Chapter 6: Missed Cues
Chapter 6 of PR Only
The rehearsal space smells like dust and hot electricity, with a shitty air freshener mixed in the stale air.
Everything is concrete and the cables that run through the room are a tripping hazard. There are half broken stools not safe enough to sit in and amps that are louder than they should be.
You’re high enough that the sound rattles your bones when it buzzes through your ribs. The sound of Jean’s guitar sounds muted in your ears, and Eren’s screams crawl under your skin.
You lean against the concrete wall, mindlessly watching Connie play the drums. Your knee-high leather boots sound loud on the floor when you shift your weight. The mesh tights feel tight against your legs and the black mini skirt makes you want to rip your skin off.
Your boobs are nearly falling out of the black corset cinched tight around your waist. It’s supposed to make you feel more put-together while high, but your cleavage is the first noticeable thing about you right now.
The leather jacket around your shoulders creaks with every move, louder when you slide down to sit on the floor with your back against the wall. Your lips are wrapped around a lollipop, rolling it between your teeth in hopes of dulling the sourness in your mouth.
You’re sitting on the floor, not even a chair or a rug, just solid concrete cold against your skin. Your skirt bunches up, boots digging into your thighs after you cross your legs. The lollipop clicks against your teeth, but it barely tastes like anything besides cheap sugar to keep you distracted.
You look over at Armin, who’s adjusting feedback and glancing over the rim of his laptop to make sure that the band sounds good. You just learned that he’s the sound engineer.
You don’t bother looking at the band perform because your head throbs and muscles ache. You unlock your phone without thinking. The glow is too bright in the dark warehouse and your thumb scrolls automatically. You want to see what people are saying about you because nothing will ever feel as bad as the crushing weight of grief on your lungs.
You check Instagram first. Pictures of Eren dragging you around Rodeo Drive fill your feed. You almost look like you belong. The comments stack on top of each other.
PR whore. He downgraded. She looks like a junkie. Is this the same girl from brunch? embarrassing. You can literally see the life drain out of him when she’s around. This is the start of his flop-era. She has no identity outside of him.
When you check TikTok, the comments feel more ignorant. It hurts more because they almost sound reasonable.
I hope she gets help when he leaves her. Is she too high to understand what’s happening? she's doing way too much. I’m tired of seeing her everywhere. This era is ugly. why is she always THERE she’s like an unpaid intern.
You almost feel desensitized to the negative publicity. Being high makes it hurt less, and it makes them feel kind of funny.
Eren rolled you a blunt before rehearsal started and you both shared it in his car on the way to the warehouse. He’s enjoying the high more than you are right now.
You lock your phone and set it face down on the floor. You should be more grateful for this, for having a place to live now and having more money than you would’ve ever seen in your entire life.
Your fingers twitch in your lap while Reiner works through the bassline again, vibrating through the concrete floor. You wish Sasha was here so you wouldn’t feel like excess weight in the room, a mistake everyone’s refusing to address out loud.
Every so often, the sound fractures.
A chord buzzes wrong. A lyric comes in half a beat late. Eren’s voice cracks on a line he’s never missed before.
You keep your eyes on your chipped black nail polish as your fingers twitch against your thighs. You never look up no matter how frustrated the rest of the band sounds or how obvious Eren’s mistakes are becoming.
“Let’s redo that,” Armin mumbles again for the third time, already reaching for the soundboard.
The song starts again. Jean’s guitar cuts sharp in the introduction. The first few seconds are perfect. Connie drums the beat harder, Reiner’s bass hums low, Jean steps forward for his lead.
Until Eren misses a lyric. A full line swallowed by silence.
It’s barely noticeable, but Jean instantly snaps his head toward Eren.
“Eren,” he barks across the stage. “Focus! For fuck’s sake!”
You press your palms into your thighs and pick at your tights, something to distract yourself from how uncomfortable you feel.
“Again,” Armin says softly.
Eren counts in before the music starts again.
You notice the slip ups before anyone else does. The silence where a lyric should be, the drag in the tempo, the awkward pauses, the hesitation at strumming his guitar.
You finally glance up when the music gets just a little too loud.
Eren’s eyes are already on you.
His fingers slip on the strings, making each chord buzz incorrectly, voice cracking every couple of words. Connie gets thrown off, and the whole song gets messed up before getting halfway through it.
Jean groans while walking toward Eren. “Dude. What the fuck is wrong with you today?”
Eren swallows. “Nothing! I know the song.”
“Then fucking play it,” Jean snaps.
Eren doesn’t answer, but his eyes flick to you again.
The song restarts once more. focusing too hard on the way his fingers move over the strings, the way his voice sits in his chest.
You adjust your legs slightly.
His eyes snap open, immediately landing on you, and his hand pauses long enough for the rhythm to slip. Reiner tries to compensate by hesitating and Connie tries to match it.
Eren comes in late on the lyric again.
Armin cuts the song off as Jean stomps over to Eren. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Reiner clears his throat before propping up his bass. “Let’s take a quick break.”
No one argues. Eren lowers his guitar slowly and finally looks away from you.
“My bad,” Eren mumbles and your chest burns.
Connie taps a drumstick against the rim, looking between Eren and Jean like he’s betting on a WWE championship. “You’re playing like you’re waiting for permission, man.”
“Did you hit your head or something?” Jean mocks.
“Shut the fuck up,” Eren crosses his arms, “I’m fine.”
Connie shrugs. “Then can we get the ‘fine’ version that stays on beat?”
Your fingers lightly tug on Mina’s bracelet, thumb rubbing over the frayed strings. You’re too wrapped in your own thoughts to clearly understand the hushed murmurs between them, but your head is clear enough to catch some of the conversation.
Jean lets out a humorless laugh. “Is it because of her? Seriously?”
“What?” Eren shakes his head immediately. “No.”
Jean folds his arms. “You’re such a fucking liar.”
Eren’s jaw tightens. “Drop it.”
“You miss cues, forget lyrics, fuck up the chords, and now suddenly you can’t play a song you wrote?” Jean continues pressing. “And every single time, you’re looking at her.”
“Jean’s right,” Reiner interrupts, “you’ve never messed up this bad during practice.”
“We’ve already been practicing for months,” Connie shrugs. “And we start touring in a few weeks, man.”
“So get your shit together,” Jean says, “or drop her.”
Eren’s eye twitches. “Dude—”
“No,” Armin sighs. “He’s right. We’ve already been getting bad PR because of you and she’s only making it worse. You can’t even focus during practice anymore.”
Jean lets out a short laugh. “This is why the label wanted someone else.”
Eren freezes, angry eyes locked on Jean.
“They literally handed you options,” Connie shrugs.
“A list.” Reiner nods. “Like actual PR-trained girls.”
“Safe. Media ready,” Jean adds. “Girls who know how to act in public and in front of a camera.”
“But Mikasa’s fine, right?” Eren tilts his head.
“She’s a fucking supermodel,” Jean says. “Of course she’s PR-trained.”
Eren’s chuckles. “Oh. Right. Like those naked women you used to bring home? Those were real media geniuses.”
Reiner coughs under his breath and looks away.
Eren keeps his eyes calm. “Your place has seen more naked women than a strip club, but now you wanna act better than everyone else?”
“Shut the fuck up,” Jean warns.
“Why? Because you didn’t give a fuck about our image until you got with Mikasa.”
Jean’s jaw twitches. “Not true—”
“Are you even actually in love with her? Or are you with her because she makes you look cleaned-up for the first time in your entire fucking life?”
Jean’s face turns red and jaw locks, shoulders becoming stiff as he takes a step toward Eren. “Suck my dick,” he yells while his hands ball into fists, knuckles turning white.
Jean lunges forward, arm swinging directly at Eren’s face.
Reiner moves first.
He catches Jean around his chest, arms hooking under his armpits to quickly pull him back. Reiner plants his feet, dragging him away from Eren.
“Jean!” Reiner barks as Jean thrashes in his arms. “Hey— Chill the fuck out!”
“Let me the fuck go!” Jean snarls, digging his elbows into Reiner’s chest.
“Eren…” Armin mumbles while shaking his head.
“What?” Eren furrows his brows. “I didn’t do shit.”
“All of this? For her?” Reiner tilts his head.
“I didn’t want what they picked,” Eren admits while glancing back over at you. “I wanted to be in control.”
“Clearly,” Connie rolls his eyes.
“The paparazzi loves her. She makes me look stable. That’s good media coverage for our band,” Eren says.
Jean lowers his voice, “that’s not going to make everyone forget about how you’re ‘abusive’ or ‘unstable’.”
“Dude,” Eren interjects, “I only beat that guy up because he was trying to take home a drunk girl!”
“That doesn’t make people forget about the viral posts on how you’re ‘abusive’ to everyone.”
“But it changes it from ‘violent rockstar who can’t be trusted’ to ‘troubled guy with a messy girlfriend’.”
Reiner relaxes his arms, allowing Jean to pull away and take a few steps back. “And?”
“She generates more headlines than the scandal,” Eren looks between the band. “It keeps our fans busy trying to figure out who she is and why I’m with her, instead of why they hate me.”
“But why her? You could’ve gotten some girl from a small indie band.” Armin suggests.
Eren looks over at you for a brief moment. “I mean, she’s not a stranger. We’ve seen her around. She’s kind of everywhere in the LA scene.”
“Exactly, she’s already infamous. Everybody in LA’s seen her at parties.” Connie points his drumstick at Eren, “so she’s not a complete nobody.”
Eren says, “but she's nobody to the mainstream public. She’s known enough to stir gossip in LA, and unknown enough to change the narrative.”
Everybody exchanges glances and quietly accepts defeat. This is what Eren wants, and nothing is going to change his mind. No one’s going to argue with the lead singer.
“How’s that good for us?” Armin asks.
“Being with her makes me unmanageable. It makes the scandal seem part of the image. They'll think I’m having a rebellious phase.”
Jean presses his lips together. “She’s high all the fucking time.”
“So? She fits the aesthetic of the band. She’s a walking album cover. It’s not like you guys are always sober either.” Eren says.
“You literally took her to Rodeo Drive and spent thousands on luxury clothes.”
“Yeah. A few accessories and dresses for high-end events, dude,” Eren nods toward you. “Most of what I bought her is fishnets, leather jackets, boots, heels, skirts. She’s gonna dress like that most of the time so she looks like a mess. She’s like… trashy-glam, or whatever.”
“You’re still fucking stupid—”
“What the fuck is going on in here?” Erwin interrupts while throwing the entrance door open.
The smell of cigars clings to his clothes as he steps inside, the door slamming shut behind him. His glare cuts directly to Eren before shifting to the rest of the group, even you sitting on the floor.
“Guys,” he starts, brows pulled tightly together. “I can hear you arguing from outside. We tour in three weeks. Get your shit together.”
A few mumbled “yeah, okay”s and half-assed “sorry”s fill the room.
You tilt your head up, eyes meeting Erwin’s from across the room.
“Oh, and Eren?” He asks, eyes still focused on you. “For the love of God, get your junkie girlfriend handled before she ruins the tour.”
Your body goes still before your brain even catches up. It’s like the word junkie punches straight through your ribs and knocks the air out of you. Your fingers grip your skirt and it feels like you’ve shrunk to nothing.
Because he’s not wrong. But no one’s had the audacity to say it to your face like this.
Reiner doesn’t speak, just exhales sharply through his nose, too uncomfortable to say anything. Connie looks away fast because he hates the tension, but doesn’t care enough to correct it.
Armin bites the inside of his cheek, knowing that Erwin crossed a line, but unable to actually change anything. Even Jean, who hates you the most, doesn’t have the confidence to agree with him.
“I’m handling it,” Eren mutters, not even looking up. “Worry about the tour, not her.”
No one even bothers to stick up for you because you’re not important enough for anyone to care about. Mina would’ve said something, though. She would’ve defended you, no matter how high she was or how sad she felt.
“There’s a press interview next week,” Erwin says, “make sure you’re all prepared for it.”
Someone says something, but it all becomes muffled noise. Like you’re underwater. Your fingers pick at the frayed thread on your bracelet just to have something to hold onto, something that doesn’t slip through you.
You don’t look at Eren. You don’t look at anyone. You just focus on breathing, tasting the burn of humiliation on your tongue.
For a second, the rehearsal room feels exactly like every party you’ve ever been lost at: too bright, too loud, too many people pretending not to see you falling apart.
And all you can smell is cigar smoke and the faint scent of Mina’s perfume.
Erwin says something about ending rehearsal early, about how the band needs to get their shit together, and you hear the soft shuffle of footsteps as they start packing up their equipment.
Your fingers tug at the bracelet again, picking at the fabric like each thread will slowly sew Mina back to life. It feels chained to your wrist, like it’s shackling you down to your own loneliness
“Stop,” Eren whispers, kneeling down in front of you and grabbing your wrist.
“You don’t have to defend me,” you say, trying to tug your arm away from him. “I know what I am.”
Your eyes flicker up, catching his glare back down at you. His lips are pressed tightly together as he breathes heavily through his nose. You can feel the anger radiating off his skin and burning into yours.
“Don’t say that,” he demands, pulling you up to your feet.
Your knees wobble as you stand, legs numb from sitting on the cold concrete for hours. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine.”
“Eren–”
“I picked you. Remember that,” he mumbles, pulling you closer into his chest. “Let’s go home.”
And that’s the softest anyone’s ever been to you since Mina was alive.
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