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Michelle (Fan Account)

Nov 15 • 47 tweets • 26 min read

@its_just_Thu

~Love So Soft~ MA AU
(Venue Owner x Singer)
For: @its_just_Thu ❤️

Who wouldn’t enjoy the hundreds of adoring fans, cheering, chanting, and coming from near and far to see you?

The banners, the merchandise, the support.
Mile understood the appeal of being famous.

The rush of adrenaline, the thrill of the performance.
He dreamt of it. Secretly. In his apartment. Alone.

A novice guitar player, Mile knew he had no chance at making it big. Skill not up to par with local bands, he preferred to stick to playing at friend gigs or the bar near the theater after hours. He played for the music, the freedom.

Celebrities were held to a standard, measured by their worth and appeal, their moral, Mile didn’t think he could handle the pressure. Instead, he stuck to the behind-the-scenes operation, making sure the clock ran smoothly.

The success of the event was his success as a venue owner.

The enthusiasm of the people only fueled him to give them the best experience. That meant personal supervision and involvement.

Even now, he stood with his hands on his hips, stared as a bulb was changed on the stage. After the initial soundcheck, that was met with roaring adoration, the crowd filtered to the lobby area to wait to be summoned.

This gave Mile time to recuperate, review minor details, confirm no mistakes.
He was a meticulous man with a successful business acumen, he had a reputation to uphold.

Then there were variables he couldn’t control. Like the singer.

Apo Nattawin.
From the posters, he looked like any other guy that was painted pretty and smiled when instructed to. Admittedly, a really pretty one. Too bad they would never have a face-to-face interaction.

After the show, the agents came to give their regards, their business cards, and a signed poster that Mile collected in a corner of his office. He was used to it to be offended.

It was the requests that made him absolutely dread them, some were near impossible. He had a guy ask him to make room on stage to ride in on a horse. Mile never heard from them again after he refused. Nor in the media. Weirdo.

Yet surprisingly, Apo’s were mild comparatively to his predecessors.

An earpiece mic, a brand specific water (Mile later learned it was a sponsor for the singer), and tissues. That’s it.

No elaborate rigging to fly in (he had that), no request to start at a specific time (a violinist who had been near tears when he said now). No barricade to bar the fans from climbing the stage like ‘savages’ (another pleasant singer).

He often wondered what the qualifications were for some of these celebrities to cross the threshold of his doors. Then figured it was the physical aspect. They were all beautiful. But if he had seen on pearl, he had seen them all.

Indifferent, professional, courteous.
Mile was the best in the business to work with.

He stocked up on the water, pre-opened, on a table backstage, three strategically placed tissue boxes that were discreet but available to the singer, and the earpiece. Where was it?

Picking up his radio, clicking it on, “Where’s the earpiece?”

“It’s broken.”

Fuck.

“Broken?”

“One of the stagehands who took it from Apo after soundcheck tripped…stepped on it…and it broke.”

Mile pressed the cool device to his forehead, evident frustration growing, a sigh rumbled out of him that he released before asking, “Where’s the spare?”

“Not charged. Even if we gave it to him, it wouldn’t last the duration of the show time. We put it to charge now but he won’t have it in time.”

Mentally cursing to himself, Mile had to think about how to breech the subject with the singer. Would he be absolutely pissed at him and his crew? Accidents happened and Mile would jump through fire to protect them.

A frown on his face as he checked his watch, the singer or rather his agent, would be out any minute, looking for the device to test and take to have it handy when he stepped out.

Of course, the one thing he didn’t account for personally, was the one thing that could ruin him. Mile rubbed his forehead. Time was not on his side or luck it seemed.

“He's looking for the mic, what do we tell him?”

“Send him out to me, I’ll handle it."

He chided himself.

Distraction’s name was his newest guitar. A gift from his neighbor as a belated birthday, a cumulation of five years too late, but he accepted it graciously. The inspiration to write music usually came immediately after.

As much as he disappeared into the song, Mile tended to get lost and forget about his responsibilities. Like setting up the small nuances the night before.

His hand ran through his hair as the stagehand scurried over to him, handed the hand mic then shooed off before the agent bit at them, Mile steeled himself. Prepared to fight and apologize for the indiscretion.

Eyes closed, took a mental count down to prepare for the lecture or yelling match, it wouldn’t be the first time he got into it. And it wouldn’t be his last despite his non-confrontational nature.

“Is that for me?”

A voice spoke to him, Mile swore it was like a finely tuned guitar that played melody on its own. No player need.

Snapped open, his eyes traced the length of long legs clad in dark slacks, lingered on lines, a slender waist that was held back with a silver belt, emerald blouse that was open the first two buttons, settled on caramel eyes.

“You’re the agent?”

“No, I wouldn’t like that job, seems too much work to put up with the likes of me.”

“Oh…so you’re…Apo…”

The smile that peeled back was both regal, elegant, and Mile swallowed back the bite from a minute ago. The man was teasing his reaction, a tanned hand outstretched for the device, “Yep. I’m the one who’s going to need that.”

“It isn’t the earpiece; you see it broke and—”

“It’s alright. Shit happens,” Apo gave a shrug of his shoulder, crouched down to make it easier to be handed the mic. Fingers brushed against one another, then curled around the length of the mic.

They stayed like that for a moment. Apo on the stage, Mile on the floor, both just held a line of their eyes with an unspoken word.

It was brief, it was magnetic. It was electrifying to the point that when the lights started to dim, Mile thought it was their fault for causing a power shortage.

Releasing the mic reluctantly, Mile only settled his hands back into his pockets, forgetting a moment that his name reflected on his badge along with ‘staff’.

“I-”

“Thanks Mile, we’ll keep the mic thing a secret, okay?”

“How’d you know my name?”

Apo just tapped on his own chest.

Mile looked sheepishly down at his tag.

A wink before Apo straightened his form expertly. Two steps back, he was under the spotlight with practiced ease in time as the crowd had begun to accumulate back to their seats.

“Uh…”

Apo just put a finger to his own lightly glossed lips, offered a playful endearing smile then nodded for Mile to head back. A hand up and outstretched to the audience, the brightest glimmer on his face.

“Helloooo Bangkok! Thank you for being here, who’s ready?!”

In the short time span of the darkening arena, everyone had returned to their seats and were roaring to life at seeing Apo already on the stage, dressed in on of many outfits of the night, ready to give it his all for them.

Mile had been shell-shocked. How had he not paid mind to Apo before? He had seen the posters, the pictures on social media, they did him no justice.

A killer smile combined with a strong, tall frame, almond shaped eyes that held mirth. Mile nearly tripped over a boombox as he sprinted to be out of the viewing area, and he could feel those eyes.

They were on him, amused, through the darkness. The band trickled onto the stage, joining in rounding the vibe of the night and all Mile could think about was the casual touch of their fingertips, the sound of his heart drumming in his ears.