๐๐๐๐ (bassist Jean k. X cheerleader!reader)
What happens when the perfect cheerleader has to take classes with the problematic bassist? content: slightly angst. smut in the end, mention of familiar problems. Tell me if I missed any tag
โYouโve been getting into a lot of trouble lately, Kirstein. Either you turn things around, or Iโll have no choice but to remove you from the band.โ
Those were the words Jean heard echoing in his head as he left the principalโs office. Mr. Smith.
Jean clenched his jaw. โTrouble.โ That was always the word people used for him. He didnโt go looking for it, but it found him anyway, clinging like smoke. His short and unpredictable temper didnโt help. And when people asked him why he snapped so easily, why everything seemed to set him off, Jean could only shrug. Itโs just who I am. That was the safe answer. But somewhere beneath the bravado, he wished he understood himself better. Wished he wasnโt so quick to ignite.
Now, being removed from the band? That hurt deeper than he thought. He loved the band; when he played the bass, his anger could be transformed into a beautiful melody.
Still, thinking about that wasnโt going to fix anything. Mr. Smith had already found what he called a โsolution.โ Jean had to spend the next few weeks tutoring another student. Someone struggling in a subject Jean had managed to pass with decent grades. It sounded simple enough. Babysit a nerd, get credit, keep his spot in the band. Easy.
By the time he reached the library, Jean had convinced himself it wouldnโt be that bad. The smell of old paper and dust greeted him as he dropped into the assigned chair, sprawling back with that annoyed expression. โProbably some quiet kid with thick glasses and no social life. I can handle that.โ
Minutes dragged. Five. Ten. Twenty. Jean was about to declare the whole thing a waste of time when the air shifted. A sweet scent wafted through the rows of bookshelvesโlike strawberry cake pulled fresh from the oven. It was so strong it curled at the edges of his senses, almost nauseating in its intensity.
And then he saw you.
โAre you Jean?โ You stood in front of him, a figure so polished it almost hurt to look at. Perfect hair. Perfect smile. The kind of girl who seemed untouchable, like youโd stepped out of a commercial or perhaps heaven itself. Jean blinked, recognition snapping into place. Of course. The cheer captain. The last person heโd expected.
He frowned, his tone flat. โYeah. Thatโs me. And Iโm guessing youโre the one Iโm supposed to tutor?โ
Your smile flickered, like you werenโt used to being questioned. โThatโs right. Surprised?โ
โMore likeโฆ disappointed.โ The words slipped out before he could stop them.
Your eyebrows shot up. โExcuse me?โ
Jean leaned back, crossing his arms. โLook, nothing personal. Just figured Iโd be tutoring someone who actually needed it.โ
The corner of your lips twitched, and for a second he couldnโt tell if you were about to laugh or strangle him. Then you leaned forward, hands on the table, and the strawberry-cake perfume hit him full force.
โWell,โ you said sweetly, โIโm sorry to crush your expectations, but apparently I do need it. And youโre stuck with me.โ
Jean stared at you, and you stared right back. And in that silence, he realized something: this was going to be a nightmare. You werenโt mean or anything; you were justโฆ so perfectly infuriating. Because it wasnโt just any student sitting across from him. It was the kind of girl who lived in the spotlight, who probably never had to try for anything in her life. And him? He was the guy teachers warned about. Oil and water. Fire and gasoline.
Jean ran a hand through his hair and let out a slow, heavy sigh. โGreat. Just great.โ
The captain of the cheerleaders smiled, victorious, like youโd just won the first round of a game Jean didnโt know he was playing. And for the first time that day, Jean felt like maybe Mr. Smith had known exactly what he was doing.
Jean had never felt more out of place in the library than he did with you sitting across the table. Every second stretched, heavy with the kind of silence that wasnโt really silence at allโit was a challenge.
You finally pulled out your notebook, sliding it across the table like you were dealing a card. Neat handwriting, tidy margins, color-coded highlights. Jean blinked at the rainbow of ink.
โSo,โ you said, tapping your pencil against the paper, โIโve been struggling in math. Equations, functions, whatever you call it. It just doesnโt click for me.โ
Jean glanced from the notebook to you, one brow raised. โThis is what youโre failing?โ
โYes.โ You tilted your chin up, daring him to mock you.
He snorted. โYouโre kidding. This is basic stuff.โ
Your eyes narrowed. โIf itโs so basic, then explain it.โ
Jean leaned forward, dragging the notebook toward him. He pointed at the first problem, numbers and letters dancing in a neat little line. โAlright. Hereโs your issue: youโre treating it like itโs harder than it is. You panic, you freeze up, and then your brain short-circuits.โ
โThatโs very insightful,โ you said dryly. โBut maybe you could try explaining the actual math instead of psychoanalyzing me?โ
ย Jean groaned, running a hand down his face. This is punishment, he thought. Pure punishment.
Still, he picked up your pencil and began breaking down the problem, writing out the steps with quick, confident strokes. You watched him carefully, arms crossed over your chest, like you werenโt sure whether to take notes or critique his handwriting.
โSee?โ Jean said, pushing the notebook back toward you. โYou just isolate the variable, move this number over, and boomโdone.โ
You studied the work, your lips pressing into a thin line. For a second, Jean thought youโd admit you understood. Instead, you raised your eyes to his, perfectly unimpressed.
โYou make it sound easy because itโs easy for you.โ
โThatโs the point,โ Jean said. โItโs supposed to be easy once you stop making it harder than it is.โ
You leaned back in your chair, that strawberry-sweet perfume still clinging to the air around you. โYou know, youโre not very good at this whole tutoring thing.โ
Jean scoffed. โIโm not here to hold your hand. Iโm here to make sure you donโt fail.โ
โWell, maybe try not being such a jerk about it.โ
They glared at each other across the table. And then, because the universe had a twisted sense of humor, your lips curved into a grin. Not the polished cheerleader smile you wore in the hallways, but something real, something sharper.
โHas anyone ever told youโฆโ you said slowly, โthat youโve got a terrible attitude?โ
โOnly everyone Iโve ever met,โ Jean shot back.
You laughed, the sound catching him off guard. It was light, unrestrained, almost too genuine for someone like you. For a second, Jean just stared, his irritation folding into something he didnโt care to name.
โGreat,โ he muttered, shifting in his seat. โNow youโre laughing at me. This just keeps getting better.โ
โRelax,โ you said, still smiling. โItโs kind ofโฆ refreshing.โ
Jean blinked. โWhat is?โ
โYou donโt care who I am.โ You tilted your head, studying him with those sharp, curious eyes. โEveryone else either kisses up to me or expects me to play nice. You? You just say whatever you want. No filter.โ
Jean looked away, heat pricking the back of his neck. โYeah, well. Donโt get used to it.โ
โMaybe I will,โ you teased.
And there it was: that spark, that unspoken shift in the air. They were still enemies on paper: the short-tempered band kid and the golden-girl cheer captain. Oil and water. But for the first time, Jean wasnโt sure if this tutoring gig was going to be a nightmareโฆ or something far more complicated.
The days that followed were a blur of library sessions and reluctant concessions. Jean had fully expected you to quit after the first day, to call Mr. Smith and have yourself reassigned to someone more "accommodating." But you showed up every Tuesday and Thursday, right on time, that persistent scent of strawberries trailing in your wake like a signature.
It was strange. You were frustrating, yesโyou had a habit of biting your lip when you were confused that made it impossible for Jean to focusโbut you weren't lazy. You just had this wall built up, a need to appear effortless that made math, with its rigid logic, feel like a personal attack.
โStop,โ Jean said suddenly, reaching out to stop your pencil mid-air. โYouโre doing it again. Youโre overthinking instead of just solving for it.โ
Your hand froze. You looked up, the usual sharp spark in your eyes dimmed by genuine exhaustion. Youโd been at this for an hour, and for once, the polished facade was cracking. You lookedโฆ human. And tired.
โItโs not just the math, Jean,โ you whispered, pulling your hand away and sinking into your chair. โItโs the grade. My parents, the team, the expectationsโฆ itโs all tied to this stupid number on a page. If I fail, itโs not just a bad grade. Itโs a loss.โ
Jean felt a jolt of something heavy in his chest. It was the same weight he felt every time he looked at his bass and realized it might be taken awayโthe fear of losing the one thing that grounded him. He had pegged you as the girl who had everything, but looking at you now, he realized you were just as trapped by your image as he was by his reputation.
He didnโt say anything for a long moment. He just looked at his own hands, calloused from bass strings and guitar picks.
โYou know,โ he said, his voice lower, less abrasive than usual. โWhen I lived in France, my dad used to hit my mom, thatโs everything I learned. Thatโs why every week Iโm in a different fight, a different place in my body bleeding. I just donโt know how to control myself..โ he sighs but keep speaking โBut.. when Iโm on stage, if I worry about what the crowd thinks or if Iโm hitting the perfect note, I mess up every time. I sound like garbage.โ
You looked at him, surprised by the vulnerability. โSo what do you do?โ
โI stop listening to them,โ he said, gesturing vaguely toward the library exit. โI start listening to the rhythm. I focus on the bass, the vibration, the way the sound feels in my gut. I stop trying to be 'The Bassist' and I justโฆ play.โ
He slid the notebook back to you, his movements uncharacteristically gentle.
โStop trying to be the perfect student for a second. Forget the GPA. Just solve the equation because itโs a puzzle. Just you and the numbers. No one else.โ
You stared at the page, then back at him. The silence wasn't a challenge this time; it was a bridge. You took a slow, deep breath, picked up your pencil, and looked down at the math. For the first time, you didn't look like you were preparing for a battle. You looked focused.
โOkay,โ you breathed. โJust the puzzle.โ
Jean watched as you worked. You didn't ask for his help. You didn't look at him for validation. You just worked, the pencil scratching rhythmically against the paper. When you finally circled the answer, you looked up, and the smile you gave him wasnโt the one you wore in the hallways. It was quiet, genuine, and it hit Jean harder than any of your previous barbs ever could.
โI got it,โ you whispered.
โTold you,โ Jean said, though his voice sounded a little tight. He cleared his throat, leaning back to hide the sudden, irrational race of his heart. โSee? Not so hard.โ
You kept your gaze on him, a playful, dangerous light returning to your eyes. โYouโre actually pretty good at this, Kirstein. Maybe I wonโt tell Mr. Smith to fire you after all.โ
Jean looked away, but he couldn't hide the small, rare smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
โYeah, yeah. Keep talking, and Iโll make the next set of equations twice as long.โ
โWould you?โ you teased, leaning slightly closer.
Jean felt the air shift again. He looked at youโreally looked at youโand realized that the "nightmare" was quickly turning into the only part of his week he was actually looking forward to.
"Maybe," he murmured, his eyes locked on yours. "Maybe I wouldโฆโ
The breakthrough in the library felt like a turning point, but the reality of their worlds colliding was far less forgiving than the quiet sanctuary of the books.
The very next day, Jean was walking past the gym, his bass case slung heavily over his shoulder, when he heard it. The door was propped open with a heavy weight, and the sound of muffled laughter and the rhythmic sound of pom-poms drifted out into the hallway.
"I'm telling you, itโs a total pity project," a voice drawledโone of the senior cheerleaders, someone Jean recognized as being part of your inner circle. "Kirstein? Really? She told me she really needed some tutoring but apparently he's barely holding it together with that temper of his."
Jean stopped dead. His hand tightened on the strap of his case until his knuckles turned white.
"Sheโs just being nice..after all, heโs in the same band as her brother,โ the girl continued, her voice dripping with condescension. "Imagine hanging out with a guy who smells like cheap guitar strings and barely passes his history tests. Sheโs probably just bored. Itโs like volunteering at a shelterโeventually, you go home to your real life."
The laughter that followed was sharp, jagged, and echoed in the hollow space of Jean's chest. He didn't wait to hear your response. He didn't want to. He turned on his heel and walked away, the sound of his own heavy footsteps sounding like a drumbeat of humiliation in the empty hall.
When he showed up to the library two days later, the air was different.
You arrived with your usual smile, looking bright and put-together in your uniform. You sat down, sliding your notebook across the table with that same playful energy from before. "Hey! I actually did the practice problems, and I think I finallyโ"
"Forget it," Jean cut you off.
His voice was cold, clipped, and devoid of the tentative warmth heโd shown the other day. He was leaning back in his chair, his arms crossed tightly against his chest, eyes fixed firmly on a spot on the wall behind you.
You paused, your smile faltering. "Excuse me?"
"I said forget it," Jean repeated, his jaw set hard. "Iโm not doing this today."
"Jean, whatโs going on? We were on a roll." You reached out, your hand hovering near the notebook. "Did something happen?"
"Nothing happened." He finally looked at you, but the look wasn't one of annoyance; it was guarded, shuttered. "Iโm just wasting my time, right? Being 'charitable.' Thatโs what it is."
Your expression shifted from confusion to hurt, then to defensive confusion. "What are you talking about?"
"I heard your friends," The words came out like a growl, low and jagged. "The 'pity project.' The guy with the bad attitude whoโs just a stop-gap until you get bored. I don't need the sympathy, and I don't need the charity."
You stood up, your chair scraping harshly against the library floor, drawing a glare from the librarian at the front desk. "You think Iโm doing this because I feel sorry for you?"
"I think youโre doing whatever makes you look good," Jean snapped, standing up to meet you, his frustration finally boiling over. "Iโm not some experiment for you to document your 'kindness.' Just get someone else to help you with your math. Iโm done."
He shoved his books into his bag with reckless force and stood up, looking at you with a mix of betrayal and stubborn pride.
"Jean, waitโ" you started, your voice losing its polished edge, sounding smaller than he had ever heard it.
But he was already halfway to the library doors. He didn't look back, even though the sight of you standing thereโthe perfect golden girl looking genuinely shakenโmade his stomach churn with a sickening, familiar regret. He needed to get out, to go find his bass and turn the noise in his head into something he could control.
Because as much as he wanted to believe he was just "the guy who didn't care," he realized with a sinking heart that he had started to care entirely too much. And that, to Jean, was the most dangerous kind of trouble of all.
You wanted to go after him, you really did but your own prideful mind didnโt let you body move. But your heart begged for you to go after him. For once you heard what it was saying.
Jean on the other hand didn't stop, his boots hitting the ground with a heavy, angry rhythm. His lungs burned, but the heat in his chestโthat familiar, suffocating fireโwas worse. He felt like a fool. A complete idiot for thinking that for one second, someone like her would actually see him.
He was halfway to the school entrance when he heard it: the frantic, rhythmic tap-tap-tap of cheer sneakers sprinting behind him.
โJean! Stop walking away from me!โ
He didn't slow down. โDrop it, okay? Go find someone else to boost your ego.โ
You reached him, grabbing his arm and spinning him around with more strength than he thought you possessed.
The impact forced him to halt. He glared down at you, his eyes dark, ready to snap, but you didn't flinch. You were breathing hard, a stray strand of hair falling out of your perfect ponytail, and for the first time, your face wasn't perfectly composed. It was flushed, your eyes bright with a volatile mix of frustration and genuine hurt.
โYou donโt get to do that,โ you hissed, your voice trembling. โYou donโt get to decide what Iโm thinking, and you definitely donโt get to run away like a coward just because some girls are mean!โ
โThey weren't just โmean,โ they were right!โ Jean shouted back, not caring if people in the hallway heard. โYou are just slumming it! Iโm the project, the little broken thing you can fix and show off to your perfect little friends!โ
โYouโre an idiot!โ You shoved his chest, hard. Jean didn't move an inch, but he looked stunned. โDo you really think Iโd waste my time with someone as abrasive and stubborn as you if I didnโt actually want to be there? Do you have any idea how much Iโve been dreading everything in my whole life? I donโt want a tutor, Jean. I wantedโฆโ
โWanted what?โ he bit back, his voice thick with frustration.
โI wanted someone who actually looks at me!โ You shoved him again, your voice cracking. โEveryone looks at the uniform, the ribbons, the smile. Youโre the only person who looks at me like Iโm a person, even if youโre being a complete jerk about it!โ
Jean stared at you, his hands balled into fists at his sides. The anger was still there, but it was shifting, turning into something sharper, hungrier. The space between them felt like it was electrified, humming with all the things they hadn't said.
โYouโre infuriating,โ Jean growled, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous vibration.
You countered, stepping into his space until the scent of strawberries was overwhelming, dizzying.
Jean didn't think. He didn't even process the movement. He just snapped. He reached out, his hand tangling into your hair, and pulled you in, crashing his lips against yours. It wasn't a soft, romantic kissโit was a collision. It was a fight, a desperate, frantic assertion of everything theyโd been dancing around for weeks.
You didn't back down. Your hands flew to his jacket, gripping the fabric and pulling him closer, tangling your fingers in his hair. The kiss was messy, bruising, fueled by the ego-clash and the lingering sting of the hallway gossip. It was the physical manifestation of all that pent-up tension, a way to silence the doubts and the noise of the school around them.
Jean pinned you back against the cold brick of the hallway wall, his hand sliding to your waist, holding you firmly in place as if he were afraid youโd vanish. You let out a muffled sound against his lips, shifting closer, wanting to erase every inch of space left between you.
It was an absolute, chaotic messโjust like them. And for a moment, the judgment of the cheer team, the threat of being kicked out of the band, and the grades didnโt matter. There was only the heat, the sharp friction, and the realization that neither of them wanted to be anywhere else.
The kiss deepened, turning from a confrontation into something far more demanding. Jeanโs hand slid from your waist to your back, hauling you flush against him with a desperation that made his heart hammer against his ribs. The cold brick of the wall behind you was a sharp contrast to the scorching heat radiating from his body.
He didn't just want to kiss you; he wanted to consume the space between you, to drown out the doubt that had been eating at him since he overheard those girls in the gym.
You met him with equal intensity, your hands sliding up his chest to grip his shoulders, pulling him down until there wasn't a breath of air left between you.ย
The scent of strawberries was thick, intoxicating, mixed now with the metallic tang of adrenaline and the sharp, clean scent of his cologne. Every time he pulled back slightly, only to crush his mouth back onto yours, a jolt of electricity surged through you, making your knees weak.
Jeanโs hand moved upward, his fingers tangling tightly into your hair, pulling your head back slightly to gain better access to your throat. He pressed a series of frantic, searing kisses along the sensitive skin just below your jaw, his stubble grazing your neck and sending a shiver that racked your entire frame.
โJeanโฆโ you gasped, your voice a ragged plea against his ear as he nipped at your pulse point.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark, dilated, and burning with a possessive intensity. His breathing was heavy, uneven, and his chest heaved against yours.
โTell me,โ he said, his voice a dangerous whisper. โTell me youโre not just here because youโre bored. Tell me you don't give a damn what those people think.โ
You didn't hesitate. You surged up, locking your hands behind his neck and pulling his mouth back down to yours. This time, the kiss wasn't a fightโit was a confession. It was raw, hungry, and unrefined. You kissed him with a ferocity that seemed to satisfy something primal in him, a need to be claimed in the middle of a school hallway that felt like the center of the universe.
His hands were all over you now, restless and bold, exploring the curve of your waist, the line of your spine, his touch leaving a trail of fire everywhere he grazed. He pressed his hips firmly against yours, pinning you against the wall with his weight, his intentions clear and unapologetic.
The sound of a distant door creaking open somewhere down the hall echoed in his ears, making him stop and look around.ย
โFuck..โ he murmured, lowering enough to grip your tighs and push you to the auditorium where he used to practice.ย
He took of his jacket to make a makeshift bed to you, putting his body right between your legs. โYou sure no oneโs going to appear right?โ Your voice shakes with fear and desire.ย
โNo,โ he said simply as he looked for something in his wallet โno one come here at this hour besides me.โย
He knelt between your knees, the fabric of his jeans rasping against the smooth wood of the stage floor as he settled into the space heโd claimed for you.ย
The auditorium was vast, a cathedral of shadows and silence, save for the heavy, rhythmic thrumming of your own hearts.
He finally pulled a small, silver object from his walletโa metallic glint in the gloomโbefore tossing it aside.ย
His eyes locked onto yours, dark and dilated, reflecting a hunger that made the air in the room feel thin. He didn't offer any more reassurances; he didn't have to. The way he reached out to grip your hips, his thumbs pressing firmly into the soft curve of your waist, told you everything you needed to know about his intent.
"Trust me," he breathed, the command vibrating against your skin as he pulled you to the very edge of the makeshift bed.
He leaned in, his lips grazing the shell of your ear, sending a jolt of pure electricity straight down your spine. With one hand, he began to undo the buckle at your waist, his movements slow, deliberate, and maddeningly calm. Every brush of his knuckles against your stomach felt like a brand, a promise of what was coming.
"The acoustics in here," he whispered, his hand sliding lower, claiming the space between your thighs with absolute authority, "are perfect. You can scream if you want to. No one will hear a thing but me."
He pressed his face into the crook of your neck, his breath hot and ragged, and as he began to touch you, the fear that had been gnawing at your nerves dissolved entirely, replaced by a singular, overwhelming ache for him to take everything he wanted.
You saw him put the condom on himself, his movements fluid and focused, even in the dim gloom of the stage. He didn't break his gaze from yours, his eyes dark and heavy with a possessive intent that made your stomach flip. There was no hesitation in his motions, only a raw, grounded confidence.ย
He settled back between your knees, the rough denim of his jeans grazing your skin, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from him. As he moved closer, he placed his hands firmly on your hips, his thumbs digging into your skin.
He leaned in, his lips brushing against yours before he descended to your throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there in a way that made you arch your back instinctively.
"Open for me," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly command that vibrated right through your chest.
He didn't wait for your permission, his hands guiding your legs further apart as he pressed against you, testing the friction. The sensation of his skin meeting yours, coupled with the weight of him pressing you into the makeshift bed of his jacket, sent a jolt of electricity down your spine.ย
When he finally pushed forward, claiming you with slow, deliberate thrusts, the sound of your combined breathing seemed to amplify against the high, vaulted ceiling of the auditorium.
He watched you intently, his eyes tracing the way your expression shifted from shock to pure, unadulterated need.ย
He picked up the pace, his movements becoming more rhythmic filling the silence of the room with the wet, heavy sounds of your intimacy.ย
Each time he pulled back, only to drive into you again with renewed purpose, he drew a sharp, ragged gasp from your lips. He was relentless, his hands sliding up to grip your waist, his fingers bruising and beautiful as he dictated the entire pace of your pleasure.
He knew exactly where to touch, exactly how to move to make you moan. He kept his rhythm steady and demanding, his face inches from yours, his forehead pressed against yours so he could feel the frantic, fluttering pulse of your heart. You were completely at his mercy, lost in the overwhelming heat of his touch, and as he pushed you toward that orgasm.
He lifted your waist to hit that sweet spot that made your eyes roll.ย
The echo of your climax slowly dissolved into a soft breathing, leaving behind a stillness so profound it felt heavy.
Jean didn't pull away. He let his weight rest on you, his heartbeat slowly syncing with yours, the steady, rhythmic thrumming of his pulse calming the frantic electricity that had surged through you both.
Slowly, his breathing steadied. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his hair a disheveled mess, his eyes dark with an emotion that you never really saw in him.ย
The brooding, defensive rebel was gone, replaced by someone raw and dangerously vulnerable.
He reached up, brushing a stray lock of hair from your forehead with a touch that was uncharacteristically gentleโa stark, grounding contrast to the urgency of moments before.
"So," he whispered, his voice still rough, vibrating in the small space between you. "Still think I'm a nightmare?"
He wasn't teasing. He was searching your face, looking for the girl who had been untouchable just hours ago, wondering if she was still thereโor if this, right here, was the truth of you both.
You reached up, tracing the line of his jaw with a trembling hand, feeling the harsh contrast of his stubble against your fingertips. The cold reality of the school outside these walls felt a million miles away, yet you knew the morning would come with its gossip, its expectations, and the suffocating perfection you usually wore like armor.
But in the dark, with his chest heaving against yours, the armor felt useless.
"Maybe," you breathed, a small, tired smile tugging at your lips. "Or maybe youโre just the only person who knows how to wake me up."
Jeanโs expression softened, the hard lines of his face relaxing into something almost boyish. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours, his nose brushing against your cheek. It was an intimate, quiet momentโa stark contrast to the chaotic collision that had brought you here.
"Good.โ he murmured, his hands sliding down to rest firmly on your waist, an anchor in the dark.ย
He pressed a final, lingering kiss to your lipsโnot the frantic fight from before, but a claim. A promise. You knew that once you stepped out of this auditorium, the world would demand you return to your roles.ย
But as you lay there, tangled in his jacket and his scent, you realized that Jean Kirstein wasnโt a problem to be solved, and you weren't a golden girl to be curated.
You were both just two people who had finally stopped pretending, and in the silence of the stage, that was the most beautiful thing you had ever known.
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