Ethan Ficathon - Attuned to You (Ethan, Lorne)
For the Ethan Ficathon.
Title: Attuned to You
Characters: Ethan, Lorne
Rating: all audiences
Written for: WickedFox
Request: Lorne, liquor, and a heated discussion about music. Not wanted: Ethan getting beaten up and no use of the word “chaos”.
Beta: Innumerable thanks to silvertedy for her editing and general advice on this.
Note: Ethan is really hard for me to write but I enjoyed the challenge. Putting him with Lorne was not an request I'd ever imagined getting, but was actually nice because it let me present an Ethan we don't generally get to see. I hope you like him as much as I do. And to WickedFox - I don't know if the music discussion is particularly 'heated,' but I hope it works for you.
Ethan leaned against the wall of the booth, a foot up on the bench seat, the other stretched out under the table. A glass of whiskey dangled precariously from his fingertips, a wrist resting on his drawn-up knee. His eyes were closed, his head back, as he listened to the smooth, low vibrations of the tenor saxophone.
He sensed someone’s presence before a word was spoken, and knew instinctively that it was the owner of the club -- a rather flamboyant green demon known as the Host. Ethan wasn’t stupid, he knew where he was and he knew the Host’s reason for stopping at his table.
Ethan kept his eyes closed, and neither man said anything as Lorne dropped onto the seat across from him. For several long minutes they absorbed the music of the band on stage, until Lorne finally broke the silence.
“Hey, handsome, I don’t believe I’ve seen you here before.” Ethan’s lack of a reply didn’t discourage him. “So, this your kind of thing?”
Ethan studied him for a long moment before shaking his head with a sigh and closing his eyes again.
“The music I mean. Not the green skin and horns.” He laughed. “I’ve got my eyes on that hot little number behind the bar. That boy makes a mean sea breeze.” He paused for a moment and Ethan figured he was probably appreciating his ‘hot little number’. “By the way, I’m Lorne. And you would be?”
“Not interested.”
“Well, Mr. Not Interested, what’s your usual auditory poison?”
Ethan was surprised by the question, certain that it wasn’t as simple as it seemed. “Wagner,” he replied with a challenging look.
“Wagner?” Lorne laughed. “Of course. I’m more a fan of Bette and Liza, myself. Or the sweet, honey-thick vocal stylings of Ms. Etta James.”
The way he said James, lengthening the ‘a’ and dropping his voice a few notes, made Ethan smile against his best intentions. “Etta’s not bad. What about Beethoven?”
“Let me guess,” an eyebrow quirked, “Moonlight Sonata. Right?”
Ethan raised an eyebrow in response, but said nothing.
“Thought so. It’s slow and tortured. You look like the slow and tortured type.”
Ethan didn’t fight the tug as his lips quirked into a half-smile, and he nodded before taking a sip of his whiskey.
“You probably like Satie’s Gymnopedie’s, too.”
“Of course.” Ethan blinked slowly, letting his lashes linger on his cheek. “Slow and tortured,” he whispered against the lip of his glass before tossing back the rest of it. The whiskey warmed him, a gentle burn in his throat--slow torture.
Lorne studied him and then nodded, “You play piano.”
Ethan’s eyes snapped open before he could catch himself.
“But you favor the cello and Saint-Saens.”
Ethan schooled his features and relaxed back into the wall. “The cello is the voice of the soul. Emotion at its most raw,” he replied.
“Yet you don’t play.” Like the previous statements, this was not a question.
“No. I ... lacked the ... dedication.” Ethan placed his empty glass on the table and traced the rim with a fingertip. He closed his eyes again, avoiding the knowing look on Lorne’s face, focusing instead on the voice of the woman on stage. She was singing softly in French, a song about love and loss, and Ethan found himself speaking again. Words he’d not thought in years, much less shared. “I wanted to learn the guitar.” He opened his eyes and looked over Lorne’s shoulder at the long fingers of the bass player. “An old friend played. He used to ... sing to me ... when we were younger. Mostly rock n’ roll -- the Stones, The Who, a little Hendricks...” Ethan laughed at the memories. “But every now and then he’d play some ballad, some sappy love song, and I’d tease him mercilessly.”
Lorne’s expression was gentle. He seemed interested in Ethan’s words in a way no one had been in years.
“I always...”
“You always what?”
“I always,” his gaze flicked to Lorne then back to the stage, this time falling on the piano player. “... wanted to sing for him. But my voice isn’t ... lovely enough. His voice was so lovely.”
“I somehow doubt he would have minded.”
The silence settled around them again. Lorne had somehow procured another round of drinks for them. Ethan downed his in one swallow and found it replaced seconds later by another.
“You’re probably right.” The answer hung in the air, so long separated from Lorne’s words.
The singer stepped off the stage for a break, and the band continued on its own. Ethan listened as Lorne hummed softly between sips of his bright red cocktail. This was nice, soothing. It reminded him of nights long gone.
“You should sing for me.”
Ethan opened his eyes and turned an amused gaze on Lorne. “Excuse me?”
“Get up there and sing something. The band knows everything.”
“I thought you were out of that business.”
“This isn’t about business. It’s about love.”
“Love?” Ethan snorted, not convinced.
“You wanted to sing for your lover all those years ago.”
“That was then.”
Lorne rolled his eyes. “Yeah? Well this is now. Sing for him.”
“He’s not here,” Ethan argued.
Lorne was unfazed, “Imagine he is.”
“He’s not my lover anymore.”
“Perhaps he could be again.” Lorne’s quiet words drained all of Ethan’s fight out of him at the hope of a second chance.
Then reality came crashing back. “Not bloody likely.”
“I see peace in you.” At Ethan’s look, he explained. “You don’t have to sing for me, I can already see everything on your face.” Lorne raised his glass as he leaned forward, emphasizing his next words. “Your blank look isn’t as blank as you think, sugar.”
Ethan looked away.
“If he were here right now. And it was just you and the band. What would you sing?”
“I wouldn’t be singing.” He closed his eyes and remembered. “He would.”
“What makes you so sure he still has something to sing about?”
Ethan opened his eyes to glare at Lorne, his words spit out before his mind could censor them. “What do you know?”
“I know a lot’s happened in the world these last few years. I know he was involved. And I know a lot of people met their Maker. But not all of them died.”
Lorne’s gaze was piercing, and Ethan had to look away. He knew what Lorne meant; he’d seen it happen himself. He looked at the stage again and then without another word, he rose and walked to the piano. Motioning toward the keys, he tilted his head in question. The pianist nodded and the band brought its number to a close. The piano player rose from the bench and Ethan took his place.
He stared at the keys for what felt like hours, but couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. He ran his hands the length of the keyboard, not quite touching, until he found his song. Then he began to play. The first few notes fell like lead, his body heavy, his fingers pressing rather than lighting over the keys.
The bass player and drummer joined in, and Ethan closed his eyes and surrendered to the music. He let it seep into him, smooth and sad, slow and tortured, and the words slipped from his lips like kisses.
My funny valentine...
Images of a young man filled his mind, quickly replaced by images from their last encounter. A young man aged, experience weighing heavily on him, but a glimmer of light still in his eyes.
Sweet comic valentine
You make me smile with my heart
He could feel his lover’s lips and hands on his skin and lost himself in the sensation as words and music flowed from him. The club was lost to him as he was transported to another world. His love was listening, watching, smiling.
Stay funny valentine, stay...
Ethan finished the song and rose from the piano bench to find Lorne standing behind him. “Go home,” he ordered with a wink.
“I haven’t--”
“Go.” There was something in his eyes that clicked with Ethan and he nodded. Home. He was going home.
The End
Title: Attuned to You
Characters: Ethan, Lorne
Rating: all audiences
Written for: WickedFox
Request: Lorne, liquor, and a heated discussion about music. Not wanted: Ethan getting beaten up and no use of the word “chaos”.
Beta: Innumerable thanks to silvertedy for her editing and general advice on this.
Note: Ethan is really hard for me to write but I enjoyed the challenge. Putting him with Lorne was not an request I'd ever imagined getting, but was actually nice because it let me present an Ethan we don't generally get to see. I hope you like him as much as I do. And to WickedFox - I don't know if the music discussion is particularly 'heated,' but I hope it works for you.
Ethan leaned against the wall of the booth, a foot up on the bench seat, the other stretched out under the table. A glass of whiskey dangled precariously from his fingertips, a wrist resting on his drawn-up knee. His eyes were closed, his head back, as he listened to the smooth, low vibrations of the tenor saxophone.
He sensed someone’s presence before a word was spoken, and knew instinctively that it was the owner of the club -- a rather flamboyant green demon known as the Host. Ethan wasn’t stupid, he knew where he was and he knew the Host’s reason for stopping at his table.
Ethan kept his eyes closed, and neither man said anything as Lorne dropped onto the seat across from him. For several long minutes they absorbed the music of the band on stage, until Lorne finally broke the silence.
“Hey, handsome, I don’t believe I’ve seen you here before.” Ethan’s lack of a reply didn’t discourage him. “So, this your kind of thing?”
Ethan studied him for a long moment before shaking his head with a sigh and closing his eyes again.
“The music I mean. Not the green skin and horns.” He laughed. “I’ve got my eyes on that hot little number behind the bar. That boy makes a mean sea breeze.” He paused for a moment and Ethan figured he was probably appreciating his ‘hot little number’. “By the way, I’m Lorne. And you would be?”
“Not interested.”
“Well, Mr. Not Interested, what’s your usual auditory poison?”
Ethan was surprised by the question, certain that it wasn’t as simple as it seemed. “Wagner,” he replied with a challenging look.
“Wagner?” Lorne laughed. “Of course. I’m more a fan of Bette and Liza, myself. Or the sweet, honey-thick vocal stylings of Ms. Etta James.”
The way he said James, lengthening the ‘a’ and dropping his voice a few notes, made Ethan smile against his best intentions. “Etta’s not bad. What about Beethoven?”
“Let me guess,” an eyebrow quirked, “Moonlight Sonata. Right?”
Ethan raised an eyebrow in response, but said nothing.
“Thought so. It’s slow and tortured. You look like the slow and tortured type.”
Ethan didn’t fight the tug as his lips quirked into a half-smile, and he nodded before taking a sip of his whiskey.
“You probably like Satie’s Gymnopedie’s, too.”
“Of course.” Ethan blinked slowly, letting his lashes linger on his cheek. “Slow and tortured,” he whispered against the lip of his glass before tossing back the rest of it. The whiskey warmed him, a gentle burn in his throat--slow torture.
Lorne studied him and then nodded, “You play piano.”
Ethan’s eyes snapped open before he could catch himself.
“But you favor the cello and Saint-Saens.”
Ethan schooled his features and relaxed back into the wall. “The cello is the voice of the soul. Emotion at its most raw,” he replied.
“Yet you don’t play.” Like the previous statements, this was not a question.
“No. I ... lacked the ... dedication.” Ethan placed his empty glass on the table and traced the rim with a fingertip. He closed his eyes again, avoiding the knowing look on Lorne’s face, focusing instead on the voice of the woman on stage. She was singing softly in French, a song about love and loss, and Ethan found himself speaking again. Words he’d not thought in years, much less shared. “I wanted to learn the guitar.” He opened his eyes and looked over Lorne’s shoulder at the long fingers of the bass player. “An old friend played. He used to ... sing to me ... when we were younger. Mostly rock n’ roll -- the Stones, The Who, a little Hendricks...” Ethan laughed at the memories. “But every now and then he’d play some ballad, some sappy love song, and I’d tease him mercilessly.”
Lorne’s expression was gentle. He seemed interested in Ethan’s words in a way no one had been in years.
“I always...”
“You always what?”
“I always,” his gaze flicked to Lorne then back to the stage, this time falling on the piano player. “... wanted to sing for him. But my voice isn’t ... lovely enough. His voice was so lovely.”
“I somehow doubt he would have minded.”
The silence settled around them again. Lorne had somehow procured another round of drinks for them. Ethan downed his in one swallow and found it replaced seconds later by another.
“You’re probably right.” The answer hung in the air, so long separated from Lorne’s words.
The singer stepped off the stage for a break, and the band continued on its own. Ethan listened as Lorne hummed softly between sips of his bright red cocktail. This was nice, soothing. It reminded him of nights long gone.
“You should sing for me.”
Ethan opened his eyes and turned an amused gaze on Lorne. “Excuse me?”
“Get up there and sing something. The band knows everything.”
“I thought you were out of that business.”
“This isn’t about business. It’s about love.”
“Love?” Ethan snorted, not convinced.
“You wanted to sing for your lover all those years ago.”
“That was then.”
Lorne rolled his eyes. “Yeah? Well this is now. Sing for him.”
“He’s not here,” Ethan argued.
Lorne was unfazed, “Imagine he is.”
“He’s not my lover anymore.”
“Perhaps he could be again.” Lorne’s quiet words drained all of Ethan’s fight out of him at the hope of a second chance.
Then reality came crashing back. “Not bloody likely.”
“I see peace in you.” At Ethan’s look, he explained. “You don’t have to sing for me, I can already see everything on your face.” Lorne raised his glass as he leaned forward, emphasizing his next words. “Your blank look isn’t as blank as you think, sugar.”
Ethan looked away.
“If he were here right now. And it was just you and the band. What would you sing?”
“I wouldn’t be singing.” He closed his eyes and remembered. “He would.”
“What makes you so sure he still has something to sing about?”
Ethan opened his eyes to glare at Lorne, his words spit out before his mind could censor them. “What do you know?”
“I know a lot’s happened in the world these last few years. I know he was involved. And I know a lot of people met their Maker. But not all of them died.”
Lorne’s gaze was piercing, and Ethan had to look away. He knew what Lorne meant; he’d seen it happen himself. He looked at the stage again and then without another word, he rose and walked to the piano. Motioning toward the keys, he tilted his head in question. The pianist nodded and the band brought its number to a close. The piano player rose from the bench and Ethan took his place.
He stared at the keys for what felt like hours, but couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. He ran his hands the length of the keyboard, not quite touching, until he found his song. Then he began to play. The first few notes fell like lead, his body heavy, his fingers pressing rather than lighting over the keys.
The bass player and drummer joined in, and Ethan closed his eyes and surrendered to the music. He let it seep into him, smooth and sad, slow and tortured, and the words slipped from his lips like kisses.
My funny valentine...
Images of a young man filled his mind, quickly replaced by images from their last encounter. A young man aged, experience weighing heavily on him, but a glimmer of light still in his eyes.
Sweet comic valentine
You make me smile with my heart
He could feel his lover’s lips and hands on his skin and lost himself in the sensation as words and music flowed from him. The club was lost to him as he was transported to another world. His love was listening, watching, smiling.
Stay funny valentine, stay...
Ethan finished the song and rose from the piano bench to find Lorne standing behind him. “Go home,” he ordered with a wink.
“I haven’t--”
“Go.” There was something in his eyes that clicked with Ethan and he nodded. Home. He was going home.
The End