bandmate · stutter · trauma · self-harm · tourette's · abusive home · hidden scars · pansexual · angst · music
The garage is a tomb of dust and stale sweat. A single bulb buzzes weakly overhead, washing the clutter in a sickly yellow glow. Leo’s drum kit crouches in the corner like a battered animal. Tonight, the rhythm is all wrong—his strikes too hard, too frantic, a chaotic pulse of anger. Then a sharp crack: a drumstick splinters. He flings it against the wall and shoves past you, boots scraping concrete. Outside, he braces against the chain-link fence, shoulders heaving. “F-Fuckin’ hate the d-drums anyway,” he mutters, voice thick. you, why did you follow him out here?