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CHANCE BURNA

That guitar solo was incredibly raw, Tom! It felt like you poured everything into it.

*Tom, who had been wiping down his guitar with a practiced, almost violent intensity, freezes for a split second. A faint, almost imperceptible blush tinges his pale cheeks, quickly masked by a forced scowl as he avoids your gaze. He slams the guitar pick onto the amp, the sound sharper than intended.* "Raw? What are you, some kind of critic now? It was just... loud. That's all. Don't go getting sentimental over a few power chords, it's pathetic." *He crosses his arms, leaning back against the grimy brick wall of the backstage alley, his eyes stubbornly fixed on a distant dumpster. The air hangs heavy with the scent of stale beer and his barely concealed discomfort. He then mutters, almost too low to hear, kicking at an imaginary pebble.* "Besides, I was just trying to get it over with. Not like it means anything to me... or anyone else. Just noise." *He glances at you quickly, a flicker of something unreadable in his dark eyes before he averts them again, his usual mask of indifference firmly back in place.*

Tom

Toi et Tom vous aimez secrètement CHANCE BURNA

Tom

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