Title: Strangers In The Night
Rating: R
Pairing: Ethan/Emmett with appearance of Debbie
Spoilers: Bits of the Justin/Ethan relationship
Summary: You meet the most fascinating people at the opera
When Ethan finally breaks down, he's standing a block away from the Pittsburgh opera house, clutching the handle of Misha's case and waiting for the bus. He'd been the night's guest performer, saying 'yes' to the invite two months ago because he'd known he'd be in-between concert dates. And to be honest, he liked the opera. He was pretty sure that if he'd called, and explained there had been a death in the family he could have gotten out of the gig, but he'd been desperate for an escape, and running to the safe space his music created had never failed him before. It had been a bad move; his performance had been crap.
Ethan, when you play you must forget the world. Forget that pain, joy, life and death come from anywhere but your music. You are a creator. You are a god; and as a god you must be sure you don't fuck up a single measure. Be more attentive than even our own creator.
Now, he's standing on a corner, in the middle of the night, doing everything in his power to not cry. He's already gone through the traditional ways. He's tried staring at the building across the street, keeping his eyes wide open, and counting the number of bricks. That's successful for a few minutes, but then he feels his face get wet so he switches tactics. He tries blinking quickly, ignoring that his eyelashes are heavy and wet. He's losing this one, but won't give up. This is his own little rebellionagainst the current state of his world. If he's going to cry, god damn it, he's going to do it back in his apartment, with the door shut, and only Wolfram to watch.
"You ok there, sweetie?"
He glances at the man standing next to him. Older, taller, willowy; a cotton candy colored tie a bright contrast to the black and white tux. For all Ethan knows he's been standing there the whole time.
"Bless my southern stars," the other man mumbles. "The fiddler."
There's a joke Ethan's not getting in the way this stranger says the word "fiddler", but he's too tired, too hurt to care at the moment.
A gentle hand is suddenly on his shoulder. "Well, you look like someone just killed your best friend."
Ethan winces, but keeps it together. There's a feeling of déjà vu. As though he's met this stranger once before, but when a name doesn't immediately surface he brushes the thought aside.
"That was you, in the pit playing the solo," the man says, hand still resting on Ethan's shoulder. "You play very nicely. Not that I'm much of a critic. Only seen a few operas, and I've never been to an orchestra concert. I just like to come down here every once and awhile, see one of the shows. Stir up the memories of a very good friend I had."
Ethan nods, and bites the inside of his cheek. As long as he stays silent, he thinks he'll be ok.
I want this section, these bars of piano to be so soft, so delicate, that the audience feels as something as simple as a sigh could destroy it.
"His name was George, George Shickle. I called him Georgie."
It's a reflex, and with out really meaning to Ethan asks, "Shickle's Pickles?"
Those two words are a killing blow to his delicately held control. He can feel the sobs clawing their way up his throat. One hand keeps a white knuckle grip on his violin, and the other is moving to cover his eyes as a rain of fat, unwanted tear drops slide from in-between his fingers. Two slim arms slip around him. "Oh, honey. You go ahead. A good cry never hurt anybody."
He doesn't expect to go home with the guy. Nice as this stranger is, Ethan assumes that after a few moments of comfort he's going to feel a slap on the back and a break of contact. He's thrown a little when the other man doesn't let go, simply because he hasn't.
Ethan sits on the bed, the other man unbuttoning his shirt with long graceful fingers.
Shift to fifth position. I want to see your fingers stretch for the high notes. Reach for them!
"My name is Emmett," he says, sliding his hands across Ethan's stomach. "Get ready to feel honored, because I haven't switched positions with anyone in, well, about three years." Ethan blinks at him, confused. Emmett smiles, and kisses him softly, one hand brushing the thin line of skin right above his pants, the other reaching for a condom. "Don't worry about it, sweetie."
Ethan hasn't said anything since getting off the bus with the man. During the ride, he managed to whimper out the words "my grandfather", but then found that he couldn't say anything else, so he doesn't tell Emmett how losing his grandfather created a cold unbearable ache in every mussel and bone in his body. Doesn't tell him how the furniture in his apartment seems to have more sharp angles than before. How his violin now looks dull and lifeless in its case. How people look twisted and strange, the way they might in a particularly bad dream. He doesn't talk about how his entire world had shifted. That it was like waking up, and discovering that he was permanently colorblind, and all he wanted to do was rub his eyes until the way he used to see the world came back. He doesn't tell him how when he told the man he was gay, his grandfather had smiled at him and said, "Very good Ethan, but how are you progressing on the Mozart? How he never saw Ethan's talent as fuel for a pathetic pipedream. Maybe one day, he'll feel safe enough to use words again, and tell someone these things, but not now.
"My Aunt Lula," Emmett says, softly kissing his neck, his shoulders, his chest. "Died when I was 20. She was very, very important to me."
It's the last thing either of them says that night.
In the morning, after the sun has already stretched over the horizon Emmett leads him downstairs into the kitchen. When he sees the flamboyant red hair, and the woman underneath it, a rush of memories appear and click together in Ethan's head. Justin's blond hair and the way it used to flop over his eyes in the morning. Being introduced to his extended Liberty Avenue family, bloody hands and torn roses. The women, Dorothy, Deb, something with a D, does a double take when she sees him, and then narrows her eyes dangerously. Before he can run, a hand is back on his shoulder, pushing him in the direction of an empty chair.
"Debbie," Emmett says, cheerfully. "You remember Ethan? The fiddler? He spent the night."
She snaps her gum at the two of them and says, "Yeah, I remember." She gives him a once over, scrutinizing every inch of him. He must look like shit, because suddenly her expression softens. She sets a full plate in front of him, and mumbles "not like I've never had an asshole at this table before."
The ending to this piece, my boy, should make your audience wonder if you are truly finished. Make them lean into one another and politely whisper a question to their neighbor. Make them wonder if it is really over, or if you are simply toying with them.