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Andrew's at the kit again, like he tends to be more often than not, these days, drumming away like his life depends on it. And maybe it does, because what meaning does his life has if he can't be great? If he can't be the greatest? So here he is, sweat running down his temple, blood running down his wrists. But oddly, his mind isn't on the drums right now, which is a stark contrast to his usual practice time, when all he can think about is the sticks and the kit and how to be better.
He's thinking about you. The fact that he is, sitting here with his thoughts running on you instead of his playing, is actually pissing him off. You've become quite a distraction of late, always catching his eye right when he's trying to concentrate. It throws him off balance every single time, because he should be engaged in the music. And he is, most of the time. But out of nowhere, you were suddenly on his radar one day. Another player in studio band, another student trying to be enough for Fletcher. He likes your playing, almost more than his own, sometimes. A melody instrument, so different from his drums, and yet nearly the same. Whether you belong in the rhythm section or the rest of the band, you're visible from his stool. He likes that, more than he should, and he hates it, not as much as he should. Because there are times when he drifts to you, instead of the chart, and every time it ends the same way. With your wide, fearful eyes trained on him as Fletcher loses his shit. Screaming, throwing things, hitting him, as Andrew fights back words and tears.
He's validated his attraction to you with hundreds of excuses, shallow ones and meaningful ones alike. Superficial justifications, like your good looks would compliment him as his significant other once he becomes famous. That having you as a romantic partner would prove that he's not emotionally unavailable, that he is lovable, capable of being wanted, to the public eye, and to his family. Proof that he's not broken, if someone like you could choose someone like him. That you're dedicated and immensely talented, but not competitive with him. You would never try to outshine him. You would never make him feel small. There are more personal ones too, such as your shared passion for jazz meaning that you'll most likely support him in his dreams and be more understanding of his highly demanding schedule. You playing a different instrument automatically means that the two of you could play together. You're patient with him, even when he periodically throws sharp words at you without meaning it. He disgusts himself sometimes, when he uses words like weapons and pretends not to care when they could hurt you. But you never take offense, and that is both relieving and irritating. Realistically, Andrew knows that this... this crush on you is illogical. A waste of time, valuable time that could be spent practicing. But he just can't help that flicker of warmth in his chest that comes when he thinks of you, and comes tenfold when he sees you, and a hundredfold when he talks to you.
Yes, you're a distraction. His favourite distraction. And wanting you just feels like another way he's falling short.
Right now, though, Andrew is preoccupied by something in particular, relating to you. His family is hosting their yearly party. Not a Christmas party, they don't celebrate that, but a lot of Travis and Dustin's friends do. A few years back, Aunt Emma and Uncle Frank put their heads together with Andrew's father and decided the best way to keep their kids from feeling left out of the seasonal celebrations was to hold a party. The boys could invite their friends, spend some time together, and celebrate something that wasn't entirely Christian or Jewish. Just celebration for the sake of celebration. Andrew usually hated the party. His cousins always brought way more friends that he's ever had, and recently, even one friend would be more than Andrew has. Except that isn't entirely true, because you could be considered his friend. After all, you exchange pleasant conversation sometimes, if you both arrive early to studio band, and sometimes you walk him back to the practice room before returning to your dorm. He likes when you do that. He likes it a lot.
Something that bothers Andrew substantially is that, over the past few parties, Dustin and Travis have started to take their respective girlfriends along, and occasionally even their friends and their girlfriends. It was starting to really irk him, especially when his aunt and uncle and dad always got on his case about bringing someone home. Even a friend would back them off, but he could never muster up the effort to actually ask someone to attend. He doesn't know a lot of people who would enjoy a faintly Jewish party. He doesn't know a lot of people, period. This year isn't much different. His cousins invite their girls, his family bugs him about doing the same. But this year, he's honestly toying with the idea of asking you to come. He tells himself it's just to calm his family down, but that's not the only reason.
There are too many reasons he wants you to be there. Little ones, like helping him avoid uncomfortable small talk with his cousins' friend group, or sitting with him so he doesn't look lonely, hiding in the corner by himself, or just being there so he can stare at your eyes. You have pretty eyes. There are bigger ones too, like maybe holding your hand, if you'll let him. He pictures how his cousins usually kiss their sweethearts, and his stomach does a flip so violently he drops a stick. Cursing under his breath, he snatches it up and keeps playing, thoughts still looping you. Kissing you would be really, really cool, if you'd ever want to.
Andrew takes the tempo up on Caravan until he spirals out and throws his sticks at the wall. They leave little dents in the wall, but are thankfully unbroken. He probably shouldn't have done that. With a sigh, he scoops up his sticks and heads for a shower. Maybe he'll ask you tomorrow. You'll likely say yes, even if you don't want to go, because you're kind like that. It's puzzling to him, the idea that you seem to genuinely find his company enjoyable. He doesn't even find his own company pleasant.
Andrew can barely breath when he reaches for the knob to the studio band room the next morning. He's sleep deprived and nervous, and even the coffee he picked up at an ungodly early hour isn't helping. In fact, it's making his anxiety worse. His hands are shaky, and he feels like his whole body is buzzing with jittery energy. The perfect state to ask someone on a kinda-sorta date. It's early, at least twenty minutes before the start time, so what he really doesn't expect is you, already in there and setting up. The room is dead empty other than you, and he tenses up. If he thinks about it, it's definitely better that no one else is around to witness this incoming train-wreck, but the idea of being alone with you still excites him and fills him with dread simultaneously.
You're cheery as always, face brightening with a smile at the sight of him as you pause your prep. "Morning," you say quietly, the sound of your voice still loud in the otherwise silent room. Your voice is still gravelly, presumably from lack-of-sleep and the early morning class, but he revels in it more than he should. It feels like everything is more than he should when it comes to you. He offers a nod back, heading for the kit. Andrew starts adjusting it to allow himself a moment to compose himself. He twirls the loop of his stick bag in his fingers, trying to slow his breathing. It's fast, and very audible in the quiet room. You're giving him a strange look. Fuck. He sucks in a sharp breath and holds it as he tightens the hi-hat, the metal 'ch-ck' ringing out when he tests it. You don't need to see him as any more of a weirdo than you already do.
As you get set for the rehearsal, you start to chatter at him, and Andrew is trying to listen, he really is. But your hair looks really cute in the warm lighting of the band room, and your hands are delicate as you organize your equipment, so different from his coarse, calloused ones, and his mind is racing as he imagines all the ways that this could go wrong. He doesn't even notice you're waiting for a response until you tilt your head in confusion.
"...Andrew?" you repeat in bemusement, and he blinks, coming back to himself. Double-fuck. What did you say?
"Uhm... Can you repeat that?" he asks sheepishly, running his hand through his hair... which promptly reminds him that he towel dried his hair last night and hasn't touched it since. Triple-fuck. Luckily, you just giggle and repeat yourself. Bless your generous soul.
"I just asked about your plans for the break," you say, smiling innocently. It's the perfect place for him to ask you out, until you add: "Are you doing anything special for Christmas?" Andrew sucks his teeth, wondering how to answer this without making you feel bad. It's really not your fault; Christmas is such a mainstream holiday that it's perfectly normal to assume that everyone partakes, especially in America. He supposes the religion explanation was going to have to come out either way, so he just goes for it.
"Oh, I don't, um, celebrate Christmas." He says it like an apology, trailing his voice off at the end like he's embarrassed. He is, but he immediately regrets it, because obviously, that's going to make you feel guilty. Sure enough, your face turns bright red and you scramble to fix it.
"Oh! Jeez, forgive me," you mumble, clearly ashamed. "I'm really sorry, Andrew." His heart clenches at your sincere apology. You're going to give him a damn cavity, you're so sweet.
"It's okay, it really is," he tells you honestly. Seriously, out of all of the people to ever make that assumption in his life, you've been the most thoughtful about it. He doesn't think you could be offensive if you tried. Andrew turns his sticks in his hands, resisting the wince that threatens to show on his face when his stick hits a blood blister on his hand. You're still watching him apologetically, wide eyed and hesitant to accept his forgiveness so easily. He can't hide the smile on his face. You're too pretty for your own good.
"Listen, uh, I do actually have plans for the break," Andrew starts. His voice cracks on the last word, and he cringes internally. He needs to get his shit together, fast. "So, my family has, like, this party thing that we do every year? 'Cause I'm Jewish, and we don't celebrate Christmas, like I said earlier, and, um..." You're staring at him with a little smile on your face, like you already know where this is going, and it's making him fall apart completely. "I just thought, maybe, you wanna come?" His voice is really quiet now, and he can't stop his gaze from settling on the snare. He doesn't want to see the pitying smile when you reject the idea.
"Yeah, I'd like that," you say softly, and he snaps his head up to gape at you. You said yes. Holy shit. As in, you want to come. You don't even look reluctant, either, eyes shining, a bashful smile on your lips, cheeks faintly, adorably pink.
"R-really? Uh, cool," he stammers out, death-gripping his drumsticks so hard, he's surprised they don't snap. His knuckles are white, and pain flashes up his wrist as his blister pops, but he ignores it. "It's the... third day of the break, I think? Can I get your number? I'll send you details," he says, and you nod with a sweet grin, walking over. Shit, you're coming over. He tucks his bleeding hand in his pocket, not wanting you to see him actively bleeding. You hold out your phone, he puts his number in after wiping his bleeding hand on his pants, fingers trembling slightly, and by then, more musicians are pouring into the room. You give him one last kind smile and head over to your seat, warming up before Fletcher gets here.
That rehearsal didn't go particularly well for Andrew. He had troubles focusing on the pieces, too busy replaying your gentle smile to keep proper time, or stay on tempo, or perform exciting fills. Fletcher had been exceedingly pissed off by the first mistake and furious by the third. He had a new, bright red handprint across his face, but it was worth it. He would practice, and he would get better. He had all of the break to practice. For now, he was counting down the days until his family's party for once.
Andrew's hands are stuffed in his pockets as he walks briskly to a bus stop. You agreed to meet him here, since neither of you own cars, and there's a bus stop fairly close to his aunt and uncle's, where they're hosting. His eyes light up at the sight of you, arms wrapped tight around yourself to keep out the cold. Your nose and cheeks are reddened from the cold, adorable, and your outfit is really cool. One of his favourite things about you is your style. He wishes he dressed more uniquely, but he can never find the time or motivation to clothes-shop. You brighten when you see him, hand shaky as you lift it in a wave, shivering aggressively. Jeez, how long have you been out here? He immediately feels bad, making you wait, but the bus doesn't come for another five minutes. He chats with you about small things while you wait, and gives you a brief rundown of the family situation so you feel prepared. He likes watching your grateful smile and eyes focused intently on him as he lists names and relations to each of the attending family members.
The bus comes soon enough, and it's pretty packed. There are two seats in the back, very, very close to each other. Andrew's heart is racing as you take a seat next to him, thighs touching, shoulder-to-shoulder, crammed together by the people on the other sides of you. It's loud in there, from the rumbling of the engine and the clamor of the passengers, so when you try to say something to him, he's forced to lean in close to hear you. The bus shakes as it hits a bump in the road and for a split-second, your lips brush his ear as you speak to him. He shivers, and it has nothing to do with the cold.
The greeting you and Andrew are given the second the door opens to reveal the two of you on the doorstep is atrociously overenthusiastic. Andrew tenses up as he's pulled into hugs by relative after relative, his cousins clapping him on the back roughly, nearly knocking him over. You smile politely and accept handshakes from his dad and uncle, and a tight hug from his aunt. Dustin and Travis are scanning you, and it bothers him, not because he thinks that they're into you; they have their own girls here somewhere, but because they're examining you with him. How you fit at his side, even though he's expressed to his family over and over that it isn't explicitly a date.
Travis leans over to mutter in Andrew's ear as he passes. "Way too hot for you," he says with a chuckle, and Andrew rolls his eyes, fighting a grin. You are, it's true. Andrew has never seen himself as particularly attractive before, and he certainly doesn't now. He's not insecure, it's just that he'd rather focus on his talent than his looks. People can say what they like about his appearance, but he'll ensure that they will never be able to deny his skill. Someday.
Andrew delights in how you stick close to him as he maneuvers through the crowd. There's a record high for people attending; his cousins must've made a ton of new friends to fill the house to this degree. Some huge football dude pushes past you, and you latch onto Andrew's arm to keep from getting pulled with the crowd. A thrill runs through him as you cling to him. It's nice to feel needed.
He doesn't regret bringing you in the slightest. There are a few close calls, with him having to steer you away from a family member before they brutally humiliate him in front of you, and a couple awkward conversations where his family asks about your choice in career extremely passive-aggressively. Andrew's amazed by the grace with which you handle it, remaining respectful, but using your intelligence to calmly disprove their points in a way that has them questioning their own reasoning after you walk away. He enjoys the way he can subtly flex your presence to his cousins, even if it's not really a date. He takes pride having you on his arm, in a heady sort of way that makes him want to have you around all the time. It's nice that you stay close, shy to interact with others without him, keeping him from being the isolated outsider on the couch by himself, holding a red cup and faking a good time. Now he has you to sit beside him, closer than you need to be because you're afraid of taking up too much space, cradling your soft drink in your plastic cup with both hands in your lap and sharing smiles with him. He savours the way the two of you can talk about jazz together passionately, being able to have that 'inside' topic that no one else understands. He's never had that before, never been the person in on the joke.
But because Andrew is selfish, he can't help but watch his cousins hold their girls and kiss them, and wish that was you. It's later in the night, but the party is still going strong, and he's in awe of how you don't seem to have gotten bored yet. Your eyes are still sparkly with excitement and your lips are still stretched in a near-constant, gorgeous smile, and you're still curled up on the couch and slumped against him like you're his. It's driving him nuts. His arm is slung around the back of the couch, behind your shoulders, but it's not enough. He wishes he could slide it around your torso, really prove his possession of you. Honestly, you probably wouldn't mind. This night has actually given him hope that maybe you do have feelings for him. If not, you're just a weirdly touchy person, because you're right up against his side in true couples fashion.
A contented sigh escapes your lips as you rest your head on his shoulder, lashes fluttering closed. He can tell that you're tired, and he understands it. He's tired too. Andrew is always tired, he's just gotten used to hiding it. So he takes the opportunity to slip his arm around your waist and pull you snug against him. Your eyes flick open, a soft pink blush blooming in your cheeks as you tilt your head to make eye contact with him. He's sure his cheeks must be burning red, but he's too focused on your lips to care much.
"Hi," you breathe, wiggling your arms around his waist. He leans forward briefly so you can get your arm behind his back. This is too fucking good, you willingly holding him like you want him too. Andrew is sure that he's dreaming.
"Hi," he murmurs back, and the words are barely out of his mouth before you tilt your chin up and kiss him softly. He doesn't even react, too shocked to respond, but instantly regrets it when you pull back after less than two seconds with worry in your eyes, like you think he hasn't wanted this for months. He cups your cheek with his free hand and kisses you back firmly, suddenly self-conscious of his lack of experience. It's not like he does this much. You guide him gently, and it's too difficult to hold back the groan that eventually slips out anyway. Somewhere across the room, Travis whoops, and about six more of his friends follow suit. Andrew ignores them. He has you now, he's not about to let you go.
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