Tempo
by Miss Becky
Disclaimer: They're not mine. They never will be.
Summary: Time. Music. Sex. This is what Sands has now.
Pairing: Sands/Ramirez, Sands/El/Ramirez
Note: The line about the Broadway musicals comes from a Johnny Depp interview, although for the life of me I can't remember where I read it. He said he thought Sands was the kind of guy who was a closet Broadway musical fan. I just took that idea and ran with it.
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Time. Music. Sex. This is what Sands has now.
All in all, he thinks he didn't do too badly.
- - - - - - - - -
Being blind is boring. No one ever told him that would be the case. He can't read, can't watch TV or movies, can't do much of anything, really.
He finds solace in music.
The Internet is a wonderful thing. He sits with Chiclet for hours, listening to selections from various CDs, mulling over which one to order. Sometimes he lets Chiclet make the final decision, just to reward the kid for doing all the grunt work for him. He lets himself order one CD per day, no more. He has to practice some self-control, after all.
Every day he makes the dusty walk into town to pick up the mail. On a good day he doesn't stumble and fall along the roadside. But even a bad day can be uplifted by the feel of a square of cardboard nestled among the catalogues and bills. He taps the corners and tries to guess which CD is contained inside. Sometimes he even tells himself that he won't open it when he gets home, that he will prolong the anticipation just as long as he can.
When he gets back, the first thing he always does is tear open that cardboard packaging.
- - - - - - - -
He's always loved Broadway musicals, so he starts with those. Next are the operas with their soaring arias. He lingers a while here, preferring the Italian operas to those heavy German ones; he's not a big fan of Wagner.
He spends some time with the classical greats. For a while all he listens to are the Brandenburg Concertos. Then one day he decides he's sick of Bach and he moves on to Beethoven, Schumann, and Mozart.
The only composer he does not allow in the house is Liszt. He can't stand sappy love songs.
- - - - - - - - -
"Why don't you just use the stereo?" Ramirez asks irritably.
"Because," he non-answers.
Sands doesn't want to share his music. It's one of the few things he has left that is his and only his.
He settles the headphones more comfortably over his ears. Ramirez's voice becomes muted and distant, but he can still hear the note of complaining.
He grins cheerily in Jorge's general direction. He holds up his middle finger, then uses it to press Play.
- - - - - - - - -
He never sings along to any of the arias, but he knows them all by heart. He conducts the symphony, urging the strings to fly faster, the horns to pierce the air. He loves the moment when the music crescendos, filling the world so thoroughly that nothing remains but sound, and everyone is blind like him.
- - - - - - - - - -
He likes to sit up in the middle of the night, when the world is cool and dark all around him, and just listen.
Inevitably he feels the vibrations of approaching footsteps, and he knows the music must come to a halt. He tips his head back and whispers, "Tchaikovsky, The Enchantress."
The headphones are slipped from his ears. "Come to bed," Ramirez says.
He goes willingly, still half under the spell of the music. At times like this, he doesn't even mind that Mexico has defeated him.
- - - - - - - - - - -"There is an opera in Mexico City. We could go." Ramirez whispers pianissimo late one night.
"No," he says.
He wants to go, of course. But he does not want to share the experience with five hundred strangers. Even if he had enough ammo to take them all out and leave only himself and Chiclet and Ramirez sitting there in the opera house, he wouldn't do it. It wouldn't be the same.
"It was just a thought," Ramirez says.
"Stop thinking and just fuck me," he says irritably. And that is the end of that.
The next day, Chiclet is disappointed when he hears the news. Sands is not moved. "You'll get over it," he says.
- - - - - - - - - -
His musical library grows. He's into Requiems now, music for the dead. He starts making a list of the music he wants played at his funeral.
"Why are you doing that?" Ramirez asks. "Are you thinking of dying any time soon?"
"No," he says. "But it never hurts to plan ahead." He stubs out his cigarette and writes, "Verdi, Requiem Mass."
After a long pause, Ramirez says, "Why don't you make one for me while you're at it?"
He lights a new cigarette and inhales deeply. "Make your own damn list."
- - - - - - - - - -
One evening, El comes to visit, and at last Sands discovers something he is willing to share.
Never one to pass up an opportunity, he takes El by one hand, Ramirez by the other, and leads them both into the bedroom.
This will be his finest symphony ever.
END
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Note: Apologies for the odd line breaks...I couldn't seem to get this site's usual line breaks to be included, so I had to get creative and make my own.