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The kid did a good job.

Jesus fucking christ. The kid actually did a good job. And Fletcher had said so himself— mouthing the words with trembling, reverent lips, as equally reverent eyes caught its utterance. What big eyes Neiman had. The boy was practically a puppy.

One Fletcher once enjoyed kicking; roughing him up until he made Neiman squeal. Or, in his case, squeak. But tonight— oh, tonight, how Neiman had proved himself so much more than Fletcher once merely thought.

But that was a lie, wasn't it? He knew even before the hot, stage lights; before the awestruck, cheering croud; before the wild, passionate thrum of the drums, that Neiman was it. He was Fletcher's Charlie Parker. He could make Neiman into his own Charlie Parker.

And by God, did Neiman deliver.

With bloodied hands, with strained muscles, with trembling nerves—

Neiman delivered an honest to God good fucking job.

~~~

The first few minutes... Hell, the first few hours after the performance ended was a blur to Andrew. The stage lights were too hot, his muscles ached to to point of spasm, his hands bled profusely— and his lips just wouldn't stop smiling.

Even as the crowd gave their standing ovation (were they standing? Frankly, Andrew couldn't even tell), Andrew was stuck in a daze. He felt as if he were about to pass out. Only one thought kept him upright, one that swirled in his head as he wondered if he'd only dreamt it up.

It was the vague notion that he had done a good job. And that, of all people, Fletcher had said that to him.

That couldn't have possibly been true. If it was, however, Andrew hoped for one thing...

For Fletcher to be pissed the fuck off, all the way to hell and back, due to Andrew fucking Neiman.

The thought thrilled him as much as the performance itself. A performance, he soon realized as one of his fellow band members gently shook him to attention, had since ended with the expectation that he would leave the stage. He did as expected, of course, slowly and dreamily, and perhaps only returning once to retrieve his forgotten sticks. He hoped he wouldn't make a habit of that.

Andrew was on the tail end of the moving band, eventually lingering at the exit door as his father pulled him into a warm embrace. He knew that his father was watching him, but only then did it hit that everyone else was too, and not just...

"Andrew, oh my god, that was... incredible," his father gasped, as if he had been holding his breath the whole time. "I didn't... I didn't realize you were so..."

"Thanks, dad," Andrew said, absent-mindedly detaching from the hug. He was still reeling, really, and the floor soon followed suit. "Do you think I could, uh, maybe sit or—?"

Just as he began to sway, a firm hand suddenly pushed him upright by his back. It was a familiar hand, the kind of firm one gets from beatings— in Fletcher's case, both physical and emotional. Though, truthfully, Andrew couldn't recall Fletcher actually physically beating anyone.

Not by just slapping or throwing chairs, anyway. Strangely, the notion... interested him.

He was quickly pulled away from his odd fantasies, however, when Fletcher spoke with a voice that somehow always knew how to call Andrew's attention.

"Steady there, champ, can't have you falling now," Fletcher said amicably, such a tone likely more for Andrew's father than Andrew himself. "Not when you're already at the top."

Andrew blinked to attention to remind himself this was real. This was real.

"I never knew he could play like that," Andrew's dad went on, still slightly hesitant in Fletcher's presence.

Flether didn't seem to mind, and smiled. "Neither did I."

Andrew looked at him intensely, Fletcher only glanced back. That was enough, though. Andrew knew that was a lie.

Fletcher knew all along.

Andrew didn't know whether to smile back or roll his eyes. He settled on neither.

After a short, but relatively civil conversation between Fletcher and Andrew's father, the conductor insisted that Andrew stay to mingle with the band, talk to the board directors, and such. A generous offer, one Andrew knew he should be cautious to take with a man like Fletcher.

"Are you okay to stay, Andrew?" His father asked.

"Uh." There was little question to it, though. "Definitely."

He was going to say yes indubitably.

"I can always stick around and wait," his father offered. "I can take you to your apartment after, and— oh, Andy, your hands..."

"I'll take care of him," Fletcher offered kindly. Though, it sounded more like an order than anything else. "There's ice backstage."

"That's very kind, Mr. Fletcher, but..." his father continued cautiously.

Andrew regained enough sense to mutter out a defiant, "Dad."

With that tone, his father could do nothing but give in.

~~~

It was almost nostalgic for Fletcher to see Neiman's blood again. He just didn't expect to see this much of it— but then again, he didn't expect a great number of things.

Backstage, most of the other musicians lingered to bask in the afterglow of their performance, but none seemed as entrenched in such ecstacy as Neiman. He sat in the back of the room, hands on his knees, bleeding, and patiently waiting for Fletcher's assistance. There was a glazed-over look in his big eyes, lids falling halfway, as if half-awake in a dream.

"That's some drummer you got there," one of the trombones commented as Fletcher gathered ice water from the water dispenser. "Is he your protege?"

"Yeah..." Fletcher hummed, turning the label over in his mind. "Something like that."

When he returned to the dream-ridden boy, he seemed to have regained more consciousness, now aware of the others in the room, and even making small conversation with those who praised his, admittedly eccentric, style of performing.

"Here," Fletcher said, holding out a cup of ice water in each hand. "Put your fingers in this."

Standing, Neiman did as told, and though the cups were a bit small, he was able to fit his whole hand inside each cup if he clumped his fingers together slightly. He hissed at the pain, then sighed at the relief.

"Any longer, and you probably would have bled to death," Fletcher chuckled. Neiman smirked in return. "If you had dropped the ball— which, let's face it, you did at first— I'd have killed you myself."

"Then why didn't you?" Neiman asked with slight humor. Only slight.

The question struck Fletcher. Why didn't he? He could have right now, really— how many fucks did he really give about everyone here as opposed to teaching this brat a lesson? But to his surprise, his restraint was resolute.

Not now, at least. Not now.

"Come on, kid," Fletcher scoffed amusedly. Still holding the cups up, he moved his elbow to bump Neiman's own. "You earned this."

Neiman stiffened, eyes wide, lips taut. As if holding back a smile. Instead, he gulped, furrowing his brows.

"You really mean that?" He asked, not with that petty desperation Fletcher was so used to, but a confronting defiance he'd instead come to dread.

Christ, the kid just always had to put up a fight. Fletcher mentally tempered his annoyance, keeping his grip on the cups steady as to not crush Neiman's fingers inside— let's see the loudmouthed fucker try to play drums with that. But then again, having Neiman debilitated and unable to play was not a favorable outcome for the conductor.

"What the fuck do you want, a goddamn trophy? Daddy must have spoiled you while you were away, Neiman," Fletcher scoffed, keeping his tone light. Neiman stared at him intensely nonetheless.

After another minute or two of soaking Neiman's bruised, bloodied fingers, the boy claimed he was good to go. Fletcher doubted it, but said nothing. The kid's hands would get some much needed rest, anyway, for he doubted anyone would want a handshake from the drummer as Fletcher began to parade him around.

Seeing their fellow musician now recovered, many of the other band members came to congratulate and praise Neiman. A number of orchestra board members came to sing their accolades too.

With each conversation, Neiman gained more life, a slow realization replacing the glazed look in his eyes, one of 'this is real. This must be real.' Fletcher savored the look, especially when Neiman's eyes came his way.

He stayed by the boy's side all the way through, adding to Neiman's answers, at times overtaking Neiman in conversation with his own thoughts. Neiman always listened quietly whenever Fletcher spoke, shutting his mouth whenever once interrupted. It amused Fletcher— there was that puppy. He had to remind himself not to kick it, not with so many people around, anyway.

"I recognize you, you know..." One of the board members, a man with much too large glasses for his head, said to Neiman. "Didn't you used to go to Schafer?"

"Oh, uh, yeah, I did," Neiman said, nodding. As Fletcher's eyes trailed down, he saw Neiman picking on the torn skin of his fingers. A bad habit, he thought. "Before I got, well... Uh, how did you know?"

"My daughter goes to Schafer, I believe she watched you in concert once," Glasses remarked.

Neiman chuckled. "Oh. Which one?"

"Not sure I remember the day, but... it was quite eventful, according to her," Glasses chuckled mildly, then continued in a low voice. "Did you really come from a car crash that day?"

"I..." Neiman blanked, perhaps too stunned to answer. As if a wordless plea, he looked to Fletcher, silently begging for help.

Fletcher could have easily left him high and dry, floundering for an appropriate response. But the longer he lingered in Neiman's gaze, he found that what he once thought was a plea, a beg, as Fletcher assumed, was more of a challenge.

There was that defiance again. Fletcher knew better now than to feed into it.

"Events from that day have been... greatly exaggerated," Fletcher offered mildly. "Did she tell you Neiman here tried attacking me too?"

"Not exactly tried," Glasses laughed, now easing on the topic.

"Exactly my point," Fletcher chuckled.

Looking back at Neiman, the kid looked at him now resigned. Fletcher smirked. There was only one thing Fletcher loathed more than a weak puppy, and that was a dog that barked in a quiet house.

As conversation soon died down, Fletcher and Neiman were designated to their own tense corner. Others seemed to realize that whatever Fletcher and Neiman had going on on-stage didn't end once they stepped off of it. In fact, in some ways, it only grew more obvious.

"You should be proud," Fletcher said casually, throwing the compliment away as if it were nothing. "All anyone's talking about tonight is you."

"Yeah," Neiman said half-heartedly. He stood beside Fletcher, who was leaning on the table behind them. Neiman was turned towards the table, the two cups of, now refilled, ice water placed atop for Neiman to soak his hands into. They had begun to ache again just a few minutes ago. "I guess so, yeah."

"You 'guess' so?" Fletcher laughed. Grabbing his cup, filled with cold coke, he spoke into it. "I've seen fuckers with participation awards more thankful, for chrissakes!"

"I dunno. I just didn't think it'd feel so..." Neiman trailed off, eyes drifting down. The ice water cups were twinged red with blood.

"Unreal?" Fletcher guessed. Neiman was quiet, so he took it as being right. "Believe me, this is as real as it gets."

He patted Neiman on the back— the wordless equivalent of 'good job,' he realized— then winced. Christ, he didn't even think about that one. He uttered it so suddenly on stage, he worried it would become a habit. He just hoped it wouldn't be one too difficult to break.

Neiman stiffened a little at the contact, but otherwise remained neutral. Still resigned, almost. Fletcher was glad. Docility was a good trait, both in mutts and humans.

"Did you think I was gonna drop the ball?" Neiman asked. Fletcher glanced at him.

"Do you want me to be honest?" Neiman nodded. "Like I said, you already did, kid. But it's too late for that now. You picked it right up again."

Fletcher made no emphasis to his tone, no grandiose proclamation of such praise. No, that would be too much for someone like Neiman. He had to give it away like one would scraps for food. From the look of it, Neiman seemed to know that.

"And you," Neiman went on. "Are you proud?"

"Of course I'm fucking proud," Fletcher scoffed. "What kind of a retarded question is that? You all blew everyone away."

"What about me?" Neiman offered slowly, cautiously.

Fletcher eyed him. "What about you?"

Neiman licked his lips. "Are you proud of me?"

Fletcher watched Neiman's expression; mild, blank, tame. All a front, he was sure. Like a dog waiting for a command, he could tell just from the needy look in their eyes.

"Yeah," Fletcher replied with equal calm. "Sure, I am."

Neiman's lips pursed. Fletcher wouldn't have been surprised if he even whined.

Suddenly, the distinct sound of a phone ringtone caught their ears, muffledly emerging from the pocket of Neiman's pants. Neiman startled from his pathetic reverie, raising his soaking hands from the cups they were in.

"Shit," he muttered. "Probably my dad. I just..."

Shaking the excess water from his hands, he just couldn't seem to dry them fast enough for Fletcher's comfort. He suddenly seemed like that puppy again, helpless and pathetic. Without really thinking about it, Fletcher reached over to grab the phone from Neiman's pants.

"Jesus, Neiman, it's not like I'm wanting to grab your crotch," Fletcher scoffed when Neiman flinched back. Fletcher took the phone quickly, having to dig in a little, then looked at the caller ID. Indeed, it was Dad. "Here. Answer it."

"What—?" Neiman began, but Fletcher had already accepted the call. He held the phone up to Neiman's ear, standing closer, but trying not to seem as if he was listening in. "Oh, hey, dad. Yeah, I'm still here..."

Neiman was different when it came to his father; reserved, meek, but kind. Fletcher thought back to earlier, when Neiman left the stage only for a moment, leaving to bury himself in his father's arms. Fletcher didn't pay much mind to it, at first, but now... if he were any other man, he might have thought it sweet.

"They're pretty nice, yeah. Yeah, they liked it," Neiman spoke into the phone, a small smile forming on his lips. "Oh, I dunno... maybe just a little. Not too long, I think? Oh. Oh. Fletcher?"

Fletcher cocked his head a little at the mention of his name. Neiman glanced at him from the corner of his eyes.

"He's still here. No. I don't think so, no," Neiman went on, then nodded. "Yeah. I'll tell him when I see him."

To that Fletcher raised a brow, but Neiman only shrugged. Still, he was smiling.

"Yeah, I will. I'll just catch a ride. Okay, yeah," Neiman continued. "Thank you. Love you too. Goodnight."

Fletcher held the phone up for a beat longer before lowering it. Neiman's hands were now dry enough for him to hold it himself, but still he kept his hands down. Scoffing at the boy, Fletcher practically shoved the phone back in his pocket. He tried not to notice how Neiman forced himself to flinch.

"Daddy liked the performance?" Fletcher hummed.

Neiman chuckled, now in good humor. "Yeah. He really liked it."

"He asked about me?" Fletcher asked, trying to seem oblivious.

"You heard," Neiman said, more of a statement than anything.

"Of course I heard," Fletcher scoffed, taking a sip of his drink. "I may be fifty but I'm not fucking deaf."

Neiman snorted. "You're fifty?"

Fletcher glared at him, but smiled. "Do you really wanna try that with me now?"

"I guess not," Neiman chuckled, but his smile seemed to grow wider at the prospect. Interesting. "But yeah, he did. He... wanted to say thanks. For giving me a chance."

Fletcher hummed in self-satisfaction. Then, he let some bitterness slip. "You would have found a way to take it anyway."

Neiman remained smiling.

As they spoke, Neiman's hands steadily remained bleeding, eventually dripping onto the floor. It was only when two small puddles formed did Fletcher notice, and he groaned at the sight of it.

"Fucking hell, Neiman, you need more than just ice," he sighed. "Keep your hands in your pockets, will you? That's disgusting."

Neiman scoffed, almost chuckled, but did as told. "I have bandages at my place. I'll fix it up when I go."

"So, what are we waiting for?" Fletcher sighed, looking around for tissues or any kind of wipe.

Neiman raised a brow. "We?"

"You're gonna catch a ride, aren't you?" Fletcher asked as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You just found one."

Neiman stared at Fletcher, almost in disbelief, before it was replaced by caution. Or suspicion, even. It was getting harder to read Neiman by the minute— damn. Fletcher didn't like that notion.

"Seriously?" Neiman scoffed. That, Fletcher was sure, was meant to be condescending.

The conductor grumbled, letting old habits slip. "Cut the shit, Neiman. You either take my ride or I leave you here to bleed like a gutted pig."

Neiman's eyes widened in a way that, Fletcher suspected, wasn't at all a bad thing. He wondered what that meant. He wondered if he was even right.

~~~

Andrew had a bad habit of giving in to Fletcher far too many times than he was proud to admit. On the other hand, he considered it a good habit how much he was suspicious of the guy— especially when he was being so... nice.

He didn't want to even call it such, but what else could he have called it when the man had Andrew seated in his passenger seat with an offer to drive him home? An offer that Andrew, begrudgingly, accepted. His mind was elsewhere, returning to that hot stage.

Fletcher tapped along idly on the steering wheel to the tempo of the radio, playing some jazz station, the few of its kind. As expected, Fletcher's timing was precise. There was a sting on Andrew's cheek at the thought of it, one he didn't exactly hate.

He knew what an achievement tonight was, as everyone quite literally told him, he knew. It hadn't quite settled yet, however, for though he knew he had it, there was just something missing.

Some push to know it was really, truly, his. He found himself unconsciously looking towards Fletcher as he pondered such a feeling. Better not to dwell on what that means...

"I've been by your neighborhood before, you know," Fletcher began casually, eyes on the road. The orange streetlights were dim, the rest of the world quiet. "I never realized you lived there now."

"You sure you weren't stalking me?" Andrew chuckled, an attempt at a joke. Though, he really wouldn't have minded if Fletcher took it as a provocation.

It didn't seem to rile the older man much. "You sure you weren't? Tell me again how you 'found' me in that bar."

Andrew frowned slightly. He had braced himself for more.

He then sighed, sinking in Fletcher's passenger seat, and trying not to memorize the distinct smell that radiated within the vehicle. It must have been a mixture of some sort of car freshener and Fletcher's own colonge (or, a part of Andrew wondered wanderingly, Fletcher's own natural musk). Steady breaths now, kid, steady.

There was also the metallic twinge of blood as Andrew's hands, obviously, continued to bleed. Fletcher had barked Andrew an order earlier, to keep his dirty mitts from the man's new seat covers. Obediently, Andrew kept them atop his stained knees.

Since then, Fletcher showed no signs of that old severity. It was eerie. Unnerving.

"I could have just called a cab, you know," Andrew began, trying to sound bitter.

Fletcher glanced at him, one look cutting through that defiant front. "Bet you're glad you didn't."

It was more than that, unnerving. It was wrong. Odd.

Disappointing.

Andrew grumbled to himself. Shouldn't he have been happy?

He finally proved himself to everyone— but most of all, to the one who needed proving the most. The one, the only one, who ever really mattered, and he would finally be rewarded with their praise, their recognition, their kindness. Fletcher was finally the man Andrew had hoped for him to be since the beginning.

Only, it wasn't the man he wanted. No, not at all.

"You should probably expect a call in the next few days," Fletcher talked on, oblivious to Andrew's worsening mood. "At least one orchestra should have the mind to recruit you."

"And if they don't?" Andrew murmured, almost accusingly. Fletcher sighed.

"Don't be like that," he said. Then, with a gentle, fucking gentle, pat on the shoulder, he added. "You earned it. Really."

Then why the fuck didn't it feel that way?

Andrew stared resentfully as Fletcher turned his eyes back to the road, seemingly unaware, seemingly, of the hatred seated just beside him. It just wasn't right, he felt. None of it felt right.

He earned it, sure, but one can't just say that (and especially not in such a tone that Fletcher used). Andrew fought for that goddamn stage, he crawled his way through hell for that applause, he'd have died for that good job—

Only, he didn't expect the struggle to stop afterwards.

Maybe he didn't want it to.

His whole mind and body lurched at the thought— and at the sudden brake bringing the car to an abrupt stop.

"Damned red lights..." Fletcher muttered. Then, absent-mindedly, he said to Andrew. "Sorry about that."

He turned the word over in his mind. Sorry. What the actual fuck.

~~~

"Hey, uh... you wanna come inside for a minute? I got some beer or... whatever else you'd like."

He should have just said no and left, damn it, but he and the kid were finally alone, and somehow, the night felt like it had only just begun.

"You got any whiskey?" Fletcher asked.

"Well. No." Hm. He really should have said no.

"It's fine. Beer's good too."

Before long, he was climbing the steps up to Neiman's apartment, following the boy only a few paces behind.

The apartment complex was a simple thing, with open, railed staircases in lieu of an elevator. Fletcher was somewhat thankful; he wasn't sure he could handle being in a closed, cramped space with only Neiman just yet. Once they were in front of Neiman's door, the boy attempted to pull out his keys, but they slipped from his hand— surely from the numbness now from so much exposure to ice.

"Fuck," Neiman whispered. When Fletcher almost offered to retrieve the fallen keys, the kid almost snapped. "It's fine. I'm fine. I'll get it."

"Works for me," Fletcher scoffed. A sensitive one, the brat could be.

When Neiman finally straightened, key in hand, the door across his own slowly opened, a lively voice making its presence known and startling both of them.

"Andy!" A fresh-faced young woman, around Neiman's age, greeted the drummer from her doorway. "I thought that was you."

"Oh, hey Kate," Neiman greeted mildly, waving a bloodied hand.

"I was just about to..." Katie began before gasping. "Oh my God. I... Andy, what happened to your hand— hands?"

"Right," Neiman said quickly, wincing and putting his hand away. Blood dripped slightly onto the floor. "Sorry, yeah, I'm good. It's just... practice was hard, you know."

"Well, do you need any help?" Katie began before becoming fully aware of Fletcher's presence. She looked up at him curiously. He eyed her with furrowed brows.

"He's fine," Fletcher said firmly. "I got him."

Neiman was quiet. It was a beat too long, Katie staring at one, then the other, as if waiting for an introduction to the older man. Fletcher had to elbow Neiman into attention.

"Oh, uh, Katie, this is..." Neiman glanced at Fletcher. "My dad."

Katie processed the statement. "Oh! Well, I... I couldn't really tell."

"Yeah?" Fletcher scoffed amused. Planting a hand on Neiman's upper back, patting lightly. "My boy here takes after his mother." His hand turned a bit rough. "A shame she left when he was so young."

"Fletch—" Neiman whispered, sounding more embarrassed than any kind of offense. "... Dad."

"I'm so sorry, I..." Katie blanked, eyes darting between the two. "I really have to get going. It was nice to see you, Andy— and you too, sir."

"Of course," Fletcher almost laughed as she left. "See you around, kiddo!"

"Dad!" Neiman huffed, a flush coming upon his face before he corrected himself. "I mean— fuck."

Fletcher laughed, a loud and hearty thing, as Neiman led him inside. He could tell the boy hoped no one heard.

"Well, fuck me, Neiman, you live like this?" Fletcher chuckled. Taking a cursory look around the apartment, he nodded. "It's... not bad."

Neiman let out a barely audible grumble. Fletcher, again, laughed.

The kid's apartment really wasn't all that bad. For a young man all by his lonesome, the place served as a satisfactory bachelor pad. A bit minimal, to Fletcher's taste, but to each his own.

"You don't mean that," Neiman sighed, walking over to his fridge. Pulling out two bottles of beer, Fletcher imagined Neiman going about such an activity every night, day by day. A literal look into the boy's normal life. He wondered if the kid squeezed in drum practice in between. "It's kinda shit."

"You said it, not me," Fletcher said, shrugging.

Letting himself get comfortable, he sat on one of Neiman's dinner table chairs, the eating area just in front of the kitchen. He even went so far as to drape his jacket over the back of the chair— a domestic touch, he considered it. Neiman was about to hand Fletcher a bottle before suddenly jerking it back.

"Wait. You're gonna drive, right?" Neiman asked rather obviously. Fletcher gave him an equally obvious look. "Shit. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea..."

Fletcher thought the exact same thing.

"Oh, don't be a wuss, Neiman," Fletcher huffed, rolling his eyes and snatching the beer from the boy's hand. "I'm not a goddamn lightweight. Even a cross-eyed cripple could drive on just one beer."

The words came out before Fletcher could really check himself, and he cursed under his breath for it. It was just too damn easy. In this place, at this hour, with this kid. It was a cakewalk, really. The challenge came in the restraint.

As much as Fletcher wanted to return to old habits— bad habits, really, he knew it wasn't the time nor place for it. Yet. The kid did a good job, after all— a damn good job, a good fucking job, blah, blah, blah. Fletcher knew that. The more he knew, the more it irritated him. But that didn't make it any less true.

He could cut the kid some slack for tonight at least. Something easier said than done, though, when Neiman was constantly tugging at his own leash.

At times, it was as if the boy was begging for a beating.

Neiman let Fletcher drink his beer— 'let.' As if he even needed the boy's permission. Nevertheless, Neiman didn't bother making another comment on it, and instead placed his own bottle down on the table, and went to the bathroom. Surely to bandage the bloodied things that were his fingers.

Fletcher sat in silence for a moment before speaking, an awkward twinge now to his voice. "I could help with that, you know."

Neiman's response was immediate. "No! Like, thanks, but... you're my guest. I'll be fine."

"Good," Fletcher sighed more to himself. This 'nice' thing was really starting to take a toll. The least he could do though, he had to remind himself, was to at least wait for the kid before drinking further. He didn't want to seem like a drunk now.

When Neiman returned with bandages wrapped around his hands, his fingers, some spots already seemed to have bled through. Neiman didn't mind, now opting to sit on the chair beside Fletcher. Curious. Fletcher swore Neiman would have taken the one across.

"So," Fletcher began, adjusting in his seat to face Neiman. The kid sat hunched, listening intently. "Katie. What's her story?"

Neiman shrugged. "I don't really know."

"She calls you Andy," Fletcher observed. "What's up with that, then, Andy?"

Neiman restrained a smile, rolling his eyes. He opened his bottle using the edge of the dinner table, chipping the wood a little. From the look of numerous other marks, the kid seemed to have had a habit of neglecting his bottle opener. Assuming he had one, anyway.

"I told her to call me Andrew," Neiman went on. He even grabbed Fletcher's bottle and opened it in that same way. "She's nice, but she's not exactly... my type, I guess."

Fletcher raised a brow. Neiman's love life— now that was a topic of surprising interest.

"I thought of inviting her to the show tonight, after my old— well, after my ex cancelled on me," Neiman said with some defeat. "But... things fell through. I didn't invite her."

In some twisted way, Fletcher was pleased. "Good."

Neiman raised a brow as he took a sip.

Fletcher gave a small cheers with his own bottle, and played off his comment with a chuckle. "Probably for the best anyway."

Downing another gulp, Neiman nodded. "Yeah. Probably."

They were quiet for a moment, the air heavy, the tension thick. It was the kind of quiet perfect for a drum solo— as if the whole world ceased its prattle to allow for such percussions to thrum loud and hard.

Taking another glance about the room, Fletcher noted no drum set. A shame.

"Will you tell me now what you really thought of tonight?" Neiman asked suddenly. There was that defiance again. That rebellion. That pull on the leash.

Fletcher had to let his grip go limp, not to pull back the leash taut. "I already told you, didn't I?"

"Bullshit," Neiman accused, the slightest bark. With a short chuckle in an attempt to diffuse, he shook his head playfully. "It's always something with you, Fletcher."

"I could say the same, you know," Fletcher countered. "Always something with you too."

"Oh, yeah?" Neiman tilted his head challengingly now. "Like what?"

Fletcher shouldn't have given in. Once you gave a dog what it wanted, all it would do was beg for more. But oh, how Fletcher couldn't ever resist putting a mutt in its place.

"Leading my own goddamn band?" Fletcher shook his head. "You've got some fucking audacity, Neiman."

He knew he couldn't go too far, though. Just a tug on the leash. Only a tug.

"You gave me the wrong sheets," Andrew laughed in disbelief, as if finally processing the betrayal. "You humiliated me!"

"I wanted to," Fletcher corrected. "I wasn't exactly successful, was I? Especially not when everyone backstage was practically kissing your ass."

"You too, apparently," Neiman scoffed.

Fletcher stared. Andrew gazed unwaveringly back. The leash was jerked hard— almost too hard in Neiman's direction. Almost.

A lapse in grip didn't mean Fletcher wasn't still holding the damn thing.

"How retarded are you? Suddenly you drop out of college and need everything repeated ten times over," Fletcher laughed. "You. Earned. It. Get it through your thick skull, kid."

"Of course I did. I earned it more than anyone," Neiman agreed, but his eyes said otherwise. "But do you believe that?"

"Hard to argue with facts, isn't it?" Fletcher rolled his eyes, drinking.

"Do you?" Neiman asked again anyway.

Taking a hefty swig, Fletcher nearly slammed his bottle down on the table, causing the boy to jump somewhat. His wide eyes grew bigger— good. Fletcher was just about sick of that slitted, suspicious look he had for a while now.

"The fuck do you want from me, Neiman? You want me to apologize?" Fletcher asked, his tone measured; just enough calm, just enough severity. "Because there's no way in fucking hell for that."

"I know," Neiman said mildly. He had been taking sips of his own drink as Fletcher spoke. "I just want you to... admit something."

"That being?"

Neiman remained quiet.

Riddles and clues— fuck, could this kid get on his nerves.

"You're such an egomaniac," Fletcher almost laughed, his voice rising. "Do you want me to say it again, is that it?"

Neiman took a sip. His eyes never left Fletcher's. Fletcher never let him.

"Jesus fucking Christ. Well fine, here— good job, Neiman. What a good fucking job you did tonight— goddamn good job!" Fletcher said exaggeratedly, gesticulating his arms and hands wildly. "You earned it all. You earned it. You fucking already earned it, Andrew!"

Neiman's eyes windened a little. Not even Fletcher realized the change in name until after he had said it.

Other than that, however, the kid's expression remained relatively the same. Blank, intense, neutral. Almost like Fletcher's own, all those months ago, in that Schafer rehearsal room.

The switch was odd. They both seemed to know it.

"You're not very good at being nice," Neiman commented.

"Then maybe I won't be," Fletcher grumbled.

As he went for his drink, he swore he saw Neiman almost smile into his own.

Just as suddenly as before, Neiman's phone began to ring. It was louder now, more obvious in such a quiet, cramped room, and it only served to remind Fletcher how it really was just the two of them. No distractions.

"You're a prick," Fletcher muttered, downing a rather large swig. "I hope your daddy knows that."

"You're driving," Neiman reminded the older man, slowly retrieving his phone.

"Please," Fletcher said whilst rolling his eyes. "If you wanted me gone so soon, you wouldn't have invited me in."

Neiman's eyes lowered— Touche, Fletcher suspected they were saying. His attention was soon shifted to answering his father on the phone. It was about time too; Fletcher began to loathe that ringtone.

"Hey, dad," Neiman greeted in a kinder voice. After a short pause, the boy nodded. "Yeah, I got home safe. One of the band gave me a ride."

To that, Fletcher raised his bottle in a faux salud. Neiman's eyes drifted to and fro as he spoke, but always seemed to find Fletcher's gaze along the way.

"Mhm. One of the trumpets. Fletcher?" Neiman's eyes lingered. "I told him. Yeah. Yeah, he... definitely."

The conversation droned on, mainly through long silences on Neiman's end, with only the occasional "yeah" or "mhm." By the end of it, Fletcher was already down to a quarter on his bottle. To hell with driving.

"Alright, I gotta head to bed now, dad," Neiman said, concluding the exchange. "Yeah. Love you too. Goodnight."

His pleasant expression lasted for only a few moments before dropping. Fletcher almost laughed at the quickness in which it faded.

"One of the trumpets?" Fletcher raised a brow, smirking.

"He'd kill me if he knew it was you," Neiman reasoned. "Or, well... really, he'd kill you."

"I'm not worried," Fletcher hummed. "There's little left to hold over my head. You made sure of that, kid— fucking me over the way you did with Schafer."

Neiman staggered a little with his drink. Fletcher's brows furrowed— jackpot.

"I never..." Neiman tried to argue, slightly shaking his head.

"Oh, cut the bullshit, Andrew. Even a blind person could see it!" Fletcher raised his voice slightly, forgetting the residential complex they were currently in. Or, well, ignoring more than forgetting. "Who else but you, huh?"

Neiman opened his mouth to protest, but then closed it. Licking his lips, he seemed to know better than that. "And what if I did?"

"Then I'd be right about you all along," Fletcher said sternly, pointing a finger at the boy. "You're nothing but a faggot-faced pussy, with balls the size of goddamn grapes."

Neiman's eyes widened. There it was— there was the rage.

"I'm the pussy? Really?" Neiman asked, sitting more upright. "What, couldn't you have come up with a competent enough case to defend yourself? Or have you ever thought of— I dunno, not fucking abusing your students?"

"Abuse!" Fletcher laughed at the absurdity of it. "Abuse! Without my 'abuse,' you wouldn't even be here. Not on that goddamn stage, and certainly not here with me!"

"What makes you think I want to be with you?"

"Uh, hello? You've got to be retarded. You invited me in, dumbass!"

Neiman gritted his teeth, his jaw tense. "I never forced you to."

Fletcher just had to laugh. "Everything's always got to be a game with you, doesn't it, Andrew?"

And Fletcher just had to play along. There was some sick satisfaction at the thought— because it only meant Neiman was the one to start it.

"Alright, fine," Neiman huffed, lips drawing into a thin line. "I was the one who got you kicked out. I was the one with the attorney."

That satisfaction now plainly revealed itself on Fletcher's face with a sardonic grin.

"What the hell else was I supposed to do? They saw me attack you on that stage— what kind of a sane twenty-year-old does that!?" Neiman's wounded hand gripped his bottle so hard, blood began to squeeze through the bandages.

Fletcher made a face. "I thought you were nineteen."

Neiman paused in surprise. "Not since last week."

"Huh." Fletcher eased. Interesting.

Neiman looked as if he'd noticed something... intriguing, to say the least. He quickly shook the awed expression from his face in order to return to his previous hostility.

"So— yeah. I made that case against you," Neiman concluded.

"There was already a case against me. They just needed someone to testify," Fletcher said, then sat up straighter as he pointed a finger at the boy. "But you know what really gets me about all this? The fact that you did it anonymously. Anonymously, really? As if that would fucking keep me from finding out. You were the only one in my entire band pussy enough to tell on me!"

Neiman stared at Fletcher hard. His brows furrowed, his eyes the most alive they had been that night, Neiman muttered.

"I'm not scared of you, Fletcher," he said.

Fletcher grinned. "Then why are you shaking?"

Indeed, Neiman's hands shook— perhaps just from the aftermath of his performance, but Fletcher didn't really give a shit. Trembling was a sign of weakness. Weakness was ammunition.

Neiman glanced down at his hands, mainly the one that held his bottle, before taking a long and large gulp of his beer. Before long, he was down to a quarter just like Fletcher. He hoped the kid had it in him for seconds.

"Fuck you, Fletcher," Neiman grumbled, standing up and running a hand through his hair. Some strands turned slick with blood, the bandages no longer completly dry. "Really, fuck you!"

"Really, Andrew, we're doing that now?" Fletcher laughed sarcastically. "Have your witticisms come to an end? You're supposed to be a musician, have some damn imagination!"

"I can't believe I—" Neiman began, cutting himself short. Biting his lower lip, he turned around, away from where Fletcher could see. "I can't believe I ever looked up to you."

Fletcher rolled his eyes, swirling his beer. "That's your fault, kid, not mine."

"That bullshit at the bar..." Neiman went on. "You don't care about making anyone 'great.' There was never any Charlie Parker for you. You're just a goddamn coward— picking on kids like me for your own ego!"

"Hey, hey, hey!" Fletcher shouted, nearly spitting his drink as Neiman spoke. "First of all, you of all people are barely a kid. And second of all, I do care very much, if you had an ounce of intellect to fucking notice."

"Of course I noticed. I noticed it was just another ploy to manipulate me!"

"Jeezus fucking— manipulate? Your generation's a plague on the art of criticism. You're all sensitive!" Fletcher scoffed.

"Making your own Charlie Parker... You couldn't even make anything out of Sean Casey!" Neiman's voice steadily grew louder, his movements more animated, and his entire visage— more alive.

He was goading Fletcher. Baiting him. He must have.

But goddamn it. Neiman did too much of a fucking good job even in that.

"Sean Casey made it to first chair," Fletcher said, his tone measured, intentional.

"Was it the chair he hung himself from?" Neiman replied in an equally purposeful tone.

Fletcher's eyes shot wide open. Neiman's squinted as he grinned.

"Yeah." Neiman nodded. "I know."

Fletcher's fist shook. He didn't even realize his hand had balled up into one.

"I know that he killed himself." Neiman's tone was sickeningly defiant. The kind Fletcher couldn't resist. "I know that he killed himself and it was your fault. You hear me, Fletcher? You killed Sean Casey— you, YOU!"

"YOU DON'T KNOW THE FIRST GODDAMN THING ABOUT SEAN CASEY." Fletcher stood, practically shoving a finger up Neiman's case. The boy just froze, staring down at Fletcher as if he'd been hit. "Sean Casey was a good kid— he had potential. More potential than you ever had. And he was more of a musician that you'll ever be!"

"So Sean Casey's that great, huh?" Neiman resumed once he'd found his bearings. "Could he have done what I did?"

Fletcher raised a brow. Lowering his hand, he lowered his voice in turn. "And what, pray tell, may that be?"

"Been one of the greats," Neiman said. God, how cocky he sounded doing so. "Made you proud."

This fucking kid.

This goddamn kid.

Fletcher had to walk away before he did something he would regret. Pacing to the other side of the small apartment room, he couldn't help but let a loud 'WHAT!?' slip from his mouth. Once he returned in front of Neiman, hopefully more sound, he still couldn't wrap his head around it.

"Been one of the greats?" Fletcher repeated, almost amused. "Made me proud?"

Neiman smiled. God, how Fletcher wanted to knock it from his face.

"ARE YOU FUCKING WITH ME!"

"Am I missing something?" Neiman shrugged exaggeratedly, his tone matching the display. "You just said so yourself, remember? Just earlier tonight? Or maybe you forgot... I can't really blame you, being fifty and all."

"What kind of guy did you fuck to make you so cocky? One of the... Proud of you!? Jesus fucking Christ, Andrew, have you ever heard of a thing called lying?" Fletcher huffed, exhausted and in disbelief.

"So you didn't mean it?" Neiman asked. It was odd how little he seemed to be hurt. Not that Fletcher wanted to hurt the kid, deep down. "Any of it?"

"Not right now, no," he sighed. Then, with a shake of his head, he shouted. "Actually— yes. I didn't mean any of it. NONE OF IT, ANDREW."

Fuck it. He did want to hurt the kid. Real bad.

"For a moment tonight— just a miniscule, microscopic moment I thought, 'maybe he earned it. Maybe I should play nice.' As fucking if!" Fletcher raised his hands up in frustration. Neiman flinched. Fletcher noticed. "But you see that, Andrew? I 'played' nice. You understand that—?"

When Neiman failed— no, refused, to respond, Fletcher slammed his hand down on the dinner table. Again, Neiman flinched. His eyes blazed with life.

"I WAS LYING, YOU RETARD!" Fletcher finally shouted.

Neiman licked his lips. There was beer in his breath. "So you weren't proud of me?"

Fletcher stomped towards Neiman, bringing their faces close. There must have been beer in his breath too. "Not. Even. Once."

Neiman's eyes flickered downwards. Once, twice. "Then why didn't you say so?"

Fletcher gritted his teeth. "I don't have a goddamn clue anymore."

"You should have just said it from the start," Neiman scoffed. His eyes drifted again— what the hell was this kid looking at? "Say it."

When Fletcher refused to respond, Neiman took a more forceful tone. "Say it."

'Forceful.' Who the hell was he kidding? The kid was practically begging. Those pleading eyes; as big as a puppy's, as wild as a mutt's.

"Fuck, Neiman. You are such a fag." The echo of a smile crossed Fletcher's lips.

Stepping away from the boy, Fletcher returned to the table to retrieve his drink, downing the last of it in one go. Neiman copied and did the same. With both of their drinks emptied, Fletcher took it upon himself to look for seconds. He didn't bother asking Neiman's permission before raiding the fridge and taking another pair.

"You are sick and twisted motherfucker, Andrew," Fletcher laughed to himself. When he placed both new bottles on the table, Neiman began opening them without a word. He used that same, wood-chipping technique. "You wanna hear me say it, is that it?"

"I want you to tell the truth for once," Neiman said, sliding Fletcher's now opened bottle towards the man. "Are you too much of a coward to say it, huh, Fletcher?"

"Don't twist this onto me, you little shit stain," Fletcher grabbed his bottle, the quickness in the motion causing some of its contents to spill. He pointed at Neiman, some contents spilling further. "You want this. You. You sick fuck."

Neiman flinched a little at the spilled beer. He was getting jumpy now, was he? The thought sent a thrill up Fletcher's spine.

"And you know what? Fuck it. Fine. You win, kid, you win! You got your long ass drum solo, and no, I'm not proud of you for it," Fletcher recited, his tone sarcastic but measured. Taking a swig, he wiped his lips with the back of his pointing hand before resuming to push a finger against Neiman's panting chest. "You shouldn't be either, you know— looking so damn happy to look a fucking mess on that stage. Charlie Parker had talent. Sean Casey had fucking passion. You? You, Andrew, are nothing more than an obsessed, perverted freak."

Neiman listened rapt as Fletcher tore his character to shreds. He was like a bomb about to burst, hands twitching, eyes staring hard. One could say Fletcher's words physically pained him. The same could be said otherwise— love and hate were just two sides of the same coin, after all.

The boy's eyes kept drifting up and down; Fletcher's blazing gaze to his biting mouth. God, how Fletcher wanted to knock the awe from his eyes.

"You wouldn't have even been on that stage if it wasn't for me. I gave you all your chances and you blew them every time. We still could've been in Schafer if it wasn't for you— but of course, your sensitive ass fucked it up!"

Fletcher kept pressing into Neiman, his hand pushing the kid further, further.

"I bet you never even thought about what would have happened to your bandmates. All you ever think about is yourself— Neiman, Neiman, Neiman! You selfish prick. What about the rest of the band? The rest of my students!?"

"Like you cared about them." Neiman rolled his eyes. With a particularly forceful shove of a finger, the boy flinched.

"I cared about my BAND!" Fletcher roared. "It was my band, my goddamn responsibility— but you made it a goddamn burdern. A chain 'round my ankles, that's what you were! So you ask if I'm proud of you—?" Here, Fletcher broke into a sardonic laugh. "Proud of you? I curse the day we fucking met, Neiman. You think you got talent, maybe even skill, but all you have is too much time and too little of a life. Proud of you? NOT EVEN YOUR OWN FATHER SHOULD BE PROUD OF YOU!"

He had backed Neiman into a wall— literally. Though the boy was taller, it was only by a small margin. Fletcher was up in Neiman's face, screaming insults with a force Neiman hadn't ever endured.

"—One of the goddamn greats my ass," Fletcher went on and on. Neiman's attention never strayed once. "I'd beat you to filth, kid, but you don't deserve more than the fucking lift of my finger!"

He slammed his fist against the wall, effectively caging Neiman on one side. The boy flinched, as expected, with a needy gleam suddenly shining in his eyes. Fletcher smirked.

"What's the matter?" He teased. Neiman was breathing hard, the disgusting smell of beer rife on his breath. "You gonna cry, you weeping bitch?"

"No," Neiman said, shuddering. Glancing to his side, his eyes lingered as he muttered. "You gonna hit me?"

Only then did Fletcher notice his clenched fist shaking. Be it with anticipation, restraint, or some other sense, he didn't know. He let his fist fall, contemplating the idea of lifting it, reeling back, bringing it to Neiman's face, but...

"Like I said," he chuckled, backing away. "You don't deserve that."

Turning and taking his bottle of beer, he took slow, deliberate steps towards the door. "You don't deserve anything."

Facing away from Neiman, he grinned in triumph. With that, he drank a large gulp of beer as if he'd won.

"Thanks for the beer, Andrew," he said, halfway to the door. For some reason, he found his steps slowing. "I'm sure I can still drive completely fine."

It was half-true, anyway— or Fletcher thought so, at least, before he was toppling to the ground.

The bottle dropped and shattered from his hand as he made rough, sudden impact with the floor. There was a weight on his back, something larger, taller, and writhing with pathetic desperation.

This was the second time now that Neiman tackled Fletcher. A bad, bad fucking habit it was getting to be.

"What the— you fucking—" Fletcher shouted, twisting himself around to face Neiman. The boy's arms were wrapped tightly around Fletcher's waist, face buried in his chest as he used all his weight to push Fletcher down. "Get off me, you fag!"

"Why won't you do it, huh!?" Neiman shouted back. "You're too much of a coward, goddamn you. GODDAMN YOU, FLETCHER!"

Fletcher and Neiman turned into a mass of rolling, writhing limbs, one trying to gain advantage over the other. It wasn't so much as a fist fight— yet, more than it was a struggle to stand while keeping the other down. Eventually, Fletcher got hold of Neiman's sweat-stained collar, and used it to hoist himself to stand, the boy now backed once more, now against the door.

"You're all bark and no bite— you talk big then run away!" Neiman continued to scream, throwing a tantrum as if a child. "Show me you mean it. Every fucking thing you say— show me!"

Fletcher wanted to hurt the kid— he'd thought that before, didn't he? Fuck it. He still wanted to. It looked like Neiman wanted it anyway. God, the kid was such a faggot.

"You want me to show you, huh?" Fletcher huffed, almost laughing. "You freak. You're sick in the head, kid."

"Yeah." Neiman nodded. With a cocky, oh-so-punchable grin, he added. "You are too."

Fletcher wanted to deny it. How could he, though, when he proved Neiman right by slapping him right across the face? No person in their right mind would give Neiman the catharsis of such a hit. No person in their right mind would want such a hit to be a place of catharsis.

Maybe they were both freaks.

Neiman's face was now turned to the side, his cheek red with the impact. Fletcher's palm stung. When the boy looked at Fletcher, however, that sick desperation hadn't faded. Yet.

"That's it?" Neiman muttered.

Fletcher's hand twitched.

"That's all you got?"

He slapped Neiman again. Harder.

"Fuck— really?"

Again. Harder.

"—Goddamn coward."

Harder. Again. Again.

"Don't you mean it—?"

Again. HARDER.

"Hit me like you want it, you fucking—!"

There was a loud, painful thud. Neiman was on the ground. His cheek had split open, blood splattered. That same blood was on Fletcher's knuckles, shaking, aching.

"Fuck..." Fletcher huffed, a twisted thrill climbing up his spine. And other parts of his body.

Neiman's body shivered on the floor, slowly attempting to get up. Fletcher watched, waiting, his hand flexing in anticipation.

When Neiman finally sat up, on his knees, sitting on his haunches, he looked up at Fletcher like a— quite literally kicked, dog. A mutt. A goddamn puppy.

Huffing, panting, blood dripped from Neiman's mouth to his chin. Fletcher gently grabbed the boy's chin, tilting his head up as he wiped the blood with his thumb. His hand remained, almost caressing Neiman, as he spoke.

"You got what you wanted?" Fletcher asked almost kindly.

Chuckling, Neiman brandished his bloody teeth. "Sure. You got any more?"

Fletcher thought about it. Whatever the fuck they were gonna do now, Fletcher absolutely didn't know— and subsequently, he absolutely didn't care.

So, reeling his hand back into a fist, he hit Neiman so quick and hard, it almost gave the boy whiplash.