Chapter Text
And I'm so tired that I might
Quit my job, start a new life
And they'd all be so disappointed
'Cause who am I if not exploited?
No one actually knew anything about Tom Simons.
It's interesting , Wilbur thinks, as he checks his watch for the fifth time in the last thirty minutes and ducks in through the big glass doors. Security, probably waiting for him because he's late, just wave him through without doing any of the checks. It's interesting, because I didn't know it was possible to be a famous young artist and still have privacy.
When Wilbur got off his ass and decided to take this audition - with a lot of coaxing from Shubble - he tried doing some research. He had obviously heard Tom Simons' voice before – on the radio, on the television, on the soundtracks of some of the new movies that dropped – but he's never actually looked into the pop star. Searching up his name gave Wilbur the information that he was expecting – seventeen years old, six feet tall, brown hair, blue eyes. He released his first single at fifteen, then his album at sixteen, and now, his tour was scheduled to start in three months and go on for four, ending in April.
Pretty basic stuff that Wilbur would've found just by asking around.
But when Wilbur tried digging deeper – finding Tommy's likes or dislikes, what his hobbies were, who any of his friends were – he got nothing.
So Wilbur went into the first round of tour-key auditions with the chords memorized and nothing else. Thankfully, and weirdly, Tommy wasn't there. It was an older blond guy directing them all, telling them where to go, when to play and what to expect.
"Hi," he said, "I'm Phil, and I'm the Sour tour manager. I'm gonna be overseeing all the backing instrument auditions and any rehearsals hereafter. There were a lot of submissions, and while we trimmed them down after seeing the tapes, after today we should be ready to make final cuts." Then he clapped, and with a cheery smile, said, "alright – who's up first?"
Wilbur barely remembers a single second of the audition, and he really wasn't expecting to get the call two days later saying that he should come in on Thursday for the second round, but he's here, so it must be real.
He follows the signs through the winding studio to conference room B and winces when he sees that everyone is already there waiting. He only recognizes Phil, and he figures the rest are the other artists. He must be the only pianist that made it, because he didn’t see a girl with pink hair at his auditions. Or – or a guy with pink hair. There is a lot of pink hair in this room. Was hair dye a requirement for today or –
“Wilbur, right?” Phil says suddenly, getting Wilbur’s attention. Wilbur nods. “Good, good, come in, sit anywhere, we’re just going through a couple of things, you haven’t missed anything at all.”
Wilbur ducks inside and sits next to the guy with the mustache and beanie and the other guy with the mustache and sideburns – fucking hell, was facial hair a requirement too?
“Alright, so. Right now, we’re going over the schedule of rehearsals and the tour dates.” Phil slides a thin packet of papers across the table at him. When Wilbur flips to the second page like everyone else, he sees a blank calendar and a filled in one. “Most of our venues are scheduled, and unless something drastic happens, we’re looking to complete all fifty shows.”
The man with the sideburns whistles lowly. “Fifty,” he says. “That’s a lot.”
Phil’s expression wavers briefly, and it looks as if he wants to comment, but he doesn’t. “Yeah,” is all he says. “Yeah. There will be a high volume of shows, and something that’s important to all of us here is that each show feels fresh. Every single audience member every night will be seeing you for the first time, so it’s important that you give them your all each time. This tour will take a great deal of stamina, and a great deal of practice, so if – in these first two weeks – you feel that you’ll be unable to meet these challenges, then let us know and we’ll have you replaced.”
There’s silence, and Phil casts his gaze over all of them before nodding. “Alright. Good. Now, since there’ll be so many shows, we want to determine a consistent rehearsal schedule in the three months of prep time before the tour begins.” Phil folds his hands together in front of him and seems to look Wilbur dead in the eyes. “Tell me what days and times you’ll be available, to show up to rehearsal on time.”
There are four other people in the band, excluding himself and their lead singer Tom Simsons, who apparently none of them have met yet.
“I thought he’d be here today,” Niki, one of their two guitarists, says as she bends down and touches her black combat boots. She stretches before rehearsals, which honestly, Wilbur thinks is the way to go. He gets back pain after gigs sometimes, and yeah, Shubble keeps ordering him icy-hots, but maybe stretching will stop the problem before it starts. “I mean – we’re his final band, yeah? Unless one of us quits in two weeks.”
“Quits?” Schlatt barks, laughing. He sounds delightedly incredulous. “Quit being in the band of one of the biggest teeny-boppers in the world? No way any of us are doing that.”
“You haven’t listened to any of Tommy’s music, have you?” Niki frowns.
“Not anything except what I had to play at the audition,” Schlatt plays a line on his guitar. Wilbur keeps his head down. If their two guitarists start fighting over this, it might be best for Wilbur to not make it known that he also hasn’t listened to the album they’re supposed to be playing.
Niki’s lips press together. “Well, I’d suggest you do. It’s surprisingly….real. In a way that feels deeper than most of the artist on the radio nowadays, anyway.”
“I’m sure I’ll hear it enough,” Schlatt waves off. Then he turns to Techno, who’s sitting at the drum set silently since they were shown where rehearsal room three was. “What about you, big guy? Have you listened to the album?”
Techno, who is an absolute unit of a guy dressed in a blue tee with brown hair coming down to his chin that seems to have been dipped in pink dye, just raises an eyebrow.
"Yes," he says. And that's it.
They all stare at him, and Schlatt chuckles nervously. "O- kay then." He says, eyes flickering away and over to Ash, their bassist, who's kneeling on the floor fiddling with the wires. "And you?"
Ash gives a thumbs up, too preoccupied with his task.
"It wasn't a requirement to have listened to the whole album first, was it?" Wilbur asks, fidgeting slightly. "Because I learned the chords to one and –"
Schlatt comes over and throws his arm over Wilbur's shoulder, startling him. " This is what I'm saying – there's no reason to stress yourself out over it – we're gonna fucking learn it. That's why we're here."
"I thought we were here to be Tom Simons' band," Techno says dryly and Schlatt rolls his eyes.
"Maybe if the kid showed his face."
Wilbur ducks, letting Schlatt's arm fall and stepping back behind his keyboard. "Maybe he'll come during our rehearsal. I bet he's busy. I mean, how old is he? Seventeen and putting on a whole tour? Maybe he's stressed out."
Ash nods in agreement and Schlatt tilts his head. "Yeah, alright, fine, I'll give him that. If this was my tour, I'd at least want to check if I liked the people I'd be playing with, but that's just me."
"Luckily it isn't your tour," Niki says, smiling sweetly. "Because otherwise he'd kick you out."
Schlatt's mouth drops, and Ash snorts. When Wilbur looks over at Techno, he's got an amused smile on his face, and oh yeah. Wilbur is gonna love it here.
This is how their first week of rehearsals goes. No lead singer, just the group of them, their instruments, and some fun four days a week.
They don't use the music for the tour yet – they all decided to wait for Tom to lead them through – and instead just kinda…jam. It's really fucking fun. Wilbur gets to wake up four days a week at eight in the morning, head to the lot and just play around with music until they break for lunch. And then, Ash will walk them to a cool place in the city, one Wilbur's never heard of, and they'll all have sandwiches, or macaroni bowls, or baked apples, and then walk back to play some more.
Phil normally watches them, bopping his head to their stopping and starting improvised tunes as he sends email after email or goes over document after document for the tour. At first, Schlatt and Ash were wary of his presence, but he doesn't ever tell them what to play or how they should be spending their time. He just sits and listens and then nods at them when he goes.
It's basically free practice time, and Wilbur has never been one to be ungrateful for free stuff before.
Plus, he really does like the band.
Niki is sweet, even if she is stern and unwilling to back down from an argument. Especially when that argument is with Schlatt. And they can argue over pretty much anything. Ash got them all coffees once before rehearsal, and Wilbur only took one sip of his before Schlatt and Niki started arguing about the different types of creamer and which one was better.
But even still, Niki is amazing. She invites them over to her apartment and shows off her extensive guitar collection and makes them terrible snacks.
Schlatt is great too, even if he is annoying – constantly ribbing at Techno and throwing his arms over Wilbur and Ash like they're his personal arm rests. He's a bit of a chatterbox, but it's nice on days when Wilbur comes in shaking out of his skin. Schlatt will complain about a lot, but he doesn't seem to mind when Wilbur makes them restart from the top because his trembling fingers can't hit the right keys.
Ash and Techno are both quiet, but make up for their volume when it comes to their music. Wilbur loves sitting with Ash while the man draws or skirts his fingers down his bass. He loves the way the man sees the world, taking them around to little nooks and crannies and pointing out things like lanterns strung across the street or graffiti dripping down brick. Techno is very similar: soft-spoken and observant, very sensitive to any changes in the tone of their sound or an atmosphere. Once Niki came in with red-rimmed eyes, and Techno, before a single word was said, caught Schlatt’s sleeve in his hand and shook his head. He’s gentle to Wilbur when Wilbur is having a day and doesn’t get caught in the rolling wave that is the general opinion.
Don’t read the articles, Techno says easily when the topic of Tom Simons comes up again. Don’t listen to the blogs. Wait and see. Wait and see.
So for now, that’s what they’re doing. They’re waiting to see as they meet at the lot four days a week and get together the other three nights. They’re waiting to see as they have lunch and dinner, and sometimes even breakfast together. They’re waiting to see and trying not to judge.
But, as the days go on without a single sighting of Tom Simons, it becomes harder and harder not to form opinions.
As far as Wilbur knows for sure, he’d love to spend months, if not years on tour with these people. Even if Tom Simons is a horrible person, Wilbur will suffer through it for them.
And then, he actually meets Tom Simons.
The rehearsal that Tommy finally shows up at is a lax one.
They’ve been going for about an hour and stopped for just a bit to take a break. Phil dipped out to get them all some coffees – decaf for Wilbur – and so they’re all just waiting for him to get back as they talk.
“I’m just saying,” Techno is going, twirling one drum stick around and around in his fingers. “We’re going to have to start the songs at some point. I think Phil is being nice about it, but we’re halfway through our first month and –”
The door opens, and they all glance over, anticipating Phil with a cupholder full of their orders. But no, it’s a head of brown hair, and blue eyes: a slight, lanky teenage boy dressed in a black jeans and long-sleeve black band tee-shirt with red lettering that’s too small to read.
Immediately Wilbur recognizes him from his photos on the internet and any interviews he’s taken. Tom Simons.
“Hi,” Tom goes, standing a little bit in front of the door awkwardly as if he isn’t renting out the place for them to practice in. “I’m Tommy – er, Tom. Tom Simons.”
There’s a moment of stunned quiet as they all process. Here he is, finally, after weeks of anticipation. This almost mythical figure simply standing in front of them – finally appearing when they thought it would take at least another week. Now here he was, their boss pretty much, peeking in on them as they lay around during a rehearsal.
“Hi,” Niki says, blinking out of her shock. She stands, shifting Zuko to her hip. “I’m Niki. Your lead guitarist.”
That prompts the rest of them to unfreeze and introduce themselves to him one by one, and with each introduction, Tom – or, Tommy – nods, muttering a hello and repeating their names to himself under his breath.
“It’s nice to meet you all,” Tommy says, when they’re done. “Sorry it’s taken so long, I was…busy with things. There’s –” he runs a stressed hand through his hair, “ – a lot going on right now."
"Sounds like it," Techno tilts his head, his eyes narrowing slightly. "I know we just met, but – you okay, kid? This can't be easy."
Tommy laughs, and something about the sound sets Wilbur's teeth on edge. "Ask me again when the tour starts – or better yet – when it's over." Then he takes a breath, as if resetting, and smiles, bright and false. "What are you guys working on?"
Wilbur exchanges a look with Ash, and that pretty much sums up the rest of their rehearsal. Tommy doesn't step over to one of the mics that they've pushed to the side, he just sinks down onto the floor, cross-legged, listening to their hesitant music. After a while they loosen, realizing that Tommy's presence is very similar to Phil's – if Wilbur doesn't think about it, he can imagine that Tommy is just a lover of music and not, basically, their boss.
After a bit, Tommy stands, and shuffles backwards. "This was nice," he says. Then, as if he wasn't supposed to be with them, adds, "maybe we can do this again?"
Wilbur isn't sure what possesses him to speak up, but –
"Of course, Tom," he goes. "We'll always be here."
An interesting expression crosses over Tommy's face, before it disappears. But then he smiles hesitantly. "Alright. Cool. See you guys soon, then." Then he pauses, and goes, almost desperately, "and please, call me Tommy."
And then he slips back through the doors as if he was never there.
He does come to the next rehearsal.
And the next, and the next, and the next. He doesn't sing – not yet, he says, when Schlatt probes him, I want to listen for now. If that's alright. I just …I don't want to perform yet – he simply sits there, cross-legged on the floor by Wilbur's keyboard and listens to them make music.
At first, he'd leave before their rehearsals would wind down, but Ash catches his sleeve once and coaxes him out with them, into the city.
Where are we going? Tommy asks nervously, ducking his head and turning his face away from the pedestrians walking opposite to them.
Wherever Ash takes us, little man, Schlatt says, hopefully to food, right?
Ash, of course, doesn't bother with a response.
They end up at a taco place, and it's magnificent. The air is warm and full of spice, there's music playing, there are a million different options of things to eat and to top it off, there's a wall that's just pinned polaroids of customers.
Every group that comes in gets one, the man behind the counter says, smiling heartily. Go on, I'll take it for you.
The way that Tommy shuffles off to the side as if they'd want the photo without him is interesting to Wilbur. Of course, he doesn't get far before Niki is curling a hand around his elbow and hauling him back in to stand in the middle of them all, but still.
That, plus:
Here, the man hands the Polaroid off to Tommy as the rest of them sit down to wait for their food, you can put this up on the wall. Anywhere you'd like. Tommy hesitates, and the man tilts his head. Or, he goes, you can keep it for yourself. If you really want to.
Wilbur, out of courtesy, pretends not to notice the way that Tommy slips the photo into his pocket.
Olive is going to kill Tommy.
"Please," he's saying over the line, while Olive, outside on the lawn in their music note print pajama pants at one in the morning, freezes half to death. "Oli, please. You know I never ask for anything. This is the one thing. Please."
"Tommy," Olive sighs. "Tommy, just because I'm on break doesn't mean that I'm bored."
"I never said that," he argues. "I just –"
"You just implied it." Olive starts walking in a circle so their toes don't freeze and snap off. "I'll have you know that I'm writing so many songs. Like – so many. You wouldn't believe how productive I'm being right now."
But Tommy doesn't take the bait. Instead, his voice dips low. "Please come on the tour, Olive. I can't do this on my own."
"But you're not on your own, Tommy. You have a band. You have a crew. You –"
"I need you," he says abruptly. "I need you, Olive."
Olive sighs. Stops turning in circles. Looks up at the dark sky. "If I come on this tour, you have to promise that you'll make friends with your band members."
There's a beat of silence, and in it, Olive processes what they've just said.
"Shit," they go, wincing. "I mean – ah – sorry Tommy. I just – I wasn't –"
"I went to see them the other day." Tommy's voice is soft, as it always is when he's off stage. It, Olive has noted in their song-writing notebook, makes him sound like he's constantly begging. "They're – they seem…good."
"Good?"
"Yeah." It's a wistful sound. "Too good. They're not – they're not gonna last the whole six months. I just – I need someone that I know won't leave me."
And here, his voice gets impossibly softer. "Please."
Olive peeks inside to their darkened windows. Inside, they know, their mother has just gone to bed, and if they say no to Tommy, then they'll follow right after her, laying in bed after a full exhausting day of pretending. They'll wake up in the morning and keep pretending: pretending that they're not swimming in tension, pretend that everything is fine and normal, pretend that the shared air isn't suffocating them.
If Olive says no, they don't know when they'll get out next.
"Yes," Olive says, and they do one last bit of pretending: pretending that they aren't echoing Tommy's sigh of relief.
The band is amazing.
Olive doesn't really know what they were expecting. A group of arrogant, stuffy, blase musicians maybe? A collection of people who came to collect a check, who came to hit a chip off of the most well known pop singer in the past two years? Whatever it was, it wasn't what they met, that's for sure.
Tom: come to rehearsal room three
Olive waves cheerily at the security and makes their way through the winding halls. It's confusing, but it gets a lot less confusing when they can hear the faint sounds of music floating from down the hall. When they peek in through the cracked door, they see a bunch of people playing instruments – one pink haired guy bopping his head as he hits the drums, a guy with side-burns and a backwards cap rocking back and forth while playing the guitar, a really cool looking girl with pink hair, another guy on bass in a front facing cap, and then a lanky harmless looking man at the keyboard.
Olive spots Tommy, folded neatly at the man on the keyboard's feet, hands on his chin, eyes closed, the picture of pure contentment. They pause in the doorway, just watching, just listening, enjoying the rich sound. Just watching Tommy, who looks more at ease than Olive's ever seen him. If this is what the band turns Tommy into, then Olive hopes beyond all hope that they never leave him.
The man with the backwards cap does a little spin, and spots them standing there and jumps. Him stopping harshly makes everyone else stop harshly, and then they're all staring at Olive.
"Hi," they say, waving awkwardly. "I'm Olive. I'm, uh, Tommy's plus one for life."
“Schlatt,” the guy says. He turns to look back at Tommy. “Tommy, your security is shit, are you sure she’s supposed to be here?”
Olive flinches.
“They,” Tommy corrects instantly, standing up and stepping over. "And yes. Olive, you're here."
“Oh shit,” Schlatt curses. “I’m sorry, that’s my bad.”
Olive forces a smile. “It’s okay.” Their smile melts into something more real when Tommy comes forward and greets them with a hug. He curls around Olive so neatly and holds so tightly that it really tells Olive all they need to know about how the past couple of months have been for him.
“Hi,” they whisper.
Tommy just takes a breath.
“I’m here,” Olive offers, and this time Tommy makes a small sound of acknowledgement. Olive knows that Tommy’s band is thinking whatever they’re thinking, but Olive finds, as they always do with Tommy, that they don’t care. Tommy needs this. There’s been enough times that Tommy’s risked everything for them, so Olive’s image means nothing in exchange for the care of his heart. “I know. I know.”
Tommy sighs, then slowly pulls back, cheeks pink. “Sorry,” he whispers, as if Olive would be upset at him for holding on. Before they can reassure him, he pulls away completely. “Let me introduce you to the band. You ready?”
“Born ready,” Olive grins. And, they think silently, mentally prepared to fight any one of these guys if need be.
Olive loves the band.
For now. They reserve the right to change their mind at any point completely according to how this tour pans out and how they handle Tommy’s heart. But for now, they think this group of people are a great fit, both for each other and for Tommy.
Olive will never admit to having favorites, but – well, their favorite is Wilbur, hands down. He’s sweet and polite, and reminds Olive a lot of Tommy back when they first met. Maybe even a little bit of Tommy now. He’s a nervous-wreck and spends more time apologizing than speaking, but whenever he isn’t saying sorry for something he didn’t technically do wrong, he’s really level-headed and gentle. He plays with a quiet diligence of someone who really cares about music, and it’s no mystery to Olive why Phil chose him.
Olive also can’t help but think that Phil knew Tommy and Wilbur would flock together the way they do. For as long as Olive’s known Phil – which honestly, hasn’t been long at all – they’ve never not known Phil to make decisions like that on purpose. When it came to Tommy, he was always deliberate.
Good, given that no one else was.
At least, not in a way that had any good impacts.
But now, Tommy seems to have found his people. Including Olive, there shouldn’t be anyone on this tour that isn’t watching out for him, which is good. It’s what he deserves. This is what Olive’s been fighting for since they’ve met. They can’t help but be happy.
And also so, so upset that no one will do it for them too.