Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

After a rigorous seven years of non-stop writing, touring, and interviews, twenty-two-year-old Wendy Madeline announced at the end of her tour that she would stop making music. However, after an indefinite hiatus, she returned with her critically praised album, A Rumor from Ground Control, released in April 2016. Since then, she’s reentered the music scene full force—embarking on multiple tours, playing at numerous festivals, and making it clear she has no plans to slow down anytime soon.

Wendy had never envisaged herself as a likely candidate for mainstream stardom. If anything, she imagined a career as a first-chair violinist in a prestigious orchestra or singing operatic pieces. She had grown up diligently training and performing in classical recitals for voice and the violin. But after being spotted by a label scout, she signed with Griffin Music Group and entered their Artist Development Program. Even after getting this far, Wendy fought with tooth and nail to get her label to agree to start creating music more independently with the help of her friends. Over her twelve-year career, she’s released five albums, including Selkies, The Canary, and For Show.

A Rumor from Ground Control marks her return to an eclectic fusion of classical undertones with the dynamic rock sound she was known for in the 2000s, now layered with deeper vulnerability and growth. The album bridges the coolness of PJ Harvey with the innovation of Björk and Bowie, and the unapologetic energy of Bikini Kill. From its opening line, Geyser—“You’re my number one, you're the one I want / And I’ve turned down every hand that has beckoned me to come”—it’s her most honest work yet. A major factor in this independence is her switch to a new label, Whiplash Records. This project embraces the unforgiving tribulations she has to harbor, from something so human as a breakup to more pressing issues from the music industry. Above all, though, “A Rumor from Ground Control” manages to capture Wendy’s jubilant and explosive energy in performance, even in recording.

Praised by the likes of Billy Corgan, Tori Amos, Halsey, and even David Byrne, I recently got to sit down and have a conversation with the artist while she wrapped up her Space Station tour. The conversation has been condensed and edited.

How are you?

I’m well, thank you! It’s definitely been a while since I’ve been on here, yeah?

Yeah, for sure! I think the last time we had you here with us was when you released The Canary back in 2010.

Yes, and I’m pretty sure we were all there, too. Tweek, Craig, Red, Heidi, Jenny, and I think it was pretty chaotic. [Laughs.]

That was seven years ago. How much have things changed since then?

That’s a very loaded question, uh—but that’s fine! Headfirst into these types of things is fun.

We’re all still together. I’m so grateful for that. With every album and every tour, we’ve only grown closer. Some bands burn out from constantly seeing each other and fighting over creative differences, but not us. Especially since Tweek and I share a classical background and grew up in the same city, we can almost read each other’s minds when writing. It’s almost telepathic, if I’m being honest. It helps when you know where you want to steer creatively, even if you can’t always articulate it.

If you’re asking like, emotionally, where I’m at, I’m better, infinitely so. Much better than before I went on break. It was a much-needed reset cause I was at a breaking point then. 

I’m really happy to hear that you’re doing much better. Were you at all nervous to release the new album? It’s been four years since your last one, yeah?

It has. It never gets easier to release an album. You have this thing you’ve worked day and night, heart and soul, on, and it’s a reflection of your vulnerability and personal inner workings. Then it’s given to the public, and you can only hope that they appreciate the thought and effort you’ve put into it. It’s in their hands to take care of this time capsule of feelings I had when I was 25.

It was even more nerve-wracking to release an album now, just like, after all this time. The landscape of the industry has changed a lot, even within just a few years. Actually, the world has changed. Time has dealt much damage, even in such a short span of time, within the general grand scheme of things, so I don’t know what kind of reception to expect.

On top of that, it feels like there’s an expectation to outdo our last one with more than just flying colors since we’ve come back from a break. The truth is that none of us knows what we’re doing! We’re just doing stuff and hope it sticks.

Is there anything special ongoing in your life right now? Something, someone? 

Someone ? Interesting to see that you’ve come with an expectation that I’d openly talk about my personal relationships. The public will be the last people to know about that.

Your new album, “A Rumor From Ground Control,” revisits and even reworks some of that earlier rock sound you had when you were younger. Is there any reason for that?

While making the album, we found ourselves listening to a lot of the music that inspired us back then. In a way, it’s embracing my roots—but also using that nostalgia to elevate the album’s themes. Especially as it reflects on my early years in the industry, starting out at fourteen and fifteen.

You signed with Griffin Music Group so young—it’s been more than a decade since. Is there anything you’d tell your younger self now?

I was fourteen when I was invited to join the label’s artist development program. Fourteen! That’s way too young to have anyone sign their next ten years away. It’s a gamble—either you make it, or you come crawling back home with your tail between your legs. I thought we were gonna go through the latter at some point. I didn’t want that because it feels like the town you’re coming from will almost shame you for even trying to get out.

Even with that, though, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime kind of opportunity, and I don’t think you could blame anyone for making a decision like that. It’s essentially every other kid’s dream, one way or another, to be onstage and perform. I don’t think anyone could’ve predicted the huge success that would follow my career. Again, I doubted I’d make it, and I wish I had someone who could’ve warned me about the trajectory of where I’d go and how to deal with it.

I’m proud, though, of how far I’ve come. When I first signed, the people there wanted to make me a popstar, almost like a classically trained Britney Spears—I guess that would be Mariah Carey, no? But I’ve always trusted my gut, and it’s safe to say I didn’t fancy the idea of exhausting myself daily with dance routines, media training, and songs I didn’t believe in. I fought hard to write my own music, and that’s when Tweek came in, cause I knew what I wanted; he just knows how to lay it down much better than I can.

I was the first person in my family to ever go this far in the show industry, and it was all on gut instinct. I want to thank little Wendy because it was so overwhelming to be so helplessly clueless about your surroundings and always feeling at odds with yourself, rethinking whether the decision you made is more self-serving than beneficial. I remember being plagued with thoughts of doubt that it would flop, and it would just be a waste of my parents’ work. All the while, I had Math homework to finish. [Laughs.]

You all were around that age, right?

Around the same age, same grade. We were wide-eyed and hopeful, but we all had this unspoken worry about what our plan B would be if this failed. None of us wanted to go back cause we had to start homeschooling after touring. What’s funny, though, too, is that we thought we were hot shit and were far wiser and more complex than our peers when we first debuted. We really weren’t. We were a bunch of kids with just as big feelings as anyone else. We just went around the country and played instruments while talking about those big feelings.

Time is really weird cause it really doesn’t feel so long ago since we first dropped that first record, travelling in a little van and hitching the road almost five hours daily. Somehow, between there and here, we’re suddenly playing these huge, sold-out venues—consistently, too! It’s really mind-boggling how far we’ve made it.

This album reflects on your old days, even touching on classical roots with that witty yet profound songwriting you’re known for. Midshipman, in particular, intrigues me from the title alone.

Actually, Midshipman is something we’ve had on the back burner for years now. It’s Red’s favorite, just because of how it turned out sonically.

This song is kind of a retrospective on my sixteen- maybe seventeen-year-old self, and how disillusioned I became when I first entered the industry. I knew freedom was truly seldom given to label-signed artists, especially of those in subsidiaries of the big four, but I never could imagine it was to this extent. I still could write my own stuff, for sure, but all of the music you’re hearing from us is a lot more melded in the image the label wants us to project than you think.

The “midshipman” metaphor is about that early respectability I was granted, but without real agency. It’s an acceptance of the tribulations I’d have to live with just to continue this career.

The album title is from a Bowie song, right? Which other artists did you listen to during writing and recording?

Yeah, it’s from Ashes to Ashes, which is one of my favorite songs. It’s a little too real, though, I don’t listen to it too much, or else I’ll get sad. But I always loved the phrase “a rumor from ground control” and wanted to slap it on a project someday.

We listened to a lot of artists, and the record is an amalgamation of that. Alanis Morissette, Portishead, Misfits, Spiritualized—a fun one is Camille Saint-Saëns. He’s collectively our favorite classical composer. He has a way of building these thick, dreamy landscapes, and we try to mimic that sound through a little bit of strings and a lot of fuzzy guitar effects. 

Any plans for the future? Collaborations, EPs, albums, or tours?

[Laughs.] Wouldn’t you like to know?

We’ve established that you’ve been around for over a decade now, and you’ve been tested time and time again. You’ve stood long enough for a new generation to rediscover your music. Why or how still stands so tall this far?

Not to get all sappy and cliche, but it’s the fans. We may make the music, but it’s their support that helps us continue working on this dream of ours. They fund our records and tours, and they continuously support us and give us the chance to prove ourselves and our capacity to create. I hold so much love because they instill this much faith and expense in us because of who we are and what we’ve done.

I’d also say it’s because of the collaboration Tweek, Craig, Red, Heidi, Jenny, and I have just harbored. Tweek specifically, I’ve known him since we were, like, 5 or 6 years old. That’s 20 years of friendship! It’s partially the reason why the two of us have never pursued our own projects independently of each other. We’ve been so glued at the hip, and we’ve been able to communicate with each other so well, that it’s a bit difficult doing all this stuff on our own.

It’s all that and that, our love will always be rooted in our music. I’m gonna be really cliche now, but it’s the one thing that’s stayed consistent in our lives. It’s the reason why we’re here. It’s taught us many things, and it’s the catalyst of our growth and development. We’ve discovered so many things because of the opportunity music has given us, and we’ll forever stay thankful and morbidly curious about what comes next.

Chapter Text

“Welcome back to the show, Stan, Kenny, Jimmy, and Butters!” Fallon greeted, extending an arm as the crowd applauded. “Thanks for being here tonight.”

“Of course, yeah,” Stan smiled, leaning in to shake his hand as the others followed. “Such a great pleasure.”

“You guys were on about a year ago, right? Played a killer set—but we didn’t get to really sit down and talk.”

“Yeah, no, thanks, that was the last time,” Stan said, glancing at the others, who nodded along in agreement.

“Well, thank you for being amazing guests then, too,” Fallon grinned, then turned sharply to face the camera as he reached under his desk. “And by the way, their new album Passes You By is out now—in your local record shops, for streaming, and wherever else you get your music from. Go check it out!”

The crowd erupted in cheers. Fallon pulled out the vinyl and held it up. “We need to talk about this record, though. First off: the title. Passes You By —it sounds poetic, but also kinda heavy. What’s the story there?”

A brief silence.

Everyone’s eyes are on Stan, including that of his bandmates.

He blinked, caught off guard, awkwardly glancing between Fallon and the audience. “What?”

Fallon raised a brow, half-laughing. “Should I be worried? Is this a landmine question?”

“No, no!” Stan waved his hands quickly. “It’s not like that. It’s just… not the answer people usually expect.”

“Well, now I’m even more curious.”

Stan laughed nervously. “Okay, so… I love movies. Like, really love them. And one of my all-time favorites is My Best Friend’s Wedding. ”

That got a huge reaction from the crowd—cheers, claps, a few surprised gasps.

“Wow,” Fallon grinned. “I wouldn’t have expected the Stan Marsh to be a hopeless romantic.”

“Yeah, dude,” Kenny snorted, nudging his side. Stan shoved him back with a mock scowl.

“Oh no, the secret’s out,” he deadpanned. “Anyway, there’s this moment in the film where Julia Roberts’ character is in love with her best friend, right? And he’s marrying someone else. He says—well, his fiancée says—that when you love someone, you should just say it. Out loud. No matter what. Because it’s better than letting the moment slip away.”

Stan paused, shrugging a little. “I rewatched that scene while we were recording, and that idea—of letting things pass you by—it just stuck with me. It kept echoing in my head.”

“So,” he finished, “when we were picking the album title, we just kinda went... ‘Why not?’ It felt right.”

“Yeah,” Butters chimed in, leaning toward the mic. “A-And a part of the record’s about trying to overcome holding onto the past, not overthinking the future, and just—y’know—being present. That’s the heart of it.”

Jimmy nodded, smiling softly. “I think there’s this theme of choice running through the whole album, too. Like, whether you’re gonna s-say what you feel, or stay quiet and hope someone reads your mind.”

Fallon pointed at him. “Right—like you’re daring the listener to do something, right? Speak up or move forward instead of getting stuck.”

“Exactly,” Stan agreed. “That’s what we wanted. There’s always this pressure to wait for the right time or the perfect words, but life doesn’t really wait for you. It just… passes.”

“See, that’s deep,” Fallon said, setting the vinyl down on the desk. “And here I was, expecting you guys to say it came from a fortune cookie.”

Kenny leaned into Fallon, smirking. “Man, fortune cookies these days are just advice cookies. I wanna know when I die! Don’t tell me to drive safely.”

“You hear that? The next time Kenny gets Panda Express, that cookie better say, ‘You shall be eaten by the dark lord Cthulu himself.’” Fallon read aloud in a dramatic voice, holding an imaginary slip of paper. “Album coming soon, 2018."

Laughter broke across the studio. Butters giggled so hard he clapped, like a seal.

“Did any specific songs on the album come from that headspace?” Fallon asked. “The idea of saying something before it’s too late?”

“Yeah, a few,” Stan nodded. “Some about romance, some not. ‘The Take Over, The Breaks Over,’—” The crowd briefly interrupts Stan with cheers. ”—...is one of those songs that’s a reflection of yourself and your surroundings, especially since we blew up last year.”

“Surroundings, how so? With the media?”

“Yeah, and public perception. I kind of play with the metaphors of widows and divorcees around, too.

He stops to think, choosing his words carefully. “Like, on one hand, it could be seen a ‘do I keep the rocker image until I get seriously hurt,’ or ‘do I build a new image and inevitably get hated for it.’

“It also kinda touches on just how, like, invasive paparazzi culture is,” Awkwardly, he tries to lift the mood with a half-hearted laugh. “Kind of mocking them with the ‘people will dissect us ‘til this doesn’t mean a thing anymore’ line.” 

“That’s my favorite song, love the wit and guitar by Butters on it.”

“Why, thank you, Mr. Fallon!” Butters nods shyly.

“Jimmy’s fine,” he smiles. “What about the other songs? You did mention it’s about the self and reflection.”

Stan scratches the back of his neck. “Ah, yeah. There are always other songs, the ones more about romance. I was thinking a lot about high school. There was a girl I dated. Ended kinda quietly, no drama—but it stuck with me. I wrote some stuff at the time, but never finished it. Until now.”

“What songs are we talking about?”

He laughed, scratching the back of his neck. “There’s Allie , tried to write it on the more funny side. I’m—uh—kind of a clueless person. She brought me over once for, you know… stuff . And I didn’t get it.”

Kenny started rocking in his chair, grinning. “Something, something, ‘Said you had protection, I thought you meant you had a gun’?”

The room lost it. Fallon threw his head back laughing.

“That’s real?”

“Unfortunately,” Stan said. “Direct quote from my idiot youth.”

Fallon wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. “You’re doing important work.”

“Thank you,” he said. “For your support in this difficult time.”

“But seriously,” Fallon continued, “why revisit those songs now?”

“We’d just finished touring for our second album,” Stan explained. “Felt kind of stuck. Then I visited my old house back in South Park. Found some of my old journals and notebooks from, like, calculus class. Seventeen-year-old me had some stuff figured out.”

Fallon nodded, more sincerely now. “I’m glad you went back to them. Rough Terrain is one of those songs that just cuts, yeah? It’s soft but sharp. Love the acoustic opening, the callback to your previous album is really awesome.”

“Thanks, man,” Stan said, a little sheepish. “That one cracked the album open for us.”

“A-After that,” Butters said, “everything else jus’ kinda spilled out.”

“And it’s not all heartbreak and longing,” Jimmy added. “S-Some of it’s just life being weird and messy and funny. But that’s part of the point, too.”

Kenny tilted his head thoughtfully. “And if it’s too sappy just slap on a sick ass bassline.”

“Classic life advice,” Fallon said, deadpan.

“You guys have been playing together forever,” Fallon said, shifting slightly. “Been signed for six, seven years, but you’ve been playing since you were kids. That’s a long time. How do you still like each other?”

“We don’t,” Stan said immediately.

“Couldn’t stand him,” Kenny pointed at him. “Fired him in 2018, brought him back for insurance purposes.”

“Kenny does the cooking on tour, and I help with cleaning.”

“You barely clean, man.”

“You’re just asleep when I do it!”

He clicks his tongue. “So you’re cleaning out the bus at 2 AM?”

“...Yeah?”

Butters raised a hand. “I do arts and crafts in the back of the bus now.”

Fallon laughed. “Emotional support Butters.”

“Exactly. He regulates vibes.” Stan nods.

“Well, whatever you’re doing, it’s working. The album’s amazing. Your fans are obsessed. You’re still standing. No one’s broken a guitar or a heart—at least not on camera.”

“Only off-tour,” Kenny said.

He grinned at the audience. “We’re gonna take a quick break, but don’t go yet! These guys will be performing after!”

“You guys okay?” Stan asked.

Butters was hunched over his guitar, gently tuning the strings with focused fingers, the familiar click-click of the pegs tightening cutting softly through the noise. Kenny knelt near his pedalboard, tweaking the delay, giving it one last test buzz under his boot. They both nodded, not looking up—but they were fine. Stan checked anyway. He always did.

Now they stood side by side, instruments strapped on and cables trailing behind them. The house lights above them dimmed slightly as the cue came. They faced the curtain of studio dark, the sea of silhouettes behind the cameras, their breath barely audible under the low hum of equipment. A cool blue wash flooded the stage from the backdrop—bright, artificial, and dreamlike. The kind of light that makes everyone look better, or worse. Depending.

Across the stage, Fallon stood grinning with their album in hand, holding it up like a trophy. “Making their musical return to TV, ladies and gentlemen—Crimson Dawn!”

The audience clapped, and the studio lights dropped into performance mode—darker, sharper. A pair of harsh white beams cut through the smoke, landing directly on them like heat lamps. The sudden shift made Stan feel like he’d stepped into a sauna wearing leather and exposed nerves. He rolled his shoulders back.

To the camera, they might as well be shadows, statues before movement. Smoke machines hissed, filling the floor with rolling fog, diffusing the edges of their outlines as cymbals shimmered and the low thump of the bass jumped to life, music crashing as new streaks of bright lights struck.

“Baby, seasons change, but people don't—I'll always be waiting in the back room.”

It was “The Take Over, The Breaks Over” , previously discussed lead single. It was usually a song they’d thrash around and jump to, but as per the warning of the producers: keep it tight, keep it clean.

So here was Stan, standing dead center, one hand gently adjusting the chunky over-ear headphones they’d been given—heavy, but grounding. “But don't pretend you ever forgot about me.”  He’s moving his body to the beat, and the rest of the band is too. At least they were moving it as much as they could at 5%.

The chorus crept up, and he braced, lowering his center, drawing air deep and wide into his chest. “Wouldn't you rather be a widow than a divorcee? Style your wake for fashion magazines.” The different registers he used in that chorus, what the hell .

It landed, strong and clear, not flawless but honest. The kind that’s felt on the roof of your mouth and in the back of your knees.

The guitars took over for a stretch as he let the rhythm move him. A few careful steps across the stage, shifting his weight from one foot to the other like he was remembering how to exist in his own body again. He shot Kenny a smile as the bassist sang the post-chorus and caught it being returned. For a second, it felt less like a taping and more like a rehearsal—sweaty and safe.

The next verse. He turned toward the camera—fully, directly—and pointed as he sang. Kenny joined in beside him, adding quiet harmony, the grit in his voice sharpening the softness of Stan’s. “People will dissect us ‘til this doesn't mean a thing anymore!”

The song continued, the chorus being easier as they delved further and further into the song. 

The lights dipped lower, chords changing structure in the bridge. Deep breath. Ribcage opened. Long note, high note, definitely doable, though. Not out of his range.

“We do it in the dark with smiles on our faces. We're trapped and well concealed in secret places.”

Kenny follows against the chants of “we don’t fight fair”s, and Stan takes a deep breath until the final one. He pressed a hand just above his waist, feeling the lift of breath push against his palm. He held the note, long and smooth, willing it to stay steady, willing it not to crack. He holds it out, rocking his body back and forth to the music as his air runs out, the guitar solo sweeps in.

The bridge repeats; he’s caught his breath by now. “We do it in the dark, wear smiles on our faces.” He sways limply, eyes closed, putting all focus on the next belt. “We're trapped and well concealed in secret places.”

All the breath in his gut expelled into energy, and he widens up his jaw to make the pressure a little less tense. “We don’t fight fair!” Hold the note for a few counts—one, two, three, four. A riff downwards to bring down any tension.

Kenny’s in the back carrying the outro vocals, and Stan chimes in after catching a breath—riffing over him every so often.

The music stops, hot lights look down on them, and all the members' eyes are in different directions.

“We don’t fight fair.”

“What the hell? How is Kenny already at seven points ?” Kyle snapped, staring at his cards like they betrayed him.

Stan leaned in, eyes narrowing. “We gotta stop him. Dude always maxes out the sawmills.”

Kenny threw his arms up all innocently. “I’m not doing anything, man!”

His boyfriend, zero tolerance for bullshit during tabletop game night, scowled. “You’re scheming, actually.”

It’s his turn as well; high time to rein in hell. He immediately started to pile on birds like he’s amassing an army. “Let’s see how you’ll be after this.” He spawned six birds, marched four of them to Kenny’s burrow, and declared a battle with zero hesitation.

“Sorry, Ken.” The apology is half-hearted at best, as he rolled the dice. The result? 3–2.

One cat. Two sawmills. Absolutely wrecked. 

All that’s left is a desolate land that was once the heart of feline hardship. It’s all but dust now, a couple of standing birds who had mercilessly terrorized the village. Also, a roost token from Kyle’s army. 

Kenny stared at the carnage. “You just committed an act of aggression.”

“It’s called playing to win,” Kyle said, already updating his score and fixing his hair like he’s on a press tour.

“Your turn, Stan,” he added smugly.

He sighed dramatically, flipping a token by one of Kyle’s overcrowded clearings. “Anyway.”

It’s a bomb.

Five birds, gone.

“Dude!”

“I need the points, man!”

“You don’t need to bomb my entire army!”

“Collateral damage,” Stan said flatly, placing a card in his hand like he didn’t just commit avian genocide.

As he wrapped up his move, Kyle changed gears. “So, this is your last set of the tour, right?”

“Th-That’s right,” Jimmy said, working on filling in the colors of a seagull. 

Butters chimed in without looking up, still focused on carefully outlining a cactus in his shared coloring book with Jimmy. “Just Lollapalooza left next week. Then we’re homebound for a bit. Oh, I can finally sleep in my own bed again!"

Stan nodded, setting down a loot token right next to Kenny’s stronghold. “A couple of months off. Then we figure out what’s next.”

Kenny squinted at the token.

“Is that a bomb?”

He smiles. “Dunno. You gonna risk it?”

Butters glanced and chimed in. “Well, I’d say that looks like a bomb!”

Kenny narrowed his eyes like a poker player trying to read a bluff.

“Any big plans during the break?” Kyle asked. “Studio? Beach house? Total collapse?”

“Probably not the studio,” Jimmy said immediately, scribbling something in a notebook. “We’re gonna just r-rest.”

“We’re not gonna stop writing, though,” Stan hummed. “Actually, I've got a meeting lined up with some execs about a new project.”

Kenny didn’t look up. “ You have a meeting with the execs.”

“How come just Stan?” Kyle asked.

Stan threw a look at him. “Couldn’t tell you.”

“Maybe he’s the chosen one,” Butters shrugged.

“Or m…m-maybe it’s ‘cause he’s the only one who still wears jeans to meetings.”

“I wore sandals one time, and now it’s a whole thing,” Kenny groaned.

Jimmy glances over. “To be fair, they squeaked.”

“Pretty loudly, too,” Butters piled on.

Suddenly, silence.

Kenny was calculating his next turn like he was defusing a bomb. Stan and Kyle were watching him like hawks. Jimmy was busy writing—maybe lyrics, maybe journaling, maybe plotting escape. Butters was coloring in a llama with a cowboy hat.

Then Kenny finally spoke:

“It’s a bomb.”

“Nope; extortion.” Stan smiled slyly, flipping up the token to reveal a print of gold coins. 

“I don’t like playing with you guys.”

Chapter Text

Lollapalooza is in two weeks. It’d be the first time they’d played in almost five years.

The sun still rises and falls the same way it had then, and the birds seem to sing the same songs. Even so, it seems like those are the only two things that have stayed the same. The streets have become busier, the sky has been foggier, and Wendy’s has been a lot more rustic since then.

Long, amber streaks cast across the rooftop of Wendy’s penthouse. The place would usually be more polished, but at a price of music equipment being splayed everywhere, they’ll have to just deal with a scattered balcony. Cables snaked across the concrete like ivy, amps buzzed softly in the corners, and the tables were littered with rounds of scribbled notes, takeout, random card games, and whatever else.

A whole afternoon of rehearsals, and they weren’t done quite yet. It’s in the process of fixing song intros, cleaning up old pieces they haven’t played in a while, and readjusting some instrument sections.

Craig sat on his seat, adjusting the height of the snares and cymbals of his electronic drum kit while glancing at Tweek every so often, who was currently crouched low beside his keyboard like it was open-heart surgery, flicking through presets with frantic precision. Heidi leaned against the railing of the rather spacious balcony, casually humming through a riff they’d worked on earlier whilst overlooking the people down below. Wendy and Jenny were engaged in a conversation.

“The new Japanese Breakfast album is so good,” Jenny says, eyes lighting up with excitement.

“Soft Sounds?” Wendy asks, tilting her head.

“Yeah!”

She nods along. “Right? It’s really refreshing to listen to. I wanna walk on a grassy hill when I listen to it.”

“What’s your favorite track?”

“12 Steps for sure.” She answers without missing a beat. “What’s yours?”

She pauses to think. “Maybe Road Head or Till Death—”

Bang.

The door swung open. They flinch at the sound. Wendy’s worried she has to replace the glass frame.

All eyes locked on her, Red appeared in the frame, shoulders hunched, arms full of an absurd amount of takeout coffee. The stain of brown on her creme-colored shirt is painful to look at, leaving a couple of them cringing at the sight.

“If any one of you makes me your little assistant and go to get coffee again,” she announced, wobbling toward them, “I will throw myself off this building.”

Wendy, getting up to grab a towel and a shirt, looked up with a grin. “That’s dramatic, even for you.”

Red didn’t dignify that with a reply. “Why again do you not own a coffee maker?”

“I prefer getting my coffee at local shops.”

“You go get coffee next time. Someone spilled their stupid Java Chip frappe all over me and didn’t even bat a single eye after!” She rolled her eyes, setting the drinks down on the short table as Wendy disappeared from the balcony. “Blood on all your hands.”

“Hmm,” Craig thinks over his next few words from the floor without looking away from his drum kit. “I think the suffering keeps us together.”

Red dropped the tray onto the table and sighed. “Next time I’m spitting in yours.”

“I thought you weren’t gonna get coffee for us anymore?” Jenny asked.

“Whatever.”

Everyone murmured their thanks between sips, settling into that familiar, aimless mid-break lull. Red goes and takes a shower, changing into some of Wendy’s pajamas. The city sprawled out around them, noisy and alive, but up here, it felt like their own little world.

“Craig, I think you can switch the da-nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh-run at the end with something else,” Red says, mimicking the smashing of sticks on the kit.

“Like the roll?”

“Actually,” Wendy interjects. “I was thinking you can probably put it in between when Red does her guitar riffs.”

While that goes on, Heidi’s going beside Tweek, leaning over to tell him something.

“You think you can play a harmony, maybe a riff instead of just the chords of the melody?” She says. “Maybe like this,” she plays a relatively simple riff on her guitar.

“Oh, yeah, actually,” he smiles, nodding as he mimics the guitar on the keys. “Like this?”

“Yeah, like that!” She beams back. 

“Okay, one more time?” Wendy asks, checking her bandmates to see how they’re holding up. Unceremoniously, no one speaks up, and she takes that as a signal to go. “Count us in, Craig.”

He gives a weak thumbs-up. Hitting his drumsticks at the same time, he unceremoniously counts, “1, 2, 3, 4.”

The beat kicks in immediately. Nothing dramatic—just Craig riding the cymbal, tapping out a rhythm like he’s trying not to wake a baby as they’ve all been doing for the past few hours. Every few counts, he smacks the crash, signaling the end of the measure.

Sixteen counts in, Tweek leans into the keyboard, pulling up a tone that echoes the original—warm, fuzzy, a little nostalgic, but dreamy at the edges. His fingers expertly dance around the practice melody, fully ingrained in his brain.

After a couple of beats, Jenny’s bassline slinks in underneath them—three notes, simple and subtle. It anchors the following instruments to be used. She bobs her head to the tempo, eyes half-lidded, already somewhere else.

Guitars come last, coming in shortly after Jenny. Red enters with a muted strum, palm muting the strings and teasing the melody with a little grit. Heidi waits a beat longer before jumping in, her chords fuller, breezier, giving the track a shimmer. Their guitars don’t clash—they orbit each other.

Wendy watches it all click into place before she even opens her mouth.

She’s perched cross-legged on a milk crate beside Red’s amp, the other lazily keeping time against her thigh. No mic since they were trying to play as discreetly as possible. She sways to the rhythm, relaxed in a way she never is on stage. There’s no one here to impress except each other.

“‘Children behave,’” she tries to sing as discreetly as possible, but it doesn’t really matter when you have a six-piece band playing with you. “That's what they say when we’re together.”

She sings it softly, but with a smirk. The song rings cheesy, but it’s nostalgia that drives the song, even if none of them had been born when the song or even its cover was released.

She takes a breath. “Trying to get away into the night, and then you put your arms and we tumble to the ground, and then you say:”

“I think we’re alone now.”

At the same time, Red and Heidi sing along with her. “...There doesn’t seem to be anyone around.”

There’s a pause as they close in on the chorus—a half-second where the sound sits and simmers—and then Wendy kicks it back into the verse. She’s loose now, more playful, letting her voice slide around the melody like she’s skating.

“Look at the way,” Wendy sings, letting the note ring before riffing it. “We gotta hide what we’re doin’.”

As the verse slips into the pre-chorus, Jenny gets bold with the bassline—nothing over-the-top, just some slides, a few fills. She’s having fun. Wendy doesn’t say anything, just throws her a grin between lines.

“’Cause what would they say…”

Craig drops a tom fill here, short and unexpected. Red raises her eyebrows at her cousin in amusement, but keeps playing.

They continue along, Tweek filling in a fun key solo somewhere after the chorus. 

“I think we’re alone now,” Wendy sings the line, but before she can hold the note out, she’s cut off by a call-and-answer of instruments. Red’s guitar tosses a sharp lick, which is immediately answered by a sparkly run from Tweek’s synth.

It’s so synchronized, it sounds like they planned it. Which they didn’t.

“There doesn’t seem to be anyone around.”

Tweek switches to a bouncier tone, something glittery and nostalgic. Red plays another riff, this one a little brighter, a little cheekier. Craig catches the shift and switches to rim clicks instead of full hits, lightening the beat.

Jenny hits a walking bassline that wasn’t in the original at all. Heidi laughs mid-strum. Red’s soloing, Tweek is answering, and Wendy’s throwing in half-improvised lyrics.

The streets below them have long since quieted. Somehow, it's already past rush hour. Time is a strange and fickle thing during rehearsals, but never in a bad way. 

Chapter Text

“Make some fuckin’ noise if you like what you hear, Lolla!”

Just a few feet away, a wave of cheers erupted, spilling into the backstage like a tidal wave. Normally, Wendy wouldn’t have given it much thought—but today, for some reason, she couldn’t tune it out.

She was too early to start getting ready, too late to wander off. Bored, she’d already been sitting backstage for fifteen minutes, endlessly scrolling through her phone, half-watching the crew move around as she waited for her call time. Another fifteen minutes to kill before her team would need her.

With nothing better to do, curiosity got the better of her.

Crimson Dawn, yeah? She tried to recall. They were playing before her.

She slipped out from behind the van parked near the stage, blinking against the harsh afternoon light. The hum of the roadies' tuning equipment and checking wires filled the air. A few techs and stagehands zipped around, their walkie-talkies buzzing.

“Hello, Crimson Dawn’s onstage right now, right?” she asked one of the crew, casually.

“Yeah,” one of the roadies answered, barely glancing up. “Stage entrance’s right there.”

“Thanks!” she flashed a quick smile, already moving.

As she jogged up the stairs, the volume swelled with each step. The music hit her like a wall—thick, raw, alive. She’s used to how loud these things usually were—she grew up with it. This time, though, there was something in the atmosphere just compelling her to be on the side of the stage.

It’s really no surprise as to why, though. The band was a professional in their element. The guitars roared, sharp and electric; the bass rumbled beneath her feet; the drums pounded in relentless rhythm. The crowd had been going for hours but showed no signs of tiring. If anything, they were feeding off the energy, roaring louder than the amps could even contain.

​​Wendy leaned against a stack of amps, arms folded loosely across her chest. Every single bit they were doing, no matter how mindless it seemed, was intentional.

“This next song is…” their frontman said. Stan. She tries to recall. He walked across the stage with a kind of confidence only radiated by that of a storyteller. Not overly polished, but expressive. Never forced. Just genuine.

She had listened to Crimson Dawn’s music here and there—liked a lot of it, even, but never actually seen them in motion like this. Needless to say, she wasn’t expecting this much ferocity.

It’s not grand, not theatrical, she thought. But, God, it’s intense.

Everything was a little rough around the edges—the way good live music often was, but it was definitely intentional. She could feel how much they wanted it. The hunger in their playing. The kind of imperfection that felt more real than perfection ever could. She could tell that they prided themselves on the kind of rawness they delivered each show. Fervor was their strength.

The bassist in the orange parka was a marvel, moving effortlessly across his five-string like it was second nature, as if he’d grown up training on a double bass. The lead guitarist shredded through complicated riffs that made her think of Tommy Iommi and Dimebag Darrell; technical but never showy. And the drummer ever dialed in barreled through tight rolls like it was muscle memory.

But it was the singer who kept drawing her eye.

There was something about him—the way he lost himself in the music, not performing for the crowd, but inside the song itself. His vocals were perfectly controlled, never overselling, never dialing it in. It was like he was singing directly to the feeling, not to the audience. The way he let the waves of guitar crash behind him, feeding off them without trying to dominate them. It was captivating.

He’s where the band begins and ends, she realized. It’s like the whole thing orbits around him.

“Distance, leaving,” he breathed into the mic, eyes closed, face tilted to the sky, “like the first time I did, screaming.”

Wendy couldn’t move.

It was strange. She’d stood on countless stages and played for thousands, but standing here, watching him, she felt like just another kid in the audience again. That same dizzy little awe she’d had back when she was playing open mic nights for fifteen people.

Stan, she thinks his name is, wasn’t trying to control the crowd—but he was controlling them, whether he liked it or not. Like clockwork, they swayed, surged, then collided into each other as the breakdown hit, his head thrashing back and forth to the beat. The pit exploded in front of him as if on cue.

“I think I found her, but I’ll never let her in,” he sang, the lead harmonizing beside him as the breakdown slowed, then built again. “So I guess we’ll never know!”

Maybe it was to check on the tech, but he glanced to his right.

Right at her.

They locked eyes.

Wendy froze, feeling her pulse spike. For a split second, it was like everything else blurred—the roaring crowd, the lights, the vibrating floor. She wasn’t sure if he was looking at her because he knew who she was or if he was just registering someone standing side-stage. But for that instant, it didn’t matter.

She only realized she’d been holding her breath when a tap on her shoulder made her flinch.

“Wendy?” Tweek yelled, voice barely cutting through the noise. “We gotta get ready. They’re about to finish.”

Snapping out of her trance, Wendy shook her head as if trying to clear the fog. “Yeah, of course.”

She allowed herself one last glance before being pulled away. Stan had already turned back toward the crowd, fully back in the song again.

As she followed Tweek toward the van, only one thought circled in her mind:

I need to meet that guy.

“I’m telling you,” Stan huffed, grabbing a shirt off the table to pull it on. “She was there—I saw her. We made eye contact.”

“Shucks, I wouldn’t put it past ya, seeing Wendy Madeline watch our set. She’s performing next, a-after all,” Butters mumbled, settling onto the couch beside Stan. “But you guys are makin’ eyes at each other? Bit of a stretch, don’t ya think?”

Kenny poked his head in, clicking his tongue. “Why don’t you go talk to her? She’s in the van right next to ours.”

“Dude, that’s Wendy Madeline. What if it was an accident anyway?” Stan sighed, rubbing a towel through his hair.

“W-Well, Stan, you’ll never know if you never try,” Jimmy offered.

“I guess so,” Stan exhaled. “But not right now. She’s probably getting ready for her set. I’ll do it when the time feels right.”

“And if the opportunity doesn’t come?” Jimmy asked.

“Well, I guess I’ll have to live with that.”

“Weak,” Kenny teased.

Stan raised an eyebrow. “Would you do it?”

“Hell yeah, I would,” Kenny shot back without hesitation.

Bullshit , Stan thought. “Whatever, man. I’m gonna watch her set. You guys coming?”

“Hell yeah,” Kenny grinned.

“No, thanks. Butters and I are gonna catch Jai Wolf,” Jimmy chimed in, nudging Butters to get up as they made their way to the door.

“Jai Wolf?”

“We dunno him, but he seems like real fun!” Butters beamed.

Stan waved them off indifferently. “Alright, see you guys later.”

The van door shut behind them, leaving Stan and Kenny alone. The air shifted; still comfortable, but heavy with something unspoken. Kenny glanced over, watching Stan quietly brush through his damp hair in front of the mirror.

“But I don’t know, dude,” Kenny speaks up, finally breaking the silence. “You seem pretty hung up on it.”

Stan kept his eyes fixed on his reflection. “Would you not be? It’s Wendy Madeline.”

“Well, yeah,” he replies, mulling over his thoughts. “It’s just… It seems like you’re expecting more out of this.”

Stan kept his eyes fixed on his reflection. “I mean… I wanna be friends with her.”

“We all wanna be friends with her,” Kenny said dryly. “And if, when you are? What then? You’ll swap a few DMs, and maybe follow each other. What then? Is that all you want?”

Stan frowned at his own reflection. “I don’t know. It’s not like that. It’s just—she’s been one of my idols, you know that. Seeing her there, actually watching our set… It’s just—different.”

Kenny tilted his head. “Different how?”

“It’s… I don’t know how to explain it,” Stan admitted. “Like… when you grow up listening to someone’s music, you build this version of them in your head. You think they’re untouchable. But seeing her there today, watching us? She felt… real. Human. Like maybe I could actually talk to her. Like maybe we’d get along.”

Kenny laughed. “You’re making this way more complicated than it needs to be.”

“I know.” Stan rubbed the back of his neck, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “I just… I wanna tell her that her music meant something to me. That it still does. Is that dumb?”

“No,” Kenny said, this time more gently. “Not at all.”

Stan glanced over at him, eyebrows slightly raised. There was a rare sincerity in Kenny’s tone, and for a second, Stan felt a little less ridiculous. Maybe even understood.

Kenny leaned back against the wall, hands stuffed in his pockets. “But,” he added with a smirk creeping in, “you’re still painfully awkward about it.” He immediately deflects his sincerity from earlier.

Stan groaned. “Dude, shut up.”

“I’m serious,” Kenny said, grinning. “If you do talk to her, try not to look like you’re about to pass out or confess to a crime—better yet, try not to throw up.”

Stan let out a laugh, running a hand through his still-damp hair. “Man, you suck—no promises, though.”

They sat in a comfortable silence for a few seconds. The sounds of music still echoed faintly outside, muffled by the van walls. Stan tapped his foot rhythmically, then picked up his phone and checked the time again, even though he already knew it.

Kenny pushed off the wall with a soft exhale. “You done yet?” he asked, grabbing his jacket from the bench. “She’s on in thirty. If you want even a remotely decent view, we'd better move.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Stan pocketed his phone, grabbed a few bills, and left everything else behind. He followed Kenny toward the door, but paused just before stepping out.

“Hey.”

Kenny glanced back, the boyish smile not dying down one bit. “Yeah?”

“Thanks, Ken.”

Kenny doesn’t say anything, but they both know he doesn’t have to. He holds the door open for Stan.

Chapter Text

As the last note of the song rang out, Wendy made a beeline for her water bottle. She dropped onto a folding seat side-stage, lifting the bottle to her lips and finishing what little was left. Lukewarm and faintly bitter. Still, she chugged it like it was holy.

Heidi was switching from her acoustic to an electric, Craig hauling the bass drum back into place. Tweek crouched near his synths, dialing through presets with nimble fingers. Red and Jenny stood shoulder-to-shoulder, fine-tuning their pedals, fingers adjusting knobs with instinctive speed.

Just two songs left in the set, and then she was completely done, at least until the aftershow tomorrow.

But for now? Ten minutes left. Ten minutes to let loose before she was off the hook.

The crowd had only grown larger since they started, swelling with the evening air, drunk on neon and sweat. Now that the sun was gone, the crowd had transformed. What had been a quieter, calmer summer mass a few hours ago was now surging, vibrating, and hungry. The pit had already started opening up. The next song was a hard-hitter. They knew it. And they were ready.

Wendy glanced over her shoulder at her bandmates, all of them in their element and in the moment.

The lights went black. Total blackout.

Wendy stepped up to the front, mic in hand, heart pounding. She grinned, wide and wild, then shouted over the quiet:

“One, two, three, four!”

The cymbals hit like thunder, and the stage detonated.

Guitars screamed to life. The drums kicked like a heartbeat on fire. Wendy launched herself into the air, bouncing across the stage with full abandon, hair flying. The crowd screamed right back, arms raised, bodies crashing.

“I’ve settled down,” she belted, planting her boots wide and steady as she anchored her voice. “A twisted-up frown disguised as a smile—you would've never known!”

Even with her in-ear monitor, she could barely hear herself. Didn’t matter. The lyrics lived in her body now—she didn’t need to think, just be. Every note is muscle memory. Practiced and perfected. That left room to play and to feel.

“You’d make your way in,” she shouted, dancing her way toward the edge of the stage. “I’d resist you just like this:”

She pointed the mic at the crowd.

“You can’t tell me to feel!” The sea of fans screamed it back in perfect unison.

She laughed, delighted, and turned in time to see a kid—maybe nine years old—perched on someone’s shoulders, screaming the lyrics like her life depended on it. It’s a little funny, she thinks. The girl must’ve been born when their first album came out. That kind of full-circle hit different.

She dropped to her knees, pulling the mic stand with her dramatically. “You can’t be too careful anymore,” she growled into the mic. “When all that is waiting for you…”

She lifted one hand into the air like a conductor guiding herself—“More! More!” She sings, lifting her head a little bit to release some tension.

Then she ran toward Red, air-guitaring like a maniac. Red matched her energy immediately, shredding harder in response. Wendy spun around to find Heidi, throwing her a woo and a wink, before making a beeline for Tweek, flinging an arm over his shoulders like a gleeful menace.

As the second verse started, she turned toward Tweek and sang directly to him with the fake intensity of a musical theater villain. Not serious, just chaos. Tweek didn’t break, though, almost missing a chord.

The chorus is the same as ever, high energy without any will to stop anytime soon. She moved back to center stage and stayed standing there to support her belts.

The music then drops, drums ringing the loudest throughout the crowd.

“The truth never set me free,” she repeated, grinning, “so I’ll do it myself.”

She motioned sharply to the crowd—pull back, and divide. The band did what they knew they had to. Let the tension stretch. The pit below splits as the music begins to build up again.

Her mic was down by her hip as she sucked in air. Two long, full breaths. The crowd leaned in, sensing it.

Boom. Drums slammed back in. The music surged again, and the pit exploded, fans launching into each other like human wrecking balls. The stage shook.

Wendy put the mic back onto the stand, swerving it slightly off melody for flair before landing clean back into the chorus. The final lines came from somewhere deep in her chest, the last “more, more” torn out of her like a prayer.

But the music didn’t stop. The song bled straight into the next.

The tempo dropped. Guitars mellowed. The keys swelled. Drums thudded softly and deliberately. Bass thrummed on every fourth beat like a pulse slowing down.

Wendy caught her breath, adjusted the mic, and looked out into the sea of blinking lights and raised hands. “Sing with us for this last one, Lolla.”

She launched into a simple call—“Whoa-ohh-oh!”—and the crowd responded like they’d been waiting for it all night. She smiled. Nothing flashy—it’s all just feeling. She riffed, they followed. The lights dimmed until only a single white beam spotlighted the six of them, golden and dreamlike.

That’s when she saw him.

Bleached-blond hair with streaky black roots, leaning against a monitor stage-right, arms crossed, watching.

Stan Marsh.

Their eyes met.

Again.

She looked away almost instantly, focusing back on the crowd. Her heart picked up. Okay. So he stuck around. That makes him a fan, then. She swallowed. Her throat felt tight,     not from singing.

But she didn’t have time to spiral. Not now. The song was building, and her voice was back in gear. Still, something about him being there watching drove her harder.

She hit a higher note. Let it ring. Then cut out, letting the crowd fill it in like instinct.

The drums pounded back in—heavy, sharp, metallic. The guitars slashed in, ferocious and fast. Smoke crept across the floor. Lights burst in flashes like lightning. Her eyes are closed, bracing for the flash, and she rocks her head along with the music.

Mic back on the stand. Wendy tapped her foot, swaying slightly as she braced herself for the verse.

“A little less innocence,” she sang low, voice edged with grit. “His morals aren’t so well-defined.”

Eyes still closed, she had her head facing straight towards the crowd. She didn’t know if it was to feel the song more or avoid the exact place on the stage where she knew Stan was standing.

Why am I even avoiding him? she thought, distracted by her own nerves.

“I can’t find the words to say this—”

Red and Jenny echoed, “I’m running out of patience.”

She opens her eyes and watches the crowd liven up again as the chorus crashes down. 

But she can still feel his presence. Right there! Just by the edge of her vision.

Was he judging her performance? Comparing it to theirs? Did she sound sharp just now? Did she push too hard on that last note? Was her breathing too loud in the mic? God, why did she choose this outfit?

For the first time in a long while, it felt like she was being watched under a microscope, like her every move was being recorded for dissection later. And the worst part? She kind of wanted him to like it. Wanted him to be impressed. Wanted to be good enough.

Her fingers tightened around the mic. What the hell is wrong with me?

She’d played for way bigger names and way bigger crowds before. Shared stages with people who practically built the sounds she loved. And yet somehow this guy with a bleached mop and a killer fry scream was the one throwing her off her axis?

She hated that her brain was even giving him this much space. She only saw him today. Today!

And yet, there was a strange kind of fuel in it, too.

Because despite the rush of doubt, despite the firestorm of questions clawing up her ribs, her voice never wavered. Her breath held. Her pitch stayed locked. And the crowd? The crowd was with her. Fully.

You could say it meant she had an ego, but Wendy’s well aware of her limits. This was nowhere near them.

So screw it. If he wanted to watch, she’d give him a show.

The lights flared again. She stepped forward. Right into the spotlight. Voice steady, eyes blazing. The second chorus comes in crashing.

“Dearest, I’m so sorry you’re disturbed,” she sings, jumping around. It does little work to interfere with the stability of her voice. “You know I’d hang on every word.”

She feels Tweek’s cathedral-like solo ringing through her ears. She’s rocking on stage left with Heidi, jumping and rocking her head back and forth.

“Dearest, I’m so sorry,” Red screamed behind her, never breaking tempo, “but this is not working!”

Wendy and Red launched into the breakdown together. Wendy’s light, head voice floated over Red’s scorched-earth fry scream, the two blending like a sharpened blade through silk.

She swayed through the slowdown: “Holding onto what I fight for—bleeding for you.”

“A place to die for!” Red howled.

Then came the last refrain. Wendy threw her head back, letting it rip.

“With each breath you take, I think I’ve learned,” she roared. “Careful—you might get burned!” She opted up on the last note, her voice blazing into the rafters.

The final metallic riff rang out. The lights blazed. The crowd erupted.

Wendy stood there, head bowed, chest heaving.

“Thank you so much, Lollapalooza!” she called out, eyes gleaming, sweat and starlight tangled in her hair.

“Good job, you guys!” Wendy called out, breathless but beaming, as they stepped offstage. She gave each of her bandmates a high-five in quick succession—Red, Jenny, Heidi, Craig.

“Catch!” Red tossed her a towel, and Wendy snatched it out of the air just before it hit her face.

“Thanks,” she laughed, wiping the sweat off her cheeks and neck. Most of it was already soaked into her shirt. She was definitely going to need a shower.

One by one, the others peeled off toward their respective corners of the backstage lot—some to decompress, some to hunt down water or snacks or their phones. The buzz of post-performance adrenaline still hung in the air, but everyone was finally coming down from it, and it quickly got replaced with exhaustion.

“Wendy?” Tweek called out as she reached out for her door handle, his voice cutting softly through the ambient backstage chatter.

Except for Tweek. As Wendy made her made her way to her own camper, Tweek followed behind.

She yelps in surprise, but knows whose voice it belongs to. “...Yeah?” She turned, towel still slung over her shoulder.

“You good?”

The way he asks is blatant, but almost like it’s been hanging over his head for a while. He’s staring back at her, keeping eye contact as much as he can.

The question caught her off guard. She tilted her head, puzzled. “Yes? Why?”

Tweek fidgeted, thumb hooking onto the pocket of his jeans as he caved in, avoiding her eyes for a second. “You just… I don’t know. During the last song, you seemed kinda off. Like… tense?”

“Tense?” she echoed, blinking.

“Yeah, tense. Not bad! Just... different.” He met her eyes then, sheepish. “Look, man, I’ve played with you long enough to know when something’s off.”

Okay. Fuck. Internally, she’s taking the biggest sigh of her life, but it doesn’t translate outwards. The last thing she wants right now is to worry any of her bandmates.

Wendy’s smile faltered, but she quickly patched it up with a shrug. “Huh. I didn’t think it showed.”

“It wasn’t super obvious or anything,” Tweek added quickly, “just... I don’t know. I felt it.”

There was a pause.

Wendy tugged at the towel a little tighter around her neck, then sighed, letting her shoulders drop. “I guess I was a little in my head.”

Tweek waited, quietly patient. She knows that he knows something’s going on. He has this certain look of disbelief, almost as if he’s holding back from raising a brow ever so judgmentally.

“I’m fine, though,” she added, forcing a smile. It’s a last-ditch effort to throw him off. “Really. I don’t even know what it was. Just... brain noise.” She laughs it off, throwing her hands in the air.

He hesitated again. Looked around at the quieting lot. Then back at her.

“You know you can tell me anything, yeah?” he said, softer now. “I didn’t mean to call you out or anything. I just got a little worried, that’s all.”

Wendy’s expression softened. She stepped closer and bumped his arm lightly with her elbow.

“No, I appreciate it. Really. You don’t have to apologize.” She grinned. “You’ve got the best radar out of all of us.”

Tweek looked vaguely proud and vaguely awkward at the same time.

“I’m gonna go get changed before Mac DeMarco’s set,” she said, taking a step back. “But I’m good. I promise. I’ll see you tomorrow?” Childishly, she holds a pinky out.

He hesitates, but gives in, locking his pinky with hers. “Okay.” He gave her a small nod, lingering a beat longer before finally turning to head off.

Wendy watched him disappear into the maze of vans. Then she exhaled—deep, long, and quietly.

She was lying.

Kind of.

Whatever had hit her mid-set still sat heavy in her chest. But she didn’t have the words for it yet. Maybe later.

For now, she just needed a shower, a bottle of water, a nap, a Red Bull, and maybe—if she was lucky—some distance from the image of Stan Marsh standing by the side with his eyes on her.

The crowd chatter grew louder the closer they got.

Wendy immediately regretted the Red Bull she’d power-chugged before heading back out. Three hours of sleep and a caffeine bomb weren’t exactly the ideal combo. Her head throbbed in time with the music booming from every direction, the basslines vibrating up through her shoes and into her skull.

“So, are you coming, Wendy?” Red asked.

She blinked, only now realizing she’d been fading in and out of the conversation. Between the noise and the exhaustion, her brain was barely online.

“Huh?” she mumbled, then took a swig from her water bottle, hoping to jolt herself into coherence.

“Craig and I are catching Car Seat Headrest tomorrow. You in?”

The water helped. Thoughts started clicking back into place. “Sure,” she said.

“Perfect. Let’s meet at the merch booth around 2? I wanna get to the barricade early.”

“Yeah, hopefully I’ll be done with my interview by then.”

“We’ll wait. Don’tcha worry,” Red smiled, patting her on the back.

As they neared the side of the stage—still being prepped for the next set—Wendy spotted someone approaching. A short, blonde guy in a massive orange parka.

He looked familiar, though she couldn’t quite place why.

“Hey, Wendy,” he called out.

Then it clicked.

Crimson Dawn’s guitarist. Kenny.

“Oh—hey!” she greeted, her tone bright as she stuck her hand out. “You’re from Crimson Dawn, right? The guitarist?”

He grinned, shaking her hand. “Yeah, I’m Kenny.”

“Well, it’s great to finally meet you. You guys were amazing earlier. I haven’t been able to get your set out of my head.”

He gave an exaggerated little bow. “Why, thank you. You killed it, too, by the way. My friend Stan hasn’t shut up about you since your set ended.”

Wendy blinked, taken off guard.

Play dumb, she reminded herself. Always leaves you room to move.

Behind her, Red, who’d clearly been half-listening, turned and followed her gaze. A few feet away, Stan stood stiffly, very obviously pretending not to know Kenny at all.

Red raised a brow, then glanced back at Wendy, already calculating.

This was either the start of something cute… or deeply embarrassing. But hey! Wendy could use a little chaos. Red nudged her with a smirk.

“Oh, come on. What’s the worst that could happen?” Red says, winking at Kenny.

Wendy didn’t answer. Her feet had stopped moving.

This is not my alley. I’m no romantic.

But Red knew that look on her face—hesitation tangled with curiosity.

Kenny caught on and added, breezy as ever, “He’s just over there. I’ll walk you.”

An internal monologue of panic sets loose in Wendy.

As he gently guided her forward with a hand on her shoulder, Wendy felt a wave of dread rise in her chest. She couldn’t tell if it was nerves, exhaustion, or energy drink-induced jitters. Probably all three. But her headache, clammy and shaky hands, and loud heartbeat are all palpable.

She does her best to ground herself—five things she could see, four she could hear, three she could touch.

It’s been quite a while since she’s felt a panic like this one.

She spots Stan by the monitors, fidgeting.

“Stan!” Kenny called, dragging him closer by the neck of his hoodie. “You know, Wendy, the whole tour he had your album on loop.”

Stan froze, a deer in headlights.

Kenny, ever the opportunist, elbowed him lightly. “He’s being modest, forgive him.”

Wendy, meanwhile, could feel herself stiffen too. Red gave her a little shoulder pat of encouragement.

“Oh, uh—that’s fine! No worries,” she laughed, awkward but sincere. “Is that true, though?”

“Yeah, uh… huge fan,” Stan muttered, scratching the back of his neck, eyes flicking between her and the floor. 

Mission complete, Kenny and Red shared a victorious high-five as they slinked off, murmuring something about grabbing drinks.

Wendy looked at the pair trailing off, eye-twitching, but turned back to him. “Thank you, I really like your stuff too,” she offered. “Especially Slow Down. That one’s a favorite.”

His shoulders visibly relaxed. It was almost funny, how different he was up close—awkward, uncertain. Nothing like the stage presence he commanded just hours earlier.

“You know, you really have a way of building landscapes.”

That was stupid. Oh, god , he's not gonna understand you—or maybe even laugh—

“Thanks,” he said, eyes flicking to meet hers like it took effort. “Your album was… really amazing. The writing, especially. That’s my favorite part. I really like the sudden change from kinda soaring loud like Crave to something really downtempo like Crack Baby.”

Never mind, actually.

When she looks up, she realizes how much more nervous Stan seems to be. She smiles then, trying to stay open, grounded. Make it easier for him to breathe.

“Well, thank you too.”

A silence settled over them—stiff, unsure. She glanced around for an escape rope, anything.

And then her eyes landed on the stage. The gear was all set up. The guitars were tuned. The sound check was wrapping up. They still had a few minutes before Mac DeMarco took the stage.

“Well,” she said, shifting her weight, “seeing as we’re already here… wanna watch Mac DeMarco together?”

Stan blinked, then smiled. “Sure. Why not?”

As if on cue, the band stepped on stage. Techs scattered, the instruments got picked up, and the energy shifted.

“Thank you for joining us tonight,” Mac DeMarco grins, speaking into the mic with that trademark looseness. “We’re gonna play some songs this evening at the Lollapalooza.”

He points at the crowd, who erupt in cheers, buzzing with anticipation.

While Mac’s introducing the rest of the band, Wendy leans slightly toward Stan. “What do you think he’ll play?”

She’s practically shouting to be heard over the crowd and the feedback hum, but Stan catches it. He thinks for a second, eyes flicking toward the stage.

“Well, my favorite’s Ode to Viceroy,” he says. “What about you?”

She brightens. “My favorite’s No Other Heart. But Ode to Viceroy’s up there too.”

Stan's eyes light up, but before he could respond, Mac draws the crowd’s attention back to the stage.

“A little rock’n’roll set for ya tonight,” Mac says, winking at someone in the crowd. “Again, thanks for hanging out with us.”

The first few notes ring out, it’s On the Level. Something mellow and jangly, the crowd sways, arms going up like a wave rolling across the pit. Wendy and Stan shift a little closer without noticing. They aren’t touching, not quite, but there’s only a sliver of air between them now.

The air’s a little tense, but she hopes it goes away.

She takes a few stolen glances at him every so often, out of checking up on him. He’s the one who’s more nervous about this between them. Yeah.

A few songs in, the familiar warble of No Other Heart starts, and Wendy lets out a quiet gasp. She nudges Stan excitedly.

“Oh, my gosh!” She says in a yell-whisper.

She looks up to see if he’s just as excited as she was. In that moment, she catches something different.

He glances at her, smiling, open, genuine.

For a second, they just… look.

The warm stage lights flicker off his bleached hair, and she thinks he looks different like this. Softer. And maybe he’s thinking the same about her. She hopes so.

The cheering and the music blur. It’s almost the same feeling as the one she felt when they had crossed eyes earlier that day—only this time, she doesn’t have to question her next move. Her ears almost ring with how quiet everything became.

Right here, right now, she’s breathing, and she can feel the oxygen in her veins.

Realizing they’ve been looking at each other for longer than they should’ve, they both look away at the same time, flustered, pretending to focus on the music.

Maybe it’s a sense of comfort she’s been longing for a while now.

But she shakes that thought off. It’s too soon, she thinks. At least get to know the guy first.

As the set progresses, the vibe shifts more laid-back. The crowd mellows into a hazy kind of sway, feet aching, bodies leaning on each other.

A few songs later, Mac strums the opening of Ode to Viceroy, the familiar lazy groove making the entire crowd hum in sync. Stan lets out a little “Yes,” under his breath, just loud enough for Wendy to hear. She glances up at him, amused.

“You’re such a nerd,” she teases.

He laughs, a little embarrassed. “I’m not denying that.”

Despite the mellow music, the energy is exciting. Life pumps through the air, through the crowds, and through the sounds. She looks up at him a couple of times, and she finds him radiating in the soft blue light illuminated from the stage.

Which is quickly cut off when they hear a familiar piano melody.

Stan raises an eyebrow. “Is that—”

“A Thousand Miles?!”

“Dude!” He exclaims in disbelief.

“Making my way downtown,” Mac sings, making poetic gestures. “Making my way downtown.”

The joke quickly catches on, finding Stan, Wendy, and the rest of the crowd roaring with laughter. Some cheer him on, but most of them are trying to catch their breath.

He starts swaying his head as the lights change to vibrant purple. “If I could make my way downtown, then I could make my way downtown.”

As the song winds on, the moment softens. They stand in companionable silence, watching the stage, lit gold by hazy beams and machine smoke. The world shrinks a little, like it’s just the two of them and this weird, wobbly song about cheap cigarettes and longing.

Soon enough, the show is over, and the crowd begins to separate. Some of them make their way back to rest after a long day, others don’t stop—they go to the aftershows nearby.

Stan glances at Wendy.

“Hey, Wendy,” he says.

She turns toward him. “Hm?”

“Can I ask you something?”

She smirks. “You already are.”

He groans, a smile tugging at his lips. “Okay, yeah. Fair.”

He hesitates, eyes flicking to the stage, then back to her. His voice drops just enough that it doesn’t feel like a shout anymore, just something a little more careful. “Are you, like… tired yet?”

She laughs. “I downed a Red Bull before coming here. So, safe to say I’m not sleeping anytime soon.”

He nods slowly, then takes a breath. “Would you wanna, uh…” He pauses, clearly second-guessing himself. “Wanna grab a drink with me or something?”

It comes out quiet, almost lost in the hum of the amp and the crowd’s distant chatter. But she hears it.

She smiles—and just like earlier, mirrors him.

“Sure. Why not?”

Chapter Text

“So,” Stan begins, rubbing the back of his neck as they walk. “Any idea where you wanna go?”

It’s around 10:15 PM. Stan and Wendy walk along the windy summer breeze of Chicago, wandering aimlessly. Even this late, the nightlife is busy and bustling, booming with youth and liveliness.

She takes in sharp breaths every so often, blaming it on the cold air, but picks up the way he fiddles with his hands and tries to keep them still in his pocket. He doesn’t say anything about it, and she doesn’t either.

She almost feels like a kid in middle school going on a date all over again. She wonders what makes this any different.

In response to Stan’s question, Wendy hums thoughtfully, scanning the street.

“To be honest, I’ve never spent enough time in Chicago to know where anything is. Not well enough to name-drop anything cool, at least.”

Stan chuckles. “Same. All I know is the venue, the hotel, and the nearest place to the hotel that sells semi-decent coffee.”

She laughs softly. “Then why don’t we just… randomly pick?”

“Sure,” he shrugs. “Why not?”

“Alright,” she grins, playing along. She glances around, eyes landing on a cozy-looking café with a chalkboard menu out front. “That one?”

Stan squints. “Hmm. Not really feelin’ coffee.”

“Fair, fair.” Her eyes scan across the street.

Stan brings his eyes to family-style pizzeria. “What about that family diner over there?”

She follows his gaze. “Too bright and too many children.” She says, shaking her head.

He laughs. “How picky.”

“So are you!” She fake-scoffs.

They keep walking, a little slower now. That easy silence hums between them again, comfortable, very electric. Be it their jitters or not.

And then, both of them spot it at the same time: a slightly grimy, neon-lit bar tucked between two closed storefronts. The “Open” sign buzzes like a bug zapper. It looks like it hasn’t passed a health inspection within the last five years.

They both stop.

Wendy glances sideways. “Yeah?”

Stan’s already looking at her. “Yeah.”

They walk toward it without another word.

The bell above the door gives a lazy jingle as Stan pushes it open. The air smells like old wood, beer, and whatever was last microwaved. A few heads glance up, but no one gives them a second thought. The place is dim, but not uncomfortable. Just sleepy.

No one bats an eye at them; everyone is deep in whatever they have going on. In spite of its coziness, the place is pretty loud, filled with the sound of much community. Strangers cheering as they watch a game of football, friends catching up on their lives, and returning couples out for some fun drinks.

They settle into a booth near the back, a flickering candle in a glass between them.

“What are you getting?” Wendy asks, resting her cheek on her palm, eyes flicking over to him.

Stan looks at the chalkboard menu behind the counter, then back to her. “Probably just a beer, pale. Keep it simple.”

“I’ll get a mojito.” She raises a brow before he can speak. “And before you even start—I know, I know I have a show tomorrow.”

“I wasn’t gonna say anything.” He says with lips wanting to smugly curl into a smirk.

“I’m sure you were thinking it.”

He casually throws his hands up, guilty. “Okay, maybe I was. I’m sure you have interviews too.”

“Just the one, but still,” she sighs dramatically. “It’s not even the press stuff I hate. I just get homesick really easily.”

Stan pauses, then gently waves off her worry. “You don’t need to explain. I get it. You’ve been on the road for what, all summer?”

She nods. “Yep. And after tomorrow, I’m finally off for a while.”

“Nice,” he says. “You deserve it.”

She smiles. “Well, not off off . We’re opening a few shows for Mike & the Vamps in Asia on February.”

“Oh, they’re touring there?”

“Only a few stops, but they’re doing multiple shows for some countries,” she replies, sipping from her drink. “I think we’ll be joining Japan, Vietnam, Malaysia, and the Philippines.”

Stan lets out a low whistle. “That’s sick. I bet those crowds are nuts.”

“They are,” she says fondly. “We went once a few years ago, and I’ve never seen an audience like that again. They don’t lie when they say Filipinos know how to sing.”

“What about you guys?” she asks. “Any shows coming up?”

He shakes his head, leaning back. “Not for a while. We just finished Europe and a full summer tour. Five months on the move. I think if I see another plane this year, I might just walk into the sea."

She laughs. “God. Yeah, I can imagine.”

“But hey,” he adds, glancing at her again. “It was fun.”

Wendy holds his gaze a beat longer than she means to. “Yeah,” she says softly, a smile tugging at her lips. “Baby’s first headlining tour?”

“Baby’s first solo headlining tour,” Stan corrects, lifting his glass for emphasis. “The other ones were co-headliners and opening slots. This one’s all us.”

“Well, good for you, how’s it been treating you so far?”

“Really productive and unproductive at the same time,” he confesses. “I’m barely writing, though. Like, we’re doing shows, but my downtime’s just… me rotting in front of a Switch.”

She nods. “Yeah, I mean it’s really exhausting. Your body’s fighting its own rhythms with the jetlag, you get invited to these afterparties, and sometimes you have to get up before six to get dressed up for photoshoots.”

“I thought about just giving it all up and becoming a librarian.”

“A librarian?”

“You know, you just organize stuff. Peace and quiet.”

She’s confused, but it doesn’t stop her laughter from pouring out.

He gasps, jokingly offended. “You think I’m bad at organizing stuff! Well, I’ll have you know that… that…” He trails off, not knowing what else to say, and following her laughter.

Once they catch their breath, he starts again. “It’s kind of impressive how you all manage to get by with those kinds of schedules.”

“Ehh, we kinda don’t.” She chuckles. ”Like, I remember my first headliner. I didn’t sleep for, like, the entire time. Honestly, it’s wild how I didn’t collapse during any one of our sets. I lived life on coffee.”

Stan nods knowingly, eyes widening. “So that’s a universal thing, huh? The sleep deprivation and coffee?”

“I’ve gotten better,” she says, shrugging. “Back then, it was coffee and adrenaline. No rest, no proper food.”

“That sounds brutal.”

The server, Joyce, as Wendy notes on the name tag, walks up to the two and takes their orders before disappearing to place them.

“Continuing from earlier…ish,” Wendy says, leaning her cheek into her palm and Stan hums as her leans towards her, “I’m curious.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Hit me.”

“If you weren’t doing music, what would you be doing?”

He answers without hesitation. “Biology. Something with animals. I’ve got a degree in it. Probably would’ve gone into conservation.”

Her face lights up. “Oh, that sounds so cool! Like wildlife rescue stuff?”

“Yup.” He nods. ”You know, when I was younger, I smuggled a bunch of calves in my room ‘cause I heard they were gonna be turned into veal.”

Wendy laughs, eyes lighting up. “Wait, for real?”

“I swear. Even the FBI had to come in to wind down the situation.” He laughs. “What can I say? I really care for the animals. And I’m bad at numbers.”

She hums at the sentiment, Wendy not quite relating, but understanding his place.

“So just a biologist or a librarian I see.”

“You know it. I’m pretty sure that tells you the type of person I am.”

“Yeah, a fifty-year old woman named Gertude.”

There’s a beat where they just look at each other, Stan chuckling at her comment..

“What about you?” he asks, drumming his fingers on the hard plastic of the table. “If not music?”

She thinks, but it’s clear what the real answer is. “I mean, I’d probably still be doing music. Just… not like this. I was trained in classical voice and violin since I was a kid. Always wanted to play for the New York Philharmonic.”

She figures it's just difficult wanting to believe that that’s her dream.

Stan straightens up, surprised. “You were on track for that?”

“Kind of,” she says. “I got signed when I was fourteen, and toured a lot when I was fifteen. Had to give it all up. I switched coaches for voice. I’d been training in the classical music space for around ten years at that point."

“Damn,” he mutters, clearly impressed. “So you were, like, a prodigy?”

Wendy laughs, waving it off. “Nah. I was good, sure, but not special. I just worked really hard. Some other kids were better with less effort. I just… really wanted it.”

“You ever think about going back to it?”

“Sometimes. But this”—she gestures vaguely around the bar—“I think this is where I’m supposed to be right now.”

It’s quiet, and Wendy’s eyes flick down to the table, her hands lying out spread. The way Stan plays around with his fingers catches her attention, almost like he’s not sure what to do himself. She isn’t sure if she should take the move. The conversations and music swell as Stan looks down at the table with her, not knowing how to pass the time.

Mentally, she facepalms herself. She likes to think she’s more practiced at this. Suppose not, then.

By some higher being’s good graces, though, the drinks arrive. Mojito for her, beer for him.

And by the time Wendy looks back at the hardwood on the table, trying to find anything about the grooves interesting, Stan’s attention is directed to watching a couple across the bar.

They’re older, definitely together with the way their fingers are interlaced across the table.

He looks soft in the glow of the dim lights, chin propped on his hand. He has cute dimples. And faint moles on his cheek. And frustratingly long lashes.

Before he catches her looking, he turns around to her. He seems to think that she was looking in the same direction as she was. “What do you think their story is?” 

She looks at the couple and chuckles, failing at playing cool. “Married. Probably childhood friends.”

“I’d say they’ve been together for maybe twenty years…and are awfully British,” Stan jokes, which breaks both of them in a fit of laughter.

As the giddiness dies down, she observes them a little more. They’re tanned and toned. “Backpackers, maybe?” Wendy suggests.

“In Chicago?” He raises a brow.

“Maybe a detour from Michigan? They have nice trails from what I’ve heard.”

He chuckles, tipping her glass in agreement. “I see it.”

There’s a shift inside of her that feels strange. Wendy can hardly meet his eyes. She’s better than this. She’s supposed to be trained on this with all the publicity bootcamp she’s been put through, but she just can’t bring herself to do it.

Stan’s eyes drift around the bar. It feels quiet.

She finds herself looking down at her hands. She thinks she’s scared that he’s secretly really good at reading others—a single glance in the eyes and he knows her whole story. 

She doesn’t dwell on that, though; she might just space out in a panic and ruin this seemingly good thing she has.

There’s a slight buzz in her head, nothing too bad, but definitely present. Not one she dwells on either, as she spots a lanky fellow going up to them, a wide grin on her face.

She doesn’t feel well about this.

“Why, hello, you two!” She reads the nametag attached to his shirt: Beck: Game Host . What. “You two seem like a savvy couple. We have a trivia game starting in five.”

Her eyes shift in Stan’s direction, who seems just about as panicked and confused as she was.

He nervously laughs. “Oh, thank you, but we’re not—”

“Nonsense. That’s what all the other couples here say,” he winks. “Let me sign you guys up; what's your team name?”

Wendy does her best to stop him as well. “We’re oka—”

“Charlie’s Angels.”

She looks back at him, eye twitching. What. 

“Charlie’s Angels, great!” he extends a hand to shake. Only Stan grabs it. “I’ll see you two in a few.”

What.

Wendy’s looking at Stan expectantly. He sighs, redirecting his eyes away from hers.

“I did it so he could get off our backs. We can leave if you want.”

She sits there, weighing out her options. Either go home and end the night or continue hanging out with Stan and play in a trivia night.

She sees the hopeful look on his face. With the decision made, she takes a breath, half-heartedly rolling her eyes.

He’s so obvious, she thinks. It’s kinda cute.

“Alright, but we’re using cover-up names.”

He smiles.

“Deal.”

Chapter Text

“Alright, ladies and gentlemen, welcome to couples’ trivia night!” The host strode to the center with a remote and a clipboard. “I’m your host, Beck.”

Wendy and Stan sat smack in the middle of the dingy bar, staring at the projector screen alongside four other couples. Both of them looked like they were bracing for a mild natural disaster—drinks in one hand, nervous fidgeting in the other.

Wendy had always been good at school. She just hoped that might be worth something tonight. As for Stan… she was mostly banking on an obscure animal physiology question making its way into the final round.

The audience clapped. Some half-heartedly. Some like they’d been pre-gaming for three hours. Probably the friend groups.

“The game’s simple: answer using the small whiteboards at your table. Three rounds, five questions each. Easy, medium, and difficult. One, three, and five points per question, respectively. The first two rounds have a 15-second timer. Last round’s got 25.”

Beck beamed. “Before we get started, let’s meet the lovebirds. Let’s start with… House?”

Wendy cringed. So did Stan.

How were they going to get through this without being recognized? Well, that’s for fate to decide. A decision was made, and this is its consequence. All they could do now is pray to God that they won’t be seen.

Beck pointed to a young couple. The girl looked like she wanted to vanish into the floor; her partner seemed like they regularly do stand-up sets at open mics, bursting at the seams with self-assurance.

“Hi! I’m Sam,” they said, with a wave.

“I’m Keys,” said their partner.

“And the name House?” Beck asked.

“We both work in the hospital,” Sam explained. “Keys is in medtech, I’m a pediatrician.”

“Oh, like the show then!"

“Exactly,” Sam said, throwing an arm around Keys. “We watch it all the time.”

Beck nodded, then pointed to the next couple. “Alright, next!”

The introductions went on: Linda and Ann were Snoopy & Woodstock, two sweet girls in matching vests. Paul and Nancy were the older couple they were looking at earlier, and they had named themselves Applesauce (Also, Stan was right: they were definitely British.) Rena and Eli were Bonnie & Clyde, and seemed awfully removed from the situation. Perhaps they were just getting into the mindset.

“Last but not least—Charlie’s Angels!”

Applause muffled their ears a little as Wendy and Stan stood up.

Wendy gave a polite nod and a bow. “Hi, I’m Kate.”

“I’m Ash,” Stan added, waving stiffly.

Beck grinned. “Big Charlie’s Angels fans?”

Wendy shrugged. “I’ve seen it once.”

Stan nodded. “Couple of times. It was on cable a lot.”

“Favorite angel?”

“Lucy Liu,” Wendy said without missing a beat.

Stan hesitated, then said, “Drew Barrymore.”

“Same here, man,” Beck said, offering a fist bump, which Stan awkwardly returned before they both sat back down.

“Alright, that’s everyone! Let’s get into it, shall we?”

Beck clicked the remote. The first slide of the presentation popped up.

“First question of the easy round: Who painted the Sistine Chapel?”

“Michelangelo,” they both whispered at the same time. Wendy grabbed the marker and scribbled it down.

Time ran out. Boards went up.

“And the answer is—Michelangelo!” Beck called.

Someone in the corner, likely an unpaid intern, updated the scores.

“Next question: What’s the chemical symbol for oxygen?”

Wendy wrote "O" without a word. Stan gave her a thumbs up like she’d just disarmed a bomb.

The rest of the easy round rolled out smoothly: the Nile was the longest river, blue flames were the hottest, and New York was known as the Big Apple.

“Nice,” Wendy said, smiling.

Stan lifted a hand for a high-five. “My teammate’s a genius.”

She returned it, snorting. “These are literally fifth-grade facts.”

“Everyone’s at five points right now, let’s see how you hold up in the round!” Beck clapped. “First question: What’s the capital of Canada?”

“Alberta,” Stan whispered confidently.

Wendy raised an eyebrow. “That’s… a province.”

“So? Most people think Sydney is Australia’s capital, but it’s actually Canberra.”

“That’s great, but I’m pretty sure it’s Ottawa.” She wrote it down.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

The timer beeped. She raised the board.

“Aaand… It’s Ottawa!” Beck cheered.

Wendy suppressed a giggle, much to Stan’s dismay—who was staring at the screen, betrayed, until he noticed the other couples had written “Toronto.”

“Well,” he muttered. “At least I’m not the one who got it wrong.” She rolls her eyes, quietly laughing at him.

“Next question: How many countries are in Africa?”

Wendy looked at him like he might pull this one out of nowhere.

“We’re guessing, right?” He asks.

“Yeah, I’m lost here.”

“Okay, uh… forty-nine. Feels lucky.”

She nods, writing down the answer. “Alright.”

The timer beeped.

“The answer is fifty-four!”

Nobody got it. They both exhaled.

The game goes on fine, if not brought upon by a handful of guessing, too. Really lucky ones, at least. The Wizard of Oz was set in Kansas, Joan of Arc was burned at the stake in 1431, and ascorbic acid is also called vitamin C.

“That’s a wrap on the average round, folks!”

For the first time in a long while, Wendy feels the nerves on her back climbing up. The type of nerves that makes her hurl over and roll into a ball. She’s taking this too seriously, and it’s making her sick.

“Here’s our scores so far: House has 14, Snoopy & Woodstock has 11, Applesauce has 14, Bonnie & Clyde has 17, and Charlie’s Angels has 17.”

In spite of all her nerves, things seem to be looking up for the two of them right now.

Beck gave a little spin with the remote in his hand. “Final round coming up. Let’s see how you all hold up.”

Wendy and Stan exchanged a look.

It was on now.

Beck taps his clipboard dramatically, like he’s preparing to drop life-changing news. “Alright! Five-point questions. Twenty-five seconds on the clock. No pressure!”

Wendy straightens up, eyes narrowing slightly. Stan mimics her posture, if only because it makes him feel like he's contributing.

“Question one: What’s the only letter not used in any of the U.S. state names?”

They blink.

“Wait,” Stan says. “Is it X?”

“New Mexico and Texas,” Wendy whispers.

“J is in New Jersey,” he mumbles.

“Z is in Arizona.”

“Might be... Um... Q?”

She nods, writing it down.

Boards go up. Beck grins. “Q is correct!”

The scoreboard updates, and it seems like their team, Bonnie & Clyde, and Applesauce seem to have gotten it.

“Next: Which element has the atomic number 79?”

Stan leans in. “Gold. I’m pretty sure”

Wendy doesn’t even check—she writes it.

“Correct again!”

The questions get murkier.

“What is SOS in Morse code?”

Wendy scribbles down ---...--- , looking up for Stan for confirmation. He shrugs, but they both seem to agree that it seems right anyway.

Luckily, they’re correct again. So are Rena and Eli.

Stan exhales slowly. “We've got two teams neck-and-neck. Let’s see how they fare.”

“Two more,” Wendy mutters.

Beck grins. “Penultimate question: What is the only metal that's liquid at room temperature?”

“Oh god,” Stan mutters.

“Mercury?”

He shrugs. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Time’s up!”

They go with Mercury, and they’re right. Though still tied with Rena and Eli.

“Last question. Ready?”

They nod.

“Which planet in our solar system has the most gravity?”

Wendy whispers. “Jupiter!”

Stan shoots her a surprised look and grins. “How do you even know that?”

“My friend, Craig, loves space.”

She scribbles it down.

“And... that’s five out of five, again, for Charlie’s Angels and Bonnie & Clyde!” Beck waves both scoreboards in the air. “Ladies and gentlemen—we have a tie!”

A murmur ripples through the bar. Some cheer. Someone audibly groans.

“Tiebreaker time. One question. Write it down, no discussion. Closest answer wins.”

Wendy and Stan glance at each other. Neither moves. No whispers this time.

Beck reads off the final question.

“In miles, how far is the moon from Earth? Whoever has the closest number gets the point.”

Stan visibly tenses. He writes something. So does Wendy, after a beat. Then they slide their board forward.

Beck walks over to compare both.

“Okay. Bonnie & Clyde guessed 238,800.”

Stan glances at Wendy. Her face is unreadable.

“Charlie’s Angels guessed... 238,900.”

“The answer is…” Beck holds up a finger.

A pause. The bar holds its breath.

“238,855 miles—congratulations, Charlie’s Angels, you just won the couples’ trivia!”

The room laughs, and then t he bar erupts in light cheers and claps. Wendy smiles, brushing a stray piece of hair behind her ear. Stan offers her a slow high-five again. She takes it without a word.

“Winners get a twenty-dollar voucher for anything on the bar menu and the deepest respect of your peers,” Beck announces with a bow.

They say their thank yous and shake hands with the others, but the two obviously have no use for the monetary prize.

“I think we should give it to Bonnie & Clyde.” She leans into Stan.

He nods. “I don’t think we’ll be coming back here anytime soon.”

Wendy looks over to Rena and Eli, who are about to head back to what they could only assume to be is, their group of friends. “Bonnie & Clyde!” She calls, walking closer to them.

Both turn back a little too harshly, setting off tension between them.

“What is it?” Rena says, raising a brow.

“You can have the 20 dollars, I don’t think Ash and I are gonna come back here, at least not for a while.”

Her cold front softens, and she seems surprised, frozen in place. “Oh, thank you…”

She shakes her head, handing her the voucher. “Pleasure’s all mine.”

“You have a good night then, Kate.”

“Thank you.” She smiles, nodding before making her way back to Stan, wallflowering by the exposed brick walls.

The chime by the door jingles as they step out of the bar. It shuts behind them with a final click, muffling the laughter and clatter from inside. The streets are quieter than they were hours ago—ghostlike, almost. Whatever buzz had lit the city earlier has thinned into mist and breeze. 

The two now stand outside the bar, waiting for a taxi for the ride back to the hotel.

Wendy tugs her coat tighter. “What time is it?”

Stan fumbles for his phone. His fingers are still warm from where he held the trivia marker too tightly for half the night. “1:08.”

Her brows lift. “God, really?”

He half-smirks. “Can’t wait to see your interview tomorrow. Full crash imminent.”

“Thanks,” she mutters, clicking her tongue. “You’re so supportive.”

He chokes out a yawn. “We kind of dodged a bullet back there, though. Not sure how we didn’t get clocked.”

“Yeah. I was sure someone would’ve recognized us.”

“Well, fair point, it’s a bar full of people three drinks past caring,” he says. “We could’ve had signs around our necks and they’d still be arguing about the Spice Girls lineup.”

That gets a faint smile from her. The wind brushes past, pulling her hair sideways, and she presses her arms close around herself.

Stan notices. It's a small thing—barely movement, just the way she tucks her elbows in and crosses her forearms. But somehow it sticks in his head.

He clears his throat, shrugging off his jacket. “Uh, here. Borrow this for now.”

She hesitates. “Are you sure? It’s not weird?”

He offers a lazy shrug. “Just don’t make it weird, I guess.”

“You say that like I make things weird."

“You do make things weird.”

She rolls her eyes, pulling the jacket around her. It swallows her a little. She doesn’t button it, just holds it closed with one hand, the other still crossed over her stomach. Stan watches her, eyes stuck on how her skin shines under the moon.

“You won’t get cold?” she asks.

It snaps him out of his trance, and he feels a wave of heat over his cheeks.

“I’ll be fine.”

A pause settles between them. Not heavy, not light. Just uncertain. Her eyes flick sideways like she wants to say something but doesn’t. There’s this unreadable look on her face, something that makes Stan’s chest tighten just slightly.

Wrong move? He wonders. Overstepped?

Oh, he’s sick; he feels his insides climb up his throat.

But she just murmurs, “Thanks.”

He nods, takes a deep breath, and plays it cool with hands shoved deep into his jeans pocket.

“As you were saying earlier, though?”

She finds the heart to laugh at him. “I wasn’t saying anything.”

“I don’t know about that,” he hums.

“You’re funny.”

Stan exits the taxi and holds the door open for Wendy when they get to their hotel. When she steps out, though, he doesn’t get back in. He closes the door

“What are you doing?” She raises a brow.

He answers like it’s so obvious. “Taking you back to the lobby.”

“What?” She squints at him, confused. “No, you should go. It’s really late.”

He shrugs, and they both start to walk together inside. “I don’t mind. It’s just a few minutes.”

And so he walks her to the lobby. But even after they step through the doors and even after Wendy checks for her hotel key in her bag, he doesn’t go yet. There’s a string of words in the air, a common thought that both are uncertain how to express. It’s quiet, and it’s more nerve-wracking than awkward.

Wendy starts first anyway. “Well, thank you, Stan.” She says with a smile. “For the whole evening, and for bringing me here. I enjoyed it… I enjoyed it a lot.”

A beat. “Thank you, too. It’s, uh, really fun hanging out with you.”

“Will I see you tomorrow?” She pauses, musing over her next decision. “I have an aftershow, and we’re probably at the venue by 9 PM.”

Without a hint of hesitation, he answers, “Definitely.” With a smile.

“Alright. I’ll see you tomorrow. House of Blues. I’ll give your name.”

“Yes.”

“Here’s your jacket, by the way,” she says, removing his jacket and handing it to her.

“Ah, thanks.” He nods.

It’s difficult to speak. Troubling, but not suffocating. It’s just difficult to find a way to let the night finally go to rest.

Stan’s shoulders are tense, unmoving. His hands are stuffed in his pockets. Wendy is awkwardly biting down on her lip. She twiddles with the straps of her bag. Neither of them can look the other in the eye.

“I should go.” He says, ready to turn around.

Ironically, she doesn’t let go just yet. “You should, it’s—” she takes a glance at her phone. “—1:54.”

He laughs. Maybe at her insistence to keep the conversation going. Maybe at something else. “And you should be in bed. You've got a lot ahead of you tomorrow.”

“Don’t remind me.” She groans. She smiles, though, eyes flicking up in his direction. He looks back at her with visible hesitance. “Text me when you get back? …Or too weird?”

“No, no, I get it. I’m not that far from here, though. I think.” He shakes his head. “One problem, though.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t have your number.”

“Oh, right .” In an instant, she felt her face flush. She pulls out her phone and shows him her number. “Here.”

As Stan writes her contact down in his phone, her eyes flick up to his for a second. He’s awfully as flustered as it as she was, wearing his words with more confidence though—in spite of his embarrassment.

He types something down on his phone. A ring is heard from Wendy’s end.

They stand in silence, nodding. 

A short pause. It’s a moment for final confirmation. All good things come to an end after all.

“I’m going now. I’ll see you at your show tomorrow.” 

But that doesn’t mean tomorrow doesn’t exist. 

“Mhm, I can’t wait.”

There’s always a next time.

“You’re gonna kill it out there again.”

They’re quiet, before bursting into a laugh. It’s a pity for themselves and others. It’s for the struggle, and it’s for putting up with the air of awkwardness. It’s nice. She finds him kind. Too kind.

“Good night, Wendy.”

“Good night to you, too.”

He waves goodbye, and she smiles back. She stands there for a few seconds, watching as he pushes past the glass doors, taking one more glance at her as well. He nods over before he goes to hail a cab.

She stands there, dumbfounded by how pleasant the night was. Almost like it was impossible. There’s a pounding in her chest that’s present for much bigger reasons than pumping blood. She wants to expect something more. Something she’d like to think she deserves.

Chapter Text

“So, what’s your favorite lyric off the new album?”

Wendy twirled the mic between her fingers, leaning back against the threadbare couch. The studio was warm under the interview lights, and the cameras blinked red at the edges of her vision. Across from her, the host waited with an eager smile that clearly hadn’t moved in twenty minutes.

“Oh man,” Wendy said, chuckling softly. “You’re gonna make me choose?”

She glanced at Red and Tweek, who were seated beside her in their standard formation. Red, arms spread casually, didn’t bother hiding her amusement; Tweek was sitting upright like a lightning rod, fingers twitching at his thigh.

The interviewer nods. “That’s the question.”

She tapped the mic against her chin. “Okay… I like ‘Whim.’ It’s a demo on the deluxe version. Basically, it has a line that goes, ‘You’re always on the move, something in the stillness gets you to the truth.’”

Red grinned, leaning toward her mic. “The development for that song was fun. Wendy was crashing out—as per usual, and Tweek and Craig helped out with a huge chunk of the production.”

“Well, yeah, okay. Fine.” She rolled her eyes. “Anyways, we honestly had no idea how it would sound until after the initial mixing. ” Wendy nodded.

The host laughed. “Really? Why wasn’t that song in the album?”

She hums, tapping the mic on her chin. “I guess it felt too personal, and also it was just really different from the rest of the songs. A lot more mellow. Maybe I’ll reuse bits of it for something else.”

“Well, I think the song is beautiful. Sad, but it strikes a chord—pun intended.” Red groans to that while Wendy and Tweek laugh it off.

“Hey, we try,” she said. “Everything’s written from a real place. That one especially.”

A few more questions passed—something about pre-show rituals (Tweek said he fasted and Wendy immediately told the host not to quote that), favorite city to play in (Red immediately went, “Chicago’s got heart, but LA’s got chaos. I like chaos.”), and whether Wendy had any new projects in the works.

She’d smiled tightly at that last one. “Nothing’s confirmed yet.”

“Okay,” the host said at last, wrapping up. “We’ll let you go for now, but thanks so much for talking with us!”

The three bid their thank yous, but the moment the crew turned their attention elsewhere, Wendy slumped back with a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. Red handed her a lukewarm water bottle, which she half-heartedly accepted.

As the others got up to stretch and check their phones, Wendy stayed seated, quietly unlocking hers.

Wendy : See you later :) You can invite Kenny if you wanna
Wendy : You can head backstage if you get there early. Show starts at 11

She stared at the message for a beat too long, then locked her phone and pressed it to her chest.

Too forward? Maybe. But it wasn’t weird if they were just friends. Just casual. Two normal people who met at a music festival and had a surprisingly nice night. No big deal.

A heavy hand clamped down on her shoulder, yanking her back to Earth.

“So,” Red drawled, eyes shining. “What happened last night?”

Wendy instinctively locked her phone and slid it to her lap. “Not much.”

“Not much?” Red narrowed her eyes. “ Really ?”

“Well, we went out for drinks. Ended up in a bar… played a little couples trivia…”

“'Cause I’m sure we’re charming them with trivia ,” She says, unamused. “No kiss or anything?”

Wendy scoffed. “No. Not really—”

Red dramatically slapped a hand to her heart. “ Alright , Wendy. All that effort I put into getting—”

Wendy shot her a look and nudged her ankle just as Tweek came walking back towards them, plastic cup in hand.

“—matching… shirts,” Red finished seamlessly. “And you got an oil stain on yours.”

Tweek raised an eyebrow. “What’s going on?”

Red didn’t skip a beat. “Wendy was supposed to wear matching shirts with me tonight. I got them for us, but someone spilled pasta on hers last night.”

Wendy exhaled slowly. Tweek, bless his anxious heart, didn’t seem suspicious.

“You have an extra shirt, though. Right?” he asked, concern flickering across his face.

She nodded. “Yeah. Definitely."

Red gave her a knowing look once Tweek’s back was turned, heading back to the crew on set—probably to bid his thanks to them. Wendy elbowed her hard in response.

“You’re welcome,” She muttered under her breath. Wendy pretended not to hear her.

Red’s voice was quieter this time. Much gentler now, more rooted in genuine concern.

“But, legit, are you not going to tell Tweek?”

She paused, eyes flickering toward where Tweek stood with the crew.

His shoulders tensed the way they always did when he was trying to be polite around strangers. He was smiling now, nodding along to something the audio tech said, but Wendy knew better than to take that at face value. That was his PR-interview smile. The one he wore for appearance.

“I don’t know,” she admitted, voice low.

She tilted her head. “Why not?”

“I just…” Wendy sighed, dragging a hand through her hair. “I don’t want him to worry.”

“He’s not your dad.”

“I know that,” Wendy said, sharper than intended. Then, softer: “It’s not like I think I’ve done anything with Stan—I haven’t—, but I’m worried Tweek might get in his head… since, you know.”

She nods over, referring to something . Something that Red hums in response with a sense of understanding.

“If I tell him I spent the night out with some guy from a band we barely know, he might spiral about it even if he pretends not to. I’ll only tell him when I’m sure.”

She looked down at her lap, suddenly aware of how tightly she was twisting the cap on her water bottle.

“Are you sure?”

“We’ll see.”

Red leaned back into the couch, nodding. “You know Tweek would want you to be happy, though, right?”

“Yeah,” Wendy said. “I know.”

But to her, it wasn’t about whether Tweek would be supportive. He would be. Maybe too supportive, in a way where he’d quietly start checking in on her every hour or overthink every word she said, making her think she’s doing everything wrong.

It’s all in the little things: how often he asked if she was okay, how fast he pulled away from conversations where she seemed tired or distracted. It wasn’t his fault. He just… cared a lot. Too much sometimes.

She appreciates it, but she thinks he could waste his worries on something more important.

This thing with Stan—it was still too new, too unshaped to even call a thing. She didn’t know what it meant yet. She wasn’t ready to share it with Tweek and have it be up for interrogation. Not yet, at least.

“Well. You don’t owe anyone a play-by-play, but I will say that if you like Stan, maybe figure out how you want to handle it. At least, before it figures itself out for you.” Red glanced toward Tweek again and then back at Wendy. 

Wendy hummed in acknowledgment but didn’t answer.

Her phone buzzed quietly in her lap.

Stan: Duly noted ma’am
Stan: [Video]
Stan: Also found this from last night
Stan: Victory dance post-trivia
Stan: Quite the dancer you are

She bit back a smile.

Wendy : Oh my god delete that
Wendy : I don’t remember that at all
Wendy : Wait
Wendy : I look kinda good there though

She locked her phone again before she could spiral. Red caught the whole exchange with a raised brow.

“Stop looking.”

“I’m not looking,” Red said, smug. “I’m just very observant.”

“Eat shit.”

She giggled. “I love you, too.”

“Drunk drivers, drunk drivers,” the voice rings through the speakers. “Put it out of your mind, and perish the thought.”

The venue was packed. The kind of packed where sweat clung to everyone’s arms, and the floor vibrated like it was on the verge of cracking. Somewhere between the second and third beer, Red had pulled Wendy into the pit with the reckless grin of someone who had nothing to lose. 

“Drunk drivers, drunk drivers.”

The band surged into moody but lively guitars. The drums further amplified the energy in the crowd. Everyone surged and lunged and danced to the rhythm.

This was supposed to be fun.

And it was fun. At least on paper.

Wendy was supposed to be screaming the lyrics with the rest of them, arms around Red and Craig—who, granted, would try and push her arms away. God knows those cousins hate the thought of any physical contact, especially in the heat.

But her voice caught halfway through the chorus, and when the bridge came.

“It doesn't have to be like this, it doesn't have to be like this…” She didn’t sing, nor did she feel she could.

She just stood there.

Because she was thinking about him again.

Stan.

She hated how stupid it felt. The way her chest tightened for no reason. How she could remember the exact expression on his face when they’d talked backstage—wide-eyed, half-nervous, half-charmed. The way he laughed when he thought she wasn’t looking. The way his voice dipped slightly when he asked if they could hang out again.

God . What was wrong with her?

He hadn’t even done anything. He’d just shown up, like a regular person, like someone who hadn’t been stuck in her head for the last few waking hours.

A guy she’d met at a music festival. That’s all he was, she thinks. Someone she probably wouldn’t ever have met had Red not dragged him into their lives.

Now she stood by the fences on the sides, wallflowering while Red and Craig danced to the music like everyone else. She dragged her fingers through her hair and tried to focus on the music again.

Will Toledo was on stage, giving the performance of a lifetime, and here she was thinking about some boy she barely knew. Even the lyrics could see right through her.

She should’ve just thrown herself into the noise. That’s what she usually did—lose herself in the music, let the fuzzed-out guitars shake all the feelings out of her body.

But instead, she kept thinking about the way Stan had looked at her. The way her phone buzzed late at night now, telling her how he got home. The way she slept at three AM, nearing four, talking to him. How easy it was to talk to him. 

She wondered if he’d like this band. If he’d get the point of all these songs, or if he’d just laugh at how messy and dramatic they sounded.

She wondered if he’d come with her had she asked.

She wondered if she’d let him.

Her phone buzzed in her back pocket. For a second, her heart jumped. She wasn’t even sure why.

She pulled it out.

Stan : Are you at Car Seat Headrest?

Wendy stared at the message for a beat too long.

Then she smiled—just a little.

Wendy : Yeah.

The phone doesn’t buzz for a good minute, but the buzzing doesn’t matter when she hears her name being called right behind her.

She turns back, expecting to see his blue eyes and that cleft chin.

“Earth to Wendy, are you okay?” Craig asked, looking at her concerned. “You seem really out of it, man.”

She felt her shoulders stiff, her face getting hot as if she had been caught in a lie. Maybe in some way she did.

“Maybe I need some sleep.” Which wasn’t a lie—not necessarily—she had roughly four hours of sleep from a hectic day. “I’m fine, though, thanks.”

Stan: Knew it. I was gonna go, but I promised Kenny I’d come with him and get a barrier for Charlie XCX’s set

She catches Red by the corner of her eye; she’s looking at her all-knowingly. Almost with a glint of “Don’t be stupid” right in her way.

As soon as Craig goes back to watch the set with her, she switches, though, playing dumb to Wendy’s quiet presence.

9:53 PM.

If the ride to the venue is around 10 minutes, this gives Stan and Kenny around a good hour to hang out with Wendy and her friends.

“Come on, dude, let’s go,” Stan says, tugging on his friend’s arm.

“Okay, ow , wait—” Kenny mumbles, almost tripping as he’s lugged by him.

Stan leads the two of them to the sidewalk just outside of Grant Park. As he hails a cab, Kenny goes through his pockets.

Awfully, he’s really quiet. And it’s the quiet that worries Stan. It rarely means anything good.

And he’s right.

“Dude—my wallet’s gone,” Kenny said, patting down his jacket and jeans like the thing might materialize if he kept touching every pocket.

He blinks. “You had it when we bought food earlier.”

“Yeah, but that was, like, a few hours ago.” Kenny starts walking back into the venue, retracing his steps as he scans the floor. “It could’ve fallen out anywhere.”

The air suddenly feels hotter. Stan runs a hand through his hair. “Okay, retrace your steps. Where were you right before we got here?”

10:12 PM.

Stan found himself shoving back through the mass of people toward a bar they had visited earlier that day, his mind split between picturing Wendy waiting and the very real possibility of Kenny’s cash and ID being in some stranger’s pocket right now.

“Hello—” Kenny nervously waves, the alcohol buzzing in his system quickly dissipating as the sooner the time passes. “Would you have happened to see a wallet earlier? It’s one of those cheap, red, Lightning McQueen wallets.”

The bartender he was talking to quirked a brow in confusion. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think so. I can contact you if anything is surrendered to us.”

“Okay, great! Get my friend Stan’s number.” He pulls the boy next to him to swap numbers.

Stan just nods as he brings out his phone to exchange numbers. Just as the bartender types in his number, a text appears from the top of his screen.

Wendy: Hey Stan! What time are you and Kenny getting here?

He looks down immediately, feeling himself coil as bile builds up in his throat.

He’ll have to tell her that he’s gonna run a lot later than what he initially said.

The bartender types in a message that goes through. He looks over to the exit of the bar and sees that Kenny’s racing out already. Stan races to the other side of the place to keep up—all the while opening his phone to send a heads-up to Wendy.

Stan: Hey Wendy, so sorry- something came up and I’ll run a little late
Stan: Will definitely make it there in time

Okay, so he might be lying, but he’s certain he’ll make it. At least catch a glimpse of her. It’s only 10:16, the ride’s less than ten minutes away.

Kenny sped through the crowds exiting the venues, making his way to the dirty stalls. Unfortunately for Stan, there was a line.

Nowhere else to turn other than here. They’d already checked the lost and found, as well as asked multiple people they swore they saw at the previous shows from earlier if they saw Kenny’s wallet. To no avail, the disappearance of the McCormick wallet remains unsolved.

For a good 10 minutes, the two stand in line until Kenny goes into the rotting porta-potty. 

He stays in the stall for a few moments before ceremoniously busting out of the stall.

“Crisis averted!” Kenny grinned, waving the plastic Lightning McQueen wallet.

Stan didn’t even have the energy to smile back. All he could think about was Wendy, probably checking the clock and wondering if he was gonna bail. “Come on, we have to run.”

10:30 PM.

The sidewalks are completely filled with people hailing taxis and booking Ubers. Hell, it was difficult to stand out there without being squished.

There’s no way they’re gonna be able to get there with a car.

“Fuck it, let’s walk instead,” Stan says, opening Google Maps.

Kenny peers over his phone, and it reads out that walking would take 30 minutes.

It doesn’t seem like there’s any choice, so with one hand with the GPS out, he takes a deep breath before he starts to book it in the direction it pointed.

“Man, wait!” Kenny says, trailing behind him, not expecting that he’d run.

“Wendy’s set starts at 11, we’re getting the one way or another.” He pants out.

10:55 PM.

Stan runs up to the security guard standing by the entrance, with Kenny catching up behind. 

“Hello,” He pants, catching his breath. “We’re listed under Wendy…” He pauses, recalling her real name. “Wendy Testaburger…”

The guard looks at him with suspicion, not expecting someone who seems as sweaty and wrestled up as the two of them to be invited. “Name?”

“Stan Marsh and Kenny McCormick.”

“You have an ID?”

Both of them pull out their driver’s licenses and show it to the guard, who half-bregrudgingly lets them in.

As the two find their place in the theatre, Stan pulls out his phone.

Stan: Hey Wendy we just arrived at the venue
Stan: Sorry we couldn’t hang out before your show, we can probably hang out another time?

He pinches the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath.

For a second, he considers turning around. Not because he doesn’t want to see her, but because there’s a knot in his chest that’s been tightening since that first ‘Hey, what time are you getting here?’ text. He’d promised her an hour, and she’d probably cleared time for him, and now here he is, showing up sweaty and late like some random fan.

It fills him with a sense of shame that he’s made someone like her clear time up for him , just for him to not deliver? He’d hate to see her on stage and feel nothing but guilt the whole time.

But if he leaves, he knows he’ll hate himself for it. Even if she’s disappointed, at least he’ll get to watch her—remind himself why he wanted to come in the first place.

Besides, he’d rather miss the show than have Kenny’s safety be compromised. Kenny who is currently looking for some water for the two of them.

The stage is reigned by a deep blue light, with that puffy, white smoke filling the grounds. A couple of streaks of white light pierce through all the cool colors. Vaguely, he could make out the instruments set up on stage.

His phone vibrates, and he opens it to see what it is.

Wendy reacted with a ‘❤️’ to your message.

He lets out the biggest sigh he has had in a while. It’s good to see that his friendship with her hasn’t been totally destroyed.

Vaguely, he could recognize the band stepping on stage.

A blaring synth echoes throughout the theatre, slowly playing through the chords.

It’s deafening, but it is one way to draw attention.

The lights start to dim a little, the smoke clears out, and the image of the band is much more visible.

As the stage finally clears, Wendy’s seen hunched over on the ground in the center, back turned to the audience. 

“You’re my number one,” distinctly, she sings, starting to rise from her position, turning to the audience. “You’re the one I want.”

He looks around him, and he sees everyone so absorbed with her. Many of these people had probably watched her set from the day before—including him, but something about this seemed so different than watching her on festival grounds.

Stan realizes two things at this moment: one, this was much different from her set from yesterday. Whereas yesterday’s show was a set, today’s was a performance.

Outside of the lights, everything is more minimal. The set starts with a single, haunting instrument rather than their usual, dynamic song, and no one but Wendy is on stage, moving.

It’s much more intimate, largely because the crowd is smaller. No one is cheering, no one is clapping, and everyone is just staring . Silenced by the smallest moves, showcasing the years of dedication to the craft.

The second thing he realizes is,

She turns around to the crowd. “And I’ve turned down every hand that has beckoned me to come.”

Wendy looks really good in this blue lighting. Like really good.

Chapter Text

“Okay, can we clear something up? What happened?”

Kyle looked one careless comment away from a dramatic eyeroll. He didn’t have the patience for vague anecdotes, especially when they’d been dancing around the story since yesterday.

Stan and Kenny shared a look. The unspoken “you first” hung heavy between them.

“Stan…” The blonde looked at him with that constant smug expression. Clearly, he was waiting for his friend to take the fall first.

Kyle narrowed his eyes—just what could possibly be so hard to say?

He took the hint and, with a sigh, eased his nerves by rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay, well…”

Kyle finds his seat in Stan’s desk chair with a mug of tea, sitting across from the two on the edge of the bed.

Stan took a breath, bracing. “I might’ve… gotten Wendy Madeline’s number.”

“Wait.” He stared. ” Wait —like the Wendy Madeline? Dearest I’m So Sorry Wendy Madeline ?”

“That one, yeah,” Stan mumbled, trying to play it cool—though his attempt to hide a smile was poorly executed.

Kenny grinned with much smugness. “All thanks to yours truly.”

Kyle blinked, processing. “Dude. What? What the hell even happened?”

“Nothing bad, I swear,” Stan said quickly. “We just… hit it off. Talked a bit, watched each other's sets, maybe entered trivia together, swapped numbers.” He says, mumbling the second-to-last bit.

Kyle cut him off, raising his hand. “Trivia? Dude, you hate trivia.” He said, jaw ajar even after speaking. It almost sounded like he felt betrayed, when really he was in insurmountable levels of disbelief.

“Are you joking?” Even Kenny’s surprised.

Stan shook his head, waving them off. “No, no, the host asked if we wanted to join, and I guess… Well, I left it up to her to decide.”

“Abandoning your own morals, huh,” Kenny hummed.

“Whatever, we won anyway.”

Kyle scoffed. “What, did she carry you?”

“...Well, kinda.”

Kenny and Kyle fistbump. “Do Jimmy and Butters know? What about Cartman?” The latter asks.

Stan winced. “No. None of them do.”

Kyle tilted his head. “Are you guys… friends?”

“Yeah. Friends.” He said with hesitation, but it’s obvious in the way he avoids eye contact with them and rolls his shoulders back that he feels bad for being dissatisfied with just that.

Kenny snorted, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, friends . You should’ve seen the two of them—making googoo eyes all the time.”

“Sounds insufferable,” Kyle spoke blankly.

“Believe me,” he said. “I watched it all unfold.”

Stan jabbed a finger in his direction. “You set me up!”

“Red helped,” Kenny shrugged.

“Red?”

“Wendy’s lead guitarist,” The blonde said. “She’s pretty sick.”

Stan shot him a look. “Wait, what were you even doing while we were talking?”

“Watching from, like, ten feet away. Then we got bored and just hung out in the back.”

Kyle leaned forward. “Alright, okay, chill—but what do you think about her?”

Cause that’s what mattered now, whether he’d be willing to admit his feelings or not.

Stan’s shoulders tensed. He stared at the floor for a second, like saying it aloud might set something off.

He finally exhaled. “I really like her."

“Okay,” Kyle nodded. “Are you gonna do anything about it?”

Stan groaned, falling back down to the bed. “I don’t know. I mean, we got along, but I don’t know if I’ll even see her again. She’s… she’s awesome, and I wanna know her better, but I don’t wanna be weird about it.”

“What do you mean weird? Why do you think you’d make things weird ?”

He paused to think, but Kyle knew himself to be right. He lets him beat himself to a corner.

“I don’t know—”

“Yeah, exactly. I’m sure she doesn’t see you that way, especially if she gave you her number.”

“He’s got a point,” Kenny chimed in. “I didn’t think Wendy’s cheeks got red easily.”

Stan pushes himself back up. “Kenny, so help me, God—”

“I’m serious,” Kyle said. “If you want to see her again, just reach out. Ask her to hang out. She’s from Colorado, right?”

“Yeah. I guess, I might,” Stan mumbled. “I mean… I think I will.”

Kenny gave him a pat on the back, one with too much force that almost knocked him over. “Proud of you, loverboy.”

Stan was about to reply when something clicked. “Wait, what time is it?”

Kenny checked his phone. “12:47.”

“Shit—I have a meeting at one!” Stan jumped up and scrambled to grab his stuff.

“For what?” Kyle called after him.

“The solo project thing I mentioned!” Stan shouted while hopping into his shoes, making a run now for the door. “Don’t forget to lock the door when you get out! And feed Milo!”

As he flew out the door, Kenny called after him with a smug grin: “Okay, but don’t forget to ask out your girlfriend!”

“Fuck off!”

The door then slammed shut.

He’s down deep in the rabbit hole.

Wendy sat in another drab meeting room—white walls, huge dry-erase boards, and too many motivational posters to count. The only upgrade this time was the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the city skyline.

She leaned back in her chair, eyes drifting to the view: a group of teens walked by with slushies, a grandma struggling to carry groceries, a businessman visibly fuming at the hotdog stand line. The city seemed to stop at nothing, no matter what.

She brings out her phone, reading 1:06 PM on the time. Someone was running late to the meeting. Just a few minutes, though, but apparently this guy was a key player in the project. So until he arrived, they waited.

Wendy leaned back in her chair, eyes drifting to the window once more.

Footsteps echoed down the hallway. Then the door swung open.

“Sorry, I’m late!” came a breathless voice—panicked, out of breath from sprinting.

Familiar, she thinks.

She looked up.

Stan?

Stan Marsh. Figure hunched over as he tries to catch his breath. 

Their eyes locked. Again.

He froze in the doorway, visibly tensing the moment he saw her.

His hair is slightly disheveled, and he seems to be in imminent need of a cold glass of water.

“Ah, good you’re here,” one of the execs said, pointing to an open chair. “Take a seat—the one across from Wendy.”

Wendy blinked—what’s going on?

A thought quickly entered. Oh, fuck , what if someone took a photo of them at the bar? And now everyone’s assuming they’re in a relationship? Her PR manager wasn’t here, though, and the execs didn’t seem to be upset—

She barely registered the gentle pat on her shoulder. “You good?” Bebe asked softly.

“Oh. Yeah,” Wendy replied quickly, trying to recompose herself. “Just a little tired.”

“Alright. Let me know if you need anything, ‘kay?” Bebe smiled warmly.

And Bebe hasn’t seemed to give her the we-need-to-talk look. Yet. 

Wendy nodded. “Yeah, of course.”

At the front of the room, a man stood up, marker in hand, smile practiced.

“Good afternoon, everyone. Most of you know me, but for formalities’ sake, I’m Tom Mitchell, VP of Whiplash Records.”

He clicked the remote in his hand, flicking through slides as he continued. “Today’s meeting is between the teams from Whiplash Records and Dynamite Hit. The goal is to discuss a new collaboration between two of our standout artists—Ms. Wendy Madeline and Mr. Stan Marsh of Crimson Dawn.”

A collab with Stan. How coincidental.

But why ?

Wendy glanced at Stan, who was quietly mumbling something to his manager. She looked at Bebe, who only gave her a knowing smile.

Would’ve been nice to get a heads up, Wendy thought.

Tom kept going. “With Wendy’s upcoming album slated for early next year, and with Crimson Dawn’s recent surge in popularity, we want the two of you to collaborate. The direction and sound are up to you—but we do ask that you follow a tight schedule so neither of your other projects is affected.”

The next slide was a cleanly formatted timeline. Wendy barely skimmed it before looking back at Stan, who still seemed stunned, eyes drawn to the presentation. She notes the way he tapped rhythmically on the table with black painted nails, as well as how he stretches his shoulders and neck after staring at something for too long.

“So,” Tom continued, “we’re starting with today’s meeting: August 9. First progress check is due August 23. After that, revisions are due by September 6. We’ll begin studio recording at Penny Jayce between September 13 and 19.”

He paused to check if they were still with him. They both nodded slowly, along with their respective teams, who seemed to be much more aware of this than they were, still catching up with the news.

“Any questions?”

Wendy and Stan both shared a look with each other, a mix of surprise and irony shared between them. Though the guy still seemed to be a little shaken up from his tardiness.

Stan’s manager raises his hand civilly. “Are there any planned rehearsals or pre-shoot meetings outside the timeline listed? We'd just like a full picture of time commitments.”

“Thank you, Cartman,” he nods, flicking a few slides back. “Nothing’s formally scheduled yet outside of the writing and studio dates listed, but we may ask for one or two pre-shoot planning meetings in October. We’ll coordinate those directly with your teams with at least a week’s notice.”

Not even starting the project yet, Wendy felt her nerves fire everywhere. It’s been a while since she’s done a collaboration, and with that means letting people in.

Particularly Stan.

Bring Wendy back to freely flirting with others, and not find out you have to work with them.

Bebe, in the midst of writing details in a small notebook, raised her hand. “Are we shooting any promo alongside this? Music videos, photoshoots?”

Tom nodded, clicking ahead. “Getting to that, yes, we are. We’re hoping to shoot a music video sometime in late October—between the 23rd and 27th. Final photoshoots will be done that Saturday or maybe in the week itself. It depends on the direction.”

That’s not to say she hates Stan. It’s hard to look away from his baby blues.

Wendy’s hand shot up. “Just to clarify—the album won’t release until May. How does that affect this schedule?”

“Good question,” Tom replied. “The plan for you, Wendy, is to wrap the recording by November. That gives us December to fine-tune the final mixes, and January for promo materials. We’ll roll out announcements in March and April.”

He added, “And from what Bebe’s told us, you’ve already got a lot settled, so this shouldn’t be too much of a weight to you.”

Wendy offered a polite nod. “Makes sense. Thanks.”

Mr. Cartman raises a hand once more. “I just want to make sure we’re not setting these two up to fail by rushing production. What’s the contingency if chemistry or scheduling doesn’t pan out as expected?”

Excuse me?

He answers first with a click of the tongue and a sigh. “We trust both artists to communicate if the creative process hits any snags. If that happens, we’d rather delay and do it right than rush and deliver something half-baked. That said, we’ve built in feedback rounds to catch issues early.

“Any more questions?”

Silence.

“Alright, then! That’s it for now. Best of luck—you two are gonna make something special, I’m sure of it.”

There’s a strange bitterness on her tongue that Cartman leaves. One that she’ll push away from now. She’ll just say he’s looking out for Stan, and why shouldn’t he be doing so?

Chairs shuffled as everyone began filing out. Wendy made her way down the hallway towards the elevator when she heard a voice behind her, soft but urgent:

“Wendy!”

Stan, she thought. Stan, it was when she turned around.

“Hey! What’s up?” she asked, smiling in reflex—even if she still felt mildly knocked off balance. “I’m excited to work with you.”

He slowed to a stop, rubbing his neck awkwardly. “I’m too! Uh… when are you usually free?”

She thought for a second. “I’m not busy much. I’ll let you know when something comes up. Why?”

“Cool—I was just thinking that…Maybe you’d want to spend Tuesdays and Thursdays? To write?”

“Yeah, that works.” She nodded. “I’ll text you my address.”

He hesitated, then added, “Also… maybe we could hang out? Coffee, one of our places—up to you. Like, before we dive into writing, I mean. Just to get a little more comfortable with each other.”

Her heart ticked just a little faster. She hadn’t expected him to say that out loud.

She blinked, surprised—then smiled.

“Yeah. Sure. Why not?”