Chapter Text
🎵
David has been hovering in Stevie’s office (if one can really call it that) for at least five minutes now, and she hasn’t said a word to him. Which is very rude. He wanders over to the couch, aimlessly plucking at the cushions and casting a discerning eye over the years-old magazines on the coffee table, before meandering up to the desk.
Stevie remains perfectly relaxed, feet up on the counter as she leisurely licks her thumb to turn a page in her book. The faint rustle of the paper and the ticking of the dusty clock on the wall seem louder than necessary in the quiet of the room. David huffs and rolls his eyes, slumping heavily onto the counter right in front of Stevie.
“Can I help you with something?” she asks evenly, without taking her eyes from the book.
David scowls. “You never help, so I doubt it.”
“Well, as you can see, I’m very busy, so…” Stevie finally looks up, arching an eyebrow at him.
“I’m bored. Alexis is working at the vet clinic and my parents are test-driving the abomination they just bought.”
“...And it’s my job to entertain you?”
“Is it your job to read murder mysteries all day and ignore the suffering of a friend in need?”
Stevie blinks, smirking a little. “Yes. Yes it is.”
David makes a pinched face at her and leans on his hand, idly inspecting the different business cards in the display on the desk. They’re mostly Ray’s. Actually, David is pretty sure they’re all Ray’s: real estate, photography, closet organisation, something called ‘Ray’s Big Balloon Bonanza’, which he doesn’t want to know anything more about. He flicks the corner of each gaudy, crowded design lightly as he reads them, making a soft thwap sound.
Except - huh. This one, tucked towards the back, is different. A select few words in a neat, squat font, printed in white over a midnight blue background. The card itself is thick and matte, a higher quality than Ray’s plethora, which instantly piques David’s interest. An attorney, maybe, or an accountant? He leans in closer.
Patrick Brewer
Guitar Tutor
15+ years’ experience • All ages • Beginner to Intermediate
(797) 210-5605
Well, that’s not what he expected.
Inexplicably, David is drawn to this innocuous little card.
David flicks his gaze over to Stevie. Still engrossed. Pressing his lips together in a faux-casual expression and keeping his eyes on his treacherous best friend, he slowly slides the card from its holder. He thinks he’s made it, halfway to slipping it into his pocket, but of course, Stevie pipes up.
“What are you doing?”
Fuck.
She leans over the desk and swipes the card from him easily, and he snatches his hands back to his chest with an affronted expression. She watches him scramble for words with a mischievous gleam in her eyes, already endlessly entertained.
“Oh my god. Guitar lessons? Who are you?!” she asks gleefully.
“Oh my god!” David echoes in an aggravated tone. “It’s not - I’m just - exploring.”
“You once told me that playing a musical instrument is just an unsuccessful substitute for a personality.”
David narrows his eyes. “If you must know, both Alexis and my mom have been harassing me to find something other than staring at the ceiling to spend my time on. Since, you know, the whole…” David gestures vaguely between the two of them, then does a complicated open-palmed hand wave as if indicating an invisible third person next to them.
“Ah, the part where we both broke up with the same person?”
“Yes, that.”
David’s mouth quirks with amusement. It’s been a relief to discover how well their friendship fared through that particular chapter; God knows he’s lost friends for far less. Any awkwardness around their situation resolved itself almost before it surfaced.
It probably helps that it’s, well, Jake. It’s not as if David’s upset over him. He had zero emotional attachment to their arrangement to begin with, and that’s the reason it worked. It was what he needed at the time, and, it turns out, what Stevie needed, too. That’s kind of the appeal of Jake - a fulfilling, glorious distraction with no expectations on any side.
It’s more that he has nothing to occupy his time now that Jake isn’t a one-word text away, ready to blow David’s mind at a moment’s notice and let him do the same. He has more time to think, to stew alone in his room that feels too small and too large all at once. The loss of the Blouse Barn job is still a fresh, open wound, stinging with the memory of trying for once in his life, putting his time and dignity and effort on the line, only to be left disappointed. On the surface he triumphed, but it still feels like a failure despite the hefty balance in his bank account.
Not long ago, he was content with a hollow life. The emptier his heart, the less he had to lose. There were certainly moments during his first weeks at the Blouse Barn where he missed the freedom of not caring about anything, and only knowing himself as a two-dimensional, picture-perfect caricature. But, well, maybe his time there had shown him the value of pouring his energy into something outside of himself, of watching his hard work materialise into something real. So, yeah, maybe he misses that, a little. Something to focus on. To work on.
He doesn’t say all of that, but Stevie can probably read it in his face, regardless. Instead, David says, “Also, my family just bought a fucking ridiculous vehicle with the ‘family funds’,” he punctuates this with air-quotes full of sarcasm, “so excuse me if I want to take a selfish with the money I earned.”
Stevie raises her hands. “Hey, I’m not arguing that. I just didn’t think this was, um… your thing .”
“I may have dated John Mayer for a time, and I always kind of had a curiosity. And it’s not like there’s a lot of options around here.” David plucks the card from Stevie’s fingers and inspects it closely before pocketing it. “Who is this guy anyway? Some aging relic from the 70’s who meditates and walks around barefoot?”
“You really need to socialise with more people,” Stevie replies, deadpan. “But, uh, no - I met Patrick recently. He’s like, our age? He just moved here; he’s staying with Ray, teaching lessons to make some money. I think he used to tutor kids when he was in college.” She pulls a face. “He’s that kind of person.”
David grimaces. It’s all sounding very after-school special. But he’s committed now, at the very least because Stevie is guaranteed not to leave him alone about it until the end of time.
“Mmk, well. I will give Patrick a call.”
“Wait, David, I have a very serious question,” Stevie calls as he heads to the door.
David turns, already suspicious.
“Can I come and watch?” she says, pressing her hands to her mouth with barely restrained laughter.
“Fall off a bridge, please!”
🎵
David stares at the door in front of him.
This is definitely a mistake. The clammy palms and the sickening pounding in David’s ears should have been enough to tell him that before he even left the motel. It would be easy to turn back - only Stevie knows about this, and as much as she’s ripped the shit out of him for the last week, she supports him in a way that he didn’t really think existed before.
Who does he think he is? Stevie’s disbelief was well-founded. This isn’t him. It’s only another soon-to-be addition to the list of things he’s not good at, something else he can chalk up to bad decisions and a lack of life skills when it inevitably falls apart around him, to no one’s surprise.
Huffing a deep sigh, David shoves all his nerves down just enough to make room for the tiny spark of excitement he felt when he first saw the business card. He can try, at least. He’s learned to try, if nothing else.
He knocks.
“David! What a wonderful surprise!” Ray beams at him as he flings the door open, already ushering David inside.
It’s jarring, even though David knows this is his house. He was sort of hoping he wouldn’t be there, to be honest.
“To what do I owe the pleasure? Are you here to partake in my aromatherapy workshop?”
“Oh, no, god no.” Taking in the gaggle of voices coming from a nearby room and the suffocating scent of lavender-cinnamon-rose-sandalwood-mango-whatever the fuck else permeating the house, David gives him a pained, slightly panicked smile. “I’m actually here for…”
Right on cue, another man rounds the corner into Ray’s living room, striding confidently towards David and extending a hand. “Ah! You must be David.”
This cannot be the guitar guy. He’s nothing like David imagined. He looks as if he should… work in a bank, or something. He’s wearing a neat, baby-blue button-up, tucked into cheap-looking jeans (which leave very little to the imagination; a fact David instantly dismisses with a faint horror). His eyes are a deep, honeyed brown, and his face is kind and open, in the way that David usually recoils from, for fear of being drawn in.
“Yes, um - hi, David, I’m Patrick.” David freezes, balling his hands into fists and screwing his eyes shut for a moment. If he squeezes them tight enough, the whole scene will disappear, right?
Patrick utters a soft, warm laugh. “I think that’s my line.”
When David cracks an eye open, the man - Patrick - is watching him, not even trying to hide his amusement. David bristles, shaking his hand with a slight air of disdain.
“Beginner’s course, right? My, uh, studio of sorts is just upstairs. Shall we?”
Begrudgingly, David follows him, leaving Ray trilling excitedly about a delightful new jasmine and vanilla blend. For a horrifying second, he wonders if Patrick is going to lead him to his bedroom, and David’s going to be a cautionary tale in the Elm Gazette - but he keeps walking, to a poky little study room at the end of the hall. Patrick takes a seat on a desk chair and gestures to a small couch, which David gingerly lowers himself onto. There’s a guitar perched on one end of it, and David eyes it warily.
Patrick looks amused again. It’s irritating. “It’s not going to bite you, y’know.”
David’s face heats up, and he tosses his head, clearing his throat awkwardly. “I’m aware of that, thank you.”
Patrick looks at him as if he’s taking pity on him. “Well, David, what made you want to take up guitar?”
Excellent question. To prove I’m not a total waste of air? To get out of the motel room in which I currently live, because my life is a joke? Both valid answers he could give, although truthfully, there’s an itching desire to create something beautiful, something meaningful, that’s been maddeningly buzzing under his skin for a while now.
“Just a… general interest, in, um, learning… something.” Patrick furrows his brow. “But also a very specific interest. In guitars. And playing them.”
“Huh.”
Patrick has leaned forward, arms folded on his own guitar which he’s pulled into his lap. His hand strokes over his mouth as he watches David fumble, half-hiding a stupid little smile which is a breath away from outwardly laughing at David. Aren’t teachers supposed to be supportive?
“So, never played before, right?”
David told him that on the phone. Why does he have to bring it up again? “No,” he says, in a clipped tone. “I guess you don’t get many beginners in their… late twenties.”
Patrick’s eyebrows twitch upwards, a fair feat considering how insignificant they are, and David stares back, challenging. He’s not sure what it is about this guy, but his gaze feels scrutinising, as if he sees right through every flimsy barrier David throws up.
“No, not many. But I teach everyone. And hey, starting from scratch as an adult - that’s a big deal.”
David hears the unspoken words there: You’re probably not up to this. “Is it?” he replies icily.
“Yeah, pretty big.”
David purses his lips, crossing his arms defensively over himself. “Do you interrogate all your students, or…?”
Patrick makes a little ‘o’ with his mouth, like David’s slapped him, and lifts a hand in apology. “I was just trying to get to know you a little better, David. I think it’s important we trust each other if we’re going to work together.”
David balks, his face contorting in distaste. “Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary.”
Patrick seems to falter for a second, which makes David feel oddly triumphant. “Well. You’re the boss,” Patrick says evenly. “Why don’t we get started?”
David sniffs in agreement. Patrick directs him to pick up the guitar next to him, and David hesitates, already feeling stupid. With a furtive glance at the way Patrick is holding his, David delicately takes hold of the neck of the guitar, afraid to touch the strings so ending up awkwardly dragging it over the couch cushions in his too-loose grip.
Patrick laughs out loud, and David absolutely wants to die.
“Batting a thousand here, David.”
Feeling all-too exposed, David glares at him, this obnoxious man with the audacity to use sports metaphors to point out his shortcomings. “I don’t know what that means, I don’t play cricket.”
“Right.” Patrick gazes at him with that intrigued smile again. “Okay, um, let’s just… take it back a step, huh?”
Patrick effortlessly lifts the guitar from David’s awkward grip, flips it over, and then settles it on David’s lap, kneeling in front of him. As if it’s not a grossly intimate thing to do, he takes David’s hands in his, gently guiding them from where they’ve been hovering in the air to the appropriate places on the guitar.
“Comfortable?” Patrick asks, making eye contact with him over the guitar, and for a second, David forgets how to speak.
“As much as this will ever be, yes,” he says.
Patrick chuckles, thoroughly entertained. David curls in on himself a little, holding the guitar closer.
He spends the next thirty minutes trying his damnedest not to snap at Patrick, with his dancing eyes and his quick wit and his overwhelmingly casual competence that makes David feel even more incapable than ever before. It seems hopeless that he’ll ever progress, faced with Patrick’s easy talent and simple directives that David still gets wrong; and all the while, Patrick seems to be laughing at him. Turns out, he’s kind of an asshole.
After a while of an infuriatingly patient Patrick taking him through every single part of the guitar - who knew there were so many? - and all the terminology he apparently needs to know, David loses his patience.
“Mkay, this is all so interesting, but I thought you were going to actually teach me something.”
Patrick stops mid-flow, and slowly folds his arms. “I’m sorry, David, what do you think I’ve been doing?”
“I think you’ve been wasting my time providing trivial information which isn’t going to increase my skill set in the slightest, particularly when you use all these complicated words no one but you understands.”
Patrick huffs out a laugh, sounding gratifyingly annoyed. Or, not quite annoyed - David doubts he’s ever raised his voice in his life. But bothered, definitely. Good.
“I’m so sorry you’re not going to walk out of your first lesson the next Jimmy Page, David,” Patrick retorts dryly. “You’re going to need to temper your expectations here. You have to start small to make progress. This isn’t going to work if you don’t appreciate that.”
David’s grip tightens on the guitar. Not only does Patrick’s even, calm tone infuriate him endlessly more than if he’d yelled in David’s face, but his words worm their way under David’s skin with an uncomfortable ease. It’s not the first time he’s been told to adjust his expectations, to shrink his ideas and desires to fit a more acceptable mold, to dream a little smaller because his ambitions just aren’t possible. Why does it always need to be him who adjusts? Why, for once, can’t he paint a wild vision in technicolour and have someone tell him he can do it?
“My expectations are just fine, thanks so much,” he snaps, frustrated by how the rising anger sabotages any semblance of a witty response. “Maybe you’re just not as good a teacher as you think you are.”
Patrick laughs. “Oh, I know I’m a great teacher.”
His gaze is confident and unwavering, and he strums the guitar once thoughtfully as he assesses David. The muscles in his forearm flex distractingly where his shirt’s pushed up to the elbows, and David hates that he glances down.
“I think we can leave it there for today. I find that once a student’s lost their patience, they’re not going to take in any more information, anyway.”
David stands up with a huff, dumping the guitar down on the couch with a hollow clang and throwing his arms up dramatically as he heads for the door. Patrick stays seated, watching him mildly, because of course he does - why would he deign to see David out?
“See you next week, David,” Patrick calls casually as David stomps down the hall.
Asshole.
🎵
“Snippy.”
“...What?”
“Snippy. That’s the right word. He didn’t teach me a single useful thing, and then had the gall to tell me I have to ‘adjust my expectations’. As if expecting a teacher to teach is somehow unreasonable!”
“Mm-hmm. What’s the top string called again?”
“High E.” David scowls as soon as the answer leaves his mouth, in the face of Stevie’s pointed smirk. “Irrelevant! The point is, some guy who lives with Ray and dresses like a fucking accountant thinks he can sit there in his depressing little studio and mock me. And I’m paying him to do it!”
“So don’t go back!” Stevie says, exasperated. “It’s week-by-week, right? You literally have zero obligation. If he’s such an asshole, you don’t have to keep going.”
David opens his mouth, and closes it again. He flips through the possible snarky responses in his head like old, worn records, but finds that none of them feel quite right. It gets exhausting after a while, playing the same old tunes.
He’d be out of his mind to continue to give this man money to crawl under his skin and make him feel like an idiot on a weekly basis. But it feels important; there’s something tugging deep at his core, drawing him back to that poky room at Ray’s, if only a fiercely stubborn conviction to wipe that smug look off Patrick’s face when David proves his assumptions wrong.
“Well. I have nothing better to do, so,” is what he actually says, heaving a dramatic sigh. “...I suppose I can put up with him and his bad attitude and his stupid forearms a little longer.”
Stevie’s eyes light up with interest, and she waggles her brows at him. “Um, wait a second, what was that about his forearms?”
“Oh my god, nothing!”
🎵
The second lesson is, if possible, even more excruciating.
Patrick, generous teacher that he is, actually takes it upon himself to supply David with something other than vocabulary, introducing the concept of chords and explaining they’d learn a few simple ones to start with.
Which all sounds perfectly straightforward, especially when it’s spelled out in Patrick’s overly patient, frustratingly smooth voice. Except, the message doesn’t fucking transmit to David’s brain, and it definitely doesn’t filter all the way down to his hands, which appear to be made of butter or something equally useless.
“Okay, see what I’m doing with my hand?” Patrick says, for the seventieth time, nodding downwards to his own finger positioned effortlessly on the frets. He strums once, producing a clear, bright sound which reverberates mockingly around the walls before fading slowly.
Jaw clenching tightly, David glares at Patrick’s hand as if it’s personally wronged him (which, well, the person attached to it definitely has), and tries his best to mirror his position. It feels wrong, the tendons in his hand stretching unfamiliarly; the plectrum slides a little between his thumb and forefinger, nervous sweat making his grip awkward. When David strums, it’s an ugly, blunted noise.
Patrick winces.
David glares harder.
“This is fucking impossible!” David declares.
“It’s not impossible, David, you just need to listen to what I’m telling you. You’re getting way too caught up in your head about this. You need it to be perfect first time, and it’s not going to happen.”
The spike of outrage David feels is definitely, absolutely not because Patrick struck a little too close to home with that comment. It’s not that it knocked David off-kilter to hear this man so casually pluck David’s insecurities out of his head and read them aloud.
“Oh, okay, because you know me so well,” David scoffs.
“I’m starting to learn.” The corner of Patrick’s mouth curls. “For instance, I’m learning you’re not accustomed to taking instructions.”
“Excuse me?”
“Being told what to do. God forbid, being corrected.”
“Well —” David splutters. Patrick watches him with a mild interest. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m excellent at taking instructions when they make sense. You’re just explaining it the same way, like, a million times, and expecting me to magically understand!”
Patrick scoffs a little, seeming surprised at the words David’s hurling at him. “You’re right. Let’s try it a different way, okay?”
Before David knows what’s happening, Patrick has placed his guitar reverently to one side and crossed the small space to the beat-up couch David’s perched on. With a panic, David remembers the way he’d kneeled in front of him before and put David’s hands where he wanted them, and it was - it was mortifying, obviously, and oh god please don’t let him do that again - but, oh. Oh no. It’s worse.
Patrick settles himself next to him on the couch, close enough that David’s entire left side is suddenly entirely too warm. Patrick’s knee nudges his own, and to David’s vague horror, he throws an arm casually over the back of the sofa, behind David’s head.
“Uh, I need to just… May I?”
Struck dumb, David simply nods. Patrick leans in close - and David is hit the scent of his cologne, something surprisingly woodsy, conjuring images of fresh dew and dappled forests - and what the fuck? He refocuses on Patrick’s hand covering his own, gently rearranging his fingers on the strings.
“There, you just gotta… yeah, like that. You just want the pads of your fingers pressing down on those strings. If the rest of your hand touches them, it’ll dull the sound.”
David clears his throat. “It’s uncomfortable.”
What exactly is he referring to? Unclear.
Patrick shrugs. “It’ll get easier. You’ve got good hands.”
David’s head snaps up, pinning Patrick with a look that’s half-baffled and half-intrigued. Patrick’s face is very, very close. Patrick’s eyes widen; David’s satisfied to see him actually look flustered for the first time since they met.
“I mean - they’re - I mean good hands for guitar. Not, um, not just… as general hands.”
David snorts, watching him buffer.
“I just mean - you have long fingers! Which is good. For guitar.”
Oh, it’s too sweet. David’s filled with glee as the previously cool, collected Patrick fumbles for his words and springs to his feet in what some might even call a flap. Good, honestly. Patrick deserves to be taken down a peg.
“Did you want to evaluate any other aspects of my physical appearance while we’re here? I mean, we’ve still got fifteen minutes to kill.”
Patrick tugs at his open collar absent-mindedly, standing in the middle of the room with his hands braced on his hips. “No, I’m good,” he replies weakly, and David feels a triumphant smile unfold on his face.
“Okay, well. If you’ll excuse me, my long fingers and I are about to play this stupid chord perfectly, so.”
Maybe he speaks it into existence with his petulant tone, because when he presses down firmly with his fingertips and carelessly flicks his wrist, the sound that rings out is… well, it sounds good to David, anyway. It feels good, lingering in the air and wrapping around him like tendrils of light, and he made that happen. He brought that joy, that brightness into the room.
Glancing up, he realises Patrick is staring at him. Just as the simple chord had lit up David on the inside, Patrick’s entire face has brightened, a wide, if slightly surprised, smile spreading over his face. His eyes are practically sparkling with it, and those are wide too, as if trying to take in as much of the scene in front of him as possible; which is wild, because it's only David he’s looking at. David, awkwardly cradling an instrument he doesn’t know how to play, fidgeting under the intensity of Patrick’s gaze.
“David, that was great. That was awesome!” Patrick enthuses, channelling the kind of sports-bro energy that David usually recoils from. He tries to resist acknowledging that it’s kind of endearing on this buttoned-up guy, but the delicate, excited flush on Patrick’s cheekbones proves his efforts futile. Then, Patrick opens his mouth again.
“Look at that. See, taking direction isn’t so hard when you’re not too busy complaining about it.”
Is he fucking kidding right now?
David’s mouth drops open, and Patrick has the audacity to wink at him. He doesn’t even do it right.
A frustration that’s becoming familiar bubbles up in David’s chest. He doesn’t know why Patrick’s casual confidence knocks him for six - maybe it’s envy, knowing he’ll never truly understand what it is to be that sure of yourself. Or maybe it’s just that Patrick’s a dick.
David raises his voice, glaring at Patrick. “Okay, listen, if you’re just going to attack me —”
“Woah, woah, David.” Patrick looks suddenly stricken. Disappointed? Hurt, even? “I didn’t mean to upset you. I was just - I was teasing. Sorry. You’ve done really great, honestly.”
“Mkay, well.” David wasn’t expecting this kind of sincere apology for an offhand comment, to be honest. He’s not quite sure how to react to it. “...Thank you.”
Patrick nods and clears his throat, looking down as he picks out a few stray notes on his guitar. “So, um, I think we can… wrap it up for today. I’d like to give you some practice exercises, but I can’t help but notice you still don’t have a guitar of your own.”
David winces. In their first phone call, he’d told Patrick he didn’t have one yet, but that he was… working on it.
He was not, in fact, working on it.
He wants to do this; he really does. But walking into the cramped space he shares with his family with a fucking guitar will set off so many chain reactions that he can’t control, and none of which he’ll appreciate. It would be a huge, unconcealable declaration: here’s this new thing I’m doing, now everyone can start taking bets on how soon I’ll fail. His dad would ask whether this was a good investment of ‘their’ money, his mom would spiral into despair over his certain fate as a penniless street-performer, and knowing Alexis, the whole fucking town would know as soon as she could tippy-tap her treacherous little fingers on her phone screen.
So… he still doesn’t have one. And, as he’s beginning to realise, his original assumption that he’d simply be provided with everything he needs was… a little off-base. Honestly, who knew learning an instrument would involve so much monetary sacrifice? And between-session work?
“Um. About that,” David starts, punctuating each word with a circling motion of his finger. “I just… want to be sure this is the right thing for me, before I invest. You know?”
“Right.” Patrick’s got that amused expression on his face again that makes David squirm. “So really, this is like, more of an experiment for you.”
“Exactly,” David says seriously, which makes Patrick laugh, for some reason.
“Well, I’m not sure how much data you can collect, only playing in one-hour chunks per week. Seems an inadequate sample size to me.” David tenses, ready for Patrick to snip at him about committing to the lessons. He’s definitely not expecting him to fold his arms faux-casually and say: “Why don’t you take that one?”
David gapes at him. “Oh. But. That’s… yours.”
Patrick shrugs. “I don’t have any other students at the moment who don’t bring their own. Actually, that… rarely happens.” His eyes are laughing. David knows he’s mocking him, but he gets stuck on them, for a moment. “I’d really like for you to be able to practice, David. Borrow the guitar. Y’know, until you’re sure.”
David struggles for a response. He doesn’t want Patrick’s spare guitar - what if someone sees him carrying it through town? Where is he going to hide it? - but he can’t say no. He thinks about how freeing it felt to produce that sound, the satisfaction that settled in his gut knowing that he tried and tried and finally figured it out.
He wants to practice. He wants to work at this. It’s a good, honest feeling.
Plus, Patrick kind of looks like a puppy right now, so if David says no, he’s afraid he might actually cry. So.
“Okay.” It comes out in a breathy almost-whisper. He nods, thrice. “Um, yeah. Why not. Thank you, Patrick.”
Patrick smiles, his shoulders sagging a little. David doesn’t know why he looks so relieved; maybe he’s relying more on David’s lesson fees than David realised, if he’s that desperate to keep David on his books.
David staggers out of Ray’s with an unwieldy guitar case slung over his back, crashing into the door as he struggles to balance the weight of it. It only occurs to him now that he walked here; Alexis swiped the car keys this morning, citing a boba-related emergency. This thing is fucking huge. There’s no way he’s going to make it back to town without being noticed, and his insides knot together at the thought. This is still a private, soft part of him, one that won’t stand up to being poked and prodded.
Sighing, he stops on Ray’s porch, heaves it dramatically off his shoulder, and pulls out his phone to wheedle a ride out of Stevie. Her reply is instant.
What, you can’t ask Mr Forearms?
David glowers, and decidedly does not think about them.
🎵
David feels embarrassed.
It doesn’t make sense - he’s totally alone. There’s no one here to judge him or laugh, and even Stevie was surprisingly accommodating in letting him stash the borrowed guitar in the back office of the motel, and handing him the spare key so he could sneak in while she’s not there. She ripped the hell out of him for it, obviously. But when he mumbled that he needed a space to practice, she also gave him this approving little smile which actually bordered on sincere, even as she told him, fine, but only because I like having dirt on you.
He sweeps his gaze around the cluttered space, taking in the dusty filing cabinets, stacks of boxes containing paperwork relating to Stevie’s newfound motel ownership which she’s steadfastly ignoring, and the random array of lost-and-found items scattered around (he eyes a giant stuffed unicorn sitting in a broken stroller, which appears to be staring at him. He doesn’t trust it).
Yes, he’s alone. There’s no reason to feel as if there’s a spotlight burning his skin, or that the old desk chair he’s sitting on is balancing precariously on a tightrope, ready to topple him at a moment’s notice.
The thing is… trying has always been a little foreign to him. As a child, every exotic trip and material desire he could dream of was handed to him, quite literally at times, on a silver platter; he rarely needed to ask for things, let alone work to get them. When he grew older, the concept of trying shifted from an afterthought to something downright frowned upon. You didn’t survive if you cared about things, or people, or… well, yourself. It was a weakness that could be exploited. People already used him for his money and his status, that was a given; he didn’t need another chink in his armour. He survived that way, aloof and cold, refusing to exert an ounce of effort at the risk of giving away a piece of himself he couldn’t get back.
David let down those walls enough to care about Wendy and her skanky wares and the company attempting to rob her, and it was perhaps the first time he really tried at something in years. It was frightening, throwing himself on the line like that, but he’s beginning to warm to the idea.
Trying doesn’t always equal weakness, he’s learned. But it definitely opens you up to failure, which, historically, isn’t David’s strong suit.
He sighs, shakes his hands out vigorously, as if flicking away the stony-faced version of himself from an all-too-recent past.
Then, he picks up the guitar.
🎵
David would be lying if he said he isn’t a little gratified to see how pleased Patrick is, as David demonstrates the chords he taught him.
He knows it’s a meagre accomplishment, but there’s a genuine pride in himself that he hasn’t really unlocked in a while, and it’s welcomed. Also… he sort of likes that look on Patrick, when David takes him by surprise, when he’s clearly impressed. The sparkle in his eyes, the soft, barely-there smile. The way Patrick reflexively pushes his shirt sleeves up his arms as he watches David, because apparently the man doesn’t know how to roll a sleeve securely.
David puts it down to pure satisfaction at proving him wrong. He doesn’t need to delve into any other potential reasons why he keeps sneaking those glances at Patrick. He’s stressed enough today as it is, an undercurrent of anxiety scoring every breath he takes.
“That’s sounding really good, David. You’re getting there with the fingering.”
David’s head snaps up, a vaguely delighted smirk curling his lips. “Oh, well, I’m glad. I wouldn’t want you to think my fingering is sub-par.”
Patrick double-takes like he’s only now realising the underlying meaning, and laughs shortly, rubbing the back of his neck. When he speaks, his voice is a smidge lower, and he almost sounds lost in thought. “Uh, yeah, well… I highly doubt that’d be a problem.”
Wait. What?
David’s face falls, the satisfaction of making Patrick squirm jolted loose. He’s suddenly uncertain what’s happening here.
Patrick seems to sense it, eyes widening. “I mean - because you’re coming into it fresh. No bad habits to unlearn. Lucky for you, I’ve taught you right the first time around, so.”
“Right.” David presses his lips together, and lets himself watch the flush crawling up Patrick’s neck for a moment, before falling back down to the strings. “Um… could you show me G to C again?”
Appearing thankful for the segue, Patrick nods and reaches for his guitar.
They manage to leave that… moment behind them (would David describe it as awkward? He doesn’t have that lingering, get-me-out-of-here feeling. It was more… loaded, with a kind of tension David hadn’t expected). The lesson actually goes relatively smoothly, Patrick taking him through some basic strumming patterns and David falteringly attempting to change from one chord to another. Except, by the time they’re halfway through, David can’t keep his hands off his phone, checking the time every five seconds.
“I don’t want to pry, but… I can’t help but notice you’re a little distracted.”
Patrick’s voice cuts through the steadily-building anxiety buzzing around David’s brain, and he looks up guiltily, throwing his phone down on the couch.
“Sorry,” David says, and means it. “I’m fine.”
“It’s harder to learn if you’ve got something else on your mind. It might help, y’know, to… get it out.”
The kindness on Patrick’s face is actually a little jarring; David doesn’t know how a person can afford to move through the world that way, open and caring like niceness isn’t a finite resource, like it’s not something to be stolen and used and spat back out.
David shrugs with his whole body, eyes flitting about anywhere that isn’t Patrick’s face. Now that it’s been brought to light, the impending doom he’s been keeping locked away all morning is seeping out into all his limbs and filling him with nervous energy.
“I just have a thing after this? And it’s just taking up a lot of headspace.”
“Ah. Hot date?” Patrick folds his arms, eyebrows shooting up as he grins widely, instantly retracting it when David throws him a glare.
“What? No, I wouldn’t care this much.” David waves his hand dismissively. “I have to take my stupid driving test again, and I don’t do well with performance-based assessments.”
“No?”
David bristles, expecting the needling he’s come to associate with Patrick - but he seems genuinely surprised. “Um, yeah, have you met me? I’m not exactly the most relaxed person.”
Patrick frowns, studying him. “You say that like it’s a bad thing. I mean, you obviously care a lot about everything you set your mind to. You have this focus, this… really deliberate attention, when something’s important to you. Yeah, maybe it’s not relaxed , but that’s dedication, David. I’d say that lends itself pretty well to a testing situation, if it’s used right.”
David fidgets, plucking a few random strings as Patrick speaks, punctuating each sentence so he doesn’t have to respond to it. As casual as anything, Patrick is picking up David’s insecurities (too much; highly-strung; easily overwhelmed; incapable), inspecting them with a fresh eye, and labelling them with something new.
“You seem very sure of yourself for someone who’s spent about two hours in my company,” David manages. His throat is a little dry.
“Look, all I’m saying is… maybe you deserve a little more credit than you’re giving yourself.” Patrick checks his watch. “And actually, it’s two hours forty-five now, so…”
Patrick laughs when David rolls his eyes, and despite himself, the weight on David’s shoulders lightens the tiniest bit.
🎵
Lounging on his bed in a rare moment of solitude, David thoughtfully taps the disappointing picture on his newly printed license. His phone screen lights up his face, open on his thread of texts with Patrick. It’s short, and entirely practical: reliable confirmations of their lesson times from Patrick, every week without fail and punctuated with a smiley face; plus lots of will be 5mins late sorry from David’s side.
Patrick might want to know. He’s the kind of person who cares about things like that, even though he doesn’t have to. The kind who calls his grandma every week and learns your coffee order and checks up on adult acquaintances taking a test everyone else passed in high school.
His thumbs hover over the keyboard. He purses his lips, glancing at the laminated card, then at the Guitar Guy at the top of his screen. He saved the contact in a rush after their first phone call, too preoccupied with the fact that he just did something completely irrational to remember Patrick’s name. He hasn’t changed it, even though Patrick is pretty hard to forget now.
Haltingly, he types out:
did you know they don’t even give you backlighting for driver’s licence photos??
Grimacing, he backspaces it all as soon as it’s done.
thank you for your advice
God, even worse. That one gets erased immediately, too. This is stupid - there’s no reason to tell Patrick how the test went. There’s no reason to want to tell him.
As soon as David locks the phone, though, the screen illuminates with a notification. David’s stomach drops as he reads the contact name.
Hey, David. Everything ok?
Fuck. Fuck. He must have seen the dots - those three, duplicitous little dots, betraying the fact that David’s being a giant fucking weirdo. Now he has to respond. Oh, god, his hands are sweating.
yes sorry
i passed the test btw. in case you were wondering
David drops the phone like it’s burned him and buries his face in his hands, instantly consumed with regret. Of course, that’s when Alexis flounces in from the other room, snatching his phone from the bed as it vibrates and chirping, “Oooh, who’s Guitar Guy, David?!”
“Oh my god, no one, nothing —!” David grabs for the phone unsuccessfully as Alexis scans the lock screen with an expression of glee.
“Well, he’s proud of you, so.” Alexis shimmies her shoulders. “Sounds like a sweet li’l nothing you got going on there.”
Alexis waves a bejeweled finger in a wide circle, winding in closer until she boops him on the nose. David scowls and flaps his hands at her, grabbing the phone back.
A sweet li’l nothing, indeed.
🎵