Chapter 3 — Recording Dreams

Lane

The recording studio hummed with a quiet tension that Lane could feel in the soles of his sneakers. The muted gray walls, lined with soundproofing panels, swallowed every echo like a predator devouring its prey. Cables snaked across the floor in a chaotic sprawl, their black coils gleaming faintly under the stark artificial light. The room carried the scent of burnt coffee and warm electronics, underscored by the metallic tang of nervous sweat—a sensory cocktail of ambition and unease.

Lane perched on a stool near his guitar, his fingers brushing over its jet-black finish as he adjusted the tuning pegs with meticulous care. One of the strings had been buzzing faintly during soundcheck, and the imperfection had needled at him until he couldn't ignore it. The etched branches and stars along the guitar’s body caught the light in intricate patterns, grounding him in their familiarity. Plucking a few soft notes, he let the sound ripple through the air, briefly cutting through the oppressive silence.

Through the glass, Christian stood in the vocal booth, his dark hair tousled like he'd just rolled out of bed. His posture betrayed him—shoulders hunched slightly forward, weight shifting restlessly between his feet. The silver guitar pick necklace hung against his chest, catching Lane’s eye as it glinted faintly under the booth’s lights. Christian’s fingers tapped an irregular rhythm on the mic stand, a subtle but telling habit Lane had come to recognize whenever Christian was wrestling with something internal.

“Alright, Christian, whenever you’re ready,” the producer’s voice crackled through the studio speakers. His tone was calm but clipped, carrying the weight of authority that years in the industry had earned him. The producer, a wiry man with sharp features and sharper words, was a legend in the indie scene—known for shaping raw talent into hits, but never without bruising a few egos along the way.

Christian nodded, but the motion seemed more instinctive than intentional. He closed his eyes, drew a breath, and the first note spilled out, low and raw. The melody rose and wove itself into the room, threading through the charged silence like a lifeline. Lane closed his own eyes, letting the music wash over him. The song was new—Christian had written it in a haze of insomnia just a few nights ago. It was haunted. Aching. Every note seemed to carry the weight of something unspoken, so deeply personal that Lane felt almost intrusive listening to it.

Lane didn’t need to ask what—or who—the song was about. The cracks in Christian’s voice on certain lines gave it away, filling the space with a vulnerability so tangible it was almost hard to breathe. Lane opened his eyes to see Christian falter on a high note, his voice catching as his fingers tightened around the mic stand. By the time the song ended, Christian stepped out of the booth, the headphones dangling loosely around his neck. He slouched onto the couch in the corner, tipping his head back against the wall, his expression unreadable.

“That was... fine,” the producer said from the control room, his tone clinical as he scribbled a note on his clipboard. “But it’s not there yet. We need more energy, more emotion. Right now, it feels surface-level.”

Christian’s jaw tightened visibly, but he didn’t reply. The words hung heavy in the room, a sharp contrast to the raw performance Lane had just witnessed. Lane shifted his gaze to the others. Robbie, seated on the floor, was tapping out an absent-minded rhythm on his knee, his smile dimmed but still present. Sawyer leaned against the desk, his bass slung casually over his shoulder, the smirk on his face masking a flicker of unease.

“Well, don’t sugarcoat it or anything,” Sawyer finally said, his drawl breaking the silence. “We wouldn’t want Christian to get a big head.”

The producer didn’t look up. “We’re here to make a hit, not coddle feelings.”

Lane’s fingers stilled on his guitar strings. He glanced at Christian, who sat up just enough to press his hand against his chest, his thumb brushing the silver pick. The quiet motion felt less like a habit today and more like an anchor in rough waters. Lane hesitated for a moment, then stood, leaning his guitar carefully against the wall before taking a seat beside Christian.

“Hey,” Lane said softly, his voice barely cutting through the ambient hum of the studio. “You alright?”

Christian’s green eyes opened slowly, dull with exhaustion. “Just... tired,” he muttered. “Stuck in my head.”

Lane nodded, resting his elbows on his knees as he glanced at the floor. “The song’s good. More than good. One of your best.”

Christian let out a hollow laugh. “Doesn’t sound like it.”

“It’s not the song,” Lane said, his tone thoughtful, measured. “It’s you. You’re holding back.”

Christian frowned, a crease forming between his brows as he turned to Lane. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Whatever you’re feeling—you’re not letting it out,” Lane replied. “Not all the way.”

“I’m not—” Christian began, but the words faltered halfway. His hand dropped from his necklace, and for a long moment, he just stared down at nothing. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost a whisper. “I don’t know how to do this. Not just the song—all of it. The studio, the band… everything. It’s like I’m trying to prove something, but I don’t even know what it is. Or who it’s for.”

The words hit Lane like a weight, though not unexpectedly. He’d seen glimpses of this before—the cracks in Christian’s confidence, the way his ambition seemed to crush him as much as it propelled him forward. It made Lane think of their early days at The Midnight Haze, when Christian had gripped the mic stand so hard his knuckles turned white, his hands trembling as he sang for an audience of thirty people.

“You don’t have to prove anything,” Lane said gently. “Not to us, anyway. We’re here because we believe in this. In you.”

A faint, humorless smile tugged at Christian’s lips. “Is this your way of saying you like me, Lane?”

Lane rolled his eyes, but a small laugh slipped out anyway. “Don’t push your luck.”

Sawyer sauntered over, a water bottle dangling from his hand. “Am I interrupting a heartfelt moment?” he asked, his smirk firmly in place. “Should I leave you two alone, or...?”

“Shut up, Sawyer,” Lane said, though his voice lacked any real bite.

Sawyer plopped down on Christian’s other side, handing him the water bottle. “Listen, man, you’ve got this. The song’s killer. The producer’s just being a pain because that’s literally his job.” He leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head. “And if you need to scream into a pillow later, I’ll lend you one of mine.”

Christian’s lips twitched into something closer to a real smile. “Thanks, I guess.”

The producer clapped his hands as he re-entered the room, his clipboard tucked under one arm. “Alright, let’s try this again,” he said briskly. “Christian, back in the booth. The rest of you, start warming up. We’ll lay the instrumentals next.”

Christian sighed, pushing himself to his feet. Before he stepped into the booth, he glanced back at Lane. His hand brushed his necklace again—a small, instinctive motion. “Thanks,” he said softly, his voice carrying an unexpected weight.

Lane nodded, picking up his guitar once more as Christian disappeared behind the soundproof glass. The tension in the room was still palpable, but it had shifted—lightened slightly, like a storm that had started to break. Lane plucked a few experimental notes, the sound filling the air as Sawyer tuned his bass nearby.

For a moment, Lane let himself get lost in the music, imagining the days when they’d played for nothing but the pure joy of it. The Midnight Haze, the graffiti-covered walls, the energy of a crowd that felt like family. He glanced toward the booth, where Christian adjusted his headphones, the silver pick catching the light once more.

The weight of what they were chasing was immense. But for now, the music was enough to hold them together. Lane could only hope that it always would be.