Chapter 5
Chapter Five
@_RockYourSox_: Is it just me or did Matt seem extra peppy tonight? Vegas is doing WONDERS for that boy I love it I love him
The concert is over far too quickly, in Nick’s opinion.
The band closes out with a slower, softer song—“Chrysalis”—a song that’s clearly near and dear to a lot of hearts in the crowd from the reaction it gets.
Matt and Casey share the spotlight on vocals, Casey wrapped in a trans Pride flag given to her by the crowd, more than a few people crying their eyes out as they sing along.
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 practically religious—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, is there a stain on his shirt from where a dude spilled beer on him, why did the invite come to him specifically, was it from Matt?
—before reminding himself that none of that matters because 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 am deeply obsessed 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 you did sing 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 always starving after 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 a headset 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 surprisingly warm, 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, wanting that 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 feels known, 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.”
Nick snorts. “Try my best. Thanks.”
Once he’s alone in the cramped bathroom with the door locked, he lets out a deep, shaky breath. Jesus, he is out of his depth here.
It’s okay. He’s fine. Nothing has happened yet, and they probably won’t stay much longer.
He and Marco have a game to play tomorrow, after all.
It’s been a fun night, hanging out with everybody, taking some pretty giant steps into acknowledging that this kind of crowd might be one he feels comfortable in, belongs in. That’s all it needs to be, right?
He leans over the sink, staring at himself in the grubby mirror.
He’s not drunk, though there’s a definite sluggish warmth to his limbs after two vodka Cokes.
Despite that, he looks a little bit wrecked.
His blond curls are the kind of riotous mess they usually turn into after a workout.
His eyes are a touch red from where he maybe cried just a little during “Skin To Skin” because hearing a song about loneliness in a crowd like that hit him right in the soft part of the chest.
When he smiles at himself, his cheeks ache.
Abruptly realizing that he’s been in the bathroom a suspiciously long time, Nick relieves himself and washes his hands quickly, neatening his hair the best he can.
He opens the door and swears quietly at the face that greets him.
“Sorry!” Matt says with a half-grimace. “I, uh, didn’t want you getting lost on your way back.”
Oh. Right. Nick hadn’t even thought about that.
Matt pushes off the wall he’s leaning against, his brows furrowing slightly. “Everything okay?”
God, does Nick look that bad?
“Yeah. Just needed a minute, y’know?” He chuckles, the sound too loud in the narrow hallway. Matt is barely a foot in front of him, his chin tilted down to look Nick in the eye. He’s so close that Nick could reach out and touch the bare skin of Matt’s waist like he’s wanted to all night.
He keeps his hands resolutely by his sides.
“You looked like you were really having fun out there tonight,” Matt says, his voice soft and a little husky, like that’s a secret he hardly dares speak. “I’m glad. I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about … our kind of crowd.”
“I—You could see me?” Sure, Nick knows Matt looked over his way a couple times, but … he talks like he was watching for a while. Like when he was up there performing and being worshipped by all those people, the thing on his mind was Nick.
“Nick, I think I’d have seen you even if you were in the back row.” His lips curve, showing a flash of white teeth. “Hard not to look at you when I know you’re in the room.”
There’s a pause, barely the length of a startled inhale, and then Matt is closing the scant distance between them. His hand settles on Nick’s shoulder and his head dips, pressing their lips together gently.
Nick freezes for the briefest of seconds, but as Matt goes to draw away he grips the hem of that damn crop top and yanks him back in, letting his other hand palm smooth skin.
Matt hums in pleased surprise when Nick deepens the kiss, his blood turning to fire, his skin tingling, his head reeling.
There’s a buzz in his ears as Matt’s tongue licks into his mouth, as his back hits the bathroom door—and then that buzzing turns to sirens.
He pulls away, eyes wrenching open in alarm. “I—” His breath catches. Matt looks incredible, lips rosy and gleaming, brown eyes darkened. “I don’t … do this.”
Immediately, Matt’s expression shutters. “Kiss guys?” It sounds like an accusation. Nick flinches.
“Kiss guys who know who I am.” It’s mostly been dark clubs and sketchy bathrooms, his hat shadowing his face. Anonymous hookups, never going back to hotel rooms, never catching the eye of anyone who looks like they might be able to name a single NHL team, just in case.
His stomach sours. Suddenly, that fire in his blood burns too hot, like acid, like ants marching up and down his veins. He drops his hands, leaning further back against the door. “I don’t—I can’t—Fuck, I shouldn’t have done that.”
“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Matt whispers, cupping his cheek. His hand is so warm and Nick can’t help the way he leans into it. “You’re safe. It’s cool. I won’t say anything to anybody.”
“But … the band, your crew, they know—”
“They all know how to keep secrets,” Matt assures him firmly. “Especially this kind.”
Something sharp twists in Nick’s chest, rising viciously up his throat. “Make out with a lot of closeted celebrities, do you?” he asks, bitingly. Matt doesn’t react.
“You’d be the first, actually,” is his even response.
His thumb lingers on Nick’s jaw for a moment, and then he pulls away, an unreadable look in his eyes.
“Look, we can forget that happened. I just—I couldn’t not take that chance.
But if you aren’t into it, that’s fine. No one’s going to out anybody here, Nick.
I promise. We all know what kind of world you live in, remember? ”
Nick grimaces—of course, even from playing at the college hockey level the band are probably all too familiar with how kind the sport is to people like them. People like Nick.
The sirens in his head fade as he takes a deep breath, gathering his senses. His lips are still tingling from the force of the kiss.
He hasn’t been kissed like that in a long time. He can’t just walk away.
With all the feigned cockiness bred into him by years of Vegas showmanship, Nick tilts his head. “Did that feel like I wasn’t into it?”
That startles Matt—he huffs out the faintest laugh, cautiously moving back into Nick’s personal space. Nick settles a hand back on his hip, pinky hooking through the belt loop of Matt’s jeans. “I don’t know. I spent most of it wondering if you were gonna punch me for it.”
Nick can’t imagine the kind of steel nerve it takes to expect to get clocked and still kiss somebody anyway. He’s never been that brave.
He can’t imagine someone being brave enough to take that risk for him.
He reels Matt back in, parting his lips, sliding his fingers into sweat-damp red and brown hair as he shows him exactly how into it he is. Matt groans, a sound that goes straight to Nick’s core.
Somewhere, way down the twisted corridor, a door slams loudly. They both freeze.
“We should, uh … we should head back,” Nick says breathily against Matt’s lips, forcing himself not to kiss him again. Anyone could walk in on them. This is a terrible place for this.
Apparently coming to the same conclusion, Matt clears his throat and takes a big step back, straightening up. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Yeah. They’ll be wondering what’s taking so long.”
As if everyone in that room hasn’t probably already guessed. The thought makes the hair stand up on the back of Nick’s neck.
Matt starts to lead the way back towards the green room. As he walks, he reaches back for Nick’s hand, just barely linking the tips of their fingers. Nick can feel it all the way up his arm, the gentle touch sending sparks racing across his skin.
“I won’t say anything to anybody,” Matt says for the second time. He glances back, smiling shyly. “But I think that was the best part of my night.”
Nick can’t see how a couple of clumsy kisses against a bathroom door could possibly top the feeling of several thousand people screaming along to songs that you wrote, but sure, why not.