Chapter Text
He hadn't meant for this to happen.
It was just one of those kitschy things: an upright-turned-mural on an L.A. street corner, covered in rich, vibrant paint and most definitely, woefully out of tune.
The first warm day of winter - the early months heralding, welcoming, melting into spring - had inspired them to film outside, him and Shane and everyone else, and he... he knows he shouldn't, but his fingers are just itching.
It's been months.
So he clumsily hands the camera over to Morgan without explanation; nudges Garrett away from the bench, and sits down at the piano.
"Oh, are you gonna play us a song, piano man?" Shane teases, mirth evident in his tone. "What, did you take lessons for a few years in middle school and think you're hot shit? What a little virtuoso."
Andrew hovers over the keys.
"I played violin in sixth grade, you know; we've all been there, Andrew -"
He strikes his fingers down.
Two C's, in tandem, ring out around the Los Angeles square. Traffic seems to still.
He lets Chopin's ballade unfold, surprised at how in tune the piano is - making his way up the keys and lingering on an unresolved accidental: "A question," his professor had always said.
"The antecedent?" Andrew had asked, the very first time.
"No, not quite - but unresolved, begging for an answer." Then she always went on to say, "And when does that answer come, Andrew? In the next chord?"
"No," Andrew would reply, vowing never to make that mistake again. "The resolution comes in the first theme. The elision, almost."
"Precisely."
He plays it now: morose and brooding, drifting out over the evening streets. Passersby across the road stop to watch him take his time; letting his right foot press lazily down on the damper pedal, listening as the notes slur together like honey - like syrup on a table, staining, seeping into whitewashed wood. Feeding the sweeties on a hot summer night, he thinks, and cannot help but smile at the memory.
He feels the discord of the bass in his left hand: its energy growing, working its way into a trill, his fingers oscillating between the two keys - he hasn't played this piece since his senior recital -
Andrew works his way up, right hand dancing between sixteenth notes in the higher register, gaining speed and moving freely up and down the keyboard in the minor arpeggios until he hits the high F - and his left hand coasts into major, modulating into the second theme - E flat major, the key of love - repeating the same two chords over and over again, until he's soaring into the second subject, and - it feels like he's coming home, he wants to keep playing on and on and on, forever and ever.
As he crests the peak of the phrase - the second theme, in octaves, his right hand flashing between notes - his mind drifts to Garrett, and, suddenly remembering where he is, he immediately stops.
He doesn't dare look at Garrett.
The L.A. square is coated with a thick layer of unnerving quiet. Morgan finally breaks it with a nervous, high-pitched giggle.
"Did you get all that on camera?" he hears Shane mutter to her; and then the clicking of the camera as the lens shutters, switching from on to off.
Shit.
"Shane," he says, still staring down at his feet. He gets up from the bench, awkwardly, and it shudders, scrapes against the pavement as he fumbles to push it back under the keys. "Shane, please don't post that."
For much too long, he watches the cogs in Shane's head spinning, turning, mind racing - and finally, he settles on, "Yeah, sure."
"Are we done filming, Shane?" Ryland whines, seemingly oblivious to the situation at hand; the tension stretching between them like a rope pulled taut. His designer sunglasses glint brightly in the summer light. Andrew is glad they protect him from seeing his shrewd, judgmental eyes. "It's getting dark, you know."
There is another awful bout of silence, and then, finally, Garrett swoops in to rescue him. "Yeah, Shane, we've got plenty of footage," he says. "And Ryland's right, there's not a lot of daylight left. Let's just go back to the house."
Andrew's sure it's going to take more convincing than that, but Shane is oddly silent. Finally, he nods to Ryland, and then Andrew is awkwardly taking the camera back from Morgan and tucking it into his backpack, gritting his teeth so as not to scream with frustration.
They all start the long, half-mile trek to the parking garage.
In complete silence.
He sits in the back of Ryland's G-Wagen, next to Garrett, and considers throwing the camera's sim card out the window.
He really, truly hadn't meant for this to happen. There's a reason he's kept his classical roots under wraps, hidden from Shane and the others for so long - and now he's gone and blown it, all because he couldn't help but give in to his stupid impulses, the call of the keys to his hands.
That draw had served him well in undergrad; had never kept him out of the practice rooms for very long. Andrew remembers the hours he'd spent confined in a single room, hands ghosting over the keys in the same pattern, over and over and over again - working out a single measure of music, four chords; ignoring his friends' texts to come get dinner with them until it was midnight, and he had to go make something in his shitty dorm kitchen before he passed out from exhaustion.
Then he would wake up the next day with maybe six hours of sleep; go to class; rinse, repeat.
If he isn't careful, he'll fall into memory - so he tears his gaze from the window and looks over at Garrett, who has a strange expression on his face. He gives Andrew a small smile when he meets his gaze, and he is suddenly overwhelmed with affection for his friend.
It's just the two of them in the very, very back. No one will notice if he reaches over and squeezes Garrett's hand.
As soon as they park, and he is forced to let go of Garrett, his panic returns to him: like a hand has been clamped over his mouth, a vice about his chest - constricting his lungs, he can't - can't think, can't breathe -
"You coming, Andrew?" Garrett asks quietly, as all the others pile out of the car - and Andrew shakes himself a little, nods, and follows him out of the garage.
He's pretty sure Garrett sat him down on the couch in Shane's new, high-vaulted living room, but he's lost in his own world after that: recalling the countless recitals and concerts - his solo in Pines of Rome at Severance Hall, the one his parents managed to drive all the way from Illinois to come see. His senior year, when he won the concerto competition and played Liszt with the orchestra; went into downtown Cleveland the week before to rent a tux (a nice one, with floral patterns embroidered onto the lapels, not just his standard concert black), with all his friends - how he hadn't slept a wink the night before the performance, lying in his apartment with his glow-in-the-dark stars from home stuck to his ceiling. How he'd gone up to the roof at one a.m., looked out over the city - felt happy, full, but still just the tiniest bit empty. Like something was missing.
"Andrew," Morgan's saying suddenly from the dining table, holding up her phone. "Hey. Andrew. Uh -"
"Sorry, yeah?" he says, blinking himself out of his reprieve.
"Is Chipotle okay?"
"Yeah, sure. Sorry, I, um, spaced out for a second."
"It's fine," she says, her attention elsewhere.
His mind is on the keys again: the way he'd spent hours obsessing over a single chord, writing out his analyses at three in the morning like a madman; then waking up the next day to a new breakthrough, a realization - how intricately he worked on his solo repertoire, how easily his dinky accompaniment gigs came to him - his studio classes, his little private students -
Was it a mistake? Did he make the wrong decision by leaving it behind? Everything he'd worked towards for years, for his entire life?
And now that he's touched it again, his hands beg, itch for more. It's been far too long since he's felt the ivories beneath his fingertips.
Suddenly, his stomach lurches, and he's moving; finds himself instantly standing, opening and closing his fists. Almost as if he's looking for a piano to play.
Andrew's mind goes on autopilot. He stumbles around the house, disoriented; still not yet familiar with the foreign surroundings that comprise Shane and Ryland's villa. Eventually, he finds the bathroom, and hurriedly locks the door behind him.
Everything smells so new. So fresh.
He hates it.
He flips the toilet lid back and kneels, leaning over the bowl and waiting for his nausea to subside.
A summer night from a year ago resurfaces in his mind, as he thinks about how much he hates Shane's new house: Garrett jumping into the pool, cackling like a fiend, and pulling Andrew in with him, fully clothed - catching him in his lovely arms and wrenching his shirt off, tugging it over his head, and Andrew being so, so nervous about what Garrett thought of him, hands crossed over his stomach as they bobbed up and down in the water - and then Garrett slicking his hair back, fumbling to unbutton his blue flannel with chlorine-soaked hands, laughing as Andrew helped him. Quieting suddenly once his shirt was open, and Andrew's fingers were splayed against his bare chest - tinged with traces of soft, golden hair, and so warm in the setting sun. Dusk pouring over the canvas like orange and yellow watercolors, spilled haphazardly by the most prodigal of artists.
He misses the way things used to be.
A clatter at the front door and the pattering of feet tells him the food is here; so he steels himself, gets shakily to his feet, and washes his hands.
Dinner is normal enough. Shane passes out their orders without a second glance at Andrew, and they all end up splayed out on the sofa in the living room, putting some YouTube video on the TV Andrew doesn't pay attention to. It's one of Jeffree's, and he knows, feels like he should be watching, but he can't bring himself to.
Not when Shane is sitting in the corner of the couch, Ryland tucked up against him - staring at the screen with his head tilted slightly to the side.
Thinking hard.
"You guys are welcome to stay the night, you know," Ryland says after an hour, gathering up all the empty trays and tin foil wrappers to be thrown away. "Morgan's taking the guest bedroom, but you two can crash the couch if you want. There's more than enough room."
Andrew throws a nervous glance at Garrett, who's been silent for almost the entire time they've been here. He puts on a calm face, lips pressed together in a small, grateful smile; but he hopes against hope his friend will read the panic in his eyes, recognize how badly Andrew wants to leave.
If they stay, there's a chance Shane will try to surprise him in the morning, when he's vulnerable and still tired and in need of coffee. Corner him, try to get the truth out of him; bribe him with caffeine and money and the promise of a new series, a secure job.
Garrett looks at him for a long moment. Andrew prays he can hear the pleas, the cry for help inside his head.
"Sorry, Ryland, but I think we'd better go," he says apologetically. Keeping his gaze on Andrew; saying with his eyes, It's alright. I'll make it alright. Let me take care of you.
"Are you sure?" Shane asks. Andrew's face burns under the intensity of his stare. "It's late. Kind of dangerous to go out right now."
"Yeah, I'm sure," Garrett says - and there is an edge to his voice, a firmness that dares anyone to try and change his mind. "I'm fine driving in the dark. Andrew?"
He's getting up from the couch, reaching a hand out to Andrew - pulling him up from the cushions with the gentleness of a parent handling a newborn.
Shane stills on the other side of the room, eyes narrowing slightly.
Andrew holds onto Garrett's hand for a second too long as he stands.
They say their awkward goodbyes and leave through the front door. Andrew is surprised by the cool, chilly air of the February night, after such a temperate day. He pulls the unzipped edges of his hoodie a little tighter about his chest.
"You cold?" Garrett asks, already shrugging off his bomber jacket.
"I - oh," Andrew starts and finishes, as Garrett wraps the coat around his shoulders.
"You can keep that 'till we get you home," he tells him. Andrew thinks that maybe, just maybe, he won't bother reminding Garrett to take it back.
They walk to the end of the too-long driveway and clamber into Garrett's Prius. James Blake starts playing as Garrett turns the key in the ignition, crooning softly from the speakers when Garrett's phone automatically connects. Andrew wonders if he purposefully queued it up beforehand, or if it's just sheer coincidence that their favorite song popped up just when he needs it most.
Garrett doesn't say much as they drive home, keeping his eyes on the road and one hand on the steering wheel, head nodding along to the song as they cruise down the highway. Andrew squints and lets the headlights coming towards them on the other side of the freeway blur together, like a camera lens struggling to focus. He feels calm, and very at peace. Eventually, he lets his eyes slide shut, drifting off to the soft hum of the tires coasting along asphalt, rocking back and forth slightly; Garrett's lovely voice, murmuring and undulating with the music, washing over him and tugging him gently along, into the lull of near unconsciousness.
He is more than half-asleep when the car's engine stalls and sputters out. He registers the keys jingling as Garrett parks and switches the car off, the chime of the keychain Andrew bought him in Chicago distinctly recognizable. Like a little bell amongst the incomprehensible jangling of the other plastic cards and pieces of metal.
Andrew opens his eyes to look at it, resting against the palm of Garrett's hand.
It's a tiny, silver keyboard he picked up at the gift shop in the Chicago Symphony concert hall. When he flew home for a weekend, just to see Marc-André Hamelin play Rach 3.
"Are we home, Garr?" he mumbles, tearing his eyes away from the little instrument to meet Garrett's steady gaze.
"Yeah," he says. "I mean. Shit, I meant to drop you off at your place."
"No, no." He reaches over, squeezes Garrett's gargantuan fingers with his own. "This is what I meant."
And oh, how he wishes he could bask forever in this moment - with his hands twined between his friend's, and a smile so wide on Garrett's face, it could outshine the sun.
They head inside, and Andrew doesn't hesitate to push his way into the bedroom, lying down on Garrett's mattress and keeping the bomber jacket wrapped tightly around him. He listens to Garrett shuffle around the house, clearing away odds and ends in the kitchen and placing dishes in the sink to soak overnight. Finally, he finishes his housekeeping and comes to join him in his room, stripping himself of his shirt and climbing into bed next to Andrew.
He doesn't breathe a word about the events of today. All he says is, "Are you okay?" with a small, content sigh, and Andrew loves him for it.
He sighs, staring up at Garrett's ceiling. (Making a mental note to surprise Garrett, with phosphorescent, stick-on stars, when he least expects it.)
"I wanted you to be the first to know."
Garrett pauses, tentative. Andrew knows he's wondering if he should play dumb or not.
He probably feels betrayed. Hurt, that Andrew could've kept this from him. There are no secrets in their relationship - well, except for one, but Andrew hasn't quite worked up the courage to confess his (clearly unrequited) feelings yet. And Garrett is too nice to reject him to his face.
But besides that, there are no secrets. So Andrew expects his best friend to say, "I trusted you," and, "We're best friends; how could you not tell me this?" and, "I've shown you the deepest, innermost parts of myself - told you all my darkest secrets - how could you not do the same?"
He doesn't say any of that. He looks at him with kind, worried eyes, and when he finally opens his mouth to speak, what comes out is this: "I get why you didn't tell me, Andrew."
He blinks. "You what?"
"Yeah, I mean, it's so obvious Shane wants to exploit you." Garrett wriggles around, pushing his feet under the covers and giggling a bit when his toes find Andrew's bare leg. "I don't blame you for covering it up."
"That's... not why I didn't tell you, Garrett," Andrew says slowly.
"...oh."
Silence hangs between them, a palpable weight on Andrew's shoulders until finally, he is brave enough to say, "I didn't tell anyone because I was ashamed."
"Ashamed?" Garrett pushes himself up on his side, his elbow digging into the pillow as he looks at Andrew, scrutinizes him. "What do you have to be ashamed of, Andrew? You're a - you - you're really fucking good at piano, Andrew, you - even - even I know that -"
"Because I failed," he tells Garrett. "I failed in the music industry. I gave up on my dream."
The look Garrett gives him when he says that makes him want to scream and cry and kiss him, all at once.
"I sold my upright on Craigslist six months ago," he goes on. "Told myself I was swearing it off. Couldn't catch a single gig."
"But - Andrew, you told me you used to work in -"
"Music production," he says bitterly. "That's a little different from performing as a concert pianist."
"So?" Garrett chuckles, tugging Andrew towards him. Andrew can't help but lean into his touch, drawn to him like a magnet to the finest of metals - a child to a firefly's flame, mason jar clutched in hand. Ready to capture and protect it with his life. "No one's career goes exactly as planned. I mean, look at me."
Andrew sighs. "Well, yeah, but I mean - helping out around recording studios isn't what I went to school for."
"What did you go to school for?" Garrett asks gently. Andrew is momentarily distracted by the feeling of his thumb, caressing at his cheek.
"I, uh..." He clears his throat, somehow finding the strength to forge on. "Piano performance and music theory. Double major. At the Cleveland Institute of Music."
Garrett whistles. "Damn, Siwicki. Talented and intelligent? You really know how to impress a guy, don't you?"
His heart stutters; skips a beat at what cannot possibly be Garrett flirting with him. "Yeah, right," he manages, averting his gaze. His cheeks must be flushed something awful.
To his dismay, Garrett senses his slight discomfort and pulls away, shifting from his side to lay flat on his back. "I have a keyboard, you know," he says cautiously, like he's thinking out loud. "You can take it if you want."
Andrew's response is immediate: "Garrett, no, I couldn't. It's yours, you bought it. And - besides, I don't - I'm not really sure if I even wanna get back into the music world, anyway, I - I like what I do now. Honestly. Filming's fun for me."
"Oh, please." Garrett rolls his eyes and grins. "I saw the way you looked at that piano on the street. I bet you've been torturing yourself by not playing, haven't you?"
Andrew shudders, lets out a shaky breath. He's painfully reminded of one of his sweetest nights as a student, when his roommate convinced him to come out and hear Yuja Wang play Grieg with the Cleveland Orchestra, instead of staying in to put the finishing touches on his senior thesis.
He'd cried like a baby in those plush, blue seats.
Now he smiles at Garrett and says, "I have. Of course I have."
"Yeah, I bet. Know you way too well, Siwicki." Garrett reaches over to the nightstand for the little box of toothpicks they share, that they're both constantly chewing on, and sticks one in his mouth, letting it hang lazily from his lips. "How'd you pick up filming, then? If you love playing so much."
Andrew shrugs, the fabric of Garrett's jacket crumpling and gliding against the sheets beneath him as he does so. "A friend of mine in the production industry needed a cameraman. Had me help out with an indie music video, and it just kinda... went from there. Paid better than unemployment did, for sure."
Garrett laughs at that, and finally, the seriousness, the sobriety of the night lifts, bursting like a bubble - and Andrew starts giggling, too. They feed off of each other's amusement, cackling at the utter ridiculousness of the situation, of Andrew's long-kept revelation. How funny Garrett must find it, that he's a classical musician. How uncharacteristic of this Illinois boy, this Midwest soul.
Eventually, their laughter dies down, and Garrett turns to look at him again. "Really, though," he says, "you can take my keyboard. I never use it anyway."
"Garrett -"
"No, I want you to have it, Andrew. Please?"
If there's one thing he can't resist, it's Garrett's puppy-dog eyes.
"Okay," he gives in. "Okay, fine, I'll use your keyboard."
"Oh, really? Andrew, I -"
"But I'm coming over to use it," he continues, grinning wickedly. "It's staying here. I'll make you regret you ever offered."
"Andrew, I'll never get tired of hearing you play," Garrett says - and Andrew's stomach threatens to burst at the way his friend looks at him, butterflies pounding against the walls of his belly.
"Well," he stutters - awkwardly, terribly, ruining the moment - "well, I - I mean, I'll use headphones. So. We won't have to see if that's true or not."
Even after his flub, Garrett doesn't stop looking at him in that way: like he would give Andrew a million keyboards, buy him an entire Steinway piano - would steal him the moon if he only said the word.
Andrew wonders if he'll ever be lucky enough to get used to this feeling.