Adora 2 6 2
Adora, hogwarts!au, fake dating, “fuck. fuck fuck fuck fuck this shit. fuck.”
(oh boy you probably picked the worst person to do a hogwarts au lol. I read the books when I was 10 and I’ve only seen the first movie around that same time and have not since interacted with anything HP. but I’ll do my best)
context: while I personally believe Adora is a Slytherin I believe I remember something about how you can still choose your house? Like, Harry was more suited to Slytherin but he wanted so badly to be Gryffindor so the sorting hat was like “lmao if you say so” and put him in Gryffindor. So I feel like the same thing happened with Adora which is why she’s in Gryffindor, not Slytherin.
cw: dubcon? ish? no sex, just some making out though.
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On all accounts, it didn’t make much sense. Catra hated her. Both on a personal level and well, because of the pre-existing feud between their two houses.
She was a Gryffindor. Catra was a Slytherin. What else was there to say?
A lot, apparently.
The proposal had, seemingly, come out of nowhere. It was both their fifth years and Adora was lined up to be the Gryffindor prefect. Of course, she had some competition, albeit minimal, but practically everyone and their mother knew that Adora had it in the bag. She had excellent grades and a pristine, crystal clear record that made her the perfect candidate.
Well...almost crystal clear.
And, she shouldn’t be surprised, Catra was not above blackmail.
“That happened in first year!” she’d argued. “It doesn’t even matter anymore!”
Catra, the epitome of nonchalance, had been picking at her nails. “Well, if that’s the case, Princess, then you shouldn’t be worried if anyone finds out.”
And Adora had been backed into silence, fuming and steaming, because despite how much she wanted to believe otherwise, she knew that something like that getting out would demolish her chances at becoming a prefect. Something that everyone, Catra in particular, knew that she’d spent most of her time at Hogwarts working towards.
So...yeah. Here she was. Walking the halls with her prefect badge pinned to her robes, keeping a watchful eye for any of the younger students causing havoc where they shouldn’t be.
And following closely behind her were the whispers of how she and Catra, the Slytherin fifth-year prefect, were....dating.
Ugh.
“I don’t know why you want to spread around something like that. Slytherins hate Gryffindors. If you’re trying to boost your reputation, something like this will have the exact opposite effect.”
“Bold of you to assume those were my intentions.”
Catra never divulged exactly what those were either though. Her lips were sealed, locked so tightly that not even the worst of coercion or spells could unlock it. She was planning something, that Adora could be sure of, but unfortunately for all her wits she couldn’t crack the code that was the mechanisms of Catra’s mind.
So the year ran its course with the two of them pretending to date. Lower years gossiped in the halls in-between classes and Adora even caught her own quidditch teammates tossing about theories and conspiracies when they thought she couldn’t hear.
The only ones that knew the truth were her and Catra. And Bow and Glimmer, of course.
“I don’t understand why you’re letting her push you around like this,” Glimmer lamented each time the topic was brought up. “You deserve being a prefect, no matter what kind of dirt she has on you. Especially when she isn’t that squeaky clean herself.” She was always somehow more annoyed with the situation that Adora was, voicing the frustrations that Adora never could and then some.
Her defense was the same every time, too. “I can’t risk it, Glimmer. If there’s one thing that could get me stripped of my badge, it’s this.” What was the saying about regretting your youthful decisions? Because if there wasn’t one, she could probably easily come up with something. “I’ll just play along for now until she gets bored.”
“Or,” Glimmer rebutted, “You let her drag this on long enough until she achieves whatever it is she’s actually planning. You’re playing with venom here, babe. It’s up to you when you decide to suck it out.”
And she had a point. Without knowing what Catra’s intentions were with this whole thing or anyway of finding out, Adora was essentially a mouse in a mousetrap, waiting for her predator to either free her out of mercy or devour her whole. The longer she played this game, the more she risked losing. She used to assure herself that she’d play the waiting game until Catra either grew bored or until they were graduated, but who was to say that Catra would let her go after that? Who was to say she’d even last that long?
Bow, who was usually quiet during these conversations, only left her with a simple warning, “Be careful around her, Adora. We don’t want you getting hurt.”
So that’s what she was doing. Treading lightly, being mindful not to say anything too combative or instigate something that she can’t maintain a strong hold on.
They had rules, thankfully, from both of them. Rules from Catra to make the whole thing believable, and rules from Adora to make sure they didn’t step too far that she didn’t have any semblance of control. Their affection was public, a demand from Catra, but at Adora’s insistence, it was always chaste and simple. When asked about their relationship, Adora found herself reciting a spiel she’d rehearsed at Catra’s behest, but she was allowed to shut down questions that get too personal or intimate.
For all the trouble it caused her, Adora had to admit that it could’ve been worse.
Until the night came where Catra broke her number one rule: Absolutely nothing was to happen between them in private.
It had all started out during one of her nightly patrols. Her back was to a wall - literally - with Catra caging her in, too close for comfort.
“Wha....what are you doing, Catra? This isn’t even your hall.”
Catra pouted and on the surface it looked almost genuinely hurt. But Adora could see the conniving little gears cranking behind the facade and steeled herself to disallow any notions of sympathy to break down her defenses. “Can’t one girlfriend say hi to the other?”
Adora quickly scanned the hallway they were in - dark and empty. “No one’s here. We don’t have to pretend.”
“Well,” and then Catra leaned in closer, her smirk fatally sweet and oozing venom and Adora could feel the toxins paralyzing her and making her overheat. “You never know who’s watching.”
They both knew very well that no one was.
“Just what kind of game are you playing at here, huh? Because I didn’t agree to any of this.” Her anger was getting the better of her, pent up from being stuck in a trap she’d slid herself into. But she was tired of being the victim here. “You have no business being here unless it’s for some ulterior motive.”
Catra hummed and tapped the wall beside her head, mulling over her words with a halfhearted consideration. “Yeah, I suppose you might be right about that.” She leaned back, giving enough space between the two again that Adora takes in a gulp of air that she’d been desperately craving. “The game’s gotta change, Princess. Doubts are starting to creep into people’s heads and cheek pecks and hand holding ain’t gonna cut it anymore.”
Dread weighs in Adora’s stomach like lead. “So what are you proposing?” As soon as the words were out of her mouth she cursed inwardly, angry with herself for indulging Catra in her sick little fantasy. She wanted out of this, not to let herself be reeled in further.
She could feel Catra coiling around her, tighter and tighter, cracking her ribs and compressing her lungs as she struggled to breathe.
Adora watched as Catra dragged her tongue along her bottom lip, eyes dropping down from her face. “I was thinking something along the lines of something to show that you’re mine.” Adora shivered at the way that sounded, chalking it up to the ice-laced fear and uncertainty coursing through her veins.
Catra smirked and met her eyes once more, mirth and secrecy dancing in the piercing colors that kept Adora pinned where she stood. “A necklace, maybe?”
Adora frowned and her shoulders relaxed. That was it? Gift giving? Well, that was manageable, she supposed. “What? To wear around for everyone to see?”
Something flashed in Catra’s eyes and suddenly things weren’t so simple. “Exactly like that.”
Still... “Okay. Fine. Do you have one now?”
Then Catra cackled and a warning ping went off in Adora’s head, something telling her to get out of there. Now. “Oh, sweet, sweet Adora. Not that kind of necklace.” Before Adora could say anything else, Catra’s hand was at the back of her head, gripping her ponytail and yanking it down. At the same time, one of Catra’s hands was yanking at the top of her robes, pulling it away from her neck, just before she descended.
Teeth clamped around supple skin and Adora yelped. Luckily, she still had enough wits about her to quickly bring a hand up to her mouth to muffle her sounds when Catra moved onto the next spot, trailing her tongue across the skin of Adora’s neck and collar before biting down again and sucking.
Her legs were trembling beneath her, breath coming in short spurts as her other hand grabbed at Catra’s robes. She was surprised to realize that instead of trying to pull her off, however, she was instead pulling her closer, body arching to brush against Catra’s.
It last only a couple minutes. Soon enough, Catra was pulling away from Adora’s neck, admiring her handiwork in the form of a plethora of hickeys and a panting, flushed Adora. Clearly contented, she began to pull back, only to be halted by Adora’s hand still wrapped in the billowing fabric of her robes, pulling her back in.
Their lips met, rough and Catra’s hot lips searing. Adora could feel the venom pooling in her mouth, coating her tongue with each swipe of Catra’s and trickling down her throat, poisoning her mind, body, and soul with each drop.
When they pull away, Adora no longer knew what to make of anything - up, down; left, right; friend, foe; Slytherin, Gryffindor.
Catra let out a rush of air that she supposed was supposed to be a laugh, an amused light to her eyes that hinted at something else. Whatever it was, Adora wondered if it reflected the spark that she felt igniting in her own chest, spreading its heat to the bottom of her stomach.
“I think that’ll do for now,” Catra whispered, giving her one last peck on the lips before backing off. Adora watched her saunter off from whence she had come, robes fanning out around her, lips tingling with the phantom sensation of Catra’s pressed against them.
Her fingers brushed against the sore spots on her neck, feeling the tenderness in a few select spots, as reality began to sink in and she realized just what this meant for tomorrow.
Fuck.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck this shit.
Adora pushed herself away from the wall, standing still a second or two to make sure her legs were steady enough to walk, before drifting down the hall in the opposite direction to finish her rounds.
Fuck.
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Summary: Logan Berry and Roman Gold are equally ambitious and skilled pianists. Unfortunately, those ambitions are not necessarily compatible. Competition ensues.
Words: 6045
Notes: Alrighty! This is my first Sanders Sides fic, and the first fic I've ever posted in a public space, so please don't murder me if they're super out-of-character or some parts are super rushed or whatever. (Which they are, lmao.) But I really enjoyed writing this, so I decided to post it anyway, because that's the only way to ~grow~ and whatnot. Have a nice day! :)
Read on: Archive of Our Own, Wattpad
Ms. Anne Berry had always wanted to be a musician, and when she grew up without achieving her aspirations, turned to trying to raise one. In her childhood daydreams, she entered a shining hall, hung with crystal chandeliers and gold sconces. A stage was set before a sea of black velvet chairs, upon which hundreds of elegant aristocrats sat on the edge of their seats in anticipation. On the stage was a sleek black grand piano. She walked out to ear-splitting applause and cheering, but the audience hushed immediately, eager to watch the virtuoso at work, when she placed her hands upon the keys. Those dreams turned to dust as she aged. She attended law school, became an attorney, worked so tirelessly she never had time for music. In her new dreams, the baby in her womb grew up to play sold-out shows in those beautiful halls to hordes of admirers in her stead, so that she could at least be at peace with her former ambitions.
In that spirit, she had selected a wonderful name to encourage her future child’s musical inclination. It that of many great composers, graceful, and refined. Clunky, awkward, unexceptional Logan was not the name she would have chosen for her child, but her husband insisted on it. The Berrys had been bickering over this since they found out she was pregnant. It was practically routine.
Ms. Berry would list off notable musicians who bore her chosen name. (“All I’m saying is that it has a fantastic musical significance.”)
Mr. Berry would argue for his family’s honor. (“And Logan has a wonderful familial significance. My grandfather was a--”)
She would dismiss this argument every time but the first. (“Yes, yes,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “You’ve given me your little spiel already.)
He would point out what an absurd name it was. (“We cannot name our son Johann.”
“And why not?”
“Are you kidding? You’re going to get him bullied!”
“Johann is an excellent name. No one in their right mind would mock it.”
“They’re kids!” Mr. Berry threw up his hands. “None of them are in their right minds!”)
Then the two would stalk off to their respective ends of the house and not speak to each other until dinner, upon which they would smile and nod politely as if nothing had happened.
~
The Golds went grocery shopping every week, just a walk to the store with a list of items they had to buy. Roman was in charge of keeping track of what they had in the cart. Tomatoes, check, chicken, check. He pointed out that it would be much easier to lug the bags back home if they took the car and didn’t have to carry all the bags, but his mama insisted it was barely half a mile, and besides, they had to get their steps in somehow.
It was a path they’d tread many times before, but this time, there was something unfamiliar in the way. Well, not in the way. Even though it was on the sidewalk, it was pushed near the entrance of the nearest shop, leaving a wide berth for pedestrians to pass by. It was new, nonetheless. Roman jabbed his mama’s arm. “Look!”
She glanced down, amused. “Yes?”
“Why is there a piano on the road?” He had only ever seen them in movies. They were huge, glossy black, and, according to his moms, expensive, so even though this one was brown wood and hardly in mint condition, he couldn’t fathom why it would be left out in the elements.
“It’s a public piano, darling,” explained his other mom. “There’s a music shop right here,” she said, pointing to a sign reading SANDERS MUSIC. “They’re probably the ones who put it out here. People just put them out in the open so anyone can play them.”
“Anyone?”
"Yes, anyone. Do you want to play?”
Roman’s eyes lit up. “Yeah!” He plopped down on the bench and pressed down on a key. Roman’s breath hitched. He pressed it again, just to listen to that sound. It sang out over the street like sunlight, bright and brassy and warm. He looked up at his moms.
His mama smiled. “Go on.”
He plunked the key below it, and then the one below that. His head shot up, and he replayed the keys, stuttering his way through “Mary Had a Little Lamb”. “Look, mom!”
“Lovely, Ro,” his mom said, ruffling his hair. He beamed.
"Hey, that was pretty neat!” A brunet man with multiple black cases strapped to his back and dangling off his arms jogged up to them. “You’re a natural.”
Roman rolled the word over in his head in delight. He was a natural. “Thank you!”
“Of course!” He held out a hand to his moms. “I’m Thomas. I own the shop.” His mom shook his hand. “The piano was a new idea my friend pitched, and I wasn’t sure about it at first, but it’s really been a hit so far!”
Roman jumped up from the bench. “You own the store?”
“Yep! Family business.”
“Mama, can we get a piano?”
She chuckled softly. “Honey, those are expensive.”
“How expensive? I have a lot of money saved.”
His mom smiled sadly. “A lot more than what’s in your piggy bank.”
"But I wanna learn!”
His mom flushed red and turned away from Thomas. “Those are expensive too, darling,” she explained.
Roman’s eyes stung. “How much--”
“A lot more than we can afford.”
Thomas cleared his throat. “Your moms are right,” he said when they looked over. “Lessons and pianos cost a lot of money. It’s not a decision to be made lightly. But,” he continued quickly when Roman’s face fell, “I teach group piano lessons at most schools in this area. If you want to go to our school for details, they can give you a registration form. Most are held after school hours, but it’s completely free.”
“Can I go?” Roman pleaded. “Please?”
“I don’t know--” his mom began.
His mama shushed her. “I think we’ll be doing that soon,” she said brightly. “Thank you so much for the information, Mr. Sanders.”
“Of course. Always happy to help.”
“Thank you.” His mom nodded after a moment, then took Roman with one hand and her wife with the other. “Let’s go get some bread, huh?”
Roman skipped all the way to the supermarket and back. He couldn’t wait for school to start.
~
There was a specific story his mom particularly enjoyed telling, and would to anyone who would listen, from relatives at dinner to total strangers in the audience. As she told it, while pregnant, she had purchased a CD of classical music off a website that proclaimed the amazing effects of prenatal musical immersion on later intelligence and academic performance. She played it daily against her belly. A few months later, Logan Johann Berry was born, and at the ripe young age of six, he began playing the piano, beginning his transformation into the gifted musician he was today.
His mom liked to leave out the part when every major news source in the country debunked the website’s claim and she was delivered a ten-dollar refund alongside a note of apology. Once, Logan had chimed in with this fact while his mother told the story to an audience member at one of his recitals and received nervous laughter and a death glare in return. He never attempted it again after the incident. He supposed it somewhat diminished the dramatic effect of the story.
Regardless, it was at this age, during the lesson, that he met Roman. His mother had enrolled him in the after-school program’s piano lessons as soon as she heard. The teacher, Mr. Sanders, had left briefly for the restroom. Before he left, he instructed them to practice playing a C scale using the method they learned--tucking under their thumbs to play F. Logan had already mastered this technique, but supposed a bit of practice couldn’t hurt.
Out of curiosity, he glanced over to the child seated in the middle of the bench and frowned. He had decided to play the first five notes with his left hand and the last three with his right, going against Mr. Sanders’s explicit instructions. “Hey,” he said, “You’re doing it wrong.”
The boy glanced over at him, shrugged, and played the scale again.
"No, like this,” he supplied helpfully, giving a short demonstration. C, D, E, tuck, F.
The other shrugged again.
Irritation growing, he pointed out, “You can’t do it like that, it makes no sense.”
“Yeah it does.”
“No, it doesn’t. What if you wanted to play two different things? You’d need one hand for both.”
“Maybe I have four hands,” he contested.
“Hey, guys, maybe--” the boy on the other end of the bench interrupted.
“No, you don’t.”
“Don’t be mean--”
“How do you know? You’ve never seen them.”
“Because you can’t have four hands, that’s not how people work!”
“Please, can we--”
“Maybe I’m not a person, then! Ooooooooh!” he said, wiggling his fingers.“Maybe I’m an alien!”
“That’s not what aliens say, that’s ghosts--”
“Whoa, whoa, okay!” Mr. Sanders stood between them, holding out his hands cautiously. “Let’s break it up, alright?”
Logan looked down, picking at the keys. “Sorry,” he muttered, but his gut was still boiling. He was just trying to help.
“Mr. Sanders?”
“Yes, Roman?”
“Is this right?” And he proceeded to play the scale in his completely, totally, utterly, infuriatingly wrong way, topped off with a triumphant sneer at Logan when he finished it. That halfwit. Logan dug his nails into the bench.
Mr. Sanders’s face twisted. “Well. That was certainly…”
The two boys looked at him expectantly.
“Well. Hm. And how are you doing?” He turned his attention to the child on the other end of the bench.
Logan grumbled. He was right! And he was just trying to help! Why wouldn’t Roman, or Dolan, or Rolan, or whatever his name was just take his advice when he was clearly the correct one?
The lesson ended, and the three children filed out to be picked up by their parents. On the drive home, his mom asked, “So how was it?”
"Good--”
“How were the other kids? Did you do well?”
“Better than the other boy. He wasn’t doing it right, and he didn’t even listen when I tried to help him!”
“Oh, really?” His mom was more than happy to commiserate, seeming positively ecstatic at the news of his classmate’s failure.
~
Roman practically floated off the stage as the next act was announced, unable to keep the triumphant beam off his face. He had killed his rendition of the Moonlight Sonata, chosen specifically to outdo Logan, who was always being praised for the beauty of his pieces. Well, see him try to beat a piece so lovely it reminded a critic of “moonlight on Lake Lucerne”.
His moms and Mr. Sanders had thought it was pretty, too--they were all smiles while he practiced it on the piano in the music shop. And the whole audience applauded a little more enthusiastically after his performance, too. Certainly more than they had for the parrot trainer and that kid who had just hula-hooped for ten minutes straight. So, admittedly, the bar was low. But that meant he had just set it higher--so high that Logan couldn’t even dream of touching it with the barest brush of his hands. Actually, maybe he’d gotten some of the notes wrong--he hadn’t had lessons since a few years ago, before the after-school program was discontinued--but no one would be able to tell unless they’d memorized the whole piece. He was satisfied. That talent show trophy was his.
The act was dismissed to dim applause--some kid with an instrument that looked like a giant violin? How weird--and Logan started heading to the stage. Roman clapped slowly, not bothering to stifle a sneer when Logan passed by his chair. What was going to upstage the Moonlight Sonata? His precious scales couldn’t help him now. The announcer told the audience the name of the piece he was playing, and Roman’s smirk widened. What on Earth was “Shoe-bert” and his impromptus? More like Snooze-bert.
Logan began playing and the audience fell silent. He laughed quietly, earning himself a jab in the ribs from his neighbor. This was Logan’s piece? It barely had anything beyond a basic melody! And there was so much repetition--had he learned anything beyond a couple lines? Anyone could play that. He leaned back in his chair. And here he’d thought he’d get more of a fight. Then, his eyes widened and he nearly fell off his seat.
What-- How was-- It couldn’t be. Was Logan playing a two-against-three rhythm? It was so difficult! Whenever Roman tried to do that, his right hand kept trying to catch up to his left and he would end up with a mess of ugly, clashing notes. Roman could never get that right. Never. But apparently Logan could. He ground his teeth. Before he knew it, Logan’s performance was over. He smirked back at Roman as he walked past.
Roman’s heart dropped even lower when the winner was announced. Hint: he got a participation award.
~
Roman was a high-school heartbreaker, although not in the traditional sense. At his last performance, he got the entire audience bawling into their neighbors’ shoulders. He played with incredible expression, drawing tears of joy and sorrow alike from his listeners, filling them with every emotion possible, from anger to flights of fanciful passion.When Logan played, people just clapped. He hated Roman for it, but there was a sliver of him--which he shoved safely into the back of his brain, because Mom always said he couldn’t afford distractions--that admired it.
Logan’s strength was in technique. He had spent countless hours studying Czerny and Hanon, scribbling reminders on all of his pieces, drilling even the shortest measures ruthlessly if he felt there was the tiniest imperfection. It would have to be enough. It had to. There was only one pianist spot in the entire orchestra, and Logan was determined to claim it as his own. His mom had done nothing but encourage his hard work, and the look in her eyes when he told her he wanted to play for the orchestra was so bright he feared his whole world might go dark if it disappeared.
He happened to be directly after Roman in the audition order. Roman eyed him up and down as he approached. “What are you doing here, oper-awful?”
He rolled his eyes. “That makes no sense. I don’t even sing.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Auditioning, like you. Although, on second thought, hopefully nothing like you. I don’t want to play remotely like the guy who’s probably going to try to “Moonlight Sonata” the judges to death again.”
“Is that so, Moz-fart?”
“How juvenile.”
The doors swung open. The student who had just auditioned was smiling broadly until he saw the two death-glaring at each other. “Um. How are we?”
Roman sniffed haughtily. “Well, I’d better get in. Don’t want to be late.”
“Good luck!” the boy called. He turned to Logan as he walked down the hallway. “And to you too!”
Roman disappeared behind the double doors of the audition room, but not before Logan caught a glimpse of his piece. “Papillons.” A common nickname for one of Chopin’s etudes--a rather easy one, at that. Sure, choosing Chopin was playing to his strengths, but Logan thought he’d play something more difficult. Not that he was complaining.
He peered in through the window, and it was only then he realized that what Roman was playing looked nothing like the etude. His stomach twisted and he ducked away from the window. Of course it was the other Papillons--the notoriously difficult piece by Schumann, so difficult that some parts as short as a few measures were learned as separate pieces.
Roman came out two minutes later. “How’s that for juvenile?” He brushed off his shoulder. Logan didn’t respond. “Good luck. You might need it.”
Logan lied to his mom for the rest of the year.
~
The New York State Musician’s Association’s annual charity recital was about the great cause they were fundraising for--bringing music education to more schools. And of course Roman cared about that! How could he not? Having a proper music education certainly would have helped in his endeavors as a pianist. However, it was undeniably also about victory, and glory, and basking in the light of the aforementioned. He, like every other reasonable musician in the room, was vying for the Junior Musician Recognition Award, the most prestigious music award for high school students in the tri-state area. The orchestra position was fantastic, as was passing the audition and performing at the recital, period and he was wholly glad he’d earned those opportunities. But this was something to finally prove his talent, the central gem in his crown of achievements. And the fact that he could lord it over Logan didn’t hurt, either.
Logan was the current performer, playing something Roman didn’t recognize. The audience whispered to each other in hushed, pointing out a particularly good bit. He rolled his eyes. Wasn’t speaking during a performance supposed to be rude? He poked the contestant--excuse him, performer--next to him, a Victor or something who went to his high school. Roman distantly recalled him playing cello in the back of the orchestra. “What do you think of that guy?”
Victor jumped. “W-what?”
“What do you think?”
“I--who are you?”
“Roman? The orchestra pianist?” he said impatiently.
“Oh. Yeah.” He glanced at the stage. “He’s good. Is that Bach?”
“Yeah,” he snapped.
Victor raised his eyebrows. “Whoa, dude, chill. I was just asking.”
Roman closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. I’m in my happy place. I’m in my happy place… “Right. Sorry,” he muttered and turned back to the performance.
“Well, what about you?”
“Pardon?”
“Do you think he’s good?”
Roman looked back to the stage. Logan’s posture was perfectly straight, elbows perfectly out, every note perfectly hit. The longer he watched, the more impressed he was. Ugh. His playing was technically flawless. His fingers flowed over the keys as easily as water. Every movement was deliberate but delicate, gliding like a figure skater. He made everything he played look elegant and effortless. Maybe, Roman realized, that was why he had always underestimated him. What had really gone into making the masterpiece before him? How devoted was Logan to his craft that he had this kind of skill?
“Well?” Victor prompted.
"He’s fine,” Roman spat, a bit louder than he intended.
Victor cringed when the people sitting behind them glared. “Sorry,” he whispered.
“He’s fine,” he said, lowering his voice. “Just. Fine.”
The piece concluded with a final chord and he bowed, catching Roman’s gaze across the room. Roman suddenly became very invested in adjusting the buttons of his shirt.
Logan was not fine. He was good. He was a good musician. Really good. Great, even. And also… He swallowed, biting the inside of his cheek. He’d studied his piece for so long. Even if he wasn’t as talented as Logan, at least he could fake it with his hard work. His effort had to mean something. It couldn’t be for naught.
His turn was approaching. He adjusted his buttons shakily, hands damp and clammy, and made his way up to the stage. The crowd applauded politely. The announcer was calling his name and piece. The stage was empty, the keys alien on his fingertips, unwelcoming and cold as ice. He shook his head, trying to focus. Focus. It would not be for naught.
Well.
He admitted it to himself.
And also, Logan was better than him.
~
Logan was still swooning from the adrenaline. He was certain he’d messed up the trills--his hands kept slipping off the keys, and his heart thundered faster just thinking of it. But there was no use worrying about that now. He took a deep breath and glanced over at his parents. His mom was grinning broadly, nudging the person next to her, mouthing “That was my son!” He exhaled. It was done. Finally.
The boy next to him seemed even more anxious, bouncing his leg and fidgeting with the edges of his blazer and his tie. “Are you alright?” he asked.
The boy looked over and gave a nervous chuckle, wiping his forehead. “I’m going next so… Whoo. Stage jitters.” His eyes lit up with recognition. “Hey, don’t we go to the same school?” He stuck out his hand. “Patton Baker.”
He shook it. Patton’s hand was damp, and Logan tried to wipe it on his pants discreetly after he let go. “Logan Berry.” He frowned. They were supposed to perform in alphabetical order. “Shouldn’t you have gone already?”
“Oh, no. I’m doing a duet, and my partner’s all the way over there.” He pointed down the aisle.
“Neat. What are you playing?”
“Oh, just a little--hey! Isn’t that the orchestra pianist?”
Roman was onstage. Logan’s gut clenched. “Yeah.”
“Is that Chopin?”
Yes, it was. One of his waltzes--A-flat major, if he wasn’t mistaken. Roman evoked joy perfectly, of course. But he didn’t look the part--actually, he looked rather downcast. Logan always thought he just played what he felt, but that couldn’t possibly be what was happening here. Now he realized how well thought-out his interpretations were, down to the most minute detail. Roman played with skillful subtlety. The tactful shift between staccato and legato, delicately plucked highs and elongated lows evoked grand, golden, glowing joy perfectly. Even when he was miserable, Roman was happier than Logan had ever been. Logan never stood a chance next to someone like him.
~
All the musicians had performed, but Roman hadn’t paid attention to any of them. He’d been too busy wrestling with the thought. Logan was better than him. He imagined Logan snickering with the other orchestra kids after tricking Roman into thinking he had even an ounce of talent, watching him parade around and brag while knowing the whole time what an absolute moron he was. His eyes stung. His heart sank.
"Folks, it’s the moment you’ve all been waiting for!”
Roman glanced up.
“All of the young musicians here tonight are extraordinarily talented, and we celebrate that with the Junior Musician Recognition Award!”
Applause.
The announcer cleared his throat. “This award is given annually to one student or performing group to celebrate those who have shown themselves to be valuable members of their musical communities as well as exceptional artists.”
Roman tried to hone in on what the announcer was saying but just slumped back into his seat. Come on, Roman! Isn’t this what you’ve been working for? This was what he wanted. A chance to prove he belonged here with everyone else, that his relentless dedication had paid off somehow. But he couldn’t bring himself to feel like he had before.
~
Valuable members of their communities. Logan would have laughed if he wasn’t afraid of disturbing the anticipating hush that had fallen over the crowd. All his music was just him, holed up in his room, ignoring everyone else so he could...what? So he could keep his mom happy? So he could have a reason to feel superior to everyone else? He didn’t think he qualified as a team player.
~
And what if he got the award? How would that feel? He wanted to get out of the room and never have to know the answer. He was afraid the award would make him feel exactly what he had wanted it to.
~
How much of this was because he enjoyed it? There was a time when he loved music, right? Wasn’t there?
~
He was also afraid of feeling nothing. That everything really would have been for naught.
~
“Would Patton Baker and Virgil Grayson please come to the stage?”
He clapped as Patton, a surprised but ecstatic grin on his face, joined Virgil on the stage to accept their certificates. The audience applauded, and then they were dismissed.
When he got home, he took a step back to examine himself. He felt...fine. He wasn’t upset about the award. He was worried about his mom, though. The car ride home had been spent in silence. He tried to glimpse how she was doing, but each facial feature had been carefully schooled to stony neutrality the whole way. Other than that, he felt oddly calm. Relieved, even. He collapsed on the bed, trying to bury himself in the mattress.
He thought about the piano against the wall of his bedroom. His mom had bought it when he was ten and proved that it would be worth the investment. The piano, new sheet music, lessons, audition fees--it all felt like she was giving a gift to herself. He had always wanted to put a bookshelf there.
What he had thought earlier. That there was a time when he had loved the piano. If he dug deep inside himself, he could find what something that resembled it--the satisfaction of a perfect run-through, the intense concentration that overtook him while learning a piece, the relief that came with the end of a recital or the ecstatic look on his mom’s face after he played. Piano was just another part of his routine. He couldn’t find so much as an ounce of himself that played just for playing’s sake.
~
The most talking they got to was arguing during an audition. They never had a proper, civil conversation until a few days after the recital. A knock came at the door while Roman was wrapping up his practice. He got up from the bench and opened it. “Oh. Hi.”
Logan nodded. “Hello. Um, can I come in?”
“Uh--”
“I-if you don’t, I understand completely. I wouldn’t like for my practice to be interrupted either, I just didn’t know where to find you, but the sign on the door outside said this room was reserved for you, so I figured I may as well take my chances.”
“I was going to say sure.”
“Oh.”
A moment passed before Roman stepped to the side. “Come on in.”
Logan closed the door and seated himself at a desk near the piano. Roman faced him. “What’s up?”
“I…” Roman saw his throat move as he swallowed. “We’ve never spoken.”
“Yeah…”
“And I just wanted to say. You were really good. You are really good, actually. Duets aside, you were the best person there.”
Roman scanned him for any sign of snark, but he seemed genuine. “Oh.”
“No, w-wait.” He took a deep breath. “Your technique is good. But your dedication and love for your music really shines through. You just...blow life into everything you play. I can’t imagine how meticulous you are.”
“I… Oh.”
“Actually, how did you go about learning the Papillons a couple years ago? That was very impressive. I’ve never tried to learn them, but I’ve been meaning to.”
Roman straightened. He could talk music. This was much more familiar territory. “I just picked a couple pages to learn,” he said, raising an eyebrow.
“Seriously? That’s it? No other tricks or methods?”
“If there are such things, I don’t know them.”
“Really? None of that? Your teacher didn’t teach you how to drill a piece?”
“I don’t have an instructor.”
His jaw dropped. “You’re self-taught?”
“The last lesson I took was that program in elementary school.”
“Wow.” He stared at Roman, wide-eyed and quiet.
“I just practice a lot, I guess.”
“Do you usually do that here?”
He shrugged. “Sometimes. When the room isn’t available, I usually go down to this music shop. The owner lets me use the piano there.”
“That’s incredible, Roman,” he said softly. “Sincerely.”
Roman’s face flushed with heat, and he looked away, chuckling. “Well, you’re not bad yourself.”
“Thank you.”
“No problemo.” He stuck out a hand.
He raised an eyebrow. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to give you a handshake.”
“Why?”
“You seem like the handshake type. Now. C’mon.”
He rolled his eyes but shook his hand. “Anyway, I’m glad that Patton and Virgil got the award. I’ve seen them perform together before the recital. They’re quite a duo.”
He braced himself, but the mention of the recital didn't hurt him like he expected it to. His loss wasn't nearly as harrowing as he'd expected. After giving up on being better than Logan, it ceased to matter to him, but even now that he was feeling better, it didn't affect him. A part of him was even glad to have avoided the potential conflict after Patton and Victor-- He gasped. “Virgil!”
“What?”
“I just remembered, I’ve been calling him Victor for a year!”
Logan snorted. “And he never noticed?”
“I guess not? I should apologize!”
“Yes, you should,” Logan snorted.
Roman grinned. “You know, we could be quite a duo as well. With your talent and my dashing good looks, we’d be unstoppable.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, you’re talented--” he began.
Roman had already stood up, striking a dramatic pose that sent Logan into another laughing fit. “Maybe that’s why the universe made us rivals. Our combined gifts would be too powerful.”
“Rivals? I wouldn’t go as far as that, there are tons of pianists at this school.”
“But how many are on par with you and I? The brightest of our age?” Roman tucked his sheet music under his arm.
“I--I can’t say I know,” he stuttered as he was tugged to his feet. “Quite a pair we’d make,” he mused.
“Dynamic!” Roman punched a fist in the air.
“Vivace,” he suggested.
“That doesn’t alliterate.”
Logan laughed, and Roman along with him. Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all. And he could use someone to talk music with.
~
It became a regular occurrence for Logan to visit after school while Roman was practicing. However, Roman didn’t always practice in the same location. After walking a few blocks, they entered Sanders Music, the bell on the door dinging brightly. Logan glanced around. It would have been small to begin with, but the instruments and accessories adorning the walls furthered that effect. He watched his surroundings warily and stepped gingerly, hoping with all of his pounding heart he didn’t knock something over. His mother would not be happy if she had to pay a damage fine. Despite the worry-inducing surroundings, Roman strode in, spun around, and, with a flourish of his hand, announced “Welcome to the birthplace of my musical career.”
What a place to begin. “It’s…” He hesitated, trying to pick through his words carefully.
Roman rolled his eyes fondly, clapping him on the back. “I know it’s cramped. And a bit stuffy. And probably not as fancy as what most musicians are used to, but this is really a place of magic. The kind of magic that turns a clueless little boy with nothing but fantasies of being extraordinary”--he placed a hand over his heart--“into a man with ambition and skill. Plus, Mr. Sanders is super chill.”
“Wait.” The name sounded familiar. Logan scoured his memory for it. “Mr. Sanders from elementary school?”
“Indeed!”
“Oh, no.”
He frowned. “What? Did I say--”
“No, no, it’s not you. I was just...absolutely insufferable as a child.”
"Technically, you’re still a child.”
"I suppose I could still be insufferable now and not know it. Am I?”
“A little.”
“Thanks."
“No problemo, andanti-nerd.”
“That wasn’t one of your better ones.”
“It certainly wasn’t,” he agreed. Roman pulled out the piano bench, sat, and rummaged through his bookbag, presumably for his sheet music. “So, what’re you learning now?”
“Me?” Logan said.
“I don’t see anyone else here.”
“Well, I haven’t really decided on a piece,” he admitted. “I think my mom’s still really upset after I didn’t...you know. With the award. So I’m trying to find something she’ll think more impressive and appropriate for a performance of that magnitude.”
“What do you want to play?”
His stomach twisted. “What do you mean?”
Roman looked at him, deadpan, and stopped rustling his papers. “As in, what have you heard lately and thought, ‘Hey, that’s cool, I want to play it’?”
He looked away and shrugged, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans.
He raised an eyebrow. “Alright,” he said, and resumed, shuffling his sheet music and placing it on the stand. “Okay. You’re really into technical stuff, right? You seem like the type.”
“I guess?”
“So what’s your practice situation like?” He barely disguised a chuckle, turning his head away to face the piano. “Do you have, like, a schedule? A timer so you can make sure you do exactly an hour, or whatever? I bet you don’t move around as much as I do.”
“I guess not,” he muttered, picking at a loose string on his shirt. “My piano is in my room, so I stay pretty stationary.”
Roman’s jaw dropped. “You have a piano in your bedroom?”
“Yeah. Against one of the walls.”
His jaw dropped even further and gasped, reeling back. “You what? Nobody puts a grand piano in the corner!”
“Baby grand.”
“Regardless! I can’t believe you have an actual piano and you just...shove it in a spot like that.” His voice was tinged with bitterness. “Totally ruins the acoustics.”
“I...suppose.” Logan knew the physics of sound, but to be honest, ruining the acoustics had never really crossed his mind. Maybe he just didn’t care enough to realize that would be an effect. He took a deep breath, leaning against the wall for support. “Can I tell you something?” he said quietly.
“Sure.” His irritation softened.
“I don’t...I don’t believe I want to continue playing.”
“Whoa, what? Is this because of that stupid recital?” Roman stood up, his sheets swept off the stand in his wake. “Because you should know, they totally got that wrong. You were by far the best person there. I don’t see how--”
“No, it’s not--it’s not that. I just...I don’t know.” He sighed, glaring at the floor. “I don’t really...like. It. That much.”
“Then why would you do it for so long?”
“I… I don’t know.”
Roman gave him a knowing look.
“I--I guess. My mom. She really wanted me to…” He trailed off. He hated stuttering, how unsure he was of his words.
“Seriously, is it the award? Because you have serious talent, and it would be so wasteful to just throw it away like that--”
“No!” It came out louder than he intended. Roman flinched. He took a deep breath. “Sorry. I’m--sorry. I just… I don’t know. Why do you play?”
“What?”
“Why do you play?” he repeated.
Roman blew out a long exhale. “I guess...I love it, but it’s not just that. It’s like a part of my identity. If someone took that away from me, I don’t know what I would be.”
Logan stared at the ceiling. “I don’t feel that way. I don’t think I ever have.”
“Oh,” he said softly.
He nodded.
“What’s your mom going to say?”
“I don’t know.” He hadn’t thought that far. “I don’t think I’m going to break it to her yet. What with the recital having happened so recently, it wouldn’t be an ideal situation.”
“Well. Whatever you decide, I...support you.” He leaned over awkwardly and patted Logan on the shoulder. “You’re actually pretty cool when you’re not, you know, roasting my taste in music--”
“Gee, thanks.”
“--and you’ll continue being really cool without the piano. It’s not a part of you. You don’t need it to be anything. You’re just...really good on your own.”
Logan swallowed thickly. His eyes stung, and he willed himself to hold back tears. “Thank you.”
“Of course.” Roman smiled warmly. Logan's lips curved in response.
It was impossible for Logan to know what would come next. How his mother would react, whether or not he and Roman could be friends given their history. But for now, it was nice to be here, enjoying the company of someone who was willing to move at his same pace.
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14 for the cuddle prompt! 🌸❤
anon said:14!!!!!💕💜💕💜💕 ily Ciara!!!!
anon said:13 plz plz plz u rock I love u
this is inspired by someone who fell asleep next to me on the bus. unfortunately it was a middle-aged woman and not a cute boy who i could’ve had the potential to cuddle with but, y’know, i gave that glory to evak instead lmao
i hope you like it!!!!
14. In public + 13. Falling asleep
*
Isak slips onto the tram seconds before the doorsclose, huffing out a breath and gripping the pole to keep his balance as thetram takes off. Shifting his bag on his back, Isak glances around the car in avain attempt to find a vacant seat.
He silently curses the people who hoard seats whenthe tram is busy by purposefully sitting on the outside or using their bags totake up the extra space. He gets it, okay? If given the option, he doesn’t likesitting next to people on the tram either but he’s been up since 7:00 and he barelyslept last night and he just really wants to sit down.
Just as he’s about to accept his fate and sag againstthe pole in defeat, he notices someone moving their bag out of the corner ofhis eye. Looking up, he locks eyes with a boy who offers him a shrug andhalf-hearted smile that has Isak’s heart tripping over in his chest.
Because holy shit that boy is cute.
Squeezing the straps of his backpack between hisfingers he shuffles forward, taking a seat beside the boy with a quiet, “Takk.”
“There’s nothing worse than standing on the tram atthe end of a long day,” the boy says easily. “Especially when it’s busy.”
Isak smiles nervously, wracking his brain for somethingmildly charming to say but he takes too long and has to settle for awkwardsilence instead. He’s both relieved and annoyed at himself when the boy puts inhis earphones a moment later, effectively ending any attempts at conversation.
While the boy busies himself with staring out thewindow Isak gets comfortable in his chair, letting his bag drop to the floor tosit between his legs.
The thing about seats on trams is that, very often,you and the other person end up sitting with some part of your body touching.There’s simply not enough room for you to be concerned about your personalspace bubble. So Isak’s not all that surprised that he and the boy have to sitwith their arms and thighs pressed right up against each other. He expects that.
What he doesn’t expect is how nice it feels.
It’s just- he feels warm like this and the boy’s coatis big and feels a little bit like a pillow with the way it sinks under theweight of Isak’s shoulder. And Isak feels kind of hazy, mind going fuzzy fromthe heat of the tram and how little sleep he’s running on. He can’t help restinghis head against the backrest and it doesn’t take long for his eyes to start todroop. After an internal battle with himself he decides it can’t hurt to closehis eyes until his stop is announced.
Just for a few minutes.
*
Isak slowly drifts back into consciousness to thefeel of a hand jostling his arm. Blinking his eyes open, he shifts and takes asecond to bury his face deeper in his pillow before he can convince himself toget up except- that’s not his pillow.
Eyes widening in horror, Isak suddenly remembers he’son the tram and promptly launcheshimself upright. Still sitting beside him is the boy. The really pretty boywith the quiff and the comfy jacket and the little bemused smile.
The boy who Isak just fell asleep on.
Isak wants to die.
Before he can even find his voice to stammer out onapology the boy starts speaking. “Sorry, I didn’t want to wake you but I thinkyour stop is coming up.”
And that’s. What.
Isak gapes a little, grasping for a response that’sjust out of his reach. “I- what?”
The boy actually looks sheepish at that, glancingtowards the door before looking back to Isak. “I just- we usually get the sametram home and I noticed you always tend to get off the stop just before me.”
This…this boy has been on the tram with him before?
…Is Isak blind?
How the hell did he never notice him?
Isak is about to reply but then the tram crawls to a haltand, sure enough, announces his stop. “I’m- you’re right, this is my stop.” Hegathers up a bag and pushes himself to stand, hovering for a second and tryingto fight down the desire to just stay on the tram with the boy. “Thanks, um…”
“Even,” the boy supplies with a soft smile.
Isak returns it with his heart skipping a beat,hiking his bag up on his shoulder. “Thanks, Even.”
With that, he hurries off the tram just as the doorsare about to close.
*
The next day when Isak steps onto the tram he feels alittle thrill run through him at the sight of Even with an empty seat next tohim. Clinging to his courage with everything he has, Isak makes his way over.
“If I apologise for falling asleep on you yesterdaycan I sit down?”
Even’s face lights up right as he lets out a laughthat makes Isak’s insides melt. “Of course you can sit down.
“And I really don’t mind that you fell asleep,” hecontinues once Isak’s settled beside him. “You looked tired.”
Isak flushes at that, clearing his throatself-consciously. “Uh, yeah. I hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before so…”
Even nods in understanding before he nudges Isak’sside. “You know you still haven’t told me your name? I usually have a rule thatI know someone’s name before I let them fall asleep on me.”
Isak groans, burying his face in his hands. Hisinsomnia has made him do some dumb shit but falling asleep on a hot strangerhas to be the dumbest. “Please stop talking,” he begs, slowly lowering hishands when he hears Even laugh. His embarrassment is almost worth it to see theway Even’s eyes crinkle at the corners when he laughs. “And it’s Isak,” headds. “My name.”
“Isak,” Even repeats with a certain something in hisvoice that Isak can’t quite parse. “Well, Isak, do you feel like listening tosome music?” he asks, offering Isak one of his earbuds.
Isak takes it with a tentative smile, not quite surewhat’s happening right now but also not wanting to stop it. It’s only when he’sactually got the bud in his ear that Even stage-whispers, “I’ll even let youuse me as a pillow.”
Isak huffs and rolls his eyes to hide the fact hischeeks are still stained red but he might slouch down a little more in his seatat Even’s words. (He didn’t sleep last night either, okay?)
And it’s really nice. Whatever playlist Even has onis quiet – mostly acoustic songs that go easy on Isak’s ears after a long day –and the tram is warm but not the stuffy, sickly kind. Even doesn’t speak but he’sa comfortable weight beside Isak and he- he just-
Basically, it happens again.
One minute Isak is subtly leaning against Even’sside, the next he’s slowly being woken up to the sound of Even murmuring hisname and Even’s hand squeezing his arm.
Isak scrubs at his eyes with his left hand and raiseshis head off Even’s shoulder, meeting his gaze with an embarrassed smile andflushed cheeks. “Sorry.”
“Do you do this with every random stranger you meeton the tram or is it just me?” Even asks, voice soft and laced with quietamusement.
“Just you,” Isak admits and it feels like a muchgreater confession than it is.
Even eyes him for a moment, expression inscrutable,but then he smiles. “In that case I should probably start bringing a pillowwith me.”
“Your shoulder’s comfortable enough,” Isak’s stupid,sleep-muddled brain blurts out before he can stop himself. “I mean-“
“I’m flattered,” Even chuckles. “But I think we’re atyour stop now.”
With a jolt, Isak realises they are. He hadn’t evennoticed the tram slowing down.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Isak,” Even says, squeezinghis arm once more before letting go.
Isak has never hoped for a sleepless night more thanhe does right now.
*
It happens again the next day. And the day afterthat. And the day after that.
Isak spends the first half of his journey talking toEven and laughing at his jokes and trying to psych himself up to actuallyfucking ask him out before spending the rest of his journey asleep on Even’sshoulder until they get to his stop.
Honestly it’s a pretty good arrangement.
It’s been over a week of Isak’s poor attempts atflirting and needy cuddling when he finds himself on the tram once again withEven but there’s just one problem.
He’s not tired.
He had a good night’s sleep last night and he’s nottired and he only gets to cuddle Even when he’s asleep.
He’s having a crisis.
Their conversation has petered off by now and insteadthey’re sharing Even’s earphones while Even rhythmically bumps his knee againstIsak’s and this would be right around the time Isak normally drifts off. But he’swide awake today and hyperaware of crossing some weird boundary if he were tolean into Even right now without the excuse of sleep.
But he wantsto.
He wants to reach out and bridge the barely-there gapbetween them so bad.
Maybe…maybe he could just pretend to sleep? Just thisonce and then tomorrow he’ll actually get his act together and ask Even out.But right now he just slouches in his seat, letting his head drop onto Even’sshoulder and releasing a slow breath.
The thing about not actually being asleep for once isthat Isak gets to see what Even normally does while he is. That, apparently,involves Even resting his own head against the top of Isak’s and tracingpatterns over Isak’s arm – the sweetest, softest gestures that have Isak feelingclose to hyperventilating.
He holds his breath and holds himself still, afraidthat if he makes even the slightest movement that Even might stop touching him.
What he doesn’t anticipate is Even mumbling, “Isak,are you awake?”
Isak freezes, closing his eyes and swallowing hardbefore he makes a decision and catches Even’s hand, lacing their fingerstogether. “How’d you know?”
“You’re usually a dead weight when you sleep,” Eventells him. “And your breathing’s deeper.”
“I’m not tired today,” Isak murmurs, breath hitchingat Even’s thumb sweeping over the back of his hand.
“That’s okay,” Even replies quietly. “I guess myshoulder’s still irresistible?”
Isak huffs a laugh, turning his face into saidshoulder to hide his bashful smile. Even squeezes his hand and Isak’s heart isin his throat.
“Hey,” Even says, touching the fingers of his freehand to Isak’s jaw to make him look up. Their faces are only an inch apart andIsak can’t help the way his gaze drags down to Even’s lips.
“I know we’re kind of doing things backwards with thewhole comfortable intimacy thing but do you maybe want to get something to eat?”
Isak grins, butterflies erupting in his stomach as henods. “I’d like that.”
“Good,” Even says, mouth turning up at the corners ashe gently bumps his forehead against Isak’s. “We can stay like this until mystop then.”
They stay like that long beyond the journey to Even’sstop.
*
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