A/N: Hello internet dwellers! If you didn't already know, this follows the rough storyline of Musical Meets Cynical, some parts overlapping to show both perspectives of the story. Enjoy and feedback is always welcome! - C :3
If you were expecting another happy love story or any type of tale of romantic endeavors, this may tickle your fancy, but don't be mistaken. This may come forward as a sappy and sickly sweet tale of star cross'd lovers whose plights are minimal but they still seem to struggle to put the puzzle pieces together and pursue one another but in reality, is it not the slightest bit romantic at all.
Of course, this is all about self-interpretation. If you find the continuing struggles of teenagers to get their act together as a romance in the making, then sure, it's a love story. In truth, it's more of a story of horrid emotions and passions that lead to the biggest mistake of my life. At least that's how I see it, how I felt when it happened. You may not agree with me, but that's life, and there now is the story of my disappointing life that has lead to nothing.
See here, there was this passion I had as a child. Really more though, it was thrust upon me by my family and in time, my friend Alec. You could say that I was born with the superpower of being a music protégé, mastering the piano from a young age and having the ability to recite many classic pieces to those who asked. To be truthful, it was a shitty superpower. With being a great pianist-in-the-making, I lacked the ability to have friends, and let alone befriend someone. Maybe it was because I was awkward and had weird fetishes. Yeah that was probably it. One of my strange fetishes include the struggles some faced with hay fever. From the first time I had witness someone with puffy, red eyes, watering and sick looking, holding a sodden tissue in one hand, I wonder what caused this illness. Perhaps it was because I didn't suffer from hay fever myself that I got jealous of these people, and thus lead to my interest in it.
On that one day, I had decided that I had liked the fact that some people were susceptible to the changing of the seasons and what it brought along with it, and how these individuals' bodies reacted to this. The way that their bodies acted as if they didn't want anything to do with the pollen particles in the air, how they would respond with annoyance at the dynamic of climate, it seemed, to the extent that they would fight back with snot filled ammunition. I had begun to like the fact that these people's bodies were unable to accept the fact that winter had left them and spring had its crosshairs lined up on them, ready to direct a three-month spell of pollen-induced torture their way. After the years of realizing this articulating of my most weird of fetishes, I finally understood how desperately lonely and in need of a hay fever-suffering friend I was.
Between my almost religious study of the piano, I recalled my days where I could sit in the open park, feel a warm snap of wind pinching my ears, the rustling it did to my golden hair and the back spray of small twigs that it sent to my piercing topaz eyes. Along with the numerous amounts of music scores and the occasional piece of literature, I had snatched a large box of tissues and some antihistamines to carry in my distressed messenger bag, in the hopes of making that dream of a friend a reality.
Whilst my nose was stuck in a book, breathing in the aroma of it's old pages, and my mind was travelling deeper and deeper through a poppy-filled meadow leading to the outlines of a city constructed of green stone (A/N: excuse The Wizard of Oz references, I have Wicked on my mind and am trying to get rid of it.), I noticed out of the corner of my eye a dark haired boy, roughly the same age as me, beginning to sit down next to me, earphones in on the elongated park bench. He was sniffling, one of his pale hands rubbing his sunken crimson eyes. In his other hand though were the remnants of a handkerchief, stained with forest-coloured mucus, sounding squishy as he tensed his fingers to form a fist.
Trying to find a way to break the tension, and all because this was my only chance to maybe befriend and learn the mysterious of those plagued with hay fever, I offered out a box of tissues in one hand toward him.
"Would you like a tissue?"
He jumped a little, surprised by my invitation. His eyes dilated slightly as he, taking out both his earphones, awkwardly mumbling "Thanks. At least someone is prepared for this hay fever, unlike stupid me." as he pulled out a few tissues before blowing his flaking and seemingly tender nose. The skin was thin and the blood flow was evident around the nose, reflective of the effect of hay fever on this black locked boy. This is the point where I seemed utterly creepy and like the loner I was.
"Oh no," I said, my hands stretched out in front of me, waving them vigorously. Cue the creepiness. "I don't suffer from hay fever. My name's Jace, what's yours?" I had thought at the time that his acceptance of my invitation of tissues issued my certainty of learning his name. Or at least, it seemed like a fair trade at the time. After ridding his nasal cavities of snot and belly-laughing at my request, slapping his knee as his body rocking back and forth, he turned to look me dead in the eye.
"Do you honestly think that just because I had a bit of a sniffle and you were the one to tame the terror before it became Muc-ageddon, that I would be so willing to tell you who I am?" He said. I felt a slight pain in my gut, the feeling of failure being to course it's way through my veins. As I began to lover my head and curling my messenger bag and arms into cradle my body, he laughed again. Hate to overdo it, mate. I'm already a loser, couldn't you just sugarcoat it for me?
"Just kidding, the name's Alexander but you can just call me Alec." He said, putting a hand out toward me. Devoid of social skills, I simply stared at his hand for some time before joining it with mine and pathetically shaking it.
After what to me seemed like no time but was probably to the normal person at least an hour or so, Alec and I had seemed to talk to each other as if we had been close friends for years, exchanging information such as literature tastes and travel. I had found it utterly fascinating to speak to him, motioning the prospect of us becoming friends. Although my disturbing of the universe was not to the same degree as Alfred J Prufrock, I was struggling to even conjugate the words I would use to lead up to the question, rather I just boldly asked.
"Alec," I said, my words wavering. "Do you… do you…uhm…do you think we are friends?" I eventually spat out. Apparently my out-of-the-blue query had stumped Alec, with him returning a blank-faced look at me. Then he had begun to laugh his hearty laugh, along with the characteristic knee-slapping, that is not way was fake. It was completely genuine and in no way choreographed.
"Of course we are friends Jace. Why wouldn't we be?" Alec had said, continuing to slap his knees with each quick contraction of his diaphragm. I wasn't sure how to react to this news, I had never had a friend before and most definitely had never had someone laugh at me as if I had failed to see the obvious, so I just sat here, next to Alec , with my hands in my lap, a grin plastered to my face. For the first time in such a long time, I feel this nostalgic feeling of pure happiness and I let in take over me.
Overtime, we had become inseparable, spending all of our time together nearly every day. This was also around the same time as my father had become sick. And when I say sick, I mean really sick. When I was much young than when I had meet Alec, my father and I frequently visited the city in search of old bookstores. Old classical literature and the like was not only my passion at the time, but majorly my fathers. We both could have spent hours, even days if that didn't seem socially unaccepted at the time, in these stores, the different ages of these books and how the printing process had changed over time fascinating to us. After he had contracted what I called 'recluse-syndrome', he escaped to his study a lot, and didn't bother to go to the city with me anymore. I had abandoned my passion for literature shortly after meeting Alec, as my father had become more and more sheltered from me, not because I had run out books to read, but instead because I missed the connection I had formed with my father because of it. That year wasn't all sad and gloomy, though. It greats a bit more cheery now, I promise.
In the fleeting months after meeting Alec, he had introduced me to music. That is not to say that I had never heard music is my life, I did play the piano eloquently but that the music I knew was nothing like the music Alec knew. One day, after a long last day of school for the year that neither of us enjoyed much, Alec had invited me over to his house for the first time, which was quite exciting. As we trudged home, our school bags nearly bursting at the seams, Alec has asked me what type of music I liked, in which I had shamefully answered which the fact that I never really listened to music and had little knowledge of it, just of the classics I learnt to play on the piano. He had been shocked by this fact, promising me that he would make his mission to culture me in music and to provide me a decent taste in music, great music not some mundane pop music.
"I promise you, Jace, that I, Alec, will be your music guru and teach you the ways of the cultured, and in time you will know what decent music is and will love it." Alec promised, a serious look on his face. I couldn't help but laugh at this rare moment of non-joking that Alec was known for, it was so not like him but at the same time it fitted him perfect.
"Whatever you say, hit me up with some culture." I chuckled at him. Upon entering his house and in time, a labyrinthine of music, shelves and shelves of vinyls, cassettes and taking the majority, CDs. It was like an old bookstore to me, the sorting of the articles in media form, then year then alphabetised. The little part of me that was organised and efficient loved this. Alec walked over the CD side of the room, running his fingers along the spines of their cases, searching. Finally he seemed to have found what he was looking for, taking out a handful of CDs from the shelf and handing them to me.
"Alec, I can't take these." I said, trying to hand them back to me. I really couldn't accept this gift, I mean, sure I needed the culture but this was too much.
"I'm not giving them to you, silly. I'm letting you borrow them; this is your homework for the week. I want you to listen to these and next week, tell me what you think of them." As much as I probably didn't need more homework on my plate, I humbling took the CDs, placing them in my school bag with trouble and let them dwell on my mind as we talked for hours and hours. For the next months, going into the new year, I had moved on from the classics as Alec called it and into more modern music.
"Here," he said, handing over just a few CDs this time, these ones were placed up the farther end of the CDs shelf in the musical library of his house. "Listen to these carefully, these are some my favourites from the early 2000s, and tell me what you think." On the front of each CD, the name "The Killers" read. This initially had seemed controversial to me. Why would someone blatantly put out there that indeed they wanted to be called The Killers? I didn't get it really.
That night, after I enjoyed an unexpected meal with Alec and his family, sitting between him and his younger sister, Isabelle, her flowing ink coloured hair obscuring my view of her face. She was like Alec, very opinionated and stubborn.
"Alec, have you let Jace listen to The Temper Trap yet? I think they are amazing." Isabelle argued with her brother, a twinkle in her eye at the mention of that band. She told me they were this indie Australian band, and they were so different from all the other bands that I had heard of as she handed me their debut album Conditions. Alec, as did I, didn't think much of them but understood why Isabelle doted over them. This 'lack of culture' as it seemed to Isabelle was my downfall in her eyes, beginning our petty hate for each other.
As I threw my old messenger bag, the exact one from Alec and I's first encounter, down on my bed, I searched for The Killers CDs I had as homework, eager to partake in it. As soon I found my stereo, I put in the first CD, Hot Fuss and thus began my love.
My love for the Killers was like an old faucet; it took some time to get started, struggling at first but then it was uncontrollable. I'm still not sure to the day whether it was because it was like nothing I've heard before or even because I wanted to impress Alec with my sudden awareness of great music but The Killers became my new passion.
The next week after I had returned the CDs to Alec, which should more accurately be titled 'The Week of Discovery', I had finally plucked up the courage to ask him to teach me how to play the guitar and the like. Upon first look, it wasn't much like playing the piano. I mean, there were chords shapes and riffs but the method was so alien to me that it felt wrong, like I was cheating on the piano with the new guitar. It didn't take me too long to get the basics of playing a guitar, although Alec was still way better than me, but by this point I was addicted. Every other day, between homework and imploring myself in reciting new pieces for the piano, I would spend a solid few hours just practicing chord shapes, some riffs Alec had taught me and then slowly but surely learning the tabs of The Killers songs.
"Alec," I said, midway through a jam session at his house. Alec had invited over myself, and a few other friends who seemed to show the musical gene, to have a bit of a play, nothing seriously. After maybe a few songs, an idea clicked in my brain.
"What, Jace?" Alec replied, slowly sliding his fingers over an electric guitar, the sound of it reverberating through a small amplifier next to him. It was piercing to the ear, with the high sharp note echoing around the whole room, brushing up against the soundproofing and the countless band posters placed awkwardly on the walls. His black hair was nearly dripping in his own sweat, drenching from the continuous head banging from playing Mr. Brightside, a group favourite.
"Let's start a band." The room filled up with laughter, laughter at the notion that a group of preadolescent kids playing music seriously and professionally could be achieved. I was beginning to feel the anger in my body reach up to take power over my mouth, to unleash a torrent of hate toward the others.
"Sure, Jace, but why?" Jonathon, the drummer with the head of white asked, holding back a snicker. Sebastian and Alec looked toward me for a response that I seemed to be lacking. Why did I want to be in a band? I had no clue. So I answered with, "Because we can," and the guys smiled at each other, on board and ready to go.
Now, the name of our band was probably one of the easier things when it came to starting up the group. We all had a mutual love for The Killers, me a bit more than the others simply because it was my newfound religion and passion, so we though that we should honour them.
"What about The Choking Alibis?" Alec had suggested, after many ideas had gone around the table to say. We all looked at each other, thinking about the name and finally agreeing that it was perfect. It had sense to us; Mr. Brightside was the collective favourite song to play and to listen to freely. And that was the first jam session of our band, the first of many to come.
Since I've been talking on about nothingness for a good while, how about we go forward to the moment in time that everything seemed perfect but wasn't. The night that I meet my red haired girl and got slapped for being an ass. But to be honest, I probably deserved it and you've to give her credit, she slapped pretty good.