The Rosewood[s/a]{Tom/William}
Title:The Rosewood [s/a]
Rating:PG
Pairing:Past Tom/William
Summary:
If he could get it just right, everything would fall in to place.
That's what Tom convinced himself. Tune the guitar, tune your life.
Disclaimer:I do not own Thomas Conrad or William Beckett (unfortunately) and this is not how anything went down.
Author Notes: This all started from a Cobraslash prompt and a request from the bestie/roommate/LOVE xcatchadreamx for more Tom/William in light of the reunion that we're going to be a part of *is excited*. It's very short and quite pointless, but I'm proud just to be able to finish something as of late and it is for my bby's enjoyment.
As always, self beta'd.=]
If he could get it just right, everything would fall in to place.
That's what Tom convinced himself. Tune the guitar, tune your life.
It was an old guitar, acoustic, with quite a few broken strings. It had been stowed in Jon's garage untouched by anything but junk for years and you had to be careful how you held the scratched, rugged neck of it in your hand or you'd get a splinter. Tom felt he could relate to the thing.
It wasn't pretty, nothing like the beautiful rosewood sitting across from him but it didn't play half bad, all things considered, and it had something the rosewood lacked. You held it and you couldn't help wonder who held it first. History, character, charm. Call it what you wish, there was just something to it.
It didn't stop him from looking at the rosewood, though. When something that glorious was in the room, you paid attention. Ironically, it was a lot like the boy who bought it for him. Stunning, untouched. It was sturdy though, it lacked the awkward grace Tom accompanied with William Beckett.
The last day he had touched that boy was also the last day he touched that guitar.
He couldn't bring himself to, anymore. Not after what happened.
He was angry enough to break it and devastated enough to properly bury it afterward. Given it really was an expensive guitar that a lot of thought went in to, he thought it best not to touch it at all.
But sometimes, he thought maybe if he ran his fingers across the top, he could do the same again to William. He wasn't even sure if he wanted to see that kid again, but there it was, boy and guitar. Their fate seemed twined together. Hold one, hold the other. Bury one, bury the other.
Maybe just once though, he could play it again. He wasn't getting anywhere with Jon's old guitar anyway.
He sat it on the bed, and slid across the floor. Back against the wall, he scooped the rosewood from it's hiding place. It was almost like it was waiting for him, waiting to be touched again. So he played.
For hours he sat just like that, strumming until his fingers hurt and his eyes were going out of focus staring at his nearly empty bed. In his mind, it made sense than, that he would call William after. Boy and guitar, after all. So he did that too.
"Hello?" a voice, a laugh, made for music. The octaves oddly feminine, with such a perfect way of pronouncing every syllable, and yet when he spoke it was spattered with awkward stutters, just as lovely as everything else about him, that only went away when he wasn't thinking. When he was singing, or other, more personal times. Tom was mostly thinking about the latter. It made his insides burn and he wanted to hang up, but he couldn't. The burn was almost pleasant in comparison to the emptiness.
"Heello?" He was drinking, Tom could tell. He had a pleasant uplift that only came when he had a little help or he was in particularly good company. Such a tortured little artist. His tortured little artist.
"Hey." it was harder to say than he thought.
"Tom?"
That's when he hung up. He hadn't been prepared for actual conversation anyway, didn't know what he was thinking. He stood up, put the rosewood in his closet.
If he ever spoke to William Beckett again he would not be the one making the phone call. Anger, emptiness, they were both better than losing the ounce of pride he had left.
For now, he would go back to tuning. He would get it just right. Everything would fall in to place.
Later, he would give a proper burial.
Rating:PG
Pairing:Past Tom/William
Summary:
If he could get it just right, everything would fall in to place.
That's what Tom convinced himself. Tune the guitar, tune your life.
Disclaimer:I do not own Thomas Conrad or William Beckett (unfortunately) and this is not how anything went down.
Author Notes: This all started from a Cobraslash prompt and a request from the bestie/roommate/LOVE xcatchadreamx for more Tom/William in light of the reunion that we're going to be a part of *is excited*. It's very short and quite pointless, but I'm proud just to be able to finish something as of late and it is for my bby's enjoyment.
As always, self beta'd.=]
If he could get it just right, everything would fall in to place.
That's what Tom convinced himself. Tune the guitar, tune your life.
It was an old guitar, acoustic, with quite a few broken strings. It had been stowed in Jon's garage untouched by anything but junk for years and you had to be careful how you held the scratched, rugged neck of it in your hand or you'd get a splinter. Tom felt he could relate to the thing.
It wasn't pretty, nothing like the beautiful rosewood sitting across from him but it didn't play half bad, all things considered, and it had something the rosewood lacked. You held it and you couldn't help wonder who held it first. History, character, charm. Call it what you wish, there was just something to it.
It didn't stop him from looking at the rosewood, though. When something that glorious was in the room, you paid attention. Ironically, it was a lot like the boy who bought it for him. Stunning, untouched. It was sturdy though, it lacked the awkward grace Tom accompanied with William Beckett.
The last day he had touched that boy was also the last day he touched that guitar.
He couldn't bring himself to, anymore. Not after what happened.
He was angry enough to break it and devastated enough to properly bury it afterward. Given it really was an expensive guitar that a lot of thought went in to, he thought it best not to touch it at all.
But sometimes, he thought maybe if he ran his fingers across the top, he could do the same again to William. He wasn't even sure if he wanted to see that kid again, but there it was, boy and guitar. Their fate seemed twined together. Hold one, hold the other. Bury one, bury the other.
Maybe just once though, he could play it again. He wasn't getting anywhere with Jon's old guitar anyway.
He sat it on the bed, and slid across the floor. Back against the wall, he scooped the rosewood from it's hiding place. It was almost like it was waiting for him, waiting to be touched again. So he played.
For hours he sat just like that, strumming until his fingers hurt and his eyes were going out of focus staring at his nearly empty bed. In his mind, it made sense than, that he would call William after. Boy and guitar, after all. So he did that too.
"Hello?" a voice, a laugh, made for music. The octaves oddly feminine, with such a perfect way of pronouncing every syllable, and yet when he spoke it was spattered with awkward stutters, just as lovely as everything else about him, that only went away when he wasn't thinking. When he was singing, or other, more personal times. Tom was mostly thinking about the latter. It made his insides burn and he wanted to hang up, but he couldn't. The burn was almost pleasant in comparison to the emptiness.
"Heello?" He was drinking, Tom could tell. He had a pleasant uplift that only came when he had a little help or he was in particularly good company. Such a tortured little artist. His tortured little artist.
"Hey." it was harder to say than he thought.
"Tom?"
That's when he hung up. He hadn't been prepared for actual conversation anyway, didn't know what he was thinking. He stood up, put the rosewood in his closet.
If he ever spoke to William Beckett again he would not be the one making the phone call. Anger, emptiness, they were both better than losing the ounce of pride he had left.
For now, he would go back to tuning. He would get it just right. Everything would fall in to place.
Later, he would give a proper burial.