#ignore the. bracket stuff. havent decided on those parts yet lol

[feralghxuls]

THESE BITCHES GAY. OUHHHGHGHGHH

more mountain pov from ch4 of amnesia fic

His eyes fall on Dew’s bass then, leaning quietly against the bedside table, and before he makes a conscious decision he’s stretching a hand out for it and pulling it onto the bed with them. It’s a little tricky to find room for it with Dew taking up so much of his body, but Mountain manages. Carefully, he settles the body of it in the space beside him, gently resting the base of the neck against Dew. He doesn’t stir, so Mountain figures it’s alright. 

It takes him a minute to figure out the miniature amp, studying the dials and symbols until he’s pretty sure he has it set to the lowest possible volume. He braces himself before he plugs it into the bass, fearing the screeching of feedback, but there’s only the softest rumble from the speaker. Mountain has no idea what he’s doing. Dew has tried to teach him the basics a few times, but his fingers are awkward on the fretboard and the strings foreign to his touch. Still, he remembers a couple of basic chords, his fingers shifting into position. He plucks softly at the strings, pleased by the sounds he produces. It’s slow, and he soon runs out of real chords to play and begins making things up. 

Mountain’s fingers begin to pluck at the strings with a rhythm from muscle memory, and realizes it’s the intro of [song]. He smiles to himself, shifting his right hand to rest his wrist on the top of the fretboard and turns his attention to his strumming hand. He experiments the way he’s seen Dew and Aether and Ifrit do, switching between pulling at individual strings and giving them a solid tap with a fingertip. He drums all four fingers along various strings, pleased with the resulting sound, and does it again, with different strings. 

He’s so zoned in on this that he doesn’t realize Dew is awake, not until he shifts to roll most of the way on his back against Mountain’s chest and rolls his head back to look up at him. Mountain pauses, resting his arm against the bass, and lets out a low, pleased chirp at Dew.

“I didn’t ask for that so you could play it,” Dew mumbles, still half asleep, his voice low and rough. It sends a warm, comfortable thrill through Mountain’s chest, reminding him of all the times he’d woken Dew on the tour bus for a pit stop or their arrival at hotels or venues. The rare times Dew had spent nights with Mountain at the hotel, how he’d wake long before Mountain but keep quiet enough that his voice still had that sleepy rasp to it. 

“Mount,” Dew says, nudging him with the back of his head. “You hear me?”

Mountain [vocalizes] in return, and Dew rolls his eyes. 

“Let me up, I’ll show you,” he says, shifting again, starting to sit up as far as he can make it in the circle of Mountain’s arms and the bass in front of him, then stops and turns to give Mountain a pointed look. Reluctantly, Mountain moves the bass out of the way to let Dew up. He settles again on Mountain’s right side, folding his legs between them and scooting a little closer so his knees press against Mountain’s thigh. His fingers are warm on Mountain’s as he adjusts them on the fretboard, moving each one into place and giving the first knuckle a tap each time he’s done placing it. 

Mountain watches Dew move his fingers around for a moment, then shifts to watch his face. His brow is creased in concentration, mouth tense and appearing smaller than usual, jaw tight, the muscle at the hinge jumping as his teeth grind ever so slightly. Finally Dew sits back to look up at him.

“That song you were playing. It’s [song], isn’t it?”

Mountain blinks at him, hope blooming in his chest. He nods, fingers tightening on the neck of the bass. “[song],” he echoes. 

Dew grins at him, his tail flicking up beside him. “It’s playing in my head right now. My part, anyway. I can teach it to you.” He pauses, glancing down, his brow furrowing again, but this time it’s not to concentrate. “If I can remember how. I don’t even know if I put your fingers in the right place.”

Mountain stares at him for a moment, aching to know he can’t fix Dew’s frustration, aching to reach out and touch him. His hand drops without his permission from the fretboard to rest on Dew’s thigh, seeking his hand where it’s busy picking at the claws of his other. Mountain nudges at his palm and Dew lets him take it, but doesn’t look at him, instead staring resolutely at the sheets on the other side of Mountain, his hair falling forward to hide most of his face.

“Here. You try,” Mountain says after a moment. With his free hand, he holds Dew’s bass out to him. When he picks his head up, his hair still obscures half his face, but he reaches to take it. 

His grasp remains hesitant until he has the bass settled across his lap, and then it’s like something clicks into place, his hands settling on the bass like it’s another part of him. Something swells in Mountain’s chest as he watches Dew’s fingers dance on the fretboard, not playing yet, just going through the motions of fingering through a song, thumb tapping the top of the body in what would be his strum patterns. 

Even through the semi-transparent curtain of his hair, Mountain can see the corners of his mouth lift, and the way his scent starts to sweeten the air is achingly familiar. Finally Dew reaches down and begins to strum and pluck at the strings, and Mountain already has the amp in his hand, a question in his eyes.

“Yeah, turn it up,” Dew says, corner of his mouth quirking up. Mountain’s chest goes warm at the sight of it, keeps staring at Dew, turning the dial up slowly while he strums until Dew nods. His gaze lingers before he turns his attention back to his bass. Mountain watches, enraptured, hearing the music as much as he’s feeling it in the vibrations in his chest, under his hand where it still rests on the amp. He picks it up, cradling it in both hands as he watches Dew play, fingers tapping against it with the rhythm of his own part. 

When Dew finishes the song, he holds still for a long moment, head still bent over his bass. Mountain keeps the silence, unwilling to be the one to break it. 

Without lifting his head, Dew says, “I didn’t think I’d be able to do that. Fuckin’...muscle memory shit.”

“Yeah,” Mountain agrees, shaking himself out of his trance. “It’s good.”

“Yeah. It is. I guess. Gonna have to learn lead now, so it’s just a waste of space.” He says it without inflection, but Mountain knows by the tension in his ears and along his shoulders that he’s upset.

“No,” Mountain murmurs. He scours his mind, searching for something that conveys what he wants to say, about how knowing the bass parts will help him on lead guitar, how experience isn’t a waste of space, but all he’s getting is the hazy impression of what he means. The words won’t come, so he just tips his head at Dew and says, “Show me?”

Dew’s eyes flick up to his, fathomless and dark. Wordlessly, he hands the bass over to Mountain, hands settling over his immediately. His hands tremble slightly, but Mountain pretends not to see, instead focusing on keeping his fingers where Dew puts them. 

“There’s one,” he says softly, and adjusts Mountain’s fingers into a new position. “Two.”

“Three.”

“Four. First bar. You know the rhythm. One?”

Mountain watches Dew’s fingers leave his own, heart falling a little at the receding warmth of his touch, but dutifully he puts his fingers into the first position Dew had shown him. 

“Good. Now…” Dew turns his attention to Mountain’s strumming hand, hanging limp against the thick strings. “First beat, strum here and here.”

Mountain plucks softly at the strings he indicates, already shifting his chord hand to the next note, waiting for Dew to show him the strumming pattern. 

“Good. Here, here, and here.” 

Mountain’s chest goes warm at the praise, his ears heating as he obediently follows what Dew shows him, much more haltingly, having to stop entirely to ensure his fingers are in the right position for the next note. He feels Dew’s eyes on him, hears him softly humming the next note or the next few beats of the melody while he’s busy placing his fingers one by one, and then checking that he’s strumming the correct strings. Still, he plays the bar Dew showed him over and over, pausing a little less each time, and when he finally gets it down and plays the whole bar without hesitation, Mountain lifts his head to flash a wide grin at Dew. He smiles back in return, far less reserved than he’d been so far, but it’s still a small smile. Mountain basks in the thrill of finally getting it down for a moment, then he glances down as he gently hands Dew his bass back. 

Dew settles it in his lap, but doesn’t play it. Instead, he runs the pads of his fingers up and down the length of the strings on the fretboard, mouth slightly downturned in an expression that’s not sad, exactly, but more of a look of concentration of the mournful variety. Eventually, he begins to play, running through riffs and solos from various different songs, weaving a strange medley, bridging them together so seamlessly it takes Mountain a few to realize what he’s doing. As he listens closer and learns how Dew transitions between songs, he’s able to identify which section of each song he plays. And then he realizes–

“You’re playing through the setlist,” Mountain says suddenly, but despite the twitch of Dew’s ear towards him, he seems not to have heard. Dew continues playing through the rest of the setlist, and only once the last fading note dies out does he lift his head and fix Mountain with a quiet gaze.

“Was I? Didn’t notice,” Dew mutters. A second later he huffs a breath and his eyes roll briefly and, more sincerely this time, he adds: “Yeah. I know. Figured it out four songs in.”

The sarcasm stings. Mountain holds Dew’s gaze until he feels he can trust his voice not to waver. “You remember?”

Dew shrugs one shoulder, a slight movement. “Dunno. Not really. I can vaguely picture the rehearsal room. Other than that I just…knew I was going through the setlist. Must be something I did a lot, play through the melodies and solos of each song.”

Tension leeches out of Mountain’s body as Dew talks. Reassuring him without admitting that’s what he’s doing. Telling him the sarcasm was only reflex, that he has no ire for Mountain. He nods, rumbling an affirmative sound because he doesn’t know what else to say.