✧˖°ˈ·*ε-(๑˃́ε˂̀๑ )

Chord’s cherry-red Corvette Stingray—freshly waxed and gleaming under the late spring sun like a trophy that screamed look at me—idled at the high school drop-off curb. God, the car was perfect. Almost too perfect, like it belonged on a Hollywood set rather than parked in front of ND. It was the first thing he’d bought with their first big royalty cheque. Too bad Chord never got to drive it.

Chord jogged toward the car, sneakers scuffing the pavement, and threw one last glance around the parking lot, then slid into the passenger seat. 

“Hey,” Chord said, voice quieter than intended, trying for casual as he closed the door behind him with a faint click. He ran a hand over the polished, naturally aged leather. “Finally got her detailed, huh? She looks great.” 

Behind the wheel, his girlfriend Shauna tilted her head, eyes hidden behind oversized sunglasses perched high on her nose, and smirked. She didn’t respond, not verbally. Her hand shot out, fingers grabbing a fistful of his hair in a subtle snare, and tugged him forward as he leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. The leather creaked as he was forced to lean over the console, wincing at the sloppy, aggressive kiss, lips rough against his in a branding claim. And Chord let her.

What else was he supposed to do? Fight her? She’d call him cute in that condescending tone and roll her eyes. When she finally released him, he retreated, leather creaking beneath him. His lips were swollen and stinging, his pride a little bruised.

“Missed you,” Shauna murmured with a coy smile as if she hadn’t just tried to rip his hair out at the roots.

“Yeah, uh, same,” Chord said, smoothing his hair back into place and sinking back into his seat. He turned to look out the window, trying not to wince. He gingerly touched his lower lip, the engine’s growl filling the silence, and the Corvette tore away from the curb like it owned the road.

They met on tour. She’d been one of Static Shadow’s merch girls during their first cross-Canada tour, a recommendation by the head of their old label. She was cute, a little older, and a fun fling—something to brag about to the guys. An older girl. Cool. Impressive. He was getting laid, and they weren’t, even when they could have been. But then the tour ended, and the fling didn’t.

Now, he had a secret girlfriend. The last thing he needed was his dad butting into his business again. He never gave Chord any freedom, wanting him to be completely dependent on him. He liked that his kid was a somebody—like it made him a somebody, not just their manager.

“I’m going to need more cash for this weekend,” Shauna said once they were a few minutes from the high school, tone breezy and light, like a comment on the pleasant weather or the light traffic.

Of course, she did. Chord swallowed a sigh, stomach tightening, and turned to watch the suburban monotony blur into highway. “Oh, uh… Yeah. Sure,” he mumbled, twisting the faintly tarnished and scratched silver ring on his finger. His members wore identical ones. “We can hit up the bank after dinner.”

“Now.”

The Corvette swerved into the fast lane, nearly 30 clicks over the limit as her knuckles whitened around the wheel. Chord’s stomach swooped with the aggressive shift.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay. I guess we can,” Chord said quickly, his voice lighter than the weight on his chest. He slouched lower in his seat, picking at his chipped black nail polish. “No problem, just— I have jam at five, and a session with my coach tomorrow, so—”

Shauna’s sharp humourless laugh cut him off. Her fingers flex, the stressed plastic of the steering wheel creaking. “I don’t like her.”

And there it was. Her being the nearly forty-year-old woman who kept him from absolutely shredding his vocal cords during shows.

They lapsed into silence, the warm purr of the engine stirring the tension coiled so tight that Chord’s chest ached. He stared out the window as the landscape shifted from the blurred green of trees to the smeared blue and grey of the ocean as he rehearsed excuses, mind buzzing.

The best course of action was silence.

The band’s jam space wasn’t anything special—a cluttered and dingy room in a rundown lockout littered with cables, spare strings, dented mic stands, and forgotten water bottles. It smelled like teen sweat and stale pizza, but it was home. 

Chord sat cross-legged on the floor, one of his hoodie strings in his mouth, halfway through restringing Blue Beast—his electric blue Telecaster—propped against his knees. Kian tried to name it “Hank,” but thankfully, the name hadn’t stuck, despite Kian’s defiant ‘What’s the difference?” when Tan dubbed it Blue Beast.

Alter egos were always cooler, obviously. Nerds, the lot of them. 

Practice hadn’t started yet—Kian still conspicuously absent—but Tan sprawled on the sagging couch behind Chord, absentmindedly plucking the D-string of his bass while they waited. The bass wasn’t plugged in, but Chord could feel the rhythm, tapping his foot and humming along.

Their manager, who Chord unfortunately called ‘Dad,’ though most often just Jean-Marc to piss him off, stood by the door, dressed like he had an audition for a Wall Street drama—pressed slacks, button-up, and glasses perched low on his nose—furiously typing into his phone, muttering in French under his breath. His frown wasn’t doing any favours for the deep creases in his forehead.

The door rattled a few times, then burst open, Kian shoving his way in with his hip while juggling a McDonald’s bag, large drink, fries, absolutely zero shame, and a partially squashed burger under one arm. Somehow, he managed to look haphazard and freshly showered, sandy hair still damp and freckles scattered across his nose. 

“Sa’ee’m la’t,” Kian said around a mouthful of fries.

“Gross,” Chord said, not looking up from the tuning pegs.

“Wanna try that again in English?” Tan said, head tilted back on the arm of the couch to watch the spectacle upside down.

Kian swallowed dramatically, dumping his food on the nearest amp. “Mum was feelin’ lazy, so we hit the drive-thru. Guess she didn’t feel like burning dinner tonight.”

“Oi! I heard that, you bloody mongrel!” a voice thundered through the open door, thick with an Australian accent.

Kian flinched, scrambling to slam the door shut with his foot, then pressed his back against it to shield him from her wrath, like she might break it down with a frying pan, again. That had been a terrifyingly entertaining Friday night.

“Smooth, dumbass,” Tan snickered, Chord smirking to himself. 

“Fuck, that woman scares me shitless. Bloody deranged, I tell ya,” Kian declared, back plastered against the door, arms spread like expected it to blow open any second. “And where the hell have you been?” He jabbed a greasy finger in Tan’s direction. “You didn’t come home after school.”

“Compromise,” Tan muttered without looking up, fingers still steadily plucking the D-string. 

Their manager cleared his throat, and the energy shifted as all activity ceased. Kian almost snapped to attention to salute, Tan stopped his absentminded plucking, but still didn’t look up, and Chord straightened, eyes narrowing, his fingers tightening around an unfinished guitar string.

“Boys,” Jean-Marc started, slipping his phone into his pocket and straightening his glasses with the back of his hand. “I have news from the label about your latest album and tour. Big news.”

That had everyone’s attention. Kian abandoned his defensive stance, and Tan actually looked up from his bass.

“One Thousand Birds has officially sold six and a half million worldwide,” Jean-Marc continued, tone sharp. “The tour is being extended.”

There was a long silence, and then Kian whooped, took a running leap, and threw himself on Tan like an overgrown puppy. Tan groaned under the weight, shoving Kian at him halfheartedly, but Kian just laughed.

Chord barely reacted. He sat on the floor, Blue Beast forgotten in his lap, staring blankly at his father, words processing. Six and a half million. That was—huge. Surreal even. 

Sure, Chord knew they had made traction in the last few months, especially with their antics on their new band Instagram account. But that was bigger than he’d thought—than he intended.

Jean-Marc kept talking, nattering about extended tours and schedules, extra practices, promo shoots, and recorded performances, but Chord’s brain spiralled. Static Shadow had never been about fame or fortune.

Music had always been a part of Chord’s life. He’d wanted to perform from the moment he first learned Bohemian Rapsody on his viola, but Static Shadow had been started on a whim, an excuse for him and Tan to stay out of the house longer, and Kian happy to tag along for the ride. 

Fame was a side effect—an accident. And then suddenly, his safe space had been invaded. The attention was nice, but Chord just wanted to play the music. But six and a half million. That was something else, a weight, a responsibility.

“Everything has already been discussed with your parents,” Jean-Marc droned on.

“You are my parent,” Chord said. At the same time, he heard Tan’s sarcastic “Parents?” He picked up his guitar so he could finish restringing before they practiced.

“Understandably, some are more thrilled than others,” Jean-Marc continued, completely ignoring Chord’s snide comment. All eyes turned to Tan, who just shrugged. 

“So, we’re going international?” Chord asked, voice cracking slightly.

Kian paused mid-celebration, Tan still smothered under him.

Jean-Marc nodded. “Europe and Asia. Details are being finalized. We’ll have potential dates in a few weeks.”

Chord’s simmering excitement for this life-changing turn of events fizzled, mind shifting to Shauna, the girlfriend he’d be leaving behind. “Great,” he muttered, voice dripping with sarcasm.

But no one noticed. Chord’s mind spiralled. Europe. Asia. Bigger stages. Bigger crowds. Bigger problems.

Behind him, Tan had shoved a laughing Kian off the couch, and his dad was already back on the phone. But Chord tuned out the chaos, still seated on the floor with his half-strung guitar and the tangled mess of pride, dread, and obligation he didn’t have the energy to unpack.

Somewhere in his chest, a tiny spark of excitement flickered. This was the dream.