Chapter Text
Chapter 1
Deep breath.
Eyes closed.
He allowed his surroundings to fall away, focusing only on the cool metal of the microphone held between his fingertips.
The musky smell of sweat, staccato screams from the audience that pierced through the air at various, delayed intervals, all immediately drowned out by the authoritative sound of a pre-recorded violin, penetrating through the hushed voices of the restless crowd, and signalling the beginning of the song.
The crowd erupted, his body swayed from side to side as he immersed himself in the beat.
The crash of the drums and the strum of the guitar to his rear reverberated throughout his core as he leant forward, lips lightly brushing the head of the mic as he filled his lungs.
The lyrics flowed from him easy as breathing, steady and powerful, all eyes on him as the raspy delivery permeated throughout the room.
Death surrounds,
My heartbeat's slowing down,
I won't take this world's abuse,
I won't give up, I refuse!
This is how it feels when you're bent and broken,
This is how it feels when your dignity's stolen,
When everything you love is leaving,
You hold on to what you believe in...
The music softened slightly, the drums letting up as the smooth voice from the brunette on the guitar behind him drifted from the speakers.
The last thing I heard...
Was you whispering goodbye...
And then I heard you flat line!
Her comparatively soft yet compelling voice added a new dynamic to the song.
As the chorus began, they sang simultaneously; intense voices both clashed and complimented one another, an enchanting dichotomy. While his hoarse voice took precedence, it was never to the point where hers disappeared entirely.
No!
Not gonna die tonight,
We've gotta stand and fight forever!
(Don't close your eyes)
No!
Not gonna die tonight,
We've gotta fight for us together,
No, we're not gonna die tonight...
As the song continued on into the second verse, the singer finally opened his eyes, observing the crowd for the first time that night. He was met with many faces, expressions ranging from excitement and hope, to shock and awe. Exhilarating, to know that was due to them, due to him.
As he went to prepare himself for the second chorus—the lights flashing in time with the drums—his eyes caught on the front row. On bright teal, shining up at him. Twin stars of sparkling alexandrite, captivating him to the point of being unable to look away.
As if noticing his attention, they widened, intensifying to a level that almost took his breath away. It took everything in him to not let it show, and even then, his voice still thinned out a note earlier than he’d planned for it to. He steadied himself on his mic stand, feeling as if he’d been set on autopilot.
The performance continued on around him and all he could see were those eyes...those beautiful, vibrant eyes that somehow captured the essence of both the sky and the sea all in one. He feared that if he didn’t look away now, he may very well drown in their depths. His voice raised automatically as the pitch of the song changed, muscle memory kicking in to lead them into the bridge.
Don't you give up on me...
You're everything I need...
As his voice tapered out of the bridge, he was enraptured by those eyes once again as they squinted in joy, their owner letting out an excited yell that got lost in the squeal of the guitarist’s solo.
Even then, barely visible, they still appeared to glow with an ethereal light, despite the darkness of the surrounding club.
In that moment, he wished this performance could last forever, to get lost in it, in those beautiful eyes, and never...
6:28am
The clock glowed at him angrily from his bedside table.
He glared right back at it.
It continued assaulting his bleary, barely open eyes as they attempted to adjust to the less than welcoming, overcast Monday morning light filtering in through the slanted blinds covering his window.
Again, he was awake before he needed to be. Only by two minutes mind you, but he still believed that to be valuable sleeping time.
His glare sharpened as the number flickered tauntingly from the eight to a nine. Every goddamn morning, he woke up before his alarm, like some kind of sick joke.
Maybe if he looked at it menacingly enough...
He never got to finish the thought, consciousness fading as his heavy eyelids dragged themselves shut once again. He only got far enough back into his dream to see those bright eyes flash before him, stunning him yet again with their intensity.
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
Fuck’s sake.
He reached his left arm out blindly, clumsy hand fumbling over the bedside table as he attempted to shut the damned thing off. He eventually found the desired object and slammed his hand down—much harder than necessary—and dragged himself into an upright position.
"Ugh," was all he could manage to groan out, mind void of anything more coherent in his current state.
Before he could move fast enough to stop it, his phone alarm began ringing from beneath his pillow, echoing off of the plain white walls of his sparse apartment. Regretting his decision to have a back-up alarm (as he did every morning, because he never needed it), he contorted himself backwards to dig it out of it’s hiding place.
"Fuck off," he growled out, switching it off and tossing it to the side as if it offended his very being.
Sluggishly, he pulled himself to sit on the edge of his bed, and ended up staying there for a few moments, trying to bring himself to continue. The cold, uninviting air raised goosebumps up his bare legs.
He couldn’t believe morning people did this shit willingly.
Every. Single. Day.
With that bitter thought running through his head, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sighed.
A glance at the clock told him he no longer had a choice in the matter, so he resigned himself to his fate. Despite the way his toes recoiled as he pressed them gingerly against the cold wooden floorboards (which ran throughout the whole apartment), he forced himself to stand.
Right. He’d forgotten to buy slippers. Again.
"Tch," he clicked his tongue piercing against the back of his teeth, aggravated.
Stumbling gracelessly into the adjoining bathroom (and stubbing his toe in the process), he stared at himself in the mirror.
He was a mess.
Dark hair sticking up in all directions, multiple red marks on his cheek from the creases in his pillow, and finally, two dark, ugly shadows beneath his eyes, loudly announcing his blatant lack of sleep. Restless nights had become the usual this past month; his subconscious seemed determined to torture him every night with that same dream.
Well, memory, technically, but whatever. It still pissed him the hell off regardless, the way his stupid subconscious forced him to keep reliving it for literally no good reason whatsoever.
He had a fan with pretty eyes, so fucking what?
Fine, okay, maybe he was kind of caught up on the fact that he never found out who it was, but that was beside the fucking point. A little curiosity was zero grounds for tormenting him every night about it.
Realising he was wasting time with his moping, he shook his head and began to undress himself. First his black t-shirt, followed by his boxers, taking the time (he didn’t really have) to meticulously fold them and place them into his laundry basket, before stepping into the shower and turning it on.
A shower was compulsory every morning without fail, no exceptions.
After roughly eight minutes of concentrated scrubbing, he turned the near-scalding water off and wrapped a fluffy towel around his waist. Finally awake, he grimaced at the way his mouth felt and quickly went about brushing his teeth.
Every day was the same.
A strict routine from which he rarely faltered, so accustomed to the repetitive system that he’d perfected over the years, he could easily do it on autopilot.
Drying himself off, he exited the bathroom and made his way over to his well-organised closet, choosing a simple pair of black boxer briefs, an equally black pair of haphazardly ripped skinny jeans, and a form-fitting, dark grey t-shirt.
He dressed in silence, before moving to the kitchen to get out his favourite coffee mug, and turning on the coffee machine. As it slowly began the process of making his much needed caffeine, he retreated back to the bathroom. Once again, he stared at himself in the mirror, as always unnerved by how naked his pale face looked first-thing in the morning, missing his signature jewellery he never left the house without.
"Well, could be worse," he muttered, rolling his eyes.
Taking out the small box he kept in the medicine cabinet behind the mirror, he clicked it open and began sliding the piercings inside to their designated areas on his head. A stud in each ear, a ring in the helix of his right ear, a bar in his right eyebrow, and a ring on the left side of his lip, all black in colour.
With the small bar at the front of his tongue that he rarely removed, that made six total.
He turned his focus to his hair next, running his fingers through the undercut, relieved to find it didn’t need a trim just yet. Using a comb, some hair gel, and the tips of his fingers, he painstakingly styled the longer top half of his jet-black hair to his liking, parting it slightly to the side.
He turned his head from side to side to admire his handiwork, piercings twinkling in the bright bathroom spotlights. The tips of his bangs just about reached his eyelashes; it’d be about a week before it would start to annoy him and he’d have to trim it.
Satisfied with the overall result, he added the final touch: a small ring of black eyeshadow around both eyes, smudging it all out with his finger until it was how he liked it. With a quick swipe of matching black eyeliner to his lower waterline, he was done.
It wasn't until he had sat himself down at the breakfast bar in the middle of his kitchen, nursing his freshly brewed cup of black coffee, that his mobile phone started to go berserk in his room.
He scowled in its general direction, knowing full well who the culprit was.
Having retrieved the phone and sat back down, his brow furrowed, and a short sigh of exasperation passed through his lips as he studied the notifications.
43 Messages, the screen shone tauntingly back at him. He reluctantly unlocked his phone, and opened the contact named Shitty Glasses.
The texts ranged from asking whether he had woken up yet, to random scientific facts, and even to whether he had gotten laid last night. He replied with one of his usual ‘affectionate’ responses.
Levi: Shut the fuck up.
The reply came almost immediately, as expected.
Shitty Glasses: Oh ho I guess that's a no then…
Shitty Glasses: Are you gonna be here soon?
Levi: No.
Shitty Glasses: Oh? Your favourite dream got you sleeping in again?
Shitty Glasses: It’s really been keeping you UP ey?
Shitty Glasses: ;)
Levi resolves to never tell her shit about his problems ever again. For his own sanity, he makes the executive decision to ignore the rest of her texts and instead finish his coffee.
Once it was done, he soaked up his last few moments of peace before getting back to his feet. The mug was immediately washed, dried and put away before he grabbed his backpack, headphones and leather jacket. At the door, he stepped into the black combat boots that had been neatly placed on the mat as always, slipped on his jacket and checked his bag to make sure he had everything he needed.
Once confirmed, he left his apartment and locked the door behind him, grimacing as the icy, autumn wind cut right through him. Luckily, his apartment wasn't too far from his destination.
Sina Highschool.
Aka;
Hell.