𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐌𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐁𝐞 𝐌𝐲 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦. ⁽⁽⁽ᵗʰᵉ ¹⁹⁷⁵ ᵒⁿᵉˢʰᵒᵗˢ⁾⁾⁾

playing with the air.

Erin has just played a set at Reading, but her band is pissing her off. She bumps into Matty, who she quickly realises is more than just a pretty face, and when they wander off and take psychedelics, the entertainment gets even better.

mature content. 4339 words.

'Pass?' The security guard asks, clearly bored. I know I must have a murderous expression on my face, but try to tone it down as I dangle the lanyard from my thumb. He waves me through, and I feel like a child about to have a tantrum as my steps hit the ground heavily; it has rained since I left the campsite this morning, and flecks of mud hit my calves.

It's embarrassing, more than anything. Kieran's words are still stinging - 'You don't need to showboat like that, you know. Don't act like you're in fucking Queen, for god's sake.'  I replay our set in my head, looking out at all the blank, vaguely uninterested faces, watching a few people trickle out the back of the tent. And then glancing at my bandmates, striking up what was supposed to be our biggest single, and Dominic attacking his drums with admirable effort whilst the other three droned into their mics and glared outwardly under their fringes.

I hate it, right there and then - I hate their pretentious apathy. A veneer of cool detachment might work for Lou Reed, but Kieran is no Lou Reed, just an indie boy with cheap sunglasses and a brand deal that he keeps hidden for fear of being labelled a 'sell-out'. For god's sake, I grit my teeth, if you were going to be dressed in head to toe Saint Laurent, money no object, you could at least pick out something more striking than the blue jeans and white trainers.

So, yes, to put it vulgarly: I had somewhat lost my shit onstage. Afterwards our manager, Sophie, questions if I'm on speed. No, I tell her, but someone needed to inject some energy into the proceedings, and I was fairly confident I could play bass whilst flirting with a bit of exhibitionism at the same time. But that doesn't stop Kieran from taking me aside for a scathing admonishment.

'Fucking prick,' I mutter under my breath, taking a flying kick to a beer can that lies on the path to the campsite. It flips and dumps the dregs of Amstel directly over the toe of my suede boots, sorely punctuating my frustration. 'Fuck my life...'

I pick the can up and lob it in the other direction, barely looking where I'm throwing it. All I see is a small sea of tents, admittedly neater and less litter-strewn than the ones in general admission; most of the press and guests that this site is reserved for are frolicking in the VIP bar, now that the sky is turning a warm, mellow hue and the night's buzz is in the air.

'Yeah, it's like that sometimes,' someone says drily, and it seems to be directed at me - a young, male voice that drifts from behind the tents. I jump and pause mid-stride, my irrational anger draining out of me in half a second as I spin around to find the source. A figure picks their way towards me from the shade of a tour bus, the kind with a canopy that opens out to accommodate a small table and deckchairs. The figure comes into the afternoon sunlight, and I realise that I recognise him; I had seen him play the same tent as us the previous evening, to a frothing crowd that made Kieran combust with envy. 'What's up?'

'Band drama,' I huff, flipping my sunglasses up. I shade my eyes with my hand to stop myself from squinting, and take the opportunity to appraise him up close. Neat, sculpted features, skinny limbs clad in neatly tailored black trousers, just an inch or two taller than me, plus a head of dark, unruly curls that cascade over his brow. He pushes them out of the way with the sunglasses he flips up to make eye contact.

'Can't relate,' he grins facetiously. I feel a prickle of annoyance, but can tell he is attempting to lighten my dark mood. 'Something a drink might fix?'