{To requiem, my "beta reader" (who didn't beta this story, lol) because
she's more talented than I could ever hope to be. You BETTER review. ^_^
And because she has funny summaries. Ethan POV around the time of the
concert. Just R/R please.}
"Sometimes is never quite enough
If you're flawless, then you'll win my love
Don't forget to win first place
Don't forget to keep that smile on your face...
We'll love you just the way you are if you're perfect"-Alanis Morissette
All you wanted was to be his boyfriend, or at least to get to know him.
You didn't think it was a ridiculously hard concept. His boyfriend was obviously treating him like shit; why didn't they just break up? You were befuddled, furrowed your brow in a mixture of confusion and frustration.
It was his entire fault, you tell yourself, a childish justification. No, you didn't notice the adorable blond boy when you first walked on stage. He stared at you, and not vice versa.
He stared, and you screwed up.
Mom wouldn't have been so happy. She was one of those neurotic stage moms, set on making you a musician; however, it was your grandfather that got you started. She'd placed a bow in your hand before you could even consciously decide that you wanted to play violin. A true live-through-your- kid parent, she'd broken her wrist and been unable to play professionally. Bitter about her Average Joe office day job, she set you to playing, but you only started to enjoy it after hearing your grandfather's stories. He'd had arias running through his veins and a twinkle in his eye. The violin kept him sane at Auschwitz.
There was nothing you could do to keep your mother sane. Miss one note and you'd be forced to practice for hours in the corner, even as a young child. Sometimes she hit you, but it was ok. It was your fault you'd screwed up. Nothing less than perfect.
You'd grown up around music. You were nearly immune to it actually. Took it for granted. It seemed to you that being taken for granted was typical in blondie's relationship with the "boyfriend who doesn't believe in birthdays." They took each other for granted, were almost immune to each other. You weren't immune to Justin, or the stares, though you wished you had been at that moment.
At home, it was one of the two extremes. Overly fussed over or ignored. Which is worse? You had no talents other than the violin, and your siblings seemed to delight in telling you that. Your mother kept it that way. You were well trained. Violin only, ever. Somehow you're still dirt poor. Must improve at violin. The only time you were the center of attention was while playing the violin so you figured you'd better do it as much as possible.
You didn't have many friends; no one really cared enough to play with that dorky violin kid. Mom was glad too. "Ethan, you don't really want to invite those kids over today, do you? No, no. They aren't the crowd I'd like you to be hanging out with. You'd better not..."
So you grew up an outsider, an observer, though you didn't mind too much. At least you had time to think that way. And time for violin. You were the quiet artsy type and apparently, so was he. Visual arts. He'd sketched you.
Coincidence. You both went to the same school. Gay? Yup. That's no coincidence considering 80% of the guys at school are.
When you told her you were gay, she was unnerved, visibly shaken, though she wouldn't show you how upset she was. She cried herself to sleep for a week straight, but in front of you she was alright about it. You heard her through the walls, and when you asked, she didn't even respond to your questions. Moved right on to your siblings, forgot about you.
In her eyes, you'd failed.
So you worked harder and harder towards perfection, but she never so much as commented after that. You began to truly play the violin for yourself; she didn't push you after that.
Your dad had no opinions on you whatsoever. In his world of football games, and fake-breasted cheerleaders, you didn't exist. Fags didn't exist. When you told him, he stared and said, "Huh." Turned back to the TV set. "Pass me the fucking beer."
In the deepest part of you, the part you'd never admit to, you wished he was abusive- then at least he would've cared enough to hit you.
So you kept working, but to no avail. They never noticed. And when you got your acceptance letter you weren't surprised- you'd been planning on going to PIFA for years.
You were as not surprised as they were indifferent. They didn't care. And that left no one.
Sure, after performances you got the "Wow- you're so talented," and the "You'll be famous one day," but it didn't matter to you. That was what they had to say. And even if you were good at the violin that didn't mean that anyone actually liked you.
They were all sheep, programmed to all say the same to phrases, praises, prodigally.
Your first (and only) boyfriend was different. He paid attention, course by that time he was so wasted he'd have fucked a cow. All he did was party, and you hated that. It made you uncomfortable, all those perfect guys, (steroid poster children) judging you only by your looks.
This was different. Course he was only sketching because of your looks. It felt like more, or so you convinced yourself. At least he was interested.
Interested in YOU. He'd made you into art. And that was an adrenaline rush. At least someone cared, even if it took you that much farther away from perfection.
Maybe that was what you needed. To get away from perfection. You weren't actually straying so far, considering this kid was about as close to perfect as you can get. So you wanted perfection, and he was almost yours.
And you wondered when he would be.
"Sometimes is never quite enough
If you're flawless, then you'll win my love
Don't forget to win first place
Don't forget to keep that smile on your face...
We'll love you just the way you are if you're perfect"-Alanis Morissette
All you wanted was to be his boyfriend, or at least to get to know him.
You didn't think it was a ridiculously hard concept. His boyfriend was obviously treating him like shit; why didn't they just break up? You were befuddled, furrowed your brow in a mixture of confusion and frustration.
It was his entire fault, you tell yourself, a childish justification. No, you didn't notice the adorable blond boy when you first walked on stage. He stared at you, and not vice versa.
He stared, and you screwed up.
Mom wouldn't have been so happy. She was one of those neurotic stage moms, set on making you a musician; however, it was your grandfather that got you started. She'd placed a bow in your hand before you could even consciously decide that you wanted to play violin. A true live-through-your- kid parent, she'd broken her wrist and been unable to play professionally. Bitter about her Average Joe office day job, she set you to playing, but you only started to enjoy it after hearing your grandfather's stories. He'd had arias running through his veins and a twinkle in his eye. The violin kept him sane at Auschwitz.
There was nothing you could do to keep your mother sane. Miss one note and you'd be forced to practice for hours in the corner, even as a young child. Sometimes she hit you, but it was ok. It was your fault you'd screwed up. Nothing less than perfect.
You'd grown up around music. You were nearly immune to it actually. Took it for granted. It seemed to you that being taken for granted was typical in blondie's relationship with the "boyfriend who doesn't believe in birthdays." They took each other for granted, were almost immune to each other. You weren't immune to Justin, or the stares, though you wished you had been at that moment.
At home, it was one of the two extremes. Overly fussed over or ignored. Which is worse? You had no talents other than the violin, and your siblings seemed to delight in telling you that. Your mother kept it that way. You were well trained. Violin only, ever. Somehow you're still dirt poor. Must improve at violin. The only time you were the center of attention was while playing the violin so you figured you'd better do it as much as possible.
You didn't have many friends; no one really cared enough to play with that dorky violin kid. Mom was glad too. "Ethan, you don't really want to invite those kids over today, do you? No, no. They aren't the crowd I'd like you to be hanging out with. You'd better not..."
So you grew up an outsider, an observer, though you didn't mind too much. At least you had time to think that way. And time for violin. You were the quiet artsy type and apparently, so was he. Visual arts. He'd sketched you.
Coincidence. You both went to the same school. Gay? Yup. That's no coincidence considering 80% of the guys at school are.
When you told her you were gay, she was unnerved, visibly shaken, though she wouldn't show you how upset she was. She cried herself to sleep for a week straight, but in front of you she was alright about it. You heard her through the walls, and when you asked, she didn't even respond to your questions. Moved right on to your siblings, forgot about you.
In her eyes, you'd failed.
So you worked harder and harder towards perfection, but she never so much as commented after that. You began to truly play the violin for yourself; she didn't push you after that.
Your dad had no opinions on you whatsoever. In his world of football games, and fake-breasted cheerleaders, you didn't exist. Fags didn't exist. When you told him, he stared and said, "Huh." Turned back to the TV set. "Pass me the fucking beer."
In the deepest part of you, the part you'd never admit to, you wished he was abusive- then at least he would've cared enough to hit you.
So you kept working, but to no avail. They never noticed. And when you got your acceptance letter you weren't surprised- you'd been planning on going to PIFA for years.
You were as not surprised as they were indifferent. They didn't care. And that left no one.
Sure, after performances you got the "Wow- you're so talented," and the "You'll be famous one day," but it didn't matter to you. That was what they had to say. And even if you were good at the violin that didn't mean that anyone actually liked you.
They were all sheep, programmed to all say the same to phrases, praises, prodigally.
Your first (and only) boyfriend was different. He paid attention, course by that time he was so wasted he'd have fucked a cow. All he did was party, and you hated that. It made you uncomfortable, all those perfect guys, (steroid poster children) judging you only by your looks.
This was different. Course he was only sketching because of your looks. It felt like more, or so you convinced yourself. At least he was interested.
Interested in YOU. He'd made you into art. And that was an adrenaline rush. At least someone cared, even if it took you that much farther away from perfection.
Maybe that was what you needed. To get away from perfection. You weren't actually straying so far, considering this kid was about as close to perfect as you can get. So you wanted perfection, and he was almost yours.
And you wondered when he would be.