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The concert hall reverberates with energy.
Everywhere, people scream and roar, bellowing obscenities at the ceiling, chanting sporadically for the main act of the night to come and perform, to deliver themselves in the whirlwind of power and energy people have come to know and love.
The crowd’s cries become deafening, vicious, like the hunting-calls of starved wolves. They are voracious. The band is legendary in its field of music, a welcome enigma. Fans do not understand it, nor do they feel they need to. The band’s name itself is mysterious and rings with power – Abaivonin Calz. No one knows what it means, but it sounds good. It sounds right, so they do not question it.
A loud, guttural snarl answers the crowd’s demands and rises to a bellow, a leonine sound. The fans seem to go mad, and rightly so.
Where there was once a dark, vacant stage, three men stand, tall and proud, the lights bathing them in radiance that melts beneath their skin and lends them the sheen of godlings. Effortless power glimmers in their eyes, in their gait, in their coiled musculature, in the high hold of their heads. They know the effect they have on their fans. They love it.
Breathless anticipation fills the crowd below, the fans’ eyes wide and expectant. The drummer, a dark-haired man with piercing eyes the colour of dusky skies, flexes his muscles and taps his foot twice. On cue, the slender, roguishly handsome bassist picks several slow lines, fingers dancing over the thick strings with grace belying the song’s complication. Some measures in, the guitarist, smaller in stature and more beautiful than the other two, and fairer-haired and –eyed, takes incentive and strikes up a quick, powerful rhythm.
Haphazard cries echo through the mass of people as he guides the song, building pillars of music with his fingers and weaving expert tales with effortless skill. The bassist has no trouble whatsoever keeping up, playing with equal skill, and the drummer’s speed and accuracy are nigh inhuman.
This particular band is infamous among critics. Its members have chosen pretentious names for themselves, in particular the guitarist. The drummer calls himself Michael, and in this genre of music, Michael is not a welcome name. Nor is Gabriel, the bassist’s.
The only accepted, and most pretentious, name is the guitarist’s: Lucifer. No one knows whether the name is merely the product of conceit, or whether his parents were rash enough to name him like this, but whatever the case, it certainly fits him. The music he plays seems out of this world, and he possesses a cold, undemanding beauty the likes of which one would expect to see on a magazine cover. The people love Lucifer and his music.
Michael snarls as he goes into a faster measure, drumsticks pattering violently, his hands a blur, sweat already beginning to bead his forehead. He jabs his head quickly at Lucifer, and the blonde takes the nearby microphone into one hand, slams it down before him, and roars into it.
And he never sings; his voice falls into a pitch so deep and guttural it sounds like the snarls and growls of dogs, punctuated by clenched teeth and throaty, hoarse roars and hisses, fitting seamlessly in with the rest of the song, a violent, vicious litany of pure energy and rage.
The few strains of lyrics the fans are able to understand are blasphemous. They speak of burning churches, of crumbling nations and strange, elaborate rites and entities, of overthrowing God and bringing a new Dawn. The conviction, the dedication, with which Lucifer performs, suggests a personal disgust or dislike for God; these feelings are common in his field, but never so blatantly. The rest of the band seems indifferent, less hateful than Lucifer, but neither do they seem people who love God.
The song picks up speed and pitch. Michael gives a small bark of exertion, hair falling into his face, head tossed back, his shirt drenched. Gabriel has to bite his lip to suppress a whimper as a string cuts the pad of his finger. Lucifer’s right hand is a bloody mess, his left a blur, and his vocals are interrupted by occasional small moans of pain as the strings rub into raw flesh. His voice cracks into a breathy whisper as he raises it, soft and forlorn, nothing like the earlier display of power and vitality with which he snarled and growled the long, unholy strings of words.
Several fans tear their shirt to bits. Men fall to their knees, undo their belt buckles and pants, begin to prostrate themselves with bestial growls and hisses. Others drag their nails across their own bare skin, raising angry red welts, scratching bizarre symbols into their flesh and that of those beside them, ignoring the screams and howls around them.
Onstage, the song begins to end, going into its final measures, a sense of finality hanging in the air, and when it finishes, Michael drops his drumsticks, breathing hard, heart galloping, and Gabriel drops his bass, massages his wrists, sucks the torn pad of his finger, and Lucifer’s knees buckle, his head tilted back, eyes closed, a thin trail of sweat running down his neck over his chest. For a few moments, silence fills the hall, Michael and Lucifer crumpled into heaps, hands on their chests, trying to regain their breath, and then applause erupts.
Backstage, a young man gathers the cables for the lights, rolling them onto cable reels neatly. He has the typical look of a roadie about him – tall, young, awkward, out of place. He hears the last notes of Lucifer’s guitar and voice humming softly, then nothing.
Wiping his hand across his brow, he leans against the nearest wall and rests his eyes for a moment. Cleaning up after three world-class musicians is far from easy, and as much as he loves their music, they have the behavioural pattern of five-year-olds to them.
The door to the backstage area creaks, a thunderous sound in the sudden silence, and the roadie turns, startled. All three musicians enter the room, exhausted and euphoric. Michael repeatedly brushes a strand of hair out of his face, and Lucifer has his right hand clenched around a portion of his shirt, which is stained red.
Trying not to be overly noticed, the roadie dons his hoodie and sets the last cable reel down. One of the men clears his throat behind him. He turns.
Michael and Gabriel have left the changing room, leaving the roadie alone with Lucifer. He’s even more intimidating at such personal range, despite how much shorter he is than the young man. The subtle scent of stage smoke, ozone and sweat lingers around him.
After a minute of staring into piercing blue eyes, the roadie can stand no more and looks down. Lucifer chuckles softly, pads over to the bench, and sits down. The bench squeals beneath his slight weight, an indicator of what a piece of shit it is.
“You did well,” Lucifer praises after a few moments. The roadie looks back at him, surprised.
“Me, sir?” he asks rhetorically, earning himself a crooked grin and warmly affectionate eyes. He blushes. Lucifer gives a little snort.
“You,” he affirms. The roadie smiles proudly and zips his jacket. His fingers fumble and catch several times. Lucifer rumbles in his chest; the sight seems to be amusing him, and the roadie turns redder and feels his zipper break. He groans angrily.
“What’s your name?” Lucifer asks, struggling not to laugh.
“Sam,” the roadie replies, chagrinned, and yanks the zipper down to unstick it from its position. “Sam Winchester, sir. Do you need anything else? ‘cause I was going to lock up, then.”
“No, nothing. Thank you,” Lucifer says. He brushes his hand across his eye and unbuttons his shirt slightly, but Sam takes no notice of him. It’s hot in the room, and after hours of performing with reckless abandon, he has to be burning up.
“We’ve never had as good a roadie as you. You did exceptionally well with the lights, Sam,” Lucifer praises warmly, lips turning up into another crooked smile. “The atmosphere was better than ever.”
Sam nods. “It’s nothing. I help where I can.”
“Touring with a Black Metal band must be daunting.” Lucifer raises an eyebrow and tilts his head. “We’re not exactly the most popular genre of music. Our fans can be rather violent at times. Theirs is not a kind to pick fights with.”
Sam sighs softly and nods again. “I understand that. Are you trying to tell me something? Are you implying anything? I feel like you’re implying something.”
Lucifer’s smile vanishes, replaced by a somber, serious expression. “All I want you to know is that not all is as it seems. I am a prime example.”
“Why?” Sam asks, suspicion creeping into his voice.
“It’s nothing. Forgive me,” Lucifer murmurs and shakes his head. He is acting oddly. Sam has half a mind to find out what this is about, but he also wants to sleep.
“Uh, okay. ‘Bye. Good night,” he replies nervously. Lucifer raises his eyebrow again, brow furrowed, and exits the room.
Sam decides it to be of no importance. After all, many musicians have sizable egos, and anyone who calls himself Lucifer must be such a person. A prime example if ever there was one. If anything, the man seems like an asshole – beautiful and polite, but coldly so. He seems disgusted by the majority of people he speaks to directly.
Angry, Sam leaves the changing room, slams the door shut, and locks it.
The scent of smoke and crudely burnt alcohol hangs in the air, mixing with incense and fried food, and the roar of human conversation fills the bar. From behind, a knife thuds into the wall before Lucifer. He turns angrily, fixing blue eyes on whoever threw the blade, and returns to nursing his drink.
The dull throbbing in his head refuses to relinquish. His vision swims and blurs, and an acrid, metallic aroma fills his nostrils, so heavy he can taste it. The night was not easy for him; his fingers burn and ache, although Michael has bandaged and cleaned the cuts, he seems to have lost his voice, and he doubts he could so much as throw his glass against the wall in his current state. He feels weak. The sensation is not a welcome one.
Someone slinks into the chair beside him. Weary, he glances over, eyes at half-mast, too exhausted to care about such trivial issues as politeness, and grunts what might have been a greeting.
“I didn’t know you liked sleazy bars,” he hears a familiar voice. Sam. He shrugs and sets his glass down.
“I don’t, typically. I needed a quick fix tonight.” Lucifer is disgusted by his own voice. He wishes he could remain silent.
Sam nods sympathetically. “’s the concert hard on you?” he asks. Lucifer turns away and rolls his right shoulder tiredly.
“It’s hard to satisfy a crowd. Everyone has different expectations,” he explains. “I suppose that’s what’s turned me into such a snob. I expect too much from myself.”
Sam blinks. “You were pretty rude earlier,” he agrees. Lucifer sighs.
“What’s your name?” Sam asks after a while of silence. A small, bitter laugh leaves Lucifer. He rests his forehead on his hand, eyes closed, and pulls his glass closer.
“What makes you think you don’t know my name?” he asks.
“Your name’s Lucifer?”
“Unfortunately so,” Lucifer replies darkly and makes a small, amused noise in his throat. “I’ve always comforted myself with the knowledge that this was my parents trying to make me miserable; I waited until I was legally able to see my documents and what my name was. When I saw the document in question, I’m afraid I nearly gave the poor orderly a heart attack.”
Sam laughs, despite himself. “You don’t seem like a Lucifer,” he says, because he does not know what else to say.
It wipes the smile from Lucifer’s face. Warm, giddy blue eyes turn colder than frozen ponds, and the hard set of anger appears in his jaw.
“I feel that Lucifer is a very admirable figure. He’s the reason we are able to hold this conversation, Sam,” he explains and folds his hands on the table.
Sam raises an eyebrow. “Are you some kind of… Lucifer-worshipper?” he asks.
“Not really, no,” Lucifer replies and shrugs. For a while, he simply sits, fingering the rim of his glass, finally licking the tip of his finger when he stops the motion. Sam looks away. As much as he wants to write Lucifer off and give him the cold shoulder and ostentatious treatment he rightfully deserves, the man’s every action, word and glance screams of wild, uninhibited energy and reckless attraction, and Sam wants rather to fuck him senseless than to ignore him.
“I’m sorry for treating you the way I did,” Lucifer finally sighs. Sam’s focus slips and tumbles as Lucifer’s voice, hoarse and deep and cracked around the edges, meets his ears. He wants to hear much more of that voice, a great deal more. He wants to hear Lucifer cry out and growl and moan as he shoves him into the next-best surface.
They spend the next half hour drinking, making small talk and, on Sam’s part, trying not to stare at Lucifer too obviously.
Blaring music enters the mixture of sounds, painfully loud, and Lucifer makes a small, strangled groan, holding his head in his hands.
“Let’s go somewhere quieter,” Sam suggests. The music does not bother him; he likes the song. Lucifer, however, appears to be in physical pain and repeatedly makes hurt noises.
“Yes,” he agrees tiredly. “I can’t stand this noise.”
Sam thinks that’s a bit austere, what with the music Lucifer plays himself, but he says nothing. Instead, he stands, gently pulls the blonde’s chair out, and waits for Lucifer to stand.
It takes both of them a moment to realise just how drunk Lucifer is. He can barely stand without crumpling against the bar, his eyes are bloodshot and heavy-lidded, and his legs jerk and tremble like those of one electrocuted when he tries taking a step.
Before he collapses, Sam slides an arm under his armpit, hand gripping into his ribs, and Lucifer’s shirt is drenched with sweat, damp against the slick skin of his chest and side. He’s a mess.
“You’re light,” Sam mutters, letting Lucifer lean into him. The blonde blinks incomprehensively, hair mussed, and bursts out laughing. Baffled, Sam stares at him.
“Literally,” Lucifer giggles and gazes at Sam hopefully, beatifically. “I’m light, Sam. Get it?”
“Yeah,” Sam replies uncomfortably. He needs to get Lucifer away from this.
They stumble through the mass of bodies. Sam drags Lucifer a good ways, because the blonde refuses to cooperate and keeps tripping, and eventually, Sam simply lifts him and slings him over his shoulders. As powerful as Lucifer appeared onstage yesterday, he’s the worse for wear now. Not only is he tiny compared to Sam, he is also worryingly light and slender. Sam wonders if he smokes meth or anything of the sort. He sincerely hopes not.
Finally, they reach a secluded room, furnished with old, sizable leather sofas and chairs, a pale gold carpet, and white walls. Bland. Sam likes it; he hopes the decreased noise level and change in atmosphere will help Lucifer recover.
“Sit down,” he orders and gently sets Lucifer onto one of the sofas. Lucifer curls into a ball, gazing at Sam, and burrows his face in the crook of his elbow.
“’s quiet here,” he grumbles. “Than’s.”
Sam smiles and shakes his head. “I’ll go get you water. Stay here.”
Lucifer nods, head swimming, and closes his eyes.
Sam returns with two full, towering glasses of ice-cold water, garnished with ice cubes, and sets one down before Lucifer. He’s asleep, still curled up, breathing slowly.
Sam reaches out and brushes a wayward strand of hair out of his forehead gently, amused. Blue eyes flutter open slowly.
“’s wrong?” Lucifer slurs weakly. “’s a fire ‘n ‘ere?”
“No, it’s just bright in here,” Sam grins. “Those are lights, Lucifer.”
The blonde’s lips curve into a smile. “Lights,” he affirms drunkenly and lets his head fall back down. Sam has half a mind to kiss him.
“Turn’a light off,” Lucifer finally grumbles. “My head hurts.”
Sam follows orders and sits beside him, hooks an arm beneath the blonde’s shoulder blades and pulls him close, surprised at how cool Lucifer’s skin feels against his and how shallowly he’s breathing. With a contented murrp, Lucifer rests his head on Sam’s chest and resumes sleeping.
“Comfy?” Sam sighs. No response.
“’kay…” he finally mutters. “Sleep tight, angel. You don’t mind if I call you that, do you?”
He laughs softly to himself and kisses the top of Lucifer’s head.
“G’night, angel. Rest up for the next show. You’ll blow them away,” he whispers.