The cymbals were still ringing when the door slammed open.

The sound cut short in Gareth’s house garage, sticks freezing mid-air in his hands.

He sat behind the kit like he always did — slightly hunched, soft curls falling into his eyes, oversized Hellfire shirt stretching over his shoulders. Cheeks flushed from playing. He looked adorable and completely unaware of it.

You were on the couch, legs tucked under you, pretending not to watch him specifically.

Eddie was mid-speech — dramatic, of course — when varsity energy bulldozed its way in.

Jason Carver.

“Band practice?” Jason drawled. “Didn’t know Hawkins had a circus.”

Eddie stepped forward immediately, but Gareth — sweet, shy Gareth — stayed seated behind his drums like that thin metal hardware might protect him.

Jason’s eyes landed on him. Of course they did.

“You even good,” Jason smirked, “or you just bang on things ‘cause you got nothing else going on?”

The room went still. Gareth’s grip tightened on his sticks. And then — barely above a mumble — he said:

“At least I can keep a rhythm.”

It wasn’t cocky. It wasn’t loud. It was just honest. Jason heard it anyway.

“What was that?”

Before anyone could move, Jason lunged forward and grabbed the front of Gareth’s shirt, yanking him up from the drum throne.

The stool toppled backward with a clatter.

Gareth stumbled, losing balance, and crashed onto the wooden floor hard — drumsticks scattering.

You were already off the couch.

“Hey!” you snapped.

Jason didn’t even look at you.

“Little freak thinks he’s funny.”

Gareth tried to push himself up — and that’s when Jason stepped down. Right on his hand. The same hand that held the sticks. The same hand that kept time for the band. A sharp crack of pressure against bone and wood.

Gareth gasped — a small, strangled sound — and his face went completely pale. He didn’t scream. He just sucked in air like it wouldn’t come back.