4. the hands that never stop moving.
Arthur woke up suddenly in the middle of his classroom, jerking his head up—his very red head, although it was starting to grow out so you could see his blond roots—to the sound of a large, collective groan.
"You can't be serious!" yelled the very loud American next to him. His accent grated on Arthur's ears, and the Brit narrowed his eyes and drew his collar up so he wouldn't have to hear the American's voice. The boy sitting next to Arthur—whatever his name was—was too loud and obnoxious for Arthur's liking. And he didn't make the most effective of lab partners, either.
"All right, hurry it up," the teacher said, clapping her hands. Arthur rolled her eyes as she continued: "Switch seats, already; the chart's already up on the projector."
Arthur sighed and grabbed his bag. He couldn't remember how late he'd stayed up last night, high on performing and playing guitar. Ever since Gilbert had joined their little group, the crowds had been bigger and better. Word had gotten around more, and the crowd demanded more encores. Which meant getting back to their dorm later. Which meant less sleep. He and Gilbert were usually so exhausted that they'd collapse on their beds, fully clothed, and wake up with crease marks on their faces and a very dry mouth. Then they'd miss breakfast, so Arthur's stomach would hurt until lunch. That was a long three hours. Three hours of dealing with his painfully empty stomach.
Arthur slumped forward on the lab table and yawned. Today, luckily for him, was only a review day—reinforcing the concepts of bonding or something or another. Arthur knew perfectly fine how to determine the structure of a molecular compound, so he figured he could just hold a pencil and pretend to draw diagrams. Then he would just close his eyes for a little bit…
Except when he tried, he found that he really couldn't sleep. The kid who sat next to him kept tapping his fingers. Really obonoxiously. And Arthur, while he could sleep to rock music, he couldn't sleep to annoying tapping.
He had very large hands, the boy sitting next to him. Not chubby but not completely slim either. Somewhere in the middle. Very strong-looking. Arthur shivered slightly at the random morbid thought of those fingers clasped around something, something living, watching it squeeze…
"Arthur, Mathias, how are you doing?" the teacher asked the suddenly.
"Good," said the blond boy sitting next to Arthur. He bobbed his head up and down, and his fingers kept tapping the desk. Arthur swallowed his contempt (tried to, anyway), but it didn't work. The tapping was so incredibly annoying, especially since the kid was using his nails to tap on the tabletop, so instead of a soft thump, they were clickity-clack noises. It irritated him to no end. He just wished that Mathias would stop drumming his fingers—
Wait.
Arthur slid his green eyes over to look at Mathias Kohler a little more closely, and nearly fell off his stool in shock.
Mathias was tall. He was a good couple inches taller than Arthur, and had a strong jaw and flat stomach. He had a long-sleeved red-and-white Liverpool Football Club shirt on, and and thin jeans. His face was very pale, with a straight nose, light blue eyes, and light blond hair, lighter than Arthur's. It was gelled to stand up in a flared, wild, style. Exactly like the boy with hands like blurs.
Arthur bit his lip. This wasn't the same boy he'd had from the brief vision he'd had while drunk on the adrenaline of playing Lennon's "I Am The Walrus," was it? The resmblence was ridiculously uncanny; there was no way that it could have been the same person. The boy Arthur saw couldn't be real. A figment of his imagination. No, he wasn't real. But then again, here he was, right in Arthur's face, with the same hair, the same energy, the same hands that never seemed to stop moving.
The more Arthur listened, the more he realized that the tapping wasn't random; it was actually a drum beat. A fast-paced, upbeat rhythm. Yes, that was it, then if Arthur paired it with a G minor chord—
No, no, no, what was he thinking? Mathias couldn't be their drummer. HE hardly knew the guy. But how could he resist pure, raw talent sitting next to him on a silver platter? He took his chances with Gilbert; why wouldn't Mathias refuse? Mathias wouldn't refuse. Of course Mathias wouldn't refuse. Of course not. Yes. He would join their band. Yes.
Now, Arthur thought, all he had to do was ask.
.
"What did you say his name was again?" Gilbert asked Arthur, his reddish eyes intently trained on the field of football players running back and forth.
"Mathias," Arthur whispered back. "Mathias Kohler. And shove off, your foot's in the way."
Gilbert sniffed. "What kind of name is that?"
"Danish!" Arthur hissed. "His dad is from Denmark or something. Now move your foot!"
It was rather chilly that day. October had arrived, and already the students had begun pulling out scarves and sweaters. The trees were turning color and even the grass that Gilbert and Arthur were crouching on had turned a sickly yellowish color. Arthur shivered as the gust penetrated his leather jacket Roma had given him Christmas past.
Gilbert shifted with a grunt of annoyance, and rubbed his hands together to keep warm. "I can't see anything," he complained. "Which one is him?"
"Don't be stupid," Arthur snapped. "It's the bloke over there, with the ball."
And Mathias Kohler was, at that moment, in possession of the ball, his tall, slim form racing across the field. His mouth was twisted into a wicked smile, his shirt pulled back by the wind to reveal a flat stomach.
As they watched, Mathias ran up to the end of the field, sidestepped a defender with amazing dexterity, swung his foot back for a shot…
…and fell flat on his face, tripped by another defender.
"Gits!" he said playfully, peeling his face from the dirt. It was stained with brown now, from the muddy fields. "That was a foul, a foul!"
"Shut up, Kohler," said one of the other players, and helped the smiling Mathias up.
Arthur could feel himself frowning instinctively at the stupidity of their antics (like he so often did with Feliciano and Roma) but Gilbert was practically choking back laughter. It was really quite annoying; Gilbert's laugh was the most obnoxious thing to reach Arthur's ears, and that was saying a lot. Not to mention that the German boy was making a complete racket, rocking back and forth and rolling around and slapping his thigh. Arthur sighed. This boy is too easily amused.
It got to the point where Gilbert was rocking so much that he hit one of the metal beams of the stands that they were hiding in. Arthur, with reflexes that he hadn't even known existed, slapped his hand over Gilbert's howl of pain. All the football players had turned to look at the stands with an odd look on their face. Arthur's heart beat faster, and he was well aware of the heightened, over-sharp quality of his senses that adrenaline always brought—the colors brighter, the noises louder, the air colder. Don't let them see us here… oh god.
"What was that?" Mathias squinted uneasily at the stands, and Arthur held his breath.
"I dunno. Probably just some pop cans rolling around in there," said another boy. "Come on, let's go."
After one final dubious look at the stands, Mathias shrugged nonchalantly and jogged back to the other side of the field.
Arthur exhaled and turned to look at Gilbert, who had an angry look on his face.
"What'd you do that for?" the German boy hissed after he pulled Arthur's hand off his mouth. (Arthur was still relieved that Gilbert hadn't bitten his palm.) His red eyes glared at Arthur irritably.
"Sneaking around is more effective if you don't make any noise!" Arthur hissed back.
"Why are we even doing this, anyway?" Gilbert grumbled. "We could've just gone up and asked him like any normal person, but nooo, the freaky kid with fake red hair says we have to stalk the bloke—Oww! What was that for?"
Arthur fixed Gilbert with an acid green glare. "Don't insult my hair. Seriously. I don't make fun of your bloody white hair—"
"—because it's awesome—"
"—so don't make fun of mine." Arthur set his jaw.
"Yeah, yeah," said Gilbert, turning back to look at the field. "So what's the plan?"
Arthur frowned, still rather annoyed at the hair insults. "Sorry?"
"What's the plan?" Gilbert repeated. "How are we going to get him to join?"
"…I don't know."
"Are you serious." Gilbert stared at Arthur, another expression of annoyance on his face. "You drag me all the way across campus to hide out in the freezing cold stands and you don't know how to ask him?"
"Well, do you?" Arthur retorted back.
"Do you know if he's actually a drummer?" Gilbert said, dodging the question. "Cuz it'd be nice to have some ready-made drummer who could actually play—"
"—like you could when you first started bass—"
"—shut up! And it's not like I wanted to learn bass in the first place—"
"—as I remember, you were quite eager to start learning—"
"Rubbish! You forced to!; I couldn't just sing and be done with it, like you said—"
"Because it's better if you can do both, like I can—"
"So tell me," broke in a new voice—with another scouse accent! Arthur furrowed his brows together in surprise—"What are you doing hiding in the stands during football practice?"
Arthur and Gilbert froze. They slowly turned their heads so they were looking into the cold blue stare of Mathias Kohler.
"Uh…" Gilbert (much to Arthur's deep satisfaction) turned a bright shade of red, which looked very funny on his usually pale white face. "Watching?"
"Don't lie to me," said Mathias, straightening up a littl ebit—he'd bent over to put his face between the seats as to talk to them. "You two were making a racket enough they could hear all the way back in Liverpool."
"R-really?" said Gilbert weakly.
"Really." The tall Danish boy wiped his sweaty face with a towel. "Some rubbish about drummers? And definitely something about hair."
The roommates exchanged guilty glances.
"Well," Arthur began.
"The thing is," said Gilbert at the same time.
They paused to glare at each other for a second, while Mathias blinked in confusion.
Gilbert jerked his head to Arthur. "You tell him."
Arthur sighed, slightly amazed the high-and-mighty Gilbert Beilschmidt allowed him to do the honors, and crawled out of the stands. He could feel his hand shaking nervously in anticipation. What if he said no? Don't let him say no. Please don't let him say no.
"Well," Arthur began again. "Gilbert and I, er, we were thinking about—I mean," he added, noticing a glare from Gilbert, "we've formed a band. Like, a rock band."
He looked at Mathias hopefully, but the Danish boy just looked at him as if to say Your point?
Arthur took another deep breath of cold air. "We want you to be our drummer."
Ther ewas no reaction at first. Arthur's hopes fell a little bit, and he smiled to himself bitterly. What was he expecting, an overjoyed yell and confetti to rain down on them out of nowhere? Fat chance of that. They hadn't exactly made the most likeable impression either, hiding in the stands like rapists and murderers. What was he thinking?
Mathias, after about five seconds, appeared to get the same thought, because he snorted very loudly, and fell over on the mudy field, laughing.
Gilbert at this point had also climbed out of the stands and was glaring at Arthur. Again.
"If you think you can do any better, then be my guest!" Arthur sniped angrily. The German opened his mouth to retort, but was interrupted by Mathias, still laughing.
"Blimey!" he said, between gasps of breath. "You can't be serious! I don't play any musical instruments, let alone drums!"
"It's not hard," Gilbert piped up, ignoring Arthur's glare of contempt. "Take a couple of sticks and bang them. Easy."
"Well—" Arthur started, but Mathias shrugged and nodded.
"It sounds easy enough. I guess I could give it a go," he said thoughtfully. Arthur slapped his palm to his face. It really wasn't as easy as Gilbert made it out to be, and he'd tried Sadik's drums enough to know. Then again, Mathias had that natural sense of rhythm that drummers so often needed. Yeah, it would be worth a try.
"So," he said loudly to the other two boys, who were bantering good naturedly (he was actually quite jealous of this, but not like he would ever admit it). "When do you think you can try the drums?"
"Er…" Gilbert's eyes shifted to the side, thinking. "You don't think the school band would let us use their set, would they?"
"No. They wouldn't," Mathias said.
Gilbert looked at Arthur. "Any ideas, then?"
Arthur thought. Then he looked at Mathias and grinned.
"How d'you fancy a little field trip off campus?"
.
The next day, Arthur and Mathias skipped classes (including a particularly difficult chemistry exam over nomenclature) and went to see Sadik Annan. Gilbert stayed on-campus, because ehe wanted to spend some quality time with his bass and his froggy friends. Something like he wanted to show off to Francis and Antonio. Arthur shuddered to think of Francis, with all that French infesting their room, but hopefully, when he got back, he wouldn't have to smell the cologne. Ugh, French cologne. He never understood why people valued them so much; the smell was all stuffy and chemically and obnoxious and in your face. Typical French bastards. Not to mention their commercials made no sense whatsoever.
The taxi ride was quiet. Mathias had taken out his phone and was texting someone; Arthur didn't bother looking who. His own mobile was tucked in his jacket pocket, along with his iPod. He had his earphones dangling around his neck right then.
When their driver pulled up to Sadik's flat, they tipped him generously and went in.
It was an awkward ride in the lift; they were squished together very closely by the walls of the tiny box. The thing was barely over a meter wide, and they stood side by side, not saying anything. Just like in the taxi. Well, Arthur thought, we hardly know each other, so it makes sense right? He glanced at Mathias briefly, and saw the other boy had his hands stuck in his pockets and was biting his lip nervously.
Arthur kept his eyes on the screen at the top of the lift. It flashed little numbers—G, 1, 2, 3, 4. He wondered why Sadik chose to live in a place with so many floors. Or at least on a very high floor. Arthur's flat was only on the second floor, and that already bothered him enough. Living on whatever floor Sadik lived on, that would probably drive Arthur mad within a span of five minutes. The long wait in the elevators were certainly no help. He wondered when the thing had even been built. Whenever it was, it was long overdue for a repair.
"Arthur?" Mathias asked suddenly. The Brit looked over at the other boy, and nearly laughed at the scared, babyish look on the taller boy's face. If not for the fact that Mathias could probably pound him into a bloody pulp. And that Mathias was actually really scared.
"Yes?" he replied back, trying to stifle a yawn. He was too tired.
"Are you sure this is safe?"
Arthur gave him a strange look. "Do you mean the lift or Sadik?"
Mathias laughed briefly, a short, dry chuckle. It was replaced quickly by another nervous look. "Your friend. I mean, uh, Sadik."
"Oh." Arthur shrugged. "I suppose. I mean," he added with a wry smile, "he hasn't exactly tried to rape me yet."
Mathias quirked a brow, and Arthur mentally hit his head on the lift wall for saying something so stupidly awkward.
"You can't be serious," said the Danish boy, after a moment's hesitation.
"He hasn't, really," Arthur repeated. "Don't worry, Sadik's brilliant."
Mathias shrugged, but he'd visibly relaxed a bit more. The tension in his shoulders was gone, and he'd stopped biting his lip.
Arthur decided that at that moment that even if he didn't know the tall Danish football player at all, he rather liked Mathias Kohler. And not because Mathias told him he was good at guitar either (though that certainly helped). He, at least, had none of the arrogant attude that Gilbert Beilschmidt had. Nor did he have Gilbert's oddly bipolar characteristics—observant and compliant one minute and obnoxiously rebellious the next. Even thinking about having to deal with it gave Arthur a headache.
The lift doors opened; they walked out and down the hallway until they came to a battered and worn door. Arthur knocked.
After a minute and some shuffling, the door opened.
"Artie-boy!" a man with tanned skin and stubble opened the door, a huge grin on his face. It was partially obscured by a pair of trendy sunglasses. Arthur cringed slightly at the familiarly annoying nickname, and swallowed the bad memories that threatened to rise up in his throat.
"Sadik, please don't call me that," he said in a stifled-sounding voice, and walked in, not bothering to look at Mathias to see if the Dane was following. He just needed some tea.
Sadik closed the door. "So, Artie, aren't you going to introduce me to this fit bloke here? Be a proper English gentleman, will you?"
"Don't call him fit, that's just odd," retorted Arthur. "And this is Mathias Kohler." He gestured nonchalantly towards the Danish boy. Mathias waved awkwardly.
Sadik inclined his head, wearing a half-grin that creeped Arthur out. "A pleasure, Mathias Kohler."
"You too," said Mathias self-consciously.
"Let's get started, yes?" Sadik adjusted his sunglasses with a single finger and walked towards the drum kit set up in the corner of the living room. Mathias shot one last slightly panicked look at Arthur, before following Sadik towards the drumset. Arthur couldn't really blame the other boy; there was a ridiculous number of toms that surrounded the tiny cushioned stool. Arthur shrugged and settled back into the kitchen.
"Sit." Sadik gestured to the stool. Mathias nervously sat.
Arthur sat himself down at the wooden kitchen table and helped himself to orange juice, though he wished Sadik had Earl Grey. The Turk did have tea, but it was oolong, and the one time that Arthur had tried it, he wasn't really partial to it. It was too Asian and didn't mix well with milk. (Although at this notion he thought himself to be racist—no, ethnocentric—and hastily looked in the cabinet for some biscuits.)
In the background he could hear Sadik running through all the parts of a drum set: the floor tom, the mid tom, the snare, the kick, the hi-hats, the crash, the ride… Arthur didn't understand why there needed to be so many… things, but maybe there wasn't much room to adjust them. Either way, it sort of reminded him of Roma and his teaching Arthur the guitar. The way Sadik's voice instructed firmly, the way Mathias nodded intently, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration, his ears seeming to open up and really let Sadik's words sink in. Arthur felt a little homesick all of a sudden, and wished that when he looked out the window he wouldn't seet he Big Ben, but instead the docks on the west side of his hometown. The familiar buildings and skyscrapers of Liverpool. The familiar lilt of the scouse accent, instead of the Cockney rubbish here in London.
He decided to pull out his iPod and listen ot the music, just sink himself in it and wrap it around him like a blanket. It revitalized him, and he could feel the life flowing back into him again. The music was his life. It always had been.
He didn't know how long he was sitting at Sadik's kitchen table when the Turk tapped his shoulder. He pulled an earbud out and looked into Sadik's face. It was grinning mischievously. Usually Arthur didn't take that as a good thing, but since Mathias was here, Arthur was a little more willing to take his chances.
"We're playing," Sadik said, and shoved an electric guitar into Arthur's hands. Arthur figured that it belonged to Jager, since the two were flatmates. It was a nice guitar, though he wrinkled his noise at the unclipped strings. Arthur sat down on the couch and draped his arm over it like he'd done so many times.
"Take Me Out," Sadik said, handing Arthur sheet music. "Are you any good at sightreading?"
"Sort of…," said Arthur. His green eyes scanned it quickly. Simple enough, he thought.
Arthur glanced back at Mathias, who nodded. He looked very different than the nervous boy who'd walked into the flat. Or even the skeptical boy in the football kit where he'd first met them. His chin was higher; he sat up straighter and there was a spark in his blue eyes that wasn't there before. As Arthur plugged in his amp, Mathias tapped his sticks nervously in anticipation. "Are you ready yet?" he asked impatiently.
Arthur plucked his strings, frowning as he twisted the tuners. "Almost," he said, although he was really kind of stalling because he was grinning to himself inside. The change in Mathias was amusing and awe-inspiring at the same time. Before, Arthur mused, the boy was fun-loving but not serious about anything. Restless, too. Football, all the difficult classes, all of that was for university applications. But now, with the drums… he was about to find that out.
He tapped his toe four times and launched into the chord-heavy beginning, singing to help keep track of the music.
"So if you're lonely, you know I'm here, waiting for you…"
There was always something very energetic and strong about the sound of the drums. Arthur had always felt it, thumping in the back of the stage, leading everyone in the contagious beat, but nevrer had he fully realized the power of the drums, raw and powerful, reverbating through his bones. His fingers were guided by the crash of the cymbals, the pulse of the kick. The drums were wild and rebellious, and yet steadily deliberate, pumping a new life to the song Arthur hadn't heard before. Sure, the guitar gave a song its soul, the voice its heart, but drums, without drums… there wouldn't exist the energy, the lifeblood, the heartbeat to the voice.
It was fantastic.
Just fantastic.
Mathias Kohler was fantastic.
Arthur's pick hit the final chord right as the door to the flat opened, an din walked in a tall man with gelled brown hair and pale greenish eyes. Around his neck was a blue-and-white striped scarf, and a stub of a cigarette. Usually a cynical expression accompanied it too, except his face wasn't cynical. It was lit up in excitement and he adjusted his scarf with a wide grin on his face.
"Brilliant!" Jager van Vliet declared. "Absolutely fucking brilliant!"
Mathias turned pink and looked down at the drum set, though it didn't do much to hide his very wide grin. "Well, it was only our first run-through."
"Very true," Sadik said thoughtfully. "You missed a lot of drumroll cues. All in all, it was pretty rough."
Mathias cringed. "Sorry."
Arthur looked down at his fingers. He hadn't even gotten all the chords in time, either, and he felt Jager was over-praising. Maybe he'd overdone the flourishes and the little changes he'd made to it. Aggh. Sadik was right; it was rough.
"Rubbish!" Jager chided. "It was amazing!"
Mathias exchanged glances with Arthur. Jager went on and on about their talent, their fresh take, the strength of the drums, but the drummer in question only looked at Arthur, crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue.
Arthur laughed. He could see himself getting along well with Mathias. The taste was there, too, just a trace of it, just an edge of the sweetness and the rush on the tip of his tongue. He could almost taste it.
The taste of fame.
They were on their way.
author's note~
The highly anticipated arrival of Mathias Kohler, aka Denmark! He's a fun character to write; I love him so muuuuuch! *heart*
[[ Final word count (for those people like me who care): 4,120. ]]
*Toms = drum thingers. Kick is the bass drum cuz you have to push the pedal down… hahahaha! Hi-hats, crash, and ride, those are all cymbal thingers.
*Also, I read somewhere that what would be the first floor in America would actually be called the ground floor in the UK. So it goes ground floor, then first floor (second floor in America), and etc etc. I don't really know if that's true, but I know that's what they do in France. Eh. Whatever. /sweatdrop