Summary: Guitarist Arthur Kirkland and singer Alfred Jones's song collaboration has reached a rocky point. The two must work together to get through it, but are they sure they want to finish up their time together? (May expand on. For now, it's just a oneshot) Show Biz AU; Series: Pilots
Fire Escape
The nylon cords rubbed against his callouses as tranquil notes hummed throughout the dim room. From measure to measure, Arthur's fingers switched between chords. The c minor, b major, and a major chords padded together, breathing in motion with the faint sound of the beaches' waves.
For now, Arthur decided that the song was for an acoustic guitar and was lyric-less.
The palm of his hand rested against the strings, putting them to rest. His left hand's fingers lifted, and he viewed them against the ocean backdrop. The guitar strings temporarily tattooed his pale fingers. Those same fingers pulled the half-gone cigarette from Arthur's lips, and he breathed out the smoke in quiet wisps.
The ocean's waves tumbled against the shore. Breezes flowed across the powder sands. Arthur watched the white caps, unblinking, unthinking.
The cigarette found its way back to his lips and his fingers to their positions.
C minor.
B major.
A major.
…E minor?
His pick fumbled, and he paused. E minor was too somber, too sad. E minor brooded and regretted.
He wasn't doing any of that.
A fierce d major yelled from the guitar.
He was elated! Joyous. Tranquil. Calm. But most importantly: happy.
Every major chord flew from Arthur's finger tips and guitar pick. The aimless music smacked against the room's walls. The powerful sound dashed out through the open doorway and reached Alfred's ears—wherever he was along the shore.
On the desk, the lamp light shuddered, and below it rested the chicken-scratched mockery Alfred had tried to pass off as fitting lyrics. The corners flicked up towards Arthur as the ocean's breezes caught them.
E minor.
Arthur glared at the offensive gesture. …Which wasn't quite an offensive gesture; it was just paper with stupid lyrics. Something about being a fire truck or some shit. Fire ladder? It was stupid, and Arthur knew it.
Alfred knew it, too. The hothead.
The chords drifted back into the familiar pattern Arthur had been testing.
Alfred, once cooled down, walked up from the beach and stood in the doorway, leaning against it. He watched Arthur's rhythmic strumming with half-lidded eyes, his mouth a fine line. Arthur kept playing, choosing to ignore Alfred, so he remained in the doorway, silent. His gaze drifted down to see two, freshly crushed cigarettes joined with the old ones from hours before in the dollar ash tray. His eyes shot back to Arthur's.
Arthur's tongue guided his current cigarette to nuzzle the corner of his lips, and the smoke slipped over the guitar and the coffee table.
The chords stopped.
Arthur plucked the stub of a cigarette from his mouth and crushed it into the ash tray with its used brethren. He then leaned back into the couch and began the chords again. C minor, b major, a major… C minor, b major, a major…
Nodding his head with the beat, Alfred opened his mouth, "…I like to stick to walls..." His voice lilted with Arthur's melody. "Observing conversations—"
Arthur smacked the palm of his hand against the strings, halting the melody.
The two shared heated looks, though neither chose to feed fuel to their inner flames.
Arthur chose to break the silence. "Write something worth my time."
"Dick."
"Alfred."
"What's wrong with them?"
"They're too abstract for the general public. It's like your mind just heaved up the leftovers from a beginner's literature course."
With a tense sigh, Alfred stepped inside and brushed his sandy feet against the mat. "It's a metaphor," he stated.
"I figured that bit. 'I am a fire escape'?"
"Yeah." Alfred sent Arthur an annoyed glance. "'I like to stick to walls, observing conversation and lifting them when they fall.'" He continued the song in a close whisper until he leaned over the couch, his arms trapping Arthur in his seat, movements that Arthur was no doubt used to by now. "'I am a fire escape, my spine's made of iron. My heart pumps out…old…red…paint…'" The lyrics trailed off. "What's a fire escape?"
Arthur's answer came in the form of him unhooking one of Alfred's hands from the couch's back. "A way out. Clearly," he muttered and set his guitar on the ground before standing.
Alfred hooked his hand onto Arthur's belt, linking the two together. "A way…" Like all the times before, the words wandered from Alfred's lips and gave up.
"Right, that's a sign of an adult. Just cling. Just always cling to people." Arthur looked back at Alfred, his eyebrows knitting together. His frown was more tired than anything, and his eyes were void of their previous fire.
Alfred watched Arthur, his grip on the other's belt growing tighter and then loosening. "We can edit it if you want, but give it a try. This is the last song for the album. Just get through it with me, and we can put an end to the collaboration, alright? We'll put it behind us and have something on our resumes saying we can play fair with others."
A brief flicker of surprise passed through Arthur's eyes, and his eyebrows no longer knitted together. He reached back and curled his fingers around Alfred's, pulling the other's fingers from his pants. "Yeah, alright," he murmured. "At least it'll sound pretty."