𝐏𝐁&𝐉𝐉 જ⁀➴ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐫𝐮𝐦𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐈𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭
Boy band au where Johnny and Joaquin get too carried away with a “duel” of sorts
Somewhere between soundcheck and the late-night pizza delivery, they all got bored.
Which meant something ridiculous was about to happen. Every single time.
They were stuck in a small-town venue green room with half-functioning AC, mismatched couches, and one lopsided pool table. Outside, their security detail leaned on the vans, half-watching the back door and half-scrolling their phones. Inside, chaos brewed.
Johnny was tapping on the coffee table like a menace, fingers a blur as his drumsticks bounced off every possible surface.
“Can you not make everything into a beat?” Bob muttered from the floor, where he was sprawled out like a ghost, hoodie over his eyes. “It’s giving me a headache.”
“That’s a you problem,” Johnny shot back without looking, grinning. “I’m an artist. Art is pain.”
Peter let out a loud fake gasp from the beanbag chair he’d claimed like a raccoon in a nest. “Was that… poetic? Do we have a second Bob in the room? Did he just unlock his mysterious boy era?”
“Shut up,” Johnny said, flicking a stick in Peter’s direction.
Peter dodged dramatically, rolling off the beanbag and smacking into Joaquin’s leg.
“Okay. If no one’s gonna do anything fun,” Joaquin announced, “I’m declaring war.”
“Yes,” Johnny said at the same time. He jumped up from the table, sticks in hand, and took a fencing stance.
Joaquin’s eyes lit up. “Sword fight. Right now. You and me.”
Johnny brandished the drumsticks. “These babies.”
Joaquin smirked and reached into the cup holder of the couch. “One of those is mine now.”
Peter raised both eyebrows, intrigued. “Oh god. This is gonna be so stupid.”
“It’s gonna be amazing,” Johnny corrected.
They faced off like two knights in a medieval kitchen, plastic water bottles and chip bags strewn around them like rubble. Peter immediately pulled out his phone.
“Everyone ready for The Dork of the Rings: The Two Dipshits?”
Joaquin and Johnny circled each other with exaggerated steps, twirling their makeshift swords. Bob didn’t even open his eyes.
“If one of you breaks something,” Bob said, not moving, “I’m telling management.”
“That’s fair,” Peter replied, filming steadily. “But only if they break something expensive. If it’s just Johnny’s pride, we let that slide.”
Johnny lunged. Joaquin parried. The hollow thock of wood on wood echoed in the green room, followed by an obnoxious, mutual “HYAH!”
It wasn’t a real fight, but Joaquin moved like a dancer — dramatic, spinning, overly serious—while Johnny fought like a kid who grew up hitting things with sticks, grinning wide, laughing between swings.
They were both fast. Not trained or precise, just chaotic.
“En garde, dork!” Johnny yelled, laughing.
“You don’t even know what that means!” Joaquin shouted back, matching his energy.
Their feet scraped on the floor. One of them knocked over an unopened water bottle. Peter, now fully invested in being the narrator, gasped like it was a live-action telenovela.
“OH, THE HUMANITY,” he yelled. “They are unstoppable. They are feral. They are—”
Joaquin stood there, one half of the broken drumstick in his hand. Johnny stared at the other half at his foot. The tip had snapped clean off mid-swing. One second it was a sword; the next, it was a jagged twig.
“…Oh my god,” Peter whispered, camera still rolling.
“I—” Joaquin looked genuinely shocked. “That was not on purpose.”
Bob finally lifted his hoodie, eyes narrowed. “Did you actually break it?”
Peter zoomed in dramatically on the snapped stick. “Yes, Bob. He has committed a war crime.”
“It was an accident!” Joaquin insisted, holding the broken half like it was radioactive. “Dude, I didn’t know these things could break—”
“They’re not supposed to,” Johnny said, staring at the remains like he’d lost a limb. “I’ve had that pair since last summer’s tour.”
“Oh,” Joaquin said, the guilt hitting. “Like, sentimentally?”
Johnny gave him a slow, wounded nod. “They survived the stage dive incident. And the energy drink explosion in Tampa. They were veterans.”
Bob stood up, groaning. “Oh no. You guys made it emotional.”
“Okay, no, seriously,” Joaquin said, voice softer now. “I’m sorry. I’ll buy you new ones.”
Johnny looked up at him dramatically. “It’s not about new ones, Joaquin. It’s about what we lost.”
Peter was howling with laughter at this point. “Are you two gonna kiss or are we making a memorial?”
“Don’t tempt me,” Johnny said, picking up and throwing the broken end at Peter’s feet like a mic drop. “You don’t understand what we had.”
Joaquin dropped onto the couch, face in his hands. “I’m gonna feel bad about this for weeks.”
“Good,” Johnny huffed. “I hope it haunts you in your sleep.”
Bob, now fully invested despite himself, wandered over and inspected the broken stick.
“Honestly, this one was already starting to splinter,” he noted. “You probably just finished the job.”
Johnny gasped. “Don’t you dare let him off the hook.”
Peter finally stopped filming and dropped next to Johnny, handing him a juice box from the snack table.
“You did your best,” he said solemnly. “But sometimes the drumsticks we love… break in the dumbest possible fake sword fights.”
“Beautifully said,” Bob added dryly. “Very moving.”
Johnny rolled his eyes, but his smile was tugging at the corners now. “Fine. You’re all forgiven.”
Joaquin perked up. “Wait—really?”
“Yeah,” Johnny said, flopping dramatically onto the floor. “But only because I will force you to replace them. And also because I was winning.”
“You weren’t,” Joaquin argued.
Peter cut in, grinning. “Technically you lost. Your sword broke.”
“Technically he broke it,” Johnny pointed out. “That’s sabotage.”
Bob just shook his head. “You two are the reason our tour manager has gray hairs.”
The green room was dark except for the glow of a single phone flashlight.
Johnny had carefully arranged the two halves of the drumstick on a napkin like a tiny funeral display. A tea light flickered beside it — from Peter’s emergency candle stash (don’t ask).
Joaquin stood beside him, solemn.
Peter read from a paper towel like it was a eulogy.
“We are gathered here to honor this brave drumstick,” he said, barely holding it together. “May it find peace in that great guitar center in the sky.”
Bob stood in the back eating Cheetos.
“No,” Peter said. “The ritual is sacred.”
Joaquin added, “I promise to never use your sticks in combat again.”
Johnny dabbed at an invisible tear. “Thank you. That means everything.”
Then he laughed, took the broken stick, and waved it in the air. “Also, I’m framing this. ‘Cause it broke in the stupidest, most us way possible.”
“Exactly,” Peter grinned. “You know what that means?”
Johnny smiled. “Means we’re legends.”
The dressing room buzzed with pre-show chaos — someone was blasting throwback Bieber, Peter was trying to fix his collar in the mirror, and Bob was quietly chewing gum with his hoodie over his head like he was meditating.
But Johnny? He wasn’t doing much of anything. Just sitting cross-legged on the couch, tapping his sneaker against the floor with no sticks in sight.
Not because he didn’t have replacements—he did. A few random backups, mismatched pairs from techs or picked up at the last venue. But they didn’t feel like his.
“Yo,” Joaquin called, peeking into the room with something behind his back. “Got a sec?”
Johnny looked up. “Uh, yeah?”
Joaquin walked in, suddenly looking a little awkward—which wasn’t like him. “Okay, so I know it’s kinda stupid and sentimental or whatever, but…”
He pulled a brand-new stick bag from behind his back and dropped it gently in Johnny’s lap.
“…I figured you deserved better than the Frankenstein pair you’ve been using.”
Johnny blinked. Then blinked again. The bag was packed. Sleek black exterior, with a perfect zip — and when he opened it?
There were mallets. Brushes. Custom sticks. A GoPro tucked into a lower pocket. Even a small box of gel dampeners, still in their case. And a digital watch—the same kind Johnny used to keep time during rehearsals but had lost months ago in Miami.
Joaquin rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. I mean, Bob helped me figure out what kinds you actually use. And Peter picked the GoPro. Said you might wanna film solos again.”
Johnny ran a hand over the velvet interior, taking in the lineup of sticks like they were trophies.
“I even got you those bamboo rute things you were obsessed with for like five minutes,” Joaquin added, suddenly shy. “Figured they’d make up for the ones I… uh, murdered.”
Johnny let out a breathy laugh and shook his head. “Dude. You didn’t have to do this.”
Silence stretched a little. Peter peered into the room, then ducked back out after seeing the moment happening.
Johnny stood up slowly, letting the bag hang from one hand. Then he clapped the other on Joaquin’s shoulder.
“This is, like… best gift ever,” he said, voice quiet. “Seriously. I thought you were just gonna Venmo me or something.”
Joaquin smirked. “And miss out on being dramatic? Please.”
Then Johnny grinned wide and said, “You wanna hit each other with them again backstage?”
“Only if we sign a waiver first,” Joaquin replied, laughing.
First fic for this au!! Kinda sickkkkk!! (likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated and requests are always open!!!)
