Blast beats and Blondies

Magenta had texted you about it the day before like it was the most casual thing in the world.

she wants your help learning blonde beats

You'd stared at that for a solid thirty seconds before deciding she probably meant blast beats and responding yeah okay. You weren't about to ask. With Magenta you just learned to fill in the gaps and move on.

So here you are, standing in front of Chodan's door with your stick bag over your shoulder, knocking.

There's a beat. Then two. Then the door swings open and Chodan is standing there with a towel turbaned around her head, the collar of her shirt dark with water, and the kind of unbothered expression that only makes sense if she completely forgot you were coming.

"Oh hey Bumi, what's up?"

She's already unwinding the towel, working it through her hair as she steps back to let you in.

"Nothing. Genta wanted me to help you learn blast beats."

Chodan's eyes go wide. Not surprised — more like something just clicked into place for her.

"Oh that's perfect." She gestures vaguely behind her toward the interior of the apartment. "I'm in the middle of dying my hair right now though, so — make yourself comfortable? I'll be out in a bit."

You shrug and step inside.

The apartment is lived-in in a way you appreciate. Not messy, just present — a couple of mugs on the coffee table, a hoodie draped over the back of the couch, the faint smell of whatever she's got processing in her hair cutting through the general scent of the space.

The drum kit is in the corner like it always is, tucked against the wall but never quite out of the way. You drift toward it on principle. No real intention behind it, just gravity.

You settle onto the throne, adjust it out of habit, and pick up the sticks from the snare. Forgive and Forget had been living rent-free in your head for three weeks. You didn't think about it — your hands just found the opening and went.

The intro hits different on a real kit. You lean into it, letting the muscle memory take over, and somewhere in the middle of the first verse you stop thinking about anything at all. That's the part people don't understand about drumming. It's not mindless. It's just that your mind gets completely occupied by the thing in front of it.

You play the whole song through.

When you come back to yourself, Chodan is standing in the doorway to the hallway, arms folded, watching you with a smile she's not trying to hide. Hair still damp, a different shirt on now, a faint line of color along her hairline that she hasn't fully blended yet.

You have no idea how long she's been there.

"Okay," she says. "You have to teach me how to do that."

You set one stick across your knee and look up at her. "Sure. It's all in the wrist and fingers."

Chodan's mouth pulls into a smirk at that. Something clearly landed differently than you intended it.

You choose not to investigate.

"Cool," you say, like you didn't notice.

She pushes off the doorframe, crossing toward you, but she stops short of the kit and tilts her head a little.

"Hey — before we start." A pause. "Can you help me dye my hair?"

The bathroom is small the way most apartment bathrooms are, which means you're closer to each other than either of you bothered to acknowledge. The smell hits you first — developer and toner and something floral underneath it, whatever her shampoo was. The counter is covered. Gloves, foil, a bowl, two different bottles of what you assumed were related products.