The Who - Short Fiction

Creep(y) - Pt. 1

The last thing you'd expected from your music theory course was a group project. Having completed your first year of theory at a London music college, you had anticipated assignments similar to those you had done the year before - so when the professor began calling out the pairs he had assigned to be partners, you felt a headache begin to build behind your eyes.

Half the students in your class were pretentious assholes, who had grown up playing the cello because their wealthy aristocrat grandmothers had insisted on it, and the other half had registered for the course thinking this would be an easy credit. Neither group contained anyone you would be interested in doing a project with. But when your name was called alongside one you recognized, you scanned the room for the man who belonged to it.

A gentle tap on your left shoulder caught your attention, and you turned to see a pencil in the hand of your friend, and apparently, your partner for this presentation; the quiet, raven-haired John Entwistle, who had taken a seat in the row behind you today, instead of across the room where he usually sat. John was a French horn player in the brass quintet you played with during the Christmas season. He raised his eyebrows and sighed, expressing how thrilled he was to be doing this project, and the simple gesture brought a smile to your face. Clearly he felt the same way you did – annoyed and apathetic.

"I'll be giving you the rest of the class off to meet with your partners and make a plan for your presentation," the professor explained monotonously. "Use your time wisely, as you won't be receiving much class time after today to prepare." He removed his glasses from the end of his nose, folded them, and tucked them into his shirt pocket – a sign that he was finished talking, and that the class was dismissed. You rose from your seat, tucking your chunky theory text into your leather satchel.

"Hey, Y/N," John's soft, deep voice greeted you. "S'been a while." His accent, a remnant of his childhood spent in a working-class neighbourhood, was clipped and at times tough to understand, but you had always liked the sound of it. He was well dressed today (as always), you observed, wearing a black jumper over a collared shirt, tailored tartan trousers, and a pair of black suede boots with pointed toes.

"Hi, John," you replied, giving him a tired smile. As bored as he looked, John at least appeared functional compared to you. You'd been working evening shifts every day that week, teaching trumpet lessons to bratty pre-teens from 5 until 9 or 10 at night.

"If you want, we could go t'the library, or we could use the students' lounge in my residence hall. It's usually quiet," he noted, glancing around the room to see that most pairs were sticking around to work in the room. "Might as well get this over with so it doesn't interfere with anything important." You strongly agreed with his logic, so with a nod, you agreed to go wherever he felt would be best. Despite the brooding expression you'd usually seen him wear during lectures, John seemed to have perked up at the idea of being released from class early. In actuality, he was looking forward to working with you, but you had no way of knowing that.

John led the way from the music building to his residence hall, which was just a short walk away. The September air was chilly, and you'd not thought far enough ahead that morning to bring a coat, so you crossed your arms over your chest and tucked them into your armpits for warmth. John glanced over at you every so often, checking to make sure you were still with him. Neither of you spoke – small talk didn't interest your introverted friend much, and you hated talking just for the sake of it. You were a perfect pair, and you internally thanked the group work gods for partnering you together.

"Here we are," John announced as you approached his building, an old red brick structure that looked quite similar to the block of flats some of your friends lived in off-campus. "Watch your step." He gestured to the steep stair below the door, and grabbed the metal handle, yanking the door open and holding it wide for you.