Chapter 4
The practice room in the music building smells like old carpet and drum polish. It’s the kind of scent that clings to everything after years of sessions. Afternoon light slants through the narrow window high on the wall, catching dust motes that drift like tiny planets around the room.
Dmitri is already there, standing beside his kit. He lazily twirls drumsticks between his fingers like he’s been waiting to show off. My eyes drop to where his sleeves are pushed up, locking on the flex of his forearms for a beat.
Things are largely back to normal after our fight last week, though both of us have been tense. Today feels like a trial, and I worry that it might be another awkward attempt at finding our footing. But as soon as he glances up, my concerns disappear.
The broad smile he flashes me is familiar. It’s identical to the one he greeted me with the night we met, and my chest aches at the memory. It’s wide, relaxed, and a touch amused, like the world just told him a private joke, and he’s choosing to let me in on it.
“Took you long enough,” he says, tapping the hi-hat once for emphasis. “Thought maybe you’d chickened out after I sent that video.”
“Chickened out?” I demand with a laugh, and the last of my worries drain away.
Dmitri nods, then air drums fast enough that the sticks turn into little blurs. “Yep. You saw me up there like some almighty drum wizard and decided you were too scared to play with the big dogs.”
I drop my bag by the wall and roll my eyes. “I didn’t chicken out. I just had to finish that theory worksheet Hale dumped on us last minute. Some of us actually care about our GPA.”
“You and I both know your GPA is fine. And besides, you won’t need it when you’re some bigshot on stage and the hot drummer’s counting you in.”
“Oh, it’s a hot drummer, is it?”
His grin spreads. “Well, it’s going to be me, so yes. A hot drummer.” He spins one stick like a baton, then points it at the throne. “Sit. You’re learning drums today. No more excuses.”
I scoff, but it’s mostly for show. Dmitri has been begging to give me a drumming lesson for months now, and I finally caved a few days ago. It’s mostly to humor him, but it’s also some weird, silent apology for the horrible things I said to him during our fight.
The stool is set up for his longer legs and feels a little too high, but Dmitri steps behind me before I can think too much about it. His warmth arrives a half-second before his voice does, and his cedar shampoo cuts through the drum-polish haze until it’s all I can smell.
“First lesson: posture. You’re sitting like you’re afraid the kit’s gonna bite you.”
“I’m sitting like a normal person,” I argue.
“You look like you’re waiting for the principal to call your name.” His hands land on my shoulders, firm but not rough, and he adjusts my position. “Scoot up. Hips forward. You want your center of gravity over the pedals, not behind them.”
I shift, trying not to think about how his palms are still resting there, or how his thumbs brush the tops of my shoulder blades. “This feels weird.”
“That’s because you’re doing it wrong,” he says with a quiet laugh. My fingers are clumsy as he passes me a stick, then leans over my right side to tap the snare. “Your right hand will go here. Grip loose… don’t strangle the stick. You’re not trying to kill it, you’re coaxing it.”
His chest brushes my back as his fingers close around mine to guide the angle. “Like this. Wrist relaxed. Your motion comes from here—” He flexes our wrists together in a small, controlled snap, and the stick hits the snare with a clean crack. “Not from your elbow. You’re not chopping wood.”
He releases me to try it again on my own, and suddenly I feel like I have two left hands as I try to imitate what he just did. The drumstick taps the snare, but it’s softer, and a hell of a lot muddier.
“Not bad,” he says, but there’s a laugh in his voice he’s trying to hide. “Although that sounded like you’re knocking on a door asking permission to come in. Hit it like you mean it.”
I roll my eyes even though he can’t see it. “I mean it. I just don’t want to break your kit.”
“You’re not gonna break anything.”
He repeats his instruction on the left side, guiding me to the floor tom and going through another hands-on demonstration at how to properly use the sticks.
“Feet now,” he says, and his left hand slides down to tap my knee, guiding my leg to one of the pedals. “Foot here. Light pressure.” I press down, and the hi-hat closes with a snap.
“Light, dude. You’re not stomping grapes. Just tap.”
“Just tap,” I mock in a whisper, but obediently soften my motion so it forms a hiss instead of a clap this time.
He shows me the bass next, and chuckles when I press it so softly it barely makes a noise.
We work on rhythm, and how all the sounds work together.
After a few minutes, it starts to make sense.
“See?” He’s still right behind me, voice low and amused. “You’re a natural. Now put it together. Slow. One… two… three…”
I try.
I mean, I really try, but the rhythm is clumsy. The snare is too loud, the hi-hat too late, and the kick is barely there. It sounds like a toddler throwing a tantrum on kitchen pots.
Dmitri bursts out laughing, head tipping forward so his forehead rests against the back of my shoulder. “Oh my god. That was beautiful. Truly avant-garde.”
“Shut up,” I say, but I’m grinning despite myself. “You’re a terrible teacher.”
“I’m an excellent teacher. You’re just a terrible student.” He straightens, but his hands stay on mine. “Again. Slower. And breathe this time. You’re holding your breath like you’re about to defuse a bomb.”
I inhale and try again. This time the snare lands on beat, the hi-hat opens cleanly, and the kick thumps underneath. It’s still messy, but it’s… something.
Dmitri lets out a low, pleased hum. “There it is. You’re finding the groove. Do you feel that?”
The vibration runs up my arms and settles in my chest. “Yeah. Kinda.”
“Only kinda?” He squeezes my hands once playfully before letting go and stepping around to face me. “Really committing to that shitty teacher comment, aren’t you?”
“Yep,” I snark back, popping the P in the way I know annoys him.
He’s grinning like he just won a bet with the universe. His hair falls into his eyes, sleeves still pushed up with veins weaving paths down his exposed forearms. The light from the window catches the edge of his jaw, and for a second I forget how to blink.
He notices. Of course he does.
“What?” he asks with a quiet laugh, his smile turning curious.
“Nothing.” I look back at the kit, cheeks warm. “Just… didn’t think drums would be this hard.”
“Liar. Admit it—you’re hooked.”
I huff a laugh. “Maybe a little.”
“Only a little?” He steps closer, tapping the snare with one finger. “You love it. Say it.”
“Fine. It’s amazing. The most musically enrapt I’ve ever been. Happy?”
“Ecstatic.” He grins wider. “Now get up. It’s my turn to show you how it’s done.”
I stand, legs stiff from sitting in that position too long. He slides onto the throne like it was made for him and picks up the sticks. “Watch and learn, grasshopper.”
He starts slow, letting me observe as he moves through the pattern. Then he layers in more notes, adding in pieces until his arms fly around the drums. It’s effortless, and he moves like the kit is an extension of him.
I watch his hands move and his wrists flick, and follow the way his shoulders roll with each hit. His foot is steady as a heartbeat, never missing the kick, and every time he hits that perfect pocket, his eyes close for a second. It’s like he’s listening to something only he can hear.
He catches me staring again.
“Still hooked?” he asks, voice low over the fading ring of the cymbal.
I swallow. “Yeah. Still hooked.”
He holds my gaze for a beat longer than he needs to, then breaks it with a grin. “Good. It’s your turn again, and this time, I don’t want you to hold back.”
I sit back down, and he steps behind me once more, hands settling over mine on the sticks. “Ready?” he asks, breath warm against my ear.
“Yeah,” I breathe with a nod, even though my pulse is suddenly too loud in my own ears.
“Show me what you’ve got.”
I take a breath, and play.
He laughs softly when I miss the hi-hat opening. “Close. You’re rushing… let me help.”
His hands cover mine again, chest pressing lightly against my back as he guides the motion. “Do you feel that? It’s not about force. It’s about timing. You hit when I hit.”
Our wrists move together, slowly deliberate, and everything lands on beat when he’s guiding me this way.
“Better,” he murmurs, right at my ear. “You’re getting it.”
“Only because you’re cheating,” I say, my voice rougher than I expect.
“This is called hands-on instruction, Eric,” he says as his fingers squeeze around mine. “You want me to stop?”
I should say yes.
I should pull away, because I’m already confused enough.
Instead I mutter, “No. Keep going.”
He hums his quiet approval. “That’s what I thought.”
We play together, his rhythm steady while mine tries to match.
Every time I falter, he corrects me with a gentle nudge of his fingers or a quiet instruction in my ear to guide me through.
His thigh brushes the back of my leg when he leans in farther, and his breath fans across my neck when he talks me through a fill.
I’m not thinking about the beat anymore. I’m thinking about how close he is. How his laugh vibrates against my back when I finally nail the pattern. How his hands feel on mine—sure, warm, and endlessly patient.
“See?” he says when I land a clean loop. “Told you you’re hooked.”
I turn my head just enough to catch his eye. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
He grins, unrepentant. “Can you blame me? I’ve got the hottest student in the building, and he’s actually listening to me for once.”
I snort. “Flattery won’t make me better at drums.”
“No,” he says, voice dropping a half-step, “but it might make you stay longer.”
My heart trips, and I look back at the kit, cheeks burning. “You’re impossible.”
“And you love it,” he teases, echoing the line he’s thrown at me a hundred times.
I don’t answer. I just play another bar, letting the rhythm drown out the way my pulse is suddenly racing. He stays right behind me, hands still on mine, and for the first time in weeks, everything feels almost normal again.
Almost.