crowd when his drummer starts to play the first few beats of a song, but Steve is still talking. When the rest of his band joins in, guitar, bass, he looks at them, momentarily confused before he recovers. Thankfully, the song has a long enough intro that it’s not noticeable that he was off beat for the first few lyrics, and the crowd doesn’t seem to notice, and if they do they don’t care.

By the end of it, the flub is forgotten and Steve is strumming out the final chords to the final song with a flourish, and the lights dance all around the crowd as the finale courses through the venue, loud and exciting and enthusiastic and a little sad, the way all finales are.

The show is done, the crowd files out, and the performers file backstage, tired but satisfied as they start to pack up.

“Steve!” Reader exclaims, running over to give him a hug, “That was amazing, god, that ballad?”

Steve flushes, “You guys were incredible, too. That was crazy when Chrissy did the splits.”

“Thank you!” Chrissy giggles, looking up from winding a cord around her arm, “You really were incredible, Steve, this tour is going to be so fun.”

And maybe it was. Just maybe.

***

Los Angeles disappeared in the rearview as they headed to San Diego.

The tour buses, courtesy of Steve, were nothing short of opulent. Only a few years old, their granite countertops still gleamed, the full kitchen still sparkled, the cushy leather seats were still whole and plush, the shower large enough to accommodate two people (which Nancy and Robin had shared meaningful looks about) and generally, space and comfort that they weren’t used to.

Their first bus had narrowly survived the 80s. Old, threadbare carpet crunched slightly whenever they walked on it, one of the bunks was on the verge of collapse and therefore couldn’t be occupied by anyone, and the kitchen area had been painted this nauseating shade of yellow that gave everyone a headache if they stayed in there too long. All of this accompanied with the smell of stale cigarettes and cat litter had leant itself to a bizarre, begrudging fondness on the girl's part. They had named her Eunice, and a few years ago, she’d gone to the big long road in the sky due to an engine failure, and after finding out the engine she had been fitted with had been rendered completely obsolete by the passage of time, the girls were forced to let her go.

This was quite the upgrade, and as Reader sat at the kitchen table, watching the glittering ocean pass her by, she felt quite content.

Their two shows in LA had gone off without a hitch. A week in LA after a couple shows like that, they’d been stopped a couple times on the street, signed a couple phone cases and took a few pictures that had cropped up on social media to a generally positive, exciting response.

Daisy Chain’s instagram had been steadily gaining followers since Steve posted a candid of the girls on stage, and Reader hadn’t heard much talk from their label, so something had to be going right, for once.

After San Diego, they would head to Arizona, bump around in the west for a little bit before heading north, meander down the midwest before skating along the southern states, dipping their toes into Florida beaches before heading northeast, ultimately ending on the east coast, in New York.

Twenty-six cities. Fifty-two shows, if weather and various circumstances permit. More cities than Reader’s ever been in, having stuck close to the west for the majority of her career.

She’s been to New York, only once, and is eager to visit it again, even if it is for work. She’s excited to see all the different people from all different walks of life, congregating together on this tour. She hopes that their growth, if there is to be any, gets UDR off of their backs for good.

And she hopes, above all else, that they prove they're worth it.

***

San Diego

Gareth hasn’t moved in like, ten minutes.

A little concerned, Eddie sets his guitar in it’s case and walks over to him.

“Hey, man,” he bumps his shoulder, “You okay?”

Gareth doesn’t appear to hear him, his gaze fixed and his jaw slack as he stares at -

Chrissy, sat cross legged on the stage as she changes the strings on her guitar, Daisy Chain rehearsal bustling around her.

“Gareth,” Edde snaps his fingers in front of Gareth’s face, rousing him from his stupor.

“What?” He snaps, a blush sitting high on his cheeks as he realizes what he’d been doing, and even more humiliating, that he’d been caught.

“Don’t go fallin’ in love.” Eddie warns, trying and failing to keep his eyes off of Reader.

“Who said anything about love?” Gareth asks, following Eddie backstage, busying himself with a tangle of cables as he avoids Eddie’s eye.

“I guess no one did,” Eddie reasons softly, “But, still. Not a good idea.”

“So I can’t even talk to her?” Gareth bristles.

“Dude,” Eddie placates, “You can, just don’t get into something that could, I don’t know, fuck things up royally if it goes wrong, yeah? You don’t want to break her heart, or have her break yours and then have to travel across the country with her. Like, contractually.”

Gareth sighs, “She’s just so…”

“I know,” Eddie admits, “Just save it for after, okay?”

“After,” Gareth holds up quotations, “is in six months, in case you’ve forgotten.”

He hasn’t forgotten, that’s the fucking problem. He likes Steve, maybe even loves him a bit as a friend, but the fact that Reader is just so obviously into him makes Eddie stomach churn in a way that he doesn’t really understand. He shouldn’t care about what she wants, who she does or doesn’t like, but he goes a little stupid when he’s around her, and he can’t quite figure out why.

He knows that there is still open animosity between them. Knows that the podcast echoes in the distance for both of them. He doesn’t understand, entirely, what was so bad about it. When he falls into this line of thinking it devolves into two separate threads. One, being that the comment was entirely wrong and that it never should have been said, and two, that it wasn’t actually him, Eddie, that said it.

He doesn’t know if he should point this out or not. The blowjob comment was made by the host, not Eddie, even though Eddie had supplied Daisy Chain’s name, serving them up on a silver platter for criticism and mockery.

It wasn’t the first time they’d been mocked, and it wasn’t the last. Eddie had refrained from any public comment, but privately…

She was just stuck up. There’s no two ways about it. There’s a persistent fervor in which she talks about her music, her art, in a way that gets so fucking tiresome. He doesn’t really need to listen to their music to know how self righteous it probably is. Over-explanations of the songs and their meaning are common in their interviews, leaving no room for interpretation, which to Eddie, is kinda the point.

Sure, he has songs that have a very clear and concise meaning. They are about one thing, one moment, one experience and it’s not quite possible to extrapolate details that simply aren’t there. Again, he doesn’t need to listen, really listen to their music to know what kind of music it is.

He’d watched them for a couple minutes from the side of the stage, recognizing their talent, their harmony as a band but also recognizing that they’re taking themselves entirely too seriously. It’s too polished, too planned out. If they’re going to make it, they need to loosen up.

Tired of giving it so much thought, he pushes Daisy Chain, and Reader from his mind with a sigh, and bends to pick up his guitar.

***

When they leave the smoldering Arizona desert behind and roll into Phoenix, Reader’s phone rings.

“Hello?” She says into it, having not looked at the Caller ID before pressing it to her ear. This proves to be a mistake.

“Hi,” Stacy’s voice crackles on the other end of the line, and Reader goes stock still, dread rising in her stomach, “Have you been on social media at all?”

Reader shrugs, “Not really? I mean, I’ve posted photos from the last few shows but haven’t been paying too much attention. Service has been spotty anyway.”

Stacy sighs, “Well, on X, or twitter or whatever they’re calling it, I can’t keep up, there seems to be some intrigue about you and Corroded Coffin. Specifically,” Reader hears some shuffling on the other end, “There’s people wondering why you guys haven’t collaborated on a song yet.”

Reader scoffs, taking a fortifying sip of water before leaning against the counter, rolling her eyes, “Well, lets see. We don’t really know each other that well, have little to nothing in common, they’ve made it clear that we’re just a little chick band who pulls sexual favors to get ahead, and oh, I almost forgot, our record label is on the verge of dropping us, so who the fuck is going to pay for the recording sessions?”

Stacy sighs dramatically, “Don’t be dramatic. Your genres are very similar, you being a punk band and them being heavy metal, and no, I don’t want to get into the nuances of those subgenres, I don’t care, but people seem to like that you guys are touring with Steve.”

“I would certainly hope so,” Reader snaps, “Seeing as how you’ve guilt tripped us about the money that UDR and the agency has spent on this tour. What did you say? That it was high time for a return on UDR’s investment?”

“It is high time for a return on our investment, which is why I’m calling you. The social media coordinators had an idea.”

“Oh, wonderful. I simply can’t wait to hear this.”

“You’re in Phoenix right now, correct?”

“Correct.”

“And the Phoenix shows aren’t for a couple more days?”

“Right.”

“So that should be more than enough time for you to learn a Corroded Coffin song and be able to sing it, on stage, with them?”

“What? Why?”

“If we plant the idea that there could be a future collaboration between Daisy Chain and Corroded Coffin on the horizon, it could benefit both bands very well.”

“So why can’t Eddie come on stage during our set and sing one of our songs?”

“Because,” Stacy scoffs, “Not a lot of people know your songs. As I said when you were first approached about this tour, riding Corroded Coffin’s coattails is going to be very beneficial for you. I’ve already chatted with Eddie,” a blissful, needy sort of sigh follows this statement, “and he and the boys are on board. They have a song in mind, one of their older ones, I don’t know which one.”

Reader can levy a few guesses, none of which make this any easier.

“So, are you asking me or telling me?”

“Telling you. When you get to the hotel, rendezvous with Corroded Coffin and set up a rehearsal time.”

“Fine,” Reader sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose, “Is this going to be like, a regular thing? Me on stage during one of their songs?”

“Depends on how well this one goes. Think of it as a trial run. If it goes well, yeah, most likely, and if it doesn’t…well, six months is a long time. You’ll figure it out.”

“I guess I will. Talk later, Stacy.”

“Wait! I almost forgot,” Stacy exclaims, “An amendment has already been made to your contracts. The lawyers are flying out tonight and should be there by tomorrow afternoon.”

“Really? You made an amendment for one song?”

“It’s a bit more than that. Like I said, we’ll see how this goes and go from there. Okay, bye.”

The phone goes dead, and Reader is left standing there, alone in the kitchen, watching as the Phoenix skyline engulfs the bus in shadow.

Robin comes padding out to the kitchen from her bunk, still not used to the constant motion of the bus. She slips a little, catching herself on the sink before straightening up.

She catches the expressions on Reader’s face, “You good?”

Reader shrugs, “Got off the phone with Stacy. Apparently, there’s been talk on Twitter about us collaborating with Corroded Coffin.”

Robin snorts, “Like that would ever happen.”

“Well,” Reader sucks her teeth, quelling under the look that Robin gives her, “It kinda…it is happening.”

Reader explains the terms of the situation, and as she watches, Robin’s expression grows more and more dark.

“There’s something weird about this tour,” Robin admits, “It’s not anything I can really name, more of a feeling, but I just…It feels weird. Different.”

“Yeah, I get it,” Reader shrugs, pouring Robin a cup of coffee, which she promptly splatters on her pajama pants. It’s such a regular occurrence that she doesn’t even really acknowledge it, simply patting a dish towel over the stain with one hand and drinking with the other, “But it’s just one song. And maybe it’ll go terribly wrong and I won’t ever have to get on stage or interact with them again.”

“Here’s hopin’,” Robin says, clinking her coffee mug against Reader’s before she meanders back to her bunk.

#dissonance #my fic: dissonance #chunky boy #Eddie Munson x reader #bandfic #eddie munson x fem!reader #reader is used in place of name cause pronouns get confusing :(#but part two is finally here! I'm workin on this fic pinky swear #as always she is unbeta'd so if you see something funky lemme know thanks baby

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