More Than Words (1/?)
It was a fucking stupid idea. He knew this long before he did anything, but he also knew himself too well; his better judgment had no control whatsoever over his actions. He had lived too long suppressing said self-control in favor of being a bad ass, and now it took no effort whatsoever to act impulsively.
What did he think, that no one was going to hear? Did he think the auditorium would somehow become soundproof and he’d get away with it? Maybe, maybe not. Justifying his action really wasn’t the point of his doing it in the first place.
The fact of the matter was, he had come back to retrieve something (he had now forgotten what) he had left there earlier in the month and instead discovered himself completely secluded on the dark stage with the piano and one carelessly left-on spotlight. He couldn’t even see the rows of chairs clearly, but he took a lot of solace in knowing without a doubt that no one filled them. Yet, there was undeniably a theatrical feel to this scene, and the emptiness of the piano chair coupled with the enormous feel of the stage tugged at the urge within him to entertain; to perform. It was yet another yearning he had trained himself to subdue and keep buried.
The halftime show and the events leading up to it had changed that, however. He had been exposed, stripped of his facetious shields, and yet, it felt wonderful. He’d never truly felt more alive or appreciated than when he performed an art for an audience of that magnitude. Whatever force might have kept him from wandering gingerly over to the piano, sitting down in front of it, and beginning to idly play a few notes was depleted entirely during that performance.
He uncertainly played a few chords, metaphorically dipping toes into the water to check the temperature. As his confidence level rose, so did his unawareness of where he was and the probability of someone walking in on him. In this moment, all that mattered were him and the piano keys and whatever surrounded them both seemed to fade into blurry oblivion.
It felt only appropriate to try out the song he had been devoting so much of his time to recently. The acoustics of the open auditorium would no doubt accent his voice better than the cramped walls of his house.
What the hell, he decided, softly singing the first few lyrics into the perched mic as he gradually played the notes to accompany it.
When you were here before…couldn’t look you in the eye…
His voice was noticeably raspy in this first attempt, but he didn’t bother to clear his throat. Somehow, he figured, the flawed intonation would add to the pathos. Anyway, it wasn’t like anyone was listening. This was just for him.
You’re just like an angel...your skin makes me cry…you float like a feather…in a beautiful world…I wish I was special…you’re so fucking special…but I’m a creep…I’m a weirdo…what the hell am I doing here…I don’t belong here…
In the complete seclusion of the cavernous, dark theatre, the song had the ability to move him like it hadn’t before. The knowledge that he was alone and, for an oh-so brief moment, without the presence of constantly judging, ever watchful eyes, allowed him to let himself be moved. He had sung these lyrics and played this song countless times before, but never with such a feeling of emotional emancipation. In here, he was completely free.
The feeling could only be described as bittersweet, but it was somehow so much more powerful than that.
But it was around the time he got to the line, I want you to notice when I’m not around, that the sound of one of the side auditorium doors squeaking open made him stop immediately. He realized not two seconds afterward that it wouldn’t have made much difference if he did or didn’t, as whoever was currently strolling in would have heard enough to know. It was too late in the afternoon to likely be a student. He prayed for a janitor.
Unfortunately, it was a worst-case scenario.
“Hey, why’d you stop?” echoed Will Schuester’s voice from across the auditorium.
Was that not painfully obvious? That wasn’t his response though. He instead kept quiet and still and wide-eyed like some kind of idiot child caught with their hand in the proverbial cookie jar.
Will eventually joined him on stage. “I didn’t know you could play so well, Dave…”
“Uhm…I can’t. I was just…messin’ around a little.”
That was a lie, and for more than just the obvious reasons.
He could play, had been playing since he was old enough to get himself on the piano stool in his mother’s parlor and touch the keys. It had been a talent and a hobby that his mother had encouraged all along, even going so far as to buy him private lessons. His father, on the other hand, wasn’t too keen. Whenever he felt Dave was showing more of an interest in playing than in doing something inherently male, like being an asshole jock, he didn’t hesitate to revoke piano privileges. He’d claim he felt like his son was distracted, but Dave wasn’t as stupid as he let people think; he knew too well his father felt that an interest in music was too effeminate, too gay.
And oh god, he couldn’t even remotely let himself be that.
He took the opportunity to collect himself and stand up, hopeful that Mr. Schu would take the hint and let him go. A part of him knew better, but he couldn’t be blamed for trying anyway, right?
“I’d bet that’s something a lot of people don’t know about you. Would I be right?”
Mr. Schu’s arms were crossed over his chest in a mocking complement to his knowing tone of voice. It’d be entirely accurate to say that Dave felt intimidated, and in this case he had no plans of trying to conceal it with anger or aggression. Maybe it was their isolation, or his secret respect for the instructor before him, or perhaps it was the combination of Prozac and anger management therapy sessions his mother had insisted he begin taking a few weeks ago- likely a combination of all three.
So he nodded, albeit reluctantly. “You’d win that bet.”
“So I was right. You are one of the most talented guys in the school. You can dance and you play piano beautifully and you have a remarkable voice. If it’s not too bold to say so, Dave, I think you’re letting yourself go to waste.”
He just shrugged, sheepish despite his somewhat futile attempts to maintain the shreds of his hard exterior. He didn’t really know what to say. Eventually, he managed an almost inaudible ‘thanks’, avoiding eye contact all the while.
They were silent a moment and Mr. Schu exhaled loudly through his nose, as if to ready himself for a particularly difficult topic. Dave knew what it would be. He saw it coming a mile away.
“Look…I know that you feel like you’ve got an image to maintain and that showcasing a love for music might negate all of your efforts but…you and I, Dave…we can’t deny what’s there. I don’t think many of us have ever even seen you smile, except for when you were performing with the team. That was genuine happiness I saw. Would you lie, here in this abandoned theatre where it’s just you and me, and tell me that I’m wrong? Could you look me in the eye and say that music doesn’t touch you?”
Goddammit. He wasn’t even going to dignify that with an answer; mostly because he knew his silence and inability to meet Mr. Schu’s eye line would do it for him.
“I just think that…you have a great gift to give- not only to this school and to the world, but to yourself. It’s not natural for a person to reject who he really is and it really only lasts so long before backfiring. I don’t want to see something like that happen to you, Dave.”
“I don’t know what else to do,” he said after a time, finally succumbing to Will’s efforts to whittle away his reserve. “I can’t be like Hudson and Puckerman…”
“Why not?”
Because unlike me, they don’t have to compensate for being closeted fags. That’s the difference between David Karofsky and everyone fucking else.
He finally met Will’s eyes which he was somewhat startled to find staring at him fixedly. Nevertheless, the intimate seclusion of the moment continued to destroy his shields. There was also something about Mr. Schu’s gaze that Dave felt compelled to take solace in.
“Because I’m a coward. Everyone knows it…even you.”
Will didn’t say anything. Dave turned to leave.
“It doesn’t have to be that way.”