“I’ll be back soon,” Stella tells us before closing the door again.
Mads takes a draw from his vape before pulling up his mask once again. He signs me the horns, pivots on his heel, and as he reaches for the knob, I restlessly launch out of my chair.
“Hey, Mads?”
“What’s up?” he asks, pausing.
I grab my slouchy jacket and wrap it over my arms, letting it hang loosely off one shoulder. “Mind if I walk?”
I can see Mads beaming at me over the mask when I turn around.
“You never walk,” he says.
I shrug. “Making new traditions, right?”
He chuckles. “Hell fucking yeah, you can walk.” He holds the door open wider, and I sprint out of the dressing room.
The buzzing energy hits me the moment I’m on the other side. It’s infectious. I feel it in my bones. The chant… the shouting… My head drops back as I take it in.
“This is crazy,” I say once he’s closed the door.
He jerks his head in the direction of the stage. “Just wait.”
The entire walk, I’m skipping, jumping sideways, punching my arms in the air nearly every time they say our name—entirely unable to stay as cool and collected as Mads is. We pass by a few of our roadies who I eagerly high-five because those fuckers work their asses off for us, and we wouldn’t be shit on any tour without them.
Each time the crowd chants our name, my stomach twists a little tighter.
“What are you listening to?” Mads asks about the headphones around my neck.
“You know I grunge-out before this shit.” I take my phone out and increase the volume so that he can hear it.
“Fuck yeah. I need this playlist to add some new shit to mine,” he says.
“Yeah, you do.”
Young Decay.
Young Decay.
“Though, this shit might be hype enough,” I say about the sound of our fans.
I hear him snicker. “Brings you back to why we do this, right? Makes all the sleepless nights and sore bones worth it.”
“Yeah, it does,” I agree.
When we reach the edge of the stage, I swallow the lump in my throat at the sight of all the posters our fans have hanging on the railing. The sea of people goes back further than I can perceive. There’s something about seeing it from the side of the stage here, the calm before the storm, that causes emotion to swell within me.
Some of these people camped out all day just to have a spot in the front.
“Holy shit.”
Mads pushes his hands into his pockets and rocks on his toes. “Wild, right?”
I’m still taking it all in when I hear someone yelling, “BEDLAM!” from the front. I whip my head toward it, finding a group of fans all pointing and shouting both mine and Mads’ nicknames. I stick out my tongue and give them the horns hand gesture, making them sign it back, and Mads—much more calmly—does the same.
“This is gorgeous. No wonder you always walk,” I say.
“Walking grounds me,” he says. “Do you remember the first time you sat behind that kit?”
