Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Mikey
Breakdown
YUNGBLUD
Studios are quieter than people would expect. They aren’t silent. They are never that, but the noise is controlled. Every sound matters here. Every breath, every shuffle of a foot, every accidental tap against metal gets noticed, logged, and adjusted. I prefer being on the road.
The tour was noise layered on noise. Crowds, engines, and late nights bleeding into early mornings. You don’t have to think much when you’re on the road. You react. You perform. You survive on muscle memory and momentum.
This? This asks you to listen.
I roll my shoulders as I step into the studio Luc had built on his property.
The familiar smell of polished wood, electronics, and coffee hit me like a memory I didn’t know I missed.
My drum kit is already set up, but I circle it out of habit, checking angles, heights, tension.
I tap the snare lightly with my fingers, feeling how it responds.
First day back. First week of September. The next six months will consist of long days and nights here. No more crowds, which means no more hiding behind the roar. I’ve made a conscious decision to be more present. No tequila glued to my hand. No random hookups.
It’s going to make all the other noise a whole lot louder, but what Quinn said to me at Luc’s barbecue struck a chord.
How I don’t let myself feel things, how I hide behind them with booze and women.
Not in an annoying way, but in a way I can’t ignore.
I’ve been coasting, hiding behind the noise. I know that.
I don’t want to be that guy. I’m the guy that always shows up. Is there when anyone needs something. I’d go to the mattresses for the people I love. Time to start owning that. Should make dealing with Luc’s ego a fucking blast.
Speaking of the devil, he’s already pacing in the control room with a coffee in hand, talking with the producer like he owns the place.
Which, to be fair, I guess he does. A large engagement ring flashes on Lily’s hand when she leans into Luc, laughing.
Luc believes in forever, and I’m happy for him, but it hits weirder than I expect.
Dean’s tuning his guitar nearby, methodical and quiet, the way he always is when he’s thinking.
He’s got that grounded look. It’s the one he wears now that Sadie is in his orbit.
And even though she’s back in New York for a few days to grab some more of her things and to help Quinn relocate, the calm she left behind is still stitched into him.
Hayden sits on a stool with his bass resting across his lap, scrolling through something on his phone, unbothered as ever. If there’s a man alive who doesn’t spiral when the noise stops, it’s him. He is the epitome of control.
Then there’s me. I crack a grin and throw my sticks into the air, catching them easily. “So, is this the new domestic Devil’s Halo? We gonna put a crib in here too?” I smirk as I glance at the baby play mat on the floor next to the couch.
Luc chuckles. “You’d probably sleep in it after enough tequila.”
“Absolutely,” I grin broadly. “I’m adaptable.”
Dean snorts. “It wouldn’t be the first time you woke up in a strange bed.”
“Facts,” I admit, not even a little bit of shame in my game.
But even as the jokes land, something underneath me hums restless and off-tempo that tug at my consciousness.
Quinn’s damn words sunk in deeper than I realized, burrowed in my brain to keep reminding me of what I could be if I stop hiding.
The producer calls us into the control room to talk goals. Album direction. Sound evolution. Growth. All the buzzwords. I nod along, lean back in my chair, stretch my legs like I’m relaxed.
I’m not.
Because this album isn’t just another record.
It’s the one after everything changed. Luc’s a fiancé now.
He’s a dad. A man who fought his way back from losing the love of his life twice and still came out believing in forever.
Dean cracked himself open and didn’t bleed out like he thought he would, and discovered he was able to love again without fear.
Hayden, Hayden has always known exactly who he is and remains astute in that as always.
And then there’s me. I keep the beat. That’s my lane. I’m going to do my best to make it a straight one for once.
“Let’s start with drums,” the producer suggests. “Build everything around that.”
I freeze for half a second before masking it with a grin. Maybe everything will be fine. “Finally. Recognition.”
Luc looks back at me, brows lifting slightly. “You good?”
“Always,” I confirm automatically. The word tastes like bullshit and I wonder if they can smell it.
I move back into the live room and settle behind the kit, adjusting my in-ears, closing my eyes for a moment.
Without the crowd, my breathing sounds too loud.
I settle in anyway. This is where I belong.
That hasn’t changed. I count silently, tapping the sticks together, grounding myself in rhythm. This is one thing I can control.
The click track starts, steady and unforgiving, and I come in clean with the kick, the snare, and then the hi-hat. Simple at first. The groove locks in fast, muscle memory kicking over thought, and for a few minutes, everything else fades. This is easy. This is safe. We stop after the first pass.
“Again,” the producer commands. “Looser. Let it breathe.”
I nod, teeth grinding together as my jaw tightens.
Looser is harder. Looser means feel instead of precision.
Looser means there’s room for something real to slip through.
I play it again, adding ghost notes, letting the beat stretch just a little, resisting the urge to clamp down on it.
The sound fills the room, warm and alive, and when we stop this time, no one speaks right away.
Luc’s voice comes through my ears. “That’s it.”
That lands. More than I want it to. I don’t overthink it. Not yet. I swallow and pop one earbud out. “Yeah?”
“That groove?” He stares at me through the glass, a wide grin lifting his cheeks. “That’s the album.”
Dean nods. Hayden gives a rare smile. I force a laugh through the relief that surges through me. “Guess I’ll keep my day job.”
We break for lunch, and I wander outside with a bottle of water instead of tequila. That in itself adds to the mix of feelings I’m chewing over today, because it feels like I’ve grabbed onto the wrong identity by mistake. But I’m trying. Trying to exist without drowning myself in booze and women.
The early September air is crisp, carrying the promise of fall, and I lean against a stone wall, staring at nothing. Off the road everything feels slower. Louder in the wrong ways. That’s when my phone buzzes. It’s a text from Quinn, which causes my heart to skip a beat.
Quinn: Hope day one is going well.
I stare at the screen longer than necessary. Of course, she knows it’s day one. And of course she remembers. Or maybe Sadie reminded her. Either way, I type back before I can overthink it.
Me: Define well
Three dots appear almost immediately.
Quinn: Are you still drawing breath
I huff a laugh. Then stop myself from adding something flirty. Something deflecting.
Me: Barely. And it hurts
A pause. Longer this time.
Quinn: That usually means you’re doing something that matters
I stare at the message. Then read it again. Once. Twice. Yeah, she cuts through the noise. Effortlessly. I let my head fall back against my shoulders. She’s miles away, and yet, somehow, she sees me. I don’t reply. My head jerks up when Luc sticks his head out the door.
“You hiding or hydrating?”
“Both,” I lift my hand to show him the bottle of water.
He studies me for a second too long, I think surprised to see a beverage of the non-alcoholic variety in my hand. Big brother mode engaged. “You were solid in there,” he praises. “Really solid.”
“Thanks,” I shrug. “Just doing my job.”
“That’s not all you do,” he counters gently.
Something sharp flickers. I don’t lean into it, and he doesn’t argue with me, just claps my shoulder once and heads back inside.
The afternoon stretches on with takes, tweaks, notes.
I lose myself in the rhythm again, in the comfort of being essential without being exposed.
By the time we wrap for the day, my muscles ache in a good way.
It’s when I pack up my sticks, I feel it; the absence of the roar. The quiet space where everything else creep in. That night, lying in my apartment, the city humming faintly outside the window, Quinn’s words replay uninvited.
Still breathing usually means it matters.
I stare at the ceiling, hands resting over my chest, counting a beat only I can hear.
On stage, I keep everyone in time. Off it? I’m still figuring that out.
And that? That’s new.