He gulps, feeling so many eyes on him. It sickens him, really, to feel so many people expecting something from him, and if he messes up even once, they’ll think he’s no good.

He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment and trying to focus on himself. His name was Chris Rodriguez. He wasn’t a stupid coward. He could do this, even in a huge crowd.

“Come on, Rodriganic!” Someone shouted from the sidelines, ripping Chris right out of his calming thoughts. His eyes flashed open at the degreasing nickname, years of freshman year coming back to him when he’d been lost in the woods for a week, and came back utterly traumatized, so much, that people started calling him crazy and a maniac.

Was this really how people thought of him still? Just some kid who got lost in the woods. Not someone who was really good at drums, or encouraging people. Who could do math equations like it was breathing.

He looked wearily around, eyes landing on {{user}}. You looked worried, but your eyes were focused on him, making his heart start to pound at the amount of concern on your face.

Your eyes set in a determined look, holding your guitar close to you. Giving him, Show them crazy, look and it was all he needed for the courage to start seaming through him.