Chapter 12Beck. Mid October, Five years ago
BECK. MID OCTOBER, FIVE YEARS AGO
"Not like that, fuckwad," Rodney snapped, his voice cutting through the room like a whip.
Finn let out a sharp exhale, gripping his bass. "First, you tell me to play faster, and now it's too fast?" His glare was deadly, his patience clearly circling the drain after hours of unproductive rehearsal.
"Yeah, just do it right or don’t do it at all," Rodney shot back, crossing his arms.
Beck tightened his grip on his drumsticks, forcing himself to take a slow breath. This wasn’t new. Rodney’s relentless nitpicking, his constant need to dictate every detail, had become routine. An exhausting, migraine-inducing routine.
Finn’s face was turning an alarming shade of red. Beck knew they were one snide remark away from an actual fight.
Finn wasn’t the type to lose his temper.
Normally, Finnley O’Conor floated through life with the kind of charm that made teachers forgive late assignments and caused free drinks to materialize in his hand at parties.
Stress was a foreign concept, urgency was optional, and waking up before noon was, in his opinion, a violation of his basic human rights.
Responsibilities were simply not his problem.
But Rodney had a special talent for dragging out the worst in all of them. And right now, Finn looked about five seconds away from decking him into next week.
Across the room, Reef finally looked up from where he was sprawled on the couch. Beck couldn’t tell if it was genuine interest or just the slow-motion processing speed of someone who was, once again, impressively stoned. Not that Beck blamed him. Dealing with Rodney pretty much required it.
Reef wasn’t his real name. It was Seabastian Cadwell. His mom had picked it because it sounded distinguished, like he belonged in some fancy yacht club. In reality, they were poor as dirt, and the closest thing he had ever been on to a yacht was an inflatable raft from Walmart.
Still, the nickname fit. He surfed through life with no job, no worries, and no real plans, completely unbothered as always.
"Cool it, Rodney," Beck said, his voice clipped, his last thread of patience fraying fast. "Unless you want this practice to end with Finn beating you to death with his bass."
Rodney turned, eyes narrowing like he was considering whether or not to take that as a challenge.
Something was off. More than usual. He'd been on edge for days, his usual sharp tongue escalating to full-on hostility, like he was itching for a fight just to prove a point.
Beck had tried to write it off as a bad week, but at this rate, Rodney was going to push until something cracked.
Rodney scoffed, shoving off the wall.
"Whatever," he muttered, voice dripping with disdain. Without another word, he stormed toward the bathroom, slamming the door so hard the walls trembled. Silence followed, thick and charged.
Finn ran a hand through his hair, muttering, "Well, that was productive."
Reef blinked, slow as hell, then stretched. "So… break time?"
Beck remained seated, gripping his drumsticks like they were the only thing tethering him to the ground.
His gaze stayed locked on the now-closed door, frustration simmering beneath his skin.
This wasn’t just about music anymore. Rodney’s temper was bleeding into everything–practice, their friendships, his entire life.
And as always, Beck knew it would fall to him to pick up the pieces, to smooth things over before Rodney’s anger sent them all careening off the rails.
"This is ridiculous. I know he's your brother, but being around him is impossible. Forget trying to work with him," Finn said, his voice sharp with frustration as he slammed his bass onto the couch.
"Believe me, I know. I'm sorry," Beck replied, dragging a hand through his hair as he stood up from behind the drum set. His voice carried a weariness that was starting to feel permanent.
"Don't apologize," Finn shot back, shaking his head. "We all knew the risk of bringing him into the band. We grew up with the guy. But he's only getting worse. The partying, the acting out, it’s out of control. Ever since he moved here, it’s like he’s on a mission of self-destruction, and we’re just getting caught in the fallout. "
Beck’s jaw tightened. He did not need the reminder. He lived with Rodney’s destruction every day. Moving to New York was supposed to be a fresh start, but somehow, the city had only amplified Rodney’s worst impulses.
They had all grown up together on the outskirts of Philadelphia, bonded by a love of music and the kind of rebellious streak that made authority figures sweat.
Beck, Finn, and Reef knew when to pull back most of the time.
Rodney never did. For him, a wild party wasn’t enough unless it exploded into an all-night bender, a fight, or both.
Reef and Finn, meanwhile, were all about good vibes, questionable choices, and a rock-solid belief that "the universe has, like, a plan, bro."
Beck had met them as kids, back when they were just a bunch of troublemakers tearing through a trailer park, figuring out life one dumb decision at a time. While Reef and Finn had perfected the art of not caring, Beck had never quite gotten the hang of it.
It was not that Reef and Finn were lazy. They just had different priorities, like hunting down the best gas station burrito in town, debating the best way to sneak into the community pool after hours, or testing whether a skateboard could make it down a drainage ditch without a trip to the ER.
Beck was happy for them, but he wasn’t wired the same way.
While Reef and Finn floated through life like they had all the time in the world, Beck was always thinking ahead.
He worried about money, the future, and whether he would ever escape being broke.
Sometimes he envied them, the way they let everything go.
But at the end of the day, someone had to be the responsible one.
Not that Reef and Finn would ever admit they needed one.
When Beck left for Juilliard, Finn and Reef followed him to New York, determined to keep the band alive.
For a while, it worked. They found their footing and even brought on a promising lead singer from the local music scene.
But stability never lasted. The singer bailed after a few months, leaving them scrambling for a replacement.
Rodney had been a gamble from the start, and they all knew it. But when Beck suggested him, desperate to keep the band afloat, they had reluctantly agreed. Rodney could sing, and they needed a frontman, especially since gigs were their main source of income. No shows meant no rent, no food.
Now that gamble was looking more and more like a mistake.
"He’s not just risking the band," Finn muttered, his voice quieter but heavier. "He’s dragging us down with him. We can’t keep covering for him. At some point, something’s got to give."
Beck let out a slow breath, his shoulders slumping slightly.
He knew Finn was right, but acknowledging it only made the guilt in his chest tighten like a noose.
Rodney wasn’t just a bandmate; he was his brother.
And that bond had always pulled Beck into Rodney’s orbit, no matter how destructive he became.
"Seriously not cool," Reef chimed in from the couch, his tone as lazy as ever, though there was an edge of discomfort beneath it. "It’s just… a lot."
"A lot," Finn scoffed, grabbing a water bottle from the coffee table. "That’s an understatement. This is like watching someone juggle lit dynamite and just hoping they don’t trip."
"Well," Reef said. "On the bright side, at least we’ve got front-row seats to the shitshow."
Finn shot him a glare. "Yeah? And when it blows up?"
Reef shrugged. "Then I switch bands."
Beck groaned. "You’re an asshole."
"Kidding," Reef said, flashing a small, lazy grin. "Love you fools."
Finn exhaled sharply, shaking his head.
"I’ll talk to him," Beck said, his voice flat. He clapped Finn on the shoulder, but the weight in his chest only deepened.
With a breath he already knew wouldn’t help, he headed down the narrow hallway toward the bathroom. The door was shut, but inside, he could hear movement–hurried, clumsy rustling.
His stomach dropped.Without knocking, he yanked the door open.
Rodney was hunched over the sink, fingers moving too fast as he shoved something into his pocket. The second Beck stepped inside, Rodney straightened, sniffing sharply.
Beck’s pulse quickened. The flickering bathroom light buzzed overhead, casting shadows across his brother’s face, making his already hollow cheeks look sharper.
"What are you doing?" Beck asked, his voice coming out tight.
Rodney smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "Jesus, don’t you knock?" His tone was all mockery, like this was some joke Beck was too uptight to understand.
Beck didn’t move from the doorway. "I know you’re using again."
Rodney scoffed. "That’s cute. But let me guess, you're here to save me?" His voice dripped with sarcasm, but there was something harder beneath it, something that made Beck’s stomach tighten.
"We’re all worried about you," Beck said, forcing himself to stay calm. "You’re spiraling."
Rodney let out a sharp laugh, running a hand over his jaw. "Oh, that’s rich. The prodigal son swooping in with his concerned little speeches." He shook his head, lips curling. "You’re so fucking predictable."
Beck inhaled through his nose. "Rodney, I–"
"No, you don’t get to act like you give a shit," Rodney snapped, his voice razor-sharp. "You left. You went off to Juilliard, getting your fancy degree, your perfect little life–"
"Perfect?" Beck cut in, anger flaring in his chest. "You think my life is perfect?"
Rodney’s jaw clenched. "It sure as hell looks better than mine."
Beck exhaled slowly, trying to keep his grip on his temper. "I wanted better for both of us. You could still–"