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🕑 Added 2025-05-21 17:26:48 +0000 UTCChapter 116: Tossing and Turning
One, two, three, four heads—all crammed together in front of the computer screen. Booking plane tickets was a task that really only needed one person, but somehow all four band members ended up huddled around, acting like they were hashing out some high-stakes rocket launch plan. Sure, John Mark had promised to reimburse business-class tickets, but the thing is, the band had gotten so used to pinching pennies over time that they couldn’t just flip a switch and think differently. They were still hunting for the best deal—and, well, their wallets were pretty light.
Ding.
A new email popped up on the computer. Ronan casually opened it, only to be met with a chorus of complaints from the others, practically scolding him:
“We’re trying to pick tickets here!”
“I just saw one, and you scrolled past it!”
“Go back, go back—what are you doing?”
Ronan’s head was spinning, but before he could fire back, his eyes instinctively flicked to the sender. “Huh, it’s from John Mark.”
Whoosh.
All the noise stopped dead. The griping cut off like someone hit mute, and every pair of eyes zeroed in on the email.
In it, John laid out the plan for tomorrow and the days ahead in detail.
After arriving in Washington tomorrow, he’d already booked them a hotel—the Hilton right in the city center. He included the address and contact info. The band would check in on their own, grab some lunch, and then at 2 p.m., a car would pick them up from the hotel and take them to the Verizon Center, the venue for this leg of the tour, for rehearsal.
He also mentioned he was still in Los Angeles, tied up with some stuff, and wouldn’t head to Washington with Bruno for another two days. When they got there, Bruno would have a quick chat with the band to officially lock things in. Until then, John’s assistant would be in Washington to help them with rehearsals and anything else they needed.
The email was CC’d to said assistant, complete with a digital business card at the bottom. John reminded them to book their tickets, figure out their arrival time at the Washington airport, and let the assistant know.
“He’ll handle the ticket reimbursement,” John added.
And at the end, he threw in a little playful jab at Ronan.
The email was packed with info—thorough, clear, and full of practical details. It covered all the bases and flagged one key point: the band wasn’t locked in as the warm-up act yet. They still had to meet with Bruno for that final confirmation.
In an instant, it all started to feel real. And the fact that it wasn’t 100% set in stone? That actually made it seem even more legit.
So… John Mark was really John Mark? And John Mark was really Bruno Mars’ tour manager? And the One Day Kings might actually get to be the opening act for Bruno Mars’ concert?
Was this all for real?
“Mmph!”
Ollie didn’t scream this time. Instead, he clapped a hand over his mouth as excitement exploded inside him again. But after a quick burst of hype, he settled down. They’d already let loose downstairs earlier, and now that Ronan’s hunch was proving right, it almost felt expected.
Maxim, though, let out a long breath. His heart, which had been dangling in midair, finally dropped back into his chest—only to start pounding hard, making his ribs ache faintly.
Ronan’s eyes skimmed the last line again. He turned to Cliff with a grin. “So, what do you say? Should we go wild and max out the credit card?”
…
The night deepened.
The tick-tock of the clock cut through the dead silence, sharp and sudden, like a drumroll. Outside, the noisy chorus of frogs and crickets chimed in, as if nature was throwing its own symphony now that the human world had drifted off to sleep.
Creak, creak.
Squeak, squeak.
The mattress groaned in protest as someone flipped back and forth like a pancake on a griddle. You could almost hear the bed screaming in agony.
“Can’t sleep?” Ronan asked, eyes still closed, directed at Ollie in the next bed over.
Ollie, mid-turn, froze, suddenly sheepish. “Sorry, did I wake you? Go back to sleep, I’ll stop making noise.”
They’d booked a 5:25 a.m. flight. By the time they’d washed up and crawled into bed, it was already 2:15 a.m. If they didn’t want to miss the plane, they had—at most—ninety minutes to rest their eyes before heading to the airport.
It was a tough call, but they didn’t have much choice.
The direct flight from Las Vegas to Washington took five and a half hours. After landing, they’d need to be at the venue for rehearsal by 2:30 p.m. That tight window didn’t leave them many options.
It was also why John had picked the One Day Kings in the first place. Time was short, rehearsal slots were limited, and to keep things on track, his choices were slim.
In that later email, John had set the rehearsal for 2 p.m. Truth is, that was a bit of an oversight on his part. He hadn’t factored in the travel time from Las Vegas to Washington—just threw out a schedule off the cuff.
Of course, the band could’ve hashed it out with his assistant. Explain the situation, maybe shift the rehearsal time. Or maybe not. But they didn’t want to risk it. They knew how rare this shot was—Bruno Mars had a ton of other options, and they didn’t exactly have leverage to negotiate.
Ronan thought it was something they could at least talk about—it wasn’t even bargaining, really. But the other three band members shot that idea down hard.
So here they were: ninety minutes to close their eyes, then back on the grind.
Everything was moving too fast, too chaotically. They hadn’t had a second to breathe—just stumbling along toward Washington in a daze.
Now, with a brief moment to pause, tension and anxiety crept through the darkness. Sleep was nowhere in sight.
“It’s fine, I’m half-awake anyway,” Ronan said with a faint smile. “What’s up? Nervous?”
“Yeah,” Ollie mumbled softly.
“Nervous about what?” Ronan asked lazily. He was groggy, sure, but couldn’t fully drift off. Part of him worried that if he slept too deeply, they’d oversleep. So why not chat? Skip sleep entirely tonight and catch some rest on the plane.
Ollie didn’t answer right away. After a long stretch—long enough that Ronan thought he’d dozed off—Ollie’s voice finally broke the silence. “It’s hard to believe this is real. It feels like a dream. Like, the second I close my eyes and fall asleep, that’s when the dream wakes up.”
“Ronan, is this really happening?”
Chapter 117: Wrestling with Doubt
“Ronan, is this real?”
After the rush of excitement, joy, and wild energy settled, a creeping unease began to take hold. It all felt too good, too perfect, and that made it hard to believe it was actually happening.
Ronan couldn’t help but chuckle. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s all just a dream.” Maybe him becoming Ronan Cooper was a dream, and these past few months were nothing but a fantasy. “But, Ollie, if it’s a dream, why not dream bigger?”
Ollie went quiet for a moment before muttering softly, “Because I’m scared.”
Ronan blinked, caught off guard. This wasn’t the Ollie he knew.
Ollie let out a long, frustrated groan. “I’m terrified. Scared we’ll mess up the performance, scared Bruno won’t like us, scared our opening act will be a total disaster, scared our talent’s just something we’ve made up in our heads…” His voice trailed off, fading into the air.
Also?
Ronan caught that little word in Ollie’s ramble and turned to look at him, peering at his shadowy outline in the dark. He didn’t know what to say.
Just when Ronan thought Ollie might’ve drifted off, Ollie let out a heavy sigh.
“Ugh.”
Ronan laughed lightly. “Ollie, don’t sigh like that—you’ll age faster.”
“I already feel like I’m aging right now. Seriously! It’s like I can feel time slipping through my fingers, and my body and soul are just… getting old.” Ollie let out a wistful sound, then suddenly rolled over. The mattress creaked pitifully under him as he faced Ronan head-on.
The shift in his voice made it clear he was looking right at him now.
“Ronan, you know what? I keep feeling… I don’t know, just this constant unease.”
“I’m not sure if it started after Trastan left, or after we met Scooter at the Full Moon Party, or maybe even before that. But I can feel this demon inside me, clawing and snarling, ready to swallow me whole any second.”
“They’re lurking in the dark, feeding off my fear and doubt. They can smell my hesitation, circling me like vultures, dragging me by the ankles into some barren wasteland, leaving me there to lose my mind.”
“The darkness is closing in, and I’ve got nowhere to run.”
“I…”
As he spoke, Ollie buried his head in his hands. Ronan could hear the faint thud of his fingers against his skull, a sound laced with raw, unbearable pain.
Watching Ollie curl up into a ball in the darkness, Ronan’s mind flashed back to that fight in the motel. During their heated clash, Ollie had pulled away from the storm’s center, burying his head in the sand like an ostrich trying to shield itself. But deep down, his soul was just as scarred as the rest of theirs—maybe even more so.
Beyond Trastan and Scooter, Ollie had to endure the band’s internal struggles and rifts too. He’d tried so hard to escape the hurt, only to find it following him everywhere. Powerless to stop it, he’d slipped further into the shadows.
That “also” he’d let slip earlier—it was about Trastan, about Scooter. A dormant demon hid in Ollie’s heart too, gnawing at his faith and hope, letting fear and unease spread like darkness overtaking light.
Ollie was afraid too—afraid of repeating the past, afraid Bruno Mars would turn into another Scooter fiasco, afraid they’d crash and burn again.
And if that happened, how would they keep going? What belief would they cling to then?
This wasn’t just about their music dreams anymore—it was about the conviction they’d held onto. If that crumbled, it’d be the end of everything they’d fought for over the past seven years. When someone’s lifelong belief shatters, it’s a personal apocalypse, breaking them apart from the inside out.
Ronan didn’t have an answer either.
“I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know,” Ollie mumbled, his voice weak and frail.
“I feel like a sandcastle, and the grains are slipping away. I can sense it teetering on the edge, ready to collapse any second. And that demon—it’s creeping closer, merging with me, becoming me. I’m turning into my own enemy, denying everything we’ve stood for, tearing down our hope, stopping it all.”
“But I can’t do anything about it.”
“What do I do?”
“Look at our rehearsals—I’m a disaster. If I stand in front of Bruno and turn into that demon, destroying our last shred of hope, what then?”
“What do I do? Get out of my head—I just want them to get out of my head, leave me alone.”
“But… I can’t.”
Softly, so softly, Ollie’s voice trembled with confusion and vulnerability. In the darkness just before dawn, that fragile side peeked out. Beneath his bright, sunny exterior, festering wounds bled quietly.
His breathing grew ragged and heavy, like the darkness was choking him, stealing his air.
Ronan tried to say something, but words felt so small and useless in that moment—anything he could say seemed hollow.
He let out a quiet breath, giving up on comforting Ollie. Instead, he thought for a moment and said gently, “Ollie, do you believe me when I say I’m scared too? Everyone’s got their own demons—not just you. Me, Maxim, Cliff—we all do.”
“We’re all afraid, uncertain, lost. Life doesn’t come with right answers. We never know if our choices are the right ones, and we won’t know what’s ahead until we push open tomorrow’s door ourselves. Until then, we’ve got no clue what’s waiting on the other side. All we can do is decide—do we open that door, or do we let fear stop us?”
“But one thing’s for sure: the fear never goes away. Never.”
Ronan meant it.
From his past life to this one, he’d carried his own fears—deep, gnawing fears. Even now, he wrestled with that same unease:
What if this is all just a dream? What if I wake up tomorrow and can’t see again?
He didn’t have answers.
All he could do was run—keep running, fast enough that maybe the demons in the dark wouldn’t catch up to him.
Chapter 118: The Drive to Keep Going
Slowly, Ollie lifted his head from his arms, searching for Ronan’s outline in the thick, inky darkness of the night. It wasn’t hard to spot him—those bright eyes of Ronan’s shone even in the shadows, twinkling like stars. Whether it was writing “Born This Way,” performing at the Full Moon Party, negotiating with Scooter, or belting out “Chasing the Light” on a wooden table, Ronan’s eyes always sparkled. The light deep in his pupils never dimmed, glowing with a steady brilliance.
“Ronan.”
Ollie’s voice came back to him, hoarse and tinged with hesitation, a soft call as if he feared waking some sleeping demon.
“Hm?” Ronan’s tone lifted slightly at the end, a gentle acknowledgment.
But Ollie couldn’t quite gather his thoughts. The air fell quiet, the darkness reclaiming the cramped space as its ruler. It was a long while before Ollie found his voice again.
“What if… I really turn into that demon and ruin the last shred of hope we have?” Hesitantly, he let slip his deepest fear.
A low chuckle came from Ronan in the dark—not mocking, but a relaxed, easy laugh, as if it were the simplest question in the world. “Don’t worry. You know I’m always here. You can call on me anytime, and I’ll fight alongside you, shoulder to shoulder.”
Then, Ronan’s voice rose into song, ringing out beside Ollie’s ear: “Through the wind, through the rain, maybe dreams will break apart. Keep going! Keep going! With the hope deep in your heart! You’ll never walk alone! Keep going! Keep going! With the hope deep in your heart! You’ll never walk alone!”
From soothing to upbeat, calm to lively, the energetic tune burst forth with a rhythm clapped out by his hands. It was bold and stirring, the kind of sound that swept you up and set your blood pumping.
Ollie froze, his head full of question marks. “…Is this… Liverpool?”
The song was famously known as the anthem of England’s Liverpool Football Club—“You’ll Never Walk Alone.”
As a song, it started back in 1945 as a number from a musical. It gained fame through covers by legends like Frank Sinatra and Elvis Presley. Then, in 1963, English musicians reworked it, and it took off at Anfield Stadium, gradually becoming a beloved staple for Liverpool fans—and eventually the official anthem of the iconic football club.
But… Liverpool’s anthem? Here? Now?
Ollie felt like he was drowning in question marks.
Even without looking, Ronan could picture the baffled look on Ollie’s face perfectly. He burst into cheerful laughter. “The literal meaning, dummy.”
You’ll never walk alone.
It was that simple, that straightforward. Ollie got it instantly, brushing off the goosebumps on his arms in mock protest. “Ronan! Ronan Cooper! Can you talk like a normal person, please? We’re not filming High School Musical here—what’s with breaking into song out of nowhere? Does Alice know you’re like this?”
“Hahaha!” Ronan let out a full, hearty laugh, the sound bouncing around in his chest.
Ollie grumbled like he was annoyed, but a smile crept back onto his face. Watching Ronan laugh so freely in the dark, he couldn’t help but join in, half-exasperated, half-amused. Warmth flowed through his chest, and the weight pressing down on his shoulders seemed to ease up, just a little.
“Ronan, I’m serious,” Ollie protested again, though the laughter in his voice betrayed him, his taut nerves loosening slightly.
“Ollie, I’m serious too,” Ronan shot back, trying to sound stern. But the leftover giggles in his throat undermined his effort, and he couldn’t help chuckling again. That set Ollie off too, and soon they were both laughing like idiots.
They kept at it, giggling over nothing, unable to stop. The night’s chill and sharpness softened around them.
Finally catching his breath, Ronan rubbed his stiff cheeks and sore abs—pretty sure that’s how you get a six-pack—and found his voice again, a little raspy. “Ollie, you know no matter what happens, I’m here. Whatever demon it is—Sauron, Voldemort, you name it—we’ll face it together.”
What could’ve been a touching moment turned funny with Ronan’s phrasing, and Ollie couldn’t hold back another laugh.
This time, Ronan just grinned without laughing aloud and kept going. “I was serious about singing ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’ too.”
“Serious? Serious about what? Staging High School Musical?” Ollie jumped in with a quick jab.
Ronan chuckled again but didn’t let it derail him. “I mean, you should take all those thoughts, those feelings, and write them down. Ollie, you haven’t forgotten our dream, right? Remember what we said about creating after the Full Moon Party?”
“From the heart,” Ollie replied without even thinking, the words spilling out naturally.
Ronan gave a small nod. “Write it all down—the good, the bad, turn it into notes. It’s a way to let it out. Music’s how we connect with the world, how we express ourselves. You should capture it, honestly.”
That was the whole point of keeping up the road tour. Ronan truly believed Ollie and Maxim had real talent as creators—not the worthless trash Scooter made them out to be. They just needed to find their own way to say it.
That’s all.
Especially after tonight, Ronan was even more convinced Ollie could do it. Artists often draw inspiration from their emotions—especially the dark, messy ones. Disasters, pain, scars—they’re the perfect breeding ground for ideas. Suffering has a way of birthing great art.
Ronan knew it firsthand. “Born This Way” and “Chasing the Light” were proof of that.
Now, he hoped Ollie could find the courage to start creating again.
Since the Full Moon Party, Maxim had kept at it, trying nonstop. But Ollie? He’d pretty much given up. He didn’t show it, but you could feel his unease.
Maybe tonight could be the turning point.
But Ollie still hesitated. He didn’t say anything, didn’t respond to Ronan’s encouragement—just stayed quiet. He needed more time.
Note 1: “You’ll Never Walk Alone” (Gerry & The Pacemakers)
(End of Chapter)
