Of Lessons From The Past [G]
[title] Of Lessons From The Past
[author] Lire Casander another_crush
[beta] clionona
[characters] Neal Tiemann & David Cook & Andy Skib
[rating] G
[word count] 885
[summary] Life has ways to keep reminders of past mistakes, and ways to soothe the pain of those memories.
[disclaimer] I don't own nor have ever met David Cook nor Neal Tiemann nor Andy Skib. Everything about them is completely fiction, and any similarity with reality is a mere coincidence.
[warnings] Pre-slash. Flangst.
[author's notes] So, uhm. sara84 told me this story about Neal and his broken hand. And I had to fic it, or at least use it in a fic, because it's just way too good to be left forgotten. Maybe it's stepping a bit out of propriety here, but well. Bear with me.
Every time you pick up your guitar and caress the neck, you think of that night. Every time you apply more force than necessary on the strings, you think of that night. It is one of those moments that will be forever remembered, ever present in your daily life - a reminder of what you would have given up.
Maybe you were a coward for refusing the treatment. Maybe you were a hero for sticking up with what you love above everything else. Maybe she was just another fling and you were just another fool. Maybe music is the only lover that will never disappoint you.
Andy tells you that he has met an incredibly talented guy through Bryan, a guy who leads his own band, which in itself is not exactly good news because they are your direct concurrence and that makes you hate this guy even before meeting him. But Andy convinces you and you all end up hanging out in Andy's parents' basement, which is also a trap because now you don't have any way out and it is late and your hand is hurting.
"Neal," Andy calls your name but the pain is too sharp and you are almost at the verge of stalking the medicine cabinet in the bathroom adjacent to this room, so you don't really pay him too much attention. You stand up, not minding the new guy whose name is David - and who would have guessed, such a unique guy with such a deep voice would have such a common name - and amble toward the bathroom door, holding your hand still and slightly up so the pressure doesn't kill all your nerves.
When the door closes at your back, you can hear the muffled sounds of Andy making up excuses for your weird behavior - he just has had a bad day, he had an accident some years ago and his hand was injured, when all you want to do is get out again and yell at Dave for now knowing that the real reason behind the tears you are not shedding is that music is, indeed, the greatest love of your life.
You splash water on your face with your good hand, groaning when the pain in your knuckles intensifies. You fumble through the cabinet, not finding any pills that can help you, and you are tempted to smash your fist once again against the wall, but you know that, for one, Andy's parents will not be really happy with you after dislodging some bricks in their otherwise perfectly fine wall, and for two, your hand will only get worse.
The knock on the door startles you.
"What?" you bark.
"Hey, dude, just checking on you," Dave says, and you can hear the concern in his voice. "Andy's gone upstairs for some call and I was worried. You locked yourself in there quite a while ago."
"I'm coming out now," you say through gritted teeth, opening the door with skilled fingers, used to being unable to function with both your hands sometimes. He is standing in the middle of the room by the time you are fully outside of the bathroom, and although he is looking at you, it isn't an inquisitive gaze. It seems more like an understanding kind of look.
"Andy says you had an accident."
"Andy says lots of things," you counteract. He looks down and you feel instantly bad. "Listen, I don't talk about it, okay? It's not that I don't want to tell you, it's that I don't tell anyone."
"I understand," he says, and you're pretty sure he doesn't but you're not going to let him know. "I thought Andy said you played guitar," he keeps on and there's a tinge of doubt in his voice - whether he is doubting your ability to play or Andy's ability to tell lies, you don't know.
"I play guitar," you say, biting your lip. "My hand hurts but I play guitar. I chose music over pain, you know."
And he doesn't say anything else and you're not going to start another conversation, but silence with this Dave guy doesn't feel awkward. Andy is taking more time than he is supposed to on that alleged call, and you suspect he has done it on purpose so you can bond with Dave, who Andy plans to incorporate into the Kings.
"Mind if I play you a new song of mine?" he says in his thick accent, not so different from yours and yet much sweeter, and you find yourself nodding your assent and sitting down on the couch while he starts humming a song along with the notes he tears from a willing guitar. You don't know if it's the melody or the half muted words you can't really make out, but his voice, deep, rich, masculine, harmonious, soothes you.
The pain in your hand evens out, and as he looks up at you from behind his rebellious bangs - auburn hair that shines under the artificial light of an almost broken lamp with a brightness not even your own Irish red head can match - you get lost in the pureness of his gaze.
The reminder of a love that was lost when you were too young to fight yet too old to cry starts fading to black.
[author] Lire Casander another_crush
[beta] clionona
[characters] Neal Tiemann & David Cook & Andy Skib
[rating] G
[word count] 885
[summary] Life has ways to keep reminders of past mistakes, and ways to soothe the pain of those memories.
[disclaimer] I don't own nor have ever met David Cook nor Neal Tiemann nor Andy Skib. Everything about them is completely fiction, and any similarity with reality is a mere coincidence.
[warnings] Pre-slash. Flangst.
[author's notes] So, uhm. sara84 told me this story about Neal and his broken hand. And I had to fic it, or at least use it in a fic, because it's just way too good to be left forgotten. Maybe it's stepping a bit out of propriety here, but well. Bear with me.
Every time you pick up your guitar and caress the neck, you think of that night. Every time you apply more force than necessary on the strings, you think of that night. It is one of those moments that will be forever remembered, ever present in your daily life - a reminder of what you would have given up.
Maybe you were a coward for refusing the treatment. Maybe you were a hero for sticking up with what you love above everything else. Maybe she was just another fling and you were just another fool. Maybe music is the only lover that will never disappoint you.
Andy tells you that he has met an incredibly talented guy through Bryan, a guy who leads his own band, which in itself is not exactly good news because they are your direct concurrence and that makes you hate this guy even before meeting him. But Andy convinces you and you all end up hanging out in Andy's parents' basement, which is also a trap because now you don't have any way out and it is late and your hand is hurting.
"Neal," Andy calls your name but the pain is too sharp and you are almost at the verge of stalking the medicine cabinet in the bathroom adjacent to this room, so you don't really pay him too much attention. You stand up, not minding the new guy whose name is David - and who would have guessed, such a unique guy with such a deep voice would have such a common name - and amble toward the bathroom door, holding your hand still and slightly up so the pressure doesn't kill all your nerves.
When the door closes at your back, you can hear the muffled sounds of Andy making up excuses for your weird behavior - he just has had a bad day, he had an accident some years ago and his hand was injured, when all you want to do is get out again and yell at Dave for now knowing that the real reason behind the tears you are not shedding is that music is, indeed, the greatest love of your life.
You splash water on your face with your good hand, groaning when the pain in your knuckles intensifies. You fumble through the cabinet, not finding any pills that can help you, and you are tempted to smash your fist once again against the wall, but you know that, for one, Andy's parents will not be really happy with you after dislodging some bricks in their otherwise perfectly fine wall, and for two, your hand will only get worse.
The knock on the door startles you.
"What?" you bark.
"Hey, dude, just checking on you," Dave says, and you can hear the concern in his voice. "Andy's gone upstairs for some call and I was worried. You locked yourself in there quite a while ago."
"I'm coming out now," you say through gritted teeth, opening the door with skilled fingers, used to being unable to function with both your hands sometimes. He is standing in the middle of the room by the time you are fully outside of the bathroom, and although he is looking at you, it isn't an inquisitive gaze. It seems more like an understanding kind of look.
"Andy says you had an accident."
"Andy says lots of things," you counteract. He looks down and you feel instantly bad. "Listen, I don't talk about it, okay? It's not that I don't want to tell you, it's that I don't tell anyone."
"I understand," he says, and you're pretty sure he doesn't but you're not going to let him know. "I thought Andy said you played guitar," he keeps on and there's a tinge of doubt in his voice - whether he is doubting your ability to play or Andy's ability to tell lies, you don't know.
"I play guitar," you say, biting your lip. "My hand hurts but I play guitar. I chose music over pain, you know."
And he doesn't say anything else and you're not going to start another conversation, but silence with this Dave guy doesn't feel awkward. Andy is taking more time than he is supposed to on that alleged call, and you suspect he has done it on purpose so you can bond with Dave, who Andy plans to incorporate into the Kings.
"Mind if I play you a new song of mine?" he says in his thick accent, not so different from yours and yet much sweeter, and you find yourself nodding your assent and sitting down on the couch while he starts humming a song along with the notes he tears from a willing guitar. You don't know if it's the melody or the half muted words you can't really make out, but his voice, deep, rich, masculine, harmonious, soothes you.
The pain in your hand evens out, and as he looks up at you from behind his rebellious bangs - auburn hair that shines under the artificial light of an almost broken lamp with a brightness not even your own Irish red head can match - you get lost in the pureness of his gaze.
The reminder of a love that was lost when you were too young to fight yet too old to cry starts fading to black.