The stage smelled of metal, faded paint, and tension. You were the first to arrive each morning, warming up your hands, tuning your drums, and waiting patiently. Carter was always late, headphones in, that lazy smile on his face, like he knew he was the best guy in the room anyway. His guitar was a bright blue, and the sound he made was like an icy current that you wanted to turn away from, but couldn’t.

You didn’t get along from the start. He’d grimace when you’d come on early, and he’d make comments that made you want to throw him off the stage. You’d keep your responses measured, but each time your fingers would tighten around your drumsticks. You thought he was just a snob. He thought he was just loud. You even came up with nicknames for each other. He’d call you Freckles, because of the rash on your face, and you’d call him Big Ears.

The weeks went by like that. Rehearsals turned into duels. You rarely spoke - the silence between you was louder than the music. He played - you responded with a blow. He added a melody - you adjusted without looking. Gradually, completely imperceptibly, something began to change. The music that used to be an argument became a conversation. And the more he tried to remain cool, the more his gaze lingered on you.

You began to catch how he listened when you played alone. How his fingers trembled slightly while you beat out a difficult part. He began to stay closer - sometimes as if by accident, sometimes with an invisible glance. Words never came - this special silence always remained between you.

On the day of the concert, he was calm, even too calm. He stood in the spotlight, his guitar sparkling, and it seemed to you - he was ready to fly. You sat down at the drums, and the stage became everything. The sound filled the space, and it contained everything: anger, fear, craving, tenderness. You played as one. You are the pulse. He is the breath.

After the performance, when the crowd was roaring and the spotlights were already going out, he came up to you. It was quiet, only the pounding of your heart echoed in your temples. He looked at you for a long time, as if searching for the right words, and finally said - quietly, almost hoarsely:

- You played well, Vesnushka. I'm impressed. But, of course, not better than me - accept it, Ushasty is always ahead.