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whatgaviiformes · 2 years ago

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Fic: Muted/Unmuted

Summary: A visit to his brother's university doesn't go as planned - but it's what was needed.

Characters: Virgil, John

Words: 3K

Warnings: depression, hinted.

A/N: I have a small contribution. Look, it's been so long, I'm going to drop this and run. Have 3K of Virgil playing piano.

Or, Read on Ao3

~*~

Muted/Unmuted

The restaurant had a coat check, and that’s how John knew he’d have to use the Tracy name to get himself a table coming in without a reservation like he was. Taking advantage of their privilege wasn’t among his favorite things to do - or any of theirs really - but he made a mental note to donate to a local food kitchen, deciding the time with Virgil was worth him using his name for personal reasons.

“Near the music, if available,” he advised the hostess once he’d handed over his gray overcoat. Though it looked flat on the hanger, it was specially tailored to his silhouette. Around his neck, he continued to wear the long, wide scarf he’d walked in with. It had kept him warm walking through the campus of Denver Tech. Though it was warmer inside the building, he’d carried some of the outside chill with him. He’d been out walking a lot longer than he’d intended - once he’d managed to find the Edwards building from Virgil’s scrawl, one of his suitemates had redirected him into town, here, where Virgil had apparently picked up a last minute shift.

John hadn’t even known that Virgil was working, not with the coursework he had on his plate to keep up with his two majors. But Virgil was like Scott, like John himself, and like their father before them: a man of action. He liked to keep his hands busy.

He couldn’t deny the skip in his step, for it had been too long since he’d had a chance to visit Virgil in person, let alone had the chance to listen to his music live. Gordon or Alan or even Scott would’ve lamented the time lost, especially when the weekend was already so short to begin with, before finding something else to keep themselves busy. But John had arrived earlier than expected and it made him smile to know nothing had really changed about his brother since going their separate ways to University. Virgil would always step up when he was needed.

There was nothing John would rather be doing with his first evening visiting than spending a few hours listening to his brother play the piano. The large textbook adding weight to his satchel reminded him he had his own studying he could do. It would be just like old times - him lounging in the armchair deep in a book and Virgil practicing his scales and arpeggios before launching immediately into whichever piece was his current creative outlet. Sometimes it was the school play, sometimes a competition piece, and for a while his Juilliard entry, back when he thought he might apply.

“I’ll likely settle down here for a while,” he advised the woman seating him as he relieved himself of the weight on his shoulder and placed his bag on the private booth before sliding in himself.

“Of course, Mr. Tracy.”

Privacy curtains blocked out the tables in his periphery, and though he wasn’t directly in front of where Virgil would play, they had secured him a space adjacent to the small stage space with two pianos, currently empty.

He worried not about the clientele, letting the people fade away from his mind. But he was curious about the place his brother spent so much of his time, noting the soft, warm lighting, swirls of cloudy marble for each table counter, and seating cushioned with velvet. The kind of luxury they’d grown up with.

Movement at his left caught his eye as Virgil situated himself at the piano. A black suit, slimming, but not among those specially tailored to his form, gave him the appearance of similar elegance. John recognized it for what it was, a uniform just as much as those worn by the other employees. A tie, nondescript enough that he couldn’t make out its coloring in this light. Though his hair was gelled into his usual coif.

When he noticed John's eyes on him, Virgil gave him a small smile in acknowledgement from across the tables as he flexed his wrists in preparation for his set. John waved back, then opened his textbook to the latest chapter.

The piano keys, pliant under Virgil's capable fingertips, fluttered familiar melodies with the accompaniment of gently clinking glassware and the hum of dinner chatter. For awhile, John lost himself in physics, math, possibility, and theory. A glass of amber, cooled by stone, opened his mind to think a little looser and with a little less pressure sitting behind his brow.

He thanked the server for bringing out his first course and used the opportunity to glance around the room. For as much as he liked to keep to himself, people-watching was among his favorite pastimes. When they were younger, he and Virgil used to make up backstories for the people they encountered. It had been a simple form of entertainment and yet great practice for their respective creative endeavors where they both relied on their powers of observation and expression.

But for all the exercises in years past, his brother stole his gaze this evening, so familiar and yet changed in the months since they'd seen each other last. His face had filled out a little around his high cheekbones, five o'clock shadow a bit more prominent in the evening light. The suit squared his strong shoulders, and it made him seem bigger behind the instrument. Not that Virgil ever seemed small sitting at the piano keys, not with the way he enchanted audiences and conjured emotions in tones.

Virgil was unaware of his prying eyes, his expression locked on the space where his sheet music usually rested. It was blank. Where his fingers flew over the keys with ease, the music itself was beautiful. Light and ever so gentle. But looking over the crowd, enamored with their respective dining partners or focused on the business portions of their dealings that evening, not one gave a care to the direction of the music. So much so that Virgil was practically background; when he paused between songs, there was no applause or acknowledgement to his performance.

John’s antipasto turned in his stomach, the silverware suddenly loudening in his ears in a moment where Virgil paused and caught him looking, no doubt his expression bewildered. Barely a breath, and his brother was back in his set. And this time, with his mind less divided with his schoolwork set to the side, John heard it.

The music was beautiful. That hadn’t changed, and Virgil was as precise as ever.

But it was soulless, as lifeless as the chestnut eyes that refused to meet his.

~*~

Virgil performed two more sets after the first finished, three in total spanning from six to half after nine, with short breaks in between where he scurried somewhere in the back. John tried both times to catch him on his way to the restroom, but both times his brother had eluded him. After the second, a part of him wondered if the disappearing act was intentional.

“Would you like a refill, Mr. Tracy?” a server asked, a gloved hand reaching for his glass of water before he could answer. “Do you know him, sir?” she asked, noticing his gaze during the final set. “The pianist?”

The more he watched, the more he noticed. There was a lack of embellishment, and his heart pounded over the lack of flourishes in the melodies. After a while, every tune started to sound like the same song repeated, Virgil’s movements rote and uninspired.

“No.”

“Oh, well, if you are into music, we have dueling pianos every Thursday night. It’s a bit more lively with two of them.”

“Does V- he ever play?”

“Oh, yes, sometimes he’s on the schedule. But you’ll want to come for Monsieur Allard. Should I see about securing you a reservation this upcoming week, Mr. Tracy?”

John shook his head and broke the news that he was just in town for the weekend, waiting until she’d left to hiss out the breath he’d been holding. It wasn’t the server’s fault that Virgil was playing at barely half his talent, stifled and muted in this space of opulent luxury. It was apparent they didn’t know who Virgil really was, otherwise she wouldn’t have asked. And if John knew his brother, that had been intentional, a place to unwind where he could just play and not be his father’s son with their name marketed for the clientele.

But, oh, the cost. He didn't know everything, yet. He intended to find out, but one thing he knew - this place was bleeding the life from him.

He paid his check long before Virgil finished, loath to linger any longer than he needed to in the restaurant. His meal had been as luxurious as their menu boasted, and though the decadent flavors had turned flavorless in his observations, he sent his compliments to the chef and left a generous tip nonetheless.

Out front, he received in message form. And with that he slung his messenger bag back over his shoulder, retrieved his coat, and happily left the building behind him.

Virgil beamed when he saw him, his arms laden with a garment bag and struggling with his phone. He'd since changed into casual jeans and flannel where the collar peeked through a similar overcoat.

"You made it!" he laughed, pushing off the wall he was leaning on and slinging his free arm around John's thin shoulders.

"A bit early," John admitted, the excitement infectious.

"Come on," Virgil gestured In the direction of campus. "A short walk then we can get you out of the cold."

They walked in step, and Virgil voiced the directions as they went. John had memorized them on his way in the first time, but there was no reason for him to tell Virgil that, especially when the instructions came with storytelling about which classes he had in the buildings they passed or which dormitories had the most drama.

"The arts building is to your left."

John didn't know what to say. He knew Virgil didn't have any classes there; they'd discussed their respective semesters at length this past summer.

Virgil smiled at him, and it seemed genuine.

But those eyes. John couldn't ease the turn in his stomach left by the way they looked through him. The glassiness he'd witnessed was long gone, but that didn't mean whatever was doing that to his brother was resolved.

And they'd seen this before.

"Are you okay?" The words burst out of him. "You'd tell one of us if you weren't, right?"

Virgil's expression crumpled.

John stopped in his tracks, a tentative hand reaching for his elbow "Virgil?"

"Why do you ask?" he replied, spinning toward him.

“You - you just didn’t seem like yourself.” John dropped his hold on him.

Virgil sighed, wincing as the instinct to tug at his hair left residue on his fingers. He rubbed them anxiously on his jeans. “I guess I owe you an explanation.”

“It’s who they want you to be.”

He bowed his head. “I’m Vince Tanner there; I really thought I’d be doing right by mom’s name. I’d be playing after all. Anyway, I’m sorry I didn’t come say hello; they have rules around us approaching the dinner patrons.”

“They what?!”

“Anything on the set list has to be pre-approved, all these crowd pleasers. They all sound the same after a while, you know? And I’m not normally so irritated by repetition; but I can’t even -”

Virgil reached out his hands before him, as if invisible keys had sprung out to answer where the words couldn’t, and he played a tune John couldn’t hear. “I tried once. They said I was too disruptive to the guests.”

John hummed. “What about this Allard person? He any good?”

Virgil snorted. “He sounds sophisticated and smart.”

“Do you get to release any of that,” - he didn’t have the music theory knowledge for the right descriptions, but he knew Virgil understood what he meant - “during the dueling piano nights?”

“No. That whole thing is a joke, and we’re supposed to be there to make Andre sound good. That’s all.”

“Virgil!” At this time of night, the campus was still busy with night owls like themselves or those returning from evening festivities at their party or tavern of choice - some even on their way to. John didn’t care how his voice raised. There was no visible wound, but Virgil was being bled dry nonetheless. “Why do you even show up?”

“Diego called out sick.”

“Not just today. Any day. Why are you letting them do this?”

For that, if Virgil had an answer he didn’t share it, his jaw tight. In the yellow light of the street lamps, his skin turned sallow, and he’d crossed his arms over his chest. To protect himself from the cold or from the conversation, John didn’t know fully. But Virgil always did wear his heart on his sleeve.

“You’ve given me an explanation. Thank you,” John stepped in front of him and grasped him by the shoulders. “But that’s still not an answer.”

“Can you let it go?” Virgil pleaded, his voice small and deflated. “I don’t want to bring this visit down anymore than it has been.”

“No, I can’t.”

He glanced up, his eyes welling. “I’m fi-”

“You’re not.”

“No,” Virgil shook his head finally, “I’m really not.” He tightened his arms around himself, breathing deep to push back the swell of tears threatening to fall. “I’m not okay. I’m not.”

This would be the moment big brother would have wrapped him in a hug, Gordon would’ve done the same long before, and Alan wouldn’t have known to push that hard. But John? John had a different answer. Keeping his hands firmly on his brother’s heaving shoulders, he urged them both out of the walkway and toward the building they’d just passed.

~*~

John let Virgil believe the door had just been open; his rule-abiding would’ve had him running all the way back to Kansas if he’d known they’d broken into the music and arts building. The lock jammer built into his watch was a gift from Parker upon John’s graduation. He hadn’t known if it would work on its own; he’d only had his hope that Denver was as unaware of their security issues as Cambridge. But sure enough, John budged the door open easily and ushered his older brother through the threshold.

After admitting his struggles Virgil had gone silent. That was ok, John knew. At this stage, the music would speak where Virgil couldn’t yet.

“Do you know where the music room is?” he asked him. “That’s ok,” he continued when Virgil shook his head mutedly. “We’ll find it.” To the center seemed to be a concert hall, with a gallery lined along the walls of the surrounding hallways. Likely the classrooms would be further back. John stepped further into the left hall, looking for any indication of whether it was approaching the art wing or the music one.

“Here.” John cocked his head at his brother’s voice, where Virgil was holding the door to the concert hall open and gesturing for John to come back the way he came. “They have a few performances this weekend,” Virgil explained thinly. “I figured the piano might still be here.”

The theater was Virgil’s space, not John’s, and within a few minutes, Virgil had found the controls he needed to give them a bit of light. The grand piano was situated stage right, facing towards the orchestra seating to provide the audience a side view of the instrument and the pianist.

While the audience seating looked much more comfortable, John opted for grabbing one of the chairs set up for the back violins and pulled it closer to Virgil’s side. He wanted to stay close. Virgil hands hovered over the keys. Bright eyes looked over to him, unsure.

“I don’t know where to start.”

“Play something you wanted to play tonight. Something not on the approved setlist.” John couldn’t help the condemnation laced in his words, nor did he try to.

Virgil’s flat smile twitched at the edges, and he huffed in agreement, though the sound was shadowed by a trickle of tones that molded into an elaborate musical story.

Angry and somber, the melody from Virgil’s hands was familiar and the instinct to fill in the poetry of the words overtook him - not enough for John to sing out loud, but with each progressing chord he felt a jolt to his gut.

It was a cry, a song lamenting the loss of times of war.

“It feels so wrong to feel the way I feel when there’s this happening. Every day, when I wake up my thoughts drift to Scott, and I wonder what he’s seen that day. How much worse it must be to be in the thick of all this violence.”

His breath hitched.

“I want to play something that matters.”

A harsh crescendo of notes from Virgil’s left hand. The right continuing the melody, softly while the chord bounced along the auditorium and faded.

“Something mom would be proud of.”

He stopped.

“You know,” John tried. “Others’ experiences don’t negate your own just by being worse. I’m worried for Scott too.”

A flicker of life with a trill, and his hands fell to his sides.

He looked at John. “Every day my decisions feel like mistakes. Would dad be proud of the path I’ve chosen? Would mom understand? I feel so wrong and worthless. All the time.”

“Oh, Virgil.”

He sucked in a breath and turned away, hands poised back above the ivory. “This isn’t going to be pretty.”

“Doesn’t need to be, just make it real.” John leaned forward, then asked if Virgil wanted him to go.

Virgil shook his head. “No. You can stay.”

Vulnerable with the cover of night, in a space sacred to Virgil, emotion poured from him, fragmented at first - anger, sadness, jubilance quieted all too quickly - before they converged into a jumble of sound and frustration.

His soul bled beat after beat. A refrain of Juilliard’s audition pounded from the heart.

Slashed with another, until it was the two melodies speaking to each other before one assimilated the other.

The cry of war mashed with the trill from earlier, turned minor with panic and worry, persisting. Unrelenting - soulless and lifeless.

And then it built back up from a singular note, repeated into a quickened pulse, blurred with discordance, then the themes came back, louder, fiercer. Crescendoed while Virgil’s heart purged itself upon the keys.

Songs from the restaurant cascaded around them, the pretty made furious as it washed over them.

Virgil pushed back from the piano stool, standing, his whole self looming over the the movement of his hands, while he borrowed from the strength of his trembling arms and shoulders and back as he pounded on the instrument - and pounded until the music left them breathless, choked of air until there was only heat and noise. Until -

He broke.

A sob slashed the last chord, and Virgil fell to the stage with a thump of his large form. John tumbled forward to his knees in front of him, the pressure behind his own eyes released from watching. But at least Virgil hadn’t been alone. And as soon as he was near enough, Virgil launched himself at the closest brother he had while John gathered him close and whispered not that he was ok, but that he wouldn't be alone.

#Gavii Scribit #Fic: Muted/Unmuted #Virgil Tracy #John Tracy #thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds fanfiction

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