Author's Notes: Okay. So I was just innocently driving along, listening to some Thursday, when this idea bored its way into my brain and refused to be drilled out. So, I wrote it down. The song I was listening to at the time is The Love Song Writer, which you probably guessed. Anyway… I hope you enjoy.
Ethan never sings for anyone else. When he's onstage, he gives everything away- his heart, his soul- his blood, sweat and tears. But never his voice. The lights are dimmed. The last patron has stumbled his way to the exit, and the club owner's voice filters in through the thick haze of smoke, reminding him to lock up before he leaves. And still Ethan sits there.
The notes are halting at first but soon gain confidence- like a lover testing boundaries, becoming more secure. He opens his mouth, falters again, and lifts the glass of amber liquid to his mouth. It burns more than he'd like, but it's cold and wet, and that's all that matters right now. He sets it down, and from this angle, in this lighting, all he can see in the black lacquer finish is the distorted upside-down reflection of the glass and his own featureless face.
The words come without warning. There is no music yet. There is no rhyme or reason, but he lets the words come. Lets them fill him up until he feels like breaking, like sobbing, like doing the million other things that he knows he'll never allow himself to do. He sings until the words make sense.
And then there is music. It's wispy and needy, and it begs him for more. So, he gives. His fingers dance across the keys, the slide of sweat and condensation more sensual than it has any right to be. He doesn't even know what he's saying anymore. He just knows that it feels like the truth.
He feels, more than hears, the music build to a crescendo- not bold or brash, not rushed as usual. It creeps in, claws at his skin, sinks its teeth in, draws a deep breath and just… holds on. High and sweet and so utterly broken. Like himself. Like his voice. And he remembers to breathe again as the melody picks itself up and continues. It's stronger now than it was a moment ago. It's softer and quieter but so much stronger than it gives itself credit for. It's so much stronger than he could ever be.
Haunting, plaintive, insatiable. He bows his head low over his lazily moving hands and murmurs back a reply: He doesn't know. He doesn't know how much more he can give. He doesn't know much of him is left. 'I know,' the dying notes seem to whisper, and he wonders how anything can be so soft and unyielding. And he loves every last sound.
There is silence again. Usually, he misses the music so desperately that he could scream, but he isn't alone tonight. He looks across the empty lounge and smiles. The young man startles at the sudden attention, still caught up in the music, replaying each note and lyric in his head. He will whisper them back later tonight. He always does. And when he asks if the lyrics of the song are true, Ethan's reply will be the same as always: "Every word."
Ethan never sings for anyone else. Only for Spencer.
End
So, what'd you think? I thought it was alright for a drabble that wrote itself while I was driving and listening to the radio, but then… Oh, well :)