Chapter Text
Sunlight streams in through the window, perfectly aimed directly into Kenny's closed lids. He opens his eyes before quickly squinting them closed against the onslaught of gentle rays ushering in a new day. A groan escapes his throat and he rolls away into the shadows of his room. The sun should know not to crash a guy's post-death party where everything hurts like his skin and bones are brand new and unused to the harsh reality of existence; and Kenny would really rather stay in bed until he fully comes back into this body, thank you very much. Wait… party…?
Kenny shoots up, eyes unseeing of his bedroom wall, and fumbles through his sheets for his phone. Shit! Fuck!
"Son of a tap-dancing whore," he hisses when the date on the screen reads two days after the birthday party. Dammit, he had a whole plan: Kyle would ask if Kenny got him a gift, Kenny would spirit him away to another room of the apartment, and he would smooch him until he agreed to date Kenny. It had been a flawless idea and the blond sags that like many grand plans in his life, it was ruined by his untimely demise. The memory floats back to him unhurried. He and MOOP crossing a Denver street like it was Abbey Road, some asshole probably on their phone running a red light. Kenny's instincts and quick reactions led to blood and the soft, eggy complexity of Butters' quiches mixing on the asphalt in the setting Coloradoan sun.
He runs a callused hand down his face and wonders at the multiverse of explanations for his absence. He unlocks his phone and taps out a draft.
Me: hey,, sorry i missed your party. my brother called and i had to head home for a day or 2
He stares at the unsent text. It's plausible, if not outright falsifiable if Kyle ever met Kevin and realized someone would have to die for his brother to call Kenny rather than the other way around. Kenny sniffs in amusement. Well, someone did die, technically. A dull ache of guilt adds an additional weight to the low thrum of pain that accompanies resurrection. Kenny hits send. He hesitates, taps out another message to send, and hauls himself out of bed.
Me: i know i should have texted or called. can i make it up to u? [9:09AM]
--
Tolkien Black stares in resignation at the coffee cup handed to him moments ago. This is why he typically went out of his way to visit a specific Harbucks where the baristas knew him. As if hilariously retconned, the L and I do not appear in his name on his morning espresso latte. He sighs and takes a disappointed sip. C'mon people, this is real life, not some comedy show making an off-handed politically incorrect name for a character and struggling to backpedal years later. Tolkien is a forgiving man, and he understands that when pronounced, like the word 'wolf' or the word 'mien' in American dialects, L's and I's can go unspoken. So it goes for his name, an unfortunate thing given people's subsequent assumptions.
Ironically, Tolkien read the works of J.R.R. for whom he is named, and found them decent but not as praiseworthy as his father would espouse. He much prefers the anthological works of the Warhammer 40,000 universe and the engaging strategic table-top game that accompanies them.
His musings pause so he can buzz in at the ritzy high-rise in front of him. A lazy, deep voice mutters a hello and Tolkien strolls through the glass doors and heads toward the elevator.
The muzzak providing background music as he ascends floor after floor reminds him and he scrolls his watch to check his messages. He dictates a response to his mother's inquiries and assures her that plenty of time has passed for him to recover from the logistic hurricane of the tour. Message sent, he steps off the elevator thinking that his charges have had more than enough space.
Craig lets him in and immediately Tolkien's nose fills with the scent of fresh-baked bread and something earthy. As politely as possible, Tolkien quickly struts to the kitchen island where several loaves of various yeasty pastries rest, steam rising tantalizingly from their scoring. For approximately 185 reasons, Tolkien feels unendingly grateful that the agency assigned him to manage MOOP, but certainly high among them are the herbaceous breads spread before the tall man. Another loaf, this one circular and smelling of sweet citrus and thyme, slides onto the stone countertop courtesy of Butters' oven mitts.
"Mornin', Tolkien!" the blond greets exuberantly.
"Good morning, Butters," Tolkien replies, selecting a slice and indulging in a large bite. "You know I could still arrange for some assistants to help you out with the channel. I've seen crews of two to three on average for the setup you run by yourself."
"Aw, thank ya, but The Butters Show ain't meant to be a big operation like all that," Butters shyly refuses. "I already have Dougie editing most'a the videos, anyway. Least I can do is film 'em myself."
Tolkien chuckles to himself. Reason 43 to enjoy MOOP as a client: the persistent humility of each of its members. A subscriber count hovering in the million and a half range hardly qualifies as the small side project that Butters seems to view it as. It still baffles him how much effort it took to convince the blond to outsource editing. It may have involved some strategic guilt-tripping and recruiting the rest of MOOP to intervene, pleading for Butters to assess his workload and his energy levels.
The intervention concluded a series of events wherein Tolkien noticed a member of the band not fully taking advantage of the resources available in their year and a half with the Agency. Red could not grasp the idea of a wardrobe with more than a week's worth of outfits. Craig finally conceded that fame brought with it the ability to own a penthouse tall enough to see the stars despite living in downtown Denver. Even Kenny admitted that first class plane seats were worth the money. And yet, Butters continues to inspire, produce, film, and partially edit an average of two videos per month while an active member of an increasingly famous rock band.
Tolkien hears a door open and turns to see the other blond band member slinking from his room toward the heavenly happenings in the kitchen.
"Good morning, sunshine," Red calls from her perch at the end of the expansive kitchen island.
Tolkien catches Craig out of the corner of his eye moving toward the coffee maker, three mugs dangling by their handles in his hands. He speaks without turning to look at Kenny.
"We missed you at your boyfriend's party. You talent for fucking off at the most random times continues to amaze," Craig says over the whirring of the expensive espresso machine. At that, Tolkien whips his head around with a quickness that nearly has his spectacles flying off his face.
"Kenny, you have a boyfriend?" he asks, shocked and a little hurt that this is the first he hears of it. His confusion deepens when the other man shrinks in on himself at the topic of conversation, eyes darting anywhere but to the other people in the room. It's an odd look on MOOP's drummer, who for the longest time had Tolkien convinced that his only two states of being were flirty or funny. A sardonic chuff from Tolkien's left averts the agent's gaze to Red.
"Not if he dips again like last weekend. Seriously, Ken, you haven't pulled that shit since before we were signed. What gives?" she clearly sat on this interrogation for longer that the minute Kenny has stood awkwardly in the middle of the living room. Tolkien notes the admonition in her tone and an almost wistful anger. He takes in her slightly ruffled hair, pushed back by a fluffy black headband. Her blue eyes dig icily into her friend - the rarest combination for natural redheads, Tolkien remembers thinking. Now, he thinks about the purple smudging underneath them and whether the vocalist is getting enough sleep or if she simply forgot to remove her makeup before bed again. He's still standing; and he could easily make the two or three strides to run a thumb over those dark circles to check-
She's a client.
He turns back to Kenny, who appears to have rebooted during Tolkien's inappropriate meandering.
"I got a call from Kev - nothing bad," Kenny interrupts himself when MOOP collectively tenses in attention, "Just, uh, Karen got a um, cold. I drove down, she told me to go right back. Got in real late last night." He joins Tolkien at the bar as Craig sets down coffee for the three of them. Kenny pulls the steaming mug close and inhales.
"And he's not my boyfriend, yet," and there he is. "He's a big bro, too. He'll get it. And then I'll get him." Kenny takes a sip of the coffee. "Yum."
Tolkien isn't sure if Kenny's hum of approval is for the coffee or for this unfortunate mystery man who caught the blond's eye. He's afraid to ask. Still, a responsible agent he must be.
"This wouldn't happen to be another scandalous one-night stand that I should expect to field in the tabloids, would it," he asks half-jokingly and half with the pleading tone of a man who has declined too many interviews and reported too many pictures of his client's bare ass in magazines to remain fully sane.
Kenny shakes his head, "Nah. Kyle's a guy I had a meet-ugly with like, the second we got back from tour. I'd say it's a situationship, but that would imply that we fucked and that I didn't decide to go home instead of to his birthday party. Neither of those are the reality, and now I'm hoping for a redemption arc."
Tolkien nods along. He most definitely is not getting the full story, but the information he does have suggests little to no controversy for now.
The five of them eat breakfast companionably, Butters having whipped up a full course breakfast alongside several loaves of bread. Tolkien gathers enough from the chit-chat that his friends will do well with the next challenge he brought them.
"So," he clears his throat, "I'm sure you're wondering why I've gathered you all here this morning."
"We live here," Craig flatly says.
Tolkien continues over him, slightly louder, "The tour, small as it was, received amazing press. MOOP was already on the map, but now it's approaching capital status."
Butters lets out a pity chuckle at the extended metaphor.
"Kenny may have met a guy, but I met with the big boss. The Agency managed to swing a gig at the Red Rocks Amphitheater for next summer."
The realization is palpable. Butters emits a high frequency squeak while the other three gape at their smug agent. Red Rocks Amphitheater means you've made it. Red Rocks Amphitheater hosted The Beatles and Jimi Hendrix and Rush and Earth, Wind & Fire and countless other artists hoping to perform in that sweeping bowl of iron-rich rock before the glittering skyline of Denver. Booking a gig at Red Rocks was something MOOP dreamed of in hushed whispers in high school, when forming a band still felt like a pet project to keep half of them out of juvie. Tolkien knew this, and his lips curl in satisfaction at the loading screens flashing through the musicians' eyes as they process the news.
"You don't mean…" Red trails off, her voice soft and high. Maybe Tolkien misled them a bit.
"There's only one weekend booked, and the big boss only wants one band to headline."
"We are only one band," whispers Kenny, his eyes wide as saucers. Tolkien winces. Definitely misled them.
"Yes, but the Agency is weighing two options. The good news is that MOOP is one of them."
"What's the bad news?" Craig asks dazed, the most pragmatic at the thought of their wildest dreams coming true.
"The Agency wants to make it into a sort of competition. And your opponents are the Goth Kids."