Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

THE PITT IS BACK: INSIDE THE BAND’S “HEALING ERA” AFTER A YEAR-LONG HIATUS
After months of silence, the genre-defining group reunites amid whispers of creative rebirth, personal growth, and a highly anticipated return to the stage.

They don’t call it a meeting. Robby just texts studio, two o’clock, like it’s nothing new.

The room smells like coffee that’s been reheated too many times and the faint ozone tang of warm equipment. Parker is already there, hunched over the console, sleeves pushed up, scrolling. Trinity is sitting next to her, leaning over her shoulder and pointing at the screen, mumbling minor adjustments to the loop playing in her headphones.

Mel’s in the corner with a coil of cables, pretending not to listen. Yolanda leans against the wall with her arms crossed, her eyes locked onto the back of Trinity’s head, her hand clenched around her phone. Jack is sitting on the worn couch, his good leg shaking.

Frank is late.

Dennis stands awkwardly near Robby, worrying his bottom lip. Robby watches the door as Frank slips in and shakes his head slightly at his appearance.

Frank steps into the booth, wearing a hoodie that has seen better days, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His hands are buried in the front pocket, hiding the slight tremor that follows him everywhere these days. He drops onto the couch beside Jack, staring straight ahead, ignoring the concerned glance Jack throws him.

Parker glances up from the console when Frank walks in, but Trinity keeps her eyes fixed on the screen. “Okay. Trinity sent over a demo last night. Rough mix. We’ll stop whenever.”

She presses a button, disconnecting the Bluetooth and letting the song spill through the computer speakers.

The track starts with a consistent drum beat, Trinity’s go-to pacing when she can’t play off the band — a clear sign of how alone she was when she wrote this one.

The first verse sounds familiar: early work, small complaints dressed up as observations, accusations that never quite name their target. Parker points to Dennis as it expands, marking it as his without ceremony.

The next verse cuts in sharper, clipped like it’s interrupting him. Parker’s finger flicks to Frank.

But I wanna have fun
I wanna get high
I wanna get drunk

Trinity barely finishes the line before another track slices through it — Parker thumbs toward Trinity.

(When you gonna grow up)

Frank’s head snaps up. Trinity spins her chair around to face him and meets his gaze head-on, unflinching, as the song keeps going. Parker continues pointing, casual and methodical, assigning pieces of the damage like it’s nothing new.

Dennis glances toward Robby as the shape of it settles in.

Parker flicks back to him.

Don’t get me wrong
I know it’s hard to love me
’Round and around, an emotional junkie

Frank’s knee starts bouncing. Trinity’s voice repeats, evolve — flat, restrained, threaded with something sharp enough to cut. It almost sounds like a joke, if you don’t know her.

The music dips where it normally swells.

A computerized woman’s voice fills the room instead, clinical and detached, explaining brains and development. Explaining how women mature earlier.

Frank lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Jesus Christ.”

Then Trinity brings the drums back in hard. The chorus returns, louder now, the metaphor almost offensively obvious. If you can’t hear me, you don’t get to hold me to it.

The track ends in a cymbal crash. Trinity cuts the audio herself, the scrape of her chair and the click of the mouse bleeding into the silence she leaves behind.

The silence stays.

It’s not dramatic — it’s just long. Long enough for the room to settle into itself. The faint hum of the speakers. Someone shifting their weight. The soft click of Parker setting her phone face down on the console.

Frank doesn’t look at anyone at first. He stares at the floor like it might give him instructions.

His knee bounces. Stops. Starts again.

Jack watches it from his seat on the couch.

“So,” Frank says finally. The word comes out rough, like he didn’t warm it up first. “That’s… that’s what you hear.”

No one answers.

He swallows and exhales through his nose. “The drunk part. The high part.” He shrugs one shoulder. “Fine. I’m not gonna pretend that’s not there.”

Dennis opens his mouth, but Robby gives a small warning shake of his head.

Trinity stares at Frank, arms crossed over her chest. She looks less surprised than he expected. If anything, she seems ready.

Frank looks up at her. “Emotional junkie?” A humorless laugh. “A little on the nose, even for you.”

Jack leans forward on the couch, elbows on his knees, face in his hands.

Trinity doesn’t hesitate. She shrugs, like she’s already moved past this part of the conversation.
“Gotta simplify it for some people.”

Frank’s expression sharpens. “That’s my role now? Junkie?”

She tilts her head slightly. “You play the part so well.”

Frank goes still.

Robby shifts his weight, an aborted step forward — too late.

Jack looks up sharply. “Trinity. That was uncalled for.”

Frank scoffs, the sound brittle. “That is where you draw the line?” he hisses.

Jack meets his gaze, steady from the couch. “It’s just a demo, Frank.”

“Yeah, and when it’s a single?” Frank snaps. “Then what? Everyone knows my business?”

Trinity’s mouth curves — not quite a smile. She turns her chair slightly toward Yolanda, who’s been watching from the sidelines.

“Yolanda,” Trinity says, calm as anything. “Would you say his business is a secret right now?”

Yolanda doesn’t rise to it. Her expression stays professional, unreadable.
“Don’t drag me into this, Trinity.”

The dismissal doesn’t stop her. If anything, it confirms something.

“But isn’t that your job?” Trinity asks mildly. “PR. Managing what people already know.”

She gestures around the room, casual, encompassing. “We’re all supposed to have a job here.”

And that’s the real problem.

The year off for Frank’s rehab made them comfortable. Soft. Living like the label didn’t exist. Trinity never got that luxury. They all got her texts — half-finished lyrics, rough ideas, questions. They answered when it was easy. When it wasn’t, they didn’t.

Robby looks down and rubs his beard. “Trinity has a point,” he says, wincing. “Not the delivery. But the point.”

He gestures toward the console. “The label wants something. And if this is what we have, this is what I’m sending.”

Trinity nods once. Satisfied. “Good.”

She stands and heads for the door, pausing just long enough to look back at Frank.

“Sing it or don’t,” she says. No heat. No drama. “But if you come to rehearsal high again, I’ll release it myself.”

Her gaze flicks to Yolanda — brief, deliberate — a warning more than a challenge.

Then she leaves.

The door clicks shut behind her.

No one moves.

Frank pushes himself up from the couch, jaw set hard enough it looks painful.

“Well,” he says. “That’s not happening.”

Jack lifts his head. “Frank—”

“No.” Frank shakes his head. “I’m not singing it. I’m not rehearsing it. I’m not touching it.” He gestures toward the console. “That song turns me into a punchline.”

Dennis lowers himself onto a nearby stool, elbows on his knees.

Yolanda exhales slowly. “We don’t need to decide anything right now.”

“Yes, we do,” Frank snaps. “Because the answer is no.”

Robby rubs his beard, eyes fixed on the floor. He looks tired. Older.

“You heard her,” Frank continues. “She wants me to screw up so she can justify it.”

“That’s not what she said,” Jack replies carefully.

“It’s what she meant.”

Mel shifts in the corner. “She meant what she said.”

Frank turns on him. “Oh, come on.”

“She’s not bluffing,” Mel says.

That lands heavier than Frank expects.

“I’m not giving her this,” Frank says, quieter now. “She doesn’t get to turn my relapse into leverage.”

Dennis finally speaks. “It’s not just about you.”

Frank laughs bitterly. “Funny how it still manages to be.”

Yolanda steps in, measured. “From a PR standpoint, refusing outright is worse than negotiating.”

“I’m not negotiating my sobriety.”

Robby looks up at him. “This isn’t about sobriety.”

Frank stiffens. “Don’t.”

“This is about the contract,” Robby says, still standing where he’s been all along. “And whether we breach it.”

Silence.

Frank scoffs. “You’re threatening me now?”

“I’m explaining reality,” Robby replies. “We owe deliverables.”

“Send them something else.”

“There is nothing else,” Robby says. “Because while everyone else rested, Trinity wrote.”

Jack winces.

Dennis looks up. “Robby—”

Robby raises a hand. “Facts.”

Frank’s voice tightens. “So you’re picking her side.”

Robby doesn’t hesitate. “This is the only song she gave Parker to mix.”

Frank drags a hand through his hair, pacing now. “We all know she has more somewhere,” he says, looking around the room like he might find an ally.

Parker doesn’t look up from the console. “She does.” A beat. “She said we can’t touch them until this one is finished.”

Frank exhales sharply. “So my choices are sing it or get destroyed.”

Robby doesn’t answer right away.

“Your choice is whether you’re part of the process.”

Dennis stands abruptly. “This is insane.”

Jack looks at him. “It’s just ugly.”

Frank stops pacing.

“You know what the fucked up part is?” he says quietly. “She knows I won’t let this torch everything.”

No one argues.

“I’ll rehearse it.”

Dennis’s head snaps up.

“I said I’ll rehearse it,” Frank repeats.

The room exhales.

Jack shifts forward. “You don’t have to—”

“Yes, I do.”

Robby nods once. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” Frank says. “I hate it.”

Robby waits.

“I’ll show up,” Frank continues. “I won’t pretend to like it.”

“That’s fair.”

“No,” Frank says. “It’s just what I’ve got.”

Dennis hesitates. “I don’t want to sing this if—”

Frank finally looks at him. “If I’m doing this, you don’t get to hesitate.”

Dennis swallows. “Okay.”

Frank turns toward the door. Pauses.

“For the record,” he says quietly. “I know why she wrote it.”

Then he leaves.

The room stays quiet.

Jack breaks it. “She knew he’d say yes.”

Robby doesn’t argue.

Dennis sinks forward on the stool, staring at the floor.
“That doesn’t make it okay.”

“No,” Yolanda says softly. “It just makes it effective.”

And somewhere between compliance and resentment, the band takes its first step forward — not healed, not united, but still intact enough to keep going.

The first article goes up before any of them leave the building.

Dennis sees it on his phone while he’s still sitting on the stool, legs numb, brain buzzing. He doesn’t open it — just stares at the headline like it might blink first.

Frank is already outside by then.

He leans against the brick wall near the service entrance, hoodie pulled tighter than necessary, lighting a cigarette with hands that only shake once the flame catches. He scrolls with his thumb.

THE PITT SPOTTED TOGETHER FOR FIRST TIME IN A YEAR
Sources say the band is “in good spirits” as they quietly prepare their comeback.

He laughs under his breath. It comes out wrong — sharp, humorless.

“Good spirits,” he mutters, exhaling smoke.

Inside, Yolanda stands near the console, phone pressed to her ear. Her voice is low, controlled, already smoothing.

“Yes,” she says. “They were together. No, nothing formal. Just prep.” A pause.  “Creative tension isn’t a bad thing. It reads focused.”

She glances toward Robby while she talks, watching him pretend not to listen.

“Absolutely,” she continues. “They’re excited. Recharged.”

She hangs up and exhales through her nose.

“Well,” she says lightly. “That didn’t take long.”

Robby closes his legal pad. “What are they saying.”

“Exactly what we expected,” Yolanda replies. “Comeback. Healing. Growth. Redemption arc.” She makes a face. “Heavy on the redemption.”

Jack snorts quietly from the couch. “Of course it is.”

Dennis finally stands, joints popping. “Is that… good?”

“It’s usable,” Yolanda says. “Which is better than neutral.”

She turns then, eyes scanning the room like she’s inventorying damage.

“Frank needs to be seen again tomorrow,” she adds. “Preferably with at least two of you.”

Robby nods automatically. “We’ll figure it out.”

Trinity isn’t there to hear it.

She’s already halfway down the hall, boots hitting concrete hard enough to echo. She doesn’t slow when she hears voices behind her. She doesn’t want to know who follows.

By the time she pushes through the exit, Frank is already gone — cigarette ground out on the pavement, smoke lingering like a bad memory.

Her phone buzzes once in her pocket.

She doesn’t check it.

Later that night, the demo leaks anyway.

Not the song — just the fact of it.

A blurry photo of the studio window. A grainy shot of Frank pacing outside. A caption speculating wildly.

New music? Tensions high? The Pitt’s return might be louder than expected.

Trinity stares at the screen from her apartment couch, knees pulled up, notebook balanced uselessly on her thigh.

She closes the app.

Opens her notes.

Stares at the blank page.

For a full minute, nothing comes.

Then she writes one line.

Crosses it out.

Writes another.

Outside, the city keeps moving. Inside, the band’s story is already being told without them.

And somewhere between rumor and rehearsal, the song that started everything has begun doing exactly what she knew it would.

Chapter Text

THE PITT STEPS OUT TOGETHER AHEAD OF COMEBACK — FANS NOTICE ONE ABSENCE
Jack Abbot, Frank Langdon, and Dennis Whitaker are spotted together in Los Angeles as speculation grows around the band’s next move.

Yolanda sits at a table in the label’s office building, her laptop open to headlines and half-written drafts. Papers are spread out in front of her, color-coded, annotated. Another laptop displays a calendar she keeps returning to, glancing down at a handwritten note before typing something new into the grid.

Robby sits across from her, placing his own laptop on the table. He opens it, squints, then puts on his readers with a quiet sigh. His frown deepens as the screen loads.

They sit with the problem between them, working at it from opposite ends — label and PR. In theory, that should make this easier. In Yolanda’s experience, it usually just means the conversation turns into a debate before it becomes a solution.

“Okay,” she says, breaking the quiet. “We need to talk about first exposure.”

Robby looks up. “You waste no time.”

“That’s my job,” she replies evenly. “What’s the first performance?”

He clicks through something on his screen without looking at her. “They’ve got a live pop-up in three weeks. The label wants at least one new song debuting there.”

Yolanda nods once. “That’s a problem.”

Robby exhales. “We can move faster.”

“You don’t move faster than a live audience,” Yolanda says. “You either control that moment, or it controls you.”

She leans forward, palms on the table. “If this song debuts live, we need a narrative ready. Talking points. Context. Framing.”

Robby rubs his beard. “How fast can we get it fully tracked?”

She considers. “If everyone shows up and no one fights me? Two weeks. Maybe less.”

Robby winces. “That’s tight.”

“It’s not optional,” Yolanda says. “The first version people hear won’t be ours. It’ll be someone’s phone recording.”

Robby nods slowly. “If we don’t give them a version, they’ll make one.”

“Exactly.”

Yolanda exhales, more tired than frustrated. “Trinity probably knew that.”

Robby raises an eyebrow. “And you know Trinity.”

Yolanda folds her arms. “If she thinks this is stalling, she’ll escalate.”

“She won’t leak it,” Robby says.

Yolanda looks at him. “She won’t leak. She’ll release.”

There’s a difference, and they both know it.

Robby checks his phone, then pockets it. “Best case scenario: we record fast, announce intentionally, and control the first performance.”

“And worst case?” Yolanda asks.

“She takes the timing away from us.”

Silence settles between them.

Robby grimaces. “She really boxed us in.”

“She didn’t,” Yolanda says. “She moved ahead.”

She glances at the most recent headline about the band, already mapping angles and fallout. “If this song goes out, it has to look like a decision. Not a fracture.”

Robby nods. “And Frank?”

Yolanda exhales slowly. “Frank doesn’t matter to the audience yet. He will after the first performance.”

“That’s bleak.”

“That’s accurate.”

Robby closes his laptop. “So we’re racing a clock no one set.”

Yolanda picks up her phone, already typing. “Trinity always sets clocks. She just doesn’t announce them.”

She pauses at the door. “If she doesn’t think this is moving fast enough, she won’t wait for consensus.”

Robby watches her. “You going to stop her?”

Yolanda meets his gaze. “I’m going to stay ahead of her.”

She leaves the building with a plan forming — not because she believes she can contain Trinity, but because if she doesn’t, someone else will try.

And they’ll do it worse.

Frank idles in his car.

He sits in the driver’s seat with his hands on the wheel, forehead resting against it, like he’s trying to remember how long he’s been doing this. The streets of LA never really empty out, but in this part of town, most people are here for a reason.

He could pick up.
ext his dealer.
Offer the homeless man sitting outside the McDonald’s a few bucks in exchange for information about who sells around here.

He exhales and leans back, staring at the ceiling. His phone buzzes in the cup holder.

He doesn’t pick it up. Not at first.

His knee starts bouncing. He forces it still, pressing his heel into the floor mat until it stops. He knows better than to let the energy build sideways. He knows where that goes.

The phone buzzes again.

Frank glances at the screen.

Robby:
Rehearsal schedule attached. Starting Monday.

Frank lets out a short breath through his nose. “Of course,” he mutters.

Another buzz follows immediately.

Robby:
Also, we’re locking the pop-up in three weeks. Song will debut live there. Studio release follows after.

Frank stares at the words until they blur.

Three weeks.

Not if. Not maybe.

Will.

He drops his head back against the seat. The line replays in his head, uninvited.

’Round and around, an emotional junkie.

He rubs a hand over his face, slow and deliberate, grounding himself the way he’s been taught. He checks his pulse out of habit. Steady. Still there.

His gaze drifts down the street. Lingering on people who would know how to find what he’s looking for.

“Great,” he says quietly.

Another buzz.

Robby:
Let me know if you need anything before Monday.

Frank snorts. He doesn’t respond.

He opens the car door and steps out into the cool air, the smell of asphalt and old rain clinging to everything. He digs a cigarette out of the crumpled pack in his jacket pocket, taps it twice against the filter, and lights it.

The first drag burns. He welcomes it.

Smoke fills his lungs — harsh, familiar — something he can focus on. He exhales slowly, watching it thin under the streetlamps. His eyes catch on a man leaning against a storefront, hands shoved deep into his pockets.

He leans against the car and takes another drag, longer this time. The tremor in his hands eases, just a little.

Enough.

She didn’t write the song at him.

That’s what finally lands.

She wrote it without him. Without waiting. Without asking if he was steady enough to hear it.

The smoke isn’t good for him. He knows that. It’s just… better than the alternatives.

He flicks ash onto the pavement and crushes the cigarette under his shoe once it burns low, grinding it down until there’s nothing left.

Frank gets back into the car and starts the engine. The radio blasts on automatically, too loud. He shuts it off immediately.

Three weeks.

He pulls out of the lot, jaw tight, hands steady on the wheel.

He’s not okay.

But he’s choosing to be sober tonight.

And for now, that has to be enough.

The café is too bright for how early it is.

Sunlight pours in through the front windows like it’s trying to interrogate them. Dennis sits with his back to the glass, shoulders hunched, stirring a coffee he hasn’t tasted yet. Jack sits across from him, long legs folded awkwardly under the small table, calm in the way only someone with nothing to hide ever is.

They’ve been photographed twice already.

Dennis knows because Jack clocked the second camera before Dennis even registered it — a flick of his eyes, a subtle shift of his shoulder to block the angle.

“You okay?” Jack asks, quiet.

Dennis nods automatically. Then shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

Jack hums, accepting that answer as complete.

They sit like that for a moment. The clink of cups. Someone laughing too loud near the register.

“I don’t like feeling like this,” Dennis says finally.

Jack looks up. “Like what?”

“Like I have to choose my words,” Dennis says. He frowns at the table. “Like I’m always about to say the wrong thing.”

Jack leans back slightly. “You don’t.”

Dennis laughs softly. “That’s easy for you to say.”

Jack’s expression shifts — not defensive, not offended. Just attentive.

“You mean because Robby and I—”

“Because you and Robby were together first,” Dennis finishes. He winces. “I’m not saying it’s rational.”

“You don’t have to,” Jack says.

Dennis exhales. “I don’t want to sound like I’m complaining. Or like I don’t get how this works.”

Jack reaches across the table and taps Dennis’s wrist once. Familiar. Grounding.

“You’re allowed to disagree,” he says. “Even with Robby.”

Dennis doesn’t answer right away.

“It just feels different,” he admits. “Like if I push too hard, I stop being… additive.”

Jack’s jaw tightens. Just slightly. “You’re not a guest.”

Dennis meets his eyes. “Then why does it feel like one wrong sentence could make me disposable.”

Jack doesn’t joke this away. He doesn’t reassure too fast.

“Because this band is bad at separating roles from relationships,” he says. “And because Robby forgets sometimes that not everyone’s been here as long.”

Dennis nods, throat tight.

Jack adds, “And because Trinity blew everything open.”

That gets a small smile out of Dennis. “Yeah.”

They sit in it — the quiet understanding, the shared unease — while outside, someone lifts a phone again.

Dennis doesn’t look.

Trinity’s apartment is quiet in the way that only happens after midnight.

No city noise reaches this high up, just the low hum of the fridge and the occasional click from her laptop as the track loops back to the beginning. She’s sitting on the floor with her back against the couch, knees pulled in, guitar balanced across her lap even though she hasn’t touched it in twenty minutes.

The song keeps playing anyway. Written for one singer. 

She listens, jaw tight, fingers tapping against her thigh in time with the beat.

Some days you’re the only thing I know
Only thing that’s burning when the nights grow cold

She exhales through her nose. 

It’s not the melody that’s wrong. The structure holds. The chorus hits exactly where it should. Parker would love it. Dennis would too, once he got past the words.

That’s the problem.

Sometimes when I look at you, I see my wife

Trinity pauses the track.

The silence that follows is heavier than the song ever was.

She stares at the line on the screen, cursor blinking at the end like it’s waiting for permission. She doesn’t delete it. She never deletes anything on the first pass. She just highlights it and lets it sit there, selected, accusing.

Dennis doesn’t see a wife. He never will.

She rubs a hand over her face, drags it down slowly. This one wasn’t written for him. It wasn’t written at him, either. It was written sideways, in the margins of nights that never quite resolved into mornings.

She hits play again.

Fight so dirty, but you love so sweet
Talk so pretty, but your heart got teeth

That part still works.

Her fingers finally move, adjusting the tempo by a fraction, nudging the harmony down a key. Technical fixes are easier than pronouns. Easier than rewriting desire into something that still sounds like the truth.

She tries it anyway.

Changes wife to someone. Grimaces. Changes it back.

Blood on my shirt, rose in my hand
You’re lookin’ at me like you don’t know who I am

That one stays. 

Trinity leans her head back against the couch and closes her eyes. For just a second, Yolanda’s face flashes behind her eyelids — not angry, not soft. Professional. Controlled. Untouchable.

She doesn’t chase the thought.

She opens her eyes, scrolls down, and adds a comment in the margin instead of changing the line.

FIX LATER.

She saves the file under a new name — something vague, something temporary — and closes the session without exporting anything. This one isn’t ready. Not for Dennis. Not for the band. Maybe not for anyone.

Trinity sets the laptop aside and reaches for her phone. There are missed notifications she hasn’t looked at yet. She ignores them all.

Instead, she opens her calendar.

Rehearsal. Monday.

She adds nothing to it. Doesn’t need to.

When she finally turns the light off and lets the apartment fall into shadow, Trinity isn’t thinking about the ultimatum she gave, or whether Frank will show up, or what Yolanda is saying to the label.

She’s thinking about structure. About voices. About how much truth a song can hold before it breaks.

And somewhere, saved but untouched, a song waits — sharp, unfinished, and unwilling to be rewritten into something safer.

Not yet.

Chapter Text

BAND RETURNS TO STUDIO AMID RUMORS OF NEW MATERIAL
Sources say recording sessions are underway as the group quietly prepares for their next phase.

Dennis is alone in the booth.

The door seals behind him with a soft, airtight click that makes his stomach drop. Without anyone else inside, the space feels distorted — too quiet. Sound behaves differently in here. Every breath feels amplified, every swallow loud enough to embarrass him if anyone could hear it.

Just the mic, the stand, and the glass wall separating him from the rest of them.

He hates this part. Always has. Not the singing — the waiting. The way the room asks something of him before he’s decided whether he’s ready to give it.

Through the glass, he can see everyone waiting.

Parker sits at the console, headset on, already watching levels like this is any other session. Robby stands behind her, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the booth with the patience of someone who knows this part can’t be rushed — and won’t step in even if it should be.

Jack leans against the far wall, hands in his pockets. Frank sits a few feet away from him, shoulders hunched forward, eyes on the floor like he’s counting something under his breath. Dennis recognizes the posture. It’s the one Frank uses when he’s trying not to think too far ahead.

Trinity isn’t looking at Dennis.

She’s turned slightly away, arms crossed, weight settled into one hip. Closed. Deliberate. Like she’s already decided what she’ll accept from this take — and what she won’t.

Dennis swallows.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Parker says through the talkback.

The red light clicks on.

Dennis adjusts the headphones and takes a breath — a shallow one, then a deeper one. He reminds himself where his feet are. The floor is solid. The mic isn’t judging him. The song doesn’t know who he is.

Angel above me, you been callin’ me a lowlife
You take my money, and you spend it on a power trip

The words come out clean. Technically correct. Placed carefully, like he’s setting them down instead of inhabiting them.

He gets through the verse and hesitates, breath catching just enough to be audible in his own ears. He hates that part too — the moment where the song waits to see if he’ll commit.

“Hold,” Parker says.

The red light stays on.

Dennis swallows. “Sorry.”

“No need,” Parker replies. “Take it again.”

He nods and tries.

This time his voice wavers — not a crack, just a slip. The words don’t want to sit where he’s putting them. They resist him. He stops halfway through the line, lips pressing together.

“Can I—” He exhales. “Can I have a second?”

Parker pauses, then nods. “Yeah. Take a minute.”

The red light goes dark.

Relief hits him harder than he expects. Dennis drops his head, hands braced on the mic stand, as if he needs something solid to stay upright. His shoulders tense, then sag. He doesn’t look at the glass. If he does, he’s not sure what he’ll see.

The booth door opens quietly behind him.

He turns.

Trinity steps inside and closes it again before he can say anything. The seal clicks into place, and the control room disappears — reduced to shapes behind glass, mouths moving without sound.

They can’t hear this.

That knowledge settles between them, heavy and intimate.

Trinity doesn’t speak right away. She just watches him, the same steady look she gets right before a downbeat — measuring, expectant. The look that says she already knows what’s wrong, and she’s deciding how much of it she wants to name.

“You’re thinking too much,” she says finally.

Dennis lets out a short, strained laugh. “Feels like I have to.”

“That’s not your job,” she says.

Not unkind. Not comforting. Just factual.

He rubs a hand over his face. “It sounds like I’m accusing someone.”

“You are,” Trinity says. No hesitation.

He looks at her then, really looks. “I don’t want it to sound like it’s coming from me.”

She considers that, then nods toward the lyric sheet taped to the stand. “They’re gonna ask who wrote it,” she says.

Dennis stiffens. “Yeah.”

“I’m the only name on the credits,” Trinity continues, like she’s talking about scheduling. “No splits. No co-write.”

“So if anyone listens closely enough,” Dennis says quietly, “they’ll know.”

“They already will,” she replies.

He exhales through his nose. “So when I say it—”

“They hear me,” Trinity says.

Not us. Not the band. Her.

Dennis nods once, slowly. Something settles in his chest — not comfort, but clarity. “Okay.”

She steps closer, taps the page lightly with one finger. “Don’t argue with it,” she says. “And don’t smooth it out.”

He looks at her. “What do you want it to sound like?”

Trinity meets his eyes. Steady. Familiar.

“Rough,” she says.

Not a plea. Not a challenge. The way she would cue a vocalist when she was supposed to be the one at the mic.

Dennis swallows.

“Okay,” he says.

She steps back toward the door, already done with the moment. “Credits are my problem,” she adds. “The voice is yours.”

Then she’s gone.

The booth seals again.

Dennis stands alone, heart pounding, aware of the shift he can’t undo. Something about the song has tipped forward now — past intention, past rehearsal.

Through the glass, Parker looks up.

The red light clicks back on.

Dennis inhales.

This time, he doesn’t protect the words.

Angel above me, you been callin’ me a lowlife
You take my money, and you spend it on a power trip

The line lands differently now — heavier, closer, like he’s placing something exactly where it belongs and letting go.

In the control room, Jack straightens. Frank’s jaw tightens.

Dennis keeps going.

By the time Parker finally cuts the take, the room feels altered — like everyone is standing in the wake of something they can’t unhear.

“That’s clean,” she says eventually. “We’ll keep it.”

Dennis steps back from the mic, pulse loud in his ears. Frank doesn’t look up. Jack doesn’t move. Robby exhales slowly behind Parker, already hearing how this will sound to people who weren’t in the room.

Trinity watches through the glass, unreadable.

The song is real now.

And anyone who cares enough to listen will know exactly whose words they are.

Dennis wanders out of the booth looking both defeated and relieved. He drifts toward Robby without quite thinking about it and leans into his side, just enough to borrow steadiness. Robby doesn’t comment. He just stays there.

Parker doesn’t send Frank in right away.

She scrolls through the session, eyes tracking the waveform like she’s checking boxes only she can see. Then she looks up.

“Frank,” she says calmly. “Let’s get everything that doesn’t have interjections first.”

Frank straightens. “Out of order?”

“Yeah,” Parker replies. “I want your sections clean. No cross-traffic yet.”

Dennis clocks the phrasing immediately. Clean. Your sections.

Jack does too.

Frank nods and heads for the booth without argument. The door seals behind him, and suddenly he’s framed by glass — alone, exposed in a way Dennis hadn’t been.

Parker’s voice comes through the talkback. “We’ll start with verse two. Then jump ahead. Refrains with Trinity come last. I’ll cue you.”

The red light comes on.

Frank starts with the easier material — the lines that feel performative, almost indulgent. The ones that let him posture instead of confess. His voice is steady here, familiar, practiced.

Parker listens, then cuts in.

“Let’s flatten that,” she says. “Less charm. Don’t sell it.”

Frank adjusts. Goes again.

“Good. Now hold the end longer.”

They move like that for a bit — Parker shaping tone, texture, distance. She corrects his breath. Pacing. Emphasis. She’s present, active, clearly invested in how this lands.

Then she jumps him forward.

“Okay,” Parker says. “Now the monkey section. Same rules.”

Frank hesitates — just a beat. This part isn’t flashy. It’s closer to the bone. But he goes.

This is where the polish slips.

Not badly. Just enough that Dennis notices Frank’s shoulders draw in, like he’s bracing against something internal. His voice tightens, less decorative now, more resigned.

Parker doesn’t stop him.

Frank finishes and waits, breath shallow.

Silence.

Dennis looks to Parker, expecting her to step in the way she has every other time.

She doesn’t.

She nods once and saves the take.

“That works,” she says.

Frank blinks. “You don’t want to—”

“No,” Parker replies. “That’s what I want.”

Something shifts in Frank’s expression — not anger, not relief. Uncertainty.

Parker scrolls again, deliberate. “Okay. That’s all your solo material.”

Frank relaxes slightly. He pulls the headphones off and steps back.

“Don’t go far,” Parker adds. “We still need the refrains.”

He stills.

She glances sideways toward Trinity.

“For the remaining sections,” Parker continues, almost casual, “Trinity’s going to handle the interjections from the control room. It’ll read like an outside voice. Less staged.”

Frank looks up sharply at the glass.

Trinity doesn’t look back.

Dennis feels the air change — the same sharp expectation as earlier, when they ran the line once already.

Frank swallows. “Okay.”

He steps back to the mic. The red light clicks on again.

He starts the next section — the part he already knows is coming. He braces for the interruption.

And it comes, right on cue.

(When you gonna grow up?)

Trinity’s voice is clipped. Familiar. Exactly what he expected.

Frank barely flinches. He moves into the next refrain, repeating the lines, settling back into rhythm.

Then Trinity cuts in again.

“I’m gonna throw up.”

It’s just loud enough to cut through.

The tone is different — less clipped, more raw. Nervous. Almost scared. Like something that slipped out before she could stop it.

The room changes.

Frank’s voice falters — only for a fraction of a second, but enough to hear the space where certainty used to be. His eyes flick up toward the glass, searching.

Trinity’s gaze is locked on the console, knuckles white where her hand grips the edge like she’s bracing for impact.

Parker does nothing.

She lets the take run.

Frank finishes, but Parker lets the track roll a second longer, eyes on the screen. Then she nods and saves the session.

Dennis waits for her to explain it away. To frame it. To make it accidental.

She doesn’t.

Frank stares through the glass.

“That didn’t sound like—” he starts, then stops.

Trinity finally looks up.

Not at him. At Parker.

Frank steps out of the booth slowly, like the ground might shift under him if he moves too fast. He sets the headphones down on the counter instead of hanging them, like he forgot that’s what you’re supposed to do. They slide a little before he catches them.

Jack straightens off the wall. “Hey. You— uh.” He stops himself. Tries again. “You good?”

Frank nods once. It’s too fast to mean much.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m fine.”

Dennis watches his mouth when he says it. The word lands flat.

Robby shifts his weight. He looks like he’s about to step in, then doesn’t. He’s learned when forcing things just makes them worse.

Parker swivels her chair toward Trinity. “You okay over there?”

Trinity’s hand is still curled around the edge of the console. She loosens it slowly, like she’s reminding herself she’s not gripping anything alive.

“Yeah,” she says. Then, because the room is still watching her, “I’m okay.”

Dennis snorts quietly. “You don’t sound okay.”

She glances at him. “I didn’t say I was great.”

Frank clears his throat. “So… that’s staying,” he says, nodding toward the booth. It comes out more like a statement than a question.

Parker nods. “Yeah. We’re keeping it.”

He huffs out a breath. “Cool.”

No one echoes him. The word hangs there, flimsy.

“Uh — is that how it was supposed to sound?” Dennis asks, looking at Trinity. “The demo was… different.”

Trinity shrugs. “Parker and I decided it needed a tone change.”

Frank finally looks at her.

For a second, it seems like he’s going to say something stupid or defensive. Or cruel.

Instead, he says, “You could’ve warned me.”

She holds his gaze. “When?”

“That’s not—” He stops. Exhales. “Okay. Yeah… that’s fair.”

That admission costs him something. You can see it in the way his shoulders sag after.

Parker clears her throat, too loud. “I gotta mix this and set up for Jack’s part,” she says.

Frank nods again. Grabs his jacket off the chair. “Yeah. I’m gonna—” He gestures vaguely toward the hallway. “I’ll be back.”

He pauses at the door, then turns back just enough to look at Trinity again.

“For what it’s worth,” he says, awkward, like he hates that phrase, “I like this way better.”

She swallows. “Yeah, it’s more accurate, I guess.”

That seems to knock the rest of the air out of him.

He nods once, opens the door, and leaves. It closes softer than anyone expects.

The room doesn’t immediately fill the space he leaves behind.

Jack runs a hand through his hair. “Jesus. That was… a lot.”

Robby exhales. “Yeah.”

Parker finally turns back to the screen, breaking the circle. “It was good,” she says simply. 

Robby nods slowly. “The label’s gonna love it.”

Trinity winces at that, just a little.

Dennis notices. “You okay with that?”

She considers the question. Then: “I’m okay with the song being true.”

Jack sighs. “You’re going to have to sing it like that live.”

“Yep,” she agrees, turning to look at Parker’s computer. “Already realized that.”

Silence again — but this one feels earned.

Dennis watches her, really watches her now, and realizes something that makes his stomach twist.

This song was written for the band, but she’s all over it. 

Outside the glass, down the hallway, Frank leans against the wall and pulls a cigarette from his pocket, rolling it between his fingers before lighting it.

He takes a drag, coughs, and laughs under his breath.

“Fuck,” he mutters to no one.

Chapter Text

SOURCES SAY BAND “BACK ON TRACK” AS INTERNAL TIMELINES COLLIDE
With a pop-up confirmed and a single imminent, insiders hint at mounting pressure behind closed doors.

The conference room looks borrowed.

Nothing in it belongs to them — not the long table, not the glass walls, not the whiteboard with someone else’s half-erased notes. Even the chairs feel temporary, as if they’ll be asked to move if they stay too long. The whole space smells faintly of cleaning solution and stale coffee, like it’s designed to host urgency without memory.

They already know what this meeting is about.

Robby stands at the head of the table, legal pad open in front of him. This time, it’s filled. Dates. Arrows. A few lines are underlined so hard they creased the paper. He’s taken his jacket off, sleeves rolled, posture squared — the version of him that comes out when he’s stopped pretending this is just another planning session.

Dennis takes the seat closest to the door. Habit. Jack sits beside him, close, familiar, knee angled just enough to brush Dennis’s. Frank drops into a chair across from them, arms crossed, jaw set like he’s already decided he hates this.

Trinity doesn’t sit.

She leans against the window, arms folded, watching traffic crawl below like it has somewhere better to be. The city looks uninterrupted from up here — movement without consequence. She focuses on that instead of the table.

Yolanda sits across from Robby, phone face down, spine straight, already in work mode. Her expression is neutral in a way that took years to perfect.

Robby doesn’t ease into it.

“Pop-up is locked,” he says.

No one reacts. That part’s settled. It’s the only thing in this room that feels immovable.

“What isn’t,” he continues, tapping the pad, “is the timeline after.”

Trinity turns from the window. “We’re not doing this again.”

“I’m not reopening the show,” Robby says. “I’m talking about the clock.”

Jack leans forward. “What clock?”

Robby doesn’t look at him. He taps the pad again. “Once the pop-up happens, Evolve drops. Immediately after that, the album clock starts.”

Dennis frowns. “How fast?”

“Eight weeks,” Robby says. “Final recordings. Mix. Masters.”

Frank laughs, short and sharp, like the sound got out before he could stop it. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not,” Robby replies. “And before anyone says it — yes, I know that’s tight.”

Trinity shakes her head. “That’s not tight. That’s insane.”

Robby meets her gaze. He doesn’t blink. “It only feels insane because the writing already exists.”

The room stills — not in shock, but recognition.

Dennis exhales slowly, like he’s been holding that knowledge without naming it. Jack’s jaw tightens. Frank looks away, staring at the grain of the table like it might change.

Trinity doesn’t bristle. She doesn’t need to. “We’ve been over this.”

“I know,” Robby says. “I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m explaining why the label thinks this is doable.”

She crosses her arms tighter. “They don’t get to decide how fast I work.”

“They’re not asking you to write,” Robby says. “They’re asking you to hand it over.”

That lands harder.

Yolanda shifts, subtle but deliberate, watching Trinity carefully now. This is the moment she’s been waiting for — the point where process turns into leverage.

“You’ve always written ahead,” Jack says quietly. Not confrontational. Just true.

“And we’ve always let you,” Dennis adds. “Because it worked.”

Robby nods. “Exactly. The only thing that changed is that this time, you stopped handing things over on purpose.”

Trinity’s jaw tightens. “I told you why.”

“And I understood,” Robby says. “But intentions don’t change consequences.”

Frank scoffs. “Jesus, you make it sound calculated.”

“It was deliberate,” Robby says evenly. “That’s not a moral judgment. That’s just… strategy.”

Dennis looks at Trinity. “You knew Evolve would force momentum.”

She looks at him. Holds it. There’s no deflection there — just honesty sharpened by exhaustion. “I knew it wouldn’t let us pretend anymore.”

Robby doesn’t interrupt. He lets that sit, lets the silence stretch until it presses against the glass walls.

“You tied everything to that song,” he says finally. “You said you wouldn’t give us anything else until it was heard. And now it’s about to be.”

“So suddenly I’m the bottleneck,” Trinity says.

“No,” Robby replies. “You’re the engine.”

The word hangs there — not praise, not blame. Just function.

Silence stretches.

Jack exhales. “That’s not fair either.”

“I’m not saying it is,” Robby says. “I’m saying that once Evolve drops, there’s no slow version of what comes next.”

Frank leans back in his chair. “So what — we sprint, tour, then decide if we even want to stay?”

“Yes,” Robby says. “That’s exactly it.”

Dennis rubs his face. “And the contract.”

Robby nods. “Album. Tour. Then we talk about re-signing.”

Yolanda finally speaks. Her voice cuts clean through the fatigue.

“Which is why how you look in the next two weeks matters.”

Everyone turns to her.

“I need appearances,” she continues. “Not fake, not scripted — just visible. You together. Leaving places together. Studio together. No mystery narratives.” Her gaze flicks, briefly, to Trinity. “Trinity specifically. She hasn’t been seen with the band in weeks.”

Trinity laughs under her breath. It’s humorless. “You want us to look united while we’re deciding if we even are.”

“I want you to buy yourselves the right to decide,” Yolanda says. “Because if the outside thinks you’re already fractured, the label will decide for you.”

Frank mutters, “Love that.”

Robby straightens. “Rehearsals stay daily. Album recording starts the day after the pop-up. Tour follows. Then the contract conversation.”

Trinity pushes off the window and finally sits, chair scraping loudly in the quiet room. The sound feels like punctuation.

“And if I don’t hand everything over right away?” she asks.

Robby doesn’t hesitate. “Then this feels rushed because you’re making it rushed.”

She holds his gaze. Long. Measuring. The version of Trinity that weighs outcomes instead of feelings. She sighs and runs a hand through her hair.

“I’ll let Parker work on some of the new stuff.”

Heads turn toward her, surprised.

“That would be helpful,” Jack says cautiously.

Trinity waves a hand. “She’s already seen a lot of them.”

Yolanda tilts her head, studying Trinity like she’s looking at a chessboard mid-game. “How much have you actually written?”

Trinity meets her eyes. Holds them. “More than enough.”

Her fingers twitch at her side — the only tell.

Robby nods, pushing past the topic before it cracks open. “Okay. Either way, this will make recording easier after the pop-up.” He leans forward, elbows on the desk, catching Trinity’s gaze. “Thank you.”

A bitter laugh escapes her. She glances at her bandmates — the weight of their expectations, their relief, their resentment all tangled together. “Yeah,” she says. “Don’t thank me yet.”

Yolanda’s text comes through before Frank even turns the car off.

Yolanda:
Today, you need to be seen going into the studio. Trinity is already there with Parker, working on some of the new songs. Go inside the building at 1:00 p.m. Don’t go into the studio until 2:00 p.m.
I’m serious, Frank. Don’t make her upset. Don’t fuck this up.

Frank exhales and lets his head thump against the headrest. He got to the studio at 12:55 p.m. Of course he did. He can already see a photographer across the street, lens pointed lazily in his direction like this is just another Tuesday.

He’s done two planned appearances this week already — once with Dennis, once with Jack. He knew it was only a matter of time before Yolanda forced him to be seen with Trinity.

That doesn’t make him feel any more prepared.

He steps out of the car, grabs his pack of cigarettes, and lights one. He waves at the photographer in a yeah, I see you way while puffing smoke out of his mouth. Frank was never one to ignore them — ignoring makes them curious. He curses the image he built for himself years ago and finishes the cigarette before dropping it to the ground and grinding it out with his shoe.

That’s showbiz, baby, he thinks, not for the first time.

Inside, the building smells like recycled air and old soundproofing. He passes closed studios on his way to the band’s unofficial break room. Part of him hopes another member will be there — Dennis, Jack, anyone — but he knows Yolanda sent him alone on purpose.

His phone buzzes.

Yolanda:
You inside yet?

Frank frowns. He knows last year it was a struggle to get him to show up on time — or at all. He knows he needs to rebuild trust. It still stings to be micromanaged by someone who used to kiss him hello without checking her watch.

Frank:
Yes.

He drops onto a beanbag and closes his eyes. Waiting feels wrong. When the band first got together, they’d crowd the studio while Trinity and Parker messed with sounds, making suggestions even when they weren’t asked. Over time, they showed up less. Trinity started pushing them out for being too distracting.

Now the absence feels louder than the noise ever was.

An angry part of him blames Trinity for what’s happening. Another part knows he helped build this mess brick by brick.

He dozes. Wakes. Scrolls. Plays a stupid game on his phone just to pass the time.

At 1:57 p.m., he stands.

The recording light is on. He hesitates, then assumes they forgot to turn it off. He turns the handle to the master booth door — and music filters out.

It doesn’t sound like anything the band would normally sing.

And Frank knows, before he even hears the words, that whatever this is — it isn’t meant for him.

Blood oath, baby, took a vow unspoken
Not on speaking terms, now you could pick up the phone

Trinity’s voice is soft, almost a whisper. Frank looks at the desk, Parker staring straight into the recording booth, nodding along slightly. 

You could pull up to his house
You could find out you're alone if you keep fucking around

He follows her gaze to Trinity, standing in front of a microphone, holding one side of the headphones to her head; she’s staring at a music sheet in front of her. Neither of them notices him standing awkwardly at the door. 

He steps fully into the booth, putting his hand on the door to force it to shut softly just as the next verse begins. The words get louder, almost angry. He didn’t know Trinity could even sound like that.

You say that that's your brother, you'll always come around
You'll always have each other
Not if you never pick up where you let down
I love one like a brother, I love one like I'm dumb,

Trinity reaches a hand out and points vaguely, eyes still on the music sheet. Frank wonders which bandmate is which brother. Trinity drops her hand and clutches the microphone stand as she yells the last line into the mic, her voice gravelly. 

Let's get the shit together, motherfuckers,
sick of missing ya

She pulls away slightly, laughing into the mic, turning her head to catch Parker’s eye — Frank assumes — and freezes when she sees him instead. Her smile fades. Parker turns and sees Frank. Her face tightens for a second before she looks back at Trinity.

“Sorry, didn’t hear him come in,” She says, pressing the intercom button, “But that was good. You should keep it like that.”

Trinity’s eyes snap to Parker, and she nods minutely before grabbing her music sheet and walking through the soundproof door into the control room. “You were supposed to be here at 3:00,” she says, not looking at Frank and handing her music sheet to Parker.

Frank awkwardly raises his phone, “It’s 3:02.”

She looks at Frank for a second and scoffs, “Being on time isn’t a good look for you.”

“Recording personal songs without telling us isn’t a good look for you,” he says.

Trinity laughs, shaking her head. “Whatever.” She walks closer to him and gestures to the door, “Let’s go.”