Chapter Text
2016 – New York City
Will needs to fuck someone tonight.
No. Will is going to fuck someone tonight, and that someone will be willing, handsome, and if he’s lucky, sharp-eared. There’s a reason he forfeited a visit to The Duplex. Cubby Hole too. Even Stonewall.
He’s going to fuck until he forgets. Even if he forgets the pair of worn but powerful thumbs swiping the tears from his young face; the voice as low and sweet as an organ reminding him to take deep breaths, to stop choking the neck of his poor violin. The old lady glasses with lapis blue frames. Lilac-scented perfume. A gold chain necklace with a gold treble clef strung at the bottom.
Are you with me, Will? Okay. That’s okay. How about we sit down for a second?
Even if who he forgets deserves to be remembered more than anyone else.
Yeah, he stopped believing in God a long time ago.
This humble little place, Village Vanguard, is supposed to be a jazz venue, and that works for Will. Anything to drown out the measures of Tchaikovsky that run rampant in his skull. Plus, he’s never had the chance to immerse himself in this scene, low-lit and brassy. No cellphones. It’s nice.
Louis Armstrong said that if you have to ask what jazz is, you’ll never know, so I don’t bother asking. I just listen. And feel. Someday, when I have the time, I’ll study it like I did symphony. Like I did baroque, even.
Moisture seeps into the corners of Will’s eyes. He can’t dig his fingernails into his forearm, as blunt and stubby as they are, so he settles for scraping their trim edges into the thin skin of his wrist. Foolishly, he thought he’d be accustomed to grief by now. After his mom, before his fifth birthday. After Sean, just a week after his nineteenth. And now, after his—
A burst of percussion snaps Will out of his spiral.
A new, much younger player has replaced the older man at the drum kit. His huge arms are corded, typical of a well-practiced drummer, but the skin beneath his jaw is soft. This must be the guest drummer they’ve been hyping up all night, and Will can see—or rather feel—why. The wall quakes against his back with every swing of the guy’s sticks.
Will’s good friend, Sean, played like that too, in the way he commanded the attention of an entire building with his trumpet. It doesn’t hurt so much to remember him anymore, now that things are settled. Not like it did two years ago.
It’s times like these he’s thankful he accepted the scholarship from Curtis instead of Shaffer.
The people scattered throughout the dark basement are going batshit for this guy’s playing, and honestly, Will can’t blame them. Drum Dude is really getting into it. He whips and shakes his head in time with the rhythm, and his dark curls glint in the white glow of his sheet lamp. His sticks flitter across the toms so fast, the movement blurs the line of imperceptible, as if he’s drumming at the speed of light.
Will’s seen many live concertos in his short life, and this one is quickly becoming his favorite.
Drums are clearly the centerpiece of this arrangement, and this guy knows it. He places full attention into each masterful strike, and Will feels the beats like chain links reeling him in towards the velvety stage. The skill is apparent, but that’s not what makes this player hypnotizing. Beneath the expertise lies a subtle undercurrent of, for lack of a better word, violence. Will’s never seen someone treat an instrument like this: both expertly and ruthlessly, and it thrills him. He leans forward, mesmerized by the guy’s scrunched brow and parted lips. The second button of his black dress shirt pops open with the force of a particularly complicated lick.
When the drum beat tapers off into a rest period, the brass swells into a boisterous interlude. Just as Will indulges himself with the fantasy of sucking the sheen of sweat off the drummer’s neck, they lock eyes.
Will can’t stop the wide grin from stretching across his face. He knows he must look absolutely giddy and ridiculous, leering like a groupie under the dim audience lighting, but Drum Dude doesn’t seem to care. He answers with his own little smile. Tremors pass through his frame with exertion and, if Will’s desperate, sleep-deprived brain is correct, amusement.
Spurred on by the guy’s reaction, Will throws his hand up, forms the OK sign with his thumb and forefinger, and waves it back and forth. He closes his eyes as if he’s eaten something delicious and brings his other pinched hand to his mouth to mime a chef's kiss.
Drum Dude keeps staring.
Will swings the hand at his lips down to the table in a move he intends to be graceful, but it clips the rim of his untouched champagne flute instead. The glass base lifts from the table and threatens to tip overboard, so Will lunges forward and flails at the air until his fist closes around the stem. The sparkly liquid trickles over his knuckles, and a couple splashes of it land on the tabletop.
Fortunately, Drum Dude finds this hilarious. He cups a hand over his mouth, and his shoulders shake with the force of concealed laughter. A couple patrons notice and turn around to observe Will, wearing their own amused expressions. They’re label executives, judging by the neat creases in their fine-fitting suits. The saxes smirk at him around their mouthpieces, and the tenor trombones eye him with mischief.
Will should be embarrassed. Will should be ducking beneath the table or running back up the stairs. Instead, he snickers back at them and lets himself bask in the rich melodies that spill off the stage and into the tavern. The champagne flute bubbles in question from where he returned it to the table, begging him to take a sip, but Will doesn’t need it. He’s already floaty and fuzzy and flushed all over.
This is what music does to him.
Drum Dude lifts his sticks and winks, fucking winks at Will, and resumes his attack on the drum kit. The beats are quicker and more aggressive this time. Presto maybe? Will never had perfect tempo.
Remember to hug your percussionists on the way out, people! They are living, breathing metronomes, so treat ‘em like it.
Will bites down hard on his lip. He breathes in through his nose for four seconds, holds it for two, and exhales for six. Just like she taught him. He repeats until the final drum solo pitters to a stop.
It’s okay to be upset, Will.
A metallic flavor spreads on his tongue.
Andrew Neiman.
When Will finally hears Drum Dude’s name, it’s four syllables spoken through a microphone. It’s trochaic dimeter; two sets of a stressed syllable followed by an unstressed syllable. Even this guy’s name is rhythmic, at least according to prosody. Poetry and music can’t be too different, can they?
The older man has reclaimed his seat at the drum kit, and Will’s heartbeat thumps along with his steady strokes. This piece is quieter than the last, crafted mostly of melody, and its true centerpiece is the saxophone. Normally, his brain would latch onto each note and string together the score in his head, but Will’s mind is elsewhere. It’s frozen on the image of Andrew, all trussed up and a blur of motion as moisture flies off the cymbals like nothing exists outside of his kit. It’s been no more than fifteen minutes, and Will already misses the violent lashes of Andrew’s sticks.
“Hey.”
A picture of dress slacks and a neatly buttoned shirt greets Will when his vision snaps into focus. They’re concert blacks; sleek, unmistakable, and held together by the glint of a gold belt buckle. He shifts his gaze upward, where a set of rosin-hazel eyes peer down at him, framed with damp curls and the occasional freckle.
Fuck. Andrew’s even prettier up close.
“Oh, uh. Hi there!” Will says, like an idiot. He suddenly feels under dressed in his white jeans and floral linen polo.
Andrew grins and tilts his head in the direction of the champagne glass where it’s perspiring on the table. “Looks like you saved a good bit of that after all.”
Well, then. Maybe there is a God.
“Guess I did, but it’s not my fault you were that good.”
Privately, Will wonders if Andrew will blush, deny him, or give a simple ‘thank you’ for his comment, but instead, Andrew’s entire face twists into a grimace.
“It’s funny you say that.” He scowls. “’Cause I was rushing those last couple measures. Bet you enjoyed sabotaging my count, huh?”
“No! I—oh my god.” Cold spills down Will’s spine and into his cheeks. It’s not even twelve, and he’s already ruined someone’s night. “I’m so sorry. I swear I wasn’t trying to—“
“Woah, woah, hey!” Andrew’s raises his hands beside his face, which the scowl entirely drains from. “I was—I was just messing with you. Promise.”
Will almost doesn’t hear him, like he’s crashed into a car and the crunch of metal is an afterthought in the midst of head snapping back.
Andrew brushes the sweaty hair out of his face. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. You weren’t the reason I was rushing.”
Relief hits Will like an airbag, and he wheezes, feeling higher than an E string. A shocked laugh bursts out of him. “Jesus Christ, dude! That was a little mean.”
“Yeah. Wow.” Andrew stares at the floor as he contemplates this. “That—that really was mean.”
Any sane person would be irritated right now. If not, pissed, but Will is no sane person. He’s always preferred his men a little off the walls anyway.
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” he says, with a wave of his hand.
Andrew shrugs in acknowledgment, but his eyes stay fixed to the floorboards. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, hands stuffed into his pockets, and for a moment, Will can’t think of anything appropriate to say. Andrew doesn’t look like he wants to leave, but he doesn’t look like he knows what he’s doing either. The primal tugging between Will’s ribs screams at him to fill the silence. Tell me about your drums. How long have you been playing? Tell me about yourself. Are you hungry? I could buy us dinner—whatever you’re craving. Seriously. I can afford any restaurant in this city. Do you wanna get out of here?
Instead, Will decides on: “If it’s any consolation, you can have my champagne. Since I, uh, sabotaged your count and all. I’m not really in the mood to drink it anymore.”
Andrew watches as thick beads of moisture glide down the thin glass neck. “I’m not really in the mood to drink either.” His brows cinch. “Champagne was always kinda gross to me, anyway. I’m more of a red wine guy.”
“Well, if you won’t have a drink…have a seat?”
“Sure, uh…”
“Will.”
Andrew smiles, all toothy and lopsided. “Will.”
The silence isn’t so unbearable after Andrew slides into the booth next to him. Of course, it was never silent to begin with. The rich tone of the lead saxophone wraps around the basement like a warm blanket, and they soak it in together. The music sounds better this way with minimal conversation, as the venue encourages.
Will especially enjoys the sound of Andrew rapping his fingers on the table in time with the beat. He uses his closed fist against his thigh to mimic the base drum, and despite its muted patting noise, the insistence of the motion is no different than when Andrew thumped away at the pedal onstage.
Will turns the back of his hand against the table to allow the faint vibrations from Andrew’s tapping to nip at his skin. For the first time in a week, he feels tethered to the earth again; tethered to the present.
He nudges Andrew’s black shoe with his white doc. “This piece is lovely.”
“Isn’t it?” says Andrew, perking up. “It’s called ‘Summertime.’ George Gershwin was the initial composer, but there are a lot of different takes on it. Charlie Parker’s recording is my favorite.” He pauses, then pins Will with his stare. “Did you know that he’s played here before? On that same stage? Many of the greats have.”
Will shakes his head. “I didn’t.”
“Well,” Andrew smirks, “you do now.”
His gaze drifts down to the table where Will’s upturned hand rests, and briefly, Will wonders if he made a mistake in not knowing about ‘the greats’ before stepping foot in here. That is, until Andrew reopens his mouth.
“Guitar, huh?”
Holy shit, his calluses. Will can’t believe he forgot. Something chemical and juvenile warms inside of him. Andrew was staring at his calluses.
Will returns the smirk with a hint of teeth. “Try again.”
Andrew gives him a once over that sends heat rising to the tops of Will’s shoulders. He focuses on the bruise that rests just under the hinge of his Will’s jaw and then the one at his collarbone, full in their reddish-purple bloom.
“Violin?”
“That’s it.”
Andrew chews on his lip. “You look like you’ve been practicing.”
“All day every day for three or so weeks now.” Will flexes his sore fingers and revels in the splotchy red that crawls up Andrew’s cheeks after, because drummer-boy isn’t the only talent in this room. “I have a concerto to lead this Friday.”
He spent close to ten hours practicing today, in fact. He practiced until his vibrato murmured with the flowing brooks of spring, until his tremolo thundered like a hot summer storm, until his staccato danced with the song of the fall harvest, and until his legato blew alongside the icy winter winds.
Will practiced until he saw Vivaldi’s Four Seasons immortalized in the layers of tough skin at the tips of his fingers; until the soul of his favorite composition rubbed the skin raw at his neck and collarbone.
I’m sorry I can’t be there, honey, but God will rue the day I don’t hear you play this piece in concert. Do you know if it’ll be recorded?
“Makes sense.” Andrew presses his calf to Will’s. “Though I admit, I was getting a little curious about those bruises. Thought you were just easy or something.”
Will laughs, thankful for Andrew’s bluntness and the mingling heat of their legs through the fabric. “Well, you’re not the first to get curious about my practice marks. Although, you were only half wrong about me being easy.” Will smooths his bowing hand across the edge of the table and studies the pool of liquid seeping out from the base of the warmed champagne flute. The prospect of looking Andrew in the eye as he admits this feels like too much. “I was hoping to collect a couple more tonight.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I’m trying to forget someone.”
“It’s okay. I get it. I’m actually—“ Andrew pauses, and Will faces those heated eyes to silently urge him on, “I was hoping to start a collection.”
Will’s mouth goes dry. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” The natural threadiness in Andrew’s voice increases. “I’m trying to get a bad taste out of my mouth.” Something stormy flickers across Andrew’s face as he says this, but it’s fleeting, like an isolated rain cloud. He pauses the drumming of his fingers, and the pleasant heat of his stare returns.
Instantly, Will misses the subtle vibrations against the back of his hand, and he notices how cold the tabletop feels plastered to his warming skin. He doesn’t have time to brood over it, though, because Andrew touches his long fingers to the bottom of Will’s exposed palm and strokes them down, down, down.
When his soft fingertips finally caress Will’s hardened ones, Will swears he has an out-of-body experience. He can hear the blood flowing deep in his ears, and it drowns out the brassy melodies that float throughout the club. He’s frozen, rendered speechless by the rarity sitting next to him.
Just as the contact teeters on the edge of too much, Andrew speaks.
“Your fingers are strong.”
Will slides his hand forward so their palms are flush together. He feels the tendons in Andrew’s hand flex and the blistered patches of skin, fresh from performance, that rest above his "heart line."
“So are yours.” Will punctuates his words with a swipe of fingers across the strip of skin where the inside of Andrew’s wrist and hand connect, because two can play at this game. “Tell me I’m not misreading this?”
Andrew twitches and pulls his hand back. A trail of tiny bumps climbs up his arm. Checkmate.
“You’re not.”
Will opens his mouth to finally use that Do you wanna get out of here? line he dreamed of earlier, but the sensation of something warm and sticky dripping from his hand stops the words before they can escape.
The sight of his empty hand knocks Will’s breath away. Wine-red smears cling to his skin from his wrist all the way up to his calluses. The blood glistens as he inspects it in the low light, but the skin underneath remains unmarred.
Will finds the source exactly where he expected it to be.
The underside of Andrew’s hand sets a horrific scene, like the work of a theater kid left unsupervised with fake blood and a jar of scar wax. His blisters are caked with a red-brown crust that’s drying in patches across his skin, and the webbing between his thumb and forefinger is lost to a pool of bright crimson. Will blinks, then realizes that there’s a layer of bandaids swimming in the crux of it.
“Dude!” Will flounders for words. “Your hand!”
“Oh.” Andrew regards his bloody appendage with a look of mild inconvenience, but the color leaves his cheeks when Will holds up his own half of the damage. “Oh! Shit, I’m sorry. This kinda happens a lot, but I didn’t feel it this time. I swear.”
“No kidding.” Will shoves his clean hand into his pocket and gropes for the pack of bandaids he never leaves his apartment without. He places it on the table, knowing it can’t do much right now other than encourage Andrew to agree to follow him to bathroom. Hopefully.
“Damn,” says Andrew, “You came prepared.”
“You’re not the first bleeder I’ve met, buddy, and old habits die hard. Now let me see.”
Andrew obeys and holds his hand out to Will. The second one joins it shortly, and it’s in an equally mutilated state. Drops of blood hit the table, and Will feels them in his stomach like steel strings slicing red lines into the tips of his fingers.
Enough, Will! That’s enough. It’s time to go home. For me, at least? We walk out with calluses here. Not scars.
Bile stings the back of Will’s throat. He grabs Andrew’s hands and cradles them in both of his own, smearing the blood between their pale skin. It drips onto Will’s white pants, but he could care less about the mess they’re making. His thumbs press to the centers of Andrew’s filthy palms.
“I’m sorry,” Andrew repeats. His waterlines are rimmed rosy, and Will notices the scarred divot in his chin where it wobbles. “I didn’t even notice.”
“I know. It’s okay.” Will rubs soothing circles with his thumbs. “I get it. You’re still buzzed from performing, and the adrenaline’s taken over your brain a little.”
Andrew stares numbly at the floor, then laughs. The watery noise hits G sharp 3 perfectly in two instances. Their hands slip against each other.
We have a term for that, Will. It’s called ‘perfect pitch.’ Has—has no one ever talked with you about yours?
Will forces his heart back behind his ribs. “What do you say we get you washed up, and then get the hell out of here?”
Andrew’s starry-eyed smile is worth the stains on their hands and clothes.
“I’d like that.”
Basking in the sound of music with Andrew is quickly becoming one of Will’s favorite activities, even as they sit shoulder to shoulder in the stuffy back seat of a taxi. The song blasting from the radio is weird as hell too, but Will doesn’t mind. Not when it makes Andrew thump his foot against the carpet like that.
A sudden tapping on the top of Will’s thigh startles him out of his thoughts. His leg twitches in reflex.
“’M sorry,” Andrew mumbles. He snatches his hand away from Will’s thigh and curls his arm to his chest. “It’s out of habit.”
Instantly, Will realizes what happened.
“And I was the nearest surface. It’s okay. You just surprised me.” Will gathers Andrew’s tensed fingers in his own and watches as the muscles unfurl in his clutch. He pulls Andrew’s hand away from his torso and places it back higher up on his thigh. Closer to the crease in Will’s hip. “I kinda liked it, actually.”
“Oh.” Andrew blinks. He squeezes once, tentative, then resumes his drumming.
Will relaxes into the repetitive sensation. It’s intoxicating, and it almost distracts him from the off-kilter strumming and nonsense vocals as the track barrels onward. Almost.
“This song sounds...really strange.”
Andrew hums in agreement. “Yeah, I noticed, and I’m betting it’s ‘cause of the time signature. Feels like 5/4.”
Curious and determined to investigate this later, Will surveys the dash where the radio station flashes across the screen. He waits for the right text to pop on screen, and when it does, Will barks out a laugh.
“Nice guess.”
“What?”
“Look at the title.”
Andrew squints ahead at the tiny screen, then leans back and huffs. “A little on the nose, then? ‘5/4’ by… Gorillaz? Haven’t heard of them.”
“Me neither.” Will turns to look directly at Andrew. “They’re making me miss ‘Summertime.’”
Andrew holds his gaze, the longest he’s managed to make eye contact with Will the entire night, which is admittedly not very long. As the reds, greens, and golds of passing streetlights trace over his pale features, his posture oozes the same post-performance adrenaline that dotted Will’s clothes with red. Regardless, Andrew’s hand continues to nail every beat with the song.
On the next down stroke, Will catches it before it hits his leg, then brings it to his mouth, never once breaking their delicate eye contact. He brushes his lips over each bony knuckle, mindful of the fresh bandaids that scratch under his hold.
Andrew’s eyelids flutter. He sucks on his bottom lip, but he doesn’t shy away.
An amused voice rumbles from the driver’s seat. “Do you guys want me to change the channel?”
The rear view mirror reflects the image of Vinny’s smirk, but it holds no real heat. This is not the first time Will’s found himself in this guy’s cab, and he’s thankful for every time that he has. Vinny treats every street like it’s his own, and he respects a taste in music like he respects a secret.
And yeah, Will could go for a local station right about now, but before he can make it a request, Andrew rips his hand away.
“No!” he snaps, but the fight leaves his voice as soon as it comes. He sucks in a shaky breath. “No. This is fine.”
Vinny’s fingers extend from their grip on the wheel. “No worries, brother. Just didn’t want this song to kill your mood.”
“Hey, we appreciate it.” Will offers him a silent apology through the mirror.
Vinny’s temples crinkle in understanding. “I know you do.”
Will studies Andrew, studies the tremble that starts at his bare forearms and shakes up into his dark sleeves. It’s the same tremble that lives at the core of Will’s own nervous system. If left unchecked, it wields the power to shroud a person with numb silence, so Will reunites their hands and laces their clean fingers together.
Into the traffic-lit air, Andrew mouths an I’m sorry.
Will scoots until their shoulders touch and tips his mouth up to murmur in Andrew’s ear. “Don’t apologize.”
“Okay.” Andrew whispers.
“We’re okay here.”
“Okay.”
Don’t apologize, sweetheart. You have nothing to be ashamed of. That piece we’ve been working on—the one our cellos need some extra encouragement with—was composed by a boy like you. So much of our music came from boys like you, and it’s not your fault I can’t teach a damn thing about it.
The song ends, and in its place, hands clap and a man sings about the “pineapples in his head.”
Will misses “5/4.”
When they finally step through the doorway and into the kitchen of Will’s apartment, he flicks the light on and cringes in embarrassment. He completely forgot about the monstrosity sitting atop his marbled kitchen island.
The thick mountain of CD cases spreads over the entire rectangular surface, and it has to be near six inches in height.
Last week, Will received a delivery of five packages and a tearful phone call from Mr. Ellis. They didn’t exchange many words, but the subdued voice over the line spoke of a trust Will hardly knew what to do with. He laid the CDs out on the island, but he couldn’t bring himself to examine them, much less sort them for the empty spaces in his new cabinet.
Thankfully, Andrew’s interest glazes over the glaring behemoth ahead of him. He takes two steps forward, and his attention skips past the kitchen and into the living room. He gapes at what Will thinks is the grand piano resting in front of the window that spans most of the soundproofed wall. The jagged city skyline twinkles through it, and if Will squints hard enough, he can pretend there’s a billboard with a pair of lapis blue frames peering over the streets in the distance.
“Jesus,” says Andrew, “You have a nice place.”
“Thanks, and please, take off your shoes. I need a second to use the restroom, so make yourself at home.”
Before Will can say something stupid like You’re free to stay as long as you want, he scurries off to the bathroom. He relieves himself, texts a love you back to his dad’s Looking forward to seeing you perform, kiddo. I’m here if you need to talk. Love you very much, and checks his shirt for sweat stains.
When Will re-emerges, he’s slapped with the silhouette of Andrew, back-turned and hunched over the pile of CDs. His shoulders shake with a quiet laughter, and Will has an idea as to why.
Despite the time he’s spent avoiding the cluttered mass, he’s caught glimpses of the titles through the sea of plastic. To the average observer, it would appear more reminiscent of a school garage sale spread instead of a scholar’s personal collection.
Making music isn’t so much different from making food, Will. You can make it for yourself, but nothing compares to sharing it.
Bracing himself, Will pads silently over to Andrew, who’s running his hands over the glossy covers. Will isn’t tall enough to peek over his shoulder, so he shuffles up next to Andrew and takes a deep breath.
It’s time to look.
Once Will starts cataloging the names and faces of different artists in the pile, some he recognizes, others he’s never heard of, he can’t stop.
Ella Fitzgerald, Slipknot, Clara Schumann, Taylor Swift, Tracy Chapman, Tchaikovsky, Beethoven, Nirvana, Glen Miller, Nine Inch Nails—
One week of collecting dust in the kitchen, and the smell of lilacs and laundry detergent still lingers. To Will’s relief or to Will’s horror, he’s not sure.
Vivaldi, Terri Lyne Carrington, Queen, Nas, Buddy Rich, Lady Gaga—
“You’ve got an interesting taste, Will.” Andrew giggles and holds up a Gorillaz album. “I thought you said you’d never heard of them.”
Will laughs back, and the knot of grief in his chest loosens. “That’s because I haven’t. These were my mentor’s, actually. She decided to gift me her old collection,” because metastatic ovarian cancer fucking murdered her, he doesn’t say. “Her doctorate suggests orchestra, but really, she’s quite the connoisseur.”
Andrew stiffens next to him, hands heavy and still where they’re buried in the CDs. He offers no reply.
Will can’t blame the guy for being confused, so he continues: “A lot of these were probably handed to her by students. She was always asking us for recommendations, what we liked to listen to, and where she could find them. Eventually, people just started giving them to her.”
“Wow.” Andrew’s voice is thick. The CDs clack together when he pulls a hand out.
Lil Jon, Hozier, Joan Jett, Gordon Lightfoot—
“’Wow’ is right.”
Andrew quiets again as he traces a finger over more albums. Lindsey Stirling, Mother Mother, Charlie Parker—so much trochaic dimeter. The finger stops, then stutters on the one labeled "William McIntyre."
Will’s pulse threatens to burst from his neck. The cover boasts a clear picture of him: stark red backdrop, dark blond hair, black suit vest and bow tie, a violin cradled in the crux of his neck. A tiny text at the bottom reads: “with the compositions of Carol Ellis.”
She kept her own copies of Will’s recordings, because of course she did.
Andrew lifts the CD, scrutinizes it, and whips his head in Will’s direction. His features morph into an intensity Will didn’t know Andrew was capable of. Whether it’s shock, lust, jealousy, awe, contempt, or something else, he can’t tell.
“Who the fuck are you?”
They’re the kind of words you’re supposed to spit, but they come out silky on Andrew’s tongue.
“I’m a concert and recording artist,” says Will, figuring that honesty is his best option here, “but I also do some independent and collaborative work.”
Andrew looks at Will, then the CD, then to the cluster of other albums with Will’s face, then Will’s spacious apartment, again at the CD, then back at Will. Andrew puts it down and inches towards him.
“So you’re like… ,” he eyes the pile again, “Guy Lindsey Stirling?”
No, not really. Stirling is a talented violinist, but her style is nothing like Will’s, please and thank you. Clearly, Andrew has no idea what he’s talking about, but the effort endears Will anyway.
“Um, sorta?”
“You must be a beautiful player.”
Will’s had a wide range of reactions to his career. Oblivious women who sidle up to him after performances and disinterested men who space out the moment he starts talking about composition. His gift has landed him into many, many uncomfortable conversations, but it’s also landed him in the trajectory of Andrew Neiman, who regards him with pretty lips and the face of a man starved.
Will thinks about his gift, and tries not to think about who he has to thank for it.
He digs his ring finger into the bruise exposed by his open collar. The sting grounds him, and he doesn’t miss the way Andrew’s eyes flick over it.
“Can I kiss you?” Will asks.
Andrew dips down and captures Will’s face between his cold, bandaged hands. He presses firm lips to Will’s, but he pulls back before Will can return the pressure.
“You can do whatever you want to me. You don’t have to ask.”
“That’s sweet,” Will caresses Andrew’s clavicle with a light finger, “but I’m going to ask anyway.” He stands on his tiptoes to slot their mouths together, and Andrew’s hands fall to Will’s shoulders.
Andrew’s lips are insistent, but inexperienced, like he knows what he wants but isn’t sure what he’s allowed to have. He nudges them between Will’s over and over until they’re slick and messy. He swipes his thumb back and forth over the bruise on Will’s collarbone, and the pad of skin catches on the micro scabs left behind from the abrasion of maple wood. It’s a relentless, rhythmic movement that stings so good.
Will rewards Andrew, licks the corner of his mouth, then the underside of his upper lip. Andrew whimpers from his diaphragm, and the soft noise tugs at the nape of Will’s neck. When Andrew parts his lips all the way for Will to enter, his tongue is warm and pliable as Will slides his against it. Will gives a teasing flick to the roof of Andrew’s mouth, right behind his front teeth, and Andrew runs his tongue over Will’s gums in retaliation.
It pains Will to break away, his head rushing when he does, but he needs to know for sure that Andrew’s on board with this. He almost regrets it, however, when Andrew’s brows draw together and his lips twist into a pout.
“What do you want from me, Andrew?” Will soothes a thumb over Andrew’s kiss-shiny lips. “Tell me. Tell me, and I’ll give it to you.”
Andrew rubs his face into Will’s palm, chasing the contact. “I want you to show me what those fucking fingers do.”
“You got it.”
Will wastes no time. He suckles at the tender patch of skin below Andrew’s ear, right at the hinge of his jaw, and hooks both of his pointer fingers underneath Andrew’s waistband at each hip. Slowly, Will drags them around until they reach the center of his pelvis, delighting in the way Andrew’s stomach muscles jump as he moves. Will thumbs the clasp of his belt undone, then slides the stiff leather out of his belt loops and lets it clatter to the floor.
Even now, Andrew’s fingers are drumming against Will’s shoulder. They’ve been drumming against his shoulder, in fact, ever since Will kissed him back, and oh, does Will understand. It’s the ever persistent need for music manifested in flesh and blood. He craves it as much as Andrew does: the beat, the tempo, the melody, the—
That gives him an idea.
Remembering the beautiful sax melody from earlier, Will reaches for the pile beside them and gropes around until he bumps into the Charlie Parker album. “’Bird’ is Free,” the title reads.
“I’ve got a CD player in my room.” Will presses the case flat to Andrew’s chest. “We should put something on.”
Andrew’s fingers scrabble at the case until he releases it from Will’s grip. He holds it up for examination, eager.
“Actually…” Andrew hesitates, and his face closes off into an unreadable emotion.
Fuck. Was that too much? Will curses himself silently and wonders if Andrew is offended.
Andrew continues, his words stilted. “I know this sounds crazy, but I’d rather listen to something else. Something more...” he snatches a random CD from the pile and glances at it, “...ancient, perhaps?”
Will doesn’t have the time to ruminate further, because the image of Tchaikovsky’s fluffy white mustache invades his field of vision.
Between you and me, I think I’ll always be a Tchaikovsky fangirl first and foremost.
“I’d rather not.”
Andrew grabs another album from the pile, his search deliberate this time. “How about one of yours? I’ve been curious what you sound like ever since I saw these.” He runs a finger over the bruise under Will’s jaw.
“Oh.”
Will shivers. No one’s ever requested his music to fuck to before, and while the thought should turn him off, it does the opposite. This is a rare opportunity for one hell of an ego trip, and Will knows better than to throw it away.
“That works.” He pets the puffy crease of skin under Andrew’s eye. “I couldn’t say no to this face if I tried.”
“Was kinda hoping you wouldn’t.”
God, Will wants to find out how many octaves he can wrench out of that voice.