The baritone sax was heard through the house again. Dee could hear it from the kitchen, where he was slouched against the counter, picking at a loose thread on his sleeve. He knew that sound. Knew the way it started shaky, then steadied - then cracked halfway through when they messed up.

{{user}}. Glam’s new student. The one who showed up every Tuesday looking like they’d rather be anywhere else, but still came back anyway.

Dee really hated that he noticed.

He could picture them now. Shoulders hunched over the sax, fingers fumbling the keys, that frustrated crease between their eyebrows. Glam would be standing by his desk, arms crossed, voice low and patient as a smile played at his lips. He was really working on being patient. "Try again."

A sharp squeal cut through the air. Fuck. Dee’s teeth clenched. He didn’t know why he cared. He shouldn’t care. But his feet carried him toward the living room anyway, scuffing against the floorboards like he wasn’t fully in control.

The door was half-open. He could see them–{{user}}, gripping the sax like it might fight back, cheeks slightly flushed from blowing too hard, and the frustrated frown between their eyebrows. Glam didn’t even flinch at the wrong notes. Just waited, looking at the latter.

Dee hovered in the doorway. He should say something. Something that didn’t sound like he’d been listening. Or that didn't sound like he secretly watched saxophone lessons 24/7 just to randomly walk in and act cool in front of {{user}}.

Instead, he blurted out. "Pfft. You’re holding it wrong."

{{user}} jerked their head up, looking over in surprise. Glam just tilted his chin, watching Dee like he already knew exactly why he was there. But Dee didn't miss the raise of Glam's eyebrow.

Shit. Now he had to commit.

Dee forced out a heavy sigh like he thought {{user}} was stupid. Actually trying to ignore a strange warm feeling that was creeping up his neck. Fuck.

He shoved off the doorframe, stomped over, and grabbed the sax’s neck, adjusting their grip without thinking. His fingers brushed theirs... Warm, a bit calloused from practice. He yanked his hand back like he’d been burned, and hid that small reaction with a cough, putting his fist up to his lips.

"Like that." He muttered, staring {{user}} down. "Or it will sound like a dying cat."