FIC: Solo (1/1) Bandom
TITLE: Solo
AUTHOR: Laura Smith
RATING: PG-13
CHARACTERS: William Beckett
DISCLAIMER: William Beckett and any members of The Academy Is... or other bands mentioned belong only to themselves. I don't claim them. I don't claim to know them. No harm is intended. I make no profit from this. I just like playing with them.
SUMMARY: He didn't do it without reason, and it cost him far more than anyone thinks it did.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Unbetaed. All mistakes are my own.
Everyone thinks he should apologize.
He knows that’s not true, but it feels that way sometimes. It feels like no one realizes that he lost everything too, even if he gained his freedom. He lost his best friend and his family and his band and his label and his friends. He lost everything he gained and he’s back to where he started, trying to figure out if it was worth it.
He knows it’s worth it.
None of them were happy. Mike wanted to make music that didn’t fit with his lyrics, wanted to make songs that were them and it chafed at his skin, chords like nails digging into his flesh. Because them was The Academy, and they’d ceased to exist. They stopped on the KISS tour, when everything should have been perfect, but instead it just showed all the cracks in the pavement, all the little things that they should have been in the past flaring up, tiny eruptions in the calm surface. Everyone wanted them to change who they were and become a team of songwriters, a group that made something together, but the core of who they are - were - was the fact that he and Mike were never going to agree, they were going to find some compromise in the middle, both of them unsatisfied.
They were good songs, some of them, but they weren’t his songs, and they weren’t Mike’s songs and so they weren’t right. There was something missing, something they fought for in post-production and in mixing and could never quite find.
Freedom costs though, and he thinks he’s paid the price. He thought he’d lose Mike, and he did. Like sand slipping through his fingers. He disappeared in a wave of hurt and anger, ten years of knowing all the worst things to say shouted out over the phone. William didn’t hang up. He listened to every word and took them, knowing he deserved them. Mike pulled no punches, and it hurt to breathe after he’d stopped, breathing heavily on the other end of the phone.
“We’re done.” It hadn’t been a question, but William had answered anyway.
“You know we are. You’ve known it.”
“Fuck you.”
Mike had hung up then and William stared at the phone, hanging it up eventually. Or maybe Christine did when she came into the room and found him there in the dark. It wasn’t deliberate dramatics. He’d just been in his head, wondering if he could fight against the songs that were there, desperate and frantic, beating at his chest, and go back, call Mike back, and the sun had gone down.
Adam had called almost immediately after the phone was back on the hook, and William could hear the worry and relief in his voice. Adam was always the one in the middle, the lone kid of parents who should have divorced a long time ago. William doesn’t remember what he said, what either of them said. He’s not sure he said anything at all.
After that it was supposed to be easier, but the hits kept coming. People he thought were his friends stopped returning his calls. People who he dealt with and worked with and hung out with were suddenly evasive and uneasy. He got to the point where he called Pete and all he got was the runaround, pretty words and stuttered silences that spoke volumes beyond what he actually said. William sat there for a long time and stared at his computer, thinking about Gabe’s story for signing with Pete, how he wanted to tour with his friends. He emailed Pete, because it was easier than hearing it and more real all at once.
“When I said I wanted to go solo, I didn’t realize it meant completely alone.”
Pete’s reply didn’t come until the next morning, and it was typically Pete. It was also accompanied by the sound of the last ties he thought he had severing. “be careful what you wish for.”
**
Christine and Evie are amazing. Supportive and his family when everything else has faded away. He knows that’s dramatic. He still has friends and business associates. Johnny and Jack and Nick are there for him as much as they can be. He’s still part of Snakes & Suits, even if he isn’t part of Fueled by Ramen, part of Decaydance. He’s still connected by threads to everyone.
And he’s excited. He’s writing and composing and feeling the most creative he’s felt since when he and Mike first started out, when Checkmarks bled out of Mike’s guitar. He plays with songs until they feel right, until they feel his and it’s amazing not to have to submit them for approval, to have everything judged. Sometimes he misses having Mike to give something to, have him mold and shape it when William can’t quite find it, even if what Mike created was never quite what William was looking for.
He learned at Pete’s feet, so he practices the art of self-promotion, even though he knows that he’s never going to hit that balance like Pete has. People listen to Pete like he’s some sort of guru, and William doesn’t actually want that pressure. He just wants them to listen to his music, to tell their friends, and see if he can manage all of this, all that he wants. He falls flat on his face sometimes, and it’s hard not to take it personally, because it’s him out there. His words and voice and face. He pretends it doesn’t matter, but it does.
Being on stage is different too. Not like his solo acoustic shows, where he knew he had the band to fade back into, where every mistake wasn’t his alone. There’s no one to lean on on stage, no one to press against and feel the same energy. There’s just him and the audience and it’s good. It’s mostly good. There are nearly empty rooms and bitter TAI fans, there are angry words spit out at him like venom, and he understands it. He still stands there and plays and sings like every show is his last, like the room is full of hundreds or thousands of screaming fans, singing along.
He knows he’s doing the right thing by the way he can breathe again, by the way he doesn’t feel the tension in his shoulders when he sits down to write. It’s easier and harder in ways he can live with, but it doesn’t make it easy. He misses his friends. He misses the challenge of Mike, the constant justification of everything. He just has to fight with himself over what works, and while he’s his own worst critic, he also cuts himself slack on things Mike never would.
He hears things through grapevine of the few friends he still has, and Sisky tries to be casual about it when he mentions that Mike’s back in school, that he’s on the swim team, that he likes it, that he’s happy, but all that does is remind William about the things he’s not saying. Mike’s not making music. Mike’s not in a band. Mike’s not going on tour. Mike’s not.
He’s been debating what to do since the dates were first set, and he still doesn’t have a firm answer when they hit LA. He knows that Mike’s most likely not going to show up and say hello to the rest of the guys on the tour because he’s there. Still, he has to try, because he didn’t want to get what he wanted this way. He wants to believe that maybe they were friends underneath all the fights and anger and misunderstandings. He wants to believe that there was a reason they made good music together.
He sends Mike a text.
“In town for a couple days. Buy you a coffee?”
He doesn’t expect an answer, not really. Not yet.
But it still hurts when it doesn’t come.
AUTHOR: Laura Smith
RATING: PG-13
CHARACTERS: William Beckett
DISCLAIMER: William Beckett and any members of The Academy Is... or other bands mentioned belong only to themselves. I don't claim them. I don't claim to know them. No harm is intended. I make no profit from this. I just like playing with them.
SUMMARY: He didn't do it without reason, and it cost him far more than anyone thinks it did.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Unbetaed. All mistakes are my own.
Everyone thinks he should apologize.
He knows that’s not true, but it feels that way sometimes. It feels like no one realizes that he lost everything too, even if he gained his freedom. He lost his best friend and his family and his band and his label and his friends. He lost everything he gained and he’s back to where he started, trying to figure out if it was worth it.
He knows it’s worth it.
None of them were happy. Mike wanted to make music that didn’t fit with his lyrics, wanted to make songs that were them and it chafed at his skin, chords like nails digging into his flesh. Because them was The Academy, and they’d ceased to exist. They stopped on the KISS tour, when everything should have been perfect, but instead it just showed all the cracks in the pavement, all the little things that they should have been in the past flaring up, tiny eruptions in the calm surface. Everyone wanted them to change who they were and become a team of songwriters, a group that made something together, but the core of who they are - were - was the fact that he and Mike were never going to agree, they were going to find some compromise in the middle, both of them unsatisfied.
They were good songs, some of them, but they weren’t his songs, and they weren’t Mike’s songs and so they weren’t right. There was something missing, something they fought for in post-production and in mixing and could never quite find.
Freedom costs though, and he thinks he’s paid the price. He thought he’d lose Mike, and he did. Like sand slipping through his fingers. He disappeared in a wave of hurt and anger, ten years of knowing all the worst things to say shouted out over the phone. William didn’t hang up. He listened to every word and took them, knowing he deserved them. Mike pulled no punches, and it hurt to breathe after he’d stopped, breathing heavily on the other end of the phone.
“We’re done.” It hadn’t been a question, but William had answered anyway.
“You know we are. You’ve known it.”
“Fuck you.”
Mike had hung up then and William stared at the phone, hanging it up eventually. Or maybe Christine did when she came into the room and found him there in the dark. It wasn’t deliberate dramatics. He’d just been in his head, wondering if he could fight against the songs that were there, desperate and frantic, beating at his chest, and go back, call Mike back, and the sun had gone down.
Adam had called almost immediately after the phone was back on the hook, and William could hear the worry and relief in his voice. Adam was always the one in the middle, the lone kid of parents who should have divorced a long time ago. William doesn’t remember what he said, what either of them said. He’s not sure he said anything at all.
After that it was supposed to be easier, but the hits kept coming. People he thought were his friends stopped returning his calls. People who he dealt with and worked with and hung out with were suddenly evasive and uneasy. He got to the point where he called Pete and all he got was the runaround, pretty words and stuttered silences that spoke volumes beyond what he actually said. William sat there for a long time and stared at his computer, thinking about Gabe’s story for signing with Pete, how he wanted to tour with his friends. He emailed Pete, because it was easier than hearing it and more real all at once.
“When I said I wanted to go solo, I didn’t realize it meant completely alone.”
Pete’s reply didn’t come until the next morning, and it was typically Pete. It was also accompanied by the sound of the last ties he thought he had severing. “be careful what you wish for.”
**
Christine and Evie are amazing. Supportive and his family when everything else has faded away. He knows that’s dramatic. He still has friends and business associates. Johnny and Jack and Nick are there for him as much as they can be. He’s still part of Snakes & Suits, even if he isn’t part of Fueled by Ramen, part of Decaydance. He’s still connected by threads to everyone.
And he’s excited. He’s writing and composing and feeling the most creative he’s felt since when he and Mike first started out, when Checkmarks bled out of Mike’s guitar. He plays with songs until they feel right, until they feel his and it’s amazing not to have to submit them for approval, to have everything judged. Sometimes he misses having Mike to give something to, have him mold and shape it when William can’t quite find it, even if what Mike created was never quite what William was looking for.
He learned at Pete’s feet, so he practices the art of self-promotion, even though he knows that he’s never going to hit that balance like Pete has. People listen to Pete like he’s some sort of guru, and William doesn’t actually want that pressure. He just wants them to listen to his music, to tell their friends, and see if he can manage all of this, all that he wants. He falls flat on his face sometimes, and it’s hard not to take it personally, because it’s him out there. His words and voice and face. He pretends it doesn’t matter, but it does.
Being on stage is different too. Not like his solo acoustic shows, where he knew he had the band to fade back into, where every mistake wasn’t his alone. There’s no one to lean on on stage, no one to press against and feel the same energy. There’s just him and the audience and it’s good. It’s mostly good. There are nearly empty rooms and bitter TAI fans, there are angry words spit out at him like venom, and he understands it. He still stands there and plays and sings like every show is his last, like the room is full of hundreds or thousands of screaming fans, singing along.
He knows he’s doing the right thing by the way he can breathe again, by the way he doesn’t feel the tension in his shoulders when he sits down to write. It’s easier and harder in ways he can live with, but it doesn’t make it easy. He misses his friends. He misses the challenge of Mike, the constant justification of everything. He just has to fight with himself over what works, and while he’s his own worst critic, he also cuts himself slack on things Mike never would.
He hears things through grapevine of the few friends he still has, and Sisky tries to be casual about it when he mentions that Mike’s back in school, that he’s on the swim team, that he likes it, that he’s happy, but all that does is remind William about the things he’s not saying. Mike’s not making music. Mike’s not in a band. Mike’s not going on tour. Mike’s not.
He’s been debating what to do since the dates were first set, and he still doesn’t have a firm answer when they hit LA. He knows that Mike’s most likely not going to show up and say hello to the rest of the guys on the tour because he’s there. Still, he has to try, because he didn’t want to get what he wanted this way. He wants to believe that maybe they were friends underneath all the fights and anger and misunderstandings. He wants to believe that there was a reason they made good music together.
He sends Mike a text.
“In town for a couple days. Buy you a coffee?”
He doesn’t expect an answer, not really. Not yet.
But it still hurts when it doesn’t come.