"Your Symphony Singing in All That I Am"
by: singyourmelody
Disclaimer: Don't own Austin & Ally characters. Title is from Switchfoot's "Only Hope." Don't own that either.
The curtain opens.
Under the bright lights, the conductor raises his baton.
The musicians carefully place their hands, fingers stretched over strings and across white and black keys, poised for the first note.
With a master stroke of his wand, they begin to play.
He knows how their song started.
2011. Sonic Boom. Drums and corndogs and an accidental theft.
Her knocking on his bedroom door. Disco Dez and Trish. Stage fright. And something about their voices mixing perfectly together like the drink he's holding in his hand.
It feels like a long time ago now.
He checks his watch, but he doesn't need to since she walks in and heads straight for him.
"Hey."
She doesn't wait for a response, but throws her arms around his neck. He's always loved the way she hugs people. As if it was going to be the last time she ever saw the person so she had to put every ounce of herself into that moment.
"Hey yourself," he says after she pulls back. "You want anything?"
She looks to the bartender. "Maybe a gin and tonic."
He raises his eyebrows.
She shrugs. "I like to live a little sometimes."
He tips his glass towards the one the bartender places in front of her with a soft clink. "Cheers."
She smiles and takes a sip.
"Do you remember that time I wrote that song for that waitress at the diner that you liked and it wasn't finished and you sang it anyway?"
He groans. "Oh God. 'You're the butter on my pancake stack.'"
She laughs, a light melody amongst the thumping music of the club, and he laughs too.
"What made you think of that?"
She looks down at her drink. "Trish called earlier today. We were talking about all of her jobs over the years."
"And how is the youngest CEO of Now Entertainment?"
"Still kicking butt and taking names."
"I still can't believe she talked her way into that job."
"Yeah, well we always knew she was destined for great things," she states.
He nods and notices a few girls watching him. Scanning the room he sees a few more people looking at both of them.
"You wanna get out of here?" he asks.
She follows his eye line.
"Sure. You'd think after all these years, we'd be able to go out in public. . ."
"Hate to break it to you, but after all these years, I am still news," he says with a smirk.
She grabs her clutch. "And after all these years, I am still not falling for that."
"I know. That's what I like about you."
The music crescendos.
The melody weaves in and out, handed off like a baton in a race. The oboe hums pleasantly along when suddenly the bassoon's sound swells, almost threatening to swallow the listeners whole.
Things build and expand and contract and what most people forget, what most people never know is the hours it takes to get to this point. The calloused hands and worn strings. The bloodshot eyes and blistered cuticles. The late-night dinners of leftover takeout. The missed birthday parties. The sacrifices made by those creating the ethereal sounds.
It wasn't always this easy.
They make it back to his apartment within the hour and she kicks off her heels by the front door.
"Martin said the release date has been bumped up to September 15th," he says, throwing his keys on the table and his shoes next to hers.
"Oh, why?"
"Something about competing albums."
She settles down onto his couch. "And who are we competing with this time? Timberlake again?"
"Usher."
"Ah."
He takes off his jacket and sits down next to her.
"You're not gonna leave again, are you?"
"Missed me that much?" she teases.
"What? No, it's just, the studio is so boring without you there."
"Short attention span."
"Something like that."
She moves closer to him. "I think you missed me. I think you missed me a lot and you won't admit it."
He looks right at her. "It was only two weeks. I survived just fine."
"Mmhmm."
"Stop looking at me like that."
She flutters her eyelashes. "Like what?"
"Like you're right and I'm wrong."
"So you didn't miss me?" she asks.
"Of course I did," he states, before realizing what he said.
"Gotcha," she says, grinning.
"Ally—" he says, before lunging for her. She's too quick for him, however, and is halfway to his kitchen before he finishes her name.
He sprints after her, using the tiled floor and his sock-covered feet to his advantage, crashing into her. Wrapping his arms around her waist, he uses the momentum to spin them around once before he loses his balance and they topple to the ground.
"I thought I was supposed to be the uncoordinated one in this relationship?" she asks from her position beneath him.
"You still are."
"Austin!"
He doesn't move.
"How am I the uncoordinated one when you are the one cutting off my oxygen?" she asks.
"And yet you're still talking. . ."
"I am talented that way."
After a moment he sits up, allowing her to do the same.
She leans forward and places her chin on his shoulder. He turns his head to look at her.
There's a distinct moment, right after the last note of the movement is played. The sound lingers in the air, not quite a memory yet.
There's no applause, it's too soon for that.
But it's not quite silent either.
It's the space between the past and present, the then and now.
"Your chin is pointy."
"I know. So are my elbows."
"And your knees."
"I have pointy knees?"
"Don't you?" he asks, gesturing towards her uncovered legs.
She moves away from him and tries to tug her dress lower.
"No use hiding them. I already know," he says.
"And what are you gonna do about it? Blackmail me?"
"Tonight on E! News 'Singer-songwriter Ally Dawson's pointy knees.' Could knee implants, all the rage in Europe these days, be in her future? More at eleven."
"Knee implants? That's . . . weird. At least it won't be about you and whatever starlet you're currently, what is it? 'Tapping'?" she says, her fingers forming air quotes.
"Don't say 'tapping.' Doesn't sound right coming from you," he says.
"Why? 'Cause I'm the pure one?" she asks.
"We all try very hard to keep you that way."
She rolls her eyes. "We both know that's not true."
"You're not pure?" he says, grinning.
"Well, more pure than you at least. But then again, that's not hard to do."
Looking up at the clock she sighs and says, "It's way past midnight."
"Has your car turned into a pumpkin?"
"No. I took a taxi to the club."
"Just stay here tonight," he says.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. I mean if you want to. . ."
"Okay," she says softly, but her eyes are challenging.
The conductor lowers his baton for just a moment.
The musicians inhale.
And then . . .
With a slice of his wand through the still air, the music begins again.
But this is different. The tempo has changed, as the musicians' hands move faster and faster. Eighth notes dance above the violinist's bow, the tympani strikes louder and louder, the french horn creates a startling sound, and the moment, the moment where melody and harmony intertwine to form something beautiful and rare, is coming.
The listeners' heartbeats pound in four-four time.
He tosses an oversized t-shirt and a pair of shorts her way. Naturally, she misses catching both of them.
She disappears into the bathroom and reemerges in his clothes and it's something he's never seen before and he has to stop for just a moment, catch his breath, look away.
When he gets out of the bathroom, she's already climbed into his bed and is facing away from him.
"I forgot to get you a toothbrush. Do you want one?" he asks, climbing in next to her.
She turns. "I used yours."
"Seriously?"
She grins. "Of course not. That's disgusting. I just used my finger."
"Right, because that's so much better."
"Do you know how many germs are on one person's toothbrush? If I used yours I would essentially be putting all of your germs in my mouth not to mention leaving all of my germs behind on your toothbrush. The thought of it. . ."
"Ally?"he asks, propping himself up with one arm.
"Yeah?"
"Shut up."
She looks up at him and grins. "You missed me."
He looks away.
She sits up a bit. "I missed you too, you know."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
They lay there in silence for a moment, his eyes closing slowly.
"Austin?"
"Hmm?"
"How come we were never able to get it together?"
Eyes open.
"I don't know. Timing? You were with somebody, then I was. Then the newest album, then tour. Then your students. Then I was dating, then you were, and the cycle starts all over again."
She brings her hand to her mouth and for a moment he thinks she's going to bite her hair, but instead she just wipes some of the remaining lipstick off of her lower lip.
"Do you ever think back to that night and ask yourself why we didn't just go for it?"
He moves so he is lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling. She is too.
"Yes."
She waits for a moment before speaking again. "Do you ever come up with a good reason?"
"I wasn't ready. Neither were you."
He feels her shift next to him so that she is facing away from him once again.
"I was," she says so softly he's not sure he's heard her correctly.
"Ally?"
"Good night, Austin."
"No," he says sitting up.
"No?"
"No, we're having this out, right here, right now."
And he looks determined, he is determined and she gives a small laugh. "Austin, it's not that big of a deal."
"Not that big . . . Ally, come on."
She stops laughing then and moves off of the bed, away from him. "What do you want from me, Austin? I never know what's going on with us. How could I? You don't even know."
"That's why I'm asking!" He moves to stand in front of her.
"I don't know," she says.
"Yes you do."
"Austin. . ." she says, her voice harsh. "If we go down this road, we both know there's no going back."
"Don't you think we're both pretty far gone?" he asks.
It's a hard question. Because this is Ally. And he's Austin. And what they've have, it just works, it always has. They've got the Grammys and the sales records and the fans to prove it. But the thing is that she knows him better than anyone. Knows that he likes to be alone right before he performs, knows that he hates being along right after. Knows that he hates being photographed, not just by paparazzi but by everyone. Knows that after all these years, his favorite food is still pancakes and that he loves flying and that his middle name is Monica and that he always wanted a dog.
She's his best friend; of course he loves her. He thinks about that for a moment. He loves her.
This isn't a surprise.
But what comes out of his mouth is.
"Will you marry me?"
"What?" Her eyes flick up to his.
"I want to marry you. I want to be with you. I want this to be it for both of us."
"Austin, stop it."
"I know this is crazy—"
"Do you even know what you're doing?" she asks.
He smiles. "No, no I don't. I only know that this is what I want to do."
"And what about what I want?"
"What do you want?" he asks.
She weighs her words carefully. "I want to know why you're doing this."
"Alls, I'm serious."
"Serious."
"Yes. You're it. I've only known it for about two minutes, but I know it as well as I know the sound of my own voice coming out of my mouth. I know it as well as I know the air that moves through my lungs when I sing. And you're staring at me as if I've gone insane . . ."
"Haven't you?"
"No. At least I don't think so."
She shifts back and forth on the balls of her feet. He knows this means she's nervous. He's nervous too.
"You haven't given me an answer."
"I'm thinking!"
"Don't think."
She blinks. "Don't think. Don't think? You just proposed to me and I can't tell why you are doing this and I don't know how to live with a boy and you don't even do your own laundry and I always burn lasagna when I make it and what would we eat? We can't live on cereal, Austin!"
Her freak-out is coming on so fast and is just so Ally that he can't help but laugh.
She shoots him a dirty look. "It's not funny."
"It's a little funny. We could always hire a cook, you know."
"A cook?" He knows she's skeptical of letting anyone help her with things she deems everyone should be able to do.
"Or we could eat burnt lasagna every day," he says, holding his hands up in mock surrender.
She shakes her head as if she cannot believe what she is hearing.
"I can make salad," he asserts. "And toast. And I could probably grill. We'll get a grill."
"A grill."
"And Tuesdays can be take-out days."
"Only if it's from a place with a good vegetarian selection."
"Of course," he concedes. "Wait, is that a—?"
"It's an 'I'm still thinking,'" she interrupts.
"Okay, so we'll grill and make toast and eat takeout. What else you got?" he challenges.
"Where would we live? I've been splitting my time between here and New York. You're constantly on tour. We'd be the worst married couple ever," she asserts.
"You come on tour with me. I travel to New York with you. Simple."
"You and I on tour together. Don't you remember the last time I tagged along on one of your tours?"
He thinks back to the international tour after his second album was released. The record company was pushing him to produce his next album quickly so he brought Ally along to write songs in between shows. They fought. A lot. And she was less than impressed with the constant attention he received from his female fans.
"What was it you called them?" he asks.
"'Pre-packaged bimbos, fresh off the line,'" she finishes.
"You always were good with words . . ."
"They were hanging all over you. And you want to bring a wife into that scene?" she asks.
"Don't you think the presence of a wife would change that scene just a bit?"
"Sure. 'Sorry ladies, no Austin Moon tonight-the ol' ball and chain is here,'" she says, mockingly.
He laughs. "Ally, you'd be my wife. I'd be your husband, so—"
"Stop! That's just so . . . so. . ."
"Weird?" he proposes.
"Weird," she agrees.
"I know. It is weird. I'd have a wife. Huh." He pauses for a moment. "Remember the mix I sent you the first month after you started college?"
"Yeah," she smiles to herself. "I loved that CD."
"I started making that CD for you the day you left. I worked on it every day. It took me almost a month to choose which songs to put on it and to write my first song by myself. A month, Ally. I had to figure out who I was without you and I did, somewhat. And it was totally weird. But it was good for me, you know?"
"So you're saying you are good for me?" she asks.
He flashes her his trademark Austin Moon grin. "Of course."
"I'm pretty sure we both know who's the good one," she says, nudging him with her hand.
He doesn't respond, but just grabs her hand and holds it.
She opens her mouth and shuts it again. "This is crazy. Austin, why would we get married? We haven't even dated."
"I know it's you. Why would I want to waste any more time?" he counters.
"What if I'm not so sure?" she questions.
He thinks for a moment, dropping her hand and leaning against his dresser. "I suppose that's fair. I've dated a lot of girls and have way more experience in relationships. . ."
"Wow, that is so not helping your case right now."
". . . and you've seen me dump a lot of girls. . ."
". . . the number of cons on the 'pro-con' list is growing. . ."
". . . and I've never really shown you a reason to trust me in relationships, but then again I've never given you a reason to not trust me in this relationship. . ."
"Are you even talking to me anymore?" she asks.
"Huh? Oh sorry." He takes a step towards her and reaches out to take her hand in his. "Here's the bottom line. I love you. And not in that 'you've-written-all-my-songs-and-made-me-really-famous' way, although that has been amazing, but I love you when you have your fluffy bunny pajamas on at three in the afternoon and when you worry about what we will eat when we're married. I love you when we fight and believe me, I know we can fight, and I love you when we sing together and you're writing lyrics and you somehow manage to get exactly what I'm trying to say, only better. You make everything better," he says.
"How do you know this could work?" she whispers.
"I know because we'll make it work. Like we do with everything else."
He can see her resolve starting to crumble.
"Are you sure it's there?" she asks.
"What's there?"
"The spark."
They kissed once before at a New Year's Eve party. Looking back, it was not his finest moment. He thinks he actually missed her mouth a bit, the alcohol from the night threatening to overwhelm his sense of direction, as cheers of "Happy New Year" rang in his head.
And he knows she's unsure. So he reaches down and kisses her softly at first. She seems cautious, until everything bursts open like tightly-sealed windows after a long winter. She starts kissing him back, her fingers clutching at his shirt and his arms completely enveloping her and if she had any uncertainty about their spark, it's certainly gone now. His mouth opens a bit and their lips are moving so fast and she's pulling him closer and closer until she backs him into the wall. Only it's the wall his flat screen is attached to and he bangs his head on the corner of the television.
"Oww," he says, breaking away from her.
"Are you okay?"
"Minor head wound," he says, reaching up to touch his scalp. He pulls his hand back to find his fingers covered in blood.
"Austin! You are not okay." She ushers him into the bathroom where he sits on the counter as she cleans his cut and determines that he probably does not need stitches. Probably.
"You're gonna be the death of me," he states.
"Maybe," she says, smiling.
He wraps his fingers around her waist and pulls her closer again.
With one final triumphant note, tuba and cello and piccolo combining into perfect harmony, the symphony finishes. It's a long note, one that requires a lot of effort and support on the part of the musicians, but it's glorious.
The applause is deafening and the conductor takes a bow.
The musicians rise and follow suit.
But the audience continues to clap. The applause only becomes louder, this time accompanied by shouts.
"Encore!"
Encore.
"Coffee," he says, handing the mug to her as she adjusts her skirt.
"Oh, you're a lifesaver."
"I know. These late night songwriting sessions. I'm gonna have to have a talk with that slave driver who is keeping you up so late."
She leans up and kisses him. "Good morning to you too, Mr. Slave Driver."
The Today Show plays silently in the background, so she unmutes it.
"Why do you love Matt Lauer so much?" he asks, walking towards the television as he loops his tie.
"Don't question what you can't possibly understand," she states. He walks up behind her and wraps his arms around her waist while burying his face into the crook of her neck. She reaches up and tangles her fingers into his hair.
"You're just trying to make me jealous."
"Mmm. Is it working?" she asks.
He blows a raspberry into the skin at the base of her neck and says, "No," before releasing her and walking away.
She had been leaning into him and trips a bit as he lets go of her.
"Austin!"
He secretly loves it when she shrieks at him.
"Still the uncoordinated one, I see."
She shakes her head, before chasing after him and pinning him on their bed, hands above his head.
"What are you going to do?" he teases. She leans down and kisses him and he's just starting to lose himself in it when Matt Lauer says, "In entertainment news, it's official, girls. Singer Austin Moon is off the market." She pulls back and they both sit up as the host continues, "Moon and songwriter Ally Dawson tied the knot last week. The Today Show has obtained the marriage certificate from a Hawaiian courthouse dated May 25th. The high profile couple has managed to do what few have: get married completely apart from any press. Many close to the singer and songwriter said they didn't even know they were dating. Best wishes to the happy couple."
"I think I hear hearts breaking all over New York this morning, Matt," his co-host says.
She looks down at him, "Hearts are breaking, Mr. Moon."
"I always told you I was a heartbreaker."
She shakes her head. "Yeah, and that's still not doing it for me."
"Well, what would do it for you?"
"I think the lesson here is 'show,' not 'tell,'" she says.
"You always were better than me in school," he grins, flipping her over and kissing her again.
The curtain closes.
Thanks for reading and reviewing. Love to all.