Author's Notes: In the lull since the last chapter, I drabbled a bit for "Fermata" but found I could only use maybe 20% of the improvised content. I apologize for the wait and any continuity errors.
Thank you to Quest, Jay, AA Addict, toastyzill, Archmallix, Guest, FalseCods, sasufan, and kurapikachu. I wouldn't have picked this up again without your reviews.
Warnings: Upon rediscovering my inspiration for this AU, I also remembered how I wanted it to end. :/
So incredibly unbeta'd, per usual, lol.
Pairing: "IkeMarth," says the account. "Doko?" says the squinting audience.
Disclaimer: I don't own Super Smash Brothers.
Summary: He was only checking his reflection en route to the band's rehearsal room. He didn't mean to notice the pianist at all. [Modern AU] -Yaoi, slash: Ike/Marth-
Fermata
By SSBBSwords
He felt like the odd man out, which was unexpected considering he wasn't the newest arrival (or even the second- or third-newest arrival if Roy's interim-member duties counted). But perhaps that was what he got wrong: sure, Zelda had recruited him before combing the industry for other people (and boy, did they luck out nabbing a genius synth player-turned-production-powerhouse like Pit), but technically, he probably sat lower on this pseudo-seniority ladder, despite the pianist being the last (and only part-time, temporary) addition for composition purposes and instrumental features.
Was he deliberately isolated from the group? No. Did he feel like an island? Yes.
It was apparent that Marth was most comfortable with Link. When present, the classical musician preferred to sit by the blond, who took catnaps during practices and meetings alike. Sometimes the pair would converse quietly during the vocalist's intermittent bouts of consciousness, together exuding a preternatural calm that only one sleep-deprived band leader and one taciturn musician could achieve.
By implicit association, the pianist interacted with their manager similarly, matching Zelda's focus and no-nonsense demeanor, edges tempered with honest expressions of appreciation for the collaboration and productivity involved in team effort. Between Link's sleeping and the sporadic hours of Zelda and Marth, the three of them were rarely in simultaneous attendance, but when they were, nothing seemed to penetrate whatever atmosphere they had about them.
The expanse he felt didn't stop at Roy either, what with their publicist originally being roommates with the violinist. The portable stringed instrument was what the redhead remembered most about Marth, simply because the pianist hadn't been hauling a piano to and from their dorm. Despite their scarce communication upon graduation and pursuit of different ventures, Marth fell back into Roy's banter and sharp analytics with amiable ease.
From there, he assumed he and Pit would have to work at integrating Marth into the group collective—to learn their way around the composer's background, expertise, idiosyncrasies, what have you—but the brunet had taken to the classical musician like a fish to water, and the pianist glowed before Pit's effusive energy and creativity.
So he was left feeling wooden and edgy in the face of working with someone new. Working with strangers of special skills for whatever project was underway for varying intervals of time was not new to him, but why in all the hells did this one bother him so much? The music industry boasted some great-looking people, even glammed up in style and makeup and lighting to the best fashion and special effects and technology could offer, and here he was, self-consciousness on steroids, just overly aware of his physical and figurative proximity to Marth.
It seemed like every time he managed to exchange a few words with the pianist, his brain went a little foggy and he worried very much about losing his voice. If he was holding anything, his palms would begin to sweat. It was the worst reaction he had ever had toward a single nonthreatening person in his life, and it was becoming chronic. Granted, none of this was externally noticeable since he was about as unobtrusive as Link napping in a group space involving Pit and Roy, but it wasn't normal for his heart rate to kick up in mere anticipation of conversing with someone.
But work was work, and if he just directed his all into the music, he could ignore his regression to a twelve-year-old with a crippling crush. On the other hand, work still had a finite shelf-life when Marth was in the same room, which meant he was subsumed by the anxiety of how to act like a functioning adult once it ended.
"I need to drop by the office," Roy declared while untangling the guitar case strap before lifting it over a shoulder. "Anyone else?"
"Oh, me! Wait up," Pit exclaimed, packing up the array of electronics. "I have numbers for Palutena. Or maybe she has numbers for me. You know what? I think there will be a spirited debate involving numbers."
Phone in pocket and jacket in hand, Link gave a short laugh. "Do you think you're going to out-spreadsheet our accountant?"
"No, but I'm her favorite because I keep trying," the petite brunet retorted with a wink and a blown kiss toward the vocalist.
"Ugh, no, dude," their publicist interjected with fake disgust. "You're everyone's favorite because you do cute-ass shit like that. For the love of PR, stop it."
"Says no contract I've ever signed for you," the keyboardist said with a stuck-out tongue and subsequent cheeky grin. "Let's go, chauffeur."
Hands thrown up in surrender, Roy muttered upon passing under the doorframe, "I need more heads for all the hats I wear."
Exiting the practice room behind the redhead with a bounce, Pit pointed out, "You know I can drive."
"You think you can drive," was the retreating response from further down the hall.
Less vocal but equally ready to depart, perhaps to meet with Zelda back at the office, Link glanced at Marth. "Do you need a ride?"
The violinist looked up from fiddling with the instrument's strings. "No, thank you." The other smiled at the blond's offer. "I'm staying here."
"All right, have a good practice," Link replied evenly, gaze flickering only once between the two remaining individuals in the room. "See you tomorrow, Ike," the vocalist said before withdrawing.
He started at his own name, abruptly realizing upon his band leader's leave that he really should have been paying more attention. He should have planned an excuse to get out of this room. He should—he should have done a lot of things, probably, because now he was sitting here alone with someone he really shouldn't be sitting alone with.
"Do you," he ventured in the silence, turning toward the pianist, and swore he heard himself creak like a rusty hinge, "are you practicing more after this?"
"Yes," Marth replied, tucking the violin and bow into its case and carefully closing the latches. "I have a concert Thursday."
"Still Room 165?" he blurted out.
A flash of something, probably surprise, crossed the other's face. "Yes, that's right," the pianist answered, lifted gaze gracing his direction.
"You're good," he complimented, finally getting around to stating the obvious, in spite of his grip slowly growing clammy. He stood up and stuck his drumsticks in his back pocket, discreetly wiping his hand down his shirt while it was out of the other's view. "Like, really good." He wasn't a classical music buff, but even a toddler would recognize the musician's skill.
"Thank you." Despite the low pitch, the acoustics in the room still picked up Marth's soft response. Coming to a stand but moving neither closer to him nor the door, the other man said, "I enjoy your," and paused in search of words, "vigorous drumming." The corner of the other's mouth ticked upward.
Laughter spilled from his throat. It was probably the nerves. "Thanks?" he managed, funneling all cognitive functions toward directing his feet to remove him from this stressful situation. "I'm, uh," he cleared his throat and gestured uselessly toward the door, "I—yeah, gonna g—head out, too."
"Of course," the other murmured, unmoving and unconcerned and unaware of the clamor in his head.
He made it halfway out the door before he turned back, adhering to his tendency for idiocy, and regretted it instantly because Marth stood amidst the desiderata of an otherwise empty practice room with an indecipherable expression. Noting the brief stall in departure, the pianist regarded him coolly, slight head tilt suggestive of something he couldn't put his finger on, and added, "Have a good evening."
"You too," he mumbled in the din of the pounding in his ears.
He tripped upon exit. Fuck his life.
He remained at a crossroads. He completely understood the logic behind not pushing the boundaries, much less his luck. He was fine with it. He wasn't known for his initiative, and with the band's growing exposure, dating remained very low on the list of things he was willing to spend time and effort pursuing. So, truly, maintaining strict professional distance in all sense of the word was entirely doable (and preferable).
And then there was his foolhardy inner id that snuck glances at Marth and entertained the idea that maybe if they could spend time together outside of work responsibilities that they might become a thing and he would be allowed to hold the other's elegant, talented hands in his. Fuck, Marth had objectively beautiful fingers. He rarely contributed to song lyrics, so he would be the last to wax poetic about anything, but maybe if he tried to describe the indescribable, whatever he felt for the pianist would abate in the wake of manageable terms.
As much as he tried to ignore it all, he would find himself entertaining different ways to catch the other's attention or establish opportunities to chat. Most never made it past his behavior and vocal filters, but he sometimes slipped up and gravitated toward Marth in a given space or tried to make small talk. It was immensely embarrassing when he noticed his own unnecessary actions. The classical musician surprisingly made no indication of finding him awkward, but boy, did he feel ridiculous.
The others, ever astute, remained mum on his internal consternation to both his relief and dread.
Case in point, even Pit, who had once offhandedly joked of some people's inability to make it through a song if Marth was playing, made no outward remarks on his tiptoeing around Marth. In fact, to minimize his interactions with the pianist, he began giving his bandmate recordings of his newer tempos, and in turn, the synth player came to his aid with a shrug by sampling or programming standard rhythmic patterns for Marth to build on or integrate into.
Similarly, Roy, despite the uncomfortable one-time dressing down after their first practice together, made no incriminating comments. However, the redhead sometimes nudged or poked him if they were within arms-length, usually shooting him a meaningful look before subtly jerking a chin in Marth's direction and ending with a head shake. He appreciated their publicist looking out for him, but Roy catching his unintended staring (and waiting until Marth wouldn't notice the warning cues) didn't get less mortifying.
Zelda, for the most part, didn't bat an eye, though he realized one day (thanks to Roy's secret nonverbal flailing) that she somehow always maneuvered her conversations with Marth so that the latter never fully faced his direction (which is how the redhead managed to draw his attention to even notice this). Knowing their manager, she had picked up on something and was adapting accordingly.
Link, on the other hand, had begun to stare at him in return, like a suspicious researcher at a zoo. Occasionally, the vocalist would divert his attention by asking something of him, but the prospect that the blond would do (or say) something (anything) was growing imminent.
And then there was Marth, who drafted and played countless scores with Pit, harmonies with Roy, logistics with Zelda, and melodies with Link, and he felt left behind.
He was nearing the end of his jog when the song playing through his earphones faded in sync with his phone vibrating with an incoming call. He slowed to a walk as he freed the device, and Pit's sparkle-filled icon popped up on his screen.
Wondering why the synth player was calling him on a Saturday morning (then again, who actually knew when Pit slept), he accepted the call, and once connected, said, "Hey, what's up?"
"Are you free?" the brunet asked before tacking on in the same breath, "Never mind. It was a rhetorical question."
"Uh, yes?" he answered anyway.
"How fast can you get to the studio?" Pit's tone lacked its usual cheer but the underpinning of buzzy energy was telltale of an inspiration high.
"Fifteen minutes?" he estimated, considering the distance between the outdoor track and his family's recording business where the label rented one of the smaller rooms for Pit.
"Fine, but you better run. And I'm out of coffee."
Call abruptly ended and mouth ajar with unformed words, he stared at his phone like it was going to bite him. Fits of genius much?
Perhaps Pit had perfectly calculated how long it would take him to reach the front of the commercial building because as he approached the sliding glass doors head-on from across the street, he saw the brunet pacing by the planters.
"Hey," he greeted, handing over the takeaway cup of black coffee. He would have ordered something more palatable but he had one fear—that Pit would go down from a sugar crash and wake up enraged at the lost momentum.
"Listen, young one," the petite artist said without preamble, grabbing the caffeinated drink in one hand and a fistful of his shirt by his diaphragm in the other. Yanking him forward until their difference in height was equalized for maximum conspiratorial whispering, Pit hissed, "I tried to save you, but I cannot improv the work you do on a drum set unless you want it to sound like a cat chasing a mouse between hi-hats."
He didn't struggle in his bandmate's hold but shifted to stabilize his footing at this uncomfortable angle. "What are you talk—"
"He has ideas. You're going to make them happen," Pit stated with an imperious glint in no-nonsense eyes.
"I don't get it," he managed in utter bafflement.
Distantly on the street from behind him, a car door shut amidst a running engine, to which the synth player released him. Stepping back, Pit retrieved a binder resting on the raised border beside them and shoved it into his hands. "Ike, I can't produce what he wants to hear using your recordings. You have to string it live to his suggestions."
On autopilot, he flipped open the binder to find the other's scrawled notes across printouts of sound waves, meticulously labeled with the stats of when the grooves were recorded. As he skimmed the pages, the comments by circled areas devolved from 'more of this,' 'nice,' and ':)' to 'wtf,' 'combinable?' and 'is there a less badass version.'
He had reached a section where Pit had simply highlighted half the page and written 'HELP' when he jumped about half a foot at a voice behind him stating, "Good morning."
His head jerked up just as Marth entered his periphery from the left. Pit gave a grim smirk at his frozen state and sucked down a mouthful of coffee in an incomprehensible act of tough love.
The classical musician smiled faintly at the open binder. "Oh, yes, that's where we gave up."
"Huh?" No one ever said he had to be eloquent to be part of a band.
"I'm glad you were available today," the pianist said with a level of aplomb that allowed only for a second to take in his casual (and probably disheveled) appearance with something akin to curiosity. Marth then motioned toward the building entrance. "Shall we?"
-tbc-