Chapter Text
You had been a devoted fan of the band Kortac since your teenage years, and if you were being honest with yourself, it had everything to do with their drummer. The man was walking sex on legs, pure and simple. You had snuck out a couple of times as a teen to see them play and would get into deep trouble, but it was always worth it.
Kortac had started as a local band in your town, playing dive bars and underground venues before they exploded onto the international metal scene. What made them legendary, beyond their music, was their commitment to anonymity. Every member wore elaborate masks during performances, concealing their identities completely. It was part of their mystique, part of what made them so captivating. No one knew who they were. They could be anyone. Your neighbor, your barista, the person sitting next to you on the bus. The mystery only added to their allure, and it drove the fanbase absolutely wild with speculation.
You sat cross-legged on your bed, staring at the poster taped to your wall. Konig, mid-performance, drumsticks frozen in motion, his muscular arms caught in perfect detail despite the stage lighting. Even with the mask obscuring his face, a stark black piece that covered everything but his eyes, there was something magnetic about him. The way he commanded the drums, the raw power in every movement, the precision and violence of his playing. You released a long, heavy sigh that seemed to come from somewhere deep in your chest.
It had been three years since Kortac last toured. Three years of waiting, of checking their social media obsessively, of lying awake at night imagining what it would be like to see him perform live. When they finally announced the tour dates, you had prepared like you were planning a military operation. Every device you owned was charged, lined up on your desk, browsers open to the ticket vendor's website. You had set alarms, made contingency plans, even practiced the checkout process.
None of it mattered, the tickets sold out in four minutes.
You had released a wail so anguished, so primal in its disappointment, that your sister pounded on the wall from her room next door and shouted at you to shut up. You buried your face in your pillow and seriously considered never getting out of bed again. That evening, your sister took pity on you. She appeared in your doorway around eight o'clock, already dressed to go out, and told you to put on something decent. She was meeting friends at a bar downtown, and you were coming whether you liked it or not.
The bar was louder than you expected, filled with people who seemed to know each other. Your sister's friends were pleasant enough, but they were all several years older than you, deep in conversations about jobs and relationships and apartment leases. You smiled and nodded at appropriate intervals, but you had nothing to contribute. You were still thinking about those tickets. After an hour of feeling like a piece of furniture, you excused yourself and made your way to the bar. You slid onto one of the high stools and waited for the bartender to notice you. The wood was worn smooth under your forearms, and the music was just loud enough to make you feel pleasantly isolated from the crowd. A moment later, someone moved into the space beside you. You glanced over out of habit, then froze.
The man was tall. Not just tall, but exactly the height you had always pictured Konig to be. Broad-shouldered, with the kind of build that came from real physical work, not just gym sessions. His arms were roped with muscle, visible beneath the short sleeves of his shirt. And that shirt. Black, slightly faded, with the Kortac logo printed across the chest in white. You stared, you couldn't help it. The man ordered a drink, his voice low and rough, and you realized with a start that he had ordered the exact same thing you had just asked for. He seemed to feel your gaze because he turned his head and looked down at you. One eyebrow raised in silent question. His eyes were striking, pale in the dim bar light, and there was something knowing in his expression that made your stomach flip.
You cleared your throat and forced yourself to look away, then back again, trying for nonchalance. Your heart was hammering against your ribs.
"Cool shirt," you said, and winced internally at how lame you sounded. "Kortac is a good band."
The man's mouth curved slightly at one corner. Not quite a smile, but close.
"You got a favorite song?" the man asked, his voice low as he settled onto the stool beside yours.
Even seated, he loomed over you. The difference in your heights was almost comical, and you found yourself acutely aware of the space he occupied, the way his presence seemed to compress the air around you. Your thighs pressed together involuntarily, heat rising to your cheeks in a way that felt both mortifying and electric.
"I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours," you quipped, aiming for playful confidence despite the way your pulse was racing.
His mouth curved upward, just barely, the expression somewhere between amusement and interest. When the bartender set his drink down, he offered a brief nod of thanks without breaking eye contact with you, then took a measured sip of his beer.
"Probably Morgenstern," he said after a moment, lowering the glass. "Your turn."
The answer surprised you. Morgenstern was one of their deeper cuts, not the kind of song casual listeners knew. It was a favorite among the dedicated fans, the ones who had memorized every album track and B-side. Your respect for this stranger ticked up several notches.
"Oh, that's a good one," you gasped, unable to keep the enthusiasm from your voice. You leaned forward slightly, feeling more confident now that you were on familiar ground. "Mine is definitely Waidmanns Heil."
His eyebrows rose, genuine surprise flickering across his features. There was something in his expression that you could not quite read, a look that hovered between recognition and something else. He studied you for a long moment, his pale eyes intense and searching, as though trying to work out a puzzle he had not expected to encounter.
"Definitely?" he repeated, his tone curious. "That's a pretty decisive answer."
"I don't do anything halfway," you replied, meeting his gaze without flinching. "Especially when it comes to a song with good drumming."
The man's expression shifted, something warm and genuinely pleased breaking through his previously guarded demeanor. His smile was slow, spreading across his face like sunrise over a mountain ridge, and it transformed him entirely. The corners of his eyes crinkled, and you noticed for the first time the faint lines there that suggested he smiled often, despite his serious resting expression.
"A woman of taste, eh?" he asked, his accent thickening slightly on the words, turning them into something almost musical. He leaned forward just a fraction, close enough that you caught the faint scent of his cologne mixed with something earthier, like wood smoke or leather. "Will you be going to their show this weekend?"
The question hit you like cold water. Your enthusiasm drained away as quickly as it had built, replaced by the familiar ache of disappointment you had been carrying all day. Your shoulders sagged, and you felt your lips push forward into what you knew was a childish pout but could not quite control.
"Nope," you muttered, the single syllable heavy with all your accumulated misery. "I stayed up all night trying to snag a ticket, but they sold out in something like four minutes. Maybe less. I had five different browsers open, three devices ready, and I practiced the whole checkout process. Didn't matter. By the time I got through the queue, everything was gone."
You stared down at your drink, tracing a finger through the condensation on the glass, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. Talking about it made the wound feel fresh again, raw and stinging. When you finally glanced back up at him, you were surprised to see that his pleased expression had evaporated entirely. His brow had creased, deep lines forming between his eyebrows, and his mouth had tightened into something that looked almost like genuine concern. He seemed troubled by your answer in a way that felt disproportionate to the situation, as though your disappointment had somehow become his own.
"That's unfortunate," he said quietly, and there was a weight to the words that suggested he meant it. He looked away briefly, his jaw working as though he were turning something over in his mind, wrestling with a decision.
"I have some friends working at the venue," he said, his voice dropping to something quieter. "I can try getting a ticket for you."
Your eyes widened, lighting up with sudden hope before you caught yourself. The brightness dimmed almost immediately, replaced by a narrow, suspicious squint. You had learned the hard way not to trust offers that sounded too good to be true, especially from strangers in bars, no matter how attractive they were or how well they wore a Kortac shirt.
"You're not pulling my leg, are you?" you asked, your voice taking on an edge of wariness. You tilted your head slightly, studying his face for any hint of mockery or amusement at your expense.
He let out a low chuckle, the sound warm and genuine, and shook his head slowly. The movement was unhurried, as though he wanted to make absolutely certain you understood his sincerity.
"I would never," he said, and there was something in his tone that made you believe him. "The tickets should go to someone who actually enjoys their music like you do, not to people who are just going to stare at the bassist the whole time." He snorted softly, a sound of pure disdain. "Half the crowd will be there for the wrong reasons."
"That is absolutely true," you muttered, feeling vindicated. You sat up straighter on your stool, warming to the topic with renewed energy. "And besides, if anyone should be the focus, it's the drummer. Drums are the backbone of music. The foundation of everything. Without a solid drummer, the whole thing falls apart."
Something flickered in his expression when you said that. It passed too quickly for you to identify, but it left behind a softness in his eyes, a kind of quiet pleasure that made your stomach flutter in a way that had nothing to do with the alcohol.
The conversation flowed easily after that, moving from Kortac to other bands with the kind of natural rhythm that made you forget you were talking to a stranger. You discovered you both had opinions about the current state of metal music, about which festivals were worth attending and which had sold out too completely to corporate interests. He spoke with the easy confidence of someone who knew the scene intimately, dropping references that only true fans would catch.
At one point, the discussion turned to French metal bands, and you brought up Gojira with genuine enthusiasm. His face immediately shuttered, a look of theatrical disgust crossing his features.
"French," he grimaced, as though the word itself tasted bad. "I cannot."
"Oh, come on," you protested, laughing at his exaggerated reaction. "You can't dismiss an entire country's music scene just because of some historical grudge or whatever. Gojira is incredible. They are heavy, they are technical, and their environmental message is actually sincere, not just posturing."
He shook his head stubbornly, but you could see the corner of his mouth twitching, fighting a smile.
"The French," he repeated, more emphasis this time, as though that explained everything.
"Listen," you said, leaning closer and dropping your voice into something more persuasive, "if you trust my taste in drummers, then trust my taste in this. Give them one album. Just one. If you hate it, I will never mention France again."
He studied you for a long moment, his pale eyes searching your face. You held his gaze, refusing to back down, and eventually he let out a long, reluctant sigh that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest.
"Fine," he said, dragging the word out. "Since the pretty lady with good music taste insists." The compliment was delivered casually, almost as an afterthought, but it sent warmth flooding through your chest nonetheless.
You grinned, victorious, and pulled out your phone. "Give me your number. I'll send you my top five Gojira tracks to start with."
He recited his number slowly, watching as you typed it in, and then your phone buzzed a moment later with a text from an unknown number. Just a simple period, a confirmation that he had yours as well.
"I will also send you the details for the ticket," he said, pocketing his phone. "Should have something by tomorrow."
"You were serious about that?" you asked, still half convinced this entire interaction was too good to be true, that you would wake up tomorrow and discover it had all been some elaborate fantasy.
"I do not say things I do not mean," he replied simply, and somehow you believed him completely.
A few minutes later, he glanced at his watch and grimaced. "I should go. Early morning tomorrow."
You nodded, trying not to let your disappointment show. "Thanks for the ticket," you said. "And for the conversation. This whole night would have been pretty terrible otherwise."
His expression softened. "It was my pleasure." He stood, and the full impact of his height hit you again. He looked down at you for a moment, something unreadable in his expression, and then lifted his hand in a small wave before turning and making his way through the crowd toward the exit.
You watched him go, clutching your phone like it was treasure, before finally making your way back to your sister's table. The moment you sat down, your sister's head snapped toward you. Her eyes widened at whatever she saw on your face, and a knowing grin spread across her features.
"Oh my God," she said, loud enough that her friends stopped their conversation mid-sentence and turned to stare at you. "Did you get the cute guy's number?"
Heat rushed to your cheeks, but you could not stop the smile that stretched across your face, wide and helpless. "Maybe," you said, aiming for coy but landing somewhere closer to giddy.
The response was immediate and explosive. All three of her friends let out a collective cheer that turned heads at nearby tables. One of them, a woman with short dark hair and impressive winged eyeliner, reached across the table to grab your hand.
"Tell us everything," she demanded. "What is he like? How did it happen? Is he as tall as he looked from here?"
"Taller," you admitted, and they all made appreciative noises.
"What's his name?" your sister asked, leaning forward with her chin propped on her hand, eyes bright with curiosity.
Your smile faltered. The question landed like a stone dropping into still water, and you felt your face go blank as the realization hit you with the force of a truck. You had spent the better part of an hour talking to this man. You had discussed music and drummers and French metal bands. You had his phone number saved in your contacts. And you had absolutely no idea what his name was.
"It's..." you started, then stopped. Your mouth opened and closed uselessly as you tried to find words that would make this sound less idiotic than it was. "I don't know."
The table went silent for exactly three seconds. Then your sister's hand connected sharply with the back of your head, the smack loud enough to make you wince.
"You dumbass!" she exclaimed, but she was laughing even as she said it, and her friends dissolved into giggles around you. "You got his number but not his name? How does that even happen?"
"We were talking about music!" you protested, rubbing the spot where she had hit you. "It just never came up naturally, and then it felt too late to ask, and I thought maybe it would be in his text but he just sent a period..."
This only made them laugh harder. Your sister shook her head, but her expression had softened into something fond and exasperated.
"Well," she said, taking a sip of her drink, "I guess you will just have to ask him tomorrow when he texts you about the ticket."
You nodded, still mortified but unable to stop smiling. Mystery name or not, you had a ticket to see Kortac, and you had the phone number of the most interesting person you had met in months. All things considered, the night had turned out far better than you could have hoped.
That night, when you finally made it home, you kicked off your shoes with a satisfying thud against the wall and collapsed onto your bed face-first. Your phone was already in your hand before you had fully settled into the mattress, the blue light illuminating your face in the darkness of your room. The screen showed a new message notification, and your heart did a strange little skip when you saw it was from the unknown number that was no longer quite so unknown.
You opened the message thread with fingers that trembled just slightly, enough that you had to steady your grip on the phone.
The message was short, straightforward, and somehow exactly what you had been hoping for without daring to actually hope. He had already sent the ticket details. There was a screenshot of a confirmation code, seat information for a section that made your eyes widen because it was far better than anything you could have afforded even if you had managed to snag tickets during the initial sale, and simple instructions for adding it to your ticket app.
For a long moment, you just stared at the screen, reading and rereading the information as though the words might rearrange themselves into something less impossibly generous. Then panic seized you with sudden urgency. You sat bolt upright, nearly dropping your phone in your haste, and fumbled to open your ticket app. Your fingers flew across the screen as you entered the confirmation code, your breath held until the ticket populated with a satisfying chime and the Kortac logo appeared in all its glory.
Only when the ticket was safely stored in your app, screenshot backup saved to three different folders, did you allow yourself to breathe properly again. You slumped back against your pillows, clutching the phone to your chest like it contained something precious and fragile.
Then you typed out a response, deleting and rewriting it four times before you finally settled on something that felt appropriately grateful without veering into excessive gushing. You thanked him profusely, your message stretching into multiple texts as you tried to convey just how much this meant to you, how you had been devastated about missing out, how you could not believe he had actually come through on his offer.
Then came the uncomfortable part. You took a breath and asked how much you owed him, adding that you could Venmo or PayPal or whatever was easiest, that you absolutely insisted on paying him back.
His response came quickly, just two words that made you want to reach through the phone and shake him.
Unknown Number: Don't worry.
You stared at the message, your jaw setting with determination. You typed out another text, longer this time, more insistent. You explained that these tickets had been expensive, that you could not possibly accept such a gift from someone you had just met, that you really, truly needed to pay him back or you would feel guilty for the rest of your natural life.
This time his response took a few minutes longer, and when it came, you could practically see him considering your persistence with something like amusement.
Unknown Number: Really, it's fine. Consider it a gift from one Kortac fan to another.
You groaned aloud, the sound echoing in your empty bedroom. He was stubborn. You were stubborn. This could go on all night, back and forth, an endless loop of insistence and refusal. You needed a new strategy.
You chewed on your bottom lip, thinking, and then inspiration struck. Your fingers moved across the keyboard with renewed purpose.
"Okay, fine," you typed. "If you won't let me pay you back, at least let me know your name so I can thank my mysterious Santa properly."
You hit send and waited, watching the three dots appear and disappear several times as he typed and deleted, typed and deleted. Whatever he was composing was taking longer than his previous messages, and you found yourself holding your breath again without quite knowing why.
Finally, the message came through, and when you read it, you could hear his voice in your head, could imagine the exact expression that would accompany the words. You could almost see the teasing smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, the glint of mischief in those pale eyes.
Unknown Number: Come to the concert this weekend and find out.
You stared at the message for a full ten seconds, your mouth falling open in disbelief. Then, despite yourself, despite the audacity of his response, you felt a laugh bubble up from somewhere deep in your chest. It escaped as a breathless giggle that quickly escalated into full, helpless laughter.
"Oh my God," you said aloud to your empty room. "He's impossible."
But you were smiling as you said it, a wide, uncontrollable grin that made your cheeks ache. With an exaggerated roll of your eyes that no one was present to witness, you let yourself fall backwards onto the bed, your arms spreading wide, phone still clutched in one hand. The ceiling above you was familiar and boring, marked with the same small water stain in the corner that had been there since you moved in, but tonight it might as well have been the Sistine Chapel for all you cared.
You lay there in the darkness, the only light the soft glow of your phone screen and the streetlight filtering through your curtains, and you smiled like a complete and utter fool. A dopey, ridiculous, utterly helpless smile that you could not have wiped off your face if you tried.
Somewhere in the back of your mind, a rational voice pointed out that you knew almost nothing about this man. You did not know his name. You did not know what he did for a living or where he lived or whether this easy chemistry would translate beyond a single conversation in a bar. You did not know if he was genuinely interested or just being kind to a fellow fan who had missed out on tickets.
But in that moment, lying on your bed with a Kortac ticket saved in your app and a weekend mystery waiting to be solved, you could not bring yourself to care about any of that. You lifted your phone one more time, reading his last message again, and then typed out a response.
"Fine. But this better not be some elaborate prank or I'm hunting you down."
His reply came almost immediately.
Unknown Number: I look forward to it.
You set your phone face-down on your nightstand, knowing that if you kept looking at it you would never actually sleep, and burrow deeper into your blankets. Your heart was doing strange acrobatics in your chest, and you pressed a hand against it as though you could physically calm it down.
This weekend could not come fast enough.