Direct companion to "Stages" and part of the "Our Lives After" Universe.
~Tawnya
It's one of those rare afternoons where you're both home. Your ten to six is many things, and stable is most of them. The hours don't change, the working days don't change, what you do doesn't change—it's the kind of job that would kill Dave with its monotony. He may play the same set of clubs regularly, but what he's playing, who he's playing to, and how it all goes down is never the same, and that is something he thrives on. There's nothing stable about what he's doing other than he's constantly doing it. And since you actually like your "daily grind," you're quite happy to bring home the stable paycheck so that he can continue to do what he loves.
That just means your schedules don't always sync up.
The day's been one of those lazy ones, where even though there are things you could be doing, there's really nothing you have to do. So you end up with a book in your hand, stretched out comfortably on the couch that's been crammed into the room you jokingly refer to as Dave's studio. All his sound equipment is piled in there along with your piano, which is stuffed between shelves filled with extra cabling and the cabinets that hold all his vinyl. There's so many cords covering the floors that you've had to put down small area rugs so that you don't accidently trip on any of them. The only window has to remain cracked because otherwise the all the heat from the various electronics will fry said electronics. He's tried to explain what every little piece of the shoal he's built into the far corner is for, but after a while, your head just starts swimming. You know enough to know what goes where and how to move it without damaging it and that's all you really need to know.
He's actually been in here almost all day, secure in his nest of speakers, computers, and wires, relentlessly building and tearing apart this new thing he's creating. (You doubt he realizes the irony in the fact that he can listen to the same piece of music for fourteen hours straight, trying to fix some 0.0002 of a second's flub, and then call what you do for a living tedious.) It'd be easier to read out in the living room, but you get so few of these days where it's just the two of you that you want to spend it with him, even if you're both engaged in completely different tasks. It's nice to just be around him, and that little smile he flashes you when you settle in is worth the extra background noise. You watch him for a little bit, just because it's fun to watch him chew on his lip as he concentrates on something, before actually starting the book.
It's pretty good, actually. Rose was the one who recommended it to you, so you were expecting something heavy, esoteric, and needing frequent breaks from so that you could look up something in Wikipedia or . There's still a couple allusions that go right over your head, and the allegories can be a bit convoluted at times, but you don't feel stupid for not understanding it exactly. You might actually get to have a conversation with her about it instead of three hours of her trying to explain it to you.
You don't know how long you've been reading, barely realize what chapter you're on, when your brain makes the small note that whatever Dave's playing sounds good. The thought comes and goes in a finger snap as the more important battle with a paragraph–length sentence looms up at you. A couple pages later, as you pause to mentally digest whatever the hell that was that you just read, it also registers that your feet are tapping. Have been for a while, given the burn in your calves. You readjust your legs as you try rereading that last paragraph. Your brain lingers over the music, though. It's got that solid club beat behind it, which you're usually good at tuning out, but he's layered something a little more classical over the top of it. That's what's caught your attention—you feel like you should recognize it. But you've never been able to keep composers straight in your head, so you don't try very hard to figure it out. It still tugs at you, though, making you reread that paragraph a couple times before you can move on.
You stay marginally aware of the music from that point on. It's hard not to be, with your foot tapping and that vague sense of "I should know what this is." Your fingers start to kind of itch, like they want to play along. Your concentration starts to slip up a bit more, eager to avoid another wordy exposition point in favour of the warm, steady sound surrounding you. Dave's made that transition where he stops being in control of his music and becomes a part of it instead. There really isn't a defining moment when this happens, nothing that can be pointed to as the end of one and the beginning of another. You just know when his head's relinquished control to his heart. The actual sound thrumming through the speakers hasn't changed in a truly perceivable way, but you swear it's rubbing against your skin now like Rose's cat, looking for attention. It's not loud; you've actually capped the volume regulator so that it can't go beyond what's acceptable for apartment living. That doesn't change the fact it's still moving against you, through you, and you can't really sit still anymore as your head starts to nod in time.
For all his laid-back nature, Dave's pretty tenacious when he really wants something. The fact that his music is the same isn't really that much of a surprise. You're not really reading anymore. Your eyes are still on the page, moving from one word to the next, but there's no real comprehension happening. You get to the end of the page and don't even realize it because the music has completely stolen your attention away. The rhythm, the motion, the heat…you can see him playing this some other night to a crowd of faces lost in the dark. The neon caught in his hair, reflecting off his shades, making his skin glow as sweat catches the ambient light…
The book is officially forgotten as you close your eyes and sort of melt into the miasma of sound. Now that it doesn't have to beg for your attention, the music just sort of grips you and drags you under, replacing everything in the world with itself. Under other circumstances, that could be terrifying. Now, it's drowning in the best possible way. The rush of adrenaline lights up the nerves in your body so that you can feel everything in an overwhelming sort of way, but you're not afraid. Because this is Dave's sound, Dave's world, and the part of your mind that hasn't turned to a puddle of happy goo knows that Dave would never hurt you or let you be hurt.
It's a foreign, though glorious, feeling. Despite playing piano since you were old enough to sit still for more than five minutes, this is something you don't experience often. You don't disconnect very well—no matter how much you're into a movie, or a book, or a game, there's always something in the back of your mind that's keeping you grounded. You think that something is the scientist in you and it means that though your suspension of disbelief is astounding, it's almost never complete.
But you're lost in it now, floating, drifting, and you can't tell which way is up anymore. You don't care which way is what anymore because anything else is going to be almost too much for you to handle. Being separate, being other, it's too much work when you're being consumed like this. And just when you think it's going to subsume every last particle of the person who was once John Egbert, it's lifting you back up. That heavy drag still hasn't let you go, but it has become buoyant enough that you slowly rise to a more conscious state without crippling yourself in the process.
Everything's still hazy when you finally get back into your skin enough to realize that ache in your chest (where your heart's still beating a little too hard) means you need to breathe. One good, deep inhalation does wonders to clear up the lingering fog from your thoughts. Enough, at least, to notice the music has completely, utterly, stopped. Your eyes blink open, intent on looking for Dave, only to find him leaning in over you, looking exceptionally pleased with himself.
…oh, fuck. Oh, fuck him, he totally did that on purpose, making you lose your head to his music. You can only imagine what kind of an idiot you looked like while you were under and those imaginings do not get better when the prick grins at you. All the residual heat lingering in your limbs rushes straight for your face so fast, the rest of your body follows, making you curl into yourself. You don't have time to find a hole to die in before he swoops in, kissing you like he's finally done with the foreplay and ready to ravage you blind. He doesn't have to touch you with more than his lips to get that weightless, submerged feeling flowing through you again. You don't get very far, though, because then he's pulling back. That's when you notice his eyes have brightened up with equal parts love and lust, and that his cheeks are more than slightly flushed as well. The smile he gives you next promises all sorts of evil, sexy things.
"Liked it then?" he asks airily, like he hasn't just used his music to knock you senseless.
You want to respond with something pithy and succinct, but all you manage is "Jerk" before pulling him back for another kiss.
Owari