chapter two! hard work or privilege?
cw: mentions of smoking, angsty background story stuff lmk if i missed anything
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You wake up to sunlight bleeding through the thin curtains of the tour bus. The steady hum of the road fills the silence, that familiar low vibration that never really lets you rest. Your throat feels raw, your body heavy from last night’s show, but your mind won’t stop replaying the crowd, the noise, and Jason.
The way he’d shown up in your doorway after the set, voice rough, towel slung around his neck, pretending it was just another throwaway comment. “Not bad. For a warm-up act.” You’d laughed, thrown it right back at him. “Careful, pretty boy.” It had felt like a spark caught midair, impossible to ignore.
Now the spark feels like static under your skin.
You drag yourself into the narrow lounge, where Marcie sits with a mug of coffee and her laptop open, the screen glowing too bright for the early hour. She looks up the moment she sees you.
“Morning,” she says. “You’re trending.”
You blink in confusion, hair still tangled, voice flat. “For what?”
Marcie turns the laptop toward you. Your face fills the feed with a video clip from last night’s show, filmed from the barricade. You’re midsong, lights painting your skin gold and, the crowd screaming. But what the internet caught wasn’t you.
Jason, standing in the wings, half in shadow, hoodie up, eyes fixed on the stage. Watching.
He isn’t smiling. He isn’t clapping. He’s just there, unreadable.
The comments scroll faster than you can process.
He looks proud.
He looks jealous.
He looks like he’s in awe.
You stare at the screen until the noise of it all feels like it’s buzzing in your skull.
Marcie raises an eyebrow. “People notices the smallest things, [name].”
You exhale, leaning back against the seat. “Perfect. That’ll totally not make things weird.”
She grins into her coffee. “The label thinks it’s great. They’ve got you two booked for press together this morning. Some radio podcast thingy.”
You groan. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish. They say it’ll boost engagement.”
You rub your temples. “Engagement. Right. Because nothing says artistic integrity like fake banter with the guy who can barely respect our group as artists.”
Marcie laughs. “Just be nice. Don’t start a fight before tonights show, I don’t want to get kicked off the tour.”
You sigh, pushing yourself up from the booth. “No promises.”
Meanwhile, on Jason’s bus The tour bus rattled down the highway, sunlight cutting through the blinds in uneven stripes. It smelled faintly of coffee, smoke, and whatever godforsaken cologne Roy was wearing.
Jason stirred on the couch, hoodie pulled up, one arm draped over his eyes. His phone buzzed somewhere under a heap of crumpled note pads from trying to write a new song the night prior.
“Morning, sunshine,” Roy called from the booth up front. “You planning to sleep through the next city too, or just this one?”
Jason groaned, voice rough. “What do you want?”
Eddie looked up from his seat across the aisle, wearing his headphones as if to ignore Roy’s shenanigans, a cereal bar in one hand. “He’s been waiting for you to wake up so he can be annoying about something,” he said flatly.
Roy grinned. “Annoying? Nah. This is important cultural discourse.”
Jason cracked one eye open. “Roy.”
Roy’s grin widened. “You’re officially every fangirls worst heartbreak.”
Jason stared at him. “What?”
Eddie didn’t even look up from his phone. “He’s talking about the internet and its idiots. Again.”
Jason sat up, dragging his hoodie over his head. “The hell are you talking about?”
Roy turned his phone around like he was unveiling bad news. “You. Last night. Side stage. Watching [name].”
Jason took the phone. It was a short clip that was grainy, taken from the pit. He was barely visible behind the amps, jaw set, eyes fixed on her under the lights. The comments blurred together.
bro’s in awe
look at the way he’s watching her
this man’s down bad
Jason exhaled through his nose and set the phone face down on the table. “You people seriously have too much time.”
Eddie finally pulled out an earbud. “You were staring.”
“I was watching the show.”
Roy grinned. “Yeah, that’s what we’re calling it now.”
Jason gave him a look sharp enough to cut, but Roy only raised his coffee cup in mock salute.
Eddie smirked. “Guess it’s good promo, at least. Management’s got you two doing press together today.”
Jason groaned, reaching for the half-empty mug beside him. “You’re joking.”
“Nope!,” Roy said cheerfully. “Also, if you could avoid looking like you’re writing her a love song with your eyes this time, that’d be great for all of us, we can’t afford heartbroken fans right now.”
Jason ran a hand through his hair, muttering, “You’re both insufferable.”
Eddie shrugged. “That’s why you keep us around.”
“Pretty sure it’s the opposite.”
Roy just laughed, leaning back as the bus hit a turn. “Hey, look on the bright side, Jay! Internet’s eating it up. You and her? You’re engagement gold.”
Jason didn’t answer. He just leaned back against the wall of the bus, eyes unfocused, the sound of last night’s crowd still ringing faintly in his ears.
He told himself it was nothing. Just noise. Just work.
The studio was cold and too clean, the kind of place where everything smelled like coffee and nerves. Crew members darted between lights and cameras, checking levels, counting down to airtime. You sat on the couch, posture as perfect as it’ll ever be, a warm cup in your hands.
Jason was already there. Quiet, unreadable, scrolling through his phone like he hadn’t noticed you walk in. Marcie, Roy and Eddie were off near the monitors, whispering about something that made them snicker, . You didn’t need to ask what it was.
You cleared your throat. “Didn’t think you’d be on time.”
Jason didn’t look up. “Didn’t feel like dealing with Roy’s play-by-play.”
You watched him for a second. “Guess you saw it too then.”
He gave a humorless little sound, almost a laugh. “Hard not to. They’ve got it everywhere.”
You kept your tone even. “That clip’s hard to avoid.”
The silence that followed wasn’t comfortable. The kind that fills the air when two people are trying not to start something.
You took a sip of coffee. “Guess the internet’s got opinions.”
“Doesn’t it always?” he said, finally looking over. His voice was flat, like he’d already decided he didn’t care.
You met his eyes. “Still, weird angle for them to take.”
Jason shrugged. “People see what they want.”
Before you could reply, a production assistant appeared, headset crooked, clipboard in hand. “We’re live in thirty seconds.”
Jason sat up straighter. You set your cup aside, hands resting in your lap. The lights brightened, too harsh to ignore.
Neither of you looked at the other again. Not when the cameras rolled, not when the red light came on.
The interviewer smiles like every word is candy-coated. “It’s fantastic to have both of you here. Jason, your tour has been selling out across the country, and now you’re joined by one of the most talked-about new artists of the year.” She turns to you, all warmth and encouragement. “How are you feeling being part of such a huge production?”
You smile for the camera, voice even. “It’s exciting. The crowds are bigger, the pressure’s higher, but it’s the same work. Every show is a chance to prove yourself.”
Jason hums quietly beside you, not quite agreement, not quite mockery.
The interviewer’s grin widens. “And Jason, how has it been having such a dynamic opener on tour?”
He leans forward a little, resting his elbows on his knees. “It’s good energy. Keeps things interesting.”
“Interesting?” you echo, eyebrow raised.
“Yeah,” he says, a slow smirk forming. “You’ve got a lot of fire on stage. That’s rare.”
The interviewer laughs, glancing between the two of you. “People online have noticed that. There’s a clip going viral right now. Jason, you watching her performance from side stage. Fans are calling it… admiration.”
You take a slow sip of coffee to hide your reaction. Jason doesn’t even blink.
He says, smooth and unbothered, “I always watch my openers. It’s about understanding the crowd, the flow. That’s what makes a good show.”
You let the smallest smile curve your lips. “Yeah. It’s all about the crowd. Sure.”
The interviewer doesn’t catch the edge in your voice, but Jason does. His fingers tap once against his knee before going still.
“Jason,” the interviewer continues, flipping to a new card, “your rise has been meteoric— arenas, international recognition. Some people suggest having a parent who was a former rockstar helped give you a helping hand. Do you feel that had an impact?”
His jaw tightens for a fraction of a second. You notice it before the practiced grin slides back into place. “Work speaks louder than any rumor,” he says evenly. “Hard work and talent is really what matters.”
You let your words fall soft, deliberate, almost kind. “Of course. Some people just seem to have a head start, that’s all.”
He turns his head toward you, eyes sharp for just a beat. “Maybe,” he murmurs, low enough for only you to hear, “but that doesn’t make it any easier to earn.”
The interviewer smiles, oblivious. “Well said, both of you.”
You smile back for the camera, though your pulse hasn’t slowed. Jason doesn’t look at you again, but the space between you feels alive.
When the cameras finally cut, the crew disperses, and the producer calls for a quick reset. Jason stands, rolling his sleeves down, expression unreadable.
“You did great,” he says, tone neutral but eyes glinting. “Real crowd pleaser.”
“Thanks,” you reply. “I learned from the best.”
He huffs something that’s almost a laugh, almost a warning. “Careful, sweetheart. You’re playing with fire.”
You take another sip of coffee, voice steady. “Good thing I like things hot.”
The air between you hums for a beat before the producer calls him to the next setup. Jason walks away without looking back.
You stay where you are, heartbeat still uneven, the taste of coffee bitter on your tongue, the cameras cooling under the studio lights.
There’ll be new headlines.
You just hope that one day it won’t have his name attached to yours.
The tour bus hummed low beneath you, steady and familiar, a sound you could almost breathe to. The highway blurred past outside the window, sunlight cutting over the fields in gold streaks. You had changed out of your stage clothes, hair pulled back, hoodie hanging loose on your shoulders, but the day still clung to you. The cameras. The lights. That interview.
His words kept circling in your head.
But that doesn’t make it any easier to earn
You hadn’t meant to say it like that. You told yourself it wasn’t cruel, just matter-of-fact. But the way Jason looked at you with that flicker before he smiled again… it made something uneasy stir in your stomach.
You turned toward the window, watching the blur of passing cars. The air smelled like burnt coffee and cheap perfume from one of the stylists. You tried to let the rhythm of the road push the thought away, but it stayed.
You weren’t wrong, though. You couldn’t be.
He was Bruce Wayne’s son. Raised around music, money, rooms full of people who already knew his name before he ever had to prove it. Whatever frustration you felt wasn’t about him personally. It was about what he represented.
Because nothing about your life had ever come easy.
You grew up in the kind of place where music was background noise from someone else’s apartment, muffled through walls. Your mom worked double shifts. Your dad was gone before you hit middle school. You learned early that if you wanted something, you’d better find a way to get it yourself.
Your first guitar wasn’t new. You bought it secondhand from a pawn shop after saving for months. The frets were worn and the tuning barely held, but it was yours. You played until your fingers hurt and then kept going, because you didn’t have a plan B.
When you started playing shows, it wasn’t glamorous. You were setting up your own mic stands, counting tips, sleeping in borrowed vans. There were nights when no one showed up except the bartender, and mornings when you had to choose between gas or breakfast.
Everything you had now like the tour bus, the interviews, the growing crowds was built on the kind of exhaustion that never really leaves your body.
So when that question came up, about Jason’s career and his father, something inside you had tightened. Not jealousy exactly. More like recognition. Like standing on opposite sides of a door that had always been locked for you and wide open for him.
It wasn’t fair, and you hated that you still cared about fairness at all.
You sighed and rubbed at your temple, trying to shake the feeling. The guilt. You told yourself he could handle it. He was used to cameras, to comments like that. He knew how this world worked.
Still, you couldn’t stop picturing that small pause after you said it and how he moved on like nothing had happened.
You didn’t want to feel bad for him. You didn’t want to humanize someone who had never needed to fight for space in the room.
But as the bus rolled on, felt tired. Not from the interview but from the years before it.
You looked away.
You had worked too hard to start doubting yourself now.
He had the name. You had the bruises.
Everyone came from something.
Jason didn’t leave the studio immediately.
He climbed to the roof instead, a bottle of water in one hand, the other shoved in his pocket. The city below buzzed with heat and noise, engines growling, horns echoing in bursts. He sat on the ledge, his lucky guitar pick turning between his fingers.
He had done hundreds of interviews before. He knew the choreography of them. Laugh at the right time. Deflect when needed. Say something clever about how music was a journey.
But this one stayed with him.
It was not the question that bothered him. It was your tone when you said it. Calm, quiet, too casual to be harmless. Some people just seem to have a head start, that’s all.
It was not a new idea. He had been hearing it for half his life. You are only here because of Bruce Wayne.
Bruce Wayne. The man whose voice could fill a stadium, who made every guitar sound like a confession. The man who had found Jason at twelve years old, sitting behind Gotham’s old music hall with a broken guitar strung with fishing line.
He remembered that night clearly. The cold pavement. The streetlights flickering overhead. Bruce kneeling beside him, adjusting the tuning peg, saying, “Good enough to start.” Then he left without another word.
A week later, Jason was living in the Wayne mansion.
He had never felt smaller. The walls were full of noise, laughter, and people who already knew who Bruce Wayne was. Jason did not know how to talk like them or dress like them. He did not even know how to pretend to belong.
Dick Grayson, Bruce’s first adopted son. The perfect one. The actor with the smile that made cameras love him. He was every headline’s dream.
They had the same story on paper. Both adopted. Both given a second chance. But no one called Dick “lucky.” They called him “talented.” They called him “graceful.”
Jason was the other story. The troubled one. The one who needed saving.
He had tried not to care. He had tried to play harder, louder, meaner. He had wanted people to remember the sound, not the name.
His first scandal came when he was eighteen. A summer festival, too much alcohol, a fight backstage. Someone called him “Bruce Wayne’s charity case.” He threw a bottle. It hit a camera instead. By morning, the story was everywhere.
Bruce did not yell. He sat across from Jason at the kitchen table and said, “If you want people to stop defining you by my name, stop giving them a reason to.”
Now here he was, thinking about the way you had said it. So calm. So sure.
He wasn’t angry at you. He was angry at how true it sounded.
Because maybe you were right. Maybe he did have a head start. But no one saw how far he had to run to keep up.
He turned the guitar pick over in his hand until it bit into his skin. The skyline burned bright against the afternoon sky. Somewhere below, your tour bus pulled away, the sound of the engine fading into the hum of the city.
Two adopted sons. One was a miracle story. The other was a cautionary tale.
Jason let out a quiet breath and leaned back against the ledge.
He just wanted to be the miracle, even if it was only for one time.
Later that night after another concert, the hotel’s back lot was quiet except for the hum of the generator by the parked tour buses and the low rumble of a distant highway. The night smelled like exhaust and fading rain, that stale after-show air that clung to your clothes and hair. Most of the crew had already checked into their rooms, leaving the lot still enough for you to hear your own heartbeat.
You weren’t tired. The show had gone fine, the crowd loud enough, the lights bright enough, the set tight. But something about tonight had felt strange, the way Jason’s voice carried on stage tonight like it was a little softer, the way the interview from earlier still looped in your mind no matter how many times you tried to let it go.
You told yourself you were just getting air, clearing your head before you crashed for the night. Then you turned the corner near the loading area and saw him.
Jason stood there by the fence, hood pulled up, cigarette burning between his fingers. The faint orange glow of the parking lot lampposts lit the sharp cut of his jaw every time he inhaled. His guitar case leaned against the wall beside him, still scuffed from yesterday’s city. He looked like he’d been standing there for a while, lost in thought.
He noticed you immediately, though. His voice came low, rough from smoke and exhaustion. “Couldn’t sleep?”
You shook your head, arms folding across your chest. “Could ask you the same thing.”
He exhaled a thin stream of smoke, eyes following it until it disappeared. “Didn’t feel like being around people.”
“Yeah,” you said, your voice quieter. “I get that.”
You stopped a few feet away, the stretch of cracked pavement between you charged with a tension that hadn’t let up since the cameras that morning. For a long moment, neither of you said anything. Just the sound of distant traffic and the soft click of his lighter as he flicked it off and on again, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted another cigarette or not.
“Good show tonight,” you said finally, the words sounding smaller than you intended.
He flicked the ash to the ground. “Yeah. Crowd was into it.”
He gave a quiet laugh that didn’t sound like amusement. “Yeah. They always are.”
You studied him, watching the way the light caught the edge of his profile. “You don’t sound happy about that.”
“Happy doesn’t sell records.”
Your brows drew together, something sharp pushing through your chest. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He didn’t look at you when he answered. “It means people love you when you’re onstage and forget you the second you walk off.”
You took a step forward, folding your arms tighter. “If you’re talking about the press—”
You blinked, pulse spiking. “What?”
He finally turned to face you, the shadows of his hood hiding his eyes but not the edge in his voice. “YWhat do you mean what? That little line in the interview. Like I didn’t earn this. Like I was just dragged into it.”
Your chest went tight, anger and guilt tangling in your throat. “That’s not what I said.”
He dropped the cigarette, crushing it under his boot. “It’s what you meant.”
You took another step toward him, voice low but trembling. “You have no idea what I meant. I’ve worked for everything I have. Every crowd, every opening slot, every single person who gave a damn about my music, I earned that. No one handed it to me.”
Jason’s jaw flexed, his voice hardening. “You think anyone handed me anything? You think my attachment to the Wayne name wrote the songs, played the gigs, stayed up for nights trying to make something that didn’t sound like someone else’s shadow?”
You laughed, bitter, because it was easier than saying what you really felt. “You didn’t exactly start at the bottom.”
He stepped closer. Not close enough to touch, but close enough for you to feel it, the heat of his anger, the exhaustion simmering beneath his words. “And what, that means none of it counts? That nothing I do ever will?”
You didn’t answer right away. The only sound was the low buzz of the streetlight overhead and the wind brushing through the fence. You could feel the words you wanted to say pressing against your teeth, but you bit them back.
He shook his head slowly, the hood slipping just enough for you to see the frustration written across his face. “You don’t get it. You’ll never get it.”
“Then explain it,” you said, voice cracking on the edge of defiance.
He stared at you for a long time. You could see the conflict in his expression, the impulse to fight and the exhaustion that said it wasn’t worth it. He looked like he wanted to say a hundred things and hated himself for every one of them.
Finally, he looked away, slinging his guitar case over his shoulder. “Get some sleep,” he said, voice cold and distant. “We’ve got a long week ahead of us”
He didn’t wait for you to answer. Just turned and walked toward the hotel, the back of his hood fading into the dark.
You stayed where you were, arms wrapped around yourself, the smell of smoke still hanging in the air. You told yourself he was being unfair. That he was arrogant, too proud, too used to having people listen when he spoke.
But when you finally moved, when you reached for the door to the hotel and caught yourself in the glass, you saw the same hurt in your own eyes, the same weight neither of you had meant to show.
And for the first time that night, the silence felt heavier than the noise.
author's note: woahhh background stories for future character development. if its messy im sorry i wrote it the same week i wrote chapter one but then rewrote some parts of it last night and tonight.
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