#if you catch me mixing past and present tense no u didn't

[fletcherr]

hi ! i’m maren and i’m bad at intros ! and bios ! and things in general ! ... why am i here again ? uhm. anyway ! this is fletcher and uh ... he hates it here askdjfs like i can’t lie i’m so sorry but for the time being it’s ... lowkey the truth ? i’m writing this part of the post first so fingers crossed i manage to keep this short and to the point. if there’s no tldr it’s because this was supposed to be it. ( spoiler ; i failed. it’s so fucking long you literally do not have to read it i am so sorry. ) i’m super excited to be here and cannot wait to get to know you and your muses and be a part of this amazing group !!

THE APP !

˖ °╰ ⌜ [ MUSE TEN, ROBERT PATTINSON, 31, CIS MALE, HE/HIM ] hey, have you seen FLETCHER DUNCAN ? last time i saw them i think they were hanging around THE ROOFTOP. they can kind of be VEHEMENT but can also be pretty HAUGHTY. they’re often caught listening to SUPERSTAR SH*T - DOMINIC FIKE ! they also tend to remind me of cheap cigarettes put out in still half full glasses of rare bourbon, flipping off paparazzi, showing up to important meetings bleary-eyed and twenty minutes late, wearing sunglasses inside and black hoodies on the hottest day of summer, feeling uninspired for months then writing three albums worth of songs in two weeks ! let me know if you’ve seen them around, they’ve been working at the championship around FOUR MONTHS and they’re late for their shift !

THE BASICS !

full name: fletcher ralph duncan ( born fletcher ralph irvine )

nicknames: prefers fletcher, but is okay with fletch or duncan

date of birth: november 18th, 1989

gender: cis male

pronouns: he / him

height: 6′1

tattoos: some stupid ones without any deeper meaning to them on his arms and thighs, for sure

THE ( VERY ) IN - DEPTH ! tw for mentions of abuse of drugs and alcohol, terminal illness, hospitals, and death

after years of marriage, fletcher’s parents had him when they were both about to enter their forties, as one last, final attempt to find back to the love they’d had for each other when they started dating way back in high school. it didn’t work. his father left  when fletcher was four; leaving divorce papers on the kitchen table two weeks before christmas. him and his mother, winnie, moved from one of the suburbs to a smaller, more affordable apartment in brooklyn. they were never quite comfortable, money-wise, but they didn’t struggle either. two years after the move, his mother started seeing a guy she’d been introduced to through friends from work. fletcher adored richard from the first time they met, and as the years went by he came to consider him more of a dad than he ever did the one who left. that’s probably why he didn’t mourn when his father passed suddenly and unexpectedly the summer he turned ten. the following summer, winnie and richard married, and both her and fletcher completely rid themselves of the man who walked out on them when they both changed their last name from his to richard’s - duncan.

when richard moved in, he’d brought an electric guitar and a sparse record collection with him. these were fletcher’s first real introduction to music. he dove in head first. there’s no telling how many evenings they sat in the living room, records playing, or fletcher practicing on the guitar until he was caught up with his dad’s guitar skills. turns out, he was actually a bit of a natural. after he’d mastered his first instrument, he moved onto another. his mother - who’d been a classically trained, lifetimes ago - taught him to the best of her ability on a keyboard they got from a yard sale. he spent hours at a time in record stores. championship vinyl had always been richard’s favorite, and it wasn’t long until it was his favorite too. consuming music wasn’t enough, though. by the time he was in high school, fletcher was writing his own songs; creating his own music. of course - none of it was ever remotely up to par with the songs he kept discovering, but it didn’t matter. him and two kindred spirits he met at school formed a band, performing covers and the stuff he wrote. to afford actual gig gear - not that they ever booked many of those - fletcher applied for a part time job the only place he could think to; championship vinyl. though he'd been a regular for the better part of a decade by that time, he was still in disbelief and awe when he got the job.

fletcher thrived at championship. he took on all the shifts his schedule would allow him, and even skipped class to cover for anyone that asked. even when he was off the clock, he’d hang around. if he wasn’t flicking through new inventory or catching up with the whoever was at work, he’d be sitting on the rooftop with his guitar, a pen and a roll of receipt paper - scratching down song ideas and testing out new material. things were looking up; he was a creatively fulfilled high school senior with a job he loved, parents that supported- and loved him unconditionally, and he’d just been accepted into nyu. therefore, it rocked his world when his dad stopped by during one of his shifts, only to collapse while fletcher had his back turned to find a rare vinyl he’d set aside for him as a surprise. 

the diagnosis was a death sentence. months flew by in the blink of an eye, and he watched the only dad he’d ever truly known wither away before his eyes. weeks shy of a year to the date of the diagnosis, on the day richard duncan passed away, his son brought the old record player and the by now weathered records from the brooklyn apartment to the hospital room. he drew his last breath surrounded by the music and the family he loved.

not recently having gone through the same kind of world crumbling sorrow and the revelation about not wasting away and following your dreams that walks that’s bound to follow, his bandmates weren’t all that keen on the plan fletcher presented them with; movin to la and making it in music. really making it. with one of three members hellbent on leaving, the band broke up. they never could agree on a name, anyway. he turned in his resignation at championship, and jokingly promised james namsen to not come back until he’d won a grammy. winnie, though heartbroken to first lose the love of her life, and now having her son move away, had nothing but support and encouragement to offer when he announced he’d be dropping out of college to pursue music.

the first two years, nothing happened. he was living and working in downtown la; the apartment he shared with four roommates was just shy of being a shoebox, and the franchise record  store he eventually scored a job at lacked the soul and the hum of energy he was used to from championship back in new york. just as ambition and hope was wearing thin, things were starting to look up for him. he was meeting the right people in the right places, at the right times. after opening for a few up and coming acts, he was approached by a manager, who in turn introduced him to a few labels. though he was very aware he wasn’t a strong vocalist, he was confident in himself as a musician and a songwriter, and it seemed so was the internationally renowned label that ended up offering him a contract. his first single dropped not even a year later, soon followed by his debut album.

though his star was slowly rising, the album made only a miniscule splash. he toured it as an opening act and played a handful of shows on each coast. going back into the studio to work on the next album felt different. making the first one hadn’t felt authentic. not the process, nor the result. he’d been too agreeable; too eager to please and too eager to show he was worth everyone’s time and money. this time around, he was more assertive and demanded more control over the creative process. less co-writers were brought in, and he now had a say in which producers he worked with. his sophomore album released to generally positive reviews and ratings, but it seemed that would be it. then, almost over night, his shit was doing numbers. big numbers. 

sure - his label was running some promo for his sophomore album, but it seemed most people were catching wind of his stuff by word of mouth. people were actually buying his albums. both of them. when tickets to his second headline tour went on sale, they sold out in days. dates were added and venues were upgraded to answer the growing demand for tickets as more and more people found his music. he was playing famous venues now; legendary venues. festivals with hundreds of thousands of attendees. all over the country. all over the world. if he didn’t have a microphone or a guitar in his hand, he had a beer. or vodka. maybe whiskey. sometimes a joint, sometimes pills. he was at parties, then he was hosting parties. then he was at parties hosted in his honor. for the first time in his life, he had money. hard, real, fuck you money. he paid off the student loan he’d racked up during his one year stint at nyu, and the mortgage on the apartment he’d grown up in. he bought a house in beverly hills, and a two story apartment in brooklyn - both of which had shelves custom made for the gilded statuettes and trophies declaring him to be the best in a slew of categories. he’d done it. he was twenty-six and on top of the world. invincible. and then his mom's heart gave out.

for the three years that followed, his career suffered as he partied harder. friends he’d known for years disappeared, and were replaced with new faces that all blurred together. there were scandals, but they too were all a blur - leaked pictures and videos; shows he decided last minute he didn’t wanna do; shows he couldn’t do because he showed up too far gone to stand upright. people who got too close to him on one of the bad days, who’s faces he scarred forever. arrests, and settlements made outside of court. the label was getting antsy too, and when it passed the two year mark of the last time he’d set foot in the studio, his team - headed by the same manager that been with him through it all; that’d seen potential and believed in him all those years ago - pleaded with him to get help. begrudgingly, fletcher agreed. after a few months at rehab, he returned - clean, and determined to get back to work. the process was longwinded and intense, but the finished product was, in his eyes, solid gold. and - luckily? surprisingly? - the world at large agreed.

he toured the album with dates booked at relatively smaller venues this time around, but everywhere was packed full to the brim with people. throughout the time working on the album he’d been doing okay; staying sober and surrounding himself with good intentioned people. but being back on the road took a toll on him he hadn’t expected, and it didn’t take long for him to turn to alcohol when it was so easily accessible all around him, at all times. still, things were fine, and he was even relearning to appreciate the electric energy of performing live in front of an audience. to celebrate the last show of the us leg of the tour, the label threw an afterparty for the band, the team, the crew, and their friends. as people were starting to leaving the venue, fletcher sent some members of his band and a couple of their friends ahead with a key to his suite at a hotel nearby, while he thanked the label executives that’d been at the show. when he showed up, a glass was shoved into his hand, and as the party picked back up, someone got out the pills they’d kept at the bottom of their pocket all night. when offered, fletcher - on top of the world once more - accepted. 

someone snitched. and to the media, no less. when confronted by his team, he denied it. after being open about his struggle to overcome addiction, something like this would be damning for the reputation he’d rebuilt over the last two years. which is why he lied through his teeth. but then the videos from the suite appeared online, and his ruse was up. the rest of the tour was cancelled, and after completing a thirty day program, he was back in brooklyn.

it took some convincing, but he eventually went along with the ‘find back to your roots by returning to where it all started’ plan his team had cooked up. he also agreed to let someone else run his social media accounts for the time being. how his manager had gotten him a job at championship, fletcher didn’t know. he suspected a monthly bribe the size of his paycheck and then some was involved. but then again, he’d never known james namsen to be that kind of guy. for the first few weeks, he showed up for his shifts - sometimes on time, sometimes not - kept his head down, tried to engage with as few customers and co-workers as possible, then ditched as soon as he was off the clock. but there’d always been something special about the record store on the corner of bedford and sterling. soon enough, he began occasionally going up to the rooftop once his shift was over. approaching customers to offer his service before they approached him. show up early to catch up with whoever was working the shift before him. if he was having a particularly good day, he’d stop by to hang around even if he wasn’t on the schedule. he was well aware he wasn’t always easy to be around - years of living the high life and putting up walls having made him cynical, and standoffish, and discourteous. even if the boy he’d been when he walked out of there years ago was long gone, championship vinyl had stayed the same. and though fletcher’s yet to admit it, being back felt like being home.