Whoops. I sadstucked.
Yeah... oh this is me just being pitiful now. I was listening to All Around Me by Flyleaf and I got DaveJohn feels.
Without giving much away it's about Dave mourning in the way he only feels comfortable with. Playing the piano.
Warnings: character death.
This is rated 'T' to be safe.
Originally not supposed to go outside my tumblr but I think it's decent enough to post here. I need to work on the next part of Flight or Fight.
Enjoy then.
Repeat, Repeat, Repeat
Your name is Dave Strider and you retired your cool, ironic act years ago.
Sure, you're still the best, no doubt about it, but as you aged and continued to remember the facade simply began to crumble and fade away. Today is no different, it being smack dab in the middle of freezing your balls off and it's quiet. Too quiet. You can hear the snow crunching under your shoes as you trek down the side walk, head leveled just like your gaze. You've been walking for miles but it's for a good reason and a Strider never backs out when they have their mind set on something.
You can hear the notes dancing in the air as you approach the shop, feel them surrounding you and bringing you in. It doesn't take you long to reach your destination. For shame this store has seen better days, but that's not what makes it halfway decent enough to actually go inside. As you stride in the man behind the counter looks at you and you nod, him only giving a solemn smile in return. He knows what you're here for, and doesn't question when you stroll down the isle and waltz straight into the backroom.
You don't remember how it happened but ever since you first stepped in the place that old man seemed to know. As if he could see through your shades and into your eyes, into your soul. Shit, that was a little too deep. You already feel vulnerable enough already, simply standing in the dark, small room quietly. You don't bother to flick the lights on, the store lighting just bright enough to encase the upright piano. The damn thing was already collecting dust, just sitting back here mocking you.
Not like pianos could actually haunt you, but that doesn't matter right now.
Eventually just staring at it does you no justice and finally you move towards it, touching the small bench with the tips of your fingers. Mahogany, his favorite. A twitch of your lips is the only sign of a smile, hand slowly inching up to touch the piano itself. You don't do much at first, just touch, rubbing your calloused hands along the smooth texture and absently drum your fingers against the wood. It takes another few minutes before you're lifting the front cover, then the top cover and exhale the breath that you weren't aware you were holding in.
Your fingers dance along the keys, feather light, almost as if you hadn't of touched them at all. You weren't prepared to play the first few keys, not yet. You take the moment to close your eyes, and that familiar smile flashed before you, eyes so blue they were enough to drown in. Quickly snapping your eyes open you realize it's still dark and you finally slip off your shades and tuck them into your jacket pocket. Sitting down you just stare at the keys, face impassive as you could feel the ghost of someone settling next to you.
…He's expecting you to play.
Letting out another held in breath your arms slowly stretch forward, pads of your fingers barely hovering over the still keys. That ghost of a feeling moved closer, leaning over and watching over your shoulder. The hint of that smile was a bit more obvious now, wanting to utter the word 'impatient' under your breath as if to mock him. Even now his laugh is bright, the big derp. He's excited, and from the steady thump against your chest, you are, too.
From there it didn't take you long to irrevocably begin playing.
Starting off slow you could feel him stop fidgeting and lean back, probably even had his eyes closed. Slowly the tempo sped up, that practice you had been shoveling in between your busy schedule (hey, work and sitting around all day took a lot of effort) was almost worth it. The last few times you played he winced when you hit the wrong key and made fun of you for it. The ghostly feeling shifted again and you almost stopped but there was a gentle pressure applied to your fingers and it prompted you to continue. Like they were there they were gone, the movement beside you completely absent and now against your back.
You know he couldn't sit still to save his life.
Every so often that gentle pressure would shift and go somewhere else. To your shoulder, or to your hair or even to your arm. It was never static, just constantly moving. You'd never admit it out loud but these touches soothed you, allowed your shoulders to lose their tension and your eyes to slowly become lidded. Playing slower now, keystrokes more deliberate and intricate, a hand no bigger then your own caressed your back tenderly. It took all you had not to lean back into that relaxing touch, slowly causing you to rid your focus. You knew the piece was coming to an end and he apparently knew, as well, moving his hands entirely. Warmth wrapped itself around your waist, heat clearly upon your upper backside.
Just before you could finish off a cool breeze brushed past your ear:
Dave.
And your fingers went completely still. The warmth was completely gone, now replaced with the cold, lingering dread. Arms now limp slid at your sides, eyes blankly staring at the lackluster keys that were only moments earlier bringing life to the world around you. You could bite back the tears, that wasn't a problem, but you couldn't bite back the sob that made it's way out your mouth. You couldn't bite back the sharp pain in your chest, or ignore the way your hand was gripping the bench so tightly your fingers went numb.
"…John."
You couldn't force anything else out, the memories flooding back to you in an instant. How you had to keep reliving this moment over and over to keep yourself from diving off the deep end. How you just wish you could see that stupid smile again and how you wish you could stare into those overpowering eyes.
Wishing was stupid.
Silently up you closed the front cover and take a stand, slipping your shades out of your pocket and onto your face. Without another word you roll out of there like a bat out of hell. The man says nothing but he never says anything, because he already knows. And you leave the place like you do every single time, in the middle of freezing your balls off, knowing you're going to come back and repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.