meet me in montauk

i write fanfiction and cry a lot. she/her 31. pgh. kingdon. jonsa. spuffy. ellabs. reylo. rhaenicent.

[cemeterycigs]

here is a link to my ao3 profile

BALDURS GATE 3 Little Dark Star - An AstarionxTav Fic. "It's been almost three years since you'd saved Baldur's Gate, three years since Astarion ascended and chose power over you. You'd tried so hard to change his mind, to make him see if he would chose to complete the ritual he'd be just as horrible as Cazador. He didn't listen."

GAME OF THRONES

a love meant for ruin - A Jonsa "Wuthering Heights" AU fic (Sansa POV) when a nameless, half starved boy is brought to Stark Manor, Sansa Stark never expects him to become the axis upon which her world turns. raised side by side in a house full of ghosts, Jon grows hard where she remains soft, wild where she is restrained. love twists into pride. devotion curdles into resentment. and when betrayal--real or imagined, tears them apart, it sets in motion a legacy of vengeance that will haunt generations. in the windswept moors surrounding Stark Manor, love is not gentle. it is consuming.

The Price of You - A Jonsa AU fic (Sansa POV) When her father is sent to prison on drug trafficking charges, Sansa Stark trades silk sheets for red lights and survival in a South Side strip club called The Red Keep. She keeps her family fed, her secrets buried, and her pride intact until Jon Snow walks back into her life. He was once the quiet boy her father took in, now a man with power, money, and the promise he made to Ned Stark hanging over his head. Jon offers her help, but his help comes with conditions, and Sansa knows every favor has a price. In a city built on loyalty and lies, they’ll both have to decide what they’re willing to lose to keep what’s left of their family alive.

The Cost of Me - A Jonsa AU fic (Jon POV) "Jon Snow buys a South Side strip club with blood instead of money, expecting nothing more than another piece of the city to control. Then Sansa Stark steps into the lights. Once the graceful girl who shared his home, she’s now fighting for every dollar that keeps her family together. Jon turns her struggle into leverage, pushing Ned Stark for the names he needs. A calculated move. A clean transaction. Until it isn’t. Until he starts falling for the one person he swore he wouldn’t touch."

In The House of Wolves - A Jonsa AU Fic (Sansa POV) "When Ramsay Bolton flees in the middle of the night, Sansa is left behind nearly killed by the very men her husband once commanded. Dragged before New York's most dangerous crime families for questioning, she's expected to take the fall for his crimes. But Jon Snow--raised a bastard and now one of the city's most powerful kingpins, makes a different call. Sansa wakes in Jon's private estate, her young daughter safe, but everything else uncertain. With the North on the verge of war and trust in short supply, she must prove her loyalty, survive the consequences of Ramsay's actions, and face the man she looked down on--the same man now holding her life in his hands."

Embers in the Snow - A Jonsa Fic (Dual POV) "After escaping the clutches of Ramsay Bolton, Sansa finds herself at Castle Black. While preparing for the war against the Night King, something stirs between Jon and Sansa, something neither of them can deny despite all that they face."

HOUSE OF THE DRAGON

God Left Hunger In Your Mouth - A Rhaenicent fic (Alicent POV) "For years, Rhaenyra Targaryen has been hidden beneath King’s Landing, locked away in the dark while the city above her thrives on stolen blood. The elite call it immortality. Salvation. One by one, nobles, politicians, and old-money dynasties are turned from human to vampyr. Rhaenyra remains alive for one reason only: her blood still turns the worthy. Alicent Hightower knows better than anyone what the Targaryens are capable of. Widow to the late Viserys Targaryen, murdered by his own daughter. Alicent has spent years surviving in the ruins of a family that eats itself alive. But grief becomes something far more dangerous when strange things begin moving beneath the city. And somewhere deep below King’s Landing, Rhaenyra Targaryen is beginning to wake."

THE LAST OF US

What They Keep - A y/n fic

"You’ve been surviving alone in a crumbling cabin deep in the Appalachian mountains—no infected, no visitors, just cold nights and a shrinking stockpile of food. But when Joel and Tommy Miller show up, you're forced back into a world you tried to leave behind. There’s a bounty on your head, placed by your ex. But when the deal goes wrong, they bring you back to Jackson—and you start to realize the bond between them runs deeper than blood. And the Miller brothers like to share."

THE PITT

You've Got a Nine to Five (So I'll Take the Night Shift) - A Kingdon fic (Dual Pov)

"Langdon starts thinking of Mel like the sun, not only because she’s bright, but because everything else feels colder without her. The hospital is still the hospital. Loud and relentless, but when she’s there, the night becomes something he can get through. Somewhere along the way, she turns into the only person he actually wants to see. OR Langdon comes back after his ten month hiatus and immediately gets put on night shift with Mel because of a shortage AND Mel gets boba." you, you, you OUGHTA KNOW! - A Kingdon one shot (Dual POV.) "After a brutal shift, Mel and Santos decide to let out their frustrations at a karaoke bar. Langdon shows up after finding a note on his kitchen counter. One impulsive moment outside changes everything, leaving them both wondering what comes next." mel king and the infinite list of possibilities - a kingdon fic that continues from you, you, you OUGHTA KNOW! (Dual POV) "With Becca happily wrapped up in a life of her own, an impulsive Fourth of July karaoke night leaves Mel with an unexpected kiss from Frank Langdon and far too much free time. Her coworkers decide that this is a problem and together they make her a list of everything she's somehow never done. Go to a concert, cheer at a Pens game, take a road trip, get drunk on a Tuesday, maybe even have a one night stand. One by one, they're determined to help her cross off every item. Meanwhile, Frank is back at PTMC after a ten month leave of absence as he tries to survive a divorce and ignore the growing feeling that being "just friends" with Mel isn't going to be enough."

PRN(taken as needed) - A Mohabbot fic (Mohan POV)

"Samira Mohan has built her life on the firm belief that she does not need a man to survive. Unfortunately, he father's will disagrees. When the trust fund covering her student loan freezes on her twenty eighth birthday, Samira suddenly finds herself facing a dwindling bank account only solved behind a clause requiring marriage. She doesn't want love, let alone a wedding. What she does need is money. Jack Abbot, fellow doctor and occasional wing night companion, might just be the most logical solution to a very inconvenient problem."

not quite eyes - a kingdon 70s rock band au

"After Garcia's choices costs the Steel City Saints their sound girl Rachel, tour director Jack Abbot hires Mel and Becca King. After hearing Mel sing, Frank convinces her to come on stage with him and together they transform a struggling up and coming band from Pittsburgh into one of the biggest acts in the world. Their voices and eventually their lives become impossible to separate. The only problem is that Frank has a wife, two kids, and everything to lose."

[valinoar]

a hunger like no other - sk osborn, the great, akwaeke emezi, the good fight - ada limón, union of souls - max švabinský, the dedication - edmund leighton, coffin heart? bury me - fatima aamer bilal

[irisunmuted]

"okay ❤️ yay ❤️" remains an unmatched response

[frontmansdefender]

I aspire to be as passionate about something as this guy and the orcas are passionate about hating the sunfish

In the sunfish’s defense!!!!!

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

[sassycurse]

one of the best feelings tbh

[wyrmicelli]

me tongue-deep in a sandalwood candle: 🤤

the tjmaxx employee loading a fourth tranquilizer dart into their blowgun: i need backup

[snowown]

[rosie-tyler]

[sirenja-and-stag]

I knew you were mine You said you were mine I thought you were mine

Hannibal x Hamilton

[angelexile]

Do you role play?

sometimes i pretend i’m a fully functioning adult

[verasilversound]

Alys, parenting Aemond: I’m sure your mother loved you most. Larys, parenting Aegon: Your mother hated you because you fucking suck.

[corduroycrisis]

[wulfhalls]

AS I WAS SAYING

[cemeterycigs]

Chapter two of not quite eyes is out now. "After Garcia's choices cost the Steel City Saints their sound girl Rachel, tour director Jack Abbot hires Mel and Becca King. After hearing Mel sing, Frank convinces her to come on stage with him and together they transform a struggling up and coming band from Pittsburgh into one of the biggest acts in the world. Their voices and eventually their lives become impossible to separate. The only problem is that Frank has a wife, two kids, and everything to lose."

[notalicent]

PHIA SABAN as HELAENA TARGARYEN — 3.02 | "Queen's Landing"

[cemeterycigs]

Chapter one of not quite eyes is out now on AO3.

"After Garcia's choices costs the Steel City Saints their sound girl Rachel, tour director Jack Abbot hires Mel and Becca King. After hearing Mel sing, Frank convinces her to come on stage with him and together they transform a struggling up and coming band from Pittsburgh into one of the biggest acts in the world. Their voices and eventually their lives become impossible to separate.

The only problem is that Frank has a wife, two kids, and everything to lose."

Out of tune

Something’s wrong, but nothing’s broken

Every word gets lost when spoken.

I know the song, I’ve lost the tune.

Frank Langdon learns that Rachel Bell has quit somewhere outside of Cleveland, in the narrow hallway between the dressing rooms and the loading dock, while a road case with a busted wheel shrieks against the concrete behind him.

Abbot tells him this far too casually. He has a clipboard tucked beneath one arm and a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, the ash growing precariously long while three different people attempt to speak at him at once. Someone from the venue wants to know whether the band intends to use the house lights during the encore. One of the local hands says the piano bench never showed up. A girl with a laminated pass hanging around her neck keeps insisting that she’s with the label, though no one has seen her before today. Abbot ignores all of them and looks over at Frank.

“So Rachel’s gone.”

Frank waits, hand hovering over the road case. Abbot doesn’t elaborate.

“Gone where?”

“Gone.”

The road case catches in a groove. The guy pushing it gives it a kick of frustration and the sound cracks sharply through the corridor. Frank feels it behind his eyes and he presses his thumb against the place above his left brow, attempting to decide if Abbot is being intentionally difficult or if Frank is just too tired and too hungover to follow him.

They played Detroit the night before and Frank didn’t fall asleep until almost five in the morning. He’s currently fueled by two cups of black coffee, half a piece of toast, and a little white tablet he took in the bathroom before soundcheck. It hasn’t kicked in yet, or maybe it has and this is the best it’s going to get. 

“Jack,” Frank says, pulling Abbot’s attention away to the unknown woman with the laminated pass. “Where did she go?”

“Back to New York, if I could guess. She cleared her things off the bus and caught a flight out of Detroit this morning.”

Frank takes a breath and places his hands on his hips for a moment before pinching the bridge of his nose. “And you’re only telling me this now?”

“Found out about forty minutes ago.” Abbot shrugs.

“You’ve known for forty minutes?”

“For thirty eight of those minutes, I was trying to figure out whether she was threatening to quit or she actually quit. She has actually quit.”

A cable slips from someone’s shoulder and it hits the floor with a thud. Frank flinches at it and Abbot’s eyes move to Frank’s face, measuring his reaction. Frank straightens and looks past him toward the loading dock. He blows out his cheeks.

“Do we know why she quit?” 

Abbot takes a pull from his cigarette and the ash flutters to the floor, already forgotten. “Ask Garcia.”

Frank turns and stalks to the stage to find Garcia sitting at the edge, her legs dangling as she eats orange slices from the band’s catering tray. Santos is standing not far off, restringing her bass six feet away. The arena is empty except for the crew. Without bodies to absorb the sound, every dropped wrench and shouted instruction travels upward into the rows of the vacant seats.

Garcia looks up when Frank approaches and she stops chewing, lowering her hand filled with orange peels. He stands in front of her, rubbing his forehead before he looks up at her.

“So Rachel quit.” 

Gracia swallows her orange piece. “Yeah, I know.”

Frank’s frustration is growing by the moment. “Jack said I should ask you why?”

Garcia plops the orange peels at her side before planting her hands behind her and stretching. She groans out, “dunno if you should.”

Santos pulls the strings of her bass tightly and clips them, not bothering to look up. Her hair is tied loosely, a cigarette perched above her ear. 

Frank stares at Garcia. He knows about Garcia’s consistent games of sniffing out bi-curious women who flutter their lashes at her. He knows that Garcia immediately loses interest in them the moment they seem like they care too much. He just didn’t know that she’d sleep with the only one they have that can properly run the sound board. He can tell that this is exactly what happened just by the way that Garcia keeps avoiding his gaze.

He looks at her in disbelief. “We go on in six hours, Garcia.”

“I know what time we go on.” She mildly snaps back, Frank can see the tiniest tinge of guilt and it almost makes him feel guilty for being frustrated. 

“We don’t have anyone to run the board.” He pushes relentlessly. 

“The house always has somebody.” Garcia says under her breath.

“The house has a nineteen year old named Dale.” Frank grits out and pulls at his hair.

“I think he’s at least twenty two, Langdon.”

“Jesus Christ, Garcia.” Frank doubles over in frustration.

Garcia slides off of the stage, landing easily on her feet and wipes her fingers against her corduroy pants. She has a bit of orange still tucked against the inside of her cheek, making her face look slightly uneven. She glances up toward Santos before turning back to Frank. The small movement tells him more than he wants to know and he squeezes his eyes shut with the confirmation.

“You fucking slept with Rachel.”

Garcia shoots him a look. “It wasn’t exactly a secret. You saw how she was acting the other night on the tour bus with me. What was I supposed to do?”

“And now you’re sleeping with Santos?” 

Santos looks up from her bass and firmly says, “Leave me out of it.”

“Youre standing in it.” Frank shoots back and throws his hands up in the air. “What, did you send her a death threat?”

“That was one time!” Santos snaps.

Garcia folds her arms. “I told Rachel I wasn’t looking for anything serious with her.”

“Well, are you two serious? Because I can’t lose a keyboardist or a bass player. I don’t know if you’ve noticed but we’re in the middle of the biggest tour we’ve ever booked before.” Frank has to fight to control his anger. “Work your way through payroll, I don’t care. But when it affects the band, this is the nicest I’ll be about it.”

Frank knows even as the words leave him, that he’s not angry about Rachel. He doesn’t particularly like Rachel. She’s competent when she’s sober, vicious when she’s tired, and has spent the past three months telling anyone who will listen that Frank’s insistence on moving his monitors is the reason they can’t keep the vocals clean. He’s angry because there’s a show tonight, followed by another tomorrow, and twelve more before he’s supposed to get four days at home in Pittsburgh. He’s angry because the last review accused them of sounding tired. He’s angry because he listened to the tape from Detroit three times on the bus and still can’t determine whether the problem is the mix, the band, or himself. 

He never expected any of this when he started Steel City Saints all those years ago. Back when practice with Garcia, Santos, McKay, and Whitaker consisted of his mother’s garage. Back when they played gigs where people cared more about the covers they played than their own original music. Back when their tour bus consisted of a beat up volkswagen from the 60s that broke down half of the time.

Garcia takes a step closer, her brows pulling together. “I didn’t tell her to quit.”

“And what did you think she was going to do instead?” Frank huffs out in a defeated voice.

“I thought she’d act like a professional.”

“That’s an interesting expectation coming from you.” Frank laughs dryly.

“Fuck you, Frank.” She shoots back.

“Not unless you put him on payroll.” Santos says monotonously where she still stands on the stage.

No one speaks for a moment, but then Garcia laughs before she can stop herself and swallows the rest of her orange. She turns her face away and Frank feels something loosen, but he’s far from amused.

Abbot appears at the edge of the stage, rubbing at the five o’clock shadow that he keeps neglecting to shave off. “If everyone is finished exploring the consequences of workplace fraternization, I need you in the dressing room.”

“I am not finished.” Frank says firmly.

“Yes, you are. Because I found a replacement.” 

Frank’s head pops up. “Already?”

“I made some calls.” Abbot shrugs.

Frank’s brows raise. “In forty minutes?”

“I started making them last night when Rachel tossed Garcia’s clothes into the hotel swimming pool.”

Garcia looks mildly uncomfortable, crossing her arms. “You knew about that?”

Abbot checks his watch. “I’ll give you five minutes to get into the dressing room.”

Abbot walks away before Frank can ask anything else, which is typically Abbot’s preferred method of ending a conversation: leaving it. Frank watches as he disappears behind the black curtain and finally looks over at Garcia.

“If this person sucks, I’m making you go out to the street and recruit.”

The dressing room is chilled enough to raise the hair along his arms. Someone has filled a metal tub with ice and bottles of beer. McKay is stretched across the couch with her boots propped up on the edge, her face hiding behind the magazine that she’s reading. Whitaker is in the corner, tapping his drumsticks against his knees in alternating patterns. He stops when Frank comes through the door.

“How bad?” Whitaker blows out.

“Rachel left.” Frank scratches the back of his head.

McKay peeks out from the magazine. “Good.”

“We have a show tonight!” Frank snaps.

“We’ll have a show without being told every problem is because we don’t understand acoustics.” Whitaker adds lightly. “We can survive without her.”

“No, you’ll be back to stocking shelves at Giant Eagle if we don’t get this situated.” Frank fights.

“And you’ll try to go back to med school and fail again and then I’ll be working on cars.” Garcia finishes the sentence that Frank has relayed into all of them again and again. “And McKay will have to go get married and pop out a couple of kids and Santos will have to go work at an ice cream shop again. We get it, Frank.”

Frank pulls a beer out from the tub, pleasantly surprised that they stocked IC light like he asked–the last two venues provided rolling rock instead and he can’t stand the taste of it. He pushes the cap against the edge of the table twice before it comes free and the foam spills over his knuckles. He brings the bottle to his mouth before any of it can drip onto the shag rug. 

Whitaker watches as he takes a pull from the bottle. “Thought you were waiting until after soundcheck today?” 

Frank looks at him over the bottle. “Soundcheck is currently theoretical.”

The door opens before Whitaker can answer. Abbot steps in first and the woman behind him almost walks into his back when he stops. She’s younger than Frank expected. Not young, young, but younger than Rachel. Younger than most he’s seen responsible for making an arena full of people hear them correctly. She wears faded jeans and brown boots with a blue button down shirt beneath a corduroy jacket that’s too warm for the building. A pair of wire framed glasses sits on her nose, her hair gathered into a long braid that drapes over her shoulder. She clutches the strap of a light brown canvas back with both hands.

There’s another woman behind her, they share the same eyes and the same dirty blonde hair, but the resemblance ends there. The second woman wears a patterned yellow dress over a long sleeved white button down. In her hand she holds a suitcase covered in travel stickers. She looks around the dressing room with curiosity, gaze catching on the bulbs around the large vanity mirrors, the bottles in the ice, Whitaker’s drumsticks, and then they finally land on Frank. 

“You’re taller on the posters.” She states.

McKay makes a small choking sound as she drops the magazine.

The first woman’s eyes flutter shut. “Becca.”

“You are,” Becca continues and sets down her suitcase. “They make your face bigger and the rest of you smaller, so it’s difficult to tell.”

Frank tears his eyes away from Becca and shoots Abbot a look of concern. “And who are they?”

“This is Mel and Becca King,” Abbot says, indicating the first woman. “They’re taking over front of house.”

“You know what you’re doing?” Frank asks skeptically.

“From what I’m aware of, yes.” Mel blinks back at him. 

Abbot removes a cigarette from his pack and lights it, taking a drag. Frank notes how Mel tries to stop herself from wrinkling her nose. “Mel and Becca were available and were the first to get here. So I agreed that they’d come work the rest of the tour.”

“You agreed to add someone to the tour because Garcia hurt Rachel’s feelings?” McKay asks, drumming her sparkling nails once across the magazine.

“I didn’t hurt Rachel’s feelings.” Garcia says as she and Santos enter behind Mel and Becca. “Rachel does not have feelings, she has complaints.”

Mel turns toward the voice and Garcia and Santos stop in their tracks at the sight of Mel and Becca.

“Oh.” Garcia pauses when she realizes that it’s not just the band and Jack in the dressing room.

Becca tilts her head slightly, her pigtail cascading along her shoulder. “Are you the one who slept with the sound woman?”

Santos walks directly towards the tub and pulls out the closest beer she can get. 

Garcia looks wildly between Becca and Jack. “How does she know that?”

“There was talk outside.” Becca admits.

Mel takes a breath through her nose. Her fingers tighten around the strap of her bag as she rolls her neck. “Becca, do you want to sit down for a moment.”

“There’s nowhere to sit.” Becca says–which is true.

McKay pulls her boots off of the couch quickly and pats the open seat. “There is now.”

Becca sits beside her and places the suitcase by her feet. Frank takes another drink of beer. The pill he took this morning is beginning to work now, sanding down the sharper parts of the room. The blasting AC doesn’t bother him as much, nor do the overlapping voices. He looks at Mel again and tries to find something reassuring in her appearance–but he doesn’t.

“How many arena tours have you done?”

Mel pushes her glasses higher. “None.”

Frank feels like he’s going to be sick.

“She’s worked in theaters, clubs, and studios.” Abbot explains. “She ran front of house for The Connors last year.”

“The Connors play at colleges.” Frank clarifies, his frustration continuing to brew.

“They sound good.” Abbot presses.

“We play arenas.” 

“I’m aware.” Mel cuts in. Her tone is flat and holds no apology. Frank looks from Abbot to her.

“Are you?”

“Yes.” She says again, she doesn’t shrink in on herself–Frank finds a small piece of relief in that.

“And you think you can walk in four hours before doors open and learn the entire show?”

“No.”

At least she’s honest. Frank lifts his beer but Mel speaks again before he can knock the whole thing back.

“I think I can learn enough of it to get you through tonight. Tomorrow will be better. By the third show we’ll have it better than whatever Rachel was doing.”

Garcia lets out a whistle at her confidence. Frank studies Mel’s face and searches for arrogance. He finds only irritation. She’s not attempting to impress him, if anything she seems aggravated that he requires convincing while she could be busy working. 

“So,” Whitaker says as he picks up his drumsticks. “What do you need from us?”

“All of you onstage in twenty minutes. I want a current input list, stage plot, channel assignments, mic inventory, and whatever Rachel left behind.”

“Rachel took all of it.” Abbot says with a shake of his head. 

“You double checked?” Mel asks.

“Triple.” Abbot clarifies.

“Good going Garcia.” Whitaker groans.

“Watch it, Whitaker.” Santos shoots back.

Abbot reaches into the folder beneath his arm. “I have a copy of the input list from Pittsburgh from four weeks ago.”

Mel takes it from him and begins to read immediately. Her eyes work down the page. She closes her eyes for a moment and finally says, “All right. I’ll build it again.”

Frank leans his elbow against the vanity. “You’ll build three weeks of changes again in six hours?”

“Less than six. The doors open before the show starts.”

Something about the correction mildly irritates him. “You always this confident?”

“No.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” He says and takes another swig.

“I’m not confident. I’m trying to go and see what I’m working with, but you keep asking questions you already seem to know the answers to.”

The room freezes, McKay peeks out from her magazine, Garcia and Santos look delighted, Whitaker presses his lips together to conceal a laugh, even Abbot pauses bringing his cigarette halfway to his mouth. Frank stares at Mel and she appears to realize a few moments too late that she has said something other people consider rude. A light pink blush begins to work its way up her throat until it finds its way across her lightly freckled cheeks.

“I didn’t mean–” she stops, then starts again. “I did mean that. I just shouldn’t have said it like that.”

“How should you have said it?” Frank asks.

“I haven’t decided yet.” 

Becca leans toward McKay who has abandoned her magazine completely. She whispers, but Frank can still hear it. “I don’t think Mel likes him.”

“I gathered that.” McKay whispers back.

Frank drains the rest of the beer and sets the empty bottle beside the ice tub. He should tell Jack that this is fucking insane. He should insist that they use the house engineer for one night and fly someone in from California who can run a room larger than a college gym. He shouldn’t trust the band’s sound to two women that have never worked an arena, has zero notes to learn from, and has been in the building less than twenty minutes without insulting him.

He gestures toward the door, “Okay, twenty minutes, then.”

“Good.” Mel nods once, she looks over his shoulder at her sister. “Becca?”

“Let’s go!” Becca says cheerily despite the tension of the room. 

Frank watches her until she disappears out into the hallway.

“Where the hell did you find her?” Garcia asks after the door has closed behind them.

“Philadelphia.” Abbot explains, knowing that’s not what Garcia is looking for.

Frank reaches into the tub for another beer. Whitaker stands, his hand closing around the neck of the bottle before Frank can fully lift it out.

“Twenty minutes,” Whitaker reminds him, the circles under his eyes look darker than usual.

Frank looks down at his hand, Whitaker doesn’t release it from the bottle.

The downer he took this morning has started to settle pleasantly behind his ribs, but it doesn’t fully take him where he needs to be. It’s never enough before the first soundcheck in a new room. He can already feel the arena waiting beyond the walls, thousands of empty seats that will soon contain thousands of faces. They will know if his voice cracks or if he forgets a word.

He releases the beer reluctantly.

“Twenty minutes.” Frank finally agrees.

By the time he reaches the stage with the rest of his bandmates, Mel has removed her jacket and rolled up her sleeves to her elbows. She stands at the mixing console in the center of the seats dwarfed by the empty arena rising around her. Becca sits crossed legged on the edge of the stage with a coil of blue cable beside her, arranging strips of colored tape in a careful row. 

She doesn’t look at him when he takes his place at the mic. She’s speaking to the house engineer, a hand moving rapidly across the unfamiliar board while the other holds Abbot’s outdated input list. Several channels have already been marked with bright blue colored tape.

Frank taps the mic and a deep pop rolls through the arena.

Mel’s head snaps towards him. “Don’t do that.”

He curls his hand around the stand. “Rachel never cared.”

“I’m not Rachel, remember?” Mel shoots back.

Garcia makes a noise where she sits at her keyboard that sounds close to a laugh. Frank looks out over the empty seats towards Mel. From the distance, he can’t fully see her expression  clearly, only the pale oval of her face and the glint of her glasses beneath the work lights.

“All right,” he says into the mic. “What do you want from me?”

Mel fixes something on the board in front of her.

“Sing.”

Frank looks at the mic, then back to Mel. “Anything in particular?”

“Whatever you’re opening with tonight.”

Garcia leans over the keys. “That narrows it down to the song we’ve opened with every night this entire tour, big guy.”

“You’re already on thin ice today, Garcia. Watch it.” Frank shoots back with narrowed eyes.

“Whenever you’re ready.” Mel calls, ignoring their spat completely as she pushes her glasses with the back of her wrist.

Frank curls his hands around the mic, the stage beneath his boots feeling strangely bare without the usual sound coming back at him. Rachel always started with the drums and worked her way forward. She always left Frank until last because according to her, he’s incapable of standing quietly while everyone else gets their levels. Mel has arranged them differently. She has Whitaker waiting behind the kit and McKay leaning against an amp, but she wants Frank first.

He looks toward Whitaker and counts them in. McKay’s guitar cuts through the first measure, followed by the low and familiar throb of Santos’ bass. Garcia brings the organ beneath them, when Whitaker strikes the snare, the sound rushes outward into the empty building before returning from the high seats. Frank waits four beats and begins the opening verse.

He knows there’s something wrong before he reaches the second line. His voice comes back at him too loudly through the monitor, then disappears beneath McKay’s guitar. The organ sounds too thin, Whitaker’s kick drum arrives in his chest a fraction of a second after he hears it. Frank loses his pace in the measure, recovers, and then he pushes harder to compensate. The note catches at the back of his throat as a shrill line of feedback cuts across the stage.

Frank jerks away from the mic and McKay stops playing, Whitaker at least completes the measure before resting his sticks across the snare as the feedback slowly dies.

Mel bends forward and shouts out, “again!”

Frank doesn’t sing, he only looks at her. “It sounds horrible.”

“I’m aware.” Mel doesn’t look up at him. “That’s why I need you to do it again.”

Frank turns his head to Abbot. His voice is almost pleading. “Jack.”

Abbot is standing near the stage with his arms crossed. He motions for Frank to sing. “Do it again.”

Frank looks between them, he can feel the beginning of sweat to form beneath the collar of his shirt, though the arena is still cold. The pill he took has smoothed some of the agitation, but it doesn’t do anything about the note that he missed or the feedback that sliced through his skull. He reluctantly reaches for the mic again.

Becca rises from the edge of the stage before they can begin. She lifts the coil of blue cable and carries it toward Frank, stepping over every black cable in her path rather than on them. When she reaches him, she crouches beside the monitor that sits at his feet and looks behind it. “Your line is touching the power cable.”

Frank looks down. “My what?” 

“The microphone line.” Becca points. “It shouldn’t run beside the power cable for this long. They can cross, but they should cross like this.” Becca holds up both index fingers, making a right angle.

One of the local crewmen looks over from the other side of the stage. “It’s not causing that feedback.”

“No,” Becca answers him pointedly. “It’s causing the hum.”

“What hum?”

“The hum under his voice.”

He looks at her almost condescendingly. “I didn’t hear a hum.”

“I did.”

Frank looks toward Mel. He has one hand pressed against the headphones that covers an ear. After a moment, she looks up and points toward the stage.

“Becca is right. Move it.”

The crewman hesitates. “That run’s been there all morning with no problems.”

“Incorrect. It’s been wrong all morning.” Becca tells him.

There’s no triumph in her voice, she says it to him plainly as she might announce that the floor is concrete. She sets down the blue cable, kneels and begins separating Frank’s mic line from the power cable. Her movements are quick and exact. The crewman watches her before finally crouching down to help.

“No,” Becca says sharply when he reaches across her. His hand hovers in the air. “You can move the power cable from that side. If you pull this on, you’ll put a twist in it.”

He moves to the other side and Becca traces the mic line back toward the stage box, running it loosely through her fingers. Halfway there she stops and bends closer to turn a section of cable toward the light.

“This is damaged.” She declares.

“It worked yesterday,” someone calls.

Becca looks up. “Damaged things can still work on occasion.”

Frank hears McKay snicker a laugh behind him.

Becca carries the affected section to the edge of the stage and shows it to Mel across the distance. Mel can’t possibly see the split from the console, but she doesn’t question her.

“Replace the whole line,” Mel calls.

One of the crewmen releases an annoyed huff of a breath. “We’re chasing a little hum now?” 

“We’re correcting it.” Becca clarifies. 

Frank doesn’t laugh, he’s looking at Becca’s hands. She has stopped moving, her fingers pressing hard against the damaged cable, and her gaze is fixed on the crewman’s face. The arena has fallen unusually quiet around them, but the silence is uncomfortable. Becca seems to be waiting for an answer to a question no one else heard her ask.

Mel takes off the headphones completely. “Becca.”

Becca looks up.

“Blue case. Compartment four.”

Some of the tension leaves Becca’s hands. She sets down the damaged line and walks toward the equipment case near the stairs. She counts the metal compartments and takes out a fresh cable before closing the case.

“So you don’t both work monitors? This is like a team thing?” Frank asks, moving away from the mic–he doesn’t need it, the echo carries it through to her enough.

“I work monitors.” Mel clarifies. 

“I build the lines, check equipment, label the channels, test microphones, keep the input sheets current, make sure nothing is missing, and tell Mel when people have things done wrong.”

“The last part is her favorite.” Mel says absentmindedly, staring down at the controls in concentration.

“I like when things aren’t wrong best. But they usually are.” Becca clarifies with a small smile. She connects the replacement line and coils the damaged one in a pile.

Mel lifts the talkback microphone, her voice coming through the stage monitors, it’s slightly distorted but it’s steady. “Try it now.”

Frank steps up to the mic again. “Testing.”

The word moves through the arena, the hum gone. Becca collects the blue cable where she left it and returns to the edge of the stage. She sits down cross legged again, laying the cable across her lap in a loose circle. Her hands form it into an even coil. Frank waits for her to look up in satisfaction, but she doesn’t.

“Good catch.” He notes.

“I know.” She says simply.

Mel ducks her head over the board and Frank can’t tell if she’s trying to hide a smile or not. They begin the song again, this time Mel stops them after the first verse and asks Whitaker to play the kick drum by itself. Then the snare. Becca gets up and moves between the mics, adjusting one by the width of two fingers before stepping back to listen. Mel asks McKay for each guitar separately, then has Garcia play the organ while Santos remains silent. 

Frank waits, which is something that he is very bad at. Rachel used to tell him that as though she believed he hadn’t noticed. Waiting leaves far too much room for his body to make demands of him. His right knee begins to bounce and he lights up a cigarette and smokes half of it too quickly before snubbing it out in an ashtray. When he looks toward Abbot, Abbot gives a small shake of his head.

Frank rubs his palm over his mouth. “How much longer do you think this’ll take?”

Mel doesn’t look up, lost in the panel and her thoughts. “As long as it takes.”

“The doors open in three hours.”

“I know.”

“We also need to rehearse.” Frank presses.

“You’ve played them before, aren’t you halfway through your tour already?” Mel counters as she adjusts something.

“That doesn’t mean we don’t need to rehearse.” He clips back.

“Then let me finish.” She orders.

He grips the mic stand. “You have exactly ten ten minutes before I start without you.”

Mel finally looks up, even in the distance he can see how her posture changes. Her shoulders pull back and one hand remains resting on the console.

“Then you’ll sound exactly the way you did before I got here.” Mel’s words are cold enough that Garcia looks down at her keys and Santos busies herself with one of the tuning pegs on her bass, even though it’s already in tune. Abbot doesn’t move. 

Frank’s anger flares. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means I heard the tape from Detroit.” Mel clarifies, leaning over the board as she looks up at him, he can’t see her glare from the reflection of the light in her glasses, but my god he can feel it. “I listened to it on my way here.”

Frank looks over at Abbot. “You gave her the Detroit show?”

“I thought she might need to know what the band sounds like.”

“I’m sure she knows what we sound like.” Frank laughs dryly. “We’re all over the radio.”

“No, I know what Rachel made you sound like.”

Frank looks back at Mel. 

She pushes her headphones down and around her neck. “Your voice is competing with McKay’s guitar in the same range. The organ is disappearing whenever the whole band comes in. The bass is loud, but it’s not clear, and half of Whitaker’s kit sounds like it’s in another room. You keep pushing because you can’t hear yourself properly, and by the end of the show, you fall flat.”

No one speaks, the last two words echoing faintly through the arena. Frank’s tongue touches the back of his teeth for a sharp moment. “I’m not flat.”

“You are by the last three songs.” Mel argues.

“I’ve been singing these songs for years.” 

“That doesn’t make the notes I’m hearing different.” Mel answers.

Frank steps away from the mic and grabs the bottle of water by the monitor. He picks it up and twists the cap and drinks, though his mouth isn’t dry. The irritation that’s been growing inside of him has sharpened into something cleaner than anxiety. Anger is easier, it gives him somewhere to put his hands.

He looks back at Whitaker. “Am I flat?”

Whitaker cringes and busies himself with studying his drumsticks. “By the encore?”

“Any time.” Frank clarifies with annoyance.

“Sometimes.” Whitaker answers sheepishly.

“Well?” He asks, steering the question to McKay.

“The monitors have been bad.” She grimaces, nodding her head slightly.

“Not what I asked.”

McKay sighs in annoyance and finally admits, “You definitely push when you can’t hear yourself.”

Frank laughs, though there’s no humor in it. “Anyone else want to tell me how bad I am at my job?”

“You’re not bad at it.” Mel clarifies and he looks over at him again. “You’re trying to fight a problem instead of working it out. It’s fixable.”

He looks down at the water bottle in his hand. He spent weeks listening to the tapes, trying to locate the moment when his voice would start to fail. He’s started dreading the encore before the show even begins because he knows what it’ll cost to reach the final note. Rachel always just said it was exhaustion. The label suggested vocal rest.

“Ten more minutes.” He says impatiently.

She nods, focused again on the board. “I only need seven.”

It takes her nine. He knows this because he watches the clock above the tunnel. He counts every minute while Mel and Becca move through the remaining channels. They don’t discuss most of what they’re doing. Becca hears an instruction from Mel and acts before Mel finishes giving it, or she notices Mel reaching for a control and crosses the stage to check the corresponding line. Once, Mel begins to ask for the vocal mic to be changed, and Becca already has another in hand.

At nine minutes, Mel lifts the talkback mic.

“Start at the top.” Mel commands finally.

Frank takes position and he rolls his shoulders while Whitaker raises his sticks. They play and the opening guitar comes through sharper than before, but not louder. Santos’ bass settles beneath it, her notes distinct. The organ fills the empty space between them. When Whitaker brings in the drums, the kick lands exactly where Frank expects it, solid beneath his ribs rather than chasing the beat. 

Frank sings into the mic and his voice returns cleanly. He almost fumbles a lyric because of how clean it sounds. He can hear the rasp along the bottom of the note and the breath at its edge. He can hear where the words leave his mouth, he doesn’t have to force himself over the sound of McKay’s guitar.

They reach the chorus, McKay glancing across the stage at him with wide eyes and a big grin. Frank moves closer to the mic, then pulls back instinctively on the highest note. Mel catches the change and his voice remains above the band. 

He turns toward Whitaker, who is grinning as big as McKay. Garcia leans into the organ and Santos crosses the stage to play beside McKay. They continue after the point where Mel finally tells them to stop. 

“Holy shit.” Frank breathes into the mic, amazed that she’s managed to do all of this in a little under two hours.

Mel speaks into the talkback mic. “Again.”

He laughs breathlessly. “What was wrong with that?”

“You came in late after the bridge.” Mel clarifies.

“I always come in late after the bridge.”

“I’ve noticed. It’s not great.”

McKay lets out a shriek that sounds kind of similar to a laugh. Garcia gestures towards Mel to McKay. “I love her.”

“You’ve loved enough members of the crew,” Frank warns her. “Leave her alone.”

He says it lightly, but something about the words makes Mel look up. Their eyes meet across the floor, the distance between them is too great for him to read her expression, but she still holds his gaze for a moment before she reaches towards the fader.

“Again,” she orders.

They play for another hour. That night Frank walks on stage without knowing exactly Mel has changed. She’s altered the levels and moved two mics and convinced McKay to use a different amp for the opening set. Becca has four cables replaced and relabeled every channel and taped a new input sheet beside the console. When a label representative asks her to move so he can stand beside the board, Becca tells him now because he’ll block Mel’s view of the stage. The rep complains to Abbot and Abbot finds him a better place to stand.

Frank doesn’t notice any of this, though. For the first time in weeks, he stops thinking about how he sounds. He only focuses on singing. The band feels tighter, McKay’s guitar no  longer swallows Garcia’s organ and he can hear Santos sliding into the chorus beside him. Whitaker’s drums drive the songs forward without rattling around the arena. Each time Frank moves away from the microphone, the crowd surges up to meet the silence. 

By the encore, his throat is tired but it’s not burning like it usually does. He reaches the note he’s been missing and manages to hold it, causing the audience to erupt. 

Afterward, the band comes backstage wet with sweat and deafened by the crowd demanding another song. Frank’s dark shirt clings to his back, his heart still racing, but it’s a clean and expansive feeling rather than the sick acceleration that usually follows him into the dressing room. Garcia catches him around the neck from behind and shouts something into his ear that he can’t fully hear.

Whitaker finds Mel first, who is finally stepping backstage with Becca who is wearing her headphones. She’s fully focused on the clipboard in front of her, making note of the changes she made during the show.

Whitaker stops in front of the sisters. “That’s the best we’ve sounded since the beginning of this tour.”

Mel glances up for half of a second before she looks down again. “The right stack is delayed.”

He blinks at her in confusion. “What?”

“Not enough for most people to notice. It’s worse in the upper seats. But I’ll fix it tomorrow.”

“You could say thank you.” He laughs.

Mel doesn’t look up, her words monotonous. “Thank you.”

Whitaker grins, like he thinks he’s getting somewhere with her. “You’re welcome.”

Becca pulls off her headphones, but only to speak to Whitaker before letting them smack back into place. “That doesn’t make any sense. You said something nice to Mel and she thanked you and then you said she was welcome as if you’d done something for her. We did something for you.”

“You’re right.” Whitaker says after pausing and debating. He looks between both of them. “Thank you.”

Frank hangs back near the curtain and Abbot stands beside him, watching the stage with his clipboard beneath his arm. 

“I’m sorry I ever doubted you.” He tells Abbot. 

Abbot pulls a crumpled cigarette pack out from his back pocket and pulls one out with his teeth. “I told you.”

“How much are they costing us?”

“Less than Rachel.” Abbot says with his cigarette between his teeth.

“Pay them both what we paid Rachel.” Abbot looks over at him in surprise. Frank gestures at the stage. “Take it out of my cut if you have to. That’s the cleanest we’ve ever sounded.”

Frank looks back towards the sisters. Becca has noticed a discrepancy in the input sheet and is pointing it out to Mel, tapping the same line each time she repeats the channel and number. Mel listens to her intently without interrupting, then corrects it on her paperwork. 

Frank thinks about apologizing, but decides that he’ll do it tomorrow. 

The arena empties slowly, women linger near the locked backstage doors, janitors moving through the rows with brooms and plastic bags slung over their shoulders. Franks waits until most of them are gone because the dressing room is way too crowded and the tour bus is even worse. Garcia opens a bottle of whiskey while she and Santos argue where to go after they clean up at the hotel. McKay wants food and Whitaker just wants everyone to lower their voices. 

They all head towards the dressing room finally and Frank lingers while the rest leave. He should probably call Abby, but it’s late and he’s not sure if he wants to ruin the night with the sound of her disappointment that always hints at the edge of her voice. 

The house lights are low now, only the work lamps remain which cast pale circles across the floor. The black curtain behind the stage has been drawn halfway closed. Most of the instruments are packed away, leaving empty stretches of scuffed wood where the band had stood earlier.

Frank pauses at the sound of music when he reaches the curtain.

It’s not coming through the arena speakers. It’s too small of a sound for that, close and unamplified. Someone is playing Garcia’s piano, picking out the same progression and stopping each time they reach the fourth chord. 

Then a woman begins to sing and suddenly Frank no longer remembers how to pull air into his lungs. At first, he thinks it might be one of the local girls who just slipped past security. The voice is low and quiet, not projected for an audience. It moves carefully through the melody as if feeling for something in the dark. There’s no showmanship, no unnecessary run or bright, polished note that’s meant to impress. The voice has a slight break along one edge. He steps near the gap of the curtain, remaining concealed. 

Becca is sitting at the piano, her fingers finding the progression again, more confidently this time. Mel stands beside her with a mic cable looped around one hand, testing it for damage as she sings. 

“I know how to make the house go quiet,” she murmurs. “I know where every old board bends. I know how to live without asking. I don’t know how the wanting ends.”

Becca stops playing. “You changed it.”

Mel runs her fingers along the cable. “Changed what?”

“It was ‘waiting.’ You don’t know how the waiting ends.”

“I know.”

“Waiting rhymes better with breaking.”

“I took out breaking.” Mel says, though she sounds like she’s thinking about something else.

“You shouldn’t have.” Becca advises.

Mel rolls her neck, still facing Becca. “I didn’t like it anymore.”

“You liked it when you were singing it in the car earlier.” Becca reminds her.

Becca’s fingers rest against the keys. “Wanting is sadder.”

“I know.” Mel sighs.

“Are you sad?” Becca asks, frowning at her.

Mel examines the cable beneath the work light, bending it gently between her hands, like she’s avoiding her sister's gaze. “It’s just a song.”

Becca looks dissatisfied with her answer, but she begins the progression again. This time, Mel joins her on the second measure, still blatantly unaware that anyone is listening. Her voice rises into the empty arena, no longer so quiet as she was before.

“Everybody leaves in the morning, even the ones who swear they won’t. I can’t make a home of almost anything. I just can’t make anybody stay.”

The last word remains in her throat while Becca moves to the next chord and Frank finds himself leaning forward, almost giving himself away.

Her voice is not enormous, it doesn’t overpower the piano or climb toward the rafters simply to prove that it can. It’s low and startlingly clear, with something rough hidden beneath its softness. She sings as if the song has been pulled out of a place she ordinarily keeps closed.

Without the crowd, her voice reaches every corner of the arena. It crosses the abandoned rows and rises into the same high darkness that carried Frank’s voice earlier, but it sounds nothing like his. Frank sings as though he is trying to wrench something from the people who listen to him. Mel sounds as though she has forgotten there is a crowd to sing for at all. 

He has heard technically better singers, worked with women who can break glass with a high note and men who can hold a crowd with one breath. He knows what training sounds like. He knows range, control, and polished professionalism.

She soars above them all. 

Mel reaches the end of the verse and lowers her voice, the words giving way to a melody without a name. Becca follows her, finding the notes on the piano as though they’ve done this a hundred times before–maybe they have, he’s not sure. 

The melody slips beneath his ribs as though it’s been waiting there for her to uncover it. The bottle of whiskey hangs forgotten from his hand, for the first time all day, the world goes quiet. 

Frank stands in the darkness behind the curtain and listens.

[t3nmartha]