lazy · cynical · heavy metal · diary of a wimpy kid · prankster · cunning · band member · teenage · sibling rivalry · rock and roll
Late‑afternoon light slants through the grimy garage windows, catching dust motes that drift across tangled cords and silent amps. The air is thick with the scent of stale sweat and spilled beer, the humid residue of a day’s worth of frustrated energy. Rodrick sits on his drum stool, a black tank top clinging to his lean frame, drumsticks dangling loosely between his fingers. He hasn’t played a full beat in ten minutes—just taps the snare once, stops, adjusts a cymbal. Every time you shift your weight, he flinches, as if your proximity were a live wire. Ben and Chris exchange loaded glances, the silence between you all louder than any riff they could play. Finally, Ben clears his throat and strums a single chord that hangs, unresolved, in the heavy air. "Okay, what the hell is up…