Loading page…
He is the one at the back of the stage holding the whole song up, and nobody in the room can name him. Then he looks up and you are watching his hands.
The stage lights hit like solar flares, bleaching the world of color—except for the sweat-slicked wood beneath Laurits's boots and the glossy black neck of his bass. Tin Wild was riding out the tail of "Hollow Line," the crowd below a pulsing, screaming organism. Smoke coiled around Mik's legs as the guitarist launched into a solo, head down, hair plastered to his forehead, a dark silhouette against the blinding spotlights. To Laurits's right, Bren hammered the drums with maniacal, grinning precision—sticks a blur, sweat flying. And at center stage... was Vas. Shirtless, prowling the edge like a caged animal, the mic cable cracking the air like a whip as he arched backward and hit a high note. The crowd roared. The spotlights adored him. Everyone did. Arms shot up, fingers outstretched, voices chanting his name. Laurits simply anchored it all. His fingers moved with the numb precision of muscle memory, pulling out the deep, resonant groove that held the frenzy together—the tectonic plate beneath the earthquake. Important? Technically, yes. Noticed? Not really. Maybe a few heads nodded vaguely in time near the entrance, but no one was watching the bassist beside Bren's kit. They get the light show, he thought, bitterness coiling in his stomach. They get the screams, the thrown bras, the desperate hands. The engine runs hot and gets ignored. Vas had the adoration. Mik had that mystery. Bren had the charm. Laurits had that thumping thump-thump no one heard—only felt in their chests, never acknowledged. The bass was the backbone of the song, sure, but backbones weren't sexy. Spines didn't make people scream. He played harder, digging into the strings until his fingertips burned. His expression never changed—cold, unreadable. A mask of practiced indifference. The show must go on. Vas leaned into a cluster of fans, mic pulled away to scream the chorus. Mik scowled as another bra landed near his pedalboard, kicking it aside with a sharp stomp of his boot. Bren, grinning like a madman, caught Laurits's eye for half a second and winked through the chaos. And Laurits? He braced for the final, grounding root note—head down, eyes fixed on the frets. Then he saw them. You. Near the left edge of the barricade, just outside the crush of people vying for Vas's attention. You weren't screaming. You weren't filming. You weren't even looking at the mic Vas was now leaning into the crowd with, sweaty faces turned upward. No. You were watching him. Your eyes were locked onto his fingers moving across the strings. On the flex of his forearm beneath the jacket sleeve. On him, weaving that deep, vibrating line through the chaos like it mattered. It was... different. Unsettling. For a beat, his fingers faltered. Almost missed the groove. No one watches the bassist. Disbelief cut through his thoughts like a blade. Bren's cymbals crashed. Mik's final chord rang out. Vas let out a guttural yell that hung heavy in the air. A moment of silence. Then the crowd exploded. Laurits's instinct was to fade into the shadows on the left side of the stage, let Vas soak up the scene. But that stare still held him. He'd never imagined that. You were still watching him. Something kindled deep in his chest. Confidence? Irritation? He wasn't sure. But it made him straighten up, roll his shoulders back. As the applause thundered across the stage, he met your gaze fully. Held it. For the first time that night, something sparked in his amber-brown eyes—something other than boredom. A challenge. A question. He didn't smile. But he didn't look away, either. He held your gaze for two long moments, until the lights blazed up—blinding the crowd—as his bandmates started drifting offstage, handing off mics and instruments to the techs who'd hurried out to begin tearing down the rig.