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booshslashhavenTitle: Buried Deep, 6/7
Summary: Vince and Howard bond over just about the last thing they would have expected
Rating: G (but I promise you, the next one will be NC-17)
Warnings: high sugar content
Spoilers: There are more tears before bedtime
Length: about 1300 words
Disclaimer: I don’t own these characters, I just borrow them to play with every now and again. For twisted love, not for profit
Notes: Follows straight on from Part 5
Buried Deep, part 6
There is a light still on in the keepers’ hut, and to Howard’s surprise a muted trumpet is playing softly.
He didn’t know he had a jazz-loving colleague.
As Howard lifts his hand to knock on the door, he freezes in astonishment. It can’t be.
But that sultry sound is absolutely unmistakable.
Whoever is on the night shift is listening to the legendary 1955 recording of the Jonathan ‘Six Fingers’ Rushmore Quartet’s debut concert at the Onion. Howard had been looking for that record for ages, and last week had found a shop that had had one but had sold it that same morning. He’d been ridiculously disappointed.
Forgetting to knock, he opens the door and goes in.
And freezes in astonishment for the second time.
Vince is lying flat on his face on the sofa, sobbing his heart out.
“That’s not one of my records,” is all Howard can think of to say.
“It is now,” Vince sniffles, without looking up.
That doesn’t make sense. None of this makes sense. Apart perhaps from the tears. Howard peels off his soaked jacket and hangs it over the back of a chair; pulls up a footstool beside the sofa, and sits down cautiously beside Vince. “What are you doing here?”
Vince’s hiccupping reply is muffled in the cushions. “Thought I’d do the night watch. Was no way I was going to sleep anyway. Didn’t wanna go home.”
“Same as me, then.”
“ ’Cept you’re not a total wreck.”
“I haven’t exactly had the best of evenings either.”
Vince sighs deeply. “That doesn’t make me feel any better.”
“We’re not fighting any more. Does that make you feel better?”
“Maybe. A bit.” Vince’s shoulders heave as he tries to get his voice under control. But it’s still wavery and tight as he says “Howard… need to tell you something…”
“What is it, little man?”
“It wasn’t – it wasn’t just the fight made me get like this…”
His voice cracks and breaks, and the sobs overwhelm him again.
“Oh, Vince.” Howard is close to tears himself. He puts a hand on Vince’s shoulder. “What have I done?”
“D’you know what day it is tomorrow?” Vince whispers hoarsely.
“Thursday,” Howard says. “Why?”
“It would’ve been our one-month anniversary. I thought it’d be nice to do something special on our night off. I was going to surprise you…”
“What with?” Howard is filled with remorse: he should have known, from the way Vince was bouncing with excitement at lunchtime.
“I’d booked a table at that posh new Italian place down the road. I know things haven’t been quite right recently, but I thought… this might be something that wouldn’t crowd you, I could see you working yourself up to yell ‘don’t touch me’ all the time but if we were on opposite sides of the table I wouldn’t be touchin’ you.”
He rolls onto his side, and looks at Howard with utter misery in his reddened eyes.
“An’ I bought the record last week – took me ages to find one – I picked it up at lunchtime today, was going to give it to you tonight at the restaurant. But…”
“But I ruined that for you.” Howard pushes the remains of Vince’s fringe out of his eyes, tucking the bedraggled locks neatly behind his ears.
Vince shakes his head, dislodging the hair again. “We ruined it for each other. Takes two to have a proper fight. And after we had it, I nearly smashed the disc.”
Howard winces at the very idea.
“But that seemed a waste, somebody else might want it even if I couldn’t give it you, so I was going to take it back to the shop in the morning. Then I thought I might as well play it, to try to figure out what jazz has that I don’t. Why you care about it so much.”
“I care about you more,” Howard says, but too quietly for Vince to hear.
“I expected to hate it. I thought it’d be boring, or squawky, or that too-clever stuff with weird rhythms that my brain can’t understand. But I liked it. I liked it from the beginnin’, the way these guys are so together, listenin’ to each other, going loud or soft just where they need to, helpin’ each other out. It’s genius. An’ then it broke my heart.”
Howard’s heart is breaking too. He clambers awkwardly onto the sofa and wraps his arms round Vince. “Why?”
“Because it’s all the things I can’t be. It’s all clever and grownup and smooth and toned-down and if that’s what you like, what you really want, well, that’s not me, is it?”
“Vince, that might be what I want from music. But it isn’t what I want from you.”
“What do you want?”
“I want – I just want you to be happy.”
“Me too. You, I mean. But I can’t do it.” The tears start afresh, running unheeded into Vince’s hair. “I’m sorry, Howard. I don’t know how this is s’posed to go. An’ I don’t understand what it’s about. I’ve just been making it up as I went along. All I know is, I p-promised you a happy ending, and this isn’t it…”
The trumpet plays a solo, soft and smoky and aching.
“Turn it off,” Vince begs.
“No, listen.” Howard knows what's coming next. He digs in his trouser pocket for a hankie, and passes it to Vince. “Listen to the music with me, just for a minute.”
Vince sniffs, and leans his head on Howard’s shoulder. “ ’M listening, Howard.”
The solo climbs to a high, yearning note, and the other instruments twine around it and pick up the slow rhythm again.
“These guys don’t know how it’ll end,” Howard says, stroking Vince’s damp hair. “Happy or sad or in a pig’s ear. They’re making it up as they go along. Most of the time they don’t even know exactly how it’s supposed to go – which note comes next, or who’s going to play what and whether it’s going to work if they do. But as long as they listen to each other…”
“Trust each other?”
“That too. They’ll all be in tune when they get to the end.”
“And when they play the next tune it’ll be easier, because they know they can do it.”
“See? You do understand what it’s about. Jazz isn’t an intellectual exercise, Vince. It’s from the heart.”
“Like love.”
“Yeah, like love.”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
Vince sighs, and kisses Howard’s cheek. “It all sounds so simple when you put it like that. Dunno why we had to make it so complicated. I’d have forgotten all about the restaurant and come along to your concert instead if you’d just asked me.”
“I thought you wouldn’t like it.”
“I thought you didn’t want me there.”
“We both thought a lot of stuff that wasn’t true.” Howard becomes aware of the regular click-hiss, click-hiss of the last groove of the vinyl going round. He gets up and goes over to the record player. “Next time…”
“There’s going to be a next time?”
“Of course there is.”
“For everythin’?’
“For everything. Next night off, next date, next stupid argument. But whatever it is, let’s try talking about it before it all goes tits-up, eh?” He lifts the record reverently off the turntable.
“Turn it over,” Vince says.
“Why, is there an interesting label on the other side?”
“No, I meant turn it over and start it again. So we can listen to it together, from the beginning. I’d like that.”
Howard switches the gramophone back on.
He hopes fervently that he was wrong about there being a next stupid argument. But at least he knows now that even if there is one, it’s not a big deal: it’s just like the record jumping a groove.
They can always start the music again, and play it from the beginning, as many times as it takes to get it right.
Summary: Vince and Howard bond over just about the last thing they would have expected
Rating: G (but I promise you, the next one will be NC-17)
Warnings: high sugar content
Spoilers: There are more tears before bedtime
Length: about 1300 words
Disclaimer: I don’t own these characters, I just borrow them to play with every now and again. For twisted love, not for profit
Notes: Follows straight on from Part 5
Buried Deep, part 6
There is a light still on in the keepers’ hut, and to Howard’s surprise a muted trumpet is playing softly.
He didn’t know he had a jazz-loving colleague.
As Howard lifts his hand to knock on the door, he freezes in astonishment. It can’t be.
But that sultry sound is absolutely unmistakable.
Whoever is on the night shift is listening to the legendary 1955 recording of the Jonathan ‘Six Fingers’ Rushmore Quartet’s debut concert at the Onion. Howard had been looking for that record for ages, and last week had found a shop that had had one but had sold it that same morning. He’d been ridiculously disappointed.
Forgetting to knock, he opens the door and goes in.
And freezes in astonishment for the second time.
Vince is lying flat on his face on the sofa, sobbing his heart out.
“That’s not one of my records,” is all Howard can think of to say.
“It is now,” Vince sniffles, without looking up.
That doesn’t make sense. None of this makes sense. Apart perhaps from the tears. Howard peels off his soaked jacket and hangs it over the back of a chair; pulls up a footstool beside the sofa, and sits down cautiously beside Vince. “What are you doing here?”
Vince’s hiccupping reply is muffled in the cushions. “Thought I’d do the night watch. Was no way I was going to sleep anyway. Didn’t wanna go home.”
“Same as me, then.”
“ ’Cept you’re not a total wreck.”
“I haven’t exactly had the best of evenings either.”
Vince sighs deeply. “That doesn’t make me feel any better.”
“We’re not fighting any more. Does that make you feel better?”
“Maybe. A bit.” Vince’s shoulders heave as he tries to get his voice under control. But it’s still wavery and tight as he says “Howard… need to tell you something…”
“What is it, little man?”
“It wasn’t – it wasn’t just the fight made me get like this…”
His voice cracks and breaks, and the sobs overwhelm him again.
“Oh, Vince.” Howard is close to tears himself. He puts a hand on Vince’s shoulder. “What have I done?”
“D’you know what day it is tomorrow?” Vince whispers hoarsely.
“Thursday,” Howard says. “Why?”
“It would’ve been our one-month anniversary. I thought it’d be nice to do something special on our night off. I was going to surprise you…”
“What with?” Howard is filled with remorse: he should have known, from the way Vince was bouncing with excitement at lunchtime.
“I’d booked a table at that posh new Italian place down the road. I know things haven’t been quite right recently, but I thought… this might be something that wouldn’t crowd you, I could see you working yourself up to yell ‘don’t touch me’ all the time but if we were on opposite sides of the table I wouldn’t be touchin’ you.”
He rolls onto his side, and looks at Howard with utter misery in his reddened eyes.
“An’ I bought the record last week – took me ages to find one – I picked it up at lunchtime today, was going to give it to you tonight at the restaurant. But…”
“But I ruined that for you.” Howard pushes the remains of Vince’s fringe out of his eyes, tucking the bedraggled locks neatly behind his ears.
Vince shakes his head, dislodging the hair again. “We ruined it for each other. Takes two to have a proper fight. And after we had it, I nearly smashed the disc.”
Howard winces at the very idea.
“But that seemed a waste, somebody else might want it even if I couldn’t give it you, so I was going to take it back to the shop in the morning. Then I thought I might as well play it, to try to figure out what jazz has that I don’t. Why you care about it so much.”
“I care about you more,” Howard says, but too quietly for Vince to hear.
“I expected to hate it. I thought it’d be boring, or squawky, or that too-clever stuff with weird rhythms that my brain can’t understand. But I liked it. I liked it from the beginnin’, the way these guys are so together, listenin’ to each other, going loud or soft just where they need to, helpin’ each other out. It’s genius. An’ then it broke my heart.”
Howard’s heart is breaking too. He clambers awkwardly onto the sofa and wraps his arms round Vince. “Why?”
“Because it’s all the things I can’t be. It’s all clever and grownup and smooth and toned-down and if that’s what you like, what you really want, well, that’s not me, is it?”
“Vince, that might be what I want from music. But it isn’t what I want from you.”
“What do you want?”
“I want – I just want you to be happy.”
“Me too. You, I mean. But I can’t do it.” The tears start afresh, running unheeded into Vince’s hair. “I’m sorry, Howard. I don’t know how this is s’posed to go. An’ I don’t understand what it’s about. I’ve just been making it up as I went along. All I know is, I p-promised you a happy ending, and this isn’t it…”
The trumpet plays a solo, soft and smoky and aching.
“Turn it off,” Vince begs.
“No, listen.” Howard knows what's coming next. He digs in his trouser pocket for a hankie, and passes it to Vince. “Listen to the music with me, just for a minute.”
Vince sniffs, and leans his head on Howard’s shoulder. “ ’M listening, Howard.”
The solo climbs to a high, yearning note, and the other instruments twine around it and pick up the slow rhythm again.
“These guys don’t know how it’ll end,” Howard says, stroking Vince’s damp hair. “Happy or sad or in a pig’s ear. They’re making it up as they go along. Most of the time they don’t even know exactly how it’s supposed to go – which note comes next, or who’s going to play what and whether it’s going to work if they do. But as long as they listen to each other…”
“Trust each other?”
“That too. They’ll all be in tune when they get to the end.”
“And when they play the next tune it’ll be easier, because they know they can do it.”
“See? You do understand what it’s about. Jazz isn’t an intellectual exercise, Vince. It’s from the heart.”
“Like love.”
“Yeah, like love.”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
Vince sighs, and kisses Howard’s cheek. “It all sounds so simple when you put it like that. Dunno why we had to make it so complicated. I’d have forgotten all about the restaurant and come along to your concert instead if you’d just asked me.”
“I thought you wouldn’t like it.”
“I thought you didn’t want me there.”
“We both thought a lot of stuff that wasn’t true.” Howard becomes aware of the regular click-hiss, click-hiss of the last groove of the vinyl going round. He gets up and goes over to the record player. “Next time…”
“There’s going to be a next time?”
“Of course there is.”
“For everythin’?’
“For everything. Next night off, next date, next stupid argument. But whatever it is, let’s try talking about it before it all goes tits-up, eh?” He lifts the record reverently off the turntable.
“Turn it over,” Vince says.
“Why, is there an interesting label on the other side?”
“No, I meant turn it over and start it again. So we can listen to it together, from the beginning. I’d like that.”
Howard switches the gramophone back on.
He hopes fervently that he was wrong about there being a next stupid argument. But at least he knows now that even if there is one, it’s not a big deal: it’s just like the record jumping a groove.
They can always start the music again, and play it from the beginning, as many times as it takes to get it right.
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Date: 2012-03-22 04:34 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-22 08:16 am (UTC)