✧˚ · .Her eyes look sharp and steady
into the empty parts of me. * :☆ﾟ.
In which a touring singer becomes infatuated with his drummer
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𝗪𝗔𝗥𝗡𝗜𝗡𝗚. 𝗠𝗔𝗧𝗨𝗥𝗘 𝗖𝗢𝗡𝗧𝗘𝗡𝗧- READ AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION
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SEVEN.
Vivienne rolled to the opposite side of her bed, silencing her alarm for the 8th time. Afternoon light spilled through the ripped blinds, illuminating the dust floating through the air of her chaotic room. Clothes strung across the floor, old paper plates covering every flat surface, her drumsticks sat unused since she skipped the last rehearsal. The sight of it all pulled Vivienne deeper into the hole she was already buried in, so instead of looking at it, she simply kept her face in the pillow.
As her phone rang again she picked it up swiftly, expecting to slam the snooze button yet again, but she was met with a green icon.
Andrew (band) just reminding you of rehearsal today. we could really use the drums this time.
Vivienne groaned, pulling the pillow tighter over her head. It was enough to deal with her own mental misery, having to interact with Andrew on top of it sounded like hell on earth. She shuffled her brain for plausible excuses, her fingers working at light speed.
Vivienne Wilder is it alright if I miss this one? still not feeling my best.
Andrew held back a scoff, staring down at his phone. He knew the reasoning was bullshit last time; "a bad case of hay fever" was what Vivienne told him. But he could see the concern on Gwen's face when she called in, and the shift in attitude when she went to text her personally. Gwen was a worrier, sure, but for Vivienne she was like a doting mother, even leaving band practice early to head to her apartment.
She said it was to drop off some soup and Benadryl. Andrew knew they were both bad liars.
He kept his face straight as to not alarm Gwendolyn as he typed his response.
Andrew (band) absolutely not. see you in an hour.
Vivienne groaned even louder than the last, practically screaming into her pillow. She considered her options for the next five minutes; her only two consisting of skip the practice and risk her role in the band and her friendship with Gwen, or suck it up and crawl out of her depression nest already. She knew the former wasn't even an option, but she gave it a few more moments of thought before finally slithering from under the covers.
She shuffled through her piles of clothes, eventually pulling a half decent outfit of black cargo pants with white stitching, a similarly colored tight long sleeve and mismatched socks. She drifted around her room for a moment, unsure of where she was really doing, before shaking her head and pacing to the bathroom. She felt stuck in a routine as she yet again splashed her face with water, gave a reluctant brush to her teeth, applied whatever random cream her fingers landed on first, and finished with an expired mascara that clumped her lashes to all hell. She didn't care all that much, as her giant gold rimmed glasses distracted from it well enough.
