Chapter Text
“Did you remember the sandwiches?”
“Roger.”
“And you’ve got the tickets?”
“Printed and on my phone, just in case.”
“How about the lawn chairs–”
“Char,” Nick places a hand on his husband’s shoulder, offering a gentle stroke over the band shirt so well-loved and threadbare that Nick can see the giant serpent that winds its way around Charlie’s lithe frame. “Everything’s packed. We’re ready.” He leans forward to nuzzle the back of Charlie’s skull, enjoying the feel of the few scraggly gray hairs that stud his otherwise dark, glossy curls. “I know it’s been a while, but we’re ready.”
Charlie helps Laura Jane up off the toilet, asking whether the second-born Nelson-Spring wants to try wiping herself before Dad follows up with a final inspection. Bodily autonomy, freedom of choice and self-determination are punk values Nick and Charlie have tried to instill in their kids since day one, after all.
Nick chases a shirtless five year old through the kitchen, making grabby hands and calling after her in what Charlie can only describe as his Tom DeLonge voice. Finally, he catches up to Hayley as she skitters to a stop in front of the table, which is less of a dining area and more of an explosion of Legos and arts and crafts supplies. She reaches for a marker to continue working on her previously-abandoned masterpiece, but the large man with a loveable DIY mullet scoops his daughter up by the waist and hoists her over his shoulder before she can make contact. As they march up the creaky wooden stairs of their cozy bungalow, Nick asks whether she wants to wear Green Day or Buzzcocks.
Four and a half minutes later, the pair comes back downstairs. Hayley proudly wears her favorite My Little Pony shirt, which features a rather haggard-looking Rainbow Dash with facial piercings and black hoof polish. Nick follows behind her with cheekbones as sparkly as Tyson Ritter’s bare chest at an All-American Rejects concert, clearly having succumbed to the pleas of the glitter-obsessed eldest Nelson-Spring.
“Who am I to argue against her self-expression? Besides, it’s a small act of allowing for actualization of her power and sense of belonging,” Nick shrugs when Charlie cocks an eyebrow and pulls his lips into a teasing grin at the sight of his rambunctious beloveds.
In a whirlwind of diaper bags and tiny mismatched shoes, the family of four make their way out to the beat-up minivan. The old tour bus has seen better days, having transported Charlie’s various bands across the continent on tours, loaded with merch and instruments and amps and three to six stinky punks at any given time. It also served as a camper for Charlie and Nick’s budget-honeymoon out west; may the girls never find out about the depravity in which their dads had taken part in that backseat.
But nowadays, the minivan is just that: a crash-test rated vehicle used to safely carry precious cargo to preschool, toddler ballet classes, and punk-rock playgroup where lifer parents tend to discuss topics like housing prices and early-onset peanut allergies rather than upcoming gigs or the latest music releases. There are two permanently-mounted car seats in the back, graham cracker crumbs ground into the seams of the upholstery, crayon graffiti littering the armrests, and Raffi nearly always occupying the tape deck.
Charlie makes one final assessment of the essentials packed in the trunk, triple-checking the presence of two bottles of bubble solution and plenty of pink ribbons for dancing before slamming it shut. He smirks to himself as he eyes some of his and Nick’s old bumper stickers on the back of the dingy car. There is a smattering of their friends’ band logos, like stamps in a passport of all the fun times they’ve had together in the scene. Other decals collected over the years include sayings like ‘Support Your Local Punk Rock Band’, ‘Champagne For My Real Friends’, ‘Honk if you’d rather be listening to Taking Back Sunday’, and Nick’s prized addition of quintessential pop punk lyrics, ‘What the hell is ADD?’
With everyone safely strapped in, they hit the road. After lightheartedly ribbing Nick for managing to hit every red light on the way to the highway, Charlie asks in the rear view mirror, "Are you two excited to see Pop's favorite band?"
The chorus of affirmatives and eager wiggles in the backseat fills Charlie with pride.
"You know it's not even the original singer anymore, right?" Nick stage whispers as he turns on his blinker to merge.
"But it's the original drummer, and that's what is important," Charlie replies with a wink.
"Yeah, I suppose the drummer is always who matters the most," Nick coos back to his husband. Charlie blushes as the glitter on Nick's rosy cheeks catches the mid-afternoon sun.
By the time it takes to listen through both sides of the Singable Songs for the Very Young cassette tape, Nick is pulling the van into a vast gravel lot. "I can't believe parking's free!"
Charlie unbuckles his seatbelt and steps out into the warm summer air. "I can't believe that we are adults who get excited about free parking!” He shakes his head, and faint wrinkles appear on his cheeks around his dimples as he lets a huge smile creep across his face. “I also can’t believe that the first gig we're attending in five years is a washed-up band trying to capitalize on the resurgence of pop punk nostalgia amongst disenfranchised millennials."
"Oi!" Nick protests jokingly from over his shoulder as he rolls open the side door. "I know you're going to be singing along just as loudly as I am."
Charlie sputters, denying the accusation that he's as stuck on music that came out two decades ago as his husband is. The couple is old enough now that the bands from their youth are playing daytime concerts at family-friendly outdoor venues. Even though the days of slamming at Warped Tour are long gone, the pair have built a beautiful life together that they wouldn’t trade for all the backstage passes and VIP lounge access in the world. There is something uniquely joyous about getting to bask in shared memories while making new ones with their children.
As Nick leans far into the backseat to unbuckle the girls, Charlie takes a moment to appreciate that some things haven’t changed one bit over the years, such as his husband’s ample posterior. The stretch required to maneuver the kids out from the minivan reveals Nick’s two full sleeves of tattoos, and the lower back ink that reads ‘Aliens Exist’. It’s just a body, who cares? Nick had said with nonchalance when he came home one night with the permanent mark of commitment to the band.
Once Nick scans the family’s tickets and has their seemingly dozens of tote bags searched by security, the girls climb out of the red wagon and select the perfect spot on the amphitheater lawn to settle in. Charlie spreads out a picnic blanket, then turns to his husband with a concerned gasp. “Did we forget the--”
Before he can finish the question, Nick pulls out two sets of child-sized orange sound-dampening earmuffs and hands them to Charlie with a peaceful smile. Charlie affixes them over the girls’ ears, eternally grateful that he gets to spend his life with someone so thoughtful and responsible.
As if on cue, Nick extracts refreshments for the family: juice boxes for Hayley and Laura Jane, water for himself, and an unmarked bottle of something for Charlie. “For old times’ sake, since you’re not driving us home,” he offers with a smile that’s shifted from projecting fatherly competence to one that appears a little less than sensible. Charlie takes a pull, grimacing as soon as the unexpected sour apple flavor of the cheap liquor hits his tongue. Nick winks, watching the hazy memory of their first drunken exchange of I love you hit Charlie.
When the band performs, they’re just as overripe and depressing as the men had anticipated. Nick and Charlie had once felt so broken and alone while screaming and headbanging along with the songs; they had subsequently fallen in love while doing so together. Now, they blow bubbles, twirl ribbons, and make up silly dance moves to the very same music. Someday, the girls will probably be too embarrassed to be seen with their dads in public, and won’t want to listen to their “old man” music. But for now, as Nick picks up Laura Jane and swings her around before putting her on his shoulders and Charlie twirls Hayley until she collapses in a fit of dizzy giggles, their lives feel complete. Like the kind of magic all those boys screaming into microphones had dreamed about all along.