Chapter Text
Backstage, Ed Sullivan Theatre, Manhattan
February 23rd, 2012. 5:12 PM.
Some say once your name is illuminated in big bold letters, your life will never be the same. You’ve made it. You’ve conquered New York, Hollywood, the world.
And tonight, Nico di Angelo is conquering Broadway.
This part of New York has always been the brightest to him. Sure, there's Times Square, or the High Line, or the Empire State Building. But the Theatre District is something else. The vibrancy, the culture, the queerness. It's exactly what he was dreaming of as a kid, writing songs in his dingy garage in Long Island. From small-town diners, picket fences, and a neighbourhood with insight into every little detail of your life, to big city bars, towering skyscrapers, and people that don’t give a single fuck about who you are or what you’re doing. In essence, Nico has made it.
Only, instead of walking the streets of Midtown Manhattan, illuminated by the white gold light of LED signs, cigarette in hand, and humming in tune to the distant sound of jazz leaking out of hotel bars, Nico finds himself trapped in what should be a dream come true.
To put it simply, he is in a green room.
Nico hates green rooms. Even more so, he hates what he’s in this green room for: perhaps the most disdainful thing he could possibly be doing on a Thursday night in New York.
He is waiting to be a guest on a talk show.
The room is… underwhelming to say the least. When he was told just days ago that he’s going to be featured on the David Letterman show, Nico at least expected a PA to be waiting for him by the door with a negroni in hand, offering a cigarette in the other. Instead, he’s sitting on a peeling pleather couch, staring ominously at the ‘No Smoking’ sign daunting him from the wall.
As he sat, isolated and succumbing to his thoughts and aversions, the very small, open-minded part of his brain shook him with rationalities.
You’re lucky to be here.
You’ve wanted this since you were five.
Some people would kill to be on this couch.
Why aren’t you jumping for joy right now?
There are only two things jumping right now: Nico’s heart and his leg. His body feels like it’s two seconds from a panic attack or an aneurysm. He isn’t sure which one he’d prefer.
Just as he starts formulating his very strategic and flaw-proof plan for escape, Nico’s train of thought gets swiftly interrupted by the door he was just hoping to run out of. An army of execs and managers come crawling in, personifying Nico’s worst fears. Great.
“I think we need to talk through the game plan one more time, I don’t think you were really listening to me before. You really need to get out of the habit of that, by the way…”
Amidst the mirage of tailored suits and endless clipboards, a light shines through. Annabeth Chase splits through the waves of industry men as if she were Moses splitting the Red Sea, coming to lead Nico to his Promised Land. She would be, if she hadn’t been the one to sign him up for this night of torture.
Slim fingers snapping in front of his face startles Nico out of his daze. He blinks, looking up to meet Annabeth’s stoic, slightly annoyed face. Her eyebrows are crinkled and her glasses have fallen to the tip of her nose, pulling attention to the droplets of sweat clinging to her skin.
“Are you even listening to me?” She looks at Nico as if she had just caught him breaking his curfew, like a mother.
Nico sits up in an attempt to feign composure and slings a slightly shaking arm over the couch. “‘Course I am, Chase. I’m not one to ignore.”
Annabeth scoffs. “You are one to ignore. Forget Album of the Year, they should give you Worst Client of the Year.”
“And who’s financing yours and Percy’s Hampton summers?”
“The label, dumbass.”
“Well, you’re not representing the label, are you?”
“If I’m lucky, I won’t be representing anyone next year.”
“Tell Percy to send his farewells to Cooper’s Beach.” Nico shuffles over on the couch as Annabeth falls beside him, as if she’s the one about to be interviewed - interrogated - on live TV.
“I think he’d rather die,” she chuckles.
This is commonplace for Nico and Annabeth, a comforting distraction from the terror reigning over Nico’s anxieties of the night, alleviating his jumping heart and leg. He will never say it to her face (it’ll inflate her ego too much for his liking) but Annabeth’s presence brings him solace amidst the chaos surrounding him. He’s glad she’s there.
That is, until Annabeth switches back into manager mode. Her switches are unprecedented and without warning, and she is much too close to catalysing Nico’s next break from reality.
“Alright, let’s get into the rules.”
Nico groans, falling onto his side and throwing his arms over his head like a toddler in time-out.
“No temper tantrums tonight, di Angelo.” Annabeth ignores his display of immaturity, tapping her pen against the clipboard as a mental checklist. She begins her rhetoric.
“No swearing.”
Nico glares at her through the cracks of his fingers. She stares back.
“You’ve been blacklisted once, Nico. Let’s avoid that tonight. No shits. No fucks.”
“That was one time!”
“Do you want to add another to that list? This is family-friendly content. You’re going on national television. For the love of God, if I even hear a ‘damn’ come out of those pretty little lips of yours, I will ship you off to Staten Island.”
Nico gapes in fake disdain. “You wouldn’t.”
“I would.” Her tone tells Nico that she is dead serious, and he shuts up. He’d rather not experience the wonders of Staten Island. Once, and never again. “No reference or implication of drugs.”
He forces his leg to stop bouncing. Does she think I’m some sort of junkie?
“No sex, no politics.”
She’s really giving me no talking points here.
“Try to smile more. But not too much. You’ll come off as insincere.”
Now I’m a fucking show pony.
“He’s going to ask you about the album - try to keep it positive. Don’t get too philosophical like you always do.”
So I need to be digestible. God, I hate mainstream media. Maybe I should pull an Enya.
“And absolutely no relationship talk.”
This breaks Nico out of his inner rebellion. He sits up, brushing the annoyingly untameable mess of hair out his eyes to stare at his manager directly. “I’m not an idiot. I know not to talk about that.”
Annabeth rubs an ink-stained palm against her face, her glasses dangerously close to teetering off her nose. “I know you’re not an idiot, Nico. But you know these hosts. Letterman will most definitely try to bring up your ‘secret romance’.” She uses finger quotes at the end of her sentence, something so uncharacteristically Annabeth. She is never one to participate in gestural implications.
Nico knows that she is on the brink of mental collapse. Album promotion cycles are not for the faint of heart. Thank God it’s Annabeth he has on his side. This woman is anything but faint at heart.
“And if he tries to bring it up?”
Annabeth shrugs. “Change the subject. Shift the focus to the music. That’s what you’re here to talk about.”
“Bit hard to focus on the music when the music is literally about my ‘secret romance’.”
“And who’s the one that decided on that, Mr Songwriter?”
“Alright, alright. No relationship talk.”
Apparently appeased, Annabeth stands, brushing off the nonexistent dust from her pantsuit for some semblance of control. She looks at her clipboard yet again, staring at the page as if it would say something different from the ten millions times she’s stared at it. Annabeth looks up at Nico, then back down to the page, then back up again, hoping she’s said everything she’s needed to say. Forget one point, and Nico’s at risk of a complete PR crisis. Nico’s pretty sure he’s listed as ‘Flight Risk’ on Annabeth’s phone. He’s not particularly renowned for his flawless media training.
Annabeth opens her mouth, and as Nico mentally prepares himself for yet another one of her ‘rules’, the door that has been taunting him for the past hour flies open. The miraculously missing PA peeks behind the corner. There’s no negroni or cigarette in sight. This really is Nico’s worst nightmare.
“Five minute call, everyone! Is the talent ready?”
Annabeth looks down on him with a cocked eyebrow. Nico can sense that she feels his aversion. She knows how much he despises these speculations, and Nico was definitely not ready. But that’s show business for you. You don’t need to be ready. You just need your fancy clothes, your expensive makeup, and your fake smile, and you’re ready to be consumed.
Stage Right Wings, Ed Sullivan Theatre, Manhattan
February 23rd, 2012. 5:27 PM.
Nico hadn’t expected his break from reality to come so soon.
He’s trapped behind the wings, in a blurry haze of headsets and clipboards. Makeup artists and hair stylists flutter around him, pounding him with powder and using an endless amount of hair brushes in vain attempt to tame his bird’s nest of hair. Some PA is voicing unintelligible instructions to him, drowned out by the thrumming of incandescent lights above him and the mechanical whirring of amps behind him.
The curtain looks like a doomed door to Hell, the slight cracks revealing the audience awaiting his entrance. Nico feels on the brink of collapse or throwing up. He would take a hangover over this any day of the week.
His heartbeat is pounding in his ear, his legs are shaking, and the leather of his pants is suctioning his sweat so much, he feels like he’s been soaked in oil.
“Have you got everything?”
The PA’s voice stirs him back to reality, and he stares at her with complete dumbfoundedness. Has he got what?
“Uh. Yeah.”
“Two minutes until showtime, people!” A voice cuts through from somewhere in the room, ushering the PA from her duties as she scurries away with no further clarification. Nico’s mouth floods with saliva. He hopes the people in the front row brought a change of clothes; they are sitting right in the splash zone.
“Ladies and gentlemen, David Letterman!”
A flurry of cheers, whistles, cries, and claps overwhelms the buzzing of his earpiece, a sordid reminder that this is in fact real, and Nico is going to have to exit the safety of the wings and face his nightmare of TV interviews.
As Letterman plays off his monologue in his typical dead-pan cynicism, Nico dozes off yet again into anxiety-induced dissociation. He thinks about all the chain-smoking he is going to partake in after this (despite Annabeth’s vexing protests) and the long-awaited cocktails waiting for him to abuse. In the background, he hears snippets of Letterman’s voice, a faint reminder of what’s really waiting for him.
“Big news today in Hollywood - everyone’s shocked. But that’s mostly because no one reads contracts.” There’s a slight beat. “Don’t worry, folks. I’ve still got my unpaid internship at CBS.”
He’s not sure how much time has passed - if any at all - until he hears the unwelcome words, “Ladies and gentlemen, please give a warm welcome to… Nico di Angelo!”
In his state, Nico doesn’t realise that’s his cue.
The relentless PA flicks at his side, and before Nico can get a word out, says, “What are you doing? Get out there!”
Nico hears Letterman laugh nervously in his earpiece. “Let’s try it again. Ladies and gentlemen, Nico di Angelo!”
Nico is practically pushed into the curtains.
And he can feel the vomit swirling around his esophagus.
He hears a faint, dangerous voice in the back of his mind. Not his own.
Control your face. Control your hands. Control your voice.
The warm lights above him greets him in a cold flash, blinding him temporarily before he adjusts and sees the audience in their full breadth.
Time to perform, di Angelo. You’re a show pony, remember?
And he transforms.
One minute ago, he was at risk of a heart attack. Now, under the fluorescent stage lights and before a booming audience cheering for him and only him, he remembers who he is. He’s Nico fucking di Angelo, for God’s sake. He is nothing but a performer.
Nico walks in an elegant stride to Letterman’s desk, reaching out a fist that David meets with a bump, then falling comfortably onto the leather chair waiting for him as if he’s sat there a million times before. This was his first time on the Letterman show. And he’d be damned if he didn’t make a good first impression. He had a late entrance, sure. But that is nothing good banter can’t fix.
“Finally, I get to meet the elusive Nico di Angelo. Feels like you’ve been avoiding me all these years! I can’t believe Ellen got to you before I did.” Letterman grins at Nico with genuine warmth, and Nico remembers that he is actually a real person and not a hologram he’s watched on TV.
Nico laughs and dips his head, allowing all the media training to wash over him. Just for one night. “Don’t lie, Letterman. We all know this show is better off without me. And Ellen basically begged.”
The audience erupts into laughter, a good sign. The night before he had convinced himself there would be no real audience, only a laughing track. For once, he’s glad he was wrong.
“You’ve had quite a year, and it’s only February. The rest of us have a lot of catching up to do.” Letterman looks swiftly down to his cards, then back up at Nico as he leans in. “Just Like Heaven is everywhere. Inescapable. I’ve even heard talk radio blasting ‘Take Me To Church’. Do you think this means the equality problem’s been solved?”
“Ha! I didn’t believe them when they said you were funny, Dave. I don’t think a song has the power to eliminate bigotry. Maybe the next album.”
“Well, based on how you’re doing now, the next album is going to be seismic. I mean, number one on Billboard, you’ve topped worldwide charts, you’re breaking records, and you’ve even gotten a music video banned in three countries. You’re basically Madonna.”
“Careful, that’s blasphemy.”
The audience - and Letterman - boom with laughter yet again. Nico’s sweat seems to have dissipated and his heart is no longer jumping at the speed it was ten minutes ago. They like him. And more importantly, they’re laughing. The applause hits like a drug he’s allowed to take in public. Nico’s struck gold.
“Just Like Heaven is a very… romantic album. Very different from what you’ve released in the past. How did this come about? Or rather, who made this come about?”
The throwing up feeling has returned. He thinks back to Annabeth’s instructions. Absolutely no relationship talk.
“You know New York. Love’s everywhere. It’s hard not to get inspired.”
“So there’s no special someone behind the scenes? No particular movie star you’re shacking up with?”
Letterman was getting too specific.
“You don’t work for The Times, do you Dave?”
Letterman chuckles. “No, just CBS. Do you think I should reconsider my career? I’m getting old, can’t be doing late shows forever.”
“I think you have a bright future in journalism. Just put my name in your application and they’ll give you a corner office.”
More laughter. Damn, Nico is good at this.
“Now, you started out in Long Island, right? You’re a long way from home.”
“I’ve spent far too much time in my life telling people Long Island is a part of New York. I’m New York through and through, Dave. But, yeah, I did. Long Island was where it all started.”
“And signed to a label at just 15 years old. That’s impressive.”
Nico shrugs. “Eh, light work.”
An eruption of laughter.
“You’re 22 now. You’re a multi-Grammy award winning artist. Rolling Stone has called you rock’s revival. You’ve worked alongside the greats. Bowie, Elton, Jagger. Would you have imagined all of this when you were 15?”
Nico has been asked a lot of questions. It’s rare that one causes him to stop and pause. Really think about his answer. Dig deep to retrieve some semblance of who he used to be before… all this.
“Not really. To be honest, I didn’t think people would like me enough to care about my music.”
Spotlight at The Paramount, Huntington, Long Island
September 7th, 2005. 9:45 PM.
“You’re up soon, kid.”
The bartender’s gritty shout barely got over the noise enveloping the room. The yelling of orders at the bar, the middle-aged men jeering each other on, and the crashing of people on the dancefloor all blurred together in a whirlwind of voices, making it impossible to even process a single thought.
The bar’s lights were low and glistening a strange tinge of green, casting odd shadows around the room. There was a thick stench of cigarettes and cigars in the air, making the pungent presence of body odour and old beer slightly less overbearing. In the corner, a girl was drunkenly punching at her boyfriend’s chest, and the loud accusations of cheating flowed through the room like an echo. No one paid any mind. Most of them were too drunk to care.
Nico had fantasised about what it must be like in these places. It turned out it was exactly what he dreamed it would be: dirty, loud, and perfect. Not many 15 year old boys wanted their Saturday nights to look like this.
He was playing the fucking Paramount. Sure, it might just be the little bar underneath it, but it was still the Paramount, Huntington’s little crown jewel. Take that, Corey Green.
Maybe it was the vodka soda he had snatched from behind the bar, but the stage fright he had expected to hit was nowhere to be found. A normal person would be relieved, elated even, that their anxiety wasn’t washing out all rational thoughts and feelings gnawing at their mind. Nico, however, was suspicious. His nervous system wasn’t particularly known for being calm, cool, and collected.
A hard slap on the back woke Nico from his spiralling self-conflict.
“Dude, wake up!” Travis yelled over the bar chatter. His guitarist loomed over him with an obvious stench of cheap beer on his breath, eyes wild and wide with anticipation. “We’ve been waiting backstage for ages, man. Alex thinks you’ve fucked off.”
Nico scoffed at that, sliding off the bar stool. “It’s my fuckin’ show. Why the hell would I run off, huh?”
“I dunno man,” Travis said as he dragged Nico by the forearm to behind the stage. “You do weird shit, wouldn’t be much of a surprise.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Travis kicked down a graffiti-littered side door into the green room, which smelled ridiculously worse than the bar behind them. It was a strange amalgamation of liquor, tobacco, weed, mold, and… cum? Basically the equivalent to their school’s boys locker room.
Behind the door, the rest of the band was gathered. Alex, sprawled on the cheap, wilting couch, lifted his head to the intrusion as his drumsticks fell out of his hand. “Fucking finally! I was starting to think you died, di Angelo.”
Nico chuckled. “Afraid your dreams haven’t come true just yet, asshole.”
“We’re on in two minutes,” supplied Rachel, typing furiously on her flip phone, somehow retaining sight behind the mane of red locks covering her face. “Everyone ready?”
The twins - Travis and Connor - whooped in response in time to Alex’s, “Fuck yeah!”
The group turned to Nico in expectation. Then the nerves finally decide to kick in.
Nico, in an attempt to feign excitement, raised an unsure fist into the air. “Yay?”
Travis slapped his back - again. “Good thing you didn’t take up acting, di Angelo.”
On stage, the room appeared infinitely larger than it did from the bar. The group hid behind the wings, watching as the owner made their introduction.
“-yeah, happy hour’s over, sorry boys! You’re late, you lose. Anyway,” the owner of the bar, a tall, floating woman who called herself Circe, jeered at the wasted crowd, her smile somehow wafting sudden calm throughout the room. “We’ve got a special act for you all tonight. This kid is local, absolutely insane, and incredibly loud. Only 15, mind you, so keep your hands out of your pants, creeps. Please welcome, Nico di Angelo!”
The cheers intensified as Travis struck the first chord on his Fender. They only got louder as Alex beat the cymbals. Connor’s bass and Rachel’s keys joined in simultaneously, and as Nico stepped into the flickering spotlight, he heard a mix of cheers, yells, and claps before he pressed his mouth to the mic. Suddenly, there was no need to be nervous. He was right where he should be.
The set was electric, sweaty, and surprisingly stimulating, given the crowd demographic. Were middle-aged drunks the perfect target audience?
They were closing the show with the most recent song Nico had written, one about the band that he called, ‘The Bends’. It was an obvious crowd pleaser, and Nico got to show off his pipes a bit. As they reached the bridge, Nico found himself scanning the audience, eyes searching for no one in particular. That is, until they reached the faint figure of a man in the back of the bar, a man Nico had never once considered would be present at his show, but would recognise anywhere.
Johnny fucking Maxwell.
Manhattan’s rock wonder. The 21st century’s hotshot music producer, a legend in alternative rock and a pioneer in New York’s newest rock scene. For a moment, Nico believed he’d stepped into an alternate dimension. So much so, he slipped up on a lyric and just stared, jaw going slack.
Maxwell appeared to notice this slip, and Nico saw a faint outline of a smirk stretch across his face as he raised a glass towards him.
Finishing the set went by in a blur. Nico faintly remembers Travis trying to smash his guitar but failing as his strap wrapped too tight around his neck. Alex, in his delighted excitement, threw only one stick into the crowd, promptly hitting an unsuspecting 40-something on the head. Nico had waved a hand to the crowd, eyes trained on the dark figure in the back before he slunk into the dark behind the stage.
One perk of living in an under-policed and uncaring small town is that bartenders never batted an eye as adolescent self-proclaimed rockstars ordered, “A round of your finest beer, please, my lord!” Travis was always one for polite conversation.
Nico and the band gained several pats on the back and yelled drawls of compliments from drunk passers-by, grinning at the slurred conversation and exaggerated proclamations.
“Yur gonn’ be a star, kid!”
“Where’d you learn to play like tha’, huh?”
“Fuck are you doing in Long Island?”
“Gimme your number, I’ll take good care of it.”
Maybe not all the comments were well-received.
The band sat around their sticky table, downing 4 rounds of bad beer before Rachel called it after Alex took up a banker’s offer for ‘Truth or Strip’. Alex was halfway into taking off his shirt before Rachel grabbed the back of his neck, dragging him towards the exit, yelling behind her, “Catch up, boys!”
“Well, boss says we’re done,” Connor clapped his hands, eyes squinting as he tried to swallow another burp. Travis suggested a no-burp competition, and the Stolls were nothing but serious when it came to the grand prize of movie tickets and dollar-store cigarettes.
Nico threw a tenner on the table before slinking behind the twins to leave. A strong grip on his shoulder stopped him in his tracks.
Expecting another round of compliments from old men, Nico turned with a forced smile, faltering as he came face to face with the last person he expected to be met with.
Johnny fucking Maxwell.
The man looked even more unbelievable when he wasn’t concealed in the shadows. All rock n' roll and swagger, black hair cascading down leather clad shoulders, eyes dark and full of secrets.
“You’re good, kid. You’re good, but I can make you better. You’re wasting your time in places like these.” Maxwell’s face was fixed in the same smirk he was wearing before.
Nico opened his mouth, but only air escaped. Maxwell puffed out a chuckle laced with… pity? Smugness? Curiosity?
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. I can make you a fuckin’ star.” Maxwell pulled a bright card from his back pocket, the white paper almost luminescent in the dark light of the room. The words, ‘Johnny Maxwell, RCA Records, Producer’ shone back at Nico, a phone number printed small at the bottom. “Take this card, and I will change your life.”
With a slightly shaking hand, Nico grasped the card, staring at it with odd reverence before looking back up at the man before him. “You’re not serious.”
“Send me your demos, and I’ll show you how serious I can be,” Maxwell said with a wink. Nico wasn’t sure if it was the lighting or the mixture of vodka and beer shifting in his system, but did the wink edge less on playful and more on… something else?
Maxwell looked down on Nico with eyes that made his stomach twist - not with nerves, not excitement, something else. His smile bared a sliver of blinding white teeth, the edges nipping at his bottom lip.
“I’ll be expecting your call, Nico di Angelo.”
Just as quickly as his hand was on Nico’s shoulder, Maxwell slipped past him, disappearing behind the exit and leaving Nico in a heap of sweat, disbelief, and pure adrenaline.
A strange feeling swept up Nico’s spine. In his hands was the key to what he had been so desperate for all this time. A big break. The big break. The simple, weightless piece of paper clutched in his fingers felt as heavy as crown jewels. The card stuck to his sweaty palm, an imprint of what it represents. What it means.
This was the start of his life. It was finally going to change. Johnny Maxwell was going to make him a star. That was what he promised.
And Nico believed him.
How could he not?
Onstage, Ed Sullivan Theatre, Manhattan
February 23rd, 2012. 5:42 PM
The floodlights washing the stage is all Nico can see. The bright, white light conceals the audience before him. Their laughter and quiet chatter blend into the atmosphere. Camera lenses stalk him from every corner, capturing every angle, leaving no escape for any break of character. He feels his body sinking into the leather beneath him, not in comfort, but as if it were quicksand, urging him to give in and fall.
Only that isn’t an option.
He’s live.
“So,” Letterman’s drawl snaps him back to reality. Letterman faces Nico, one leg swung over the other, a hand stroking his chin, as if in deep thought. The cue cards laid in front of him say otherwise. “You never expected to make it big?”
The question sparks alarm bells in Nico’s mind. Truthfully, the best answer he can give involves setting, characters, backstories, plot twists, and a hell of a lot of context. But, live TV isn’t searching for the best answer. They want the easy answer.
“I don’t think anyone really expects to make it big. It just happens, by some stroke of luck or when the pieces fall into place, y’know? I just happened to be in the right place at the right time.”
The image of a dark, dusty bar saturated in green light flashes into his mind. Wafts of cigarette smoke and old beer curl into his sinuses. The sound of cash slammed on bartops, shouts of drunks, and the buzz of broken-down LEDs swim through his ears. The weight of a single white card falls heavy in his palm.
“You were discovered at 15, correct? That’s young.” Letterman sounds impressed.
Nico only chuckles, no humour behind it. “Too young if you ask me.”
“How so?”
Nico hates following up.
His eye twitches as he digs his nails into his skin.
“I’m grateful to have gotten the opportunity to start my career so young, don’t get me wrong. So many talented people never get their chance. So, I was lucky. But I was also naive. I don’t think I realised that everything was going to change, until it-”
Nico stops himself. He weighs the implication behind the next words he chooses, recalling Annabeth’s sprawling rules and warnings. Digestible. He needs to be digestible.
“Y’know, until it all changed.” Nico laughs after his words, attempting to bring the slowly-dying energy of the crowd back up.
Letterman claps his hands together, grinning his million-dollar smile (that’s probably what it’s worth) back at Nico. “Well, aren’t we all glad it did change! You’re a renegade, Nico. The industry needed a disrupter like you to shake things up.”
Nico genuinely laughs at this. “I’m happy that’s my legacy.”
The rest of the interview continues with minimal slips and easy conversation, besides one accidental reference to anal that sends the audience into hysterics and earns him a sharp look from the wings. If Annabeth asks, he’ll deny everything with, “How on earth would that even get brought up, Chase?”
The crowd cheers, Letterman laughs, and Nico grins at the praises offered to him. Yet, all he can think of is going home. He aches for comfort and familiarity, to be back to the safety of the arms of the person waiting for him. Nico stops himself from going too far into this ache, drilling Annabeth’s number one rule into him. No relationship talk.
He finishes the show with a performance of the album’s lead single, ‘Take Me To Church’. To his surprise, the audience sings along to every word. To have hundreds, thousands, even millions of people knowing the lyrics to the song that his label had once viewed as career-ending was both gratifying and terrifying.
He stumbles off the stage, breath still uneven, following his band back to the dressing room as the crew shout their praise and congratulations in passing. Nico only responds with nods and smiles, unable to articulate words as adrenaline courses swiftly through his body. The high feels foreign, almost invasive. Not the kind he’s used to.
Nico snags the empty corner of the sofa, kicking Alex beside him in an aggressive hint to scooch over. Alex responds with a raspberry to the cheek, earning him another solid kick to the gut.
“Fucking hell, not when you still have those monsters on! Take the heels off before you start beating me to oblivion.”
“Drama queen.”
“Psychopath.”
“Ass wipe-”
Rachel groans from her chair, wiping an eye with a cotton pad. “Stop flirting.”
Amidst the constant flow and chatter in Nico’s life, moments like these, alone with his best friends after smashing out a show, are moments he has learned to never take for granted. It’s so rare, at this point of his career, for Nico to really breathe. In truth, Nico has realised that he can’t really breathe on his own anymore. The band is the only thing keeping his pulse steady.
Connor, from the floor, the only free spot in the room, giggles uncontrollably at the scene. “That was fuckin’ awesome. Dude, Nico, did you see the crowd? Everyone knew the words.”
“How could they not?” Travis says from his claimed armchair. He pouts at Nico, faux-wiping the tears from his eyes. “Our little boy’s taken the world by storm.”
Nico made a face as he pulled off his shoes, chucking a sock that Travis (un)gracefully dodged. “Ew, do not call me that. And I doubt the whole world’s been taken. Maybe an eighth or something.”
“No seriously, Nico.” Rachel swivelled in her chair, looking almost cartoonish with one side of her face bare with the other caked in makeup. “You should be proud of yourself. We all know how nervous you were to release that song, heck, even the whole album. Look at what you’ve achieved. You deserve to brag a bit. If not, we’ll brag for you.”
“Ha! Yeah!” chirps Travis. “Our best friend is a world famous rock-star, what does yours do? Has your best friend won a Grammy? No? Have they sold-out Madison Square Garden? No? Have they recorded an album with David Bowie? No? Loser!”
The band erupts in collective laughter. Alex throws his head back against the couch as he bellows, clutching his stomach like a lifeline. Nico can’t help but join in. Their joy has always been infectious.
Nico leans back into the couch, finally allowing the adrenaline rushing through him to soften. For a second, he almost forgets he’s famous.
Their laughter is cut abruptly short as the door slams open, the one and only Annabeth Chase striding in, the room quieting by half a notch. She gives Travis one look laced with violence that urges him to immediately jump up and join his brother on the floor. Apparently pleased, Annabeth slowly sinks onto the chair, shoulders sagging in relief as she relaxes for the first time in probably a week. She pulls her glasses from her face, massaging her temple with her palm.
“You good, boss?” asks Connor, concern edging along his frown lines.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m good. Glad it went well. Seems like the stars aligned tonight.”
Nico scoffs with fondness, a gentle smile caressing his features. “You have so much faith in me, Chase.”
Annabeth peers up at him with tired eyes that hold no malice or resentment. “Of course, di Angelo. Wouldn’t be much of a manager if I didn’t. But-”
Nico braces himself for impact.
“What the fuck was that anal line? I thought I told you. No sex! What part of PG-friendly is so hard to comprehend?”
“He couldn’t help himself, Annabeth,” Travis offers helpfully, grinning up at Nico with evil dancing in his eyes. “Nico thinks dick-first.”
Nico takes this as an opportunity to throw his second sock with a smirk, aiming perfectly this time at Travis’ open-mouth. A fit of coughs and gags echo throughout the room. Everyone ignores it.
Turning his gaze towards his manager, Nico arranges his face into innocence. “How on earth would that even get brought up, Chase?”
Apartment 5A, 7th Street, East Village, Manhattan
February 23rd, 2012. 10:48 PM.
The key turns slowly in the lock, the click echoing like a bass drum in the quiet of the corridor. Nico gently nudges the front door open with his foot, hands occupied with the abnormally large bouquet Travis and Connor had unceremoniously bestowed to Nico as they left the theatre.
Nico is met with the familiar, comfortable smell of their apartment, the air wafting with jasmine incense, the pasta he had cooked for lunch, and his Dior cologne.
Warm, welcoming light floods his senses as he flicks the hallway light on, dropping the flowers on the entrance table along with his keys. He tells himself he’ll put them in a vase later. He knows he’s not going to be the one to do it.
Nico’s feet work faster than his head as he dozes toward the kitchen, looking forward to either chamomile tea or whiskey. Both, if he wants to treat himself. His head whirs, overstimulated from the never-ending buzz of the day.
He still feels the press of the earpiece in his ear, still hears the beeping and buzzing of the backstage, his shoulders in a tight tension, as if the cameras were still there. Nico knows that they are not. Yet, he glances over his shoulder anyway.
His trip to the kitchen is cut short when his eyes meet a lump on the purple couch in his living room, a heap bundled in blankets and pillows. The paranoia that had been holding him hostage suddenly washes away, replaced with a deep, vulnerable sense of home.
Nico makes careful steps towards the sofa, careful to miss the spots on the wood floors that creak when stepped on. He kneels in front of the couch, and lifts a gentle hand to move a bit of the blanket aside. The sight before him makes him smile with soft adoration.
“Hey,” he whispers. “Why aren’t you in bed?”
Behind a mess of blonde hair, tired eyes open in slits, blue meeting brown. “I was waiting for you.”
Nico lets out a quiet chuckle, pushing the hair out of his boyfriend’s eyes to press a soft kiss to his forehead. “I told you not to wait up, Will. You have a big day tomorrow.”
Yawning dramatically, Will sits up, letting the mountain of blankets and pillows fall off him and to the floor next to Nico as he stretches his limbs like an alley-cat. “I couldn’t fall asleep anyway.”
“I literally just walked in on you snoring.”
“I mean I couldn’t go to sleep in bed. Felt weird without you.”
“Dork.”
“You love me.”
Nico’s smile somehow grows wider, if possible. An overwhelming sense of love overcomes him, more powerful than everything he had felt that night. “You wish.”
In a single second, Nico is shoved backward to the floor as Will pounces on him, turning the soft moment into a brawl of arms and legs. Nico lets out a surprised shout after Will pokes a finger in his side, almost punching him in retaliation until he’s peppered with chaste kisses all over his face. Nico stills and lets it happen, laughing gently as he clutches the sides of Will’s face, holding tighter than he means to.
Will stops, moving back slightly to gaze at Nico in the dim light. He memorises the way Will looks at him. Years ago, Nico would have felt incredibly exposed, fighting to pull back and escape the harsh vulnerability in the atmosphere. Now, Nico embraces it, revels in it. Here, he is safe. He is home.
“I missed you,” Will speaks softly in the quiet of the room.
Nico reaches up to return Will’s kiss. “Missed you more.”
The anticipation of whiskey and/or chamomile tea escapes him as Will leads him toward the bedroom. He forgets he ever wants it. He only looks forward to sinking into clean sheets and tangling his body with another. Will stops in the hallway, picking up the forgotten bouquet on the entry table.
“You go to bed. I’ll put these in water.”
“Don’t take too long.”
“Never.”