guilty of devotion - [dnp au]

13.:. ontario // nina nesbitt*

TW: alcohol; addiction; mentions ADHD, LSD, marijuana; emotional :')

xxx

december 22nd - [meteor showers // andy kong]

- Bring it on! - one of the unfamiliar friends of Lanie's, whose name is doubtful I'll ever learn, shouts at Phil supportively, encouraging him to play.

Friday, 10:50PM. The damp aired, massive garage of Jack's girlfriend's house, Dundalk. One day before Christmas eve. Phil, two nameless sisters wearing nothing but coordinated white crop tops and plaid skirts, Melanie's quiet brother James sipping from a glass of wine and I, clinging to the bittersweet Margarita in my hand unsteadily. Disorderly situated boxes on the shelves by most of the walls, each having a different year written on in glitter. The grey doors to the backyard and inside the house. Sweating in my coat as I refuse to take it off. My roommate in the corner of the claustrophobic basement-like room, preparing to play his favourite musical instrument for the first time since, supposedly, Year 8. The drums.

Watching his hesitation -pressing the pedal to check the sound, clearing his throat and holding the cymbals to avoid clanging- before slamming the drumsticks against the metal and skin, evokes a memory of the time I still played the piano and would perform in front of my friends during similar gatherings.

I could never pull myself together to play the black and white keys as if I'm under no pressure, as if no one's judging. I could feel the dissatisfaction in the air each time, even when they'd bury me in compliments.

Later on, the insecurity of presenting my skills became another reason why the drama club I held so close to my heart. I attended it to shine and in hopes of overcoming the fear of being watched, as well as considered it a push in the right direction, one every person should need to come to terms with the fact that they, indeed, can achieve their desired.

Perhaps at the moment Phil lacks it, too. Perhaps I should pass the push onto him.

So I, from my seat on a parked red car's bonnet, stare at the full of terror face of his across the garage intrusively, hoping he'd take notice. Wishing the push to be delivered.

When Phil's eyes flash fondly, taken aback by the unusual amount of attention from someone who's constantly avoided looking at the boy for longer than 5 seconds, I slowly show a thumbs up, mouthing a You can do it before placing both of my fists against my rather red cheeks to cover the awkwardness.

Yet he doesn't mind it; he's thankful. And soon, gathers his confidence to hit the drums, at last.

Sipping my drink, I watch the boy use every bit of frustration, passion and, who knows, even love to put up a show for his, no matter how tiny, audience. He's someone who prefers quality and perfection; whether in an arena full of people or just around us four - Phil wants to impress.

Perhaps due to how rarely I see talent in person instead of, for instance, artists on social media, or because the magnificent sounds the drums create have thrilled me forever or, believe it or not, since the drummer is a close friend of mine, this I consider the most enjoyable performance my untalented self has ever witnessed.

Truth be told, observing the way Phil's hands tense around the drumsticks, how he, grinning from ear to eat, lets his head fall back and eyes shut, is addicting. Although the drumming's aggressive, as it should be, his unpleasant emotions have ceased and replaced by much more sincere ones. Glowing even.

To some degree, Jack's right.

Tonight is different, I ponder, applauding as Phil stands up and puts the sticks back on the seat, finished playing.