"You gotta hit the bass at the same time you hit the snare," Micky said. Despite the fact that they'd been at it for hours, he'd never once lost his temper. Every once in awhile, he'd take the sticks and demonstrate a couple notes, before quickly handing the responsibility back to Davy.

In those moments, Davy would stare at Micky's face. It seemed different. Sadder. Worried. Unfocused.

"I know, I know," Davy muttered. Frustrated, he randomly beat on whatever drum he could reach, and Micky chuckled.

"Here, lemme see the music."

Unable to resist the joke, Davy said, "I'm pretty amazing, Mick, but I couldn't let you see it if I tried."

With surprising accuracy, Micky smacked Davy's shoulder, then held out his hand. "Just give me the sheet, okay? Geez, everyone thinks they're a comedian."

Davy, having absolutely no idea what Micky would possibly do with the sheet music, still handed it over. Micky proceeded to run his hand across the surface of the page, one line at a time. "Okay, this is the measure you're having trouble with, yeah? Just take out— Here, gimme a pencil."

"Wait a second," Davy snapped. "You can't possibly feel that!"

Micky smirked, almost playfully. "Usually, no. But I asked Peter to go over everything with pen. It makes indentations in the paper. Pretty good idea, if I do say so myself. Here, try it."

Davy took the paper back, squinting at it, noticing the tell-tale signs of shiny ink drawn painstakingly over every note. Peter also drew over each bar between the measures, which explained how Micky could find the exact part of the song Day had trouble playing. Running his finger over it, he found that he could feel every mark. "I'd still have trouble," he said, closing his eyes and trying to see the music how Micky saw it.

"I thought I would. But without sight, everything kinda seems…" The statement ended with a shrug, and he reached out for the page again. "You want me to fix it for you or not?"

"Yeah, here," Davy said, handing over both the music and a pencil. He watched as Micky felt over the music again, line by line, until reaching the measure that was giving Davy the most trouble. He then set it on the floor tom and started his corrections. Despite the aid Peter had provided, Micky still had to concentrate, and it took quite a long time for him to make the new notations. Davy was afraid to say he wasn't quite sure how to read it, either, especially since the measure was now full of scribbles and rearranged X's that seemed fairly random in their placement. Micky handed it back, and Davy could only reply with, "Uhhh…"

"That bad, huh?"

"I wasn't gonna say nothin'."

Micky picked the sheet up again, feeling the spot where he'd just made the corrections. "It makes sense to me," he muttered. Narrowing his eyes, he bit his lip, gently touching each mark he'd made, before smiling. "Okay, look. Lemme walk you through it, instead…"

"You could do it," Davy said, picking up the sticks again and pressing them into Micky's hand. "You could, Mick. You know the part."

Micky tried to hand the sticks back to him, but Davy stood, backing away so that he was out of Micky's range. "Davy, we've been over this. I'm not doin' it. Now— Where'd you go?"

He'd backed away a few paces, his stockinged feet making no sound that Micky could follow. For the first time since they started on the drums, Davy saw the frustration etched plainly across Micky's face, which made him look exhausted, and far older than his years. It hurt to see that defeat, although Davy had been looking for it all day. Despite the concern, he couldn't help breathing, "There it is."

As soon as he spoke, Micky's head turned in his direction, and he stood. Stepping forward, he nearly tripped over the stool, reached out for balance, and tipped over the hi-hat cymbal. Instantly, Davy felt horrible.

"Mick…" he said quietly, as his friend covered his face with both hands. Still held lightly in the crook between his thumb and fingers were the drumsticks, which Davy reached out to take again. "Look, I just…"

"Every time somethin' like this happens, my eyes think, 'hey, I better cry,'" Micky muttered. As soon as Davy had the sticks, he pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes.

Not knowing what to say, Davy picked up the hi-hat, placing it back where it belonged among the other drums. Remaining silent, he allowed Micky whatever privacy he could manage as the sniffles increased in intensity and eventually started to abate. Finally, the short Englishman asked, "You okay?"

With one last snort, Micky rubbed his hand across his eyes and smiled. "Yeah, I think so."

He still looked lost. Stepping around the stool, Davy touched Micky's arm to let the other boy know he was close, and to his surprise, Micky threw his arms around him. Davy returned the hug, although after what he'd said to Micky, he wasn't entirely sure he deserved it.

The temptation was strong to work everything out with words and tears, to go to the store and get a gallon of ice cream and just talk it all out. That's what all Davy's girlfriends said they did when things got bad, but somehow, Davy didn't really see either him or Micky going for that. They were men. They had their manly dignity to protect! It was already hard enough for both of them whenever Micky cried - so much so that Micky had to blame it on his eyes.

Davy tried to urge himself to tell his friend that it was okay to cry. But no matter how he formed the words in his head, it always seemed silly.

So the hug continued, until Micky took a step back, running his hands through his hair.

Davy smiled, hoping that the expression would transfer to his voice. "Look, Mike and Peter are out shoppin', it's just you an' me here. Play the drums, Mick. See how you do. I won't tell the others you had a go at it."

He reached for Micky's wrist, but the rightful drummer's fingers curled into a fist so Davy couldn't hand the sticks back to him.

"What are you scared of?" Davy asked.

"A repeat of the last time I tried," Micky replied too quickly. "Look, I know you guys wouldn't laugh or make fun of me for it, but I… Don't want anyone to…" He paused, shaking his head. "If I keep playin' as bad as I did that day, you guys are just gonna give up and replace me."

"Mick, if we have to work with you night and day for the next ten years to get you comfortable playin' the drums without your eyes, so be it. We aren't about to replace you. Bloomin' 'ell, Mick, how d'you replace family?"

A look of hope crept into Micky's expression. "Yeah, but Mike…"

"Feels the same way. Maybe moreso. C'mon, don't be stupid."

After some thought, Micky allowed his fingers to relax, and Davy quickly handed the sticks to him, before he could change his mind. This done, Micky reached out for the kit, fingers lightly tracing over the hi-hat, then down to its stand. He pulled it closer, making sure to gently contact each of the drums in turn, apparently to make sure they were all lined up properly. Then, he sat down. "Look, I'm not so sure…" he began, stopped, and started feeling over the equipment again. The toms, the snare drum, all the cymbals, then he stepped on the pedal of the bass drum a few times.

The deep thump resonated off the bay window glass, before dying out, leaving the room in silence. The process began again, but Davy quietly let Micky familiarize himself with the setup for as long as he needed to.

Finally, he sat back, head tilting upward. "Okay, Davy, what're we playing?"

"That's the spirit. Okay, how 'bout… Hang on." He jumped off the bandstand, hurrying to the closet, where Mike kept an old acoustic guitar tuned up. That way, just in case any of their musically-inclined friends dropped by, they could jam for a bit without touching Michael's beloved blonde Gretsch. The only one who ever touched that guitar was Michael himself.

Davy wasn't the best with the guitar, but over the years, he'd come to learn a few of their older tunes pretty well. At times, if they had a more complicated piece, Davy could fill in a secondary guitar part, too, which meant he paid attention when the others played, enough so that he could do it if necessary.

Pulling one of the chairs over, he sat down facing the bandstand, balancing the guitar in front of him. It was a little to large, but he could still manage to get his fingers situation on the proper frets to play the correct chords. "Okay, we both need a song that we're comfortable with, yeah? How 'bout 'Take a Giant Step?'"

"With guitar and drums?" Micky asked, skeptical.

"Sure, why not? We can make it sound all right. You okay to sing, mate?"

Micky nodded. "It's not the singin' I'm worried about."

After plucking each of the strings to make sure the guitar was still in tune, Davy counted them in, playing the intro. When it came time for Micky to join in, it seemed almost natural. Perhaps even better than it sounded before, since he couldn't rely on sight to guide his hand.

Davy watched Micky as he played. The drummer's eyes closed, and his brows knit in concentration. It must have been difficult, drumming blindly, hoping he was striking the right surface at the right time and not missing them all together. As the song went on, though, Micky became more comfortable with his role, even improvising for the different, two-piece arrangement.

And he sang.

The voice was pained and full of all the heart Davy was used to hearing from Micky, except this seemed somehow more intense and closer to home than it ever had. Perhaps it was the choice of song - Davy really hadn't considered it before, and only chose it because he knew the drum part was fairly easy to play. In hindsight, though, perhaps the choice came about by divine inspiration or something equally absurd. In any case, Micky sang the song like his life depended on a stellar performance.

In the middle of their playing, nothing else mattered. Davy hadn't felt quite so amazed since the first time they all played together and really felt the music for the first time.

After they played the last few measures, Davy stood up, setting the guitar behind him on the chair. He couldn't contain the laughter of amazement that followed. "Micky, did you know you can sing?" he asked.

"I second that," Mike's voice came from behind. Davy turned, to see the front door still open, the other two members of their band standing just inside. Mike had a huge smile on his face. "And play. That was amazing."

"You got Peter in tears," Davy said. When he looked back at Micky, though, the drummer's eyes were wide.

"You said they weren't here. You said it was just you and me."

"They weren't when we started— Does it matter?"

The expression on Micky's face was unreadable. It almost looked like he'd put on a mask to hide the emotion, although Davy could see where the various cracks appeared in it. Worry shone through. Nervousness. A lack of self-confidence.

"You were great, Mick," he said softly. "It was perfect. Better than perfect."

The door closed. Mike didn't say anything else, instead carrying the bags of groceries to the kitchen. Peter still stood by the door, looking at the bandstand, before eventually creeping over, almost like a puppy who'd done something wrong. "Micky?" the blond said.

"Yeah, Peter?"

"It'd be great if we could all play with you sometime. It was really groovy. I missed you at the drums, man."

Finally, Micky smiled, turning his head to look at Davy. Offering encouragement of his own, Davy said, "Yeah, man. Really groovy."

And then, Micky beamed. "Yeah, I know. You're talking to the master, after all." He threw the drumstick up, intending to catch it on its way down, but it clattered to the floor. "If someone could just— "

Peter hurried to pick it up, and placed it back in Micky's hand.

—-

Later that night, they all sat around the kitchen table.

"Couldn't afford much," Mike said, setting a plate down in front of each of them. "But Peter found these little gravy-cubes, so I figured, if I just added it to the rice…"

Hearing the gentle tap of the porcelain platter as Mike placed it before him, Micky leaned down to sniff it. "Well, it smells okay," he volunteered, turning his head upward. He tried to focus his eyes where he knew the others were sitting, though he could never be sure if he was actually looking at them.

"Just be glad you can't see it," Mike said of his own cooking. "I'm sure it tastes all right, though."

Micky was treated to the primitive sound of both Davy and Peter shoveling forkfuls of the stuff into their faces, and then with their approving sounds thereafter. He hated trusting his friends' judgment over his own, but it seemed he really had to in situations such as this, where he was presented with no choice. In the past, people had called him selfish. Untrusting. Even so, he'd made it through life with his philosophies, and he wasn't so sure he wanted to change things up now.

He could make a joke out of it.

In order to get another one of his senses in on the act before he resorted to taste, he pressed his fingers into the dish and remarked, "I gotta say, it's got an interesting texture."

Rice. Little bits of hot dogs, probably. Bits of something else mixed in… The shape was familiar Corn? Yeah, it was probably corn.

"Mick, don't play with it, just eat it," Mike said.

"How'd you get the corn?" Davy asked, confirming Micky's suspicions.

"They were about to throw it out. It expired yesterday."

"Ah, good find," Micky replied. Now satisfied with what he was eating, he felt around 'til he found his fork, and dug in. He found it not to be too bad.

"Well, we gotta work with what we have…" Mike said. Micky heard the fourth chair slide out, and Mike sat down. "Speaking of… Micky, are you gonna play drums in the first elimination round? 'cuz…"

"No," Micky answered. "No, I'm not ready."

No one said anything for awhile, and Micky continued eating, trying to pretend that they weren't all staring at him. Oddly, he could feel their eyes, even if he couldn't see them. Davy finally spoke. "But… You did so well."

"Mm-hm," Micky agreed, around a mouthful of rice. "You know, Mike, this really isn't bad at all."

No one said anything. He wanted them to, in a way, even if he couldn't explain to them just why he didn't want to play in front of a crowd. He had the ability, he had the sense of space to find the drums, and he had the support. He knew he could do it, but…

Mike sighed. "Okay. Davy? You gonna be able to play our set?"

"But Mike— "

"Davy, you got it down?"

Davy was quiet for a moment, and then Mike said, "Good." Micky could only assume that Davy had nodded. At least he couldn't see the disappointed looks on their faces - especially Peter's, who would be heartbroken, probably. But Micky had his reasons for things, and… Well, maybe one day he'd be able to tell them.

For the time being, though, he could only say, "This stuff actually tastes pretty good."

If he pretended they weren't disappointed, it meant that they weren't. Because he couldn't see otherwise, and that was that.