Work Text:
https://youtu.be/2w8yjKAgues?t=1270 21:50-21:28
“I really thought they were using you. Turns out, you’ve just been manipulating me this whole time. Nice to know we were never really friends.”
“Thats not-! Drew…”
“Whatever. I’m done with you. Have a nice life.”
Freak.
Queue:
00:00 ━━━━●───── 02:20
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What a fucking loser. Seriously? After all this time? Whatever. What. fucking. Ever. He can go ahead and be a freak with the rest of them. I can’t believe I let someone like that hang around me. God. Could you imagine? What the fuck. Ew.
The air around felt toxic, sticky with the stench of betrayal and the cheap cologne of the freaks he was leaving behind. Each step was a deliberate, measured beat against the tiled floor, the perfect counter-rhythm to the pathetic, murmuring voices he was ignoring. His spine was poised straight, his lips biting back a bitter frown to make his expression unreadable.
He could feel their eyes—Jake's confusion, the gawking stares of the peripheral nerds burning into his back, but Drew didn't deign to look.
[A diva doesn't check for applause; one assumes it. 😛he like #ate i fear ]
The hallway parted for him, the lesser students instinctively clearing a path per usual.
He pressed on, the beat of the non-existent music in his head driving him forward. Every muscle in his body was screaming defiance. Let them have their sad little club and their ammatuer passion. At least Drew had the integrity to leave behind garbage when it started to stink. He was better than them, and they were all, collectively, unworthy. He stormed down the hall, voices blurring together as he tread.
Fuck this school, fuck Jake and his friends and his stupid fucking club. Who gives a shit anyway? They’re all just some losers tryna make it big. It’s not like it’ll actually get them anywhere– what the hell? Zoey? Oh, you are the last person I need to see right now.
Move.
Where is my stuff? What the—did she not hear what I said? I cannot deal with this right now. I'm going home.
"But—Drew! Please, can we just talk?"
"I said move, you unfaithful little-"
He shoved past Zoey, the force of his anger giving him unexpected strength. She stumbled back, her concerned expression morphing into one of hurt, but Drew didn't spare her a second glance. Her voice, plaintive and desperate for a conversation he would never have, was just another screech in the suffocating symphony of the hallway.
Talk? Talk about what, Zoey? How you used me? How Jake covered for you? How my whole life is a fucking lie? I don't need your apology. I don't need your excuses. I need air.
The noise of the students was a physical weight pressing down on him. The clatter of lockers, the high-pitched laughter, the echoing footsteps, the indiscriminate chatter following his little outburst from earlier—it all blended into a roaring buzz that blurred to the back of his head. Every face he passed was just another nobody. He cracked his neck, pulling the straps of his bag over his shoulder, playing it off cool.
Get out. Get out now. Just get home.
He didn't bother with his locker. Textbooks and notebooks could burn for all he cared. He just needed the exit, the cold, blessed silence of the December air. He burst through the main doors, not slowing down until the brick walls and the incessant ding of the school bell were well behind him. The walk home felt like a sprint, his breath ragged, his mind still cycling through the last few disastrous minutes.
Freak.
The word, his own word, came back to him, hollow and mocking. What the hell?
The irony was a bitter pill. He gripped his jacket tightly, turning onto his street, determined to bury this entire day under layers of heavy silence.
//
He slammed the front door shut with unnecessary force, the sound swallowed by the thick walls of the sprawling house. The foyer was immaculate, a testament to his father’s relentless pursuit of silent, sterile perfection. Everything was expensive, minimalist, and utterly devoid of warmth.
Drew ignored the oppressive quiet and headed straight up the wide staircase, two steps at a time. He burst into his bedroom, which, in stark contrast to the rest of the house, was a chaotic storm of scattered clothes, discarded textbooks, and forgotten sports gear. The blinds were drawn, leaving the room in a perpetual, dusty twilight.
Finally. Some Noise.
He tore off his jacket and tossed it onto a chair, his eyes scanning the desk surface, piled high with old A+ assignments and charging cables. He needed the key. Not the spare—the real one. After a frantic search that involved knocking a few things over, his fingers closed around the cold, brass skeleton key taped underneath a rarely-used dictionary.
He walked across the room to the large, built-in mahogany wardrobe. It wasn't for clothes; it was an entryway. He knelt, the carpet soft under his jeans, and located the inconspicuous lock plate near the baseboard.
It took three frustrating tries for the key to turn, the mechanism groaning in protest from disuse.
Click.
A thin, dark seam appeared where the wardrobe met the wall. Drew pulled the edge, and a section of the entire unit swung inward on heavy, silent hydraulic hinges, revealing a short flight of stairs descending into a familiar darkness.
He flipped the light switch embedded in the wall next to the opening. The sudden flood of warm, golden light revealed the truth of his self-funded escape.
The air was different down here—stale from the lack of air circulation– but somewhat comforting. The entire subterranean room was professionally soundproofed with thick, geometric acoustic panelling. Props to his past self for investing in good installation; it's a miracle the panelling and LEDs are still up.
His eyes immediately landed on his drum kit: a gleaming, chrome-plated beast of a setup, double bass pedals and a full array of cymbals. Beside it, on custom wall mounts, was a dazzling collection of electric guitars—a cherry-red Gibson Les Paul, a brown sunburst Fender Stratocaster, and (his fav) a neon purple Ibanez. The rest of the room housed production equipment: mixing consoles, monitors, and MIDI controllers, all state-of-the-art and meticulously organised. This was his inheritance, not of wealth, but of passion. He’d bought piece by expensive piece through years of birthday money and draining his own allowance—a secret investment in a future his father scorned.
"No career path in music," his father's voice echoed in the cavern of his mind. Political events, mergers, acquisitions... that's a career.
Drew stomped down the stairs and headed straight for the drum kit, the plush red carpet muffling his footsteps. He grabbed a pair of sticks, their wood smooth and familiar, and settled onto the throne (drum stool).
He didn't bother with a warm-up. He didn't bother with sheet music.
Let’s just do something simple – with muscle memory.
It’s not like I forgot.
𝗡𝗼𝘄 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝘆𝗶𝗻𝗴:
"Sewerslvt - "Pretty Cvnt" (GoPro Drum Cover)"
00:00 ━━━━●───── 03:33
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He started hitting, driving the noise into the snare, the crash cymbals, the toms. Zoey. Jake. That stinking Club. Each beat was a punch, a spike of hot anger aimed at the betrayal, the lies, and the sheer annoying realisation that he was the one left behind. The noise was deafening inside the sanctuary, but outside, he knew, the house remained silent.
Drew took a deep, shuddering breath, the stale air tasting like copper and old dust. It wasn't the kind of deep breath one takes for meditation; it was the sharp, necessary intake before a plunge. He clicked his drumsticks together, the sound sharp and clean in the soundproofed space—clack-clack, clack-clack—a brief countdown.
He walked over to his desk, the massive monitor glowing faintly in the golden light. He didn't want a full-blown production session; he just wanted to play. His fingers flew across the trackpad, quickly navigating to an old playlist on his laptop. The list was simply titled "Background Noise," filled with heavy industrial, abrasive electronic music, and obscure metal—the kind of music that served as a wall of sound, demanding focus.
He selected a track, keeping the volume dial on the mixing console just shy of "loud." He couldn't risk it. This room was his fortress, his single sanctuary. No one knew about it. Not his father, certainly not Zoey, and absolutely not the "Jomies". The only person who had ever even seen the doorway was the family's ancient butler, and that was years ago; Drew doubted the man remembered, or even cared.
He scurried back to his throne, sticks poised. The selected track, a relentless, driving beat overlaid with grinding synth pads, blared from the high-end studio monitors.
Gotta get rid of this– shit.
He hit the snare, a clean, powerful crack that sliced through the backing track. The physical act of drumming, the demand for complete coordination between all four limbs, was the only thing that could truly silence the incessant, toxic looping of betrayal and anger in his mind. Each strike was a pure, physical release. Jake's lies. Zoey's cheating. The Jomies' collective mediocrity. They were all just noise, and Drew was channeling it into a controlled, beautiful, metallic storm. He didn't stop to think; he just let the rhythm take over, driving himself harder, faster, beating back the emptiness with sheer, loud, undeniable force.
He played until his arms burned and the sweat was stinging his eyes, letting the physical exertion—the raw, unfiltered noise—drive out the toxic buzzing of his memories.
He finished the track with a final, echoing crash of the cymbals, the sound hanging in the air like a violent storm just passed. His chest heaved, his vision slightly blurred by sweat and exertion. His arms felt heavy, vibrating slightly from the sheer, sustained impact.
He wasn't done. The silence, even the soundproofed, charged silence of the bunker, felt too vast, too ready to swallow the anger he had just released. He dropped the sticks onto the snare and leaned forward, resting his forehead on the cool edge of the rim.
He raised his head, eyes darting to the brown Fender Stratocaster hanging nearby. It was a faded sunburst brown. Brown. Brown sorta like Jake’s- what the fuck? It’s just a guitar. Who gives a shit about Jake’s eyes.
Ugh, my forearms hurt. Let’s do something with…
More precision. More thought. He needed to channel the feeling, not just expel it.
He pushed off the throne, grabbed the Strat, and plugged the cable into a nearby amp (after carefully blowing the dust off and spraying some contact cleaner between the hinges), setting the gain high. The instrument felt perfect, a familiar weight against his body. He struck a chord—a harsh, distorted G major that immediately filled the room, demanding attention.
"6arelyhuman - Hands up! (Electric Guitar) "
00:00 ━━━━●───── 02:13
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What does it matter? It's not like anyone’s home.
He ripped through the track, fingers a blur across the fretboard. The track was an unapologetic arrogance, a testament to his current mood. Jake and his club could try all they wanted, but their amateur attempts at technique were pitiful compared to the hours Drew had poured into mastering his instruments. They were all just talentless freaks playing dress-up. At least try to have some technique, he scoffed internally, nailing a complicated run. He was better. He knew he was better.
And Zoey? She’s nothing but a whore. He stood up abruptly, knocking the swivel chair back with a loud thump. It was disgusting. Zoey hadn't just cheated on him with some random guy; she had been with an older man— her fugly sugar daddy—and Jake had known. Jake, who pretended to be his best friend, who preached about loyalty, who knew Drew was pouring his heart (and a significant amount of his allowance) into this relationship.
"He knew," Drew muttered to the empty room, the realisation a cold, hard knot in his stomach. The money. The lavish gifts. The constant need for a new 'something' to keep her smile genuine. He hadn't been buying her affection; he had been bidding for it, foolishly competing with a bottomless bank account.
The red recording light on the camera mounted discreetly above the mixing console was already on. Drew used to always record his rage sessions. It was his proof. His silly, self-indulgent documentary of emotions.
No. 1 Sweetheart. Best looking. The magazine covers, the whispers in the hall, the girls who would "kill to be with him"—it was all useless. None of it mattered if the one person he chose to give his time to saw him as nothing more than an ATM, a placeholder between allowances. He was supposed to be the prize, but he had ended up being the idiot. Can you blame the guy for being mad?
A deep, visceral wave of self-loathing washed over him. He hadn't done anything wrong, not in the moral sense of treating a partner well. But he had been wrong to be so oblivious, so easily manipulated. He had confused spending money with showing affection, and she had taken full advantage.
He grabbed the nearest guitar case—a velvet-lined coffin for the purple Ibanez—and hurled it across the room. It hit the acoustic panelling with a dull, muffled thud that still managed to echo the violence of his action. It's fine. That one’s not that rare.
They all used me. Every single one of them.
His breath hitched as the final, sustained chord decayed into feedback; he pulled the Strat away and strode to the console. He quickly isolated the guitar track, applied a light layer of mastering—just enough to give it a professional edge—and rendered the video.
He uploaded the faceless cover to his old, inactive music account. The account hadn't posted in over three years, but it still commanded a massive, rabid following. He’d never shown his face, never given a real name. It was just his tracks. Rough and undeniable.
The notification went out titled: stupid slut
He watched the view count tick up almost instantly, a small, cold satisfaction settling in his gut. Let the world—the real world, the one that appreciated actual talent—see what real passion looked and sounded like. Not that pathetic, saccharine bullshit Jake's club peddled.
He closed the upload window, the momentary high fading. The adrenaline was leaving him exhausted, and the silence in the bunker felt heavy again. He leaned back in the chair, staring at the ceiling.
The music had been a distraction, but the core problem remained.
Whatever. I don't need them.
That night, Drew didn’t stop. He only went up to show his face at dinner, eating silently under the oppressive, judging quiet of the dining room before retreating. He stays up, the soundproofed bunker becoming his refuge. The creative dam that had held back years of bottled-up frustration and talent had burst. He posted maybe what, two? Four? More covers that night? A stark difference from his previous three-year inactivity.
He was practically back in his awkward middle school emo phase he'd left behind, but this time, the angst was fueled by genuine, sharp-edged betrayal, not manufactured wannabe teenage drama.
He moved from the drums to his mixing console, then to the cherry-wine Gibson Les Paul. He needed something sharp, something that reflected the corrosive feeling of being utterly used. Fuck Zoey.
"Femtanyl - "GIRL HELL 1999" [Drum Cover / Jam] "
00:00 ━━━━●───── 02:25
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[I like lying to myself that I like everyone I meet]
[It's a funny little cycle, do it while I fall asleep]
[If I do it every day and if I do it every week]
[Then I just might become a better man you wanted out of me]
The heavy distortion and screaming vocals of the track were a perfect conduit for the disgusted rage he felt for her calculated deceit. His face was hot, wiping away a sweat as he punched into his phone a corny title for this one: used.
Later, the anger cooled into a bitter, pervasive anxiety. He put on a basic yet nostalgic song.
" Kentenshi - "Paranoia" [Drum Cover / Jam] "
00:00 ━━━━●───── 01:50
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Thinking about how suffocating his days were without Jake around. God, like that time at the mall? He was bored to death. He thought about how he kind of hated everyone a bit. He didn't really like anyone—well. He had liked Jake. At least Jake was cool. Their effortless rhythm, the easy banter, the unspoken understanding that transcended their superficial popularity—that had been real, hadn't it? Turns out Jake was nothing like he thought he was, just another liar desperate for validation. Does anyone in this school own a backbone? The track’s chaotic energy mirrored the sudden emptiness of his social circle, the horrifying realisation that everyone in his orbit was an operative in a scheme he hadn't known he was playing. The notification read: everyone's so fake
It was nearly 3 AM when the exhaustion finally forced him to slow down. He unplugged the guitar and walked back to the drum kit. He didn't want noise anymore; he wanted oblivion. He sat on the throne and, just before he went to sleep, Drew calmed down with a mellow tune.
"Sewerslvt - "Yandere Complex" [Drum Cover]"
00:00 ━━━━●───── 04:08
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It was a rushed, repetitive beat. Fast enough to become a gentle current to drown the voices and the buzzing memories out, hitting with his eyes closed at one point. He played it his way, drumming until his eyelids grew heavy.
He didn’t bother naming the final upload. He just let it go with the default timestamp.
He finally stumbled out of the bunker around 4 AM, locking the wardrobe door behind him with painstaking care. He collapsed onto his bed, the silence of his room an almost painful contrast to the sonic violence he had just unleashed.
I don't need anyone.
He closed his eyes. The last thing he saw before sleep claimed him was the pale, guilty expression of Zoey in the hallway.
Serves her right.