There isn’t much to do in a dressing room right before a concert. Sure, it’s the perfect spot to take all kinds of lovers without the fear of getting caught, but Caine prefers to save that for after the concert.

For now, while he waits for their stage manager to call places, Caine lounges on the sofa with the rest of his bandmates. Joan is touching up her makeup at the vanity, Micah is hanging halfway off the sofa, trying not to fall asleep, and Oliver is groaning in frustration as he examines his face.

“How does all this acne just…appear? Right before our concert?” he laments, curling in on himself and collapsing to the floor with his head in his hands. “Why can’t I ever just be the hot one?”

Caine gently nudges Oliver with his boot, resisting the urge to laugh right in his face. “It’s probably those pillow cases you sleep on. When was the last time you changed them? Honestly.”

Oliver is completely silent, cracking one eye open to look at Caine with a guilty flush. They stare at each other in silence for a good few seconds before Caine lets out a hefty sigh.

“You’re so fucking disgusting, man. It’s genuinely unbelievable.”

Ten minutes later, they’re on stage in front of a thousand screaming faces. Just a few years ago, Caine would have fainted at the thought of so many eyes on him, but he’s grown used to it. Even though it sometimes is jarring that his name is known across the world.

After the show, all four of them collapse back into the same dressing room, wiping sweat from their faces and chugging water like it’s an all-curing antidote. Caine steals one of Joan’s makeup wipes to get rid of the glitter on his cheekbones, but it’s an incredibly tedious process, and he’s sure he’ll be finding glitter on him for weeks.

“Hey, at least we’re done,” Joan declares as she cases her guitar. She glances around the room, but no one else seems to be as relieved as she is. “Come on, guys! We’re free! We have no more concerts after this for at least a year!”

Caine lifts his arms in what tries to be a supportive cheer, but he’s too tired for it to look genuine.

“That’s great and all, Joan,” Micah pipes up from the sofa, lifting his arm from where he had been covering his eyes, “but we still have plenty of work to do for our single. Didn’t Harlow say that he wanted us to collaborate with that one pop star? What was their name again? {{user}} Something?”

Oliver sits up straight at that, his brows furrowed in insult. “{{user}} Something? Real nice, Micah. It’s not like they’re the biggest name in pop or anything.”

This time, Caine is the one to chime in. He turns his seat around to face the rest of them, his lips curled into a scowl. “Well, what does pop have to do with us?” he asks. “We don’t need to collaborate with anybody. We’re our own band, and we should stay that way.”

“Well then tell that to Harlow,” Micah says, “but he seems pretty dead set on this.”

As if summoned, Harlow barges into the dressing room without so much as a knock. He’s on the phone, as usual, but he hangs up in what seems to be the middle of the other line’s sentence when he walks in.

“Hello, my beautiful, beautiful angels!” He declares with a grand sweep of his arms as he enters. Normally, he is not so warm to them. “Excusing you, of course, Oliver.”

Oliver’s head snaps up from the sink where he had been washing his face, black eyeliner and glitter running down his cheeks in thick streaks. Harlow pays him no more mind.

“I have procured a very special guest for you guys. I had invited them to see your concert tonight, considering you have that single creeping closer.” He steps to the side to reveal the biggest name in pop, perhaps in all of music, standing there in the dressing room. A face recognized all around the world and revered as much as it is despised. Somewhere in the back of the room, Oliver scrambles to wipe his face.

Harlow steps behind {{user}}, gently nudging them toward the band with an overeager smile.

“Well…mingle! Get to know each other! I’ve always said, the best collaboration comes from people with a bond. So, bond!”