WILL loves to play the drums, especially after bad things happen.
It's not a slash fic!
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It's quiet. I can feel the pedal under my foot, just asking to be pressed. I slowly push my foot down, and the felt beater pounds the drum. The sound fills the small room, and calms my nerves.
I reach down and pick up the drumsticks. The wood feels smooth and comfortable in my clammy hands. I carefully hit the cymbal. Its echo makes its way through my ears. Snare. Snare.
The anxiety softens with every beat, every hit of the drums. Everything feels right in this seat. No troubles, no worries.
I pick out a beat, and slowly transform the random sounds into a calming drum line. Maybe one day it'll turn into a full song. For now, it's doing a very fine job of helping me.
There's a man laying beside me, sprawled out unconscious on the sofa. I'm not worried about the noise; he won't wake up anytime soon. I just keep hitting and pressing and feeling the sound rush through me.
My name is Will Champion, and drumming is my passion.
Even when I was a child, it always helped. I never played drums until I was older, but rhythm was a major part of my life. When I would walk places, I listened to the footsteps around me, the sound of pant legs rubbing against one another. Life is so rhythmic.
Ticking clocks, pencils scratching, people breathing, tapping feet. In every room I ever entered, there was always something to listen to. Some people just don't listen.
Some people just don't listen. I always listen. The drums don't listen. No, the drums talk. They speak, you just have to hear it.
"Close your eyes, relax," they say. "Throw all your problems away. There's nothing to worry about here, behind us."
I listen. They're right. Nothing is a problem when I sit behind the drums. It doesn't matter. It never happened.
My name is Will Champion, and tonight I killed my best friend.
I reach down and pick up the drumsticks. The wood feels smooth and comfortable in my clammy hands. I carefully hit the cymbal. Its echo makes its way through my ears. Snare. Snare.
The anxiety softens with every beat, every hit of the drums. Everything feels right in this seat. No troubles, no worries.
I pick out a beat, and slowly transform the random sounds into a calming drum line. Maybe one day it'll turn into a full song. For now, it's doing a very fine job of helping me.
There's a man laying beside me, sprawled out unconscious on the sofa. I'm not worried about the noise; he won't wake up anytime soon. I just keep hitting and pressing and feeling the sound rush through me.
My name is Will Champion, and drumming is my passion.
Even when I was a child, it always helped. I never played drums until I was older, but rhythm was a major part of my life. When I would walk places, I listened to the footsteps around me, the sound of pant legs rubbing against one another. Life is so rhythmic.
Ticking clocks, pencils scratching, people breathing, tapping feet. In every room I ever entered, there was always something to listen to. Some people just don't listen.
Some people just don't listen. I always listen. The drums don't listen. No, the drums talk. They speak, you just have to hear it.
"Close your eyes, relax," they say. "Throw all your problems away. There's nothing to worry about here, behind us."
I listen. They're right. Nothing is a problem when I sit behind the drums. It doesn't matter. It never happened.
My name is Will Champion, and tonight I killed my best friend.
-
I was already stressed when he walked into the Bakery. Earlier, I had come home to find a letter from my girlfriend. It seems that she had a little too much fun in Greece, and was leaving me for another man. He also knocked her up.
I couldn't stay at home. The place we shared, the place filled with pictures of us smiling and being happy together. Pictures of her being faithful and not pregnant by some other guy. I left. I didn't know where to go, I just walked.
Down the street, people were also walking. Being happy. Their girlfriends didn't leave them. I felt miserable. The cold December air hit me, but I couldn't feel it. I was numb. Without putting much thought into it, my feet took me to the Bakery. The door was locked. I remembered that we always keep a spare key nearby, though. I found it, and shortly after I walked into the building.
The warmth hit me, but it didn't do anything. I was still numb. I took off my jacket and hung it on the coat rack to the left of the door. It was quiet. I didn't expect anyone to be there, of course. Everyone was still on holiday.
I walked into the other room. Our instruments were neatly set up. Then I realised that I didn't want to be alone. I wanted to see my friends. I didn't know where they were, though.
I turned and walked back out. The stairs looked so inviting. I climbed the stairs to the second floor, the all-too-familiar portrait of John Lennon gazing at me with his knowing eyes the entire way. His girlfriend never left him.
When I reached the room at the top of the stairs, I finally broke down. I collapsed into the nearest chair. Burying my head in my hands, I sobbed.
I didn't even love her. She wanted marriage and kids, but I didn't. Not yet, anyway. I didn't even love her. If I had loved her, maybe she would have stayed. Maybe this was all my fault. She didn't have to be such a fucking whore about it, though.
I went back downstairs. I sat down behind my drum set. It was so quiet. I picked up my drumsticks and started playing. I wasn't playing anything in particular, just randomly hitting.
Once, I looked down and saw her face. She was just there, on the drum, smiling and laughing. I slammed my arm down and pounded the drum. I realised then that by beating the drum, I was indirectly hitting her. I did it again. It felt nice. I never thought playing drums could be so therapeutic.
After a few hours of indirectly beating my ex-girlfriend, I decided to take a small break. I ran to the bathroom and ran the water. I looked up at my reflection in the mirror. I looked horrible. I felt horrible. I splashed some water on my face and left. This time, I went back upstairs. I walked into the room, and he was already there.
"Chris?"
"Will! Hey, man!" he smiled.
"Why are you here?"
"I had nothing to do at home. I thought I might be more productive here. What about you?"
"Uh... it's a long story."
He frowned and walked over to me. Gently placing his hand on my shoulder, he said, "You can tell me. I've got all the time in the world." He walked me over to the sofa, and we both sat down. He was just looking at me, patiently waiting for me to start.
“I got a letter today,” I finally said. “From... from my girlfriend.”
“What did it say?”
“She left me. She found someone else-”
“Oh, Will...”
“And he knocked her up.” Chris hugged me. I shrugged him off. I didn't want him touching me. I stood up and walked across the room. I wanted to be alone. Or maybe I didn't know what I wanted. When I was alone, I would have given anything to see him, or Jonny, or Guy. Now that I had some company, I just wanted be alone.
“Everthing's gonna be OK,” Chris said as he walked over to me.
“You don't know that.”
“No, but I believe it. And it's her loss, anyway.”
“You think so?”
“Yeah, you're a great guy, Will. If she can't see that, well, then she's just an idiot.”
“She's a whore, that's what. I swear, if I ever see her again-”
“Don't get angry, Will, it's not worth it.”
“Why shouldn't I?” I yelled. Frustration was building up inside me. I was afraid it wouldn't stop. “I have every right to be angry! And that stupid whore deserves to have her throat sli-”
“Will, stop. Please.” He sounded frightened. I couldn't stop.
“Don't fucking tell me to stop!” I grabbed this sort of bowl thing that was resting on a table nearby, and smashed it into the ground. The shattered pieces looked like how I felt. So broken. Then I picked up a lamp and threw it across the room. Chris covered his head and moved towards the wall.
“Will, please, stop!”
Another bowl. Another lamp. Soon the room was filled with broken things. Chris was still cowering by the wall. I stood in the middle of the room, breathing heavy, trying to calm myself. Trying to stop being angry, stop breathing heavy, stop throwing things. It didn't work. I picked up another object, and Chris ran in front of me.
“Will, stop it,” he yelled. I threw the object at him, and he gracefully caught it. He placed it on the ground beside him, then raised his hands up, placing them on my shoulders. “I think you've broken enough stuff in here.”
“Don't touch me.”
“Will, please, calm down.”
“Don't touch me,” I repeated. I wanted to calm down, but my body wouldn't let me.
“Deep breaths, OK?”
“DON'T FUCKING TOUCH ME!” I pushed my hands to his chest and shoved him. That got him to let go. But I pushed his slender body too hard. And we were too close to the open door. Chris stumbled backwards. He made it through the door way. Suddenly, there wasn't any ground for him to stand on.
Once the first step appeared, Chris seemed to be floating. Then he attempted a back flip, but only made it halfway before gravity came crashing down on him, and he came crashing down on the stairs. His legs tumbled over his head, and his knees smashed into the steps. He flew the rest of the way down, landing on the floor, but not before smacking his head into the wall.
I slowly walked through the doorway. My hands were sweating, and my knees were shaking. I looked down. Chris was laying on the ground. Oh, God. Bits of blood his blood were splattered on the steps and the wall. I walked down the stairs, holding on to the railing so I wouldn't collapse. The closer I got, the more I freaked. It looked like he wasn't moving at all, not even breathing.
I knelt down beside his unconscious body. Blood was dripping from his nose, mouth, and forehead. I stretched a sweaty hand out and touched his neck, searching for a pulse.
Nothing.
Come on, Chris.
Nothing.
Don't do this.
Nothing.
He was already gone. I couldn't leave him there. I carried his lifeless body downstairs, and laid him down on the sofa. He was covered in blood. I killed him. He was just trying to help, and trying to be a good friend. And I killed him. I walked over to the drum set. What else could I do? Chris was gone.
My girlfriend left me. I played the drums. I killed my best friend. I played the drums.
I couldn't stay at home. The place we shared, the place filled with pictures of us smiling and being happy together. Pictures of her being faithful and not pregnant by some other guy. I left. I didn't know where to go, I just walked.
Down the street, people were also walking. Being happy. Their girlfriends didn't leave them. I felt miserable. The cold December air hit me, but I couldn't feel it. I was numb. Without putting much thought into it, my feet took me to the Bakery. The door was locked. I remembered that we always keep a spare key nearby, though. I found it, and shortly after I walked into the building.
The warmth hit me, but it didn't do anything. I was still numb. I took off my jacket and hung it on the coat rack to the left of the door. It was quiet. I didn't expect anyone to be there, of course. Everyone was still on holiday.
I walked into the other room. Our instruments were neatly set up. Then I realised that I didn't want to be alone. I wanted to see my friends. I didn't know where they were, though.
I turned and walked back out. The stairs looked so inviting. I climbed the stairs to the second floor, the all-too-familiar portrait of John Lennon gazing at me with his knowing eyes the entire way. His girlfriend never left him.
When I reached the room at the top of the stairs, I finally broke down. I collapsed into the nearest chair. Burying my head in my hands, I sobbed.
I didn't even love her. She wanted marriage and kids, but I didn't. Not yet, anyway. I didn't even love her. If I had loved her, maybe she would have stayed. Maybe this was all my fault. She didn't have to be such a fucking whore about it, though.
I went back downstairs. I sat down behind my drum set. It was so quiet. I picked up my drumsticks and started playing. I wasn't playing anything in particular, just randomly hitting.
Once, I looked down and saw her face. She was just there, on the drum, smiling and laughing. I slammed my arm down and pounded the drum. I realised then that by beating the drum, I was indirectly hitting her. I did it again. It felt nice. I never thought playing drums could be so therapeutic.
After a few hours of indirectly beating my ex-girlfriend, I decided to take a small break. I ran to the bathroom and ran the water. I looked up at my reflection in the mirror. I looked horrible. I felt horrible. I splashed some water on my face and left. This time, I went back upstairs. I walked into the room, and he was already there.
"Chris?"
"Will! Hey, man!" he smiled.
"Why are you here?"
"I had nothing to do at home. I thought I might be more productive here. What about you?"
"Uh... it's a long story."
He frowned and walked over to me. Gently placing his hand on my shoulder, he said, "You can tell me. I've got all the time in the world." He walked me over to the sofa, and we both sat down. He was just looking at me, patiently waiting for me to start.
“I got a letter today,” I finally said. “From... from my girlfriend.”
“What did it say?”
“She left me. She found someone else-”
“Oh, Will...”
“And he knocked her up.” Chris hugged me. I shrugged him off. I didn't want him touching me. I stood up and walked across the room. I wanted to be alone. Or maybe I didn't know what I wanted. When I was alone, I would have given anything to see him, or Jonny, or Guy. Now that I had some company, I just wanted be alone.
“Everthing's gonna be OK,” Chris said as he walked over to me.
“You don't know that.”
“No, but I believe it. And it's her loss, anyway.”
“You think so?”
“Yeah, you're a great guy, Will. If she can't see that, well, then she's just an idiot.”
“She's a whore, that's what. I swear, if I ever see her again-”
“Don't get angry, Will, it's not worth it.”
“Why shouldn't I?” I yelled. Frustration was building up inside me. I was afraid it wouldn't stop. “I have every right to be angry! And that stupid whore deserves to have her throat sli-”
“Will, stop. Please.” He sounded frightened. I couldn't stop.
“Don't fucking tell me to stop!” I grabbed this sort of bowl thing that was resting on a table nearby, and smashed it into the ground. The shattered pieces looked like how I felt. So broken. Then I picked up a lamp and threw it across the room. Chris covered his head and moved towards the wall.
“Will, please, stop!”
Another bowl. Another lamp. Soon the room was filled with broken things. Chris was still cowering by the wall. I stood in the middle of the room, breathing heavy, trying to calm myself. Trying to stop being angry, stop breathing heavy, stop throwing things. It didn't work. I picked up another object, and Chris ran in front of me.
“Will, stop it,” he yelled. I threw the object at him, and he gracefully caught it. He placed it on the ground beside him, then raised his hands up, placing them on my shoulders. “I think you've broken enough stuff in here.”
“Don't touch me.”
“Will, please, calm down.”
“Don't touch me,” I repeated. I wanted to calm down, but my body wouldn't let me.
“Deep breaths, OK?”
“DON'T FUCKING TOUCH ME!” I pushed my hands to his chest and shoved him. That got him to let go. But I pushed his slender body too hard. And we were too close to the open door. Chris stumbled backwards. He made it through the door way. Suddenly, there wasn't any ground for him to stand on.
Once the first step appeared, Chris seemed to be floating. Then he attempted a back flip, but only made it halfway before gravity came crashing down on him, and he came crashing down on the stairs. His legs tumbled over his head, and his knees smashed into the steps. He flew the rest of the way down, landing on the floor, but not before smacking his head into the wall.
I slowly walked through the doorway. My hands were sweating, and my knees were shaking. I looked down. Chris was laying on the ground. Oh, God. Bits of blood his blood were splattered on the steps and the wall. I walked down the stairs, holding on to the railing so I wouldn't collapse. The closer I got, the more I freaked. It looked like he wasn't moving at all, not even breathing.
I knelt down beside his unconscious body. Blood was dripping from his nose, mouth, and forehead. I stretched a sweaty hand out and touched his neck, searching for a pulse.
Nothing.
Come on, Chris.
Nothing.
Don't do this.
Nothing.
He was already gone. I couldn't leave him there. I carried his lifeless body downstairs, and laid him down on the sofa. He was covered in blood. I killed him. He was just trying to help, and trying to be a good friend. And I killed him. I walked over to the drum set. What else could I do? Chris was gone.
My girlfriend left me. I played the drums. I killed my best friend. I played the drums.
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