Me literally every time I am listening to an Ado cover and she starts screaming and this is so positive

i heard you calling (it hurt so much to let go of your hand)

Summary: Every year, like clockwork, on the Anniversary of the day they defeated It, the Losers make a point to crash back down on Derry and wreak some havoc. One stop they have to make is Neibolt Street.

I saw a post on tumblr and was inspired, so, taking a break from my Major Canon Fix It writing to bring you this little nugget. A choose-your-own-adventure of sorts.  This is unbeta'd and fell out of my hands and unraveled quickly, so just... take that with a grain of salt.

This is a Choose-Your-Own-Adventure story of sorts. After the read-more, hit ctrl+f and seek Option A (Camp Denial) or Option B (Camp Canon).

also available on AO3

Every year, like clockwork, on the Anniversary of the day they defeated It, the Losers make a point to crash back down on Derry and wreak some havoc.  They drink. They swim in the quarry. They drink. They laugh. They drink. They watch all the horrible old movies they used to see at the Capitol. They drink.  They reminisce. They drink. They cry. They drink. They visit the vacant lot on the corner of Neibolt street. They’re very sober. They all stand around for a moment before Richie steps forward to drop a flower he’d kept hidden in his jacket onto the rubble.  He runs his hands through the dirt, looking at the sprouts from where the flowers from the last four years have begun to take root. He swallows thickly and kneels, closing his eyes for a moment to block out the other Losers' hushed chatter. He knows they’re talking about him.  He’s heard it all before. Still, he has to do it. He has to let him know...

“So, uh, Eds,” he says, tongue feeling too large in his mouth.  “It’s been another year.” Another year makes five. It’s been five years already.  He can hardly believe it, even though it’s been a huge topic of discussion for the last two days.  “I, uh… I washed my sheets. Like twice.” He lifts his eyebrows and smiles, pleased with himself. He laughs to himself, raking a hand through his hair.  “I showered a couple of times.” He shrugs, trying to remember all of the things he’d want to tell Eddie that happened since the last time he was here. “I hosted SNL again.  They never wanted me as a cast member, but now that I’m all cool and relevant, they’re all over me. Figures, right?” Another laugh. The other Losers look on, none of them ready to interrupt his ritual.  They knew too well what happened when they intervened. “My manager threatened to bring in ghostwriters again because my new act wasn’t raunchy enough.” He sank back onto his heels, with his hands folded in his lap.  “I think I’m getting too old for the Trashmouth routine. Gotta grow up sometime, I guess.” He pushes his glasses up on his nose and stares at the sky, feeling tears start to bloom in his eyes. “New York is nice, but I gotta say…”  he takes a deep breath and exhales, close to a laugh, “it’s filthy, Eds.” He hiccups a little, a single tear beading under his glasses. “How did you live there for so long and not go on a city-wide cleaning spree? I get off the subway and feel like I need to light my skin on fire.  It’s disgusting. And the smell?” He bunches up his nose like the wafting steam had followed him to Maine. “I mean, I’m getting used to the smell, but I can’t picture you ever getting used to it.” He laughs, thinking about how many jokes Eddie could make about his Trashmouth being the source of the stench.  But he can’t get distracted. He can’t. “I got a dog. She’s a pit bull. I know,” he places a hand over his heart, gasping in shock, “not a pomeranian.” He gives a little sideways smile. “I’m still terrified of the yappy little things. But she protects me, just like you did.” He tries not to remember Eddie’s proud face when he thought he’d killed It with that fucking fencepost.  “Anyway, I named her Sunny. It’s supposed to be short for Sonia, but something in me decided that having to remember my lost love every time I looked at her sad brown eyes…” He can hear the Losers shuffling behind him, stifling their own emotions at his rambling. “Your mother did have the most beautiful eyes, Eds.” He bursts out a breathy laugh, “Sorry. I know you hate that.” He thinks over the present tense and realizes it’s not accurate anymore and the laugh dies on his lips.  “Hated,” he corrects, shaking his head. “Hated that. Even though, I don’t think you really did.” The tears that had been threatening to fall for quite some time begin to crash against his cheeks. “I miss you,” he shakes his head, sobs wracking his body. “All the time.” He buries his face in his hands, words building in intensity. “I never got to tell you how much I love you.” He doubles over and feels himself begin to lose his composure, picturing his Eddie alone in that dirty fucking sewer, clutching his old, beat-up leather jacket to his chest like a lifeline.  “God, you died alone. And I just… I just let you.” He takes off his glasses and puts them down beside him, wiping the tears away with balled fists. “I’m sorry, Eddie.” He tries to settle himself, but his sobs have become overwhelming and he can do nothing else but repeat, “I’m so sorry.”

OPTION A

Leaning against the fence, unimpressed with his husband’s performance, Eddie crosses his arms and rolls his eyes.  “You know, that’s still not funny, asshole.” Richie lets out a loud, exaggerated wail, signaling that his protests have been heard.  “I’m right fucking behind you, Richie,” he sing-songs, waving.

“It’s almost like I can still hear his voice,” he whimpers, covering his mouth in a stifled cry.

“STOP ACTING LIKE I’M DEAD, FUCKNUT!” Eddie groans, kicking a pebble in his direction.

Richie reaches up to the form that has closed in behind him, pulling Bev closer as she drapes her arms around his neck, kneeling.  “I’m sorry we made you leave him down there, Rich. There was no other way.”

Jaw dropping a little, Eddie huffs out a shocked, “Bev, not you too.”  Normally, Richie’s little monologue goes on by himself and everyone else lets him go.  Maybe because five years is a big anniversary or maybe because there’s enough distance between them and It now, there seems to be a bigger emphasis this year.  “Don’t fucking encourage him.”

“We just, we couldn’t risk it.  The building was crumbling and we never would have made it back out,” Bev adds over his protests, her own voice quivering.

Eddie looks over at the man next to him and smacks him in the arm.  “Ben, come get your woman,”

He just shakes his head in response, looking down at his feet.  “Your man started it,” he points out. At least he can find comfort in the fact that Ben won’t joke about his near-death experience.  Unlike Mike and Bill, who’ve moved forward, adding themselves to the unfolding melodrama.

“It never would have happened if I hadn’t called you all back here.  But,” Mike chokes out, reaching his hand for Richie’s shoulder, “it’s over now.” ��Richie rubs his hand over the top of Mike’s and accepts his glasses being replaced on his face.  “It’s done. We can move on.” He nods, locking eyes with him. “We’ll find you someone new, Rich.”  

Sniffling pathetically, he gives an exaggerated shake of his head.  “Nope, never.” He flings himself forward as though trying to dig through the rubble to get into the sewers beneath Derry.  “There’ll never be anyone to replace my Eddie Spaghetti. Just let me be with him.”

Eddie turns around, resting his elbows on the fence and hanging his head.  “Oh, here he goes,” he adds as soon as he sees that Bill has opened his mouth.  Beside him, Stan shakes his head, bewildered at their antics.

“I’m sure that, in time, you’ll heal.  In the meantime, the three of us are always open to making it a foursome.  Isn’t that right, Stan?” Bill asks, looking up at the missing member of their triad.

“Could you not bring me into this?” he responds, stepping closer to Eddie in protest.

“I appreciate the offer, but it would all be meaningless, just like my whole life.  It would be empty sex and I couldn’t do that to you boys,” Richie says, patting bill on the cheek.  “I love you,” he looks between them sadly. “I love you all, but not in the way that I loved him.”

Eddie turns back to the dogpile of Losers in front of him.  Cupping his hands around his mouth, he calls out his trump card.  “I’m running away with Stan and Ben. You know, people who don’t make light of me almost dying to save your sorry ass!”  Richie sits bolt upright, one ear turned up like a dog. “I’m leaving you, Richie,” he adds for emphasis.

Turning around on his knees, Richie blinks at him, as though he had risen from the dead.  “Eddie?!” He stands, taking a few slow, hesitant steps toward him. “Eds?!” He lifts his husband from the ground and spins him around, shrieking out a blissful “EDDIE SPAGHETTI!!!!!”

Swatting at his arms and kicking his feet, Eddie squirms.  “Put me down, asshole.”

Doing as he’s told, but only to suit his own needs, he places his hands on either side of his neck and observes him carefully, turning his head from one side to the other.  “Could it be?!” he asks, tracing his finger along the fading white scar on his cheek, “Is it you?!”

“Stop it, would you?” Eddie says, fighting off laughter.

Richie leans back for a moment and untucks the front of Eddie’s shirt, raising it to expose the scar on his chest and kiss it once before moving on to smack a cartoony kiss on his mouth.  “Back from the dead! My one and only wish! My one true love!” He pulls him forward by the hands and spins around. “Bert to my Ernie!” He stops and kisses him. “Lime to my coconut!” He pulls him closer and kisses him again, a little more tenderly, knowing Eddie can’t complain about this part.  “Frosty to my french fries!” Eddie scrunches his nose because Richie knows that particular quirk grosses him out. “Chill to my Netflix!” He adds, pressing their hips together first before kissing him again.

“Are you done?” he asks, wanting to get the fuck away from this part of the trip as quickly as possible.

Richie gives a sideways smile.  “Almost,” he says and Eddie sighs, staring up at the sky.  Richie almost wishes he hadn’t lied about being almost because he can’t think of another one, but he can’t back down now.  He spits out the first thing that comes to mind and instantly regrets it. “Red Balloon to my sewer grate?”

There’s a collective groan from the Losers, including not one but three separate iterations of “Beep beep, Richie,” one from Bill, one from Bev, and one from Stan,

“Okay, I’m sorry,” he says, throwing his hands up in surrender, laughing and accepting every smack and kick that lands his way.  When their assaults die down, his town grows serious and he locks eyes with Eddie. “Every day, I wake up knowing how close I was to losing you and…” he shakes his head, trying to dislodge the image of Eddie’s pallid face, mouth dripping blood, gasping for breath from his mind.  He can hardly remember the minutes between Pennywise’s death, pulling Eddie to his feet, Ben taking him from him, suddenly understanding everything, and arriving at Derry Gen, but he knows that, in the deadlights, he saw them leaving him and he couldn’t let that happen. “I can’t.  I can’t imagine going on. You know that’s why I do this every year, right?” He laughs when Eddie shakes his head no. “It’s a very…” he trails off for a moment, looking for the right words, then nods, slipping into a dead-on Michael Caine impression, “‘Young Lad, what day is it? Why, it’s Christmas day, Mr. Scrooge!’ feeling every time we come back here and the deadlights-of-Christmas-Yet-To-Come scared the shit out of me.”  He rests his forehead against Eddie’s, sighing a little. “I saw that broken man and…” Richie rubs his thumb over Eddie’s and smiles. “I’m just so grateful that you’re here. And you’re alive. And you love me.”

Eddie smiles back, definitely understanding the second chance they were given.  “I don’t know why sometimes.” He pulls Richie closer when he gives an overdramatic pout, “But I love you more than anything.”  Tugging Richie into a kiss, forgetting momentarily that the other Losers are, indeed, right there, he feels himself melt into his husband.  He’d let him give that performance once a week if it would help him remember that this is real. When they pull apart, he nods over his shoulder at the street where the rest of the Losers have started heading back toward town.  “Can we get the fuck out of here now?”

Draping his arm over Eddie’s shoulder, Richie acquiesces easy enough.  “Whatever you wish, Jelly to my Peanut Butter.”

Bumping his hip against his, he laughs, “Okay.  I wish for you to stop.”

As soon as he laughed, he recognized his mistake, having given Richie all he ever wants.  “Cheese to my cracker?” Richie suggests, kissing the hand clasped in his own.

“Someone help me,” Eddie calls out to their friends, trying to catch up to them, but never letting go of his hand. Richie gives himself a smack on the forehead, “Spaghetti to my meatballs!  How have I never used that one before?!” he cries out, capturing Eddie in his arms and kissing his neck exaggerated.  Eddie thinks, for a moment, that this must be the closest thing to riding off into the sunset they’ll ever get.

OPTION B

Ben looks down at Richie, sympathetically.  Over the last five years, he’d let himself wonder occasionally what would have happened to him if it had been Bev that died and he still can’t fully grasp it.  All he knows is that he will let Richie do whatever he needs. “Let’s give him a minute,” he suggests, pulling the rest of the Losers out into the street, giving him some privacy to grieve.

Weeping, Richie rocks back and forth a little, arms wrapped around his middle.  “Eddie, I’m sorry. I’m so, so fucking sorry. I should have done something. I shouldn’t have let them…”  His breath hitches in his throat and the thought falls away. “They dragged me away. I wanted to stay there with you.”  He clamps his eyes shut, hoping that he can stop the tears from falling. When that doesn’t work, he just stares forward into the rubble.  “You never fucking knew. You died alone. You never should have been alone. I…” He tries to steady his breathing, but can’t. He’s too far gone for that.  “God, the next morning, I tried to come back and find you from the Barrens side. I tried. The caves had all collapsed. I couldn’t get to you. Fuck, I tried.  I walked the canal, trying to find another entrance, but every one was blocked.” He wondered, then, how Derry hadn’t flooded. Now, he wonders how he’s not drowning in his own pathetic tears.  “I love you. I’ll love you every day until I die.” He says, out loud, for the first time since his memories returned. Sure, he’d admitted it to himself, even let the other Losers guess it, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud.  Even now, he didn’t think it could do him any good. He was just talking to hear himself talk. But isn’t that what he always did? “I don’t know if I ever would have told you. You married a woman. You were married. I’m disgusting.” He pulls a necklace out from beneath his t-shirt like Eddie could see it.  “I wear your wedding ring on a chain around my neck like you were married to me. I just…” He trails off, realizing how truly fucked it sounds. “I found it in your room and I, uh, I couldn’t leave it. What kind of fucking psycho wears his dead ex-boyfriend’s wedding ring?” He gives a bitter laugh to himself, imagining for a moment that it was Eddie who said it and not him.  “I never would have told you that I still loved you, knowing you were married.” He shakes his head a little and finally lets his arms fall to his thighs. “I mean, I’m better about myself now. I even, uh, I even joke about my sexuality, now. Like, openly,” he widens his eyes a little, an unspoken ‘yeah, I know,’ that needn’t be done, “in public even.” He takes a deep breath and thinks about the first time a paparazzi picture surfaced of him with his arm around Bev and some late-night host asked him about it and he’d laughed openly, brightly.  When the guy asked why, he answered that the plumbing wasn’t right. He didn’t care about mentioning it, but his phone hadn’t stopped ringing to the point that he just shut it off when he got home. “My manager isn’t crazy about that but it’s not the 80’s anymore. It’s still not safe but, I figure, fuck it, I came out of the sewer unharmed, I owe it to myself to have given the closet the same treatment.” He smiled, remembering all the times Eddie had tried when they were teenagers and together, to make him more comfortable with the idea of being out publicly.  He could only hope that Eddie could see him and be proud. That’s what Stan’s letter to him had said. Be proud. “I owe it to you.” Hearing the shuffle of feet heading back into the yard, he sniffled, fighting to regain his composure. “Okay, well, the other Losers are starting to get restless, staring at me crying and all. Ben and Bev are getting married.” Pausing for a response that would never come, he smiles. “I know, finally.” He stands up and shoves his hands deep into his pockets. “Mike and Bill are getting used to one another again. It’s cute… I think.”  He swallows thickly and glances over his shoulder. Just Bev, still giving him a respectful distance. He’s glad. “Being around them just sort of hurts,” he admits to no one. He smiles a little, wiping away the slowing tears. “I remember when the four of us would go down to the clubhouse for double dates and ignore each other, just being safe together. It was nice.” It was. He misses that terribly, he thinks. He feels like he’s floating and chases the unwelcome phantom voice from the back of his head. “Now… I just… uh…” He stammers ineffectively, trying to come up with more things to say.  He doesn’t want this moment to be over. When it’s over, he’ll have another year before he has another excuse to be in the place that makes him feel like his conversations with Eddie can be heard. “I can hardly be in the same room with them alone. It makes me wonder what we could have been. If you’d have left her. If we’d have…” He trails off one last time and chokes out a sob. “I fucking hate the word ‘If.’”

“Richie?” Bev calls from the garden gate.  Her voice is quiet, but he hears her. He just… He doesn’t want to let her talk him away from him again.

He leans forward and touches the flower gently.  “I love you,” he whispers.

Heading up the path, she reaches a gentle hand out to his shoulder.  “Rich, honey?”

“Yeah, yeah.  I’m coming,” he says, moving toward her and letting her arm drop to his waist, edging him forward, but not before casting one more look back at what remains of the house on Neibolt street.  What remains of Eddie.

“You okay?” Ben asks when they reach him, before heading to where Bill and Mike stand a few houses down.

He shakes his head and accepts his outstretched arm around his shoulders, appreciating the steady, grounding weight.  “No,” he says quietly, for once telling the truth, and not letting some bullshit fall out of his Trashmouth.

“That’s okay.  You don’t have to be,” Ben says, nodding.  

Bev squeezes him tighter.  “Not today, and not with us.”

When the five remaining Losers find themselves together once more, they wrap Richie in a tight hug.  He appreciates it, but he knows that once they pull away, it’ll be back to his new normal. Alone.

    ▰▰▰▰▰▰ MNET GLOBAL AUDITIONS, SEASON 5 ˟ CALLBACK STAGE ▰▰▰▰▰▰

after, he tries his best to live like nothing had happened, like the mgas weren’t starting soon, like he hadn’t gone to the audition, like he didn’t run into a few familiar faces, like he wasn’t asked a handful of times by people there and by even his friends and family why he went— he tries to act like everything is normal and okay, just fine, the way his father called him out on months ago. isn’t it just like him? live life one day at a time, no cares in the world, because if you live carefree, you don’t get hurt in the long run, right? right.

he’s choi minho. the son of one of the most successful architects in australia, of an international photographer. the brother of three successful siblings. there’s so much he could tie to his identity, to his name, but none of them feel like his anymore. they’re not as much a part of him as his constant denial.

no, instead what describes him best in the end is this: a broken record.

constant echoes of i’m alright and i’m doing good or it’s all good, the past is the past when he knows it’s not. when it came to his feelings, his own life, he could control it. pretending it was okay or all good was easier— managing his own feelings is normalized and he thinks of it as living the best way he can rather than a coping mechanism. this time, no, this time, it’s different and it weighs on his mind more than he realizes with each passing day. this time, he can’t stop thinking about the possibility that he could let down more people now. recognition can be a curse as much as it is a blessing.

the decision is as easy as that, to avoid thinking of it, of how he should’ve kept it more of a secret, of how maybe he shouldn’t have gone in the end no matter how he enjoyed it, no matter how much he wanted that message out— he decides nothing happened.

the scratching of the record sounds too much like the words i’m being selfish.

but his best friend is on the opposite side of the spectrum and, if you look closely, his smile is more of a grimace the more dabin goes on and on while they’re all shooting around.

he regales the details each time another one of their friends joins them. anytime a new person comes up, all before they can get their first shot in. the basketball is still bouncing against the pavement, an irregular rhythm once dabin starts talking about the school itself and all the people lined up. minho’s the one taking the shot instead and it bricks, a loud clunk against the backboard as it nearly gets stuck before falling off to the side, and he watches it for a few seconds.

there’s no rush forward, no energy surging to his feet as he moves towards it, no chuckle because he missed, because it’d been done with purpose— dabin doesn’t notice at first, too busy giving a preview of the special skill he showed off and he takes the chance to trail off to the side for a bit.

the pebbling of the ball feels weird to him all of a sudden— what it takes him a few moments to realize is that it’s not the texture that’s changed but that his hands are sweaty, there’s an odd airiness around his fingertips and he’s not used to this feeling, this gnawing feeling, thisanxious feeling. when he’s not moments from performing, he can’t exactly call it nerves again, now can he?

“hey.” he can tell who it is without looking.

meeting at the court along the han river is for more than one reason between their entire group. it was a central point, a neutral zone, enough space for them for them to beoverly excited for the game and close enough to chill by the river. what it meant now is that he could stay within a close enough distance to hear anything too chaotic going on with rest of them and still have enough space between them for him to zone out. but his thoughts don’t cooperate and they’re running by him faster than captain america in the winter soldier.

it only makes sense that seik sits down on his right side instead, because dabin is the one going at a hundred miles a minute. that’s how they are, he’s thought that multiple times over. dabin, minho, and seik. their natural paces are in that order from fastest to slowest and he’s the best at finding the common ground. so why does he feel so behind right now? why does he feel like he’s in limbo instead of finding his own pace again?

sounds fall on deaf ears as silence is the only thing between them.

“let’s skate.”

furrowing his brows, minho doesn’t know what to say when he processes what’s been said, but seik’s already walking towards the car where they’ve all left the decks because the ultimate decision earlier was to play.

the others seem too distracted by dabin and his non-stop story telling, his weaving of rhymes and rhythms, to notice how the both of them are leaving, more distance left in their wake as they start skating down the path. it’d been a while. minho spent more time on his bike these days than falling back to the good old habit of a little kick, push. the sun is starting to set by the time they stop, street lights starting to come on, and he’s surprised by how far they went, how long they’d been gone, how peaceful he felt sitting on the curb, just outside a convenience store, eating ice cream with seik next to him.

it wasn’t a secret that seik was the least enthusiastic about either minho or dabin auditioning. it wasn’t a secret that seik thought minho ought to leave it all behind. it wasn’t a secret that seik was angry about how his best friend danced in circles with this lifestyle, with these companies, until now. a chance to get away from it again and he’s gonna jump back in?

you’re a masochist, seik said before. an idiot, to put it nicely.

minho couldn’t hold any of it against him. to an extent, he was right. but he swears, he swears that this time, just one more time, everything’s different. and he’s also right, but for a reason he didn’t expect, for reasons he can’t stop or control on his own.

“wanna tell me why you’re not excited.”

he could deny it again, laugh and punch his friend’s shoulder with a loud what d’ya mean— but what does that get him anymore? maybe that’s why things fell through before. because, no matter what, in the end, he wasn’t honest enough, wasn’t earnest enough.

“i think i’m scared.”

—

checking his emails as the notifications come in is a habit he developed back in high school. the same goes for his text messages. days of running the stage crew taught him well, that he has to stay on constant alert and respond fast because that’s the difference between a beautiful curtain call and a tree fucking up the last few moments of a play. he almost misses it when he’s deleting the spam, eyes wide enough that they feel like they’re bulging out of his head, and he’s speechless yet again.

he really thought he wouldn’t be allowed on the show because of everything, because of what he did, what he’s done, because he’s already fucked up one too many times to get another chance. but there it is, a callback. the relief that overcomes him is startling and he’s laughing at himself when he sits down.

that moment with seik comes to him as he feels the pressure behind his eyes, how they actually water. hand against the front of his head, thumb massaging his temple, he’s wetting his lips, trying to piece everything together. this is actually happening.

▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀  PAUSE, REWIND ⭯

“wanna tell me why you’re not excited.”

he could deny it again, laugh and punch his friend’s shoulder with a loud what d’ya mean— but what does that get him anymore? maybe that’s why things fell through before. because, no matter what, in the end, he wasn’t honest enough, wasn’t earnest enough.

“i think i’m scared.”

what he didn’t think would happen is seik laughing. he feels a hand clapping his shoulder and when he turns to look at the older, the softened expression stuns him into silence first.

“it’s about damn time.”

seik eats his ice cream like he’s said something as banal as “the weather is nice today, isn’t it” as minho watches him expectantly because how the hell does someone say that and not explain?

“you act invincible sometimes.” his best friend murmurs. “back when you asked me to drive you to sphere after the last time… you acted like everything was okay. you’ve changed since then.” he chuckles, the disbelief on his face still clear but waning. “now i might believe you when you say you really want it this time.”

▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀ PRESS PLAY, BACK TO THE SCHEDULED PROGRAMMING

the way his heart is racing, he realizes just how much he believes it too. this time, he feels more serious about it. this time, he knows he’s gotta play to win, not just for the stage.

his doubts come into play when he tries telling mijoo it’s not worth sending a cake to his place to celebrate. when she tells him to eat enough of it for the both of them, he can’t help laughing and saying she ought’a send another one then. his excitement slowly filters through and he leaves the worrying about his performance for another day. today, his decision is to be happy.

                  ●●●●●●      THE DAY COMES, MGA CALLBACK 6월 5일      ●●●●●●

another day, another decision: he likes this version of him that finishes songs he didn’t before. minho didn’t know how much he missed this part of him, how much he had hidden this side of him away, until lately. in the same way he unearths more of his feelings, lets them run rampant and develop more healthily than he had been, he recovers his old songs and this one is years old like the one he did for triple threat. in fact, this one is older. unfinished, unwritten, unraveling — that’s how he felt back then, like he was coming undone, falling apart, and he acted out, went back to who he was instead of progressing forward the way he wants to from now on, the way he’s still trying to. just one more step, just like giving it a simple kick, push.

this one goes back to the days before he started dating mijoo, to the days he avoided her because of one night. if he thinks hard enough, he can feel the sand underneath them, smell the fresh sea water, hear the pain in her voice when she turns him down. telling her it was okay, that they’re still friends, that she still lights a fire in him, he held it together the way he has been for years, as if it’s all he really knows. today, he lets it all out, lets the waves crash against the edge of the stage as he takes his place in the center after being called up. he doesn’t think of how baek jiyoung and hyun bin are in front of him. how he’s standing in front of all five again. he forgets it all, everything but this song because his timing means everything. the perfect storm.

▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀ I’M LONELY ♫ 00:15 to 02:13                                   NOTE: his gestures and expressions mirror that of kanto’s in the video !

he borrows an antique chest for this, for the versatility, because it’s no longer a stage he’s standing on, but his vision that has to come to life from his head to his toes. bowing deeply, he takes longer than he should, keeps his body bent longer than is comfortable, and he’s grinning when he lifts his head. “choi minho, #2020 coming back at ya a year early. gotta keep everyone on their toes, right?” he chuckles, trying to toe the precarious line between being arrogant and charming, but it’s a thin line and one he isn’t as proficient as he used to be with— that’s a good fact.

today, he feels more honest and it’s why he’s okay with presenting this song, withfinally putting it out there. “i’m gonna bring you with me on a journey i took a few years ago.” a journey he thinks everyone goes through at least once, of being surrounded by people but still feeling lonely. “since we’re gonna dive right into my personal life, i’m gonna make myself at home,” the grin on his lips widens as he tosses the trunk open, clothes spilling from the edges just the way he’d packed it and when he takes a few long strides away from it, it’stime.

I FEEL COMFORTABLE BEING ALONE IT’S ALL THE SAME WHOEVER I MEET BETTER IN ORANGE THAN RED RIGHT, I’VE BEEN ALONE, IT FEELS BETTER

who would’ve thought that years after ripping his shirt off in season 2, he’d be putting clothes on for its fifth season? he tosses a red shirt for an orange one, clothes shoved back into the trunk as he sits on it, hand clutching his chest— loneliness starts here, in the heart, with yourself. it festered for years inside of him, holding him captive, and his body feels lighter the more he raps.

WELCOME TO THE STAGE, CALL OUT, WHATEVER YOU DO I’LL GO UP, LIKE ON THE ROOFS, YEAH, ABOVE THE UNIVERSE WHEN MY FRIEND ASKS IF I’M OKAY, I LIE SAYING I’M FINE

I’M ACTING AS IF I’M STRONG, ACTUALLY I’M NOT WHERE WOULD YOU BE, AND WHAT ARE YOU DOING RIGHT NOW I’M GOING CRAZY, NOT FEELING NORMAL

I START TALKING TO SOMEONE WHO’S TAKEN I DON’T LIKE ANY OF IT THE LOCATION OF THIS TABLE, AND EVERYTHING I’M NOT INTERESTED IN ANYONE ELSE

[ tw : smoking ]

when he originally wrote it, stage was the club but he can’t say that— as honest as the song is about his feelings, as honest as he feels right now, only he knows what he did back then. only he knows how many he slept with to forget her, how he overlooked all of his moral codes because he let himself be caught in the storm. instead of poseidon, he was a measly sailor, useless against the rain and thunder. lungs ablaze, he let plumes of smoke cloud his vision the further he sank. the current claimed him as he danced mindlessly with anyone. that was the choi minho from high school, the so-called romeo who broke hearts without guilt. it took his own broken heart for the loneliness to take over again.

today, he takes that, any remnant of it inside of him, and he controls the ocean. the current belongs to him and though waves of sadness slip from his body, through the motions of his arms and legs, he’s not defeated, no matter how he falls back, sitting on the trunk again for the next part.

I CAME OUT TO CATCH MY BREATH A BURNING SATURDAY NIGHT I SIT ON THE BENCH FEELING SENTIMENTAL

it’s only a beat until he’s up on his feet again. his original choreography would’ve included more people, the waves would’ve had more impact but as long as he can command the stage, as long as he can stand on his own and stay strong, he can do it all. besides, like the lyrics say, he’s lonely right?

YEAH, IF I ACT OKAY (LONELY) EVEN IF I ACT STRONG (I’M SO LONELY) I’M GOING TO BE LIKE THIS UNTIL YOU SEE ME I ACT AS IF I’M OKAY, BUT I’M LONELY

WANT YOU BACK, WANT YOU BACK WANT YOU BACK, I’M LONELY WANT YOU BACK, WANT YOU BACK WANT YOU BACK, I’M LONELY BUT I’M LONELY

his father, seik, he wonders how many others wanted to call him out on acting like everything’s okay when it’s not. he wonders just how many people saw through him all along. to think he believed his act was rock solid. instead, the mask was made of sea foam, already washed away and he’s the only one fooled. not anymore.

even in convex he acted this way and maybe if he hadn’t, maybe if he’d been more careful, he wouldn’t be lonely on this stage right now. he’d be on a different one with them but he’d be damned if he wasn’t happy for them. a comeback and their first win? nothing keeps them down and so he wants to show he’s doing the same, that he can take what he learned from all of them and keep going. that they can all get through the storm.  

YEAH, I’VE BEEN ALONE FROM THE START DON’T WORRY, I’M REALLY OKAY AS EXPECTED, I’M BETTER WHEN I’M ALONE LIKE KEVIN, ME AGAINST THE WORLD IT DOESN’T SUIT ME FROM THE START

DON’T START AN ARGUMENT EVEN IF THERE IS A PICTURE ON YOUR LEFT ARM BUILDING BRICKS ON (MY) SHOULDERS AND WAITING FOR SOMEONE TO START A FIGHT EVEN IF I LOOK LIKE A LOSER, I CAN’T LET IT BE I MAKE A FUSS, ACTING AS IF I’M STRONG

the words he spoke that he didn’t know were lies at the time, he promises to be more honest this time around and it’s ironic that being honest but not honest enough is why he had to leave. even now, he doesn’t know how he’d answer if someone asked him who his girlfriend is, if he has one, and he thinks right now it’d be easy to joke around that he rapped and sang— even if it’s mostly backing vocals, ones he had to work on for hours to perfect, hours and days, until he was finally satisfied— that he’s lonely. do you think i’m dating right now? it’s not much of a lie then right? he is lonely. his girlfriend is an idol and he’s back to chasing her position again. this time, he thinks i better do it right.

the words pour out, emotion overflowing, dripping onto the stage, and when he calls himself trash he thinks of all he’d done, that summer he let himself sink, the months before he left nova that he stopped working as hard— not that he was giving it everything he had when he thinks about it now, the months after that he was lost, the months he spent after being put in convex that he spent being complacent, the way he let his relationship get revealed like that. he thinks of it all and how thank god he’s not letting himself fall to this depth again. he rides on top of the waves now, moving around the stage and making eye contact when he can, so they see the anguish, so they see how it disappears, so they see how he goes from drowning to blazing.

LIKE YOU SAID, I’VE BECOME TRASH I GET ANGRY FIRST BECAUSE I’M SCARED TO GET HURT I START SWEARING WHEN SOMEONE SAYS THE RIGHT THING (BECAUSE) I’M THROWN OFF GUARD

I WANT YOU TO HUG ME AGAIN I WALK AROUND POINTLESSLY BUT EVERYWHERE IS FULL OF YOUR SCENT WHERE ARE YOU

MY FRIEND CALLS ME, I TELL MY FRIEND NOT TO WORRY, HAVE FUN A BURNING SUNDAY DAWN I SIT ON THE BENCH FEELING SENTIMENTAL

and with that, he finishes the song sitting on the edge of the stage, the storm settling, ending. instead, he’s lit with his own fire. he borrowed light from mijoo for too long, this time it’s all on him.

of course, in true showboat fashion, he uses momentum to flip back onto the stage from where he’s sitting and it’s pure luck that he doesn’t just flail backwards. pure luck, he calls it even with his years of experience, because now that the music is off, the performance is over, and the stage is no longer his, he’s back to feeling just a little nervous, especially with the knowledge that a certain set of 5 pairs of eyes might still be on him. he’s shuffling over the trunk, picking it up, and rushing off stage with a quick salute. 

hey, maybe he should’ve offered to be a stage hand like the old days. 

PROFILE / SKILLS / ARRIVAL / 1ST SKILL / INTERVIEW / BONUS SKILL / 2ND SKILL ▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀ THE CALLBACK: PERFORMANCE / INTERVIEW

Better Fortunes

@theydraggedmein | AO3 - Thanks to theydraggedmein for this prompt! I had a ton of fun writing this, enjoy!

by @dylanjanesmith

PG-13 - Some violence, some self-inflicted injuries, body horror

1.

The void goes on forever. There is no sound, no light, no sense of time or motion. He floats in a nowhere place, defined by the absence of anything but a cold that is so absolute it becomes a weight. It bears down on him, snaking into his bones, his heart, his mind. He can feel the very foundation of his being cracking under that gelid pressure. Thoughts and memories coalesce, become amorphous and vague. He tries to open his mouth to scream, but physicality feels like the dream of a stranger, and with a jolt of horror he realizes that he can’t remember where his mouth is.

The agony goes on and on until he knows, without any doubt, that it will destroy him. The void will break him down until there’s nothing left but spare parts, and it will truly, finally, be the end of him.

And then, completely without warning, he wakes up.

Consciousness hits Stiles like a sledgehammer. He gasps, the ragged tearing sound of his own inhalation nearly deafening him as he rolls onto his stomach. He swallows down the taste of bile and curls into the fetal position, trying valiantly not to throw up. The cool air stings his throat as he takes in desperate, greedy breaths, struggling to rein in the trembling of his limbs. Every nerve in his body is screaming, hypersensitive to the point of physical pain. He whimpers at the taste of his own tongue, reels at the sensation of his blood pounding through his veins. Never has he been so aware of his own heartbeat.

The smell of rich wet soil fills Stiles’ nose as he attempts to blink the phosphenes out of his eyes, and it takes him a long, terrifying moment to reassure himself that he hasn’t gone blind; the sky overhead is dark. It’s the middle of the night here, wherever here is, and because his entire life has been one example of Murphy’s Law after another, rain is pouring out of the pitch-black sky in unending sheets, plastering his hair to his face and soaking through the layers of his clothes.

Slowly, and with the help of a nearby sapling, Stiles levers himself first onto his knees, and then fully, if awkwardly, upright. He battles back another wave of nausea as he performs a cursory check for bodily damage.

All things considered, he’s managed to come out okay. The knife wound on his forearm is still bleeding sluggishly, so he tears a strip off of the hem of his t-shirt and binds it sloppily around the incision. He tries to ignore the way his fingers fumble and shake. The back of his head is throbbing where one of his would-be kidnappers had walloped him, and he hisses in pain as he tentatively pokes at the lump. In his torso there’s the sharp, persistent burn of a broken rib, probably sustained as the result of the fall from his second story bedroom window, but his legs are miraculously free of any injury other than what feels like a bone-deep bruise. He hopes that the relative easiness of his breathing means that the rib hasn’t punctured anything important.

The rancid cherry on top of the shit cake that has so far been his day reveals itself when, in an attempt to get his bearings, he holds out a hand and murmurs a conjuring of light. Where there should have been a globe of steady warm illumination, only a weak hiccupping glow flickers in and out of the air above his dirty palm. Stiles lets his eyes fall shut in dismay.  His reserves must be almost completely dry. He can barely feel his magic, a guttering flame in his mind’s eye– even the booster runes tattooed along the dip of his navel are kicked. A shudder trips up his spine, and he wraps his arms tightly around himself to ward it off, chilled by more than the rain and the coolness of the night air.

Light blossoms in the distance, cascading through the backdrop of trees with the accompanying hiss of tires on pavement. Stiles flinches away instinctively, fear and pain constricting his lungs before he forces himself to take slow, intentional breaths. If all has gone the way he’d planned, logical certainty dictates that wherever he is, he’s far away from the people who had come for him in his crappy little apartment in Greenpoint.

The incantation had been over six months in the making, after a truly disconcerting bit of fortune telling courtesy of an oracle in Astoria. The prediction had been given as part payment for a tidy bit of warding he’d done along the storefront of the seer’s newly opened bakery.

Stiles had sat at one of the rickety tables near the big picture window, surreptitiously brushing flaky crumbs of phyllo dough off his chest. The oracle, a Greek woman of indiscernible age who had introduced herself as Pythia, had sat across from him and stared out into the middle distance, dark eyes turning vacant and distant. Slowly, and to his alarm, her irises had begun to shrink, first to the size of her pupils, and then to the size of pins. Soon, all that had been left was the unblemished white of the sclera.

“You are wanted,” she had said, the words hissing out of her like they were travelling a very far distance. “But it is not you that they want. They know what lies sleeping in your depths. They are the invaders, the desecrators. They will come for you, and you will unravel.”

Until that moment, Stiles had scoffed at most assertions of fortune-telling, finding little to no evidence to substantiate those claims. Despite this, there had been something about the look on the oracle’s face that had shaken him. She had patted his hand, pitying, perhaps, or regretful, but still completely resigned to the outcome of her prediction.

“Sorry,” she had said. “You are a sweet boy, and I knew your mother. If I could, I would have given you a better fortune. A long, happy life. Adventure, family, romance with a dark-haired stranger. At least now you have a bit of time, to prepare.”

And prepare he had. If there is one thing Stiles is good at, it’s having a plan. He’d thrown himself into research, and after six months of wading through magical theory, he’d developed a prototype. A little bit of blood coupled with the right words and his own special brand of intent, and Stiles would be transported instantly to the place where he would be safest. It had been a completely unorthodox marriage of blood magic and highly theoretical teleportation metaphysics, and once Stiles figures out where he is and has a moment to repress the soul-shattering horror of the void he’d traveled through to get here, he’s going to find the time to be very impressed with himself.

The distant car passes without incident, and Stiles lets out a tense breath. Standing in the dark getting soaked is not helping his current situation, no matter how attached he’s gotten to the tree he’s been using as a crutch. He needs to find civilization, needs to try to get word back to Lydia so that she knows he isn’t dead, needs to find a place with a hot shower. With a grunt, he gives the trunk of the sapling an affectionate pat, and then begins the slow and painful trek towards the road.

 2.

Derek wonders sourly if there’s anyone out there having a worse night than he is. Rain floods out of the sky in biblical quantities, making it nearly impossible to see– the Camaro’s wipers are doing their best, but it’s a losing battle. The storm had already been in full swing by the time he had beat a hasty retreat from his now very ex-girlfriend’s apartment in Redding, and the deluge seems to have no intention of letting up anytime soon. If the visibility gets any worse, he’ll have to pull over and wait for the storm to pass. Derek squints out into the night and tries not to draw any parallels between the weather and the current state of his love life.

His phone begins to buzz in the passenger seat, and for one tempting moment Derek considers letting himself believe that he can’t hear it over the pounding of the rain. He glances over and sees the smiling face of his beloved older sister on the incoming call screen, and bites back a groan. If he doesn’t pick up, Laura will just keep calling, and Derek knows from experience that if she still can’t get ahold of him, she’ll just show up at his house. Better to answer now and get it out of the way.  Derek slides his thumb along the answer bar and transfers the call to the Camaro’s Bluetooth function, letting the phone drop onto his lap as he navigates a tricky curve in the road.

“Laura, I’m driving–,” he begins, and then winces when her voice fills the car’s interior, shrill with righteous indignation.

“Derek Edmund Hale, how could you!”

And this is why you should never date your sister’s friends.

“Look, Laura, I–”

“Jennifer is a wonderful person! You two were perfect together!”

“Lau–”

“She’s smart, beautiful, and very career oriented! What more could you possibly ask for?”

“Maybe you should date her,” Derek mutters, and then before Laura can finish drawing in an outraged breath he adds, “personally, I prefer it when the person I’m seeing isn’t also hooking up with their ex.”

For one blessed moment, silence reigns aside from the pounding of the rain. Then, with a remarkable show of adaptability, Laura snarls, 

“That fucking bitch.”

“Language,” Derek says absently. “You have tiny ears in your house.”

“The kids are asleep,” Laura huffs dismissively. “I could parade through the living room with a marching band and they wouldn’t notice. Stop trying distract me.”

“I’m not,” he lies. “But, Laura, it’s fine.”

“I disagree,” Laura growls. “I think I should rip out her spleen and feed it to her. How could she?”

She’s your sister, he reminds himself. She’s your last remaining family member in the world and you love each other, and that means not throttling her when she’s being overbearing and self-righteous.

“Laura,” he says calmly, “I promise you that it isn’t that big of a deal. I’m not even that upset.Ultimately, Jennifer and I didn’t like each other very much. It was going to end either way. I think we only kept up the charade because we were both afraid of disappointing you.”

There’s a stiff pause on the other end of the line, and Derek viciously stomps down on a pang of guilt. Laura has been butting her head into his love life since he’s been old enough to understand why certain people made his face get all red. She means well– Laura is truly incapable of meaning otherwise– but over the years her machinations have led to disastrous and mortifying results for Derek. He’s hoping that this time, she’ll take the hint.

“She still deserves to rot in hell,” Laura mutters finally, but it sounds like the wind has definitely been taken out of her sails.

“Look, can we talk about this tomorrow?” Derek squints, trying to make out a blob of color that his lights have just picked up in the distance. The implacable rain is making it incredibly difficult to discern what the shape could be. A person walking along the side of the road, maybe? He hasn’t passed any broken-down cars, and the last rest stop was about fourteen miles back, so it seems bizarre for there to be someone wandering around out here. He hesitates, and then eases his foot onto the break. “I have to go, there’s someone on the road.”

“What?” Laura’s voice goes Alpha sharp with alarm. “Have they been hit?”

“I don’t think so,” he says slowly. He can see clearer now that he’s slowed down some. It’s a guy, he thinks, walking just off the shoulder of the road, hunched down into himself to keep the rain out of his eyes. “I think he’s lost. I’m going to see if he needs help. Call you in the morning.”

“Derek, wait,” Laura begins, but Derek has already ended the call.

He pulls up alongside the walking person, schooling his features into what he hopes is a friendly expression before rolling down the passenger’s side window.

“Hey, there,” he calls, leaning across the gearshift to get a closer look at the drenched figure. “You okay? Need a ride?”

The guy’s shoulders tense at Derek’s words, and he turns to face the car slowly, like he’s afraid of what he might see. It’s dark as hell out there, but in the reflected glow of his headlights Derek can make out a white angular face under a sopping mop of dark hair. Young, but maybe not as young as he looks– there’s a hint of a tattoo on the sliver of pale throat poking out from the guy’s hoodie.

“You some kind of crazy murderer, or what?” the kid asks. He shuffles closer to the car, mouth twisting into an unimpressed grimace.

“What?” 

Derek blinks at him, thrown by the bluntness of the question. The kid huffs and makes an odd gesture with his hands, leaning in to meet Derek’s gaze with a hard stare. His eyes, a tawny brown that might have been warm under different circumstances, are huge in his pale face, rain water dripping from his long lashes and off the upturned slope of his nose. A few drops hit the leather interior of the passenger door with an audible splat. He looks too young to be out in the middle of nowhere by himself, and painfully exhausted, so when he finally speaks, Derek is startled by the intensity in his voice.

“Bear you any ill will unto me?”

Ah. So, the kid is a lunatic. Derek should have known better. What kind of person goes for a walk in the pouring rain at midnight? Still, he’s a little offended. He opens his mouth to tell the kid so, and is therefore completely flummoxed when what he says is,

“I bear you no ill will.”

They stare at each other a little more, rain now fully soaking through the remaining dry patches of the kid’s hoodie. And why are there dry patches? It’s been pouring for hours, and there isn’t anything but woods along this stretch of road. Derek wonders if the kid has been in some kind of accident. The very tip of his pink tongue rests against the bow of his upper lip as he inhales, like he’s tasting the truth of Derek’s words.

“Okay,” he says, finally. “Cool. No hospitals.”

And before Derek can ask him what he means, the kid’s eyes roll back into his head and he crumples like a discarded toy onto the pavement.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Read the rest on AO3

Live Blog: FYF Fest 2017

FYF Fest 2017 Exposition Park; Los Angeles, CA [July 21-23, 2017 ] by Derek Smith on 08-07-2017 FYF Fest popped another cherry this year, adding a third day upon which they splayed a virtual cavalcade of musical ingenues stacked so thick that navigating from set to set felt like a continuous game of Sophie’s Choice. Almost immediately earning forgiveness for the cruel joke of starting anything, let alone a major festival, at 5 pm on a Friday in Los Angeles, FYF brought Björk to the main stage a mere few hours later, soon to be followed by Slowdive and Missy Elliott. There were simply too many amazing acts to stay mad at the occasional shortcoming. Any of the festival’s three days would have made a fantastic month of shows separately, but together, the lineup both contrasted and complimented itself in a variety of strange and wonderful ways. Whether or not the growing pains of the fest’s expansion in recent years are gone forever remains to be seen, but this year was, for me, the most fun and rewarding FYF. --- Day 1: Ascension Photo: FYF Fest Goldenvoice Media Having braved the traffic to catch the fest’s often-solid lineup during early-bird hours, I started with Royal Headache, four Aussie garage-rockers whose consistently solid, yet not particularly remarkable, output has yet to land them much of a following on this side of the pond. Lead singer Shogun’s fiery, soulful vocals were too low in the mix, but once that was sorted out, the band made the most of the brief set. Their infectious blend of melodic, brutally efficient songwriting and a generous tendency to bleed one song into the next led to an increasingly large and receptive crowd. Like their albums, a little of Headache’s feverish energy goes a long way, making their 40-minute set a perfectly succinct boost of energy to get everyone’s juices flowing at the start of the weekend. On my way to swing by the Outer Space stage to catch what I could of Kelly Lee Owens’ set, I faced my first major dilemma. I wanted to see K-Lee work her magic but also wanted to get as close as humanly possible to Björk at the typically packed main stage. And although I spent about half of the 25 minutes I caught of Owens checking the time and worrying about the next set, her infectious beats and soothingly ethereal vocals eventually ran through my blood like an aural xanax that allowed me to lose myself for a few minutes. And then it was onto Björk, a moment I’d been dreaming of since I was a teenager. The meager 45 minutes I waited for her felt like an eternity, and the anticipation of what she would play, what she’d sound like, and if she’d even show at all was enough to give me a heart arrhythmia. To say this was a holy-grail show devalues how important Björk has been to my growth as a fan of music and art in general. Björk was my musical gateway drug to everything from Kate Bush to Aphex Twin, but more importantly, her music opened a portal to untapped and unexplored thoughts and emotions. And her music videos were consistently thrilling in their inventive, experimental cinematic techniques, helping to open my mind to new possibilities of visual art. Photo: Santiago Felipe for FYF Fest It’s difficult to express the feeling of watching someone so important to you walk out on stage for the first time, especially as in the third row, this was probably as close as I’d ever been to an idol of mine. But there was a constant chill running down my spine, a sense of wonderment ― both at what exactly her multi-colored shower exfoliator-style dress with neon green see-through Predator/Venetian mask was all about, and the fact that she was right. fucking. there ― filling my soul, and a consistent feeling of being outside myself. From the first note of “Stonemilker” to the final note of “Hyperballad,” I was in awe of how powerful and penetrating her voice is. Backed by a full orchestra and a screen with clips of her videos, Björk was everything I hoped she’d be and more. My only small gripe would be that none of the 15 songs she performed were from Vespertine, but there were samplings of most other albums, the highlights of which were “Joga” and “Unravel” from Homogenic, “Isobel” and “Hyperballad” from Post, and “Come to Me” from Debut. It was a masterful, transcendent performance by one of the most important artists of the last quarter-century. To follow Björk is indeed a Herculean task, one only an immensely talented outfit like Slowdive should ever take on. Although they were performing on a different stage, they functioned as a perfect comedown from the emotional high that preceded. That’s not meant as a slight on Slowdive, who also are one of my favorite bands and who I’d only seen once before a few years back at FYF 2014. Their set was dependably impressive, with neither surprises nor missteps, and their dreamy, shimmering guitars filled the night sky in a way that invited contemplation, which allowed for a brief reprieve from the intensity of the festival. They played exactly what you’d want them to play ― “Catch the Breeze” off Just for a Day, “Allison,” “Souvlaki Space Station,” and “When the Sun Hits” off Souvlaki, and a healthy sampling of their fantastic new self-titled album. They do what they do really fucking well. Missy Elliott was sadly underwhelming, but the quality of the prior bands left me unreceptive to Missy’s incessant self-flagellation, which went so far to include several minutes of interviews on the big screens with artists talking about how visionary she is, and repeated mentions of Janet Jackson, Beyonce, and Tyler the Creator being in the crowd. To be fair, I got there just after the set started and was a couple hundred yards from the stage, so it was ultimately like viewing a spectacle that someone filmed on a cell phone. Still, in the brief stretch I saw, “Get Ur Freak On” and “Work It” were quite a bit of fun so maybe I would’ve been down for more had she not taken five minutes between songs to chat about herself. --- Day 2: In the Shit Photo: FYF Fest Goldenvoice Media Of course my dog would choose the first night of FYF to have a case of explosive diarrhea that led to me getting very little sleep, four hours at the emergency vet the next morning, and a nice fat $500 bill hovering over my head. I was exhausted and by the mid-afternoon, I’d accepted that day 2 would likely be a wash. I don’t deal well with sleep deprivation and the fest’s setting, Exposition Park, surrounds USC’s Coliseum on all sides so there’s a good four-to-five miles of walking to be done each day. But I had a plan for the day and, unlike Frank Ocean, I don’t bail on festivals. The day began with Built To Spill playing Keep It Like a Secret so things turned around for me pretty quickly. This is the first time I’ve seen them play live as a trio, with Doug Martsch providing the only non-bass guitar. While their sound was slightly thinner sans the layered guitars that helped define their sound, the stripped-down approach worked wonderfully in the context of covering one of their best albums. I made sure to get there early enough snag a front-row spot, and it paid off. Their set was surprisingly intimate; it helps when most of the songs are flat-out brilliant, but with Martsch having to do a lot of heavy lifting, it gave me an even greater appreciation for his skills as a guitarist and song-writer. In the kind of major tonal shift you only get in the festival environment, I headed over to the main stage to catch A Tribe Called Quest since, as Q-Tip would confirm, this is possibly the last time Tribe will be out making the rounds. But damn, did they make sure it was a hell of a show even without Phife on-stage. It was respectful to his legacy and importance as a founder, but also was as much a celebration of Tribe as a mourning of his loss. Q was especially on fire, spitting verses like he was 27 not 47, and the breaks he took to talk about Phife were humble, thoughtful, and moving, adding a layer of emotional resonance to Tribe’s performance. The crowd was incredibly receptive to the remaining trio’s still-brilliant chemistry and uncanny ability to flow from one song to next, as a building energy flowed through their killer encore of “Can I Kick It?”, “Award Tour,” and “We the People…”. As amazing as the set was, it makes Phife’s passing sting even more. Like Björk, Erykah Badu’s voice live is even better than you can imagine, and she took remarkable command of the stage. It was a true work of Baduizm as she set a positive, contemplative vibe upon which she laid out her psychedelic soul with a measured intensity. As painful as it was to check out early, Frank Ocean was up next and unlike 2015’s FYF and seemingly most other live dates, he showed up to this one. To get a feel for the oddness of Frank’s performance, you have to imagine how gargantuan the main stage is. Its huge monitors and enormous backdrop, with several football fields of pavement in front of which one performs to a sea of people, is a spectacle, and Frank transformed it into something completely different. Walking out on a platform between the VIP and GA sections, Frank began singing with just a keyboard and a microphone on stage with him. Even the monitors were off at first before eventually being filled with footage currently being shot by the two cameramen around him. It was quiet enough to hear a pin drop when he wasn’t singing ― an eerie feeling when you’re surrounded by thousands of fans waiting with baited breath. It was a performance boiled down to the essentials ― a voice, a keyboard, and the occasional guitar or bass from his small backing band. In other words, the transition from the vibrant Channel Orange to the introspective Blonde is complete. “Thinking About You” is the only song from the prior album he played, and even that was performed with a more minimal arrangement. It was heavy on Blonde tracks, touching on all its heavy hitters like “Solo,” “Nikes,” and “Pink + White.” He even cavalierly brought Brad Pitt on stage during “Close to You” because Spike Jonze was filming the performance, presumably for a music video. But there was no mention of it, no hype, no excess. It wasn’t an overwhelming performance, but it certainly was an admirable one, and when Frank wasn’t happy with the way his debut of two new songs, “Runnin Around” and “Good Guy,” sounded, he apologized and asked if he could do them again. It was like watching Frank Ocean perform in his bedroom, if his bedroom were the size of an aircraft carrier. --- Day 3: Innerbody Experience Photo: FYF Fest Goldenvoice Media By day 3, I was rested and fully hydrated. I had never seen Iggy Pop live, but his energy and antics as a live performer precede him beyond merely “inventing” the stage dive or laying the groundwork for punk with his three albums with The Stooges. Like Björk, Pop is an icon, a figure whose presence is magnetic whether right in front of you or on a 5-inch screen. And when that presence burst on stage to “I Want To Be Your Dog,” he might as well have been shot out of a cannon. I was a few rows back but still close enough to count the wrinkles in his leathery skin, and the second he was visible, a wave of people rushed forward like moths to a flame. It was already packed, but that first two minutes was a thrilling combination of adrenaline from the explosion of energy on stage and a bit of fear at the unknowable insanity that threatened to swallow me whole from behind. And where Björk’s performance was something of an out-of-body experience, Pop’s was raw and physical. Even during lighter tunes like “The Passenger,” there was an overarching sensation of aggression, as if the crowd was waiting to release its collective tension in an awkward combination of swirling, gyrating, and jumping bodies. Pop also stuck a microphone down his pants and skipped around, and there was a crowd-surfing panda and an obscene amount of fist-pumping. For an hour, the crowd was putty in Iggy’s hands and, for an hour, we were rewarded with a furious onslaught of powerful, jaw-clenching music. Nothing quite matched the fire-breathing intensity of the “I Wanna Be Your Dog” opener, but “TV Eye” was fantastic (and nearly half the set consisted of Stooges songs) as was, of course, “Lust for Life,” but there wasn’t a moment where the magic dimmed. Realizing that Pop is still up there jumping around like a maniac at 70 is inspiring. It also makes me feel incredibly lame for complaining that my feet hurt after walking 3-4 miles, but we can’t all be Iggy Pop. Drenched in sweat, I climbed out of the sea of bodies, dazed and ecstatic from the catharsis. I had already got what I came for, but I powered through to the little stage where Blonde Redhead happened to be performing my favorite album of theirs, Melody of a Certain Damaged Lemons. I haven’t listened to much of the band in the last decade, and I’m fairly certain I didn’t get to even a second spin of Penny Sparkle or Barragan, but to my pleasant surprise I took right to them. It happened to be the perfect chill, nostalgic comedown after the draining fever dream which came before it, and the band sounded as good live as I had remembered. And as nice as it was to hear songs I once loved and hadn’t heard in years; as soon as they finished the Melody album, I meandered over to the nearby chicken-and-waffle place while their new music played them off in the distance. Photo: FYF Fest Goldenvoice Media As great as FYF was as a whole, going out on an insanely high note was not meant to be. I have friends who are die-hard Nine Inch Nails fans, and while I really enjoy about 1/3 of their music, I’m fairly indifferent about the rest. But their fans are fiercely loyal, so there was a bit of second-hand fandom flowing through my lungs once Trent & Co. took the stage. It doesn’t hurt that Reznor has, in recent years, been involved with some pretty great film scores with Atticus Ross and, more importantly, appeared with Nine Inch Nails in one of the greatest television episodes of all time, the 8th episode of Twin Peaks: The Return. And while I went in part because there wasn’t another option, they ended up being pretty damn entertaining. Every time they veer toward whatever their nu-metal sound is, I checked out, but “March of the Pigs,” “Something I Can Never Have,” and “Closer” were all wonderfully rendered. And in a moment of quietude, Reznor paid tribute to David Bowie with an achingly tender, minimal rendition of “I Can’t Give Everything Away.” The set was only 2/3 over, but there wouldn’t be a better note to end on, so there I left through the mass of people to the outskirts of the fest, where I’d wait for my Lyft home with the final notes of yet another fest dwindling ever-so-slightly in the distant background. See you again another year, FYF. I only hope the best is not now behind me. http://j.mp/2veKl5g