Author's Notes: This was conceived back in July or August 2014, 60% written in November 2014, and then neglected until now. I imagined it to be a one-shot, but hah! My ability to convert an old (mental) story outline is paltry in comparison to my delusions of grandeur.
Warnings: The ambiguity and ambivalence of life. On a scale of "Neighborhood Watch" to "Ambient," I'd say we're at "Mechanism" heading to a mix of "Stasis" and "SI: Transfer," if that makes any sense. Un-beta'd and you know it.
Pairing: IkeMarth. Or anyone, really, if you squint hard enough.
Disclaimer: I don't own Super Smash Brothers.
Summary: He was only checking his reflection en route to the band's rehearsal room. He didn't mean to notice the pianist at all. [Modern AU] -Yaoi, slash: Ike/Marth-
Fermata
By SSBBSwords
To be honest, he wasn't an exceptional drummer.
Oh, he was decent enough, but if he didn't have the family connection to the recording studio, he wouldn't have been around enough main players to be noticed. In fact, he wasn't so much noticed as absently small-talked into disclosing his skillset.
He had been procrastinating thanks to senioritis by the extensive audio console with the chief audio engineer Samus when an incredibly attractive couple entered. Like many others who traversed the studio halls, they looked vaguely familiar, but he just fiddled with his headphones as an excuse to keep out of their business.
However, with Samus occupied with the businesswoman, he gradually realized she was probably the recording artist's manager and he now had no task to focus on. The blond had settled onto the adjacent couch and was softly plucking some guitar chords.
"You play?" the guy asked, eyes zeroed on the instrument in complete disregard for him.
"A little." He shrugged, figuring the other would catch the peripheral movement. "I'm more drums."
The lazy melody came to an abrupt stop and the blond straightened from hunching over the guitar to repeat in disbelief, "Drums."
"Yeah." What was the big deal? Was he supposed to be insulted that he couldn't perform a shredding guitar solo at the drop of a hat?
"Zel!" The blond seemed to have forgotten his presence in an instance (although the man had shoved the guitar into his hands for some unknown reason) and bounded across the room to grab the brunette manager in some flurry of artistic genius. Musicians did that, right? Have fits of artistic rage (er, brilliance)?
"What is it?" she asked, eyebrows quirked in a manner suggesting indecision between bewilderment and annoyance toward the interruption.
"Drummer. I found one!" He watched the other gesture at him like he was part of the room's décor. "He's cool. I like him."
"Uhm," he managed to utter before he was pinned down by two overly interested stares and one amused. At least Samus didn't look like she wanted to serve him up on a platter.
He later learned that Link's former bandmates had left to pursue other ventures, thereby tasking the singer to either find a new group or attempt a solo career. At that time, he thought maybe Zelda and Link were asking him to temporarily fill in as they searched or held auditions for additional members.
Three years later, he was answering questions about what he would have done if he hadn't joined the band.
"I didn't know you wanted to study acoustic engineering, Ike," Pit said, scribbling a heart-looped signature on a copy of their CD before passing it to Link.
When they had become commercially successful, the shortest member of their trio underwent an image makeover, dyeing one half of those brown strands black and using one wine-colored contact lens. Pit's willingness to rock subsequent black and white wing tattoos seemed less dramatic in comparison to the dichromatic hair and eyes.
"I had considered it," he replied with a shrug, flipping the permanent marker between his fingers before scrawling his own name across the plastic surface. "But what the hell, Pit. You have a master's in Greek Classics? When did that happen?"
The brunet hummed in consideration to his question. "Before I joined you guys," Pit finally answered with a bright smile.
He tried to do some rudimentary arithmetic in his head, but the numbers seemed preposterously high for someone he had always assumed to be younger than himself. "How is that…?"
"I'm done!" Pit cried out with an exaggerated stretch and one last CD thrown at the neighboring blond. "I'm getting food!"
As the other disappeared around the corner, he heard Link's disembodied laugh from somewhere by his shoulder. "I wouldn't think too hard about him." The blond slouched against the cushions and carefully autographed around Pit's explosive designs.
"I guess all those lyrics are mythology allusions?" No wonder their third bandmate could effortlessly write and perform both dark and light music. After all, classics were teeming with tragedies and triumphs. As Link murmured agreement, he switched topics: "Haven't you answered all these questions before? I mean, with your, y'know, previous people—er, group."
"We never, ah," there was a moment of silence as the vocalist attempted to find the right words, "got this popular, I guess. We were fairly new. Undeveloped."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
He gathered the stack of CDs together to hand to his fearless leader. For being lead vocals, Link tended to sit back and let Pit take the interview reins, which he never expected from the veteran artist. "So," he paused for a few seconds before giving up on forming an eloquent sentence. "Forest conservation."
"That's right." The blond smirked.
"Why forest conservation?" He had to ask, considering the other hadn't expanded on the prompt like he had hoped. Similar to Pit, Link's 'alternative career' had caught him by surprise.
"Young viewers. Couldn't have well said running sex shops, now could I?"
He hadn't quite come to terms with the concept of marketing and publicity. Fortunately, he wasn't responsible for it, but at the same time, something about being a product that was sold like a novel off a bookshelf was weird as hell.
He never considered himself a very interesting individual. During his first meeting with the publicist, he fidgeted as Roy and Zelda studied him from head to toe, brainstorming stage archetypes he could pull off. He settled with ripping a post-it to shreds as they hashed out what to do with him.
The necessity of this image formulation dumbfounded him. He thought he was just one of three components to creating music. He didn't realize he was a miniscule cog in the wheel-turning industry.
"He certainly emits the understated aura," the redhead said from across the table while jotting down illegible words on a notepad. "Leave it to the drummer to be silent as a rock."
Zelda grazed his arm before she caught his eye and asked evenly, "How often do you work out?"
He didn't make a habit of visiting a gym routinely, but he had a history of being athletic, so he made his best estimate: "Two times a week?"
"Can you make it six?"
Huh?
Roy interjected purposefully, "Wait, Zel." Rotating a pen, the publicist traced his figure in midair. "He's not like me or Link. He's going to get bulky."
What. He wanted to fall out of his chair.
"You're right. Five," his manager agreed with a nod.
When he later met the others for practice, he must have appeared shaken because after exchanging concerned looks with Pit, Link asked, "You all right?"
"I… met our publicist."
His bandmates broke into laughter.
"Oh my god," Pit giggled, even turning away from the microphone so nothing would be amplified. "That guy is—" The brunet bent over at the waist as if checking the keyboard's connections, but instead laughed toward the ground. "I wish—oh my god, I wish I had met him on set."
Before his confusion could multiply, Link explained through chuckling, "Roy used to be lead guitarist. Great guy. Really smart. Better our strategist than not."
Pit approached him, pouncing and hanging heavily off his shoulders. "So what's it going to be? Seven days a week, twenty-four hours a day?"
"What is?"
"Your workout schedule, duh," the petite artist said with a goofy grin. "I got out of it. I'm supposed to stay adorable."
From across the room, Link scoffed good-naturedly. "Right. When does that start?"
It was one thing to be amiable, cooperative, and professional when networking within the music industry, but the focus on maintaining their physical appearances and character for the media (which veered toward surreal) was an underestimated chore. He had taken to stealing glances of himself from passing reflective surfaces; he only realized this because one day before exiting the car, Pit cheerfully informed, "Your hair's fine, but your shirt is inside out." (Yes, he immediately fixed that mishap.)
Today was like any other day where he met up with his bandmates for work (it was work, in the most literal sense, despite all the glamorization surrounding the idea of being in a band). The location they used for practice had a range of soundproof rooms designed for individuals to orchestras. After once accidentally walking into both formats, he realized he was very happy with the medium-sized room that neither induced claustrophobia nor agoraphobia.
While he had grown accustomed to the layout of the building, he still gazed curiously into rooms where occupants left blinds drawn up or open. Oppositely, it was very clear that some people preferred to practice in privacy. That being said, he didn't want to seem overly nosy—what with his bad habit and all—so he avoided checking his reflection when someone was practicing before unobstructed glass.
He glanced at the clear square foot panel about eye-level of a passing door and first noticed that (a) his hair was fine (as it usually was, being low maintenance and all), (b) a piano, and (c) he had to backtrack and backtrack now.
Okay, no, he wasn't. That would be very creepy. Creepy, because what was more scary than glancing up from intense concentration and seeing a hovering face framed within the door? Right. He willed himself to pick up his pace once more after the sudden stop. That wasn't a big deal. He had seen pianos before. And attractive people. He was sure that he had seen attractive people playing pianos before. Maybe his hair really was somehow messy and he had paused because his subconscious was telling him—
"Are you playing with your hair again?" Pit's voice knocked him out of his inner musings the second he stepped foot into their usual room.
Nearly four hours later, he retraced his steps through the same hallway; there was no way the same individual was still practicing in that room, but he needed confirmation nonetheless. Reaching the blind-drawn room (#165, he noted this time), he boldly stepped up to the square window and looked inside.
Empty. Of course. He didn't know anything about piano, but he imagined it wasn't something someone could play for three-and-a-half hours straight.
"This room is reserved until ten."
He lost his balance in his attempt to pivot in place and slammed heavily against the door. The pianist had the decency to wince, which accompanied his pained groan rather harmoniously.
"Are you all right?" The other asked politely, cradling a water bottle in one elbow and a thin stack of music-filled paper in the same hand, pencil poised mid-scribble (though this guy didn't look like a scribbler—calligrapher, maybe).
He zeroed in on the other's notes, hoping to deter himself from rudely staring at the pianist's face. He couldn't even decipher what was written between the notes and around the margins. So much for having elegant handwriting to go with those looks—uh, he meant—
"Hello?" the other asked with a frown marring distressingly beautiful features—fuck, he didn't mean that exactly—oh, no, he didn't. He was the poster child for Unhinged Madman right now, seeing as he couldn't even respond like a normal person.
With a healthy (and reasonable) amount of suspicion, the stranger tucked the pencil behind an ear and fished out the room key. Side-stepping his prone figure, the pianist edged into the room and let the door click (and lock) soundly in place.
That was not how it was supposed to go. Nothing was supposed to have gone in the first place. Better yet, nothing was supposed to go because then he wouldn't have screwed up his one opportunity to make a good first impression. He usually didn't fuck up first meetings this badly and according to Zelda's assurance, he could be quite composed and charming when he put his mind to it. Now all he wanted to do was bang his head on the nearest wall.
The door eased itself open with enough unnatural trepidation that even he noticed the slight movement. "I apologize for the scare," the pianist said, holding out a slip of paper toward him, and explained, "Reservations are made online. Only rooms 160-170 have pianos."
Speechless, he accepted what was handed to him and watched the shorter man duck back into the room. Fingers rubbing the ripped edge of the corner piece of paper, he noted the website address was carefully printed in perfectly legible handwriting. Absently, he flipped the paper over to see a slew of sixteenth notes dancing like wildfire across horizontal lines and all he could think was, fuck, what if he needs this?
-tbc-