Wayward Melodies
Title: Wayward Melodies
Series: STXI/Alternate original universe/I don't have time to keep up with these names, call it what you will
Characters/Parings: Pre-slash James T. Kirk/Spock
Disclaimer: I own nothing, the Star Trek mug that might or might not be stowed away in my cabinet the only exception.
Rating: General Audiences
Summary: He could feel the notes pulsing within him, beating in tandem with his heart. Expanding and growing-Staccato. Staccato. Decrescendo-until it consumed him.
Author's Note: So, guess what I'm what doing when I should be working on Big Bang stuff? If you guessed not working on Big Bang by filling out Kink meme prompts, then you guessed correctly. Bad me. Prompt this is written for is here and the song I wrote this to is Primavera by Ludovico Einaudi. But if I'm gonna be honest, almost anything of his could go with this (especially if it's off of Divenire a.k.a. the love of my life)
The slim ivory felt cool under his hands. The wooden bench was uncomfortable but wonderfully familiar. Like an old friend. It had been a while, but the lack of practice did not render him; his fingers continued to gracefully slide over the slick keys. They plopped with each stroke, sang with each skim-nothing could compare.
His head lolled to the beat
Legato, legato, crescendo.
Clear. Smooth. Calm.
His fingers danced along with light movements that could almost be graceful as his body leaned into the rhythm-upbeat, downbeat. Push, pull. Push, pull. It hummed within his bones; he could feel it in the air. The white of empty rec room dissipated, running away like a smeared water color and washing out like it had never been there. He could feel the notes pulsing within him, beating in tandem with his heart. Expanding and growing-Staccato. Staccato. Decrescendo-until it consumed him.
Tha-thump.
Staccato.
Tha-thump.
His lids felt heavy and it wasn't long until his eyes were falling shut. The piece was familiar to him-B flat. Crescendo. Staccato-all calm tempos and soothing harmonies. Classical compositions sang out and irregular rhythms spiraled into the air like fireworks. Haphazardly flashing, exploding in an array of lights and panging crackles.
Push, pull. Push, pull.
Slow and careful-nothing like the calloused hands doing their unpracticed dance. Beauty from pain.
An increase in tempo. The pull became stronger, the hum more resonant. Twisting to the ceiling and ringing above, he swayed without shame. His bottom lip was wedged in between his teeth and his brow was ever so slightly furrowed, an image of concentration. He could almost hear the accompanying violin, melodies and harmonies melding together in ordered chaos. Sharp and sweet. Calm and bright. It throbbed in his chest.
Tha-thump.
He could almost see the rusty innards of an old farmhouse, strewn with beer cans that shouldn't have been there and a lounging body that never belonged. Archaic, dusty-Push, pull. Push, pull-old, with inspirational quotes and rusty crosses that had long lost their meaning. Steady demands ("Grab me 'nother beer, boy."), quick fists ("Don' make me put the fear ah' God in ya', boy."), and even quicker tempers ("Don' think I ain't gonna hol' back jus' 'cuz your momma ain't off planet no more, boy!") reverberated. Hung in the air around them, tension clouding and building until the next confrontation came. He could remember it so easily, when the old radio in the corner stopped blaring electric guitars and started to echo a smooth piano, when declarations of hate ("Goddamn classical shit. Ain't no good for drinkin', ain't no good for nothin'") made his own fondness grow. When he started exchanging mowing lawns for lessons and raking leaves for sheet music.
He could remember being thirteen, living in the dusty insides of some long-dead aristocrat's mansion with ten other kids just like him. He could remember the excitement he felt when he found the out of tune piano tucked away in the corner and the stack of books filled with sheet music on top of it. He could remember lulling them-Kevin and Thomas and every other unfortunate soul stuck there too-to sleep in the living room, masking phaser-fire and tortured screams with Beethoven and Einaudi.
He could remember finding the peace within the chaos. And he could remember-Legato, tha-thump, legato-clinging to that peace until it was all he had left.
Exhale. Inhale.
Tha-thump. Tha-thump.
Push, pull. Push, pull.
C sharp.
Staccato.
Crescendo.
Exhale. He let the breathe escape from his lips in puffs. Inhale.
An interlude of calm. He retreated from the major chords, hands lightly pressing, keys lightly clanking. The pauses between notes widened like a chasm.
Inhale.
The tempo slowed. The pitches sank. If bittersweet had a sound, this would be it.
Exhale.
The final note lingered. Buzzed above his head and thrummed through his body in that way a last pitch always tended to. And for a moment, he just sat there, soaking it in until his slowly fingers slipped from the keys and into his lap. He could feel the pleasant hum of his head and the smooth limbo of his body, the calm of fraying nerves. His eyes remained shut open, almost as if afraid to open them. His chest felt unusually light-tha-thump-and his breath was smoother than it had been in a while-Inhale. Exhale.
Finally, his eyes fluttered open, teeth still gnawing at his lower lip. A soft sigh escaped his lips, a-
"Never took you for the piano playing type, Kirk."
Oh.
Jim's eyes widened, his body frozen for the briefest of seconds. He gave a sheepish laugh, perhaps a bit more airy than it should have been, before turning around to face a arm-crossed, hip-cocked, smirking Uhura. And his entire bridge crew. An entire doorway full of them and then some, neither Scotty nor Bones (who looked only marginally less grumpy than usual) excluded. They were all staring at him-some with amusement (Sulu), some with amazement (Chekov)-and they were all causing heat to quickly bloom on his cheeks. Awkward.
"Eh," He simply shrugged as he scratched the back of his neck. He desperately hoped he didn't look as flustered as he felt. "It's alright. Haven't practiced in a bit, so I'm kinda rusty."
And for the briefest second there was this moment where no one said anything. And for the briefest second it was an awkward moment where Jim really just wanted to crawl into the nearest hole and never come out again. He never really had been too forward with the whole piano playing thing and there was a reason for that.
But then Uhura rolled her eyes (and for another second-just a second-Jim could've sworn her smirk was a bit fonder than usual, her eyes a bit lighter than they used to be) and Chekov started clapping and Sulu started bombarding him, asking him what else he could play. Bones scoffed and leaned against the door frame, but he hadn't declared that he was going back to his quarters yet, so that must've meant something. And Scotty-well Scotty was Scotty-so of course he was the first one to actually enter the room, probably the replicator at the other end being the motivator, and before Jim knew it a crowd was standing around him. Even Rand was there, whispering with Chapel and Gaila while Chekov argued the merits of Amazing Grace so totally being written in Russia with Sulu and Uhura, who were arguing the merits of it so totally not. Scotty wondered if maybe Jim could play the bagpipes-the answer to that a thankful no. Spock-
Spock was staring. Spock was staring at him.
And Jim, well, Jim felt like someone had stolen the breath from him-Inhale. Exhale-because his First Officer was staring at him so intently he could feel his heart-tha-thump, tha-thump, tha-thump-pounding in his chest. He felt stupid not for noticing earlier, as an eyebrow was raised with what he distantly hoped was something like astonishment. Spock's eyes seemed to swirl, the brown almost like honey, a lot like when he found a particularly interesting plant specimen. And perhaps Kirk was imagining it, but he could've sworn that Spock looked almost calm. That, for the first time in five months, he looked like maybe there wasn't a pole shoved up ass.
Maybe.
"Captain," The half-Vulcan took several strides forward, hands still clasped behind his back as he came to a halt beside the still sitting Jim, "I was not aware you had aptitude for the piano."
Kirk sheepishly smiled, "Most don't. Not something I usually advertise."
"I see," He nodded. There was a silence for a beat, before Spock gestured to the bench Jim was sitting on, "May I?"
Uh.
For what felt like an eternity, all Jim could do was dumbly stare. It wasn't until he realized just how dumb he must've looked that he tried changing that, only to end up stammering like an idiot and nodding his head a tad too eagerly before finally ending up saying something very close to; "Uh, yeah, sure!" It wasn't the most intelligent thing he'd ever said, as he clumsily scooted over and watched as Spock gracefully sat, but it wasn't the least intelligent either. Their thighs touched-tha-thump. Tha-thump-and their elbows rubbed against each other-too close for Spock to be comfortable, but he said nothing of it.
"Do you know the piece Divenire?"
Inhale.
"Do I know it?" Kirk grinned, "First song I ever learned to play."
Exhale.
Spock inclined his head. His hands were folded carefully in his lap and his breathing even, "Then I take that you would not object to assisting me in playing it?"
"No, I wouldn't. That sounds..." Jim ducked his head, fingers finding the first keys-Legato, legato, decrescendo-with hesitant strokes, "Good." He turned to Spock and smiled (not quite a grin, but not quite a smirk either) as the science officer picked up the rhythm. In hindsight, maybe he was imagining it. Maybe it was the calm of the music or the twenty-something sets of eyes that were staring solely at them. Maybe he was seeing things, but in that moment Jim could've sworn that there was a smile in Spock's eyes.
"That...sounds great, actually."
Inhale.
Exhale.
Series: STXI/Alternate original universe/I don't have time to keep up with these names, call it what you will
Characters/Parings: Pre-slash James T. Kirk/Spock
Disclaimer: I own nothing, the Star Trek mug that might or might not be stowed away in my cabinet the only exception.
Rating: General Audiences
Summary: He could feel the notes pulsing within him, beating in tandem with his heart. Expanding and growing-Staccato. Staccato. Decrescendo-until it consumed him.
Author's Note: So, guess what I'm what doing when I should be working on Big Bang stuff? If you guessed not working on Big Bang by filling out Kink meme prompts, then you guessed correctly. Bad me. Prompt this is written for is here and the song I wrote this to is Primavera by Ludovico Einaudi. But if I'm gonna be honest, almost anything of his could go with this (especially if it's off of Divenire a.k.a. the love of my life)
The slim ivory felt cool under his hands. The wooden bench was uncomfortable but wonderfully familiar. Like an old friend. It had been a while, but the lack of practice did not render him; his fingers continued to gracefully slide over the slick keys. They plopped with each stroke, sang with each skim-nothing could compare.
His head lolled to the beat
Legato, legato, crescendo.
Clear. Smooth. Calm.
His fingers danced along with light movements that could almost be graceful as his body leaned into the rhythm-upbeat, downbeat. Push, pull. Push, pull. It hummed within his bones; he could feel it in the air. The white of empty rec room dissipated, running away like a smeared water color and washing out like it had never been there. He could feel the notes pulsing within him, beating in tandem with his heart. Expanding and growing-Staccato. Staccato. Decrescendo-until it consumed him.
Tha-thump.
Staccato.
Tha-thump.
His lids felt heavy and it wasn't long until his eyes were falling shut. The piece was familiar to him-B flat. Crescendo. Staccato-all calm tempos and soothing harmonies. Classical compositions sang out and irregular rhythms spiraled into the air like fireworks. Haphazardly flashing, exploding in an array of lights and panging crackles.
Push, pull. Push, pull.
Slow and careful-nothing like the calloused hands doing their unpracticed dance. Beauty from pain.
An increase in tempo. The pull became stronger, the hum more resonant. Twisting to the ceiling and ringing above, he swayed without shame. His bottom lip was wedged in between his teeth and his brow was ever so slightly furrowed, an image of concentration. He could almost hear the accompanying violin, melodies and harmonies melding together in ordered chaos. Sharp and sweet. Calm and bright. It throbbed in his chest.
Tha-thump.
He could almost see the rusty innards of an old farmhouse, strewn with beer cans that shouldn't have been there and a lounging body that never belonged. Archaic, dusty-Push, pull. Push, pull-old, with inspirational quotes and rusty crosses that had long lost their meaning. Steady demands ("Grab me 'nother beer, boy."), quick fists ("Don' make me put the fear ah' God in ya', boy."), and even quicker tempers ("Don' think I ain't gonna hol' back jus' 'cuz your momma ain't off planet no more, boy!") reverberated. Hung in the air around them, tension clouding and building until the next confrontation came. He could remember it so easily, when the old radio in the corner stopped blaring electric guitars and started to echo a smooth piano, when declarations of hate ("Goddamn classical shit. Ain't no good for drinkin', ain't no good for nothin'") made his own fondness grow. When he started exchanging mowing lawns for lessons and raking leaves for sheet music.
He could remember being thirteen, living in the dusty insides of some long-dead aristocrat's mansion with ten other kids just like him. He could remember the excitement he felt when he found the out of tune piano tucked away in the corner and the stack of books filled with sheet music on top of it. He could remember lulling them-Kevin and Thomas and every other unfortunate soul stuck there too-to sleep in the living room, masking phaser-fire and tortured screams with Beethoven and Einaudi.
He could remember finding the peace within the chaos. And he could remember-Legato, tha-thump, legato-clinging to that peace until it was all he had left.
Exhale. Inhale.
Tha-thump. Tha-thump.
Push, pull. Push, pull.
C sharp.
Staccato.
Crescendo.
Exhale. He let the breathe escape from his lips in puffs. Inhale.
An interlude of calm. He retreated from the major chords, hands lightly pressing, keys lightly clanking. The pauses between notes widened like a chasm.
Inhale.
The tempo slowed. The pitches sank. If bittersweet had a sound, this would be it.
Exhale.
The final note lingered. Buzzed above his head and thrummed through his body in that way a last pitch always tended to. And for a moment, he just sat there, soaking it in until his slowly fingers slipped from the keys and into his lap. He could feel the pleasant hum of his head and the smooth limbo of his body, the calm of fraying nerves. His eyes remained shut open, almost as if afraid to open them. His chest felt unusually light-tha-thump-and his breath was smoother than it had been in a while-Inhale. Exhale.
Finally, his eyes fluttered open, teeth still gnawing at his lower lip. A soft sigh escaped his lips, a-
"Never took you for the piano playing type, Kirk."
Oh.
Jim's eyes widened, his body frozen for the briefest of seconds. He gave a sheepish laugh, perhaps a bit more airy than it should have been, before turning around to face a arm-crossed, hip-cocked, smirking Uhura. And his entire bridge crew. An entire doorway full of them and then some, neither Scotty nor Bones (who looked only marginally less grumpy than usual) excluded. They were all staring at him-some with amusement (Sulu), some with amazement (Chekov)-and they were all causing heat to quickly bloom on his cheeks. Awkward.
"Eh," He simply shrugged as he scratched the back of his neck. He desperately hoped he didn't look as flustered as he felt. "It's alright. Haven't practiced in a bit, so I'm kinda rusty."
And for the briefest second there was this moment where no one said anything. And for the briefest second it was an awkward moment where Jim really just wanted to crawl into the nearest hole and never come out again. He never really had been too forward with the whole piano playing thing and there was a reason for that.
But then Uhura rolled her eyes (and for another second-just a second-Jim could've sworn her smirk was a bit fonder than usual, her eyes a bit lighter than they used to be) and Chekov started clapping and Sulu started bombarding him, asking him what else he could play. Bones scoffed and leaned against the door frame, but he hadn't declared that he was going back to his quarters yet, so that must've meant something. And Scotty-well Scotty was Scotty-so of course he was the first one to actually enter the room, probably the replicator at the other end being the motivator, and before Jim knew it a crowd was standing around him. Even Rand was there, whispering with Chapel and Gaila while Chekov argued the merits of Amazing Grace so totally being written in Russia with Sulu and Uhura, who were arguing the merits of it so totally not. Scotty wondered if maybe Jim could play the bagpipes-the answer to that a thankful no. Spock-
Spock was staring. Spock was staring at him.
And Jim, well, Jim felt like someone had stolen the breath from him-Inhale. Exhale-because his First Officer was staring at him so intently he could feel his heart-tha-thump, tha-thump, tha-thump-pounding in his chest. He felt stupid not for noticing earlier, as an eyebrow was raised with what he distantly hoped was something like astonishment. Spock's eyes seemed to swirl, the brown almost like honey, a lot like when he found a particularly interesting plant specimen. And perhaps Kirk was imagining it, but he could've sworn that Spock looked almost calm. That, for the first time in five months, he looked like maybe there wasn't a pole shoved up ass.
Maybe.
"Captain," The half-Vulcan took several strides forward, hands still clasped behind his back as he came to a halt beside the still sitting Jim, "I was not aware you had aptitude for the piano."
Kirk sheepishly smiled, "Most don't. Not something I usually advertise."
"I see," He nodded. There was a silence for a beat, before Spock gestured to the bench Jim was sitting on, "May I?"
Uh.
For what felt like an eternity, all Jim could do was dumbly stare. It wasn't until he realized just how dumb he must've looked that he tried changing that, only to end up stammering like an idiot and nodding his head a tad too eagerly before finally ending up saying something very close to; "Uh, yeah, sure!" It wasn't the most intelligent thing he'd ever said, as he clumsily scooted over and watched as Spock gracefully sat, but it wasn't the least intelligent either. Their thighs touched-tha-thump. Tha-thump-and their elbows rubbed against each other-too close for Spock to be comfortable, but he said nothing of it.
"Do you know the piece Divenire?"
Inhale.
"Do I know it?" Kirk grinned, "First song I ever learned to play."
Exhale.
Spock inclined his head. His hands were folded carefully in his lap and his breathing even, "Then I take that you would not object to assisting me in playing it?"
"No, I wouldn't. That sounds..." Jim ducked his head, fingers finding the first keys-Legato, legato, decrescendo-with hesitant strokes, "Good." He turned to Spock and smiled (not quite a grin, but not quite a smirk either) as the science officer picked up the rhythm. In hindsight, maybe he was imagining it. Maybe it was the calm of the music or the twenty-something sets of eyes that were staring solely at them. Maybe he was seeing things, but in that moment Jim could've sworn that there was a smile in Spock's eyes.
"That...sounds great, actually."
Inhale.
Exhale.