Before they leave the stage, all three guitarists take a minute to throw handfuls of picks into the crowd. Nick can hardly breathe as he watches them, trying to regain his wits from the experience he’s just had.
Marco tugs him close, hugging him hard. “Now do you see why I love this shit?” he murmurs. He’s practically vibrating—or maybe that’s Nick, still humming with the echo of the music in his bones.
“Yeah. Yeah, I get it.” Nick has had some pretty euphoric moments at concerts—including a Britney concert that felt practicallyreligious—but tonight… tonight was something special. There’s something to be said for being in a room full of people who have always been the outcasts and having them hold their hands out in welcome.
It’s loosened up some things in his chest that he’s not sure he can put away again.
They stand like that, pressed together, Lindsay tucked between them, for long enough to maybe be weird. When they pull away, Nick notices a man in a black button-up and a lanyard standing by them, gaze averted politely. The man clears his throat, offering a smile. “Are you Nick Tiernan?” he asks softly, and Nick’s veins flood with ice. He’s from fucking SportsNet, or TMZ—some rag that’s about to accuse Nick of all sorts of things and make his life hell.
“And if I am?”
The man smiles. “You and your friends have been invited to join the band backstage, if you’d like.”
All the fight drains out of him.Oh. Well. Okay, then.
Lindsay squeals excitedly by way of answer, yanking them both forward to follow the man. Nick puts up no protest, too busy running over a mental checklist—is his hair messed up, isthere a stain on his shirt from where a dude spilled beer on him, why did the invite come to himspecifically, was it from Matt?—before reminding himself that none of thatmattersbecause he doesn’t have a crush and nothing is going to happen and everything is fine.
He’s been backstage in all kinds of places, but never a venue like this; it’s a little dingy, with bizarre art on the walls and more doors than seems to make sense. The man leads them through several of those doors, down a short flight of stairs, and then round a corner towards the muffled sound of voices.
Matt’s still wearing his stage outfit, and because of that it takes Nick a second to realize that Spencer is in the middle of changing into a pair of basketball shorts, standing there in nothing but a tank top and a pair of green briefs.
“Oop, sorry!” he cries, wiggling the shorts up his hips. Marco playfully covers Lindsay’s eyes, but she laughs and shoves his hands away.
“I married a hockey player, I’ve seen worse,” she assures them. “You guys were amazing, oh my God! One of the best shows I’ve ever been to and I promise I’m not just saying that.”
“Thanks so much! I’m glad you had a good time. You’re Lindsay, right?” Matt, ever the frontman, steps in to offer her a hand. “These guys have had nothing but good things to say about you.”
“I’ve trained them well,” she replies sweetly, and the band laughs.
“It’s great to meet you, and also I amdeeplyobsessed with your jacket. Those patches are the coolest,” Joel says. As Lindsay and Marco start telling him about all the various concerts and events she picked the patches up at, Nick feels an elbow bump his. He looks up, meeting Matt’s whiskey-bright eyes.Don’t stare at his abs, don’t stare at his abs,Nick thinks to himself,thanking all those years of keeping his eyes forward in locker rooms.
“So what d’you think? We live up to the hype?” Matt asks quietly, brows drawing together playfully. Nick shrugs, trying to play it at least somewhat cool.
“It was okay, I guess.” Matt actually looks crestfallen for a second, his smile faltering and Nick’s heart clenches. “Or, y’know, it was fucking incredible. One of those two things.”
God, those eyes should be illegal. Matt lights up, rocking on his toes with delight. “Good. ’Cause I saved you something.” He reaches into his back pocket, pulling out a bright-red guitar pick with the Sticks+Stones logo on one side and a stylized MH on the other. As he drops it into Nick’s hand, he runs a sheepish hand over his hair, then grimaces at how sweaty it is. “It’s no game puck or anything, but y’know, just a little something to commemorate the occasion. Since you’re our new number one fan.”
“Well youdidsing me a song,” Nick retorts lightly. He tucks the pick carefully into the card slot on the back of his phone case. “So I guess I have to be now.”
“Exactly.” Suddenly, Matt turns to the side. “Hey, are you guys hungry? We have, like, pizza and stuff. I’m alwaysstarvingafter a show.”
The green room definitely isn’t what Nick expected from a rock show afterparty—it’s less of a party and more just a dozen people hanging out, one or another occasionally speaking into aheadset and disappearing for a few minutes. Maybe his view is just skewed from captaining a hockey team for so many years; he anticipated something a little wilder.
But he likes this much better, half-perched on the arm of a couch with a slice of pizza in hand, laughing as Marco regales the band with the story of his first ever mosh pit. It’s surprisinglywarm, so when he’s finished his slice Nick shrugs his jacket off and drapes it over his lap.
He doesn’t miss the way Matt’s eyes trace the sleeve of tattoos on his left arm. Warmth sparks in the pit of his belly.
It’s a little terrifying, having that attention on him,wantingthat attention, with so many people in the room. And yet… he feels strangely safe, back here in this cramped, sweaty room, surrounded by near-strangers and his best friends, who can all probably see the way Nick blushes whenever Matt catches his eye.
He feelsknown, possibly for the first time in his life. It makes his heart race.
“Hey, is there a bathroom around here?” he asks, because if he’s going to have an existential crisis he’d love to do so in private. Matt jumps to his feet, nodding.
“Yeah, but it’s kind of a maze back here. I’ll show you.”
Matt leads the way down one of the many narrow corridors. He doesn’t say anything, and neither does Nick, keeping his eyes on the slope of the musician’s bare lower back. There’s a curve of black ink that sweeps around the very bottom of his ribs on the left side, a tattoo mostly hidden by his shirt; Nick can’t quite figure out what it is, but he’s desperate to know.
A hopeful part of Nick’s brain had wondered if this was just an excuse to get him alone, but the longer they walk, the more it’s clear the guidance is out of genuine concern. Then they stop, and Matt gestures awkwardly to a door on their left. “There you go,” he says. “Don’t fall in.”
