fic: Trumpet, Waltz & Strings
First, go watch this: Elephant Guns.
Also, look at this.
Oh, and this.
Then you can read:
Fandom: RPS? Bandom? Owen Pallet/Zach Condon.
Rating: NC-17, for rutting like elk in season.
Notes: I just invented my own fandom. Everyone I know named Owen: please avert your eyes.
Summary: Final Fantasy arranged the strings on Beirut’s new release The Flying Club Cup in the Arcade Fire’s church-turned-studio outside of Montreal, didn’t you know? They fucking love each other.
The kid is twenty-one. Twenty, actually. But it’s four a.m. and he’s got this flush over his cheekbones as he fingers brass buttons, trumpet in his lap, sprawled across an armchair with his ankles crossed demure on one velvet green arm. You’d think he was drunk, or sweetly high, smiling foggily to himself, nodding gently as a toy boat on a string.
Owen tries not to look too hard, says, “Call it a night?” because he’s been swiveling on his roller chair in front of the mac since eight, and yes, the strings practically arranged themselves with the little gypsy princeling tootling on his horn, but Owen’s tired. His eyes are dry. His hair is dirty. He smells like the bus that he rode from Toronto to here, this farmland church, Quebecois not Parisian. There are beds upstairs, where the two New York string musicians Zach brought have been sleeping since midnight. Like sane people, also bus-lagged.
Zach’s eyes are a fog, but his cherub’s lips curl and he says, “Let me see.”
God, that kid. Two hours ago they ate pop rocks and blasted Madonna and flung themselves around the recording booth like demented monkeys. Now Zach slides out of his chair, bare feet, shirt crumpled, vest unbuttoned and wagging around his ribcage like little wings. Owen looks for the bottle - of vodka, or sweet red wine - in his hand, but it’s just his trumpet, which he tucks under his arm like a teddybear.
He comes to peer, over the shoulder. Owen goes to roll away, give him some space. No. Hands on his shoulders, cheek-to-cheek. Zach reaches, pages up, pauses, says “Oh.” Breathes in and out. Says it again.
Owen is twenty-eight. He counts the years backwards and forwards. Four years at school, those operas, that award, Patrick. God. Fucking Patrick. That was another three. Fifteen solid spent with the lights dimmed to keep the monsters alive.
If he turns his face slightly, he can see the smooth curve of cheek washed in dead blue light. This kid has all those years in him, too, somewhere. Spent them carousing with corset-torn wantons in parlours and cobblestoned streets. Or something. Maybe just in New Mexico, college drop-out four times over. Owen knows nothing about him, really.
“I liked that moustache.” Owen says, “Your video.”
“We should do one together,” Zach says immediately, pulling back to look straight down at him. All the hush rushes out of him in a riptide, replaced by an inhalation, a bombastic thrust of that narrow bird’s chest. His hair is a black tangle around his face. The flush comes back to his cheekbones. He smiles, wide then sly.
Owen says something noncommittal, turning in the chair, mortified. This child writes music that makes him ashamed of the ways people praise him. He feels awkward in his own body - a familiar feeling of being too tall with bones that poke out of his skin and self-consciousness for the light thrown from the monitor. What if he does stink like the Greyhound? He’s been picking at a pimple under his ear. Why the hell does this prodigy want him around? Oh god, it’s just the Polaris. It’s just the geek-chic. He can’t even play the violin. Four years of music school, his media of choice is simple math and paper role-plays. He went as an elf five Halloweens in a row, spent those years jerking off to Orlando Bloom.
Zach looks immortal, in some ways - a gleeful and careless imp - as he’s grabbing the arms of the chair, spinning it back to face him, and running it the five feet to the bare brick wall. Owen can imagine his own face: all wide blue eyes and tense narrow mouth.
Then Zach’s crawling into the chair with him. He’s got a knee thrust between his legs, fingers up his throat, wrapped round his ears and kneading the cord of hard muscle at the base of his skull, which sends a stream of warm pleasure like release down his spine. Dirty hair, pimple unnoticed. Zach’s eyes are a frightening, smiling grey, hovering close for one strict moment before he waggles his eyebrows. His tongue is the same hot gypsy vagrant Owen’s admired since the first EP.
And fuck, fuck, fuck, the kid is twenty-one and horny and they’re scrambling out of the rolling chair into the green velvet one where Zach squirms his way back on top with a maximum of rubbing along the way. He’s a goddamn ballerina, elastic body around Owen’s points and angles, like even if he stayed still as a stalked rabbit his entire body would still be swamped under that deluge of grabbing, panting, hard-cocked want. Zach starts talking and doesn’t stop, and every word is fucking dirty and careless and specific. They erase every single queer-boy anxiety harboured in Owen’s frontal lobe: like magic, or alcohol.
Zach pulls his face away, still looking, still smirking around his panting. That wet red mouth. He rises on his knees - they are sunk deep into this chair, it’s scraping along the floor, heavy as it is - enough to rut his hard-on against Owen’s breastbone, hands back in dirty hair. Owen’s t-shirt comes off, shed like a rag. The kid gives him a scalp massage even as he groans into the wall, and Owen noses through layers of cotton to rub his face into the boy’s lean belly, mouthing it, smelling the heat rising off his skin. He knew a guy once who could open buttons with his mouth. Right now, he’d trade in his drum machine for that ability - even so, Zach’s trousers are probably genuinely from the 30s, and they have buttons and hoops that don’t come loose till Zach does it himself. Grinning, and hissing, and looking down at him through that wicked glaze of possession.
Satisfaction as his cock comes out, a fucking flourish with one hand in the air like a despot on parade.
It’s in Owen’s mouth, down his throat, he sucks on it head to balls with his eyes pressed shut as Zach murmurs obscenities and bucks a little like he can’t control it. But he’s laughing through his whining and moaning and cursing.
He’s goddamn laughing and Owen thinks of the trumpet lying on the table with the empty packets of pop rocks and fuck, this kid, has he ever had his dick sucked by a man before? He opens his eyes and pulls his head back and levels a look. He’s still a supplicant it seems, screw his prize money and whatever pitchfork ever said about him. Zach looks down with this attempt at half a sneer through his panting, an eyebrow up though his eyes are almost closed and vague with bliss. Owen pulls at skinny hips till they’re on level, then plasters his wet mouth over that plump little sneer.
Underneath, he jerks at Zach’s cock ‘till he gets pushed off with a gasp. A bit lip and some strained cursing, “God, you whore, Pallet.” And then those grey eyes are wide open again, and a hand is releasing him from his jeans. Vindictive, Zach has him weak-kneed and spasming in under two minutes. He’s not only had his dick sucked, he’s done it before. So much for the corseted wantons.
The kid swallows, meeting his eyes. And then pushes himself back up onto the chair to jerk out six long ropes onto Owen’s chest. He’s given up on the sneer, but he still looks like a tramp, a maniac.
And after, when he rolls off of Owen, back into the rolling chair with his dick hanging out and this smug look on his face, eyebrows at contorted angles, Owen laughs at him. Laughs, and says, “Get me some Kleenex, jerk-off.”
Zach answers with a flick of the wrist, an expressive gesture of helplessness at his own glory. Pale bony chest gleaming with sweat in the V of his bohemian shirt collar. He is a tousle-headed soldier of the revolution, or a spent doll. “We’re gonna have a good two weeks,” he breathes to the ceiling. “I like that violin of yours.”
It’s six a.m. by the time Owen’s gotten into the shower, out of it, and back into it with Zach, and out again. They don’t wake anyone up. There’s a diner down the road that serves rhubarb pie, but only in French, and it’s July, and they are both bony scrawny kids with manful appetites.
Also, look at this.
Oh, and this.
Then you can read:
Fandom: RPS? Bandom? Owen Pallet/Zach Condon.
Rating: NC-17, for rutting like elk in season.
Notes: I just invented my own fandom. Everyone I know named Owen: please avert your eyes.
Summary: Final Fantasy arranged the strings on Beirut’s new release The Flying Club Cup in the Arcade Fire’s church-turned-studio outside of Montreal, didn’t you know? They fucking love each other.
The kid is twenty-one. Twenty, actually. But it’s four a.m. and he’s got this flush over his cheekbones as he fingers brass buttons, trumpet in his lap, sprawled across an armchair with his ankles crossed demure on one velvet green arm. You’d think he was drunk, or sweetly high, smiling foggily to himself, nodding gently as a toy boat on a string.
Owen tries not to look too hard, says, “Call it a night?” because he’s been swiveling on his roller chair in front of the mac since eight, and yes, the strings practically arranged themselves with the little gypsy princeling tootling on his horn, but Owen’s tired. His eyes are dry. His hair is dirty. He smells like the bus that he rode from Toronto to here, this farmland church, Quebecois not Parisian. There are beds upstairs, where the two New York string musicians Zach brought have been sleeping since midnight. Like sane people, also bus-lagged.
Zach’s eyes are a fog, but his cherub’s lips curl and he says, “Let me see.”
God, that kid. Two hours ago they ate pop rocks and blasted Madonna and flung themselves around the recording booth like demented monkeys. Now Zach slides out of his chair, bare feet, shirt crumpled, vest unbuttoned and wagging around his ribcage like little wings. Owen looks for the bottle - of vodka, or sweet red wine - in his hand, but it’s just his trumpet, which he tucks under his arm like a teddybear.
He comes to peer, over the shoulder. Owen goes to roll away, give him some space. No. Hands on his shoulders, cheek-to-cheek. Zach reaches, pages up, pauses, says “Oh.” Breathes in and out. Says it again.
Owen is twenty-eight. He counts the years backwards and forwards. Four years at school, those operas, that award, Patrick. God. Fucking Patrick. That was another three. Fifteen solid spent with the lights dimmed to keep the monsters alive.
If he turns his face slightly, he can see the smooth curve of cheek washed in dead blue light. This kid has all those years in him, too, somewhere. Spent them carousing with corset-torn wantons in parlours and cobblestoned streets. Or something. Maybe just in New Mexico, college drop-out four times over. Owen knows nothing about him, really.
“I liked that moustache.” Owen says, “Your video.”
“We should do one together,” Zach says immediately, pulling back to look straight down at him. All the hush rushes out of him in a riptide, replaced by an inhalation, a bombastic thrust of that narrow bird’s chest. His hair is a black tangle around his face. The flush comes back to his cheekbones. He smiles, wide then sly.
Owen says something noncommittal, turning in the chair, mortified. This child writes music that makes him ashamed of the ways people praise him. He feels awkward in his own body - a familiar feeling of being too tall with bones that poke out of his skin and self-consciousness for the light thrown from the monitor. What if he does stink like the Greyhound? He’s been picking at a pimple under his ear. Why the hell does this prodigy want him around? Oh god, it’s just the Polaris. It’s just the geek-chic. He can’t even play the violin. Four years of music school, his media of choice is simple math and paper role-plays. He went as an elf five Halloweens in a row, spent those years jerking off to Orlando Bloom.
Zach looks immortal, in some ways - a gleeful and careless imp - as he’s grabbing the arms of the chair, spinning it back to face him, and running it the five feet to the bare brick wall. Owen can imagine his own face: all wide blue eyes and tense narrow mouth.
Then Zach’s crawling into the chair with him. He’s got a knee thrust between his legs, fingers up his throat, wrapped round his ears and kneading the cord of hard muscle at the base of his skull, which sends a stream of warm pleasure like release down his spine. Dirty hair, pimple unnoticed. Zach’s eyes are a frightening, smiling grey, hovering close for one strict moment before he waggles his eyebrows. His tongue is the same hot gypsy vagrant Owen’s admired since the first EP.
And fuck, fuck, fuck, the kid is twenty-one and horny and they’re scrambling out of the rolling chair into the green velvet one where Zach squirms his way back on top with a maximum of rubbing along the way. He’s a goddamn ballerina, elastic body around Owen’s points and angles, like even if he stayed still as a stalked rabbit his entire body would still be swamped under that deluge of grabbing, panting, hard-cocked want. Zach starts talking and doesn’t stop, and every word is fucking dirty and careless and specific. They erase every single queer-boy anxiety harboured in Owen’s frontal lobe: like magic, or alcohol.
Zach pulls his face away, still looking, still smirking around his panting. That wet red mouth. He rises on his knees - they are sunk deep into this chair, it’s scraping along the floor, heavy as it is - enough to rut his hard-on against Owen’s breastbone, hands back in dirty hair. Owen’s t-shirt comes off, shed like a rag. The kid gives him a scalp massage even as he groans into the wall, and Owen noses through layers of cotton to rub his face into the boy’s lean belly, mouthing it, smelling the heat rising off his skin. He knew a guy once who could open buttons with his mouth. Right now, he’d trade in his drum machine for that ability - even so, Zach’s trousers are probably genuinely from the 30s, and they have buttons and hoops that don’t come loose till Zach does it himself. Grinning, and hissing, and looking down at him through that wicked glaze of possession.
Satisfaction as his cock comes out, a fucking flourish with one hand in the air like a despot on parade.
It’s in Owen’s mouth, down his throat, he sucks on it head to balls with his eyes pressed shut as Zach murmurs obscenities and bucks a little like he can’t control it. But he’s laughing through his whining and moaning and cursing.
He’s goddamn laughing and Owen thinks of the trumpet lying on the table with the empty packets of pop rocks and fuck, this kid, has he ever had his dick sucked by a man before? He opens his eyes and pulls his head back and levels a look. He’s still a supplicant it seems, screw his prize money and whatever pitchfork ever said about him. Zach looks down with this attempt at half a sneer through his panting, an eyebrow up though his eyes are almost closed and vague with bliss. Owen pulls at skinny hips till they’re on level, then plasters his wet mouth over that plump little sneer.
Underneath, he jerks at Zach’s cock ‘till he gets pushed off with a gasp. A bit lip and some strained cursing, “God, you whore, Pallet.” And then those grey eyes are wide open again, and a hand is releasing him from his jeans. Vindictive, Zach has him weak-kneed and spasming in under two minutes. He’s not only had his dick sucked, he’s done it before. So much for the corseted wantons.
The kid swallows, meeting his eyes. And then pushes himself back up onto the chair to jerk out six long ropes onto Owen’s chest. He’s given up on the sneer, but he still looks like a tramp, a maniac.
And after, when he rolls off of Owen, back into the rolling chair with his dick hanging out and this smug look on his face, eyebrows at contorted angles, Owen laughs at him. Laughs, and says, “Get me some Kleenex, jerk-off.”
Zach answers with a flick of the wrist, an expressive gesture of helplessness at his own glory. Pale bony chest gleaming with sweat in the V of his bohemian shirt collar. He is a tousle-headed soldier of the revolution, or a spent doll. “We’re gonna have a good two weeks,” he breathes to the ceiling. “I like that violin of yours.”
It’s six a.m. by the time Owen’s gotten into the shower, out of it, and back into it with Zach, and out again. They don’t wake anyone up. There’s a diner down the road that serves rhubarb pie, but only in French, and it’s July, and they are both bony scrawny kids with manful appetites.