[fic] Duet {8059 PWP}
(note to self: start tagging your posts. now you want to find a particular discussion and you're confusing yourself :E)
cotton candy, because i need a break from The Tenth Diary.
also because they make beautiful music together, baybee XD
People who play musical instruments have a tendency to drum their fingers. When they do this, it's a sign that their guard is down. Sometimes their fingers drum on empty air, sometimes it's on any surface, flat or otherwise. They do it while they're thinking, or when they're trying to remember something, or when their mind is blank and they're busy feeling and their reflexes are kicking in.
In Gokudera's case, he does it when he's asleep. Whenever he does this, He must be dreaming, Yamamoto says to himself. The fingers of his right hand on Yamamoto's chest or belly or waist would start to move on their own, hard enough to wake the other boy, but not hard enough to hurt, never that hard.
In fact, it kind of tickles.
Yamamoto has caught Gokudera tapping his fingers like this, like he was pressing invisible ivory keys. He was awake then, but he stopped himself. Then he looked nonchalant, as if he was confident that even if anyone caught him doing it, no one would associate it with him as a habit.
Yamamoto didn't really know why Gokudera didn't want anyone knowing that he played the piano. He played beautifully, though he only played once, and only because Yamamoto wouldn't leave him alone until he did.
Maybe it had something to do with what Gokudera said, with a bitterness he didn't even bother to disguise: "I'm not as good as I used to be."
Yamamoto would have said then that it didn't matter how good he used to be.
They say you never forget how to play an instrument. And Yamamoto may not be an expert on playing instruments at all, but he knows this: the sounds made by his fingers moving on Gokudera's bare skin are music. The cries and soft sighs against his neck, into his mouth, are nothing anyone else's hands could have brought about. This is his art, and with every attempt, he is slowly perfecting it. Slowly but surely he is memorizing the right tempo, the right softness or hardness, the right combination of motion and whisper.
Yamamoto knows nothing about music. But he likes to think that the pieces Gokudera plays in his sleep are all original compositions, his own impact on his lover's existence writing itself into him. And he likes to think that even in the end, even after they've parted ways, and nights like this have become echoes of a long-lost ballad, Gokudera, too, would find a way to remember.
cotton candy, because i need a break from The Tenth Diary.
also because they make beautiful music together, baybee XD
People who play musical instruments have a tendency to drum their fingers. When they do this, it's a sign that their guard is down. Sometimes their fingers drum on empty air, sometimes it's on any surface, flat or otherwise. They do it while they're thinking, or when they're trying to remember something, or when their mind is blank and they're busy feeling and their reflexes are kicking in.
In Gokudera's case, he does it when he's asleep. Whenever he does this, He must be dreaming, Yamamoto says to himself. The fingers of his right hand on Yamamoto's chest or belly or waist would start to move on their own, hard enough to wake the other boy, but not hard enough to hurt, never that hard.
In fact, it kind of tickles.
Yamamoto has caught Gokudera tapping his fingers like this, like he was pressing invisible ivory keys. He was awake then, but he stopped himself. Then he looked nonchalant, as if he was confident that even if anyone caught him doing it, no one would associate it with him as a habit.
Yamamoto didn't really know why Gokudera didn't want anyone knowing that he played the piano. He played beautifully, though he only played once, and only because Yamamoto wouldn't leave him alone until he did.
Maybe it had something to do with what Gokudera said, with a bitterness he didn't even bother to disguise: "I'm not as good as I used to be."
Yamamoto would have said then that it didn't matter how good he used to be.
They say you never forget how to play an instrument. And Yamamoto may not be an expert on playing instruments at all, but he knows this: the sounds made by his fingers moving on Gokudera's bare skin are music. The cries and soft sighs against his neck, into his mouth, are nothing anyone else's hands could have brought about. This is his art, and with every attempt, he is slowly perfecting it. Slowly but surely he is memorizing the right tempo, the right softness or hardness, the right combination of motion and whisper.
Yamamoto knows nothing about music. But he likes to think that the pieces Gokudera plays in his sleep are all original compositions, his own impact on his lover's existence writing itself into him. And he likes to think that even in the end, even after they've parted ways, and nights like this have become echoes of a long-lost ballad, Gokudera, too, would find a way to remember.