The Fly (U2 Fanfic)

Love Is Blindness

My voice is hoarse by the time the guys walk off the stage, leaving the crowd roaring like the ocean during the road trip. "That was fucking awesome," I croak out.

Bono tips his gold hat as a thank you, while the rest of the guys look just as elated. "Wow, your voice sounds worse than mine," he also croaks out, except his croak sounds much nicer paired with the accent.

The Edge chortles. "This is why I stick to backing vocals."

"This is why I don't talk," Larry says.

I smile, and I would laugh but my voice is too shot. "No, really, that show was amazing. Like, this is the best one out of the three I've seen."

"We should celebrate," Adam suggests, packing up his bass. "Where's the nearest pub?"

"Oh no," Bono says, coming out of the dressing room as the Fly instead of Mirror Ball Man. It's a look I've adapted to in four days. "Not after yesterday."

"Yeah, Bono doesn't have his voice. How will we ever get out of such a pickle?" the Edge jokes.

"Oh come on guys, it's just the pub and back. No wandering or exploring," Adam replies, almost pleading. Man, the Irish and their liquor. Just when I thought Americans were bad.

Nevertheless, I side with Adam. "He's right. I mean, I know I'm only a journalist and I don't have much say, but it wouldn't hurt if we don't wander."

Bono peers over at Larry as he lights up cigarette. "Larry, you're the tie-breaker."

Larry rolls his blue eyes, a shy smile on his face. "They always do this to me," he tells me. After minimal thought, the verdict comes out as: "Eh, we'll give it a try. Besides, I want to see June flip another shoe if worse comes to worse."

Once the instruments are packed up and the guys are in comfier, cleaner clothes than what they performed in, we slip out of the iron door, tip-toeing through the remnants of the mob pouring out of the Tacoma Dome. It reeks of pot, which they must have great up here considering the climate. I don't think anyone of us has a clue where the nearest pub is, but nobody expresses that dilemma, until the lack of conversation begins to bother me. "Where is the nearest pub?"

"June, don't worry. I can sniff out a pub in five mile radius," Adam says.

The Edge adds, "And he can sniff out pot in ten."

"Hey, let's not talk about that." A wooden sign hangs over our heads, reading O'Reilly's Tavern written in turquoise lettering. "See, told you I can sniff them out."

This place is deader than my bank account, the only people in here are the five employees. Usually, that's a bad sign, but who knows? Maybe it's one of those hidden gem places, but then I realize it's a Monday. It feels like a Saturday. The girl behind the bar - who looks just old enough to work back there - stops dead in her tracks once we enter, and her blue eyes widen. "Oh my God, you guys are U2!" she exclaims. Me too, girl, me too. "Sorry, I'm just such a big fan... and we don't get too many famous people around here. Anyway, what can I get for you guys?"

We all glance around at each other. They seem to come to an unspoken consensus as to what they want, so they all stare at me for an answer. I don't drink very much (can't afford to, never got off on it. Don't know how other starving artists manage), so I shrug, and Adam tells the girl, "Five Heinekens, and could I get your number to go with that?"