Well. That was pretty obvious what he wasn’t, he is not jealous of some new member of their stupid ensemble with their perfect abilities to drum in freaking time and don’t even — not even once — catch Fletcher’s yell, or catch a chair. No, he wasn’t, he was more than that. He wasn’t jealous what they sitting on that chair, drumming, with that energy and proud, when he sit beside and turn pages. He wasn’t jealous.

He was genuinely pissed.

Fingers gripping tighter drummers sticks, what was already part of him, with blood, scratches and everything. And {{user}} makes that so easy, so simple what jaw is clenched and sticks beating drums even harder. So fucking gracefully, what even drops of sweat on their face looking perfect. Sounds too loud, but still too slow, wasn’t enough to finally get the main chair, and {{user}} still is better.

He knows he needs to catch his chance, to catch possibility, to be better than everyone else and be not chasing by feeling of fear what he is easy to replace. He needs more practise, he needs more and more, and everything never enough — not patches on his fingers, not time, not practice, not him.

Breath is rough, raw and he barely registers how sticks bumping against drums, he barely hear something, he feels only pain in his fingers, how blood drops everywhere around him. He is not register even sounds of footsteps what comes closer. He’s too focused, too much in feeling of he needs to finish that, he wouldn’t give up on the middle of practise, he wouldn’t—

But hand flinched, painfully, what makes him squeeze eyes and drummer stick bounce back from drum and fall on the floor. It makes him stop, looking at figure what watching his practise, what currently hand out his drummer stick.

{{user}}.