They're in a hallway behind the stage. Connolly is flipping shit.
"Fuck, Neiman! What the fuck! What was that, what the hell are you doing?!"
Andrew hears him but can't make himself look him in the eye. Connolly is still gripping his bicep, and Andrew's shoved up against the wall. He tries to twist out of the other drummer's grip. Connolly waves off the security guard that helped drag Andrew off stage.
He's still shouting, and somethings dripping down Andrew's face, sliding down his temple. He's trying to breathe, and its like sucking air through a shitty coffee straw. He's not entirely sure if he's crying or sweating or bleeding or all of the above. Connolly's screaming something about getting expelled, and Andrew suddenly shoves him away with force he didn't know he had at this point in time.
"Get the fuck off of me!" Andrew's leaning on the wall. The adrenaline is sickening. He feels sick. The jittery kind of sick, the panicky, shaky, wiry kind of sick that melts your knees and makes you stumble.
"Jesus Christ, Neiman! Jesus fucking Christ, who the fuck do you think you are?!"
Andrew's screaming now too, and Caravan starts up onstage. Tanner's playing, and he can hear the bass lining up with the throbbing in his head, the thready staccato beats banging against his skull.
"Shut the fuck up, you fucking prick! You have no fucking clue!"
He's throwing questions at him, one after another. "Neiman, what the fuck happened? What the hell are you fucking thinking? You dumb fuck, what the fuck are you doing? Who the fuck do you think you are?!"
If he says one more thing, Andrew's gonna punch him in the fucking throat.
"You're bleeding fucking everywhere!"
Andrew's head snaps up, and his hands are bleeding and he's pale and blanchy and furious and he screams at the top of his lungs, "Shut the FUCK up, Connolly!"
Connolly shuts up. There's blood pounding in his ears, coming and going in swells and fortepianos. He's still panting, breathless and trembling, jerky and rattled. He stumbles against the wall and knots his fingers in his hair. And he hopes he ruined the fucking concert, hopes that the entire world saw him tackle the "poor, defenseless man" to the fucking ground.
It's funny because Connolly used to be a good guy.
Caravan is still being played in the background.
Connolly must've took a few deep breaths or counted to ten or something because he's now standing in front if Andrew, still visibly pissed but no longer screaming. He's trying to keep it together. "What the fuck happened to you?"
"Fuck off," Andrew grinds out, and blood is dripping on the floor, sliding between his fingers.
Connolly is pissed, and then he growls out a quick "Fuck you" before storming off and slamming the door.
Andrew sinks to the floor and presses his eyes into his knees. He's smeared an unholy trinity of blood, sweat and tears on a good portion of his face, and he's still shaking. His phone is still lying in the middle of the road, and he's crying. Because he's worthless.
Because fuck.
They finish Caravan and he hears Fletcher talk and apologize again and Andrew pushes himself up with one hand. He has to get back to the accident. He knows he's fucked beyond belief, but he's getting up.
He clings to the wall for a moment, and everything swims. Blinking the spots out of his eyes, he takes a few steps forward. The sick feeling is still there, sinking in the pit of his stomach and uneasiness and he's a wreck.
He knows shock is slowly sinking in and that he's borderline a nervous breakdown. He is close to collapsing, but he shakes it off. He feels empty and choked and hollow and he's trying really hard not to fucking lose it as he walks down a hallway and he thinks he might have hit his head.
He hears the audience applaud as his classmates file out and off of the stage. He's still got a hand knotted in his hair, and his left hand is hanging down limp at his side, mangled and crimson.
He finds a bathroom and swings the door open and collapses on the floor into the corner next to the sink. And he starts to lose it. He's close to sobbing. It's getting harder to breathe, and the empty stalls are wavering. He closes his eyes and weeps because it hurts so fucking bad to know that he's not good enough. It hurts so fucking bad and it feels like he's being ripped to shreds.
He's choking on tears and forgetting how to breathe. He's dizzy and disoriented and the sick feeling, the shocky sick feeling is coming in nauseating waves.
Somebody walks in, sounding like Connolly but he didn't know for sure. His vision is spotty like a ruined film, and sounds are distorted and ringing. Someone crouched in front of him, and they look like Connolly, he can make it out through blurry eyes. Their mouth is moving and something is patting his cheek. His vision goes black and he lets it swallow him.
Because he is so beyond fucking done.