Chapter Text
2016 - Fletcher
Ultimately, it’s an old colleague of Fletcher’s who drags him out to Carnegie for another derivative performance of The Four Seasons. To the orchestra’s credit, that blond kid—McIntyre—was a solid choice for violin concertmaster. Each of his strings are in tune, he plays with fresh but not obnoxious interpretation, and best of all, he keeps time.
The same cannot be said about whichever cocksucker they unleashed on harpsichord.
Once it’s time for everyone to flee their seats, Fletcher nods politely at his colleague, a prodigy cello who had a nasty habit of fucking people in their shared dorm back in the day. He steps into the aisle.
Fletcher knows how these events unfold, so it isn’t a surprise that he succeeds in catching McIntyre on his way out of the venue. Something about his face is achingly familiar on its page in the concert program, and Fletcher is not one to forget faces.
The surprise comes in the form of Andrew Neiman matching his stride.
Fletcher clears his throat. “Mr. McIntyre.”
McIntyre stops, and his head swivels.
Neiman gapes.
Fletcher could acknowledge his failed student project, but doesn’t need to. While Neiman had the balls to tackle him on a stage in front of hundreds of people, the chances of him trying to start shit now are slim. Silence is the language of a coward.
“You’re a beautiful player, you know,” Fletcher says, because it’s the truth.
“Oh.” A light pink dusts the fair, papery skin of the kid’s cheeks. He ducks his head. “Thank you, sir. I hope you enjoyed your night out.”
“Indeed, I did.” I would’ve enjoyed it more if your harpsichordist was busier keeping time than he was thinking about sucking cock, Fletcher doesn’t say. First, he needs to figure out where the fuck he remembers McIntyre from.
When Fletcher checks on Neiman, any worries he had about him causing a scene dissolve. Andrew is tight-lipped and as white as a cum-stain.
He offers a hand to McIntyre, who snatches it too eagerly. Whoever taught this kid was clearly a genius, but they neglected to show him networking manners.
“Dr. Fletcher, by the way.”
McIntyre’s hand sags mid-shake, and the bashful expression on his face sharpens to a scowl. He shares a look with Neiman.
Before Fletcher can process the movement, Will’s fist slams into the bridge of his nose. The lights smear together, only broken up by the occasional dark blot, and he blinks rapidly to clear the kaleidoscopes from his vision.
When the hall comes back into focus, the two bastards are booking it down the empty passageway, gone before Fletcher can return the favor.
The alley is dark when Fletcher steps into it, heavy with the smell of garbage and slick with drainage. He paces.
When Fletcher was an idiot child, he used to brood in places like this, and the image of Will McIntyre’s face has allowed that idiot child to resurface and steer him down this backstreet. The memory is strong enough to conclude the deja vu of his cherubic features was not a coincidence; Fletcher knows him from somewhere.
The coda to his first step past a dumpster lands with a crunch.
He lifts a sole, and lying damaged on the city filth is a lone violin.
Fletcher scoffs. Wood-pushers were normally imperious about the treatment of their instruments, yet some heathen decided to leave this violin in an alleyway like an unwanted infant. They even forwent the decency of a cardboard box.
If this violin belonged to a student, Fletcher would’ve launched it across the room, because that’s what happens when you leave nice things unattended. Alas, he is not in a classroom, and the violin’s owner is no where to be seen. Since nothing good ever came of a broken string instrument lying on the ground, Fletcher does the virtuous thing and reaches for it.
When his fingers contact the woody, slender neck, a string pops loose and slashes up his forearm.
Fletcher swears. It echoes throughout the empty backstreet, and at once, the image of Will McIntyre refocuses in his memory. His face exists, not standing in front of Fletcher, but inside a picture frame. There’s another face next to his: Sean. The photo sits on Sean’s empty counter in Sean’s empty apartment.
Blood trickles down Fletcher’s wrist, hits his fingers, and splashes onto the violin’s rosy maple face. It stains the varnish like wine on enamel.
Fletcher rises. He can’t hear the city over the rushing in his ears, but a lilac fragrance fills his lungs, clearer than a descant.
2017 - Jim
Jim inhales, counts three plates, three glasses of water, three napkins, three sets of silverware on the dining room table, and exhales.
Jim’s an aging man aware of how empty his nest is. It’s been too long since he’s hosted dinner, for family or anyone else, so the night could lead his best laid plans to certain disaster. It doesn’t help that the only information Andrew provided about their guest was a cryptic: Hey dad, so there’s this guy I’m seeing. I kinda want you to meet him.
Andy never chews his words like Jim does, but the knowledge that he liked boys did not come as a surprise. He didn’t see or hear anything in Andrew’s youth that would’ve confirmed it outright, but a fatherly inclination had anticipated this. The image of Andrew holding the hand of another nice young man forms vividly in Jim’s mind.
A timer shrieks from the kitchen, signaling that the deep fryer has reached temperature.
Jim pads with way over, his slippers falling softly on the floorboards. He pulls all the needed ingredients from the fridge, arranges them on the counter, and hopes Andrew’s boyfriend likes cheesesteak with fries.
To Jim’s delight, Andrew’s boyfriend is quite the talker.
His name is Will, and he fills the silences left between Jim and his own son with an ease that suggests nothing is askew. Jim learns that Will is a career musician, fond of old and experimental compositions, and likely has more money than most people his age.
He’s also from Philly, so the cheesesteaks proved to be a good idea. Judging by the way Will is devouring the sandwich on his plate, Jim’s cooking skills aren’t half bad.
Andrew hasn’t touched his food, but then again, he hasn’t said anything since he walked through the door. He refuses to break eye contact with his plate, and Jim can’t imagine what he’s embarrassed about.
Yet again, Will rescues them. “So Mr. Neiman, what do you do for work?”
“Just Jim,” he corrects, gently.
“Jim.” Will repeats. “I’m curious. Andrew doesn’t tell me much about you.”
The red on Andrew’s cheeks puts the ketchup bottle to shame, but a smile fights the corners of his mouth.
Jim hums in amusement. “I’m a high school English teacher.”
Will brightens. “Dude, that was my favorite subject aside from music.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” says Will. He pauses like he’s discovered something. “What book are you teaching right now?”
“Silas Marner by George Eliot. Have you heard of it?”
Will runs a hand through his golden hair. “I have not.”
“That’s okay. Do you have a favorite book you remember from school?”
The answer is immediate. “I really liked The Count of Monte Cristo.” Will’s face sours. “The movie adaptation was pretty shit, though.”
Jim laughs, loud and happy. Not because of what Will said, but because his Andy is looking at him again.
2018 - Vinny
They’re in the back seat of his cab again, soaked with rain and grinning like maniacs.
Vinny cranks his wipers to the fastest setting. “What’s makin’ you knuckleheads so giddy? I can barely see six feet ahead of me.”
Will giggles, and his eyes flash in the rearview mirror. The bangs he keeps nicely combed are plastered to his forehead. “Andrew just got the craziest offer.”
“Andrew, huh?”
The Andrew in question is nosing at the hair by Will’s temple like a seagull in someone’s hot dog.
“It’s about time I learned your name, kid. Somethin’ about those drums, then?”
“Yeah,” he says, as ineloquent as he usually is. “They’re gonna fly me out to LA an’ everything.”
“Sounds about right.”
Vinny fiddles with the radio knob and stops when he hears a trumpet.
2019 - Will
Carol’s gravestone is a gleaming white granite and, give or take, about a hundred yards to the right of his mother’s. Flower bouquets and pinwheels guard her tomb from all sides. They’re tokens left behind by students and family alike, bright with the colors of spring.
She would’ve turned 64 today.
Will doesn’t cry at this place anymore; he stopped when he was a teenager, but Andrew’s shadow reaching out next to his is making things difficult. Long arms wrap around Will from behind, and he fractures.
“Fuck.” He can’t make out the words on her stone anymore. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” says Andrew.
They sway like that for a while, with Andrew’s chin on top of Will’s head and his midsection warm against Will’s back. There’s a family eating lunch next to a grave down the hill, and the children’s laughter carries upward with the wind. Carol would’ve loved that—compared the sound to wind chimes. Maybe she can hear their young voices somewhere.
Andrew mumbles out a question. “Is your mom buried here too?”
“She is.” Will wipes his nose with the back of his sleeve. “Why?”
“I wanna meet her next.”
2020 - Andrew
“Please, please—fuck!”
Andrew lets his voice be loud, be needy. There’s no one in this bedroom besides him and Will.
“I got you, baby. I got you.” Will babbles more nonsense into the back of his neck as he rocks deep into Andrew from behind. “Gonna make you come.”
Andrew limbs melt into the lush bedspread. His man’s got him.
Lockdown is rough on the entire music scene, but Will’s been taking it extra hard.
Andrew can’t blame the guy. Where Will would normally be spending hours practicing with other strings or grinding out measures in the recording studio, he’s stuck inside this apartment doing fuck all.
While Andrew isn’t complaining that he’s now a fixture of Will’s fancy digs, he does what he can to distract his partner from the world burning outside their window. They’ve tried as many sex positions as they could think of, and in a moment of weakness, decided to start a YouTube channel. Sane people would never pair the drums and a violin together for duet covers of popular songs, but Andrew and Will are not sane people. They’ve established this. Boredom has also been eating away at the decision-making center of Andrew’s brain.
It’s not until their fifth video takes off that Will’s attitude starts to turn up.
“Hey, man,” says Andrew, sitting at the counter behind his old ass laptop. “Come look at this.”
“Huh?” Will looks up from his second attempt at producing baked alaska (the first one almost set off the smoke alarm). Streaks of pearly white meringue stick to his cheek, begging for Andrew to lick them off.
In a moment, he tells himself.
“Come look at my screen. That last video we posted really popped off.”
Will towels his hands dry and saunters over to the computer. “Holy shit.”
Andrew grins. “I know.”
“We started this things as a joke, and now we have a video with over a million fucking views.”
Andrew stands to lick at the mess on Will’s cheek. “I know.”
2021 - Will
“I’m sorry,” Andrew whispers into junction of Will’s neck.
Will spreads his fingers wide between tense shoulder blades. “I forgive you.”
The bandaid between Andrew’s thumb and forefinger sags with blood.
2022 - Jim
Jim Neiman is sitting next to Finn McIntyre in the front row of their sons’ wedding. He has the same curious eyes and golden hair as his son, but Jim regrets that he can’t see what kind of features Will inherited from his mother. He’s reached the point where the traces of his ex-wife in Andrew’s face don’t stick out anymore, but Jim’s not so sure if that’s a good thing.
Regardless, the gold finches are loud this time of day, which makes dwelling on such thoughts difficult. Their twitters blend with the scrape of metal foldout chairs.
After Andrew and Will finish their vows, their lips meet without shame, and the white of Will’s tuxedo meets Andrew’s black one in an imitation of a half-moon.
Finn’s breath collapses.
Jim lay a hand on his brother-in-law’s shoulder and squeezes. He’s been a writer for decades, but there are no conversation starters for situations like these, so he closes his eyes. Listens.
Finn speaks. “That boy is my greatest accomplishment.”
“So is my Andy,” says Jim, and there’s a villanelle waiting to be written about this somewhere in his head.
Will and Andrew embrace each other in the garden. They chose a blooming but modest little grove with rows of wildflowers and vines reaching up the park’s pathway walls. There’s a lull in music at this moment in the ceremony, but the lilac bushes sing their own chorus as they rustle in the June breeze.