Chapter Text
Monday 22nd March 1993
—
1 - Hey, been trying to meet you
Work. Work was a Grab ‘N Bag on the shittiest side of your shitty town. It was an old building that was surrounded by even more older buildings that had absolutely nothing at all going for them. The type of architecture that had its windows boarded over with withered plywood and from each corner of old brick sprouted clumps of weeds and grass. The store looked like shit too, though. The lights on the sign out front were further green than white, but only three letters lit up on it now, so it was often registered faintly. The parking lot was nearly always deserted, doing little to improve the place’s already dismal appearance. The only real reprieve came in the form of smoke breaks out back—ten-minute interludes that had, in their own quiet way, held your mind together shift after shift. They might well have been the only thing keeping you sane these past three years. That, and the occasional drop-ins from familiar faces: Brian and James. A favourite pair of yours who genuinely seemed to want to be there—something that never felt particularly common. Especially not to you.
You stocked the shelves with boxes of cereal, each one plastered with bright, overzealous mascots grinning on cheerful cardboard. Pac-Man, Tony the Tiger, Count fucking Chocula—still haunting the backroom five months later. At least someone in that goddamn store looked happy.
“Hey—“ James’ voice cut through the clatter. “You even listening?”
Your eyes snapped over to him before you rose from your crouch, feeling the strain in your legs. “Nope,” you muttered, not even bothering to pretend.
“I thought you were into all our music stuff anyway,” James said, not quite rhetorically, with a mild note of surprise in his voice. He and Brian stuck close like strays as you strolled towards the front of the store.
”Yeah, I am,” you sighed, “Just not right now.” Exhaustion was already pulling at you despite the fact it was barely even twelve yet.
“Well?”
“Well what?” you groaned, collapsing into the aging chair behind one of the registers. You gave it a few lazy spins, staring at the ceiling. Anything to avoid eye contact.
“Got any ideas? That kid on Decatur said no. The pothead said the same. Davis? Didn’t even hesitate—just said fuck no.” Brian counted them off on his fingers, then looked at you, hoping for something.
“Listen, I don’t know any—“ You began.
“What about Simon?” James cut in to suggest, and nodded toward the back of the store. He was gesturing over at your co-worker who was shoving boxes out of the staff only room. It was now with obvious presence that they’d ran out of options. “Can he do anything? Instrumentally?”
Simon was some druggie high school kid, only working there to make a bit of extra cash. Awkward as hell, with that typical grown-out dirty blonde hair hanging over one eye, and the kind of guy who’d wear the same outfit four days in a row. You knew that because he once showed up to the store in a bloody t-shirt—and kept wearing it the rest of the week. And whenever some dude would come in trying to peacefully buy some condoms—he’d insist that they gave him a high-five, or he wouldn’t sell it to them. Not exactly “rockstar” material. Well… maybe technically, if you went by the shirt situation. But still. He was a bit of nerd.
“Simon? He can play a mean cash register, I know that.” You glanced over at the employee-of-the-month plaques that hung proudly on the banana coloured wall. Simon’s picture was on pretty much every one of them.
Brian shot you a fake, annoyed glance, arms slumped on the counter. “You’re not helping.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but I don’t know what to tell you apart from ‘I don’t know.’ Why don’t you look around some clubs? They’ve got gigs on all the time, y’know.”
“Oh, Y/N, what a fuckin’ great suggestion. Why didn’t we think of that sooner?” James spoke, his dull tone littered with sarcasm as he glanced toward Brian.
You leaned back in your creaky chair, the dull hum of the store around you. “Look, just try again. You think it’s all over because a few people said no? You’ve tried absolutely everything?”
James leaned against the counter, arms crossed together alike to Brian. “I dunno, man. Feels like we’ve tried everything. Every gig—just ends up going nowhere. Nobody wants to actually stick around y’know?”
You let out a long sigh, noting Brians nod of agreement, leaning back in the chair again and swiveling lazily as you stared at the dull ceiling tiles. “Look, I get it. But sitting here, moping about it… that’s not gonna do shit.”
Brian raised an eyebrow, not unkind. “So basically what you’ve been doing?”
You blinked, then let out a quiet breath through your nose. “I mean… maybe,” you said, voice low. “I dunno. But—listen, this isn’t about me, K? I’m saying, ‘Don’t come to my work just to mope about shit instead of fixing it’. S’all.”
“Right,” Brian started again, his tone edging annoyance. “But we don’t wanna wait around for some magic to happen. We’ve been looking for someone—gigs, vocalists—the whole thing. For months.”
“Well, I’m not your fairy Godmother. I don’t know what you want me to do here. I’m not a singer, so don’t even—“
Brian cut you off with a slight shake of his head, brows drawn together. “No, man, we don’t want you to be our singer. Could you just—help out? Dig us out of the dirt or somethin’?”
You paused, “The shovel isn’t in my hands, it’s in yours. Forget about the pothead and the Davis guy, let Corey go and find someone good for your band. You do that— and then I’ll come to your Goddamn practices.”
It probably sounded more severe than you meant it to, but it was necessary. You knew you had your own moments of drifting away throughout work, but Brian and James had been entrenched in this rut since Corey and that entire ordeal, and watching them circle the drain made you feel worse than you’d most likely ever admit.
“Jeez,” James retorted, pushing himself off the counter with a slight stretch. “At least you were nice about it.”
“Oh shut up—go. I got work to do.” Work being a loose term—it was more alike to tending to an elderly patron and wandering isles. But still, you were too fatigued and it was a particularly early hour to be giving out advice and making promises you weren’t one-hundred percent sure you’d stick to.
Brian gave you a pat on the back that you promptly declined with a push, as they turned to leave, heading for the door. “Well, we’ll catch up later. Guess we got some flyers to make.”
“Right, flyers.” James followed, giving you a quick thumbs-up before the bell over the door chimed their exit.
You sat back in the chair, watching them go, the store filled with the familiar quiet. Your eyes trailed from the door to the clock to the ceiling as your head tipped back once more. You weren’t sure about being dragged into all of their band stuff yet, but it was still too early to tell.
—
Thursday 1st April 1993
—
Over the next few days, you found yourself too submerged in the rote demands of work to be fully ensnared by your friends’ band chaos. Still, Brian, James, or occasionally even David would drop you a late-night call—often under the guise of casual updates, though they rarely were—which led to more than a few sluggish mornings and an increasingly bumpy relationship with punctuality.
Your alarm blared for what must’ve been the fifth time that morning, each shrill repetition gouging a little deeper into your skull. Half-asleep, the noise felt like something distant and foreign, tolerable enough to ignore. Now, it cut through the air sharply, insistent and agitating as ever as it pushed you into motion.
You scrambled through the apartment, grabbing a hurried five-minute shower, the water barely rising above lukewarm before you rushed out. Clothes were yanked from the drawer in a rush—half of them wrinkled but passable—and you threw them on as quickly as you could, juggling socks and shoes in a frantic hurry.
The clock on the kitchen wall cast judgment with its garish digits. You swallowed half a piece of dry, plain toast, chewing just enough to avoid choking, and grabbed your keys from the counter.
You were halfway to the door when your phone buzzed, vibrating across the surface like its intention was to tempt you. Brian’s contact name lit up the screen. You paused, lips tightening, hand hovering mid-reach. You were already late—but if you didn’t answer, there was a good chance he’d just keep calling.
You sighed, answered. “Yeah?”
“Hey, man,” Brian said, already mid-sentence like he’d been rehearsing. “Remember that Davis guy?”
You closed your eyes, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Brian…”
“No, wait—just hear me out. We circled back, asked a few of the old guys again, and Davis said he’d ‘think about it.’ Whatever that means.”
You checked the time again. “And this needed to be shared right now?”
“It’s progress, isn’t it?”
“Sure. Progress. Listen, I’ve gotta go or I’m gonna get told off by Derek. Again.”
Brian made a noise of acknowledgment, somewhere between a grunt and a sigh. “Alright. I’ll—uh, fill you in later.”
You hung up before he could elaborate, shoved your phone into your pocket, and bolted through the complex down to your car. By the time you reached Grab ’N’ Bag, you were cutting it close. The shrill ring of the bell greeted you as you stepped inside the dull store. Simon was at the register, tapping on the counter, bored as ever.
“Running late again?” he called out, smirking as you hustled toward the back to drop off your bag.
“Yeah, something like that,” you muttered,
“Something like that or exactly that?” Simon yelled after you as you headed straight to the staff room to dump your bag and coat.
The staff room was just as inhospitable as the rest of the store. The entire thing was washed a sickly yellow under sodium lamps, an understocked vending machine from 1982 was shoved into one of the corners and there were random assortments of boxes lying everywhere like permanent fixtures. You dumped your coat and bag in the usual corner and strolled out directly for the rear door. Out there, it didn’t have yellow lights humming above or a prominent smell of must and cheap room spray or mildew-plagued ceiling tiles.
Leaning against the solid brick wall, you lit a cigarette and tilted into the stillness. The smoke curled upward, vanishing into a pale blue sky. You thumbed at your cellphone again, staring at the blank screen, half-tempted to call Brian back.
Not that you had anything new to say. They were chasing dead ends, same as per usual. And you? You didn't even know. Everything barely felt like a life at the moment, purely a hollow centre that always seemed to lack something real, or something that felt like it was. But even with your reluctance, there was something about their persistence, do stupid and desperate, stuck with you longer than it should’ve.
You took another drag and stared at the graffiti-covered dumpster.
Maybe Davis would be the guy, a total gift from God. Maybe not, maybe he’d shrug them off again. Maybe they’d fall apart before the end of the month. But it was the only part of your day that didn’t feel completely devoid of momentum.
You crushed the cigarette underfoot and went back inside.
—
Friday 16th April 1993
—
“Home at last…” you repeated in your head, no other thoughts coherent as you stepped into the apartment, the door shutting behind you with a muted click. You didn’t slam it or anything, though the temptation lingered in your shoulders. Instead, you let your forehead rest against the wood, eyes closed, the cool surface grounding you after a day that felt more like a week.
The knob felt cold beneath your fingers. You stood there a moment longer than necessary, letting the stillness settle in, letting the fatigue crawl over you in waves. This—this was the real exhaustion. Not the kind you can shake off with caffeine, but the kind that seeps deep into your body and dulls your senses, making you feel like a heap of pure flesh and bones with no real motive.
You peeled yourself away from the door and wandered toward the kitchen, your footsteps dragging, your body moving on muscle memory. Keys hit the counter with a clatter. Jacket shrugged off, abandoned somewhere near a chair. You didn’t even look at it.
In the harsh reality of it all, there was no music playing, no television murmuring in the background—just the low hum of the refrigerator and the faint rattle of a windowpane shifting in its frame. The apartment felt untouched, like it had been holding its breath for you to return. The idea of cooking something, or even heating leftovers, felt about as likely as running a marathon.
Your eyes flicked toward the hallway. Bed. That was the only thing worth considering right now.
You kicked off your shoes, let them tumble where they landed, and headed down the narrow corridor. Each step felt like a negotiation with your own limbs. A negotiation you were steadily losing.
Then your cellphone rang.
It was so abrupt, almost feeling invasive. It sliced through the quiet like a box cutter through cardboard. You stopped dead with a slouch, staring at it poking out of the pocket of your jacket like it had seriously wronged you. For a long moment, you just stood there. Letting it ring. Hoping it’d just give up. But you already knew who it was.
You grabbed it out of the pocket and answered, voice rough, tired. “Yeah?”
“Hey—,” Brian said, excitement leaking through already, and he’s only uttered a singular word. “I know it’s late, but you gotta come over.”
You blinked, rubbed your face with the heel of your hand. “Brian, I just spent half an hour stuck behind a truck on the road after an entire day of work. I’m not even sure my eyes’ll be able to stay open for any longer. I need sleep... just sleep.”
“No, no, no, hear me out,” he rushed. “That guy—we talked to him again. The Davis guy? Did some—hippy shit,said some psychic told him our band'd be good. Can you believe that shit? He’s in. Said he’s in.”
You closed your eyes. Psychic. Of course. Only these guys could find themselves a lead singer via metaphysical nonsense. “Is this a joke?”
“I’m dead serious. He’s good, too. Like, exactly what we need good. We’re doing a little jam right now. It’s good. C'mon, you need to hear this.”
You exhaled, slowly, gaze flicking back to your darkened bedroom. The bed was a few steps away. It looked divine.
“I’m not driving across town for a psychic prophecy, Brian. I’ll stop by tomorrow morning. First thing.”
“C’mon, everyone’s here—”
“Exactly. That’s a compelling reason not to come.”
Before he could plead further, you pressed the red button and dropped the cell onto the nightstand. It landed face-down with a soft clatter.
You sank onto the edge of the mattress, letting your shoulders sag forward. Streetlight filtered in through the blinds, casting long, soft shadows across the floor. You peeled back the blanket and collapsed beneath it without ceremony.
You weren’t sure what tomorrow would look like. Maybe this guy really was what they’d needed. Maybe he’d be just another dead end again. But that wasn’t your problem tonight. With a heavy sigh, you sunk into the mattress like you’d been carrying the weight of the entire world. The room was dim and held tranquillity. Your thoughts raced, loud as ever, but the silence did feel like a relief.