@honestandsincere — love her writing; still midnight and reputation are amazing
@erosdolan — kelly’s blurbs are the absolute best: exhibit A | exhibit B
@wordsonearth — her writing is out of this world. i recommend reading veni, vidi, amavi, amor aeternus, midnights, southpaw and everything else on her masterlist
@heathendolan — she’s the author of one of my favorite series ever, the lemon boy series
@dolandrabbles — brie’s fics were the first ones i read on here and they’re still some of my all-time favorites. here are some of her masterpieces.
@cosmodolan — emily is one of the best writers on here, hands down. my personal favorites atm are per sempre and the prettiest star
@eiectricityscape — put your money on me + hurt like mine are my current faves from mia’s masterlist
O C T O B E R 2 0 1 9 / / E L R E Y T H E A T R E ‘ S B A T T L E O F
T H E B A N D S
There are certain moments in life in which one can tell are important. Even without the benefits of hindsight, you just know that whatever is happening is pivotal, memorable. Life is appreciated retrospectively until you are submerged in scenarios and situations that seem significant.
Ethan knows this is important, he’s known this for a while. He’s had time to mentally prepare himself for the sudden surge of dread that washes over him, the stickiness of his palms and the tsunamis of self-doubt. This is a big moment, it will be a big moment, and he does not need hindsight to figure this out.
He feels as though he’s in some coming-of-age Disney Channel movie his sister used to watch when she’d monopolize the television during summer vacations. Ethan’s worked hard for this, he just doesn’t want to play a sepia montage of childhood to understand this moment’s importance.
He thinks of his first-ever music lesson, with Mr Schumer in first grade. He remembers the maracas being nauseatingly sticky and the tambourine’s tiny cymbals being stuck together by some unidentifiable congealed substance. His backside was numb from being sat crosslegged on the linoleum floor, his legs tingling with pins and needles, but he remembers feeling overwhelmingly happy. The tinny ringing of the background disk hummed in the stuffy classroom air as innocently unrhythmic arms shook instruments violently, grins plastered on lunch-stained faces. Ethan tastes peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
He ran into Mr Schumer a few weeks back, in the supermarket. He was buying wine for his wife, he’d told Ethan it was their fifteen-year anniversary. This made Ethan feel old, he recalled a clean-shaven young man bringing his girlfriend into their classroom on a Friday afternoon, subjecting her to their inquisitive eyes and naively inappropriate questions. Mr Schumer knew about the band, he said he’d seen them on posters plastered on street corners, even heard the odd song on the local radio station. Apparently, he always knew that Ethan would pursue music, or at least something creative. This was strange because Ethan was never prodigal or exceptionally good, he must have been enthusiastic.
O C T O B E R 2 0 1 9 / / E L R E Y T H E A T R E ‘ S B A T T L E O F
T H E B A N D S
There are certain moments in life in which one can tell are important. Even without the benefits of hindsight, you just know that whatever is happening is pivotal, memorable. Life is appreciated retrospectively until you are submerged in scenarios and situations that seem significant.
Ethan knows this is important, he’s known this for a while. He’s had time to mentally prepare himself for the sudden surge of dread that washes over him, the stickiness of his palms and the tsunamis of self-doubt. This is a big moment, it will be a big moment, and he does not need hindsight to figure this out.
He feels as though he’s in some coming-of-age Disney Channel movie his sister used to watch when she’d monopolize the television during summer vacations. Ethan’s worked hard for this, he just doesn’t want to play a sepia montage of childhood to understand this moment’s importance.
He thinks of his first-ever music lesson, with Mr Schumer in first grade. He remembers the maracas being nauseatingly sticky and the tambourine’s tiny cymbals being stuck together by some unidentifiable congealed substance. His backside was numb from being sat crosslegged on the linoleum floor, his legs tingling with pins and needles, but he remembers feeling overwhelmingly happy. The tinny ringing of the background disk hummed in the stuffy classroom air as innocently unrhythmic arms shook instruments violently, grins plastered on lunch-stained faces. Ethan tastes peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
He ran into Mr Schumer a few weeks back, in the supermarket. He was buying wine for his wife, he’d told Ethan it was their fifteen-year anniversary. This made Ethan feel old, he recalled a clean-shaven young man bringing his girlfriend into their classroom on a Friday afternoon, subjecting her to their inquisitive eyes and naively inappropriate questions. Mr Schumer knew about the band, he said he’d seen them on posters plastered on street corners, even heard the odd song on the local radio station. Apparently, he always knew that Ethan would pursue music, or at least something creative. This was strange because Ethan was never prodigal or exceptionally good, he must have been enthusiastic.
O C T O B E R 2 0 1 9 / / E L R E Y T H E A T R E ‘ S B A T T L E O F
T H E B A N D S
There are certain moments in life in which one can tell are important. Even without the benefits of hindsight, you just know that whatever is happening is pivotal, memorable. Life is appreciated retrospectively until you are submerged in scenarios and situations that seem significant.
Ethan knows this is important, he's known this for a while. He's had time to mentally prepare himself for the sudden surge of dread that washes over him, the stickiness of his palms and the tsunamis of self-doubt. This is a big moment, it will be a big moment, and he does not need hindsight to figure this out.
He feels as though he's in some coming-of-age Disney Channel movie his sister used to watch when she'd monopolize the television during summer vacations. Ethan's worked hard for this, he just doesn't want to play a sepia montage of childhood to understand this moment's importance.
He thinks of his first-ever music lesson, with Mr Schumer in first grade. He remembers the maracas being nauseatingly sticky and the tambourine's tiny cymbals being stuck together by some unidentifiable congealed substance. His backside was numb from being sat crosslegged on the linoleum floor, his legs tingling with pins and needles, but he remembers feeling overwhelmingly happy. The tinny ringing of the background disk hummed in the stuffy classroom air as innocently unrhythmic arms shook instruments violently, grins plastered on lunch-stained faces. Ethan tastes peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
He ran into Mr Schumer a few weeks back, in the supermarket. He was buying wine for his wife, he'd told Ethan it was their fifteen-year anniversary. This made Ethan feel old, he recalled a clean-shaven young man bringing his girlfriend into their classroom on a Friday afternoon, subjecting her to their inquisitive eyes and naively inappropriate questions. Mr Schumer knew about the band, he said he'd seen them on posters plastered on street corners, even heard the odd song on the local radio station. Apparently, he always knew that Ethan would pursue music, or at least something creative. This was strange because Ethan was never prodigal or exceptionally good, he must have been enthusiastic.
Ethan thinks about the first time he really listened to music. It was when he and his father had taken a drive out of town to fetch the Christmas tree from a family friend's farm. Grayson could barely breathe through his clogged sinuses and Cameron was helping their mother assemble a gingerbread house, too afraid to face the cold. Ethan reckons he must have been around six. Just him and his dad in their car.
This was when he'd first been introduced to The Beegees, his father urging him to appreciate 'proper' music. Ethan relives the fact he was unable to comprehend why Barry, Robin and Maurice were singing in such high-pitched voices, marvelling at their ability to not sound stupid. 'I know your eyes in the morning sun' were words he'd soon know but not fully understand, as familiar as the taste of cinnamon and cloves.
"You nervous?"
His brother's lumbering entrance cracks open his blissful reverie. Grayson looks positively terrified, his face pale and eyebrows drawn inward into an unsettling crease. His frame fills the doorframe, blocking the neon lighting of the hallway. The dressing room falls dim.
Ethan licks his lips in search of words but decides to shake his head anyway.
"You know, nerves are good. They mean you give a shit, and that's important."
Ethan doesn't reply. Grayson, suddenly alarmed by his silence continues.
"Everyone believes in you, E. You guys have got this in the bag - like you've basically already won. Pretty much everyone in the crowd is wearing a SU t-shirt."
Ethan turns to look at himself in the mirror. Sadly, it is not framed with dying lightbulbs, it's not particularly atmospheric. He notes that he doesn't look especially nervous or apprehensive, he looks normal. Griff had told him to dress nice, Ethan does not really know what that means. He settled for black jeans and an oversized white t-shirt, he looks like himself.
"If you wanna talk about it, you know, vent and like let everything out, you can-"
"I'm fine, Gray."
"That's the kind of shit nervous people say."
"I'm not nervous."
"OK," Grayson does not sound very convinced, he rolls his eyes at his brother's stoicism, "Griff and Manny have gone for a drink."
"I know."
"Are they planning on getting drunk or something?"
"They're getting coffee."
"Oh."
Ethan runs a tattooed hand through his hair, purposefully dishevelling it to his desired look. He gives himself another glance in the mirror, then turns to sit on the fake leather couch the venue has provided them, crossing one leg over the other. Maybe he should have accepted Griff's invitation to join them on their venture for coffee, he feels encased in the grimy walls of their dressing room. Grayson appears jittery; he fiddles with the signet ring on his index finger, twisting it relentlessly. This is his first time backstage and it shows.
"Mom and Cam are in the audience," he says once he's bored of his heirloom jewellery.
"Mom's here?" Ethan can't tell whether the knowledge of his mother's presence in the crowd makes him feel better or worse.
"In merch and all."
"Jesus."
Ethan imagines his mother being thrown about in the sweat-drenched mosh, her perfectly styled hair getting tousled by rambunctious, inebriated youths. He can picture her grimace, grinning through the pain for the sake of her son, singing words she's not too fond of but were written in her garage. She never really wanted him to pursue the band, she didn't think it would amount to anything worthwhile; a trio of slightly overzealous boys writing songs about girls who listen to The Smiths and drink vodka straight. Ethan's mother loves him, she wants the best for him and until the video of the boys performing a Beatles song when viral on YouTube, she had assumed law school was the way to go.
"Don't let Manny curse," Grayson's eyes are wide with trivial fear.
"I can't make any promises."
It's incredibly naive to assume that Manny won't speak profanely onstage, it's very rare that he does not. Being on the synthesizer, he is restricted from engaging with the crowd the same way in which Griff, their frontman can. Manny has developed an affinity for screaming various explosives into his mic as the beat drops in their more upbeat songs, grinning wide with unabashed pride as the audience cheers in response. Both Ethan and Grayson know their mother will not be impressed, it's almost as though they are constantly trying to prove to her that this was the right decision. Letting them move to Los Angeles to follow their dreams was not an easy thing for her to do, they knew this all too well.
"Do you know which song you're gonna play?" Grayson moves to perch himself against the precarious dressing table, his broad frame covering the mirror entirely,
"Probably There's a Reason Why."
"Nice," he elongates the vowel.
"It's the video that has the most views, we're assuming that it's the one that people are most likely to know."
"Smart move."
Griffin Fraser is trustworthy. Of all people, Grayson Dolan would know this. When he scuffed his knee on the kindergarten tarmac on their first day of school, to when his collarbone popped out on the football field during their championship game, Griff was there. With floppy hair and a tendency to speak almost irritatingly slowly, Griff has always been a hit with the ladies, swanning his way through school at the top of the hierarchy. As Grayson's best friend and Ethan's bandmate, it's almost as though he's their triplet - a third Dolan brother. His voice sounds like the lovechild of a Gallagher brother and an indistinguishable eighties superstar that everyone's uncle adores. Griff calls the shots and nobody complains.
"What are Patchwork gonna play?"
"I overheard their Stefan talking to one of the runners, I didn't recognise the song's name. That can't be a good thing."
Ethan shakes his head in denial, Patchwork are good. LA natives with catchy melodies and heavy bass, they're popular at house parties and with those lighting spliffs in their parents' basements. Ethan listens to them himself, he likes their stuff. With three edgy musicians oozing sex appeal and singing about problematic boyfriends and systematic sexism, they are always crowd-pleasers. This battle had become a war as soon as El Rey had announced that the competition would pit Sunday’s Unrest (Ethan’s band) against Patchwork. Things get personal when bands are compared, particularly when they are familiar with one another. Ethan is too familiar with Patchwork. Too caught up in figuring out whether this familiarity is a blessing or a curse.
"I wouldn't worry about them, E."
"This is a competition, I'm supposed to worry."
"Not if you're the best band."
"That's not up to you to decide."
"Unfortunately."
There's a laugh from outside. A loud, ferocious female laugh that has Ethan and Grayson sharing a confused look. She waltzes into the room without knocking on the opened door, her hair fanning behind her.
"No way were you just listening to our conversation," the younger twin groans, running a hand over his face.
"This is a competition," she mocks, a smirk taking over her flushed face and Ethan wishes he doesn’t recall how her lips taste, "I'm supposed to eavesdrop."
Ethan rolls his eyes at her, not being able to believe the fact he hadn't seen this coming. The intimidation tactic. Sending Y/N Y/L/N into their dressing room as a means of psyching the band out, getting into his head. Dangling the most brilliant prize in front of him, only to snatch it away with his own regret. It’s just him and her. And his brother.
"Nice to see you, Y/N," he deadpans, untangling his legs and sitting upright on the couch.
"You too, E," she leans against the doorframe and crosses her arms over her chest.
Y/N Y/L/N could easily be the face of her generation. She's just too cool. In a worn looking Paul McCartney T-shirt and a black miniskirt, Y/N exudes confidence. Her effortlessly messy hair has been tucked behind her ears, showing an array of silver studs in her lobes. An embodiment of edgy, the perfect frontwoman.
Patchwork burst onto the music scene a few years ago, garnering attention with their memorable choruses and ability to soundtrack melancholy lyrics with an upbeat melody. Y/N, a personable and eccentric vocalist and guitarist, is venerated by many a journalist. Her interviews go viral online as she giggles and charms her way through somewhat tricky questions, always relatable and consistently loveable. There's Maria on the drums. She's rather quiet, not usually partaking much in press events but is gorgeous nonetheless, in a mysterious nobody-can-tell-what-she's-thinking-but-they-want-to-know-everything-about-her kind of way. Sara is on bass, she's the funny member of the band, hilariously clumsy and adorable. Her self-deprecating sense of humour makes her a hit with audience members as she cracks jokes at her own expense during their sets.
Patchwork are the whole package, people either want to sleep with them or be them. It's almost irritating how perfect they are.
"How've you been, Y/N?" Grayson asks politely, cocking his head to one side as though the analyze her every detail.
"Not too bad, I'm a little nervous though," there's an edge to her voice that sounds sincere, Ethan wants to feel sympathy for her because he can empathize wholeheartedly. But, she's competition and he desperately wants to detach any feeling from her.
Grayson nods his head slowly, unsure of what to say. It's as though he doesn't want to offer her comfort in fear that it might give her a sudden boost of confidence which, in turn, would lead to Patchwork winning the competition. Is he a sadist?
"What song are you guys playing tonight?" Y/N looks at Ethan almost hopefully.
He figures there's no harm telling the truth, "There's a Reason Why."
"I like that one."
"Yeah, me too."
Grayson senses some uneasiness in the room, as though they're dancing around a topic that he is utterly unaware of. It's like they're communicating telepathically or something. He feels a slight pang of jealous, telepathy is his and Ethan's thing.
"What about you, Y/N?" he asks, despite knowing the answer.
"If I Could Change Your Mind," she shrugs, "it's kind of an old one."
"I know it," Ethan says with a certain intensity that makes her pout a little, her bottom lip jutting outwards ever so slightly.
"I expect to see you singing along then," Y/N says, looking at him intently before turning on her heel and walking out through the opened door.
"May the best band win!" she calls from down the corridor.
----
D E C E M B E R 2 0 1 8 / / A N U N K N O W N B A R I N L A
The room is gently spinning. The edges of objects like tables and chairs are soft and blur into one another. This is a suitable state of tipsy. Appropriate. Enjoyable but sensible, knocking the edge off.
Ethan, Manny and Griff are celebrating. Charlamagne just went gold and they could not be happier. They're not even twenty-one but their management (consisting of a middle-aged man named Stefan) snuck them into this indistinctive bar downtown, buying rounds of drink and clapping each of the boys on the back.
"We've made it," Manny slurs, "We've actually fucking made it. Shit. Fuck."
"I know," Griff's eyes are wide and he looks as though he's seeing in colour for the first time in his life, "this is insane."
"Really insane," is all Ethan can manage.
He sips at his whisky, unable to distinguish whether he enjoys the burn it leaves in his throat. He's never gone out drinking before, only ever passed around a bottle of wine or gotten pissed of Manny's dad's beers in their basement. This is what being a rockstar tastes like, he thinks.
Ethan called Grayson a few hours ago to tell him the news. Then he'd called his mother and then his grandmother and then his aunt and then he'd shoved his phone into his back pocket and shaken his head in disbelief.
The song he's written. The song he'd shown Griff and asked for some help with. The song Manny said was shit, to begin with, but then actually really liked once they got to play it. Charlamagne. Gold.
"We're fucking famous," says Manny, puffing out his chest a little.
"Sort of," Ethan half laughs.
"Three boys from New Jersey with weird music tastes," Griff muses, "this is the kind of shit they make movies about."
"Indie movies," Ethan clarifies.
He lets his eyes roam across the room for a second, dancing over the warped figures in his drunken haze. And that's when he sees her. The girl he'd hooked up with within the first month of moving to Los Angeles. The one with the weird taste in music like him, with the messy hair and wide smile and obnoxious laugh.
It had been at Griff's apartment, (it was essentially a room in an almost dilapidated building, Griffin used words like 'rustic' and 'charming' in order to describe it) she'd flirted nonchalantly with him and he was slightly enamoured. Ethan thought she was perfect; her snide remarks at Manny's bad jokes, the way she and her bandmates acted like sibling rather than colleagues and the way she told him his Jersey accent was impossibly strong. Ethan doesn't think he has an accent.
They'd vanished into Griff's 'bedroom', high on adrenaline and Manny and Sara's secondhand smoke. Neither of them was intoxicated, and yet the night is a blur of tangled limbs and sheer excitement with flashes of clarity in her laugh and smile.
Y/N Y/L/N.
She's here with her band too, he remembers that Stefan is also their manager. They are good. Stitchwork? Crochet? Patchwork.
"Holy shit! It's Maria! And Sara! Fucking hell, Y/N!" Manny yells, drawing the attention of all the drinkers in the velvet-adorned room.
The three girls seem so glide towards them, catching eyes and throwing smiles in all directions like confetti. Ethan notices that Stefan catches them before Patchwork meets Sunday's Unrest. Their manager is gesticulating wildly, causing Y/N to chuckle, Maria to snort and Sara rolls her eyes mockingly. He thinks maybe Stefan is warning them of the state of the boys' drunkenness as if to preface their meeting with a few words of caution. Ethan figures this is sensible.
"Get over here!" Manny howls, waving his heavy arms above his head like he's drowning in a cola and Bacardi riptide.
"If it isn't Captain Fuckboy and his devout followers!" Sara retorts, swaggering past her manager and straight towards the boys' booth.
Griff's eyebrows draw inwards, "Sara, are you pissed?"
"Pissed off," she shrugs, folding her arms over her leather-clad chest and glaring at Ethan Dolan with intensity.
Shit.
"Oh," Manny is as smug as a younger sibling, grinning at Ethan with little camaraderie, "you're talking about Ethan."
"You know I am."
"Listen, neither Manuel or I am responsible for our bandmate's endeavours," Griffin attempts to sound unfazed.
Ethan has nothing to say, he feels his cheeks heating up with what could be embarrassment or shame, but he's reached the stage of drunkenness in which all emotions bleed into a melancholic mess.
Sara ignores both of the floppy-haired boys, her stare focusing on Ethan, "You could have called her, or texted her. She really liked you."
Ethan Dolan is not a douchebag. He does not mess girls around, he never has and doubts he ever will. But he slipped up when it comes to Y/N Y/L/N. To say he is intimidated by her is a pathetic excuse, but it's the closest he can come to an explanation. Guys like him do not get with girls like her, she's too cool. He was scared, terrified of his imminent failure when it comes to dating. So he decided it would be best if he pretended their encounter never happened. It gave him peace of mind for maybe an hour or so.
"I didn't think Y/N wanted to pursue anything," is what comes out of his mouth, his voice sounds alien.
"You're a dick, Ethan."
----
O C T O B E R 2 0 1 9
Grayson Dolan waits until the girl in the Paul McCartney t-shirt is out of earshot. He listens to the rhythmic clicking of her ankle-boots on the hallway floor, hearing them fade until he and his brother are sat in silence.
"Remind me when you wrote the song," he says.
"Excuse me?"
"Remind me when you wrote There's A Reason Why."
"I don't know, man. Like this time last year?" Ethan knows exactly when he wrote it, he can tell you which room it was written in.
"Right," his brother doesn't sound convinced.
It's about Y/N. It's blatantly obvious that Ethan Dolan wrote the song about her. Or at least about that night in the unknown bar, avoiding her the whole time they were there. It's about how she tried to make conversation with him, asking him if he's been busy, fishing for clues as to why he never replied to her texts or answered her calls.
Y/N does not chase anyone, she gets chased. Ethan Dolan was the only exception. He was worth chasing. She reached out to him maybe five or six times, kicking herself when she'd been ignored. She's better than that and she knew it.
Ethan puffs air through his lips, drumming his palms quickly on his thighs and stands up. He stretches his tense arms out in front of him, shaking away his apprehension. This is too important, this opportunity is too big. He can't let himself fall into the chasm of anxious thoughts, all the 'what ifs' and 'maybes'.
"I'm gonna go find Griff and Manny," he rasps.
----
D E C E M B E R 2 0 1 8
He can't feel his hands. He watches his fingers press down on the stiff keys, he hears the sound it makes. But his hands are numb. His head spins, his chest burning with the leftover alcohol.
He'd staggered into his apartment, making a beeline for his bedroom. Ethan needs to write, or at least map out a melody for a tune that's swimming around in his head. He's a drummer by nature, rhythms are practically ingrained in his identity, but this melody is so salient in his mind that he has no choice but to get it out.
'There's a reason why
I never returned your calls
I wish I could forget it all
But I never returned your calls
'Cause I'd fall in again'
He hums as he mixes various chords. The electronic ring of the Casio comforting his dissociated haze. Seeing her has brought it all back, the fear. Ethan needs her out of his system and the best way to dispel her lingering legacy is through his lyrics. He won't sing them because he's not a singer, he can't slur notes together smoothly the way Griffin can, his pronunciation is not as seductive or as nice to listen to. Ethan carries the tune.
Pulling out his phone from the back pocket of his jeans, Ethan records the succession of chords he's just haphazardly composed.
G. C. G. C. D. C.
It's lighthearted, it sounds like a synth-pop song that his mother would hum in the car as she drove him and his brother to football practice. The chords are simple and memorable, but his lyrics need to explain what he's feeling. How he has felt.
'Don't talk
I'd have run to kiss your mouth
Is it me
Or just a dream that never dies?'
The words are forming effortlessly, flowing into one another without much of a struggle. Ethan reminds himself that he is very drunk and it is very likely that this sounds really awful, but he keeps going, somehow recording a few verses and the skeletons of a bridge. He likes it. He'd listen to it if it was being played on the radio, maybe he'd even turn it up. Manny could work wonder with some kind of synth-riff melody hybrids he conjures up when they rehearse. Griff could add some quirkiness with his performance, maybe changing up the melody a little to suit his voice.
Ethan plays the recording back to himself, cringing at how bare his voice sounds. It's raspy and sonorous, but the melody is clear and is catchy. He taps out a beat on his legs, imagining the song post-production. He closes his eyes, trying his best to picture the band onstage, seeing the faces of thousands of enthused fans belting the lyrics he's just written. The music video would have to be eighties inspired, perhaps they could hire some dancers or something or film it in a proper studio.
He's tempted to crawl to his drum set that currently lives in his living room. He wants to play on top of the recording, hear it properly. Ethan's limbs are too heavy, his body weak with tequila and guilt. How was he to know that Y/N actually liked him? Jesus, he is stupid. Ethan wants to apologise to her but he knows that would make him look bad, desperate even. As if sliding back into her text messages to say sorry for pretending their little rendezvous didn't happen would somehow make her want him again. Sorry is a great word, but it only goes so far.
Ethan must have fallen asleep at the keyboard. He wakes the next morning to light streaming through his opened blinds. Head pounding, nausea pulsing through him. He needs water and an aspirin.
This song is a fucking bop.
------
O C T O B E R 2 0 1 9
She's gorgeous. Otherworldly in the misty blue lights of the stage. She looks back at Maria, watching the brunette hits out a count of four with her sticks. Sara strums a chord, enticing the audience into the introduction of their song; a twang of the guitar and a heavy beat. On each accent, she throws her head back, her grin lighting up her face. The lights change colour to dusty pink, framing the girls and encapturing their beauty. Everyone has been sucked into their world, desperate to live in it.
Y/N presses her lips to the mic, tucking her hair behind her ear to keep it from her eyes. She glances at the people lining the front of the stage, smirking knowingly. She has them wrapped around her finger. On the cue of her voice, the beat drops. Maria pushes on with the pounding rhythm, hypnotizing and sharp. Sara quickly plucks a riff that has even Manny cheering.
'No
Please don't cry
I've never done this before
Drove a million miles'
She's breathing melodically as if music pours from her soul. Y/N doesn't even look like she's trying, hitting every punch of the beat with her body. Swaying side to side as she fills the auditorium with high tempo melancholy.
Ethan is so in awe of her. He wants her presence, wants to be that good of a performer. He's jealous of Maria's ability to keep perfect time, even as they play live. He wants to play the bass guitar with Sara's dexterity and verve. He wants Y/N.
'If I could change your mind
I would hit the ground running
It took time to realize
And I never saw it coming
Forgive my lying eyes
Gonna give you all or nothing
If I could change your mind
I could make you mine, make you mine'
It's a great song. Like Grayson had mentioned earlier, it's not one he recognises. However, as he looks out into the mismatched faces of the audience, he notices that the majority of them seem to know the words. People are singing along, screaming and dancing. He wonders if his mother is enjoying, if Cameron is impressed. He certainly is.
"They're good, E," Grayson yells over the amps from behind him.
"I know."
"I wonder if this one's about you."
He does not have to turn around to see the smirk on his brother's face. This song is not about him, Y/N would never immortalise him in music. He's not great enough. There’s nothing to say that Maria or Sara did not write this song, it’s not exactly explicit. This song has a deep sentimental value to someone, his relationship (if it can even be called that) with Y/N is not one of deep sentimental value. Yes, it’s the main cause of all his daydreams - but it’s not love. He loves the idea of being in love with her, reckons he probably could fall in love with her within a few days. It’s utterly terrifying when it’s put into practice.
She turns to the wings, grinning at Manny who is bopping fiercely along to the tune. It’s as if the world presses the fastforward button on its remote when her eyes meet his. Everything rapidly speeds up, it’s almost headache-inducing. She’s narrowed her glitter-lined eyes gently, as if to focus on his features, to gauge whether or not he’s enjoying her performance. Y/N brings the mic to her lips, juts out her hip and sings to him. Regardless of whether or not the song was written about him or even written by her, this bit stings;
‘But if I was to say
I regret it
Would it mean a thing?’
Battles in the music world are dangerous, in the same way they are common. Battles in the music world with unexplored and unfinished feelings are incredibly perilous, in the same way they are uncommon.
Ethan takes a deep breath.
------------
Hello! Long time no see! I’ve been so confused recently, but I was inspired by the lovely @ethanhes‘ post of a sort of band-inspired collage. I hope you guys like this! I’ve used Blossoms and HAIM’s music for each band, I just really love the vibe of the music and the lyrics seemed too appropriate! Lots of love x
"Of all places for a clandestine meeting, you've outdone yourself, y/l/n."
He speaks in hushed tones, the rasp of his voice barely hovering above a whisper. They're alone, save for the man sat behind a seemingly oversized wooden desk, typing softly on his computer. The air feels cold; the high ceiling looming overhead and the rounded curves of the timber framing leave no room for warmth. Books are packed tightly into glass cases, saved from the damaging effects of exposure and time, and yet the room smells like dog-eared pages and temperate paper.
"I figured we wouldn't be seen," she shrugs, gazing intently at the brass bust of Shakespeare, her fingers itching to run themselves over the intricate carving of his ruffled collar.
"Sadly, the gossip forums don't think I'm a reader," Ethan hums, turning to acknowledge the bard.
"Yes, that is sad."
He hasn't seen her in almost three weeks, not that he's been counting. It was as if she'd vanished off the surface of the earth the night she had left his apartment in Tribeca. After they had kissed. He knew better than to try and contact her afterwards, he tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach as he came to realise that maybe they would never cross paths again. Y/n had said that she would not let Howard Benson publish her first draft, the article that should have been printed if Ethan Dolan had not read it before it hit newsstands across the city. Y/n y/l/n is a determined woman. Consequently, the ties between them had been cut as quickly as they had been knotted. As their lips left one another's she'd uttered something along the lines of an apology and hurried to the elevator, avoiding his eyes as the metal doors slid closed.
Ethan had received a text message from her this morning, as her name flashed across the screen of his phone his pulse had picked up its pace and his palms became damp. Y/n wanted to meet him in the library, in room 302 of the Stephen A. Schwarzman Building which he later found out was housing the Berg Collection of English and American Literature. He wants to laugh at how fitting their meeting place is, how well she'd thought this all out, but he's occupied with the sheer wonder of being in her presence again.
"Do you know the collection holds the works and manuscripts of 400 authors?" she asks him, not taking her eyes from William's receded hairline.
"That's a lot of paper," Ethan says.
"Or parchment."
"Yes, or vellum."
Y/n turns to the corner of the room and points towards a small mahogany table and chair set, papers sprawling over the desk's surface, "That was Dickens'."
"Doesn't look too comfortable, does it?" Ethan's eyes scan the thin lining of cushion across the seat.
"No, not particularly," she folds her arms and for the first time since he's entered the room, turns to look at him.
Y/n does not know what she was expecting him to look like. Three weeks is not long enough for somebody to change dramatically - unless perhaps they decide to shave off all their hair or tattoo their face in honour of their mother. Ethan Dolan is drastic, but not that drastic.
He looks young, in the yellow-toned light of room 302, clean-shaven and as chiselled as ever. His cheekbones are still broad, his jaw still prominent and his brow is pulled into its usual half-furrow. She notes that he's wearing a sweatshirt, Havard University's crest printed on its front. He looks like a student himself. As frustratingly impossible it is to admit, Ethan Dolan is still inexplicably gorgeous.
"I haven't seen you in a while, y/l/n," he says softly. Ethan takes his time to appreciate y/n's familiar lack of change. She's as captivating as ever and it's painful.
"I know."
"Do you want to maybe sit down? So we can talk?" he gestures to the table set up presumably for researchers to delve into the precious novels and albums of notes, with gloved hands of course.
She nods.
They lower themselves into chairs opposite one another, she looks at him and smiles ruefully.
"I'm sorry for not contacting you sooner," Y/n says.
"Honestly, it's no problem. If anything I should apologise for making things awkward," his hands rest on the soft velvet covering the table, y/n glances quickly at the Cartier signet ring adorning his right index finger.
"It takes two to tango," she chuckles lightly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, "I shouldn't have stormed off like that."
Ethan shifts in his seat and leans closer towards her, "Listen, y/n, if you didn't want to kiss me that's totally fine. I shouldn't have just come onto you that way, it was really rude and considering the circumstances I-"
Y/n shakes her head, setting loose the wayward wave she'd tried hard to keep from her face. Her eyes are set on his whisky-coloured irises, she sees nothing but integrity which three weeks ago had become familiar.
"It's not that I didn't want you to kiss me," she interjects.
"Oh."
"In fact, I think you went about it rather well. It was just crap timing."
"Yeah, I guess."
They sit in silence for a while, trying not to look at each other. Ethan busies himself with twisting his ring slowly around his finger, his mouth opening every now and then to speak before being stopped by his inability to think of the right thing to say. Y/n turns around to look at the librarian, typing away blissfully ignorant to the tension surrounding the other occupants of the room.
She clears her throat quietly, "I left because I don't want Benson to publish draft one."
He looks up at her, his eyes wide and reminiscent of a disgustingly adorable puppy or a child that's been denied an extra slice of cake at a birthday party.
"Ethan, if you and I were to continue our friendship; whether it be staged or genuine, Howard will try and step in. He claims it's for my benefit, for my career, but I know that it's only for the sake of LIFE's reputation."
"It sucks," he says.
"I know, but it's not as though we were ever going to be more than friends or acquaintances-"
"No, y/n," he interrupts her, looking down at his folded hands and shaking his head, "it sucks that you let Howard Benson dictate who you can and cannot be seen with."
Y/n's brows knit together into a disconcerted frown, "I'm not letting Howard Benson do anything."
"You are. He's your boss, I get it. He is not in the position to manage your personal life, friendships included."
She huffs and pushes forward in her seat, "Do you not understand why I'm doing this? It's for the sake of your image, Ethan! For your sacred reputation, I'm saving your skin here."
"And I appreciate that, really I do. It's just that Benson can't print the article without my permission."
Suddenly they're both aware of how their voices have raised slightly above hushed murmurs, y/n looks over her shoulder to find the man at the desk completely unfazed. She breathes a sigh of relief and exasperation.
"He will do," she whispers, "if it means keeping the magazine's sponsors."
"I can't believe you - of all people - are just acquiescing to these trivial little mind games!" he hisses.
Y/n laughs, but it holds no humour, "Screw you, Ethan Dolan. You just don't like being told what to do."
"Don't turn on me, y/n," he warns her, a look of businessman severity crossing his beautifully angeled face.
"Watch me," she slides her chair from under the table, its wooden legs inducing a hideous screech as they drag along the floor of room 302. The man at the desk looks up and sends her a frown to which she apologises sheepishly and leaves the room.
Ethan can't help but feel a horrible sense of deja vu.
-----------
Grayson Dolan's feet are rested on the desk in front of him, his leather brogues crossed casually over one another. In his right fist is a stress ball his mother had bought him a few Christmases ago and in his left hand is a mug of coffee Carol had handed to him. He gives her a quick nod of thanks before turning to his brother.
Sat on the opposite side of their private office, Ethan Dolan wears a scowl as prominent as the Rockefeller Center on New York's skyline. His shirt sleeves are rolled up to the elbow, his blazer having been discarded hours ago, his hair is dishevelled and he runs his hand through it for the fifth time in a solid minute.
"You're being ridiculous, Ethan."
"No, I'm not."
"You are," Grayson sips his drink before excusing Carol from the room.
"I am not! If anything she's the one being ridiculous."
"Who? The cat's mother?"
"Shut up."
Grayson Dolan had made the awful mistake of asking his brother why he hadn't been spending time with his fake girlfriend recently. As much as he refuses to admit it, Grayson has missed seeing his brother in the papers or on gossip sites, smiling wildly with y/n y/l/n by his side. Ethan has been nothing but fractious over the past month, refusing to attend meetings and barely showing his face at Dolan & Dolan HQ in Manhattan. There's a permanent frown etched on his pale face, his brows constantly drawn inward and his lips chapped from the constant worrying of his teeth.
"Y/n is literally saving your ass."
"I am aware."
"So why are you being such a whiny bitch?" Grayson sets his mug down in front of him and begins squeezing the foam ball in his hand, he finds it amusing that perhaps his brother is in more need of it than he is.
"Because she's letting Howard Benson walk all over her!" Ethan slams a fist on the table, only to jump slightly at the way his computer shakes violently in the aftershock.
"What do you want, E? You want that article out there for the world to see?"
"No, of course not-"
"Well, shut up then."
Ethan knows his brother is right, he has no reason to sulk. If anything he should be jumping for joy, finally after months of constant apprehension the first draft will be destroyed. He just can't ever see y/n y/l/n again.
Now, in theory, this should be straightforward. Y/n and Ethan have never really seen eye to eye; they live in different worlds, in different social spheres and both have completely different ambitions.
Their conflict was inevitable, their friendship was unforeseeable and their current circumstances are beyond aggravating. Ethan Dolan does not want to be friends with y/n y/l/n, part of him thinks maybe it's through Howard Benson telling them they cannot associate with one another that makes him want to see her again.
He doesn't want to be her friend, but he cannot help it.
"So I've spoken to McTavish and Abernathy about selling the plots in Brooklyn," Grayson breaks the silence he'd created, his tone lighthearted. He picks up his feet from the desk and begins to type furiously on his keyboard, eyes flicking from side to side as he reads spreadsheets on the screen before him.
"Really?"
"Of course, I've really thought about what you said, E. We should try different tactics if we want to make a difference in business," the younger Dolan brother chooses his words tentatively. Tactics.
"I couldn't agree more."
Ethan Dolan finds thinking about business rather sickening at this point in time. It had always been the focal point of his life; he started kindergarten determined to end up in the city, took extra classes in high school that would set his college resume apart from the rest, worked his ass off to get into Harvard and then played every trick in the book in order to end up where he is now. And suddenly he doesn't want to be here.
All those economics lectures, every internship he could get his hands on and every late-night spent researching every loophole in the system mean nothing. It would be naive to say it's because of y/n, romantic even, but this isn't a rom-com. This is real and shitty and a situation so sticky it reminds him of the time he spilt a jar of molasses over his childhood self in his grandmother's kitchen.
Is he changing for the girl? Is the girl really changing him?
"You've gone soft," it's as though Grayson can read his mind, or maybe he's just been observing Ethan's face.
"Have I?" Ethan stands from his swivel chair and walks towards the large window that overlooks Manhattan. He's done this countless times before, to think. To look over the relentless pace of the city and realise that every tiny ant-sized figure hurrying through the street below him will never cross paths with him. Lives don't intersect easily, no matter how small the world.
"You have. Ethan, when have you ever let someone or something stand in the way of what you want?" he doesn't turn to acknowledge his brother, but Ethan hangs on each of his words. He tries to think of when he has ever let something stop him, which is hard because it rarely ever happens. Ethan Dolan is a force of nature, inside and outside the boardroom.
"Never. The answer is never. Howard Benson is threatening to publish y/n's draft, but when has he ever followed through on one of his intimidations? Again, the answer is never," Grayson pauses and Ethan takes his time to count how many taxi cabs make their way through the hoards of traffic. Fifteen.
"Just do what you've always done, stop playing by stupid rules. Go do what you like, he can't stop you."
"It's different this time," Ethan rasps, his voice weak from disuse.
It is different, very different. Ethan is not accustomed to being vulnerable, in his personal and in his work life. He's always had the upper hand. It is different this time because he's taking a risk. A big risk.
Y/n y/l/n is his friend, despite the odds and their circumstances. She set out to ruin his life, whether it was intentional or not - she claims now that it was in journalistic pursuits and he calms himself by believing her. Ethan Dolan kissed y/n y/l/n and she kissed him back, taking their relationship from enemies to something verging on friendship to something that teeters precariously on the tightrope of awkward friendship that is more than a friendship.
Does he want to pursue this? Does he want to drop everything and get to know her? Does he believe that Howard Benson really will print the slandering first draft? Ethan isn't sure and this is a foreign feeling.
"Jesus, you really have changed."
-------------------
There's nothing more terrifying than the unknown.
The concept of not knowing leaves leeway for imaginations and anxieties to run riot, conjuring hypothetical situations in which nothing is ever in one's favour. Of course, you're also setting yourself up for disappointment in the realm of the unknown; if one devises a theoretical scenario that is bitterly different to reality - that hurts.
Ethan Dolan is terrified of the unknown.
His fist clenches around the bouquet in his hand. He's starting to regret buying them, but Grayson had insisted that they were a nice touch. Ethan could do with some nice touches.
Being uneasy outside her front door is not a new sensation, he's been nervous before. But Ethan has never felt scared and this is scary.
He does not know what y/n might be feeling, he's not certain that she even wants to see him ever since their mild altercation in the NYPL.
Before he has time to process his apprehensions, the door swings open.
Y/n stands before him in some jeans and a white t-shirt, her hair thrown up loosely into a knot. She doesn't look surprised, but not calm either. Ethan wishes he'd been blessed by the gods of telepathy.
"Hi," he says, wanting some kind of response from her.
"Hey."
Ethan thrusts the flowers awkwardly towards her, desperate for a topic of conversation, "These are for you," he says unnecessarily.
"Thank you, Ethan. They're lovely."
Y/n's fingers brush his as she reaches for the bouquet, taking it in her hand and tucking them gently under her arm. Ethan is sure there's some unidentifiable crackle of electricity that passes between them, his hand is left tingling in the wake of her touch. It sounds bizarre but now he knows what the romantics mean by 'sparks flying'.
"I uh," he stumbles over his words, his eyebrows rising in confusion at his own lack of eloquence, "I just wanted to apologise for what I said in the Library last week. It was unfair."
She purses her lips, cocking her head to one side in a way that makes her look as though she's studying him, "Apology accepted."
Y/n makes no room for him to walk into her apartment, despite their meagre resolution. The orange lilies feel heavy all of a sudden, their scent dizzying as she inhales. There's a large part of her that wants to let him in, make him a cup of tea because she knows he avoids coffee after five in the evening and ask him about his day. Things are different now, circumstances have changes and tension hangs in the air like a thick black cloud of smog. Ethan stands before her, his arms held tightly behind his back, perhaps to refrain from touching her. He's in his white button-down shirt and navy dress pants meaning he's probably not long left the office or maybe is intending on going in to work late. The scene is well-known, she's used to seeing him like this, and yet it all feels so unnerving.
"It's not your job to please Benson and me simultaneously. I know that and I shouldn't have accused you of trying to appease him when you're doing it for my sake."
"Thank you," she nods.
"But y/n, whether or not Benson prints the article is not in your hands. I don't think we should let him get in the way of this," he gestures to the space between them, "whatever it may be, surely we should give it a chance?"
Y/n quirks an eyebrow, readjusting the flowers in her grip, "Our friendship?"
"Well, uh, yeah. Yeah, I guess."
His mind flashes to their kiss. Feeling her lips pressed against his, the way she had sighed in contentment, the way he felt alive. The surge of electricity that pulsed through his veins when the childhood sense of excitement and nervousness overwhelmed his sense of judgement. Their friendship.
Y/n presses her eyes closed, exhaling through her nose defeatedly, "It is a shame, Ethan. I'd be lying if I said I don't want to carry on seeing you-"
"Don't do this to yourself, don't let work get in the way of your feelings."
"Feelings?"
"You know what I mean, y/n."
She does. She knows exactly what he means and she deeply resents him for it. These burgeoning feelings she has, tempests of undiscovered passions, are having to be pushed aside for the sake of his reputation. Perhaps in a separate universe, y/n would have the opportunity to pace herself, to get to know Ethan and explore the bizarre and unprecedented attraction she feels towards him. If she had a normal job; maybe if she worked in marketing or banking or as a barista in the charming little coffee shop opposite LIFE Magazine HQ everything would not be as complex as it is. Y/n hates Ethan Dolan for being successful, she hates that his face is on every billboard and every newsstand in the city. It's revolting that each time she turns on her television after a long day at work, somehow his name is dropped or his picture is shown. If he wasn't Ethan Dolan and she wasn't y/n y/l/n, life would be simple.
"I like you, Ethan," she admits and he feels his stomach lurch, "I think that maybe if the odds were in our favour, there's a strong chance that I'd want to spend a lot more time with you."
Y/n sounds as though she has more to say but she does not continue speaking. Ethan drops his head, his gaze now firmly on his black brogues, unable to look at her without feeling a little hurt. He should have seen this coming, should have prepared himself whilst he wallowed in the ferocity of the unknown.
"Your reputation matters," she says, "to you, Grayson and now to me. It shouldn't matter. But it does. I won't risk LIFE ruining your good name. It's not worth it."
There's something about good, selfless people that's agonizingly annoying. Ethan Dolan is struck by this epiphany. As commendable and admirable as y/n's lack of ignorance is, he really wishes she wasn't so nice. Y/n, in an ideal world, would decide to throw up a crude hand gesture towards Benson's empty threat and spend more time with Ethan, whether it is in the public eye or not. Y/n, again in an ideal world, would realise that she shouldn't care about Ethan's name in the business sphere and decide to traverse their flourishing friendship because she actually does like him. Alas, y/n is not arrogant or egotistical or parsimonious. She sees sense, it just sucks that she cares.
"I wish it didn't come down to this," he croaks, then clears his throat, looking up at her with those big whisky-coloured eyes, "Y/n, my reputation doesn't bother me anymore. Dolan & Dolan is changing, Grayson and I have been finalising our new arrangements. If your article gets out and people decide to look into it, they'll find nothing but our newer records - filled with good things."
"It's not that easy."
"I don't care! We can just say it's a fake, or that someone in the magazine's editorial team threw you under the bus-"
"And risk me losing my job?" her eyes are wide with incredulity.
"Jesus, y/n! Please, just give me a chance. We can meet in secret if it makes things easier for you? At least until this whole thing blows over. Howard Benson doesn't have to know anything."
She opens her mouth, full lips looking as though they're going to spill the words he's aching to hear. Y/n smiles ruefully at Ethan, he notes the way her eyes dance around his face and feels a pang of hopelessness. This is her taking in every little detail before it all ends, there's a heavy mist of finality hanging around them and it makes him want to cry.
It's not even the rejection that's going to hurt him the most, it's losing her. Or at least what they could have had. In Ethan Dolan's world, integrity and honesty are incredibly arduous to unearth, he knows this from first-hand experience. Y/n y/l/n has always been upright and honest with him, he's wanted to tear his own hair out at some of her acts, but he appreciates this beyond anything his wealth could buy him. Ethan no longer cares about his ego or his money or his persona, he cares about y/n.
"Ethan, you know I wish I could say yes."
"Yeah, I know."
-------------------------
Hello! I'm so so so sorry for my absence over the past few months! Ironically, all my motivation and inspiration evaporates into absolute nothingness as soon as summer (and lots and lots of spare time) rolls around. I know this chapter is really short, but I hope you enjoyed it anyway!
my baby k, i adore you angel, thank you for everything
I can’t believe I’m only seeing this now. Alexa, I cannot thank you enough for being my internet best friend. You’ve honestly been such a joy, just these gorgeous sparks of vivacious positivity and an abundance of love to give. I miss you already.
im OBSESSED with reputation 🤩 will there be a part five? if so, can i please be added to the tag list? it’s soooo good, you’re a really talented writer!
Thank you! I’m so happy you’re enjoying the series and I’ll be sure to add you to the list! Part five is definitely on the cards, it will be coming in the near future. I do want to sort of branch out a little, I feel as though I’ve been consumed by Reputation - which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. A Grayson idea is in the works at the moment, so I’m thinking about drifting between both projects.
There’s something about living in a city that only those with experience can truly understand. Its disquiet is unending, each hour spirals into the next without any time for composure or evaluation. Sensory overload is a regular occurrence; sound and light and smell and feeling all rage into incessant cacophony. Life never ceases its movement, at least not until an apartment door is slammed shut on the outside world.
Y/n presses her back against the cool wood, closing her eyes and exhaling a sigh of relief. The elevator has been broken for the past month and having to take the stairs is a task that one would assume gets easier with practice. Sadly, that is not the truth.
She doesn’t have the energy to take off her coat or her gloves, so she rests against the door as she tries to regain her breath. Her eyes scan the apartment; her dishes are still in the kitchen sink from her rushed breakfast, the faux fur throw hangs off the arm of her velvet sofa in an utterly unattractive manner and the magazines scattered across the coffee table and dog-eared and worn with age. Y/n tips her head backwards allowing a small painless thud from its contact with the stained wood. She doesn’t have the energy to tidy up, the day has extracted every tiny ounce of motivation to achieve or accomplish anything she has.
LIFE Magazine has been buzzing with activity for the past month, y/n, in particular, getting the most attention as a writer. Of course, this is extremely flattering and brilliant for her career, but juggling multiple projects at once has proven to be harder than she’d anticipated. Y/n loves working; it’s what spurs her to roll out of her paisley duvet set every morning, it gives her life structure and she didn’t struggle through four years of college to give up her dream job now.
It seems that every journalist on her floor is coming to her for advice, asking her to proofread articles for their website or offer ideas on points they should discuss. Again, this is all very laudatory, considering she’s the youngest published writer the magazine has ever housed, but reading has become tiresome and strenuous rather than enjoyable and writing almost insufferable.
Keep reading
you were different @honestandsincere - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
