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Skara loved the drums (much similarly to how she loved guitar, and trombone, and xylophone and sousaphone, and so on and so forth). Skara also loved (even if that word was still too scary, too new, to say aloud) Boscha. So she thought, when Boscha asked casually one evening, finger circling the parameter of the symbol to the drum set sat in Skara’s room, to learn that it would be an easy mix.
She was wrong.
Boscha had never taken much interest in bard work before. Each time Skara was trying to learn a new piece, record a playing test, teach herself a new instrument, she would simply roll her eyes, annoyed Skara was leaving her for something as boring as school work. And while Boscha often enjoyed the yields of Skara’s efforts, a certain presence at each recital, each after school rehearsal; even when she was always asking for Skara to play her something, sing her something, show her what she was learning, she never showed any interest in doing it herself. Skara had always had a secret wish, for as long as she could remember but amplified now that they had started dating, that Boscha would fall in love with the bard track one day. Would switch out of potions (a track she objectively hated) and into her track, a better track. Skara had offered time and time again to teach her things from her classes; how to tune instruments, how to play them, how to sing, but whenever Skara even asked her to just keep time on a triangle, she refused.
So Skara jumped at the slightest interest Boscha had in those drums, at that soft and half hearted little question of ‘teach me these?’.
Literally.
Skara jumped off her bed, tossing the violin she had been plucking at to the side, at the completion of the question.
“Really?” she had asked, voice pulled high in excitement.
Boscha flushed at the display, facing Skara with wide, startled eyes at the movement. Still, after only a beat she deflated, turning away with a roll of her eyes, “They just seem like fun. Hitting things, or whatever. Maybe I’ll be good at it,”
Skara came rushing over at once.
**
It did not go exactly how Skara would have expected.
She had always assumed that once Boscha sat behind whatever instrument it would be that she would love it. It would come naturally and be fun and the two of them would be besides themselves with excitement, would start making plans for Boscha to switch tracks. When it was the drums she thought even better. While Boscha had her moments, could be capable, from time to time, of being sweet, she was by nature aggressive, bitter, angry. The drums were perfect, something physical and loud and hard. They would be perfect for her and Boscha would love them and soon they would be in all the same classes and together all the time. Boscha would play drums in the school band, in the pit for the class musicals. Skara would switch her concentration to percussion, would sit next to her during classes and shows, hold her hands during rests, during intermission. It would be cute and perfect and wonderful and-
Once Boshca sat behind the set Skara realized she was wrong.
Not that Boscha didn’t like them; she wasted no time before she started hitting them loudly, violently, without waiting for any direction from Skara. No, Boscha definitely enjoyed them; started drumming rapidly and without any restraint; laughing all the while. That part went about as well as Skara had expected, Boscha was enjoying herself, having fun, playing with a smile on her face. But there was... something else. Something Skara was quite taken back by, had never considered. Something Skara felt bad about.
She was atrocious.
While she certainly was drumming she was doing so without any rhyme or reason. She was simply hitting things. Loudly, without rhythm.
It was wild and untamed and would be almost beautiful to watch- much in the way she was beautiful on the Grudgby field, aggressive and intense and so, so pretty doing it- if it didn’t sound so…bad.
Skara flinched away from the noise as it continued. Stepped back as she watched Boscha smash at the drums, symbols, bass randomly. Crumpled her face at the loud, crashing, randomly placed hits and smashes and beats from the drums.
It went on for a long while, longer than Skara would have liked (especially when, after an especially loud, especially aggressive hit to her snare, she began to worry for the safety of her instrument) but eventually Boscha stilled.
She was panting and there was a slight sheen to forehead. It was undeniably attractive and Skara flushed when she winked at her, smirking, “So,” she huffed, voice raspy with exertion, “Pretty great, right?”
Skara stared back at her, clearing her throat with a gentle shake of her head, “Boscha, I mean this in the nicest way possible, but please never touch my drums again,”
And even when Skara caught herself and realized what she had said, worried it was too mean, worried Boscha may be upset, Boscha only laughed, the sound as loud and gaudy and aggressive as her playing, “Why don’t you show me how it's actually done, then?”
And Skara, relieved, wiggled her way into the seat behind her and held her hands as she worked her through some gentle rhythms, spoke to her about which drum made what sound and when to use them.
Boscha liked this less, preferred the violent, random hits, but she leaned back into Skara’s touch and let her use her hands to play. And even when she fell asleep, leaning back into Skara’s chest as she lightly played for her, Skara didn’t mind. She supposed she had gotten what she really wanted after all; a nice afternoon spent with her girlfriend, holding her hands as she led her through the motions of playing. Even if she vowed to never let it happen again.