You Need Two to Mosh, a Romance fanfic

Author Note: Okay, so this was inspired by a song by Eve 6 called Jet Pack... but for some reason I'm using clippets of lyrics from Underoath and Silverstein?

The funny thing is... I'm not even that into either Underoath or Silverstein. Ah, whatever.

So, don't own the bands, though I made up the name Melody Massacre (I know, lame :P)

This story should be pretty short...probably 3 or four chapters about this length. I don't want to shot too high, I'm bad at finishing long stories.

I've written a good chunk of chapter 3 as well, but I skipped the second chapter... so I can't promise any updates. Hopefully either this weekend or next I'll be done chapter 2.

Other story news: I'm still working on chapter 2 of High School's No Fairy Tale... I don't know where I'm going with it... and I'm thinking of editing and adding an epilogue to Nothing Past Kissing, but if I do it'll be AFTER I finish this story.

“Just what are you so afraid of?
What are you so afraid of?
You're staring truth in the face,
So come on down,
What are you so afraid of?”

-In Regards to Myself, Underoath

Chapter One: Concerts, Crackers, and Crosses

Tony

Most people make the mistake of thinking that I’ve known Zachary forever. The truth is that I’ve only known Zachary for… oh now it would be about a year, five months, and three days. But then it occurs to me that people probably assume this ‘cause me and Zachary are so close. He’s my guy pal.

Zachary’s tall. Meaning he’s four inches taller than my 5’10”. If I were gay I’d say he was damn sexy, but I’m not, so let’s stick with appealing. Actually, screw that, he’s hot. Maybe I’m bi.

His black hair is long enough to achieve the look of stylishly dishevelled and short enough to spike. His face is home to two large brown eyes framed by feminine lashes. Zachary’s features are delicate but not so that he’d be taken for a girl. His build is solid. He’s a friggin tank, I kid you not.

I have to glance at the male at my side to check for any features I’d missed. Nope, can’t see any.

Today he’s wearing a pin striped button-up shirt, a studded belt, fitting jeans and beaten converse. The metro-sexual in me rejoices.

I just love clothes.

Just so you know, today I’m sporting a vintage tee, tight jeans that ride low enough to let you see that my boxers are covered with a goldfish pattern. Yes, like those crackers.

My hair is swooping and so utterly blonde. I’d dye it, if my mom wouldn’t spaz. Bracelets adorn my arms. Vans decorated with cupcakes adorn my feet.

Our steps fall into the same pace. We’ve sped up, but that’s ’cause we’re so excited to see Silverstein and Underoath in concert. I mean OMG.

We don’t talk, but that’s okay.

He moves in front of me so someone can walk past and I admire his ass.

Damn, he looks good.

Zach

Tony stands next to me in line. I can tell he’s pumped for the concert because his leg is jiggling as he stands there. He’s also playing with his ticket, twisting it this way and that.

I reach out and snatch the ticket from his hands. Then I deliberately place the abused paper in my pocket as his eyes follow the ticket like a dog watching a treat. When the ticket has disappeared into my jeans Tony glares at me and I shrug in response.

“If you rip the ticket, you won’t be able to get in.” I state logically. “Besides it was bugging the crap outta me.”

“Maybe it’d be good to get the crap out of you, you shit head!” Tony shoots back and I can tell that he didn’t think about what he said before hand. His expression fades from proud to confused as his brain catches up with his mouth.

This is enough to set me off. I start laughing in spurts until I can’t breathe. Tony he flushes.

“Stop sniggering!” He protests, but he just makes me laugh harder.

I could have laughed more, but then I notice that the line is starting to move. Me an’ Tony file behind the other concert goers in baby steps, careful not to step on any shoes.

I don’t give him back the creased ticket until we reach the door.

Tony

I’m practically bouncing on my heels as I enter the darkened room. My head snaps from side to side as I to look at EVERYTHING. When I remember the crumpled bills in my pocket I decide to saunter over to the merchandise tables.

“Hey, Ima gonna go buy a shirt.” I tell Zachary before pushing my way in the direction of consumerism.

When I return I’ve got a black tee decorated with trendy random white lines and blots and some sort of gothic pattern stuffed into the back pocket of my Element jeans. Across the front the tee reads: Silverstein. The back of the shirt lists the tour dates.

It's too tight to wear over my shirt, especially when moshing makes you so sweaty, but I’d suppose I’d have to find a better place to put it before I get into the pit.

I stuff a t-shirt into Zach’s hands when I reach him. He unfurls the shirt to see a voodoo doll covered with pins and a scrawling text that looked like paint (or blood) that spelled out Underoath. On the back is listed the tour dates with a cross in the background.

Zach’s nose wrinkled. He’s an active atheist.

I am a passive agnostic.

I got the shirt especially ’cause I knew he’d hate the cross on the back.

Yeah, I’m a bastard.

Despite the religious symbol DEFACING the back of his shirt, Zach smiles.

“Thanks.” He says. I nod in response and then nudge my way through the crowd, closer to the pit and the stage. We elbow our way further in, the crowd of sweaty bodies swallowing us.

Zach

That jerk. He got that shirt for me just because it had a cross. Tony knows how anti-religious I am.

He uses every opportunity to bug me about it. But I really can’t stay mad. So in spite of my longing to chew him out I smile and accept the shirt gratefully.

I do this because of three reasons: the shirt was probably 20 bucks at least, I love Underoath even though they’re a Christian rock group, and I’m too distracted and excited by the start of the concert.

As Tony and I burrow our way through the through of scene kids and metal heads, I hear a few starting guitar chords. I stop, entranced and allow myself to stare unabashed at the band starting.

“Hey, we’re a band called Melody Massacre.” A figure onstage announces. The lead singer, I presume. His hair is long, black and flops into his face. His face is riddled with piercings.

I feel a tug on my sleeve and I look down. Tony’s hand is latched there. After I follow his multi-coloured bracelet decorated arm to his face, he says “C’mon!”

I obediently follow him closer to the stage.

Kind of short... but there'll be about 2 or 3 more chapters. Review if you like it, please :)

Also, I know the format sucks, but fictionpress seems to hate me. :\

My breaks kept on disappearing... so I used those line things to seperate the different point of views.