patd ficlet: Brendon/Spencer, PG
Title: only one of them written in the music
Pairing: Brendon/Spencer
Rating: PG
Summary: Brendon teaching Spencer the piano. Well, trying. ~650 words.
Note: I wasn't the person to first bandy about the idea of Brendon being the one teaching Spencer the piano (which he claims on the Meinl site that he's learning). And I can't remember where that discussion even took place. *hands* (Remind me of all this and I promise I'll dutifully note it.) [ETA: discussion found.] Um, and themoononastick has way more restraint with the theme than I do. (Not trying to step on toes, babe. I think this is doing something different. Hope it's okay.)
For cmonkatiekatie, because she's lovely and because I told her I'd write her a drabble, which apparently I'm allergic to.
Spencer doesn't think his fingers are good for much. Not on fucking piano keys anyway. Brendon has been so patiently teaching him, not even doing that inarticulate and half-condescending thing people do when they instinctively understand something and can't for shit explain it to someone else. No, Brendon makes it all make sense, that way Brendon always can, at least for him. But that doesn't mean it makes sense to his fingers.
And, no, it's not that the ridiculous and inappropriate lust he has for Brendon fucks up his concentration or something. If wanting Brendon were a distraction, he pretty much wouldn't be able to function. At all. And he does quite well, thanks.
So, there's that: his ability to continue drumming, even from where he can watch Brendon clown and wiggle and sing with his eyes closed like it's something either painful or really private. This is not about his drummer's hands. They're perfectly capable of doing two different things at once, distraction or no. It's just his fingers that are clumsy, like they're too large or something. Or not long enough. Brendon sits beside him on the piano bench or stands behind him, as still as he can manage, not even flinching as he hits sour notes. Except you can see it on his face. And he doesn't fall into the music the way he does on stage, because it's not music yet. Maybe it never will be. That makes Spencer frustrated, but neither his hopelessly slow progress nor his frustration seem to annoy Brendon all that much or deter him in the slightest from continuing their lessons.
Spencer doesn't understand it, but his hands, though--they understand things even when he doesn't. They rest on Brendon's back when he comes upon him one day they're not practicing, when Brendon's just screwing around on the piano. They feel his shoulders drop as his head falls back, just a little, just for a moment before he forces himself to sit up straight again. Brendon's hands don't falter, but as Spencer takes a few steps back and leans himself against the doorframe so he can listen, he hears him sigh.
Spencer likes watching him play, and normally Brendon likes playing for him, with a concentration and fluidity that makes Spencer both impatient with his own playing and even more determined to get better. But today, with Spencer's eyes tracing the curve of his back and the subtle twist of his neck like they always do, Brendon seems uncharacteristically fidgety. Once, twice, he accidentally rolls one of his clever, careful fingers and hits two notes at once, side by side, only one of them written in the music. He doesn't look up like he normally does when he makes mistakes, but instead nervously laughs at each startling clash of notes.
It all means something, he just doesn't know what. It would be easier if he were touching him again, he thinks. Or maybe he doesn't think at all, not as he slides up behind him and lays his hands on his back again. He wants this to be about smoothing something down in Brendon, but it's not; it's so clearly not. It's something that needs satisfying, a curiosity welling up hot and sudden inside him, hot like Brendon's shoulder blade under his palm; his neck, damp, under the other. Sudden, then, like the way he knows what it all means, or at least his hands do.
It happens fast and then it's over because Brendon's taking his hands off the keys, standing up in the quick, tense silence. But Spencer doesn't move away or take his hands back. They slide down, slip over the hem of his shirt; his useless fingers, callused and clumsy, find skin, the soft flesh at his side. His lips find the back of Brendon's neck.
But Brendon's hands find nothing, just clutch at his sides--until he takes in a sharp breath and turns. They embrace over the piano bench, an awkward clash of arms that only ends when they finally settle and submit to each other's mostly steady hands.
~
Pairing: Brendon/Spencer
Rating: PG
Summary: Brendon teaching Spencer the piano. Well, trying. ~650 words.
Note: I wasn't the person to first bandy about the idea of Brendon being the one teaching Spencer the piano (which he claims on the Meinl site that he's learning). And I can't remember where that discussion even took place. *hands* (Remind me of all this and I promise I'll dutifully note it.) [ETA: discussion found.] Um, and themoononastick has way more restraint with the theme than I do. (Not trying to step on toes, babe. I think this is doing something different. Hope it's okay.)
For cmonkatiekatie, because she's lovely and because I told her I'd write her a drabble, which apparently I'm allergic to.
Spencer doesn't think his fingers are good for much. Not on fucking piano keys anyway. Brendon has been so patiently teaching him, not even doing that inarticulate and half-condescending thing people do when they instinctively understand something and can't for shit explain it to someone else. No, Brendon makes it all make sense, that way Brendon always can, at least for him. But that doesn't mean it makes sense to his fingers.
And, no, it's not that the ridiculous and inappropriate lust he has for Brendon fucks up his concentration or something. If wanting Brendon were a distraction, he pretty much wouldn't be able to function. At all. And he does quite well, thanks.
So, there's that: his ability to continue drumming, even from where he can watch Brendon clown and wiggle and sing with his eyes closed like it's something either painful or really private. This is not about his drummer's hands. They're perfectly capable of doing two different things at once, distraction or no. It's just his fingers that are clumsy, like they're too large or something. Or not long enough. Brendon sits beside him on the piano bench or stands behind him, as still as he can manage, not even flinching as he hits sour notes. Except you can see it on his face. And he doesn't fall into the music the way he does on stage, because it's not music yet. Maybe it never will be. That makes Spencer frustrated, but neither his hopelessly slow progress nor his frustration seem to annoy Brendon all that much or deter him in the slightest from continuing their lessons.
Spencer doesn't understand it, but his hands, though--they understand things even when he doesn't. They rest on Brendon's back when he comes upon him one day they're not practicing, when Brendon's just screwing around on the piano. They feel his shoulders drop as his head falls back, just a little, just for a moment before he forces himself to sit up straight again. Brendon's hands don't falter, but as Spencer takes a few steps back and leans himself against the doorframe so he can listen, he hears him sigh.
Spencer likes watching him play, and normally Brendon likes playing for him, with a concentration and fluidity that makes Spencer both impatient with his own playing and even more determined to get better. But today, with Spencer's eyes tracing the curve of his back and the subtle twist of his neck like they always do, Brendon seems uncharacteristically fidgety. Once, twice, he accidentally rolls one of his clever, careful fingers and hits two notes at once, side by side, only one of them written in the music. He doesn't look up like he normally does when he makes mistakes, but instead nervously laughs at each startling clash of notes.
It all means something, he just doesn't know what. It would be easier if he were touching him again, he thinks. Or maybe he doesn't think at all, not as he slides up behind him and lays his hands on his back again. He wants this to be about smoothing something down in Brendon, but it's not; it's so clearly not. It's something that needs satisfying, a curiosity welling up hot and sudden inside him, hot like Brendon's shoulder blade under his palm; his neck, damp, under the other. Sudden, then, like the way he knows what it all means, or at least his hands do.
It happens fast and then it's over because Brendon's taking his hands off the keys, standing up in the quick, tense silence. But Spencer doesn't move away or take his hands back. They slide down, slip over the hem of his shirt; his useless fingers, callused and clumsy, find skin, the soft flesh at his side. His lips find the back of Brendon's neck.
But Brendon's hands find nothing, just clutch at his sides--until he takes in a sharp breath and turns. They embrace over the piano bench, an awkward clash of arms that only ends when they finally settle and submit to each other's mostly steady hands.
~