“You sure? This is the fourth time you guys have bitten the dust.”
The five Germans cackled and Marc retorted, “Go to hell!”
“For heaven’s sake,” Mason, the Australian vocalist, intoned with his own characteristic rasp. Then he sang the chorus of a song every metalcore lover knew by heart, his bandmates harmonizing onmade,break,said, andgo to hell, for heaven’s sake, for good measure.
“Twats,” Noah said with a chuckle.
“They sure have energy.” Uwe huffed, running a hand over his shaved head, then his beard. “Next time I’ll fake a sprain. I’m too old for this shit.”
“Exactly my thoughts.” Chris nodded.
“What thoughts? You’re a fucking baby,” the road manager said in that underworld, gruff voice he had.
“I’ve got a good pair of hairy balls that say otherwise. Wanna see them?”
“Fucking exhibitionist. No.” Uwe planted his huge palm on the guitarist’s head and pushed him to the side, making him bump into Marc.
“Yo, asshole!”
“I’m gonna go shower,” Uwe said, ignoring Chris.
“Yeah, me too,” Noah added. “I smell like camel shit.”
Erik scrunched his nose. “What… Camel shit?” he repeated, his face twisting in a funny scowl. “The fuck? That’s oddly specific. Have you actually smelled camel shit?”
The tech shrugged. “No. I’m just brilliant.”
“Says who?” Marc asked.
It was like this all the time. They all were adults. Professionals. Knew how to behave and even how to be serious—sometimes. A big chunk of the time, though, witty remarks, curse words, and offensive outpourings of love were everything one would hear in their group. Especially now that they were seeing each other’s faces almost every second of every damn day.
While they all got along, enjoyed the traveling and the music part of this job on tours like this, between four and twelve humans lived on a bus. A fucking bus. For weeks.
They all tried their best. Cohabiting in such a small and smelly place wasn’t easy. Some days it was simply impossible because you were too tired and needed a minute alone. Stupid disputes happened over things like who had finished the gallon of milk and left it empty in the fridge, or who had finished the toilet paper and hadn’t restocked it, whose turn it was to do the laundry, and holy shit, if someone dared to breathe too loud…
However, Chris had to admit that these things meant nothing compared to the good that came from it. Not only had their friendships strengthened over the passing years, but the memories they shared were something none of them would ever forget.
The musicians might be the ones that put on a show, but Buried Alive wouldn’t have gotten here without their roadies. These annoying motherfuckers who had joined the group one after another, supporting the band and their silly dream when they had nothing to offer, were the motor that made it work.
How Chris wished he was able to express with words the appreciation he felt for this family of waywards. He loved them; he knew he did, or at least that was what he thought these emotions were because seeing them suffering for any reason hurt him, too. Yet he felt it was all shallow and not enough, since most of the time he just wanted to crawl into himself.
As their banter continued and his friends laughed wholeheartedly, Chris stopped in his tracks, his sight unfocused. Unsure why, his chest tightened. A scratchy sensation climbed up his throat, clawing at his esophagus like a thousand spiders. And once again, he was like a stranger trapped inside his mind.
“What is it?” Marc slowed down, staying behind while the rest walked towards the bus.
“I just—I just remembered the girls and Eugene must still be on the merch stand. Gonna go get them and see if they need help.”
“Want me to come with you?” The bassist’s dark eyes told Chris he knew something was up.
“Nah. Be back in a sec.”
“Sure.” Marc nodded, and with a couple of big strides caught up with the others, glancing behind him once more.
Walking in the opposite direction from his friends, Chris frowned and shook his head.
He didn’t think about this all the time. It was often barely a shadow in the background. But, sometimes, like the sharp burning sensation after being stung by a wasp, it was inevitable.
Although he’d accepted long ago that he was a twisted bastard with a hole for a heart and shitty coping mechanisms, some days he felt bad. Selfish. Especially when someone started ranting about a personal problem they had, and all he wanted to do was huff and roll his eyes.
