Archive of Our Own ^beta

The first thing Kellin noticed when he walked into the venue was the smell. Beer and sweat, cigarettes clinging to denim jackets, a faint sweetness from some kid’s grape vape pen. The second thing he noticed was how alive the room felt, like the walls themselves were humming with anticipation. This wasn’t a big show, not by any means. The kind of gig where the ceiling tiles sagged, where the speakers sometimes crackled if the band got too loud, where the floor stuck to your sneakers if you stood still for too long. But those were the shows Kellin loved the most, the ones that felt like they were held together by passion and duct tape.

He shifted his hoodie off his shoulders, weaving through the crowd toward the stage. Everyone pressed close to the front, a writhing sea of flannel and dyed hair, voices already raised in chatter that fought to be louder than the feedback ringing through the monitors. Tony had texted him earlier: Dude, you need to come tonight. Don’t ask, just trust me.

That was all it took.

Kellin trusted Tony.

The opening band wrapped their set with an awkward thank you, guitars squealing in protest as they unplugged. A few kids scattered toward the merch table, and Kellin edged closer, slotting himself into the tide of bodies. He loved this moment. The pause between bands, the low buzz of excitement, the flicker of nerves before the lights dimmed again, then they came on, the headliner, “Twenty One Pilots.” Some local alt-rock group Kellin had heard about but never seen. The singer bounded out first, hyping up the crowd, but Kellin’s attention snagged on the drummer.

He wasn’t even trying, and he was the coolest person Kellin had ever seen.

Pink faded hair like a sunset that didn’t know how to quit, sleeveless shirt clinging to his skin, tattoos, skin that gleamed because of the lighting and sweat. He twirled a stick between his fingers like it was second nature, like rhythm lived inside his bones. When the first song kicked in, he owned the kit, arms a blur, sticks snapping against snare and toms, cymbals crashing in time with the pounding in Kellin’s chest. He didn’t just play; he performed. A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, wide and wild, the kind of grin that said he belonged up there.

And maybe Kellin had seen a hundred drummers before. But none like him.

The crowd jumped, shouting lyrics Kellin didn’t even know, fists in the air. He got swallowed by it, carried forward until he was only a few feet from the stage. The music pounded through his ribcage. His gaze kept drifting back to the drummer, Josh, someone in the crowd shouted his name, and it stuck in Kellin’s head like a hook. Josh’s eyes skimmed the audience, and for a fleeting second they landed on Kellin. He smiled, wide and conspiratorial, like they were sharing a secret. Kellin’s stomach flipped so violently he thought he might collapse right there. By the third song, Kellin wasn’t watching anyone else. He was in awe. He was fifteen again, standing in the crowd at his very first show, falling in love with the idea of music all over again. Except this time, the crush wasn’t on the music. It was on the boy making it.

When the set ended, sweat plastered Kellin’s fringe to his forehead, and his voice was ragged from screaming along to choruses he didn’t even know the words to. The band ducked offstage, swallowed by the dim hallway at the back. The crowd scattered toward the bar, the merch table, and the parking lot. Kellin lingered. His heart was still racing, and it wasn’t just from the music. He drifted toward the back, pretending he was just looking for fresh air. The alley behind the venue was strung with fairy lights someone had half-heartedly stapled to the brick wall, buzzing faintly against the night. A van idled, doors open, band members spilling out with beers in hand.

Josh was there.

Up close, he looked even more unfair. Hair damp from sweat, shirt clinging in all the right ways, grin sharp and unbothered. He leaned against the van, stick still tucked behind his ear like he’d forgotten about it. When his eyes landed on Kellin, he tilted his head and smiled again - the same grin from onstage, but softer now. Like it was for him.

“You were in the front row,” Josh said, his voice warm and rough.

Kellin blinked. His mouth went dry. “Uh. Yeah. You- uh, you’re insane on drums.”

Josh laughed, tipping his head back. “Insane is one word for it.” He stuck out a hand, rings flashing under the lights. “I’m Josh. Josh Dun.”

Kellin shook it before he could second-guess himself. “Kellin Quinn.”

And just like that, it was easy. They fell into conversation like they’d been meaning to all along. Josh asked about the bands Kellin listened to, the shows he’d been to, the best mosh pit injuries he’d seen. Kellin found himself laughing more than he had in months, caught up in the energy Josh radiated so effortlessly. Everything about him screamed cool , the kind of cool Kellin had written lyrics about, had dreamed about in sweaty high school classrooms, the kind of cool you never actually met in real life.

But here he was talking to him.

Someone from the band shouted that they were heading to a diner, and Josh glanced at Kellin, eyebrows raised. “You in?”

Kellin hesitated for half a second, then nodded. “Yeah. I’m in.”

The Waffle House smelled like burnt coffee and grease. They crammed into a booth, bandmates talking over each other, laughter spilling out loud enough to earn dirty looks from the waitress. Kellin slid in beside Josh, trying not to notice the way their shoulders brushed every time either of them moved.

Josh ordered pancakes despite it being nearly 12 am, with chocolate chips by the way. He ate them with the same intensity he’d played drums, like everything he did had to be full-throttle. He nudged the plate toward Kellin at one point, offering a bite, and Kellin couldn’t even play it cool, he just leaned in, stole a forkful, and tried not to blush when Josh grinned at him like he’d just won something.

They talked until their food went cold. About growing up in tiny towns, about the first time they picked up instruments, about the way music felt like salvation and punishment all at once. Josh drummed on the table absentmindedly the whole time, rhythms syncing with Kellin’s heartbeat until he thought he might explode.

“Shows like tonight,” Josh said around 5 a.m., chin propped on his hand, eyes on Kellin. “That’s what I live for. Not the big festivals, not the money. Just this. Small room, kids losing their minds, feeling like it matters.”

Kellin swallowed hard, nodding. “Yeah. That’s the good stuff.”

Josh smiled at him then, not the wild onstage grin, not the soft grin from the alley, it was something else. Something that felt like it cracked open a piece of Kellin’s chest he didn’t even realize was locked up.

By the time the sun started to bleed into the sky, Kellin didn’t want the night to end. They stumbled out of the Waffle House, laughter still clinging to their lips, the air cold enough to sting. Josh shoved his hands into his pockets, glancing at him sideways.

“So,” he said, casual but not really. “You coming to the next show?”

Kellin’s lips curved before he could stop them. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Josh grinned, teeth catching the early morning light. And Kellin knew, in that stupid cliché way you only feel when you had a crush, that his whole world had just shifted. He’d gone to a show on a Tuesday night, expecting nothing more than some loud music and maybe a beer or two. Instead, he’d found the coolest person he’d ever met. 

Kellin went home that morning with his hoodie smelling like cigarette smoke and syrup, hair sticking up from the wind, and a number scrawled on the back of a diner receipt in messy ink.

Josh’s number.

He kept pulling it out of his pocket, just to make sure it was real. Just to see Josh’s handwriting again, sharp, hurried, like he’d written it in the middle of a drum solo. Every time he looked at it, he smiled like an idiot, the kind of smile that made strangers glance at him on the train ride home. He didn’t care.

The next few days stretched like taffy. Kellin kept replaying the night in his head. Josh behind the kit, grin splitting wide, Josh pushing the plate of pancakes across the table, Josh walking out into the cold with his breath fogging the air and his words echoing: You coming to the next show? He didn’t even realize how much he’d been waiting for something to knock him off balance until now, fuck up his routine. And Josh? Josh wasn’t just balance knocking, he was earth quaking.

By the weekend, Kellin had texted him. Just something dumb that made him cringe looking back on it: So do you always eat pancakes at midnight or was that just to impress me?

Josh’s reply came ten minutes later: always. pancakes are punk. don’t tell anyone.

Kellin laughed so hard he startled his roommate.

The next show was in a basement venue that looked like it could cave in if too many people jumped at once, the kind of place where the walls dripped with condensation and someone’s DIY strobe light barely worked. Kellin showed up early, nervous in a way he hadn’t felt since high school, and found Josh crouched by the kit, taping down a squeaky pedal.

Josh looked up, face lighting instantly. “You made it.”

Kellin swallowed a grin. “Told you I would.”

That night, Kellin didn’t just watch the set. He lived it. Every crash of the cymbal felt like a heartbeat syncing to Josh’s. Every grin tossed toward the crowd felt like it landed directly on him. And when Josh caught his eye mid-song and winked like a dare and a promise, Kellin thought, This is it. This is the reason people write songs about love at first sight.

After the show, they spilled outside again, breath steaming in the cold air, the crowd buzzing as kids chattered about their favorite songs. Josh grabbed Kellin’s wrist lightly, tugging him away from the chaos.

“Come on,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

They ended up on the curb a block away, legs stretched into the street, sharing a case of cheap beer someone had abandoned backstage. Streetlights flickered above them, painting everything gold and lonely. Kellin blinked, studying Josh's face. 

“What?” Josh asked as he grinned.

“I don't know.”

Josh chuckled, shaking his head slightly. He had this smile that just absolutely took Kellin's breath away. 

Kellin tilted his head back, looking at the stars barely visible between city haze. “You know,” he said softly, “you’re kind of the coolest person I’ve ever met.”

Josh snorted, shaking his head. “Cool is fake. I’m just a loser who hits things really hard.”

“You make it look like magic,” Kellin shot back, too honest to take back once the words left his mouth.

Josh glanced at him, grin softening. “And you sound like it.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The hum of traffic filled the silence, distant laughter spilling from the venue doors. Kellin’s chest felt too tight for how calm the night was.

Josh tapped his drumstick against the curb, a quiet rhythm, then leaned closer. “Hey, Kellin?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m really glad you came that night. To the show.”

Kellin’s throat tightened. He smiled anyway, because it was the only thing he could do. “Me too.”

Their shoulders brushed. Just barely. But it was enough to send a spark down Kellin’s spine, the kind of spark you spend your whole life writing songs about. He shivered, rubbing his arms. His shirt sleeves weren't long enough to keep him warm and Josh making his nerves worse didn't help. Josh’s eyebrow quirked up. “Cold?”

Kellin nodded. “Yeah.”

Josh shrugged his hoodie off, handing it to Kellin. “Give it to me at the next show.”

By the time Kellin finally went home, Josh’s laughter was still echoing in his ears, warm and wild. He curled into bed with Josh’s hoodie still smelling like basement floors and diner coffee, and for the first time in forever, he felt like something good was just beginning.

Maybe years from now when people asked Kellin how it all started, he’d smile and say:

“I fell in love with the boy at the rock show.”