The final chords of your set still echoed in your ears as you stepped offstage, breath shallow, adrenaline crackling under your skin. The small London venue buzzed behind the curtains, the crowd still roaring somewhere on the other side of the stage wall. You wiped your palms on your jeans, heart pounding, already second-guessing that one slightly-off note in the bridge of your second song.
You were so caught in your own head, you almost didn’t see him—Arthur Hill, leaning casually against the wall near the side curtain, arms crossed, hoodie slightly rumpled like he’d just rolled out of bed and thrown it on. His hair was a mess, in the most intentional way, and he was watching you like he’d been there the whole time.
When your eyes met, he straightened up and grinned.
“You’re amazing,” he said, no hesitation.
You blinked, thrown. “Oh. Shit. Thank you.”
He laughed, a little breathy, like even he wasn’t expecting to be that forward. “No, like, actually amazing. I was expecting something more… I dunno, chaotic? YouTube-y? But then you hit that first chorus and I just—” He mimed being punched in the chest. “Fully winded. Didn't expect to get emotionally assaulted tonight.”
You raised a brow, lips quirking. “Glad to be of service. Emotional violence is sort of my niche.”
Arthur grinned wider. “Well, you’ve mastered it. That last track—what was it? ‘I’d call you but I’d throw up’? What the fuck? That’s poetry.”
“Three Rings. It’s about trying to call someone you shouldn’t still care about,” you explained, eyes flicking down briefly. “And maybe throwing up a little.”
He nodded seriously. “Gorgeous. Disgusting. Perfect.”
You laughed, finally relaxing. “You’re on next, right?”
“Yep. Gotta follow that. Thanks for setting the bar somewhere in the stratosphere.”
“Oh, shut up,” you said, nudging his arm. “You’re Arthur bloody Hill. You could burp the alphabet and people would throw rose petals.”
He snorted. “I have done that. Not the rose petals bit though.”
The stage manager called out a two-minute warning, gesturing for him to get ready. Arthur turned to go, then paused, looking back.
“Hey. Stay after? Let’s grab a drink or something. I wanna hear more about the throw-up song.”
You tilted your head. “You buying?”
“Only if you promise not to emotionally attack me again tonight.”
“No promises.”
He grinned. “Thought not.”
Later, after the show, the greenroom was a haze of soft lighting, post-performance sweat, and cheap wine. You’d stayed to watch Arthur’s set from the wings, and he’d been everything you expected and more—funny, raw, a little chaotic, and surprisingly good at piano.
Now, he found you sitting on the battered sofa backstage, a half-empty water bottle in your hand. He plopped down beside you, still slightly damp with sweat and holding a beer someone had handed him.
“So,” he said, tipping his bottle toward you, “did I redeem myself, or were you emotionally disappointed?”
You smirked. “Disappointed I didn’t cry. But the alphabet breakdown nearly got me.”
He raised his brows. “That was for you, y’know. Q-R-S... Why did you leave me? Real artistic shit.”
You laughed, genuine and sharp. “You’re a menace.”
He beamed. “Takes one to know one.”
You both sat in silence for a second, the noise of the room washing around you like background static.
“I meant what I said earlier,” he added, a bit quieter now. “You’ve got something. I’ve seen a lot of people do this, try to pivot from funny to music—but you, it’s different. Feels real.”
You looked at him, slightly stunned. “Thanks. That... actually means a lot.”
Arthur bumped your knee with his. “Next time you’ve got a gig, let me know. I’ll show up and cry during the throw-up song. Full emotional support.”
“Only if you bring tissues.”
“And sing backup.”
You snorted. “Backup vocals on Three Rings? What would that even sound like?”
He leaned in, dramatic. “I’d call you... but I’d throw uuuup!”
You shoved his shoulder. “Get off me, you loser.”
He laughed, shoulders shaking as he nearly spilled his drink. “You love it.”