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nom-ici · 1 month ago

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“Do you want to see him again?” Otis finally pipes up, his voice quieter than usual. The guitarist doesn’t answer. Did he? Was this another want to add to the growing list?

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⚠️ Content notes: This chapter contains emotional overwhelm, references to past parental substance abuse, family conflict, and themes of self-doubt and guilt. Please read with care.

The Musicians’ Heart - A Mother's Love

“What the hell happened to your hand?!”

The guitarist shrugs his case from his shoulder, already bracing himself for the singer’s lecture. So far, no one else has showed up to the usual rented studio—which means no one's around to buffer the blow.

“Come on, Cody, don’t you think it’s a little early to be yelling at me?” The guitarist drops onto an old, rickety wooden chair in the center of the room—half-suspecting it to collapse, but it holds.

The clock on the wall reads somewhere between 10:30 and 10:35—not early by most standards, but for this group it might as well be the ass crack of dawn.

The singer presses his fingers against his forehead as if trying to hold back his rage by sheer force. “We have three days, Vance—THREE! You can’t even unzip your case!”

Vance pauses—zipper awkwardly jammed between his thumb and splint. His mouth beginning to form a retort—

Click.

The studio door swings open, the rest of the band flooding in—yawning and clutching extra-large coffee cups.

“Woah! What happened to your hand?” Otis, the young keyboardist, bounds past the others with an over-caffeinated level of energy.

Thank God—Cody's always nicer with Otis in earshot.

“You should see the other guy.” A sly wink from the guitarist earns a twinkle of admiration in the keyboardist’s eyes.

“Genius here thought it was a good idea to go and break his fingers right before our big gig.” The singer takes the offered coffee, his glare still stitched to Vance—who’s resolved to keep the keyboardist as close as possible for the moment.

An impressed whistle pulls Vance’s attention to the bassist. “And here I thought you got yourself some new kinky girlfriend.”

Vance’s brows crease in confusion. His gaze shifts to the drummer—who’s gesturing to his neck, mouthing something.

The guitarist’s stomach sinks.

His guitar—still trapped in its case—is passed off to the keyboardist as he rushes to the glass window looking into the room, its surface plastered with the backside of band posters.

In the reflection, dark purple blotches spread in full bloom across his throat.

Fuuuuck.

Have those been there all morning?

If he’d taken two seconds to look in the hotel mirror, he probably could’ve hidden them somehow.

“Chill, dude, where’s the fire?” The bassist’s reflection joins Vance’s at the window. “We’ve seen you with way crazier shit than this.”

A warm to-go cup presses against his cheek—but the guitarist isn’t exactly in the mood for the wakeup call.

The drummer leans in over Vance’s shoulder, grinning. “Remember that one girl he dated for, like, three months?”

The bassist spins a knowing finger in the drummer’s direction. “Oh yeah! When he showed up late to a show—”

“And the handcuffs—”

The two burst out laughing—earning a piercing glare from the guitarist’s reflection, causing them to retreat.

Vance pulls and twists his neck, trying to get a full picture of the damage—and if there was any way these could be explained as anything other than what they so obviously are.

That woman sure did a number on him.

A sigh escapes his throat as heavy iron settles into his gut.

This was definitely not the impression he wanted to give off to the violinist—who now seems to have found a cozy corner to roost in inside his head.

“Seriously, man, you good?” Everyone looks at the guitarist with a mix of curiosity and concern in their eyes.

He was—very clearly—not good.

But how the hell does he explain this to his childhood friends?

That the reason he’s not good is because he climbed into a stranger’s bed last night—not for fun, not for sex, not even for comfort—

But just to get away from something bubbling and boiling over so quickly he can’t even move it to another burner in time?

From long fingers that give both a gentle and stinging touch.

From shy eyes that flick away when faced with insecurity.

From the soft lilt of a voice that sounds sickeningly sweet when it says his name.

...

Well.

Here goes nothing.

“Wait, since when are you into guys?” The singer asks—placing his fury on a momentary pause—as he joins the group, who has now formed a semicircle around the guitarist, making it feel like story time in kindergarten. His question earning a nod from everyone else, as if they also wanted to know.

“I’m not,” A quick and sure... kinda sure, response. “I don’t even know if I’m ‘into’ him. I just—” The guitarist attempts to scratch the back of his head but the metal splint causes the task to be awkward and ineffective. “I don’t know, man.”

It’s not just that Vance hasn’t felt this way about a guy before.

It’s that he hasn’t exactly felt this way about—anyone.

He’s dated plenty of women. Some even stuck around for a decent stretch—comparatively.

But none of them made him want to walk fifty minutes home in the middle of the night just to spend a fraction of that time with them.

None of them had him wanting to risk a fight with a guy with a baseball bat less than a week before a gig.

Or made him want to forget them—but secretly hoping he can’t.

No one has ever made him want so badly to touch. Hold. Explore

He’s never just—wanted like this before.

The three older members exchange looks—conversing in a silent language Vance has known since childhood.

A glance. A shrug. A raised brow.

A full exchange without a single word spoken.

“Do you want to see him again?” Otis finally pipes up, his voice quieter than usual.

The guitarist doesn’t answer.

Did he?

Was this another want to add to the growing list?

A soft buzz cuts through the quiet.

Vance blinks—pulled out of his head.

Cody, of course, has his phone out. The same guy who lectured everyone about ‘no distractions in the studio.’

He looks up from his screen, smirking.

“Well,” The singer tips his phone toward Vance. “Looks like you’re gonna get your chance, V.”

Another full day of practice and the guitarist has mostly figured out how to play around his broken finger—luckily it’s his picking hand or else he’d be stuck playing bar chords for the next four weeks.

Vance presses the red button for his stop, jerking the city bus to a halt as it pulls over to the curb. A few grumbles from the older riders who still don’t understand why they can’t be dropped off directly in front of their homes.

The five-minute walk home is crisp—chilled air sticking to his fingertips, mind buzzing with outfit options for tonight’s concert, and Otis’ voice from yesterday still playing on loop.

Do you want to see him again?

The guitarist’s mind still spinning for the answer as he reaches his apartment—key in hand, turning the deadbolt.

There’s no resistance.

The door swings open with a chilled creak into the darkened living room.

Hallway fluorescents bleeding through the open door, catching on scattered sheets of music and CDs.

In the middle of the floor: his childhood lunchbox that at one point in time was marked with the Jurassic Park logo—but now sits empty and unrecognizable.

“Dammit, Mom, seriously?” Vance stands in the kitchen archway, lunchbox in hand.

Knobby knees resting on the counter shift as a sunken-cheeked woman peeks out from behind the old cupboard doors. The hinges squeal as they swing shut.

“Vance. I thought you’d be out all night.”

The woman scuttles down to the cold tiles, bare feet melting on the floor as she slowly puts weight on them. Adjusting her green puffer jacket back onto her shoulder—taking a moment to shove a bit of the stuffing back through a hole it was starting to escape from.

Her soft shuffles bring her to a stop just short of her son.

“I—I just came back to make you a nice meal.”

Vance just stares at her. His emotions numb.

He’s heard this setlist before—too many times to count at this point. Tonight the headliner being E-Pro by Beck.

The woman in front of him abandoned the right to ‘make him a nice meal’ a long time ago. “It’s been so long since you’ve had my cooking.”

A sharp laugh escapes the guitarist. No humor in it, the only thing left being dry and cracked contempt.

“Is that why you trashed my place—again?” After a beat of silence, Vance swivels toward his bedroom—away from the conversation, not looking for a reply.

More of his handwritten sheet music litters the bedroom floor, along with the contents of his bedside table across his bed.

An empty sigh fills the air. No fire or ice mixed in—just a gray fog of knowing he’ll have to clean this all up when he gets back tonight.

Adding his guitar and empty lunchbox to the mix, Vance begins pulling out his small selection of button-ups that will hopefully help him blend into the crowd at the violinist’s performance.

The mother shifts and adjusts her jacket once again, catching Vance’s attention as she now stands in the open doorway, surveying the mess.

Her skeletal frame nowhere near big enough for Vance’s old coat he gave her last year—but at least she kept this one. It was too cold outside for her to be out there with nothing and the guitarist had no more to give without freezing himself.

“I don’t have any money, Mom.”

The guitarist slides his shirt over his head, tossing it in a half-empty hamper. He’d kill for a shower—to wash off the day’s sweat, bus grime, and stress—but with her here, a quick rinse in the sink and extra cologne would have to do the trick.

“I—I don’t need much, Vance.” Another coat adjustment. “Just enough to get me through the night, a-and then—”

“You can take my bed if you need a place to sleep tonight.” The guitarist narrows down his shirt selection to black or dark blue. “But like I said, I don’t have any money.”

“That’s bullshit, Vance, and you know it!” A rattling shout attempts to drag the guitarist’s attention away from his wardrobe—but fails, miserably.

Ah. There she is.

Deciding on the black, the guitarist hangs up his other options and shifts his attention to finding a pair of pants that aren’t littered with holes or taproom mystery stains.

“Aren’t you some big rockstar—out living your dream—and you can’t even take care of your own mother?”

Vance fishes out a pair of slacks buried at the bottom of his drawer. He didn’t even know he had these. “Really, Mom? You want to do this now? I’m kind of trying to get ready for something here, if you haven’t noticed.” A crude taste swirls itself inside the guitarist’s mouth.

The slacks join the ensemble on the bed.

“All I ask for is a little support, Vance.”

“Support?” The guitarist’s hands stall over one of two pairs of shoes in his closet.

“Mom, why do you think I don’t have any money?” Rotten rage coats his tongue, making his words putrid and acidic—seeping into the space, twisting it into a decaying mess.

“Every time you come here, you just take and take—and ask for more no matter how much I give.” The sourness of these stranded emotions burn craters in his chest.

“Every time I found you strung out on the street, I carried you back home—and you’d just turn around and crawl right back to where I found you.” Memories flood to the surface—searching under bridges, fighting off random men taking advantage of her desperate state, hiding her in hollowed-out wall panels when the cops came knocking.

“Every time you needed a place to stay, I opened my doors for you—and you would rob me blind in my sleep.” The closet door slams shut, puffing his hair back into the beginnings of a tangled mess.

The silence thickening into a poisonous gas. Ready to take them both down.

“Every time you said you wanted to get better, I drove your ass down to rehab. I visited you every damn day. And you’d still turn around and stick another needle in your arm or snort some shit off the back of a public restroom toilet!”

Heavy breaths force their way in and out of the guitarist’s lungs. Redness creeping into his eyes.

It’s not fair.

These emotions were too old to sting this harshly.

“Whose fault do you think this is?!” The mother barks forward—adding to the miasma—completely losing the jacket on one shoulder, revealing translucent skin stretched thin over bones. Faded blue veins barely pulling life through her.

“I know, okay?!” The bitterness Vance thought he buried long ago has begun to sprout once again. Hatred, not for his mother—but for himself. For the hell he’s damned her to. “But I still don’t have anything left to give you.”

The mother bares her teeth, eyes wildly darting around at the ransacked room—hoping to find value in something she may have missed the first time.

Her eyes lock onto something directly ahead.

Vance—following her line of sight—bolts forward, sliding his guitar out of reach just before she can wrap her hands around the neck.

“Get out.” Vance spits fury into the space between them.

The dim light swallows her, trying to hide the dark circles under her eyes, the missing teeth, and the thinning spots of hair that still continue to fall even now.

The mother huffs, heading to the front door—giving up far too quickly for the guitarist to believe this is the end of it.

She slips her bare feet into a pair of worn cowboy boots—another thing she seems to have been able to hold onto after all these years.

The door slams, echoing down the hallway—no doubt waking up at least a few of the other tenants. Vance sets his instrument back down, adding it to his checklist of items to bring with him.

The guitarist’s shoes slap against the pavement as he races down the sidewalk towards the auditorium, dodging around slow-paced pedestrians and wrestling with his guitar case on his back.

The day spiraled fast.

First, a noise complaint.

Then a cop at his door—insisting on checking the apartment to make sure his mom wasn’t there.

She wasn’t—and neither was his emergency cash fund that he swore he hid well this time.

Then, on the bus ride to the auditorium, some asshole decided to pick a fight over something Vance still isn’t aware of. The guitarist didn’t throw a single punch but was still only left with two options.

Get off quietly, or wait for the cops. Again.

He picked option one. But not without first cursing out the driver and probably ending up on some sort of ‘no ride’ list.

Now his phone reads five minutes to showtime—and he’s at least ten away. Could be seven if people would move out of his way.

He cuts through a side street, nearly clipping a fire hydrant and a very startled dog.

The top of the auditorium cuts through the skyline ahead.

His pace doesn’t slow, tossing back an apology to a couple—probably on a first date, just working up the nerve to hold hands—cut off by a six-foot blur charging past.

Lungs on fire, aching pain spreading in his shoulder from the constant rubbing of straps, the guitarist rounds the final corner—and there it is. The long walkway, and his finish line.

His phone tells him he’s two minutes late, but the security guard waves him through anyway—either recognizing the panic on his face or deciding not to deal with it.

Vance bounds through the domed entrance, heart thudding against his ribs. Up the carpeted stairs, down the hallway, and to the place where it all began.

Music Hall 3.

He hesitates for half a second. Then pushes the door open.

The soft click draws a few curious looks near the back rows, but most of the audience doesn’t even notice him.

Except one.

A set of green eyes—lit by warm-toned stage lights—find the guitarist as if he has his own private spotlight raining down on him.

What surprises Vance even more—of all of the faces on that stage, he found those green eyes just as fast as they found him.

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Musical inspiration - E-Pro by Beck

#the musicians' heart #original fiction #mlm #hurt comfort #slow burn #emotional intimacy #found family #emotional spiral #writeblr #creative writing

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nom-ici · 1 month ago

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Willem watches the tape wrap around thick digits, and can’t help but wonder—what do those hands feel like, when they want something?

🎸 Part 1 | 🎻 Part 2 | 🎸 Part 3 | 🎸 Part 4

The Musicians' Heart - Fantasy

The air feels lonely as the guitarist rises from in front of the violinist. The fluorescent lights suddenly buzz and the chilled atmosphere no longer has anything to block it.

The air Willem sucks in now tastes like sanitizer—cold, sterile, and unwelcoming.

The violinist wasn’t even sure how he got in this situation in the first place. All he wanted to do today was file the police report, go home, and practice for tomorrow’s performance. And yet, here he was—in a hospital room of all places, wishing that the doctor had come in a few minutes later—or maybe not at all—just to see what would have unfolded.

And the violinist’s mind swims with the possibilities.

The guitarist’s appearance doesn’t help—passionate kiss marks propagating his neck, disheveled hair, and the same clothes he left Willem’s house in last night.

Fantasies spin circles through his head.

“Will?” A strong voice bears down from above, snapping the violinist out of his delusions.

Will?

“Huh?”

“You feeling okay?” That calloused hand he held just last night finds its way to the violinist’s cheek—burning an unbearable heat deep under his skin. “You’re bright red.”

There’s no concern in his tone. Just something curious—as if he knows exactly what’s going through the violinist’s head.

The violinist pulls away—reluctantly—collecting himself. “I-I’m fine.”

The doctor glances between them, clearly sensing he’s walked in on something. With a subtle cough, he redirects the guitarist’s attention—away from Willem’s squirming and toward the actual reason they’re here.

Vance’s finger is examined thoroughly. The doctor quickly comes to the conclusion that—yes—it is in fact broken. With a diagnosis in place, a metal splint is retrieved and carefully assembled around the guitarist’s blackened finger.

Willem watches the tape wrap around thick digits, and can’t help but wonder—what do those hands feel like, when they want something?

How would they feel pushing his shoulders down—pinning him to a soft mattress?

Gripping his thin calf to throw over broad shoulders.

Wrapping gently around his throat, thumb pressing into the underside of his jaw.

The violinist imagines how they would feel, dragging down his chest, past his stomach, playing at his hips until he can’t handle the torment anymore.

Then finally reaching—

Willem shoves his chair back, the legs shrieking against the floor, mumbling something about needing the bathroom.

He’s not sure if anyone hears him. He’s already gone.

Quick-paced steps lead the violinist to a family restroom, where he promptly turns the temperature on the sink all the way to the right and soaks his burning face.

Blown-out pupils stare back at him in the mirror. Chilled water drips down his chin, mixing with the cooling sweat from the rising fire in his stomach.

A public restroom is definitely no place to be uncorking one’s desires, but the violinist is afraid if he doesn’t come up with a solution soon, he won’t have much of a choice in the matter.

Deep breaths, calming visions of black notes marching across a page of sheet music like an army of musically gifted ants. No tune in particular, but what is there is quickly drowned out by the memory of the guitarist’s voice sliding off the tiled walls.

I’m here.

God, why did those hands have to touch him?

Will?

Ragged breaths steam the frigid water from the violinist’s skin, creating a mist of ecstasy that threatens to suffocate him.

Cautious hands flirt with the button to his pants, still hesitating at taking the plunge.

Seriously? Over someone who's barely more than a stranger?

A self-induced whine escapes the violinist’s lips as his hand brushes his still-growing desire through the soft fabric of his cotton pants.

The button moves agonizingly slow past its borders, the only thing holding back the violinist now being a flimsy zipper.

A low, full-body gasp reverberates through the bathroom as the zipper inches downward.

Visions of the guitarist’s hands crawl across Willem’s body, touching every corner, exploring the smooth curve of his back, the softness of his lips, the thin bones in his hands, and even the rough patchwork of skin that has bubbled and festered.

You’re beautiful.

Everything stops.

The violinist looks down and sees the discolored splotches scattered across his left hand. His touch moving from his eros up to where he knows the tarnish continues onto his face.

The mind can be so cruel.

He almost forgot—no one would want someone who looks like him.

The heat drains from him, shame filling the space it leaves behind.

Willem tugs his sleeve down over his hand, presses his knees together, and tries to breathe like nothing happened.

After all, how would Vance feel knowing he showed up in the delusions of someone like Willem?

A few minutes and another splash of cold water give the violinist the stability he needs. Clearing away the last of his hunger.

Willem swings open the door, a mess of shaggy blonde hair nearly falling into him. Vance catches himself on the doorframe, eyes wide, cheeks flushed, causing both of them to freeze in place.

The guitarist offers a sheepish grin, almost looking apologetic. “Sorry, I was just—um—are you ready to go?” Vance fumbles through his words as he straightens, holding up his newly plated finger as if to say, ‘because I am.’

Willem offers a shy nod and leads the way down the hall and out of the clinic.

“I’m inviting them to the concert.”

A shrill screech splits the room as the violinist’s bow catches the bridge. Willem’s focus skips over to the pianist, who throws him a disgusted expression at the noise he just emitted.

“That was awful.” The pianist curls up her nose, popping an almond in her mouth. Her phone lit with messages—mostly gray with a few short blue replies.

Surely she doesn’t mean Vance and his band... right?

But who else could it be? They’re the only people the two of them know mutually.

Barely know at that.

A low chord rings out, commanding the violinist’s attention. “Earth to Willem.” Jeannie waves her salt-dusted fingers in front of his face, being sure she can’t be ignored.

“What?” The violinist questions after coming up short with context clues to the pianist’s one-sided conversation.

“I said—do you have any more guest tickets you’re not using that we could pass on to those guys from yesterday?” Another almond finds its way to her mouth.

“Guys from yesterday?” The violinist plucks loose hairs from his bow, eyes fixed anywhere but hers.

“Yeah, you know, Caleb and his band.”

“...Cody?”

The pianist pauses. “Was that his name? Anyway, apparently they all want to come to tomorrow night’s performance.”

The violinist shifts his weight, picking at the small broken hairs left behind. His voice quiet and casual, “All of them?”

The pianist freezes mid-almond, her eyes lifting slowly from her screen—landing squarely on the violinist. Willem flinches at the analyzing gaze sweeping over him—from top to bottom—before landing on his face, which feels about a thousand degrees warmer than usual.

“Willem,” she starts slowly. “What happened between you and that guitar player after I left?”

Something stirs in the violinist’s chest.

A late-night walk that made him feel nervous. Not the sinking kind that makes you want to run away—but the kind that flutters in your gut, causing you to slow down and greedily ask for more.

An awkward conversation in his home—turned tender with gratitude.

And that intoxicating moment at the hospital that knocked the breath from his lungs.

What did happen between them?

The conversations were mundane—just scaffolding, meant to hold something bigger, something that hasn’t been built yet. But how does one explain the floating feeling still lingering behind the violinist’s ribs? The one that causes his organs to shift and rise, getting caught in his throat, cutting off the air supply to his lungs.

Soft taps on his forehead pull Willem back. Curious eyes observing him—as if rewatching the memories right alongside him.

A smile curls on the pianist’s face, most likely coming to the same conclusion the violinist is starting to piece together. “Oh, Willem... you’ve got it bad.”

The pianist’s phone glows with a notification, spreading her smile wider—and heating the violinist’s face to a thousand and one.

After straightening his tie for the third time in ten minutes, the violinist peeks out from stage left—directly into the guest section. Parents, children, lovers, all present and dressed in lavish ensembles. It makes the group of young men, who decided dark-wash jeans were appropriate, stand out even more.

Four of the group members sit respectfully, chatting amongst themselves—completely oblivious to the scowls they were receiving.

The violinist fidgets with his tie again, loosening the knot just enough to escape the heat coming from the stage lights—and his own nerves.

“Are they here yet?” The violinist starts at the sudden voice beside him.

The pianist joins him at the edge of the curtain. The violinist watches as her eyes find the outliers, amusement curling on her lips—before quickly being replaced by a set of knitted brows.

“Where’s their guitarist?”

The violinist releases his tie, his hand becoming dead weight at his side.

Without a word, he turns and heads back to the preparation room. There are still ten minutes left to practice.

Perfectly tuned notes pour from the violinist’s strings, bouncing wall to wall, wholly filling the space of the music room—a barrier against the encroaching disappointment.

What was he expecting anyways?

Some white horse entrance? Flowers? A dramatic declaration of love at first sight?

Ridiculous.

Why would someone like Vance—the human embodiment of a trashy 2000s romance novel cover—ever look twice at him?

A consistent rhythm of notes continues to play out, replacing the ones fading away in the corner.

Who in their right mind would be happy being pined after by a short, music-obsessed, disfigured mess of a person like him?

No, Vance deserved better—he must have realized that too. His absence being enough of a sign for the violinist to take the hint.

The final notes of his practice hang in the air—as if pausing to witness the violinist’s quiet unraveling over a near-stranger.

“Willem.” An unusually gentle voice from Jeannie drifts from the door. Threatening to burst the protective bubble he’s built. “We’re lining up—it’s time to go.”

One last reality check settles into his chest, building a sturdy home of brick to make sure nothing can get through.

A simple nod, and off to the stage the two musicians go.

Bright lights bathe the performers, casting the violinist’s face into full view. Soft whispers scattering in the darkened crowd. Their identities being swept away.

No ‘special guests,’ no ‘friends’ or ‘family.’ Just strangers, shadowed and indistinct.

Except one.

Long, tousled blonde hair bouncing as it rushes down the aisle—apologizing to the other audience members as he squeezes down the row—carrying a guitar case on his back.

#original fiction #mlm slow burn #hurt comfort #emotional intimacy #awkward flirting #quiet pining #oc romance #writeblr #fictionblr #creative writing #the musicians heart

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nom-ici · 1 month ago

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the lovers almanac : part two

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nom-ici · 1 month ago

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“It’s okay. I’m here.” A simple fact. Only four words—but the stress lines on Willem’s face relax immediately.

🎸 Part 1 | 🎻 Part 2 | 🎸 Part 3

The Musicians' Heart - Letting Him Inside

A sting pulses through Vance’s face as a soaked cotton ball presses against the open wound on his eyebrow.

“Damn, that hurts!” A curse slips from his mouth.

The violinist says nothing, simply continuing to tend the injury.

The guitarist had been offered a ride to the hospital by the paramedics but quickly turned it down after roughly calculating what a trip like that would cost him. Besides, the other guy definitely needed that ride more than he did.

The situation was resolved fairly quickly when the building security showed up and shared the security tapes with the cops. The violinist and the guitarist were asked to make a report in the morning and then were promptly left to their own devices for the rest of the night.

“Fuck, seriously?!” He yelps as another spot is prodded.

The violinist glares down at the guitarist in his seated position. Taking the hint, the guitarist zips his lip and settles for glancing around the room, trying to distract himself from the tingle left behind as the cotton ball is replaced with a bandage.

Shelves full of thick books line the walls of the immaculately clean living room. Vance can’t quite make out the titles—half of them seem to be in another language.

“You must really love reading.” Vance sneaks a cautious glance at the violinist as he begins wrapping his bruised knuckles with practiced ease.

Without meeting the guitarist’s gaze, Willem responds flatly, “They’re my younger sister’s. She’s studying to teach in France.”

The guitarist nods, continuing his visual exploration.

Soft white furniture, paired with sky-blue accents. A French cookbook sits on the kitchen counter across from where he’s seated. A plush hallway runner leads down toward closed doors. Modern-styled knickknacks resting in random corners. Honestly—a fairly normal home for what the guitarist imagines from a family living in this part of the city.

One thing makes him pause, though—there are no family photos.

“That was really stupid.”

The guitarist refocuses on the violinist, who has moved on to Vance’s other hand.

“Why would you go up against someone like that?” The violinist’s brows knit together. “Especially for someone you don’t even know?”

A pang rings in the guitarist’s chest, its vibration blooming heat in his cheeks.

“Ya know, to be fair, most people don’t actually fight back when they see me.” A boastful smirk spreads across the guitarist’s face. And it’s true—when you look like you know your way around a fight, people usually hightail it out of there rather than throw the first punch.

A frustrated glare is returned.

The guitarist’s smile slips away slowly, and the two sit in silence—nothing but the hush of midnight traffic occasionally drifting through the windows.

“You looked scared,” Vance whispers—not really for anyone to hear, just to break the silence that’s stretching too long for his comfort.

“Who wouldn’t be in that situation?”

“I know, it’s just—”

A sharp tug on the bandage cuts off the guitarist’s words, replacing them with a fresh string of curses and a few self-inflicted punches to his thigh—trying to split the pain between two surfaces.

“Your finger is definitely broken.” The violinist’s lashes flutter up, meeting the guitarist’s eyes. “You should have gone to the hospital.”

Another power ballad—I’ll Be There For You by Bon Jovi—slips its way into Vance’s chest.

A quick cough to drown out the music. “Right, do you have any idea how expensive those hospital visits are—”

Shit.

The violinist's eyes flick away. His unscarred hand reaching to cover the disfigurement on the other one.

Responses rush through the guitarist’s head to try and put out the fire—fuck, not fire—seriously, why is it so hard to say the right thing around this guy?

Willem stands, gripping the oversized medical supply box, clearly finished with this conversation... and with Vance.

“That should hold it in place for the night, but you need to go to the doctor in the morning and get it properly splinted.”

Vance shoots up, grabbing the violinist’s arm to stop him from leaving. The surprised look on Willem’s face snaps the guitarist back to reality, causing him to just as quickly let go.

“Sorry—I mean, about—well, and also that—”

Heat blooms in large red patches on the guitarist’s cheeks as he keeps his hands busy twirling the ends of his hair.

The violinist shifts his weight to his back leg—still rooted in place, but adding just enough distance to be felt.

“It’s fine.” The words float out, soft and distant—which only makes it clearer that it is, in fact, not fine. “It’s late. You should probably get back home.”

An awkward laugh escapes the guitarist, unconsciously trying to ease the tension he created—and buffer the blow to his pride over the fact that he’s getting kicked out of someone’s home.

“Right, yeah... gotta get home,”

Willem’s eyes drift away from the guitarist and firmly seals his lips shut.

With a quick goodbye, Vance pivots on his heels and heads for the door—determined not to overstay his welcome more than he clearly already has. His movement halting at the sound of rushed footsteps behind him.

“Thank you!” The violinist swings around the corner, flustered. “You helped me—even though you got hurt.” The guitarist has completely forgotten about his throbbing hand. “It was stupid—especially since you have a performance coming up—but thank you.”

Shy eyes dart around him, too abashed to meet his gaze.

Gulping down whatever dumb response he might’ve said, the guitarist offers a soft, sincere smile—lifting just slightly higher on the right side—and a quiet goodnight as he reaches for the handle. His pulse echoes louder in his ears, seducing him to turn back around.

The door clicks open, gentle but final—separating the guitarist from the temptation of whatever these feelings are.

Thank you.

The violinist’s delicate voice sails through the night breeze, never dissipating—just trailing the guitarist like a ghost, nesting in his head and drowning out every song that could have fit this moment.

A flirtatious giggle cuts through the audio hallucinations, pulling the guitarist’s attention to a young woman whispering into her friend’s ear—her gaze fixed on Vance as they cross paths.

The guitarist thinks back to the last time he shared a night with a woman—yeah, it’s been a while. He was never much for casual hookups, but maybe this was just the noise he needed to drown out the siren song he can’t shake.

Making up his mind, the guitarist approaches the young woman and confirms the mutual interest. A sweet word from him, a firm touch to his elbow from her—and just like that, her hands find their way around the guitarist’s neck, tantalizing fingers tangling themselves in his hair, and a delicious fantasy being whispered into his ear.

Warm, soft skin presses against the guitarist’s chest. A sliver of light sneaks through the curtains—an unintentional morning wake-up call. The body beside him rustles, catching him a little off guard. Not many impromptu nights like this carry over into the morning. Although, admittedly, a free hotel room would be hard to pass up for anyone.

Rising slowly, careful not to wake his bedmate, Vance searches for his discarded clothes, stepping over the remnants of last night. A gentle shuffle causing him to take pause as he wiggles his way back into his pants, being careful to avoid any unnecessary use of his bandaged hand.

The woman still sleeps soundly. She simply moves further down into the warmed comforter.

After a quick rinse in the bathroom, Vance pulls out enough cash to cover the room, scribbles a quick morning goodbye message on a lined notepad, and heads out toward the police station.

The walk doesn’t take too long, and it gives the guitarist time to clear his head from last night’s escapades. Normally he’s not a ‘dine-and-dash’ kind of guy—but considering the only thing on his mind all night was long, graceful fingers sliding up and down a violin’s neck, it’s probably best not to encourage any potential morning sequels.

The top of the police station pokes out from behind a row of flat-roof buildings, and when the guitarist rounds the corner, he’s more than a little relieved not to see the violinist there yet. Still confused by his feelings, Vance can’t help but be perplexed by the tightness in his chest whenever he's around the violinist, mostly because he thinks he might, sorta, kinda, almost, maybe... like it?

Anyways, at least he doesn’t have to see—

“Oh, good morning, Vance.”

There it is—that light, airy voice that drifted through his thoughts all night.

Dammit.

Willem lets the door to the police station swing shut behind him as he meets Vance at the foot of the stairs.

“What are you doing here?” A head tilt—genuine, curious, and unintentionally adorable—follows.

A gulp slides down the guitarist’s throat, trying to drown the nerves bubbling upward.

“We were told to make a police report in the morning—so… here I am.”

An awkward shrug curls up on Vance’s shoulders and, honestly, he’d really just like to crawl under a rock right now.

“I just finished up in there, so you don’t—”

The violinist’s eyes wander downward, catching on Vance’s bandaged finger.

A quick hand darting out to grip the guitarist’s palm—which immediately warms at the touch.

“What did you do to your finger?” A concerned voice presents itself as the violinist gently examines the guitarist’s bandages.

Vance hadn’t really looked at his injury this morning, but seeing it now… yeah, the concern is probably warranted.

The bandage, no longer tight enough to support the makeshift splint, has allowed his pointer finger to bend slightly at an odd angle.

Nothing too concerning—except maybe the color.

Black and blue blotches have spread across the finger, making it look like some kind of black hole, ready to suck in everything around it.

Without a word, the violinist spins the guitarist around and starts steering him in the direction of the hospital.

The waiting room is packed with patients suffering from varying degrees of ailments. Children crying of sore stomachs while clutching to their parents, men coughing so violently that their feet threaten an earthquake from stomping on the ground, and a woman—who seems perfectly fine—argues with the front desk about the long wait time.

The guitarist can’t help feeling like he’s taking up space meant for someone who needs it more.

He’s dealt with worse—just ice and a towel to bite down on. No big deal.

Evidence of his reckless years lingers in crooked fingers, a half-deaf ear, and a shoulder that predicts the weather through aches and pops. But it’s hard to say no to someone who so genuinely wants to help.

A surprised gasp bursts from the check-in counter, followed by a flood of apologies.

Willem returns with medical history paperwork and a pen topped with a large plastic flower.

“What was that all about?” Vance peeks around the violinist to see a tight group of nurses huddled around the front desk staff, whispering with flicking glances in the violinist’s direction.

“It doesn’t matter.” Willem pulls his attention back. “It’s nothing I’m not used to.”

A sourness coils in the guitarist’s stomach—a mix of freshly squeezed lemon and vinegar. He’s not sure where it’s coming from, but the sight of the violinist tipping his face downward to hide half of it in his palm causes the mixture to bubble and foam.

A sharp clipboard click jolts the receptionist to attention—a mild tint finding its way to her cheeks.

The sourness worms through his veins, fueling his expression, his movement, his words.

“Next time, I suggest waiting until the guest leaves before gossiping with your coworkers.”

The redness drains into pale blue. She doesn’t get a chance to respond before the guitarist sits back down.

Another curious head tilt questions the guitarist.

Vance lets out a quiet chuckle at just how endearing that gesture is becoming.

“You should come in with me when they call.”

A series of confused blinks follows.

“It’s too crowded out here, and it won’t take long anyway.”

After a moment, Willem nods—small, but confirming.

The sourness settles.

Over an hour later, the two men are finally escorted into a private room where they wait, again, for a doctor to arrive.

The guitarist wanders—opening small glass jars full of cotton balls and tongue depressors, pulling out a rubber glove, then promptly trying to shove it back in the box, adjusting the pillow at the head of the exam bed, basically anything to keep him moving in the tightly packed room.

The violinist, meanwhile, squirms in his seat—eyes flicking to the medical posters on the wall.

“You good?”

Vance keeps his tone casual.

The violinist’s panicked gaze settles onto him.

“I don’t really like doctors’ offices.”

The words are small, like the last droplet of water falling from a sink—rippling into the filtered air of the room.

The guitarist breathes deep, collecting himself before trying to help the man in front of him.

Bending at the knee, Vance meets Willem at his level.

“It’s okay. I’m here.”

A simple fact.

Only four words—but the stress lines on Willem’s face relax immediately.

The room falls away, leaving the two of them alone in an endless void. And yet, there is a warmth that envelops them as if they are all each other needs.

The space between them narrows as Vance’s hand drifts toward the rough divots and valleys of Willem’s scarred skin.

A knock floods their void with light, chilling their breaths.

Vance’s hand freezes mid-air.

“Good afternoon, Va—oh, I’m sorry.”

A generic-looking doctor enters the room, clipboard held at eye level, pausing at the scene in front of him.

The guitarist stands from his squatted position, fully breaking any lingering hopefulness of a connection. As the doctor awkwardly shuffles in, Vance glances back toward the violinist and stiffens at the sight below.

A deep pink spread over every inch of visible skin, turning the violinist into a perfectly ripe raspberry. The sweetness wholly engulfing every last trace of sour in Vance’s bloodstream.

Patti Smith’s Dancing Barefoot rings through his mind—though, as always, no one besides the guitarist can hear it.

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Musical inspiration - Dancing Barefoot by Patti Smith

#the musicians heart #original fiction #musicfic #violinist oc #guitarist oc #creative writing #slow burn #writing community #musician au #writeblr #character driven #original story #fictionblr #music lovers #Youtube

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The Musicians' Heart - Getting to Know You

“Come on,” the violinist asks again. “Your hands.” To avoid any more awkwardness, the guitarist complies—his fingertips warming as they’re examined and squeezed by thin, elegant fingers. The warmth finds its way to the guitarist’s cheeks as the violinist moves closer, rubbing at the guitarist’s calluses. The violinist hums as he comes to a conclusion. “You’re a guitarist.”

⚠️ Content notes: This chapter includes references to facial scarring and subtle social discomfort. Nothing graphic, but please read with care.

🎸 Part 1 | 🎻 Part 2

The guitarist has always believed there’s a song for every moment. Life just creating a long-running playlist. Usually, his is all grit, featuring dirty licks and dive-bar static—Beck, the Sex Pistols, Nirvana. But right now, looking in the pine-green eyes standing above him, that playlist takes a nosedive into classic rock, headlining Crazy by Aerosmith blasting full volume from his chest.

The guitarist doesn’t quite understand the feeling. It’s warm, like spring; tight like a vice; and is making his heart rate skyrocket... What the hell is happening to him?

“What are you doing here?” A gray voice addresses the guitarist.

The rest of the group shifts their attention from the still fuming woman to the violinist, whose eyes are thoroughly locked onto the man below him.

The guitarist’s dry tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth as he attempts to form a response. Nothing comes out.

The man on stage repositions his gaze to the rest of the band, and the room tightens.

They’re all focused on the violinist now, but not like the guitarist is.

The guitarist feels something blooming in his chest, stupid and loud. The others? Their eyes skate away. Avoid the violinist’s face. Like they’re scared of what they’ll see if they look too long.

“Sorry about that, man.” The singer steps forward, taking his designated position as the voice of the group. “We were just trying to check out our stage for next week. We didn’t mean to cut off your flow.” A nervous laughter holds itself in the air, no one joining in.

The pause between the two dries out the space around them. “I don’t really care if you guys are here—” The violinist’s eyes shift back.

...Starship’s Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now queues itself from the guitarist’s burning gut.

“Just keep it down. We’re trying to practice.” With that, the violinist turns his back to his audience and raises his instrument to its starting position once more.

The singer starts nudging everyone toward the door, murmuring something about space. No one budges. Not even their young keyboardist—who is known in the group as a grade A ass-kisser. After a beat, the singer gives up and turns back around, joining the rest of them in enjoying the performance.

The violinist starts them off in different sections of the same song, making slight adjustments to his playing each time, screwing his brows together whenever something seems off.

One part in particular, a slow-tempoed segment, they play for a third time now—the violinist clearly hearing something the pianist isn’t.

“She’s not holding the last chord long enough,” the guitarist mutters—immediately catching an elbow in the ribs and an edged look from the singer beside him.

Looking up, the guitarist finds two pairs of eyes fixed on him.

“Hey—” the pianist pipes up first.

“He’s right.” The woman pauses, glancing toward her stage partner’s voice, who in turn keeps his eyes forward. “I’ll match you, just keep playing how you are.”

“Your way sounded better, though.” The guitarist was ready this time, stepping forward toward the stage before another elbow found him. “It gives the music more room to breathe.”

“It doesn’t matter—my way isn’t how the song is played.”

“But—” The guitarist is cut off by a half-lidded glare from above. Everyone returns to their original positions—the guitarist now being held back by a stressed-out band leader, the pianist with prepped fingers, and the violinist lifting his bow over the strings of his instrument.

The frigid air spirals itself through the musicians’ hair as they exit the auditorium together, leaving a rather confused security guard scratching his head as he does a headcount.

An hour as performer and audience seems to have chilled the tension between the two musical groups. Now semi-comfortably exchanging pleasantries—and in the singer’s case, phone numbers—they all head toward the street, the violinist lagging marginally behind.

“Hey, Vance, I think we’re all headed back to my place again tonight—you comin’?” The singer nods his head toward the subway station while addressing the guitarist, who has unconsciously slowed his pace.

“Nah, I should probably get back home. Been a while.” Vance says, hand to the back of his neck. Stealing a glance at the violinist.

The guitarist takes notice of the thickness of the violinist’s hair—even his eyelashes, which he just realized are missing on the scarred side of the man’s face.

The group gathers at the end of the walkway—the guitarist refocusing on the conversation as his band members wave their goodbyes and head out to catch their train.

“I’m grabbing a taxi. Willem, do you want a ride?” The pianist—who Vance earlier found out through an awkward exchange between her and their band’s fearless leader is named Jeannie—checks with the violinist as she stands on the curb to wave over a cab.

“No thanks, my flat is just up the road.” The violinist thumbs towards a row of immaculate apartment buildings lining the streets. He must make a good living as a musician in order to afford anything around here.

Jeannie offers the same to the guitarist, mostly out of courtesy—she’s probably still pissed at him for ‘insulting’ her playing—which the guitarist refuses, claiming to also live not far.

Which isn’t entirely a lie—if you consider a fifty-minute walk ‘not far.’

Mostly, he just wants a few more minutes next to the violinist. No real reason. Not one he’s fully aware of yet, anyways.

Jeannie zips away in her big yellow taxi, and just like that, there were two.

They fall into step without saying much. The silence stretches. Not uncomfortable—just new. Vance risks another glance at Willem. He wants to break it. Say something.

So he does.

“Sooo the violin, huh? How long you been playing?”

Nice.

Willem glances sideways. “I guess my entire life. Lessons before I was even big enough to hold one. I think I could read sheet music before the alphabet.”

A cute, chubby child with messy black hair and a binky in his mouth pops into the guitarist’s head, causing a small grin to appear on his face.

A mist of warm breath floats in the air in front of the violinist as he seems to reminisce about his childhood.

The two’s steps fall into rhythm with each other—the guitarist keeping a slow pace to accommodate the violinist’s shorter stature.

“What about you?” Willem asks quietly. His voice almost lost to the night winds.

“Your friend said you’re performing next week. You must play something.”

The violinist looks forward again, eyes down. Avoiding Vance’s perked-up expression.

The guitarist halts, forcing the violinist’s attention on him. “Can ya guess?” A smirk crosses the guitarist’s face as he opens his arms, inviting the man to inspect him.

Willem tilts his head, looking the guitarist over from top to bottom and then back up to his face. The violinist moves closer, removing his free hand that isn’t carrying his instrument from the comfort of his warm pocket.

“Let me see your hands.”

The guitarist hesitates for a moment as long fingers reach out for him.

The violinist stiffens and quickly trades his instrument to his open hand—presenting his right palm instead.

“Wait—no, I didn’t—”

“It’s fine,” Willem lets out another warm breathed cloud “It can be uncomfortable to touch.”

Guilt buries itself in the guitarist’s chest as the violinist further hides his scarred skin behind his leg.

“Come on,” the violinist asks again. “Your hands.”

To avoid any more awkwardness, the guitarist complies—his fingertips warming as they’re examined and squeezed by thin, elegant fingers. The warmth finds its way to the guitarist’s cheeks as the violinist moves closer, rubbing at the guitarist’s calluses.

The violinist hums as he comes to a conclusion. “You’re a guitarist.”

Vance blinks in surprise. “How did you—”

The violinist points at the guitarist’s hand. “Your calluses. The tips of your fingers are pretty comparable to mine, but you also have them in your palm and even on the side of your thumb.” The guitarist begins to study his hand.

"You could be a bassist," Willem adds, tilting his head. "But you’ve got that look. Like someone who'd die without a spotlight."

Completing his analysis, the violinist turns on his heels and resumes his trek home. The guitarist catches up to him, still holding his hand out in amazement.

Their pace slows as the two reach a lofty glass building.

“This is me.” The violinist hesitates awkwardly, as if not knowing what to do now. They barely know each other so goodbyes don’t feel natural—but they did just walk twenty minutes together so simply leaving also doesn’t feel right either.

The violinist seems to come up with a solution as he turns towards the guitarist, freezing in place. The guitarist—confused by the shocked expression in the violinist’s eyes—turns to follow his gaze. Behind him, a tall, foreboding man steps out of an expensive-looking car parked on the side of the road.

The guitarist’s attention flicks back to the violinist, halting at the wide-eyed fear that’s fixed on the man in front of them.

A sharp clink echoes up the road toward them as a silver baseball bat casually strikes the cement.

“There you are, Willem.” The man saunters over—a deep hatred fixing itself on his brow. “I’ve been waiting for you all night. Out for a little late-night practice session?”

Vance isn’t sure what’s going on but the strain in the air isn’t exactly a welcoming sign.

The guitarist shifts his position, standing between the approaching man and the violinist.

“Is this your new partner?” The guitarist removes his hands from his pockets, his uneasiness rising as the man continues to talk in a crazed tone. “Is this the piece of shit the conductor replaced me with?”

Ah, the pieces are starting to fall into place now.

"You’re the one who never listened. To me, or any of your accompaniments, for that matter. And I’m the one who gets cut? Explain that." Slow steps continue forward.

The metal bat scrapes across the ground, kicking up small sparks that dance with anticipation.

“Do you have any idea how important this gig was for me? This was my last chance to convince my family that this was all worth it, and you took that away from me!”

The guitarist steps forward, meeting the menacing man halfway to keep him from getting any closer.

“Oh, are you his guard dog too?” The man raises the bat next to the guitarist to point at the trembling violinist behind him. “You know, if you’re really good, I hear he may even sleep with you.”

Heat rises to the top of the guitarist’s head, burning a hole in his restraint. A forceful shove being transferred to the bat-wielding psychopath, pushing him back a few steps.

A crisp laugh fills the air along with a nonchalant shift between the lunatic’s feet—and just like that, the bat swings.

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Musical inspiration - Crazy by Aerosmith

#the musicians heart #original fiction #musicfic #violinist oc #guitarist oc #creative writing #slow burn #writing community #musician au #writeblr #short story #character driven #original story #fictionblr #music lovers

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#every little thing is gonna be alright

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⚠️ Content Notes: This story contains mentions of past trauma (fire), physical scarring, and characters struggling with their relationship to food. Nothing graphic, but please read with care. 💙

The Musicians' Heart - The Violinist

“Stop, stop, stop!” The music cuts off with waving hands and a heavy sigh.

“Willem, you’re leaving him in the dust. This is a duet. You have to work with your partner.” The conductor pinches the bridge of his nose, making no attempt to hide his frustration.

The violinist’s instrument hangs loosely in his hands, as if trying to catch a breath itself. The violinist offers a monotoned apology, promising to improve on their next run-through.

Another frustrated sigh and the conductor dismisses everyone for lunch. A little early. Then again—they’ve been rehearsing since late the night before, so the break is probably warranted. The violinist mulls over their last attempt and tries to piece together where his tempo is failing him. Maybe he can fix it while everyone else is on break.

The conductor’s voice sneaks its way behind the violinist, who is now plucking out a particularly difficult measure. “Skipping another meal? You didn’t eat anything last night and barely ate anything this morning.” A peach presents itself from the conductor’s hand. “You’re making people worry.”

The violinist looks at the flavorless fruit and decides to take it—anything to convince the conductor to let him get back to practicing. The soft skin bursts an uninspired tang into his mouth. He doesn’t much care for peaches, even on a good day—let alone when they’re not in season—but he supposes the conductor may be right. He needs fuel to play, so down the hatch.

While eating, the violinist continues to think over the piece. Paganini was by no means an easy composer to grasp. With the shifting melodies and tonal changes, the piece can get away from him if he isn’t careful. Especially when the violinist really sinks into the composition. When that fuzzy feeling takes over his mind and the whole world goes dark around him. He’s tried to ground himself before in order to match his ensemble, but that resulted in a lackluster performance that no one was happy with. The audience may have cheered, but in reality, what else are you supposed to do at a concert? It’s just common courtesy.

“Listen, Willem—” Damn, it’s happening again. “Your partner has brought up some...concerns.” They’re less than a week away from the show; he can’t do this to him. “And frankly, I have to agree with him.”

The violinist looks down at the half-eaten peach—the bitter pit now poking through. The conductor is still talking but the sound is just a garbled mess outside the violinist’s head. He’s had this same conversation so many times at this point that he practically has the script memorized. ‘They’re struggling to keep up with you’, ‘You’re just not made to be part of a duet’, ‘How do you expect to perform with anyone if you refuse to listen to them’. He’s heard it all, and truthfully—he would just like this conversation to end already so he can get back to practicing.

“Who’s my new partner?”

The conductor blinks—obviously caught mid-lecture by the way his finger is pointed in the air and his mouth is hanging open. “I’m sorry?”

“Sir, I understand, and I apologize, but the performance is four days away, and if we don’t find someone soon, then there won’t be enough time to change the pamphlets.” The reasoning is harsh, but true, and the violinist can see the vein of disapproval bulging up from the conductor's forehead.

“You little—” Their conversation is cut off by a sharp knock on the doorframe.

A woman stands there, boasting long black hair neatly tied in a slicked-back ponytail. Her face is rather beautiful—it could almost cause even the violinist’s heart to skip a beat. You know, if he were interested. “Sorry to interrupt, I was told to meet someone here about an accompaniment?” Her voice is strong, a little lower than average for a woman, which gives her a sexy, commanding vibe.

The violinist glances back to the conductor, who seems to have calmed down from his impending rage. The conductor ushers the woman in and sets her up comfortably at the piano. Shifting through the music sheets, the two discuss the usual bottlenecks as the woman nods along and—

Oh.

The violinist quickly swaps the still only half-eaten peach for his discarded bow. With a pop, the violinist picks up the piece a few measures in. Of course, he’s choking up on the bow and not allowing enough of the bouncing texture to take over and it’s causing him to rush the opening. A stupid mistake, most likely from the lack of food and sleep. The violinist makes a mental note to finish the unripe peach after his new bow placement test.

The world starts to fade. The blackness swirling around him, swallowing him up and leaving nothing behind.

As the emptiness creeps up his knees, the violinist hears something. Wait—he hears something.

The dark mist starts to lift. A soft blue light sprinkles around him ever so gently, caressing his ears. The light grows brighter until the violinist is forced to open his eyes—he didn’t even realize they were closed—and finally sees what was able to pull him from himself.

The pianist strikes a chord, perfectly matching the new rhythm the violinist has set forth. The composition continues effortlessly and the violinist can’t help but marvel at how much better Paganini sounds with an accompaniment.

“You know—” The pianist starts while gulping down a freshly cracked beer, “La Campanella is a great song and all, but Paganini was an avid violinist so the arrangement isn’t exactly the most exciting on my part.”

The violinist ponders on this while holding a cooling chicken leg from the fried chicken shop up the road.

“I think we should play Sarasate.” The violinist snaps his attention to the woman who has now claimed her own drumstick.

“You want to...change the piece...with four days until the concert?” The violinist looks at her in disbelief, or perhaps admiration? Not even he is crazy enough to suggest something like this.

“Yeah, why not? You’re definitely good enough for it.” The pianist blots her first three fingers on a grease-stained napkin that she fishes out from the bottom of the to-go bag. “I’ve wanted to play this piece forever but haven’t found anyone willing to put in the time to get it right.” The clean bone is tossed back into the bag to deal with later.

The violinist nods slightly. He ponders what he knows about Sarasate—a Spanish composer, so a little extra flair would be good to add. His compositions can be rather technically challenging, but if done right, they can quickly become a crowd favorite. The violinist was going to have to pull all-nighters basically until the show in order to be ready for a change like this. He's going to need some fuel.

He takes a bite of the fried chicken that has long since become cold. It doesn’t really bother him—food is food after all.

“So—” The violinist’s eyes focus again on the pianist as she raises her finger to the bridge of her nose. “Is it rude of me to ask what happened?”

Ah, right. It hasn’t been long since the accident so the violinist still has a tendency to forget about it unless looking straight in the mirror.

“A fire, about three years ago.” A short answer but most people remember seeing it in the news. The great tragedy, some called it. Two apartment buildings caught fire in the middle of the night, collapsing into each other before the fire department could arrive. Few survived, and the ones who did walked away with permanent reminders of the misfortune.

The violinist continues to add more of the meal to his energy reserves, refusing to meet the pianist’s eyes. He’s tired of the talking about the things he lost—the people he lost. Condolences don’t turn back the clock, and he has other things to worry about right now.

Like, how can he turn four days into at least seven? Maybe if he listens to the piece in his sleep, he can absorb the talent of the ones who performed it before him.

“Can I feel it?”

What?

“What?” The violinist is violently ripped from his thoughts. Surely, he had to have heard that wrong.

“Not to make it weird or anything, it just looks like it has an interesting texture.” The pianist shifts to sit on her feet, propping herself up higher from their seats on the music room’s floor, most likely assuming the violinist will agree.

Nope, he definitely heard that right.

“You want to—feel my scar?”

The pianist gives one solid nod and then waits for his response.

The violinist is slightly taken aback. He’s been asked a lot of questions before—like, a lot—but asking to feel his damaged skin is a new one for sure.

The violinist hesitates for a moment but then leans forward, presenting his disfigurement to the newly familiar stranger.

Pale fingers reach for his nose. Starting from the right side of the bridge, the pianist traces the bubbled skin across to the left side of the violinist’s face, following it back to where it stops just before his ear. The scar travels further down his neck and chest, but the small area seems to satisfy her curiosity.

“It’s softer than I would have thought.” The pianist settles back into a comfortable position, continuing her beer she started earlier.

Was it soft? The violinist has never really taken the time to feel it before.

A shush comes from in front of the violinist as he bonks his head on the doorframe—an incident that could very well be avoided if they would just use a flashlight. Although, that may make sneaking into the auditorium after hours a bit more difficult.

The pianist tiptoes down the hallway, ears perked for any movement from potential security guards.

“It should be just up ahead here.”

The violinist is well aware of where the auditorium is—he only performs there at least once a month—but if the pianist wants to lead them through this low-stakes stealth mission, then so be it.

When the two finally reach the entrance to their future stage, the pianist tries to open the door but is met with a low clunk as it refuses to budge.

“Okay, stand back. I watched a video on how to pick locks before we came here just in case this ended up happening.” The pianist rubs her hands together as if warming up to throw down with the locked door.

The violinist steps in before things get too out of hand, producing a small key that slides in smoothly, freeing the doorway from its unmoving position.

The pianist throws up a confused look, scrunching up her nose and lips.

The violinist responds with a nonchalant shrug—what can he say? He practices here after hours all the time. Usually, he just walks through the front door, but he's willing to shake things up every once in a while.

The lights flicker on with a flip of the switch, and the violinist quickly makes his way toward the stage to unpack his instrument.

“This place is completely booked out until the show, but we could really use a stage rehearsal to make sure the echo doesn’t throw us off.” The pianist joins him and finds her way to the grand piano.

The violinist twists his tuning pegs slightly, adjusting pitch as the pianist settles into her seat.

A quick warm-up, and the duo is ready for their performance.

The piece starts with a slow legato. Smooth, rich notes with heavy vibrato that bleeds ever so slightly into a Spanish style. It’s subtle, but—

Damn. Wrong note.

The violinist knew he needed more than two days before he was ready for a rehearsal practice. Though he’s pretty sure his younger sister was ready to wring his neck if he kept her up another night.

A quick pluck, and he returns to the soft shifts up the neck, stopping short by just a hair on the peak of the scale.

Seriously? He has that part. Maybe the echo really is messing with him.

Since starting to play with the pianist, the violinist hasn’t been allowed to settle in that dark corner of his mind while performing—and it’s been a little overwhelming, to say the least.

The piece picks up. The pianist is keeping up—good. The notes bounce and swell, connecting into an energetic rhythm. The violinist hears the piano weaving beneath the tones. Sharp, deliberate strikes of the keys follow him to the tip of the precipice, getting ready to jump over the edge—

Plop.

The music stills, hanging in the air like a forgotten memory.

Turning toward the noise, the violinist finds an audience—consisting of five uninvited guests—once entranced by the performance, now focused on the source of the interruption—a phone, face-down on the ground, belonging to the shortest of the group.

“What—who are you people?” The pianist startles, likely fearing they were security at first, before actually taking in their appearances.

A collection of layered band tees and ripped clothing—these men were not the typical visitors of this auditorium. One of them—a broad, foreboding figure—was, however, built like someone who could forcibly remove a person if instructed to.

The violinist tries to imagine the tall, built, blond man as a security guard for the music hall. It just doesn’t work. With the way he looks, there must be a gaggle of women at his beck and call at all times. There's no way he would settle for a job like that.

While taking in the mystery man, the man in question twists his gaze toward the violinist, catching him off guard and, if he's being honest, making him feel a little shy.

The violinist holds his gaze.

Who are these people, anyway?

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Musical inspiration - Niccólo Paganini's Violin Concerto in B Minor, III. Rondo “La Campanella”, performed by Eddy Chen and the Singapore Symphony Orchestra

#love story #writing #writing on tumblr #slow burn #original fiction #mlm #writeblr #original writing #romanticism #musicfic #trauma recovery #opposites attract #violinist oc #musician au #the musicians heart

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nom-ici · 2 months ago

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doodling </3

#jayvik #arcane #its too early to be this sad

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nom-ici · 2 months ago

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the lover’s almanac : part one.

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nom-ici · 2 months ago

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The Musicians' Heart - The Guitarist

The late autumns are cold in New York, but for the five men stumbling out of a nameless dive bar at the back of an alley only brave locals dare to find, the biting air is a welcome relief against their cherry-red faces. One man in particular, solidly built and at least half a head taller than everyone else in their group, peels off his ragged denim jacket and stumbles into the brick walls surrounding them. He clutches his guitar case close to his chest in hopes of protecting it from his own stupidity, but finds the task increasingly difficult as the alcohol runs itself deeper through his system.

The other members aren’t faring much better. Maybe accepting every shot donation wasn’t such a solid idea. But it sure did make for one hell of a show—at least the guitarist thinks it did. Everyone shouting their name like some sort of religious chant, women throwing themselves on the low-leveled stage to try and shove their phone numbers into his pockets with the hopes of being able to brag about conquering a rock star. Yeah, it was a good night.

Now sitting on the cool ground, still hugging his guitar case, the guitarist hears his friends calling for him like a pack of hyenas. Their laughs grow louder as they drape themselves over one another’s shoulders and shuffle back toward their fallen comrade.

“Jezzuz, Vani boi,” hiccups break up the singer’s already slurred words into nearly unrecognizable sounds. “You loo—li SHIIIT!” An accusing finger points somewhat in the direction of the guitarist as the ‘T’ is overemphasized. The group bursts out into another laughing fit—or maybe continues the one they were already having? The guitarist isn’t sure—the world is kind of just swimming together at this point.

“Les go—buddy.” Another member, this time the bassist, slurs together while reaching his bony fingers down towards the guitarist’s shoulder. He misses the first time and settles for placing his hand on his head instead, knotting up his blonde shagged hair even further.

The guitarist twists his way up the brick wall, awkwardly pressing his shoulder and head against it to create some leverage, still clutching his guitar tightly against himself.

The group slots the guitarist into the middle of their line of drunk idiots, adding him to their rhythmic sway. Man, even their drunken steps seem on beat—music must just run through their veins.

Their steps were, in fact, not on any beat at all.

Damn, that morning light is harsh. The guitarist makes a mental note to invest in a set of blackout curtains as he rolls to his side, trying to escape the painful awakening.

The bed stops short, and the guitarist finds himself face-first on the hardwood floor, groaning into a pair of dirty socks he most likely discarded in the middle of the night. Wait—those don’t smell like his socks.

He whips his head up—maybe a little too fast, judging by the spike of pain that shoots through his brain, and squints with one eye to take in his surroundings. He finds three other lumps curled up on the floor, covering up with their old hand-me-down jackets.

Ah—they must be at Cody’s house. His is the only place big enough to fit all of them. The guitarist stands on unsteady legs—slowly this time, to avoid another lightning strike through his head, and shuffles his way over to the open blinds. He spins the blinds closed and moves the blankets from the bed to the hungover trio whose faces are now relaxing into the dim shadows and newfound warmth.

Tiptoeing over, the guitarist grips the doorframe and pushes his way out towards the kitchen.

The singer is found perched on one of his mismatched barstools, nursing a cup of black coffee, curled up inside a thin fringed blanket with a picture stitched across it of his face from a rather unflattering photo of him singing at one of their shows—a Secret Santa gift that had the whole band in tears laughing last year.

The guitarist meanders his way to the coffee pot and pours himself a cup, taking in the aroma of liquid energy after a long, drunken night.

“You’re up early.” The guitarist turns around towards his friend with his whole body to avoid having to move his head too much.

“Yeah, I fell into your dirty-ass socks this morning. That’ll give anyone a wake-up call.”

The two laugh—then promptly clutch their aching heads, going back and forth swearing to each other they’ll never drink like that again—a promise made many a time and yet never kept.

The two men sit next to each other, staring out into the brown liquid as if a prophecy is about to reveal itself.

The singer, Cody, clears his throat of last night’s phlegm before trying to speak. “We’ve got that big show at the fancy-schmancy auditorium in a few days.” He finally breaks his thousand-yard stare to take another sip. “I think we should go check it out either tonight or tomorrow so we can get our bearings.” Another sip. “The music director said we’re welcome anytime after hours as long as we’re respectful.”

This guy does know who his band members are, right?

The guitarist continues to stare down, enjoying the warmth from the cup. “Why the hell are we having a concert in that place again? It doesn’t exactly scream ‘punk-rock band,’ if I’m being honest.”

“Something about cultural exchange or some bullshit like that. I don’t know, man—all I know is we’ve got a shit ton of fans ready to blow the roof off that place and a fat check waiting for us on our way out.”

The guitarist twists his lips in thought, then finally brings the mug up for a sip. Damn, already cold.

After an eventful morning of the other three dimwits fighting each other to shove their heads in the toilet, and taking the better part of the day to nurse their hangovers, the crew finally heads toward the venue.

Following about an hour-long train ride—including two rail changes—the five musicians finally arrive at their destination. The venue had closed to the public about 45 minutes earlier, but with a huff from a disgruntled security guard, who was informed of the band's planned arrival by the music director, the group is let in through a small side door leading into a dark maintenance hallway.

The guard receives a call on his radio—apparently a group of teenagers is loitering out front. The guitarist can’t help but wonder if maybe it’s some of their fans trying to find the best place to camp out before the show in a few days. The guard leaves them and warns them with a stern look to not touch anything and instructions on how to get to their stage.

The hallway is long, but behind the steel door at the end, a grand domed ceiling reveals itself, its stained-glass panels casting moonlight into the heart of the room, waiting for them.

While the rest of the band continues forward, the guitarist keeps his eyes glued to the night sky, taking one tentative shuffle at a time. When his name is called, his head snaps to attention to see the rest of his group already halfway up the red-carpeted staircase leading up to the second floor.

The five men wind through velvet-floored hallways, bickering over the guard’s directions, when they come across a double-wide door labeled ‘Music Hall 3.’ The singer looks down at his phone to confirm they are indeed in the right spot and grabs the handle to swing open the door.

As the door cracks, an intense and powerful sound begins to bleed out, as if searching for an escape route. The heaviness sinks into the guitarist's chest, causing him to hesitate walking through to the other side. The music wraps around his throat in an unforgiving vise grip—suffocating, yet wildly enticing

Taking a deep breath, the guitarist breaks through the sound to join his friends on the other side. All of whom are staring starstruck up towards the stage. Following their gaze, the guitarist finds himself mesmerized by the sight before him.

A trill from long, tender fingers seals the guitarist's fate; he has now been captured as an audience member.

The music picks up with a quick set of chords from the accompanying piano before the elegant man before them takes off at an unbelievable speed of connecting notes on his violin. His bow bouncing effortlessly between strings, creating a scratchy popping sound as the hairs split from each other and seem to dance along with the tune as they fall.

The violinist leans into his solo, the tempo continuing to pick up, threatening to leave the pianist behind. The sound grows louder with every pull of the string and then quiets again just as quickly. His head bobs with his instrument, sending his dark hair flopping back and forth as if the song will be lost to time if not performed with the full force of effort.

As the song swells to the proposed conclusion, a loud clatter cuts the sound waves in the air off, leaving an emptiness behind that has the guitarist holding his breath, hoping to not suck up the energy still buzzing around him.

Everyone’s attention snaps to the source of the echo: the drummer’s phone, now facedown on the patterned linoleum floor.

A screech comes from the stage as the pianist scooches back her chair to come out from behind her instrument. “What—who are you people?” She looks out to the musicians standing at the bottom of the stage and sneers down at them. Whether it being for the interruption or their unrefined appearances, the guitarist would never know.

As the singer tries to offer an apology—and the pianist continues to bat it away—the guitarist shifts his gaze back to the man holding the now silent violin. What he wasn’t expecting, was for the violinist to be staring right back at him.

Through the tanned skin, the sweat collecting under his hairline, and the unimpressed expression boring into him, the first thing the guitarist notices—are his eyes.

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Musical inspiration - Pablo de Sarasate's "Zigeunerweisen," Op. 20, performed by SoHyun Ko

#love story #writing #writing on tumblr #slow burn #original fiction #opposites attract #enemies to lovers #mlm #writeblr #original writing #romanticism #the musicians heart

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