Song: Politicians in my Eyes by Death (2009)
Tonight, it's going to be me, Twilight, my guitar, a couple of good mates, and maybe a cool bottle of pop. He mindlessly picks at his nails, black nail polish chipping off slightly at the tips. He'll have to repaint them when he gets the chance. A sigh escapes his lips as he flicks another piece off before deciding to pick up his book again. If Willie doesn't stop bloody bugging me, Twilight might actually be pretty banger.
"Hobie, I told ya to piss off if you're not gonna help."
He rolls his charcoal eyes, an indifferent expression pursed on his lips as he irritably picks at his nails again. Hobie casually lounges on Willie's ratty old basement couch, a thick textbook balancing between his slender fingers. He shoots Willie a sideways glance with a slithering smirk stretching across his face.
"I am helping you, mate. You're playin' off key and you keep mixing up the lyrics in your own songs. Besides, weren't you the one who called me over here?"
Willie's spiked bleach blonde hair seems to almost stiffen in anger. He cuts his sharp azure eyes at him, a deep set frown wrinkling his face. Hobie can't help but snicker at him, his mischievous smirk broadening into a large amused grin. He always did enjoy taking the piss at him.
With a scrawny hand, Willie roughly scratches his stubbly chin. He scoffs. "I called you because yesterday you said you'd fill in for Bram when we play at the Twilight tonight, but you've done bugger all since you've been here. You're being a prat, mate."
Hobie only hums in response, turning to the next page of his book. It's true, Hobie did agree to fill in for Bram, as their guitarist and lead singer. Poor bloke got food poisoning after going to some dodgy fast food joint in East London. Practically chundered all over Willie's backseat. Although Hobie wasn't there to see it, he can only imagine how minging it must have been.
"Not true. We've been practicing all bloody afternoon. We deserve a break Willie."
Hobie was never one to break promises, his word being the only law in which he lives by. However, he knows Willie would have them rehearse songs until they couldn't even remember the lyrics anymore and the words become mush in their mouths. He is a stickler for perfection but perfection is something Hobie never hopes to achieve. Besides, his throat is sore. I sure could go for a steaming cuppa.
"Hobie's right. If we play another song, I think I'll go mental." Cheri perches on the same armrest where Hobie's head is lying comfortably.
Willie lets out an exasperated sigh then turns to Olu sitting quietly in the corner of the basement, casually scrolling through his phone. "You're not even gonna say anything?" Willie hisses.
"Bruv, I've been needing to use the toilet for the past thirty minutes, so no." Hobie can almost feel the vibrations coming from his deep monotone voice.
Willie aggressively tosses his bass guitar next to a plush neon green beanbag. He then shoves his hands into his pockets, a sour expression on his face. "Fine. We can take a forty five minute break, then we continue practicing."
Olu shoves his phone back into his back pocket and gets up, trudging towards the decrepit narrow wooden staircase. "Cool. I'm gonna take a piss then." His silver chains, dangling from his waist, clink together as he thuds up the stairs. Thick black platforms, causing a loud creak with each step. Hobie returns to his book, quietly turning to the next page. Willie strolls towards the small window in the corner and props it open. He takes a crumpled fag out from his jean jacket pocket and immediately lights it, flicking a small silver lighter. He raises it to his lips then blows out a puff of smoke into the brisk early evening air.

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