It was kind of lucky that they had some friends in the ‘scene’- otherwise, they’d never get shows. They knew another band who was a fan of their two-song demo, enough so that they even got them a show; it was a shitty bar, yeah, but shitty bars were the only bars that actually let them play, and the only bars that had audiences that would potentially appreciate their barely-rehearsed songs that barely even qualified as actual songs, by some accounts. It was a quick turnover- they met this other band once, and mitch could only remember faces, not names- the other band immediately got them a show, and a couple days later they turned up at a predictably shitty bar, with cheap drinks and questionable bathroom odours, ready to perform. First, though, they watched Pencey perform, and Mitch was genuinely a fan pretty quickly, though they only really paid full attention to one of the guitarists who looked like they had way too much energy for such small stature. They racked their brain for a name- [i]It begins with a H- fuck no, not Harry- Harvey? Aich-Oh... Aich-Oh-El. Holden.[/i] They shifted, triumphant. Holden... Something. The one who had been most enthusiastic about their own band, and had encouraged his bandmates to help get them a gig. Mitch reminded themselves to thank him properly later. It was a short set, and by the end, Mitch and their bandmates were suitably pumped for their own turn (save maybe Evan, who looked just as sick as he did when he arrived). There was about five minutes in which the two bands met again, only briefly, Mitch praising them hastily and turning to Holden specifically to deliver a compliment- [i]you’re crazy fucking good with that guitar.[/i] They flashed him a quick grin then turned towards the sort-of stage, making sure their bandmates were ready and then walking away to get ready, not looking back to see whether Holden had replied, or even heard what they had said. They hadn’t even started yet, and Mitch was already a hot mess; long, recently dyed black hair was unruly and some strands were plastered to their forehead until they pushed them back; their red eyeshadow was smeared somewhat, and they were wearing full black, creased to all hell, finishing off a smoke before finally turning towards and stepping up to the mic. Mitch had a charisma and stage presence while they were up there that didn’t seem to show itself when they were just [i]Mitch[/i], not the frontman of a probably unnecessarily theatrical band. Their voice, though not technically the best, was raw and unique and insanely expressive in ways other vocalists could only dream of; the [i]very[/i] modest crowd sure appreciated it, as was obvious by the end. Somehow, when they left the stage, they looked more or less the same as when they had walked on; save the even moreso tousled hair. Almost miraculously, Mitch didn’t even look out of breath (a trait shared with Evan, but definitely not the other band members). Walking off towards the other band again, grinning and pale all scarlet shadow and jet black hair, they looked almost ghoulish, like they’d be more at home in a gothic horror, or more realistically a Halloween party. When the two groups conversed again, though Mitch didn’t look at first, they could feel Holden’s eyes on them, and it took everything in them not to raise their eyebrows. Finally, though, they turned to make eye contact with the guitarist for half a second, before moving over to the bar to get something they’d pretend to drink. Evan had gone off god know’s where (probably Home, if they knew their brother, and they did), the other bandmates had dispersed off into the people waiting for the next band to go up, and the members of Pencey were probably off drinking elsewhere. Mitch remembered the drummer telling them they didn’t even really like this bar, and they’d probably be off afterwards, so they were saying goodbye in advance. Mitch was fine with this, apart from the fact part of them wanted to talk to Holden- mostly to ask about his guitar and his playing style, slightly because they wanted to know about that fucking scorpion tattoo on the side of his neck that only had seven legs. Apparently this Holden motherfucker could read minds, because moments into leaning against the bar and pretending to think about what they wanted to drink, the guitarist appeared next to them, and they turned, blinking. For the first time, they got to actually register what he looked like- still short, probably 5’6, with annoyingly good eyebrows, black hair swept almost to the side, and a lip and nose ring. He was cute, Mitch registered, eyes lingering for a few moments on that lip ring and then moving to his neck, to look again at the dodgy scorpion. They saw the start of other tattoos, too, and on his arms, Mitch could see even more. [b]”Hey. Holden, right? Nice lip ring.”[/b]