Chapter 4 #2
I got out of the car before I could talk myself out of it and walked toward the venue with my jacket pulled tight against the cold.
The line had mostly cleared by the time I reached the door, and the bouncer barely glanced at my ID before waving me through.
The noise hit me immediately, a wall of sound and heat and bodies pressed together in the dim lighting.
The stage was at the far end of the room, currently empty but lit up and waiting, and the bar ran along the left side with people crowded three deep trying to get drinks.
I made my way over and managed to squeeze into a gap near the end, catching the bartender's attention long enough to order a ginger ale.
I wanted my head clear for this, wanted to be present and aware instead of hiding behind alcohol to make it easier.
The bartender handed me the glass and I paid, then turned toward the stage and found a spot near the back where I could see without being too obvious about it.
The crowd was getting louder now, anticipation building as the lights dimmed and the MC walked out onto the stage. He said about the opening band finishing up and how grateful they were for everyone coming out tonight, and then he said the words that made my pulse spike.
“Alright, Toronto, are you ready for Neon Veins?”
The crowd roared, and I tightened my grip on my glass hard enough that I was surprised it didn't crack.
My eyes were already locked on the stage, scanning for movement, for any sign of the band coming out.
The lights shifted, going darker and then flaring back up in shades of blue and purple, and then the first band member walked out.
Not Soren. The guitarist, tall and lean with dark hair and a grin that said he knew exactly how good he looked under stage lights.
He raised his guitar in acknowledgment of the crowd and took his position on the right side of the stage.
Then the bassist came out, a woman in her thirties with short hair and a no-nonsense expression, and she plugged in and started tuning without fanfare.
And then I saw him.
Soren walked out last, drumsticks already in his hand, and the air went out of my lungs so fast I almost choked on it.
He was there. Real. Alive. Moving across the stage with the kind of easy confidence that said he'd done this a thousand times before.
He was wearing a black tank top that showed off the tattoos running down both arms, ink that I wanted to trace with my eyes and my hands and learn the story behind.
His hair was longer than it had been in high school, falling into his eyes slightly as he settled behind the drum kit and adjusted the cymbals.
He looked different. Older, rougher. But underneath all of that, he was still recognizable. The way he held himself. The angle of his jaw. The shape of his mouth when he grinned at the guitarist and said hello that I couldn't hear over the crowd noise.
The music started without warning, a hard opening riff that cut through the room and made everyone surge forward. And then Soren started to play.
I'd known he was good. Had heard him on the recordings, had listened to Neon Veins enough times to recognize his style.
But seeing him in person was entirely different.
He didn't just play the drums. He attacked them, throwing his whole body into every hit, arms moving fast and sure and devastating.
Sweat was already starting to form on his skin, catching the stage lights and making the tattoos shimmer.
The song shifted into the bridge and Soren's hands moved faster, sticks blurring against the snare in a pattern that felt both chaotic and perfectly controlled.
He looked alive up there in a way I'd only ever seen him look one other time, and that had been on the ice with me beside him, both of us moving in sync like we were reading each other's minds.
I was trapped there watching him, my drink forgotten in my hand, my entire focus narrowed down to the man on the stage who'd disappeared from my life without warning and somehow ended up here, in this city, in this club, playing drums like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the world.
The song ended and the crowd screamed, and Soren looked up from the kit with a grin that was so familiar it hurt. He said to the crowd through the mic clipped to his collar, his voice rougher than I remembered but still carrying that same warmth that had always made people want to be near him.
I watched him move into the next song, watched the way his body knew exactly what to do without thinking, watched the way he looked completely at home up there despite everything I didn't know about his life.
And I realized with a clarity that felt like falling that I had no idea what I was going to say to him when this was over.
I'd spent years imagining what it would be like to find Soren again.
Years building up the moment in my head, trying to prepare myself for every possible outcome.
But none of those versions had come close to the reality of seeing him alive under stage lights, tattooed and sweating and playing like his life depended on it.
The set continued and I didn't move. Didn't leave. Didn't look away. I just stood there near the back of the room with my drink going warm in my hand, completely captivated by the man on the stage who'd once been my best friend and was now a stranger I still somehow knew by heart.
The music was loud enough to rattle my ribs, and the crowd was pressing closer to the stage, bodies moving in rhythm to the bass line that vibrated through the floor. But I stayed where I was, rooted to the spot, watching Soren throw himself into every song like it was the only thing that mattered.
He hit the cymbals hard enough that the sound cut through everything else, and his hair fell into his eyes as he leaned into the next beat.
There was something almost violent about the way he played, something that looked like controlled chaos, and I couldn't stop watching the way his muscles moved under the tattoos, the way his hands gripped the sticks, the way his whole body became part of the rhythm.
Between songs, he looked out at the crowd and grinned again, and for just a second his eyes swept over the section where I was standing. My breath caught in my throat, but his gaze kept moving, not landing on me, not recognizing me, just scanning the faces in the dark.
He didn't know I was here. Didn't know I'd spent the last day spiraling about whether this was the right move, didn't know I'd stood in Coach and Jace's living room having a wardrobe crisis because I didn't know how to dress for seeing your ghost again.
He was just up there playing, living his life, completely unaware that I'd been searching for him for years and had finally found him.
The thought should have made me feel better, should have given me some sense of control over the situation.
But instead it just made me feel more lost. Because what was I supposed to do after this?
Walk up to him and say hi like we were old friends who'd just lost touch?
Demand answers for why he'd left? Pretend I hadn't spent over a decade trying to figure out what I'd done wrong?
The set moved into what felt like the final song, something slower and heavier that made the crowd sway instead of jump.
Soren's playing shifted with it, still intense but more measured, and I watched the way his shoulders moved with each hit, the way his face went from focused to almost peaceful for brief seconds between fills.
This was him now. This was what he'd become. A drummer in a band I'd been listening to without knowing, living in the same city as me, playing shows in venues I could have walked past a hundred times. He'd been here the whole time, just out of reach, and I'd never known.
The song ended and the crowd erupted, screaming and clapping and calling for an encore.
Soren stood up from behind the kit, breathing hard, and raised his sticks in acknowledgment.
The stage lights caught the sweat on his skin and the ink on his arms, and he looked wrecked and beautiful and absolutely nothing like the boy I'd known at eighteen.
The band took their bows and started walking offstage, and I knew I had maybe ten minutes before they came back out or disappeared into a dressing room or left through a back exit I didn't know about.
Ten minutes to decide what I was going to do, whether I was going to approach him or walk away or just keep standing here like an idiot until someone kicked me out.
But I couldn't move. Couldn't make my legs work, couldn't make my brain form a coherent plan. I just stood there with my now-warm ginger ale and watched the empty stage where Soren had been seconds ago.
I'd found him. And I had absolutely no idea what to do next.