let's rock n' roll

music never dies

your pov

It comes as a surprise to no one when I skip our first band practice in favor of heading to bed early. I mean, I almost drowned. The others didn't give me much grief for not being in the mood, and blessedly agreed to keep it down for the night (including Sheila and TJ, who's moans could be heard through the paper thin walls for a solid two hours afterwards).

Exhaustion and lingering unease hang over me in equal measures, although I naively decide yet again to ignore the latter. I just need to sleep it off...I'm sure I'll be good as new by tomorrow. The room that I was given is a cozy little thing; pastel and soft and so like me. Unfortunately for me though, sleep doesn't come easy, even in a place as comfortable as this.

I toss and turn for what feels like forever, although I can't tell if it's because of the loud love-making or the pit in my stomach or both. Probably both. I give up after a while, sighing unceremoniously to myself as I stumble out of bed and into the hall. The walls are dimly lit from the moonlight, but I can vaguely make out the hands of the clock —2:40 AM. Fabulous.

Honestly, I'm not quite sure what I'm hoping to find. A distraction? A drink? My friends? Him? No, no, definitely not that. I'm lost in thought by the time I reach the stairs, and I stare blankly ahead for a moment before finally realizing what it is I'm looking at. Or rather, who. Matt. He's standing shirtless at the bottom, one hand occupied with a drink and the other hidden in his pant pocket.

For a few beats, the condo is unusually still. And then, without a word, his lips quirk into a shy smile; his head tilts to the side like a big golden retriever. When he does finally break the silence, it's no more than a whisper.

"Hey, (y/n)...what're you doing up? Can't sleep?"

For some reason, my heart is racing in a way that has nothing to do with being flustered and everything to do with paranoia. Still, I brush off the prickly feeling on my back and descend the first few steps, returning the smile half-heartedly.

"Oh, yeah, you know...kinda hard to sleep when the other two are going at it like rabbits in the other room."

I say it with as much humor as I can muster, despite knowing that it's not the full truth. Matt doesn't need to know that I'm still awake because I've been seeing things. I'm relieved when the joke doesn't fall flat, a raspy chuckle escaping him before he chases it down with a sip of whatever alcohol he found. I make it the rest of the way into the living room before yet another chill runs down my spine.

"They're definitely a...rowdy couple. You want a drink? That usually helps me get to sleep."

Tempting as the offer is, I wave him off politely, deciding rather quickly that I don't need to be tipsy on top of being anxious. When I shift to move around him, our arms brush, and I feel his shoulders shrug.

"Fair enough. You can always come find me if you need anything though...have a good night."

And with that, he lumbers back up the stairs, giving me another little nod before disappearing around the corner. Nice guy. Nice in a way that would almost feel forced if it weren't for how painfully genuine he is. Amy thinks that he has a "thing" for me; I think that she's full of it. It's definitely part of the reason she invited him out this weekend, although she'd never admit it.

I'm still running through the interaction in my head as I shuffle into the kitchen, freezing dead in my tracks as my eyes land on the slim vase on the counter. The vase with the singular red rose. I don't know why I'm surprised (I put it there, after all), but it catches me off guard in a way that makes my nerves fizzle. I don't bother turning the light on as I take a slow breath and divert my attention to the fridge.

Food. I usually wouldn't eat this late, but it'll work as a well enough distraction for tonight. I hope. Carelessly, I swing the door open, and I swear that I nearly piss myself when a bottle comes tumbling down loudly onto the tiled floor in turn. It doesn't shatter, but I stumble back anyway —stumble right back into the scent of oil and the haze of smoke and the familiar sound of whistling.

I move another inch, and the smoothness of leather caresses my arms. Leather bound hands caress my arms, I should say, because I glance right down and see them, only to whip around to face an empty kitchen. The whistling doesn't stop, and my heart is in my throat. The room is partially illuminated by the fridge, and yet as my gaze darts around, I see nothing. Not a soul.

My spine is rigid like a rotted branch for another several beats, finally straightening out just enough for me to retrieve the beer that's next to my foot. For some reason, sudden movements feel like a death sentence right now. Gingerly, I lean forward to place it back on the shelf, and the door closes afterwards without incident. Too easy, considering what just happened.

The tune is promptly cut off, and my heart drops into my ass at the sheer, oppressive silence left behind. I glance to the left; to the right. Nothing. My feet don't move back towards the living room until I'm sure that I'm not going to faint —so much for a late-night snack. An all nighter sounds preferable at this point.

I'm only two steps forward before being intercepted yet again, freezing in my tracks at the sight of a body leaning casually against the doorway. Not Matt. Not Amy. Not even a hungover Sally looking to swipe the can of Easy Cheese again. Instead, I'm put face to handsome face with the very man I was hoping I wouldn't see again. And boy, he does not look happy.

Driller Killer's POV

I don't like the look of 'em —these "friends" of hers. Never have, really. The girls are too quick to do things they know they shouldn't and their boy-toys aren't much more than sex-hungry meatheads. And I especially can't stand that Matt fella. Matt. Even the name leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

Yeah, I've seen him making eyes at my little lady. She may not notice it, darling as she is, but he wants her. Wants a hell of a lot more than what she's been giving him. Every time he sweet-talks her, I get this itchy feeling, like I need to squeeze something. Like I need to drill a hole through his chest.

This was supposed to be our night. I knew she wouldn't be able to sleep after what had happened; I know her better than she knows herself. Woulda' been simple enough to catch her alone in the hallway...but he wasn't part of the equation. Him and his smiling and his head-tilting and his lack of clothing. His gentle, whispered words.

Ohhh, I coulda killed him right there. Shoulda, too,  for the way he was staring at my dolly like he had any right. Staring like a stray that wanted head-pats. Any other ditzy college chick might've given it to him too, but not my (y/n). No, she didn't budge, not even when he mentioned drinking like it was actual advice and not just some excuse to get her tipsy and alone.

I was in the process of lighting another cigarette when he skimmed past her, and that purposeful brush against her shoulder was enough to make me crush the flimsy thing between my fingers. Touching her. It's certainly a nasty habit of those friends of hers, especially as time passes. It starts as a meaningless graze, but soon it'll turn into hand-holding. Hugs. More.

Hell no. Not him. Not with my sugar.

I'll admit that I may have overreacted with the whole bottle thing. It ain't her fault that she's got people tripping over themselves for her attention, but I had to mess with her a little regardless. Getting to feel her stumble back against me for that one blissful moment made it all worth it, in my opinion.

But now she's looking at me with those pretty angel-eyes, and it ain't like how she looked at him on those steps. It ain't fond; not gentle or sleepy. And I know —I know what I said about patience, but this is just too much. I need her to look at me the way she used to, when I was her one and only; when she knew I wasn't really so scary. I need her to remember.

And if I need to apply the pressure a little bit to make that happen...then I'm sure she'll understand.