A/N: There are instructions on my profile to find a playlist all the songs featured in this story, check it out if you're interested.
He recognized his pacing about the room was entirely unnecessary. There were no anxieties about a music lesson between acquaintances, but the same feelings stirred in Squidward's uneasy heart as he set up the living room for his guest. He set a tray on the coffee table, adorned with two mugs and a kettle of water, the steam slipping out around the lid's haphazard seal. The pillows had been fluffed and readjusted each time he had passed them, the music stand moved around the front of the couch, the clarinet picked up and set down on the end table over and over. It came about in an almost rehearsed fashion, meticulously circulating through each item in the room until they had been tweaked so many times, it became a waste of time. Squidward sighed and, taking in a deep breath, sat on the couch. The waiting began, each minute feeling like twenty, until the clock struck eight. The doorbell rang.
Squidward attempted to swallow his nerves when he opened the door to Squinn. Tonight, Squinn wore a burgundy sweater vest in place of the navy blue, and his hair was no longer slicked back. Parted in the middle, it fell in messy waves, the short ends tucking under the glasses and the longer pieces trickling down to his shoulders. He smiled.
"Hi, Squidward," he said, "It's good to see you again." His cello stood in a case slightly behind him.
"Come in," Squidward greeted as coolly as he could. He pulled the door open farther and motioned for Squinn to follow.
Squidward beckoned for Squinn to come to the couch and sit while Squidward went to the kitchen to fetch his box of tea. Out of the corner of his eye, Squidward noticed Squinn looking around the room, staring intently at the frames on the wall and books packed onto the shelf. Squinn's gaze could not be averted until Squidward spoke, causing Squinn to jump.
"What kind of tea would you like?"
"O-oh," Squinn stammered, "sorry, which black tea is your favorite?"
"I tend to drink Earl Grey."
"Then Earl Grey, please."
"Would you like anything in it?" Squidward asked.
Squinn fell quiet for a moment, his eyes lingering on the mugs before he turned his head towards Squidward again.
"Have you ever tried lemon in it?"
"Lemon?" Squidward inquired, his nose crinkling slightly, "No, I haven't. I have lemons though."
"That would be much appreciated."
Squidward returned to the kitchen to cut a slice of lemon, all the while keeping an eye on the squid that seemed to chew the scenery attentively. Squidward returned and fixed their cups, an Earl Grey with lemon for Squinn and a rose white tea for Squidward.
"You have a nice home," Squinn spoke in an almost wistful tone, "who are those squids in the pictures?"
Squidward smiled at them, holding his mug close to his chest. "Mumzy and Papa," he sighed, "I miss them."
"Oh, I'm sorry for your loss."
"Oh," Squidward said, his face flushing crimson, "no, they're still alive. Ah. I just don't see them as often as I'd like."
Squidward took the awkward silence to sip his tea. This is going a lot more awkwardly than I envisioned, he thought. Squinn seemed on edge, his eyes lingering on the pictures for an unprecedented amount of time. He wanted to shift the conversation as naturally and quickly as he could.
"I, um, keep most of the photos on the main floor. The top floor mostly features my art."
This sentence sparked a more lively air in Squinn. "Art? You're an artist?"
Squidward felt the grin rising to his lips, boastful when it came to discussing his passions. "Yes, I am. I try not to box in my creative efforts, but I tend to do abstract and impressionist paintings."
"Well, I'd love to see them some time," Squinn responded, twisting his tea bag around the mug, "maybe next time?"
Squidward nodded, but as Squinn sipped his tea, he came to a realization: he just invited himself over again. Squidward couldn't believe how smoothly Squinn had pulled it off. Squidward began analyzing what he observed about Squinn and noticed that in new or unfamiliar situations, he came off hopelessly clueless and awkward. Yet, when Squinn felt he had a handle on the situation and understood the material, he came off so charming. Squidward's mind flashed back to Squinn leaning back in the sunlight streaming into the library window, the words of Whalesworth flowing off the tongue like they had been rehearsed countless times. His heart fluttered once more at the memory, and with that came another thought just as impending as the one he had the night he texted Squinn: why does this guy make my heart flutter?
"We should start working on music," Squinn chirped. His confidence seemed to be stronger. Squidward couldn't tell if it was purely coincidental or Squinn somehow knew that Squidward's heart fluttered behind his rib cage from the memory and artful excuse to come back.
"I know nothing about transcribing music."
"It's not too difficult," Squinn assured, "here, let me show you."
Squinn fell into a detailed explanation of tearing apart sheet music. He showed Squidward how to identify notes on a staff, how some notes changed to sharps depending on the way the key signature looked, how to translate that to the instrument at hand. Squidward took note of Squinn's passionate responses, how skilled he seemed to be at teaching. The words flowed from Squinn like he'd spoken them a thousand times, the task at hand no more difficult than simply reading music. Squinn's guidance led Squidward to tearing apart a simple piece of music that Squinn had brought as practice. If you can do this, you can do anything, Squinn guaranteed. As Squinn reached to pull the cello from its case, Squidward felt a shock wave through his body as he realized an hour and a half had passed. Squidward felt his nerves ease the longer he spent with Squinn, even laughing at a few of the squid's jokes. His heart felt liberated, in some strange way; capable of expressing emotions about music and joy that he was not accustomed to indulging in. His daily inhibitions faded from his consciousness as Squinn spoke, and the more he spoke, the harder the question pounded in Squidward's head, why do I feel so free with him? What is this feeling?
"You know," Squidward chuckled, "I've never met someone with such a passion for music in their voice."
"Do you really think so?" Squinn asked, his eyes lighting up with delight from the compliment.
"Yes. I would love to hear you play."
"I assumed you would want to hear the piece I was working on when you last saw me," Squinn chirped as he readied his cello.
"I'd like to see how you pull everything you spoke about into action."
Squinn nodded, borrowing the music stand to hold his haphazardly collected papers. The loops and curves of his handwriting filled the page to the brim, making it difficult for Squidward to understand what precise notes were on the staff and how they had been arranged. With a quick exhale, Squinn began playing.
He barely referenced the notes as the bow gracefully skated across the strings, its swelling sound filling the room with a sweetly air. Squinn's eyes were shut, yet every note he hit with impeccable accuracy, the vibratos echoing throughout the room. Squidward watched in absolute awe, completely captivated by the conviction of the song. The bow coaxed each note into the air, and for the first time, Squidward saw a new life breathed into Squinn. Squinn moved with the cello, each bob of the head falling into the music. Squidward's tug of the heart returned while he watched the song be played, and he didn't know what felt more fascinating to him, basking in the sweet serenade of the notes or noticing how Squinn became one with the music. His flow cascaded with every note, rose with crescendos, fell with their deconstruction. The experience was mystical, and as the song came to a close and Squinn looked at Squidward, his chest tightened, the reason unbeknownst.
"How was it?" Squinn asked sheepishly.
Squidward fumbled for the words to even begin to describe the eloquence and transformation that occurred before him, but in a fear of coming off the wrong way, he played it off simply. "It was magnificent. Breathtaking."
"Thank you, thank you. It means a lot."
Squinn gathered up his things, realizing the clock had struck ten. Squidward led him to the front door, wrapping up their small talk. As Squidward opened the door, Squinn stood facing him, half submerged in the soft moonlight and half by the harsh yellow light illuminating Squidward's foyer.
"Let me know if you have any questions," Squinn reminded him, "I'm always happy to help."
"Alright," Squidward smiled. They gazed at each other for the smallest abiding moment before Squinn turned and walked off into the night.
Squidward's head spun with a multitude of thoughts as he tidied up the room and readied for bed. His mind now fluctuated between the poetry reciting and cello playing, both memories tossed into consideration for the moment in which Squinn truly opened up his charming side. The draw towards this new squid was virtually indescribable to Squidward, who felt foreign to this new idea of companionship. His anxieties had been slightly alleviated as he began to know Squinn a bit better, but being someone who seldom had a plentiful amount of friends, he wasn't exactly sure what move to make next. He wasn't entirely sure of what he was supposed to feel, how to express said feelings without coming off in a negative way, similar to what the people in his life did. The most dreadful thing, in Squidward's mind, was coming off like Spongebob.
Squidward couldn't resist opening their messages and initiating some form of conversation. Their night together filled him with a new sense of excitement and adrenaline he had never experienced.
Him: Thank you for coming over tonight. I appreciate your teaching me to transcribe.
Almost immediately:
S: Any time. I enjoyed it.
Him: So...about my art?
S: Let me know whenever you're available and I would love to see your art.
Him: That sounds good. Thanks.
S: Thank YOU.
The fluttering feeling, the sensation of knots being tied within himself, none of it dissipated as the text conversation wrapped up for the night. Squidward noticed it only seemed to get worse when faced with an interaction with Squinn. Odd, pondered Squidward as he readied to go to sleep, my chest feels tight whenever I speak to him. That's new. I wonder why that is.