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Wilbur couldn’t help himself. The competitions had gotten so boring over the years - every competition with the same result. An easy win.
When he played out in bigger concerts, he had a bit of a chip on his shoulder. More pressure. But, here, in his hometown? He didn’t have a worry in the world. It was just for fun, if anything.
“Oh my god, it’s really you! Can I get a photo?” Wilbur tears his gaze off distractedly from his friend across the room. There’s a young girl with her friend who’s already handing off her phone. He smiles for the picture, says a few kind words before she vanishes into the club.
It’s packed tonight, the club packed back to back. He spots the combed hair across the tables and struggles to make his way over. “Phil!” he shouts, waving his hand.
The man turns from his conversation with a pink-haired lad. “Oh, Wilbur! I’m so glad you could make it!”
Before Wilbur can properly react, the older man pulls him into a bear hug. He feels his leather jacket crumple, but he just laughs and pats him on the back. “How’ve you been, old man?”
He shoots him a cheeky grin. “I’m good! How’s LA? Hot and shitty?”
“Hot and shitty,” he mirrored back. “California is a shit hole where people go to die.”
He frowned. “But you’re home now. For good or…?”
“Nah,” he sighed, stretching his arms out in front of him. “I just came to visit when I heard you were singing tonight.”
He nudged Phil playfully and he sheepishly scratched his chin. “There was an accident, with one of the bands. There’s a lot of younger bands, though. I think you’re the reason to blame.”
Wilbur moves to sit next to him at the bar. Phil’s got a drink in his hands, and he downs it one go. Wilbur makes a gesture at the bartender. “What can I--Wilbur?”
“Nikki!” he cheered, turning around. “You’re here too?” He gasped again. “Are you… singing tonight?”
“No, no,” she cried, hands shaking as she spoke. “Course not.” She motioned towards her outfit. “I’m a bartender!”
He furrowed his eyebrows together in confusion. “I thought you were doing med school.”
“I am!” she sighed. “Shit’s expensive, Wil. I’m taking night classes. This helps me pay.”
“And you chose to bartend?”
She shrugged with a smile. “Beats the radio at anywhere else.” She tilted her head towards the woman playing on stage at the moment. “That’s Minx. You heard of her?” He shook his head. “Her music is heavenly. Super funny, too.”
The woman on stage was performing a screamo-song. It was good but loud. Nikki was entranced.
“You should say hi!” she encouraged, leaning over the bar. “Oh, but wait, you want a drink?”
“No thanks,” he said. “But I’ll talk to you more after the show, yeah?”
“Good luck!” she called.
Wilbur shot her a smile before nudging Phil again. “I’m gonna go introduce myself to the competition. When do you go on?”
“Already did, mate.”
“No.” His shoulders dropped with a heavy sigh. “Really? No.”
Phil let out a bark of laughter as he dropped his head on his shoulder. “Phil, you didn’t wait for me?”
“No, jackass,” he said, playfully pushing him off. “Go get ready. I’ll be listening.”
He pouted. “‘Kay, Phil. I’m gonna go scare the fucking gremlins lining up.”
“Be nice to them! After all, they idolize you. You’re a bit of a legend, mate.”
He waved him off as he made his way to the backstage.
“It’s okay, you’re gonna do great!” It was an oddly dressed guy, looking a bit older, maybe around his age? He had a green scarf wrapped around his neck. “Corpse, you know they love you.” Across from him was a curly black haired man with a purple mask covering a good part of his face. He dug a performer who knew how to play up to his music. “I love your music, too!”
“Thanks, Sy.”
“I’ll be videoing for Rae too! So do your best.”
Wilbur waved at them as he walked past. Some of the musicians he even recognized, some he went to highschool with. He kept his head up high past those motherfuckers.
And then, lastly, there was a small kid in his way. “Hey, you lost, kiddo?” He furrowed his eyebrows as the tuft of brown hair swirled around. He was hunched over a guitar. “Oh. Uh.” It was a teenager. He had a bit of a young face, maybe he was fifteen or so?
“Hey, dickhead!” a new voice screeched, and an equally young fiery blond appeared. “Fuck off, mate! Hollywood bitches!”
What was Phil saying about him being an idol?
“You’re that Soot cunt,” he accused, pointing a finger as he joined the kid crouching down. “You trying to intimidate a fella with nerves? It’s our first show, you know. Dickweed.”
A legend, he had said. He said he was a legend to these kids.
“I think we got off on the wrong foot?” Wilbur tried, holding his hand out. “Hi. I’m Wilbur.”
“Wilbur Soot,” the brunet breathed out. He staggered to his feet. “You are very cool.” The boy was shaking, even as he tried to meet him in the eyes.
“You nervous?” he prodded, earning a meek nod at the same time the blond cried an ecstatic “no”!
“First show,” he filled in, rubbing his elbow. “Not used to singing in front of people.” He nervously peeked out onto the stage where the Corpse fellow from earlier was headed out. “I hope none of the jerks from school are here.”
“You’ll do great,” Wilbur praised. The boy was so nervous and shaky, that he could feel the anxiety in the air. “Be confident, yeah? You’ll do great.”
“Course he will,” the blonde spat. “Tubbo’s a musical god. You heard him sing before?”
“I’ve only met him now,” Wilbur countered. “Who are you then?”
“I’m Wife Haver.”
…
“You what?”
“Oh, are we doing stage names or real names? I’m Tommy. Not at all pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“Great,” he gritted out.
“Oh, I can’t do this,” Tubbo cut in, covering his face. Tommy’s demeanor changed, going quiet as he grabbed his shoulders.
“Look at me,” he prodded, voice gentle. “You okay? Do we need a second?” He nodded eagerly, and Tommy glared at Wilbur. “You go before us.”
“What?”
“You heard me,” Tommy demanded. “Go in front of us. You don’t need time to warm up, do you?”
There was a round of applause, signalling the singer’s act was done. Corpse came off the stage into the back and was praised, a loud feminine voice booming over the phone. “You did great, Corpse!”
“Up next, big guy!” Tommy insisted, giving Wilbur a shove.
He grabbed his guitar off his shoulder and glared at him as the gremlin pushed him out. He had half a mind to hit him, but he cooled himself. He doesn’t hit kids, he doesn’t hit kids…
Whatever, easy enough. It’s just a dumbass concert between a bunch of locals. He wins these. Easy.
Of course, if Phil had actually been competing, he would’ve lost to him. He’s a folk singer, not at all his type of music, but he’s been enchanted by his singing since he was young.
He pulls up his stool. “How we doin’ tonight?” He gets a cheer in response.
See, he hated his hometown. Wanted nothing more to do with any of the fucks. They’re all awful people with old-dated beliefs, and he got away the first chance he had. After all that happened… he had to leave.
He has one thing he can thank this shitty town for. It gave him inspiration for his music.
For his saddest songs, of course. The ones laced with deep rooted anger.
He plays beautifully, as always. As he finished up the song, he notices some in tears. He notices that bastard from highschool, Dream. It’s satisfying, playing so well in front of him. He shot him a malicious grin as he gave a wave before exiting the stage.
“Come on, Ranboo, not you too!” There was a new blonde, one who towered tall over the others. He was dressed in black-ripped jeans, that took up the majority of his body. Boy was mostly leg. Almost taller than Wilbur, and he was pretty tall himself. He had red-green circle lenses, like something out of a beatles cover. He had a black and white striped shirt tucked into a thick black belt. Over it, a graphic tee.
He didn’t match the other’s look. Tommy was wearing jeans, too, and a hoodie. Not at all dressed up. He looked like a highlighter kid. And Tubbo? He looked like a class pet in a green button-up and khakis.
“Good luck,” he said finally, as the taller boy pulled up a mask over his face. He exited the back, going to join Phil in the back as they set up on stage.
“Oh, this lot,” he said, pointing at them as Wilbur sat next to him. The pink-haired man was still there, but he was absorbed in his book. A bit out of place, maybe, for a club like this. How can he read with all the music? “They’re new. Very new. I hope they do okay.”
“They were nervous. Kid was having a breakdown.”
“Tubbo? Yeah, he’s a little shy. Such a sweet kid. Plays piano normally, you know?”
“Yeah?”
“Haven’t heard him sing, though,” Phil shrugged, popping a fry into his mouth. “Hope he’s good.”
“Phil! What if he gets traumatized or something? You just threw him in?”
“What?” he shrugged, gulping it down. “We were short-handed! And their drummer was very eager.” He wasn’t as convinced. “It’ll be fine, Wilbur. It’ll be fine.”
Tubbo nervously clamped down on the mic. It was too tall for him to sit on the stool, so he struggled to lower it. He ended up standing up to avoid fumbling with it for too long. “Uh, hi,” he greeted, voice scratchy. He gulped loudly, sound echoing throughout the club. It had gone quiet. “This is Bench Trio.” He paused, as if to wait for a response. Normally, a crowd would applause. There was silence. “Okay. Here we go.”
He stood up straighter as his guitarist, the tall masked man counted his foot. “One, two, three,” he counted quietly but loud enough for Wilbur to hear it across the room.
The guitar sounded, Tubbo quietly singing along with it. His voice was too muffled, too meek. A kid in the front row yelled at him, and he cringed. But he kept going.
His voice got louder when someone threw something, and he got into it. Like, really into it.
His face darkened, and he was still shaking, he could see the tremor of the mic in his hand. “I feel bad asking, I really do,” he sang, voice still recovering from the meek start. And he can’t really pin-point why or how but in the quiet part, he snuck a glance from his drummer and guitarist before grinning. “But all I need is a buck or two,” he sang, voice picking up in inflation.
He jumps when he says it, entire body wrapped up into his words. “All I need is a buck or two!” he chants, jumping with every line. The drummer grins as he goes, watching Tubbo in amazement. Even the guitarist, with a mask over his mouth, has a noticeable sparkle in his eyes.
He ended the song, out of breath. “Thanks,” he said, voice stammering. “Thank you for your time.”
Wilbur couldn’t help it. He stood up and clapped.
Of course, nobody was expecting the teacher’s pet kid to get up there and bust out a heavy rock song, but Wilbur ate that shit up. “Yeah!” he roared, spurring the audience to get over their shell-shock. “Hell yeah!”