Archive of Our Own

His hands tremble, they shouldn’t tremble. Why do they tremble? He adjusts his chair, staring at a sea of black and white. His mind flashes in pictures of notes, he swims in an abyss of clefs and tempos. There would be no end to this torture. A lump forms in his throat, fingers pressing gentle against cold keys. Only after he makes contact does the shaking of his hands stop.

The temperature drops, or maybe it rises. He can’t tell, body in flux as the hairs on the back of his head stand on end. He straightens his back, smooths out his suit. He goes through the paces as the red curtains lift. It’s a familiar procedure, one he’s done a million times before. He takes a deep breath, trying to steady the growing nerves. The performance is like any other, why is he scared?

Maybe it’s because for once, for once his parents sit in the crowd. They sit waiting for him to mess up, they sit waiting to pick out every flaw, everything he did wrong. He knew that as soon as they got home, spending the drive in tense silence, they would berate him. They would have him sit at the grand piano they had at home, in a white room of echoing silence, and he wouldn’t stop until he got it perfect.

The lights filled his vision, he held back a flinch– a wince. The brightness is blinding, and it does nothing to calm Tommy’s swimming nerves. The stage lights cast the audience in shadow. The last thing he catches is his parents’ expecting stare. He’s played the song a million times before, the actions are muscle memory. The fact that he played the song in his dreams only made his palms clam and cold sweat roll down the back of his neck.

A deep breath, then two.

The dance begins.

Tommy isn’t even lucid as he plays. He’s stuck in his own mind. He’s stuck striking the chords. His fingers move with practiced grace. He hit the pedals, he hit the keys. Each action creates its own sound, its own reverb. Each movement is efficient, he doesn’t spend any extra time between notes. He can’t. Not if he wishes to impress. Not if he wants the cold, empty praise of his parents.

The song continues. He hits every note. Not a single one fell sharp or flat. He couldn’t see the audience, nor their expressions. He knew from experience that they’re enraptured by his expertise. They don’t see how he has to consciously stop the shaking. They don’t see how he bites back tears that well in his eyes, they don’t see the lump of fear that he couldn’t swallow away.

His vision floods with images of the sheet music. The notes float off the score. They dance across the piano, reminding him. Faster, slower. Follow the flow. Don’t wait. Don’t stop. Rest, pick it up. He could hear his parents scolding words as he stumbled over the 32nd notes. The audience wouldn’t know that he missed a single note. His parents would.

He would. Tommy knew. Tommy knew and the anxiety that pooled in his stomach returned in full swing. Tommy knew. He knows as soon as he presses down, the last chord echoing in the rest of the room. There’s a beat, then two, and the audience erupts with boisterous applause. He chews the inside of his cheek, keeping– praying that the tears wouldn’t fall.

Tommy stands up and bows. The applause falls on deaf, cotton stuffed ears. He missed a note. His hands tremble and shake. He holds himself together only long enough to get backstage where he stumbles. He trips over his feet, dress shoes clicking on smooth tile. He looks up to his teacher's expectant eyes, all they do is shake their head and Tommy’s world collapses down around him.

He doesn’t bother to speak, doesn't bother to apologize when his parents pick him up in the green room. There’s no room for failure. He failed. His fingers curl in on themself, pressing familiar crescent moons into his palm. Tommy follows his parents like a lost puppy; a hopeless, lovesick puppy.

Fans wait for him outside. Yelling and screaming his name, a quick glance to his father tells him everything he needs to know. Plastering on a trained, fake smile, Tommy walks over to them and starts to sign papers and notebooks. He signs everything from sheet music to instrument cases. They don’t see how it strains him. They don’t see the tired that pulls at his eyes from nights spent practicing late.

When they get home Tommy kicks off his shoes, going over the same exact lectures they always went through. His fingers ache. They twitch in anticipation. Even when he showers to get the gel out of his hair he’s muttering notes and scores. He dries off and slips into comfortable clothes.

His room is as grand as it could be. With a sour look he turns away from the wall filled with plaques, awards, trophies and ribbons. Next to them hangs posters of his favorite musicians, who Tommy proclaimed the greats. He sits down at his desk, reaching into his backpack and pulling out his homework. Glancing at the alarm clock at his bedside table Tommy let out a sigh. 10:30 pm. He still has a long night ahead of him.

He hadn’t gotten any homework done. He flips open his laptop, pulling up the poem he has to analyze for english. He has his math work thrown to the side for the time being. He plugs his phone into its charger, starting up his playlist. The classics fill the speakers of his room.

Tommy knows each song by heart. No matter the flair, the uniqueness of each piece, they all look the same to Tommy. A bunch of notes on a page, a series of keystrokes and pedal presses. They could all be boiled down to a series of chords.

That night he falls asleep at his piano, running through scales until early hours of the day.

__________________

Tommy walked to school. It’s a fact that everyone knew about him. He goes to a stuffy private school that his parents pay for, a bitter voice in his head comments on how they use his hard earned money. He shakes off the thought, stuffing his hands in his pocket. There’s a lot that he and his parents fight about, the one thing he won was about walking to school. It didn’t matter the temperature. You could trust Tommy to walk to school even on the most frostbitten days.

He leaves early, trying to hide his school uniform under a big puffy blue jacket. The less time he spends at home, the better. There’s nothing in the big mansion except for crushing expectation and practice, practice, practice. Tommy lets out a sigh, clenching his jaw. He’ll never be good enough.

Following the familiar path, his feet crunch against dead leaves. Barren, dying trees decorate the sides of the path. Dying isn’t the right word, they were hibernating, or whatever the plant equivalent was. The days grew shorter, the nights growing longer. Tommy yawns, trying to rub the sleep from his eyes.

He goes to Niki’s bakery every morning. He has time to kill and money to spend. Too much money for a sixteen year old, some may say. He was some. Tommy’s eyes widen. Sure. Yeah. He blinks a few times, trying to chase the sound from the chilly air. A gentle breeze sweeps over the street.

Practice. That’s the breathing of his life. Tommy is aware he spends more time than is probably healthy on the piano, but never did he think he’d start hearing the songs in real life. His fingers twitch along with the notes, mind racing as he follows in tempo. It was the same song he had played the night prior.

Except… it couldn’t be. It couldn’t be because the tempo was off, it’s too slow to be the same song. But as the notes hang in the air, sure as day they were the same.

As Tommy turns the corner he sees him, a bum sitting in front of Niki’s bakery. He strums guitar chords, mimicking and mocking the artistic genius of the piece. Curly, messy brown hair falls over gold rimmed glasses. He wears a patch work brown trench coat and his hands are covered with leather, fingerless gloves.

He knew what he should do. He should ignore the street musician. Tommy is a talent, far more skilled than the guy in front of the bakery. Tommy knew exactly when the street musician struck a wrong note, knew that the guy adds a few extra rests, and holds notes for longer. Somehow, for some reason, Tommy stops. He stops in front of the guy.

“You’re playing it wrong,” Tommy says. He’s right. Tommy is right because he’s played the piece a million times, and he’ll play it a million more. Scales engrained, emblazoned into his memory. His parents are never happy unless he can recite each note by heart, tapping out the rhythms while he eats in solitude.

The guy strikes a chord, letting it ring out. There’s something about the way he plays the song. There was something melancholy about how he plays. Tommy hates how it doesn’t line up with the floating score in his mind. He hates how it makes him feel, like all his problems are bubbling to the surface. He can feel years of repressed stress and pressure building in his chest like a dangerous weed. The chord dissipates, and he brushes the feelings back to the deepest part of his mind.

The guy looks up at him and says, “And?”

And? And? What’s the point in playing if it’s not exactly how it’s supposed to be? Teacher after teacher stares at him in his memories, voided faces mocking him. His parents laugh and berate him, his fingers tremble and twitch. Each night, each day, he pours himself into the songs he is told to learn. How could this one idiot act like music wasn’t an art of refinery. It’s reserved for only the best of the best. You don’t get to play if it doesn’t wow.

“It’s too slow,” Tommy stresses. As if he could help this poor soul. As if some words from him could change this man's life. He’s bumming it outside a bakery, a guitar case filled with a few dollar bills and some pennies.

Panic rises in his chest as he remembers all the kids, barely younger than he is, telling him that he’s inspired them. He doesn’t have the heart to tell them that they would never make it. Tommy has sacrificed everything, everything to get where he’s gotten. His life revolves around his work. His school revolves around his work. Everything he does is for that sweet taste of a hint of warmth, a fond ruffle of the hair.

“Yes. I believe I was doing that on purpose.” The guy stretches out, he plucks a few strings and messes with the tuning pegs for a minute before leaning the guitar against the side of the bakery. He stands up, and Jesus Christ is he tall. He’s got a couple of inches on Tommy which is saying something.

“It’s wrong though,” Tommy repeats. How come he wasn’t getting it? There’s a precision to music, a certain way to do everything. The composer writes down their image in ink, and the musician is expected to bring their vision back to life.

The guy tilts his head. There’s something curious in the way he looks at Tommy. There’s a wonder that dances across his face and pulls at his lips. A smile that doesn’t fade, it twists into something snarky and playful.

“And how do you know, Mr. Private School,” The guy crosses his arms. Tommy’s ears heat in embarrassment, he tries to pull the coat back over his school’s crest. It’s too late, which makes the guy laugh. “I bet you haven’t even touched an instrument before.”

The teasing tone isn’t lost on Tommy. He chooses to ignore it. He’s lost in his own thoughts. He’s a big name, he knows he’s a big name. He’s a musical prodigy, a genius. From the second he touched a piano he was praised for his natural talent. Tommy didn’t need to see a score to play it, he could play it by ear. His name was praised across the country. And yet this street bum didn’t know it.

“You… you don’t know who I am?” He asks. The idea of someone not knowing, of someone having zero expectations for him… it’s exhilarating. No matter where he goes he has people building him up, already having an idea of who he is in their brain. He doesn’t– he can’t disappoint them. So he throws on a fake smile, he signs the cards, he buys his shit.

The guy almost laughs, bending down so he’s on Tommy’s level. “Should I? You look like every other gremlin child in this area.”

He has a few choices. He has a lot of choices. Tommy knows what his parents would want him to do. He knows that they would want him to tell this nobody who he is. His name holds prestige, he is renowned. It commands respect. And he hates that. He hates how everyone knows it, how people he’s never seen act as if he’s some sort of god. He’s not a god, he’s a kid.

“No,” Tommy snaps instead. “I’ll have you know I’m a very important regular here.” Tommy hides the smile he gets from the way the guy laughs. Because this guy didn’t know. He didn’t have any sort of predetermined perspective. He didn’t worship the ground Tommy stands on. And he likes that. He loves it even. The way the guy acts as if he’s like every other kid.

“Well then, I guess I’ll be seeing you around more. Niki’s asked me to play around here on the regular. Try to draw in more people, yeah?” The guy grabs his guitar once more, throwing it around his shoulder and strumming a mindless melody.

“Yeah.” Tommy’s phone buzzes in his pocket. A message from Dream. He remembers what he was doing. He got three hours of sleep last night, he needs his normal from the bakery– anything with a few too many extra shots of espresso. “Shit, I have school,” he turns his phone off. Stuffing it in his pocket he looks at the guy. “Well. Bye.”

Tommy doesn’t wait to hear the guys reply before throwing himself into the Bakery, a small ding signaling his entrance. He smiles when Ranboo is waiting for him with his order. The bakery is warm, it’s cozy with a small reading nook and the T.V playing on mute with only closed captions indicative of what the newscast is saying. He winces when he sees his name pop up on the screen.

Ranboo lets out a sigh, “Running a bit late aren’t you?” They ask as Tommy grabs his to go cup.

“Mhm… Sorry bout that, Big Man,” Tommy takes a sip of the hot drink. It burns his tongue but he doesn’t have the energy to really care. “Guy out front caught me off guard.” Tommy doesn’t have it in Ranboo to tell them that they helped hire a shit musician. But thus was the world of nepotism.

“Yeah, Wilbur’s certainly a character,” Ranboo unsuccessfully stifles a laugh. They grab a rag and wipe off one of the coffee ground things. The ones that pull the espresso shot? Tommy doesn’t know what they were called, nor does he care.

They weren’t friends. Tommy doesn’t have the time for friends. But Ranboo is one of the closest things he has to a friend. They’re Niki’s little brother, they don’t go to Tommy’s school so they help out early mornings. The only other people he has are his classmates, though it’s always a competition to be at the top with them.

With a quick wave Tommy leaves the bakery, feeling a bit lighter thanks to the caffeine buzzing under his skin. When Tommy throws a fifty dollar bill in Wilbur’s guitar case, that’s a secret he’ll only divulge with the darkest part of his brain.

____________

Tommy goes through his regular routine. The interaction with Wilbur somehow sticks like glue to his thoughts. He doesn’t want to think about it. It’s the only thing he can think about when his teacher is having him run scales after messing up again. His fingers tremble and ache and it would be nice to take a break. But genius doesn’t get a break.

He lets out a sigh, remembering how Wilbur was able to make the melody something so personal. Like Tommy was reading a book of death and longing. He thinks of the score, the music, the way he played with tempo and rhythm. It may be stupid, but it’s almost ingenious.

“Theseus,” his Teacher scolds. “Run your scales again.” He didn’t even notice how he had held a note for a second too long, too lost in his thoughts to care. Tommy sucks in a breath at his name, the one plastered across billboards and on online forums. It’s the name with the signature that’s on so many peoples belongings.

He runs his scales again, still stuck on how, somehow, beautiful the imperfections in Wilbur’s music had been. His teacher leaves his room, done and paid for the day. That doesn’t stop Tommy from playing the same songs nonstop for the next few hours. Over and over until they are beaten and bloody in his memory. He has another concert booked in the next few weeks. He has to be ready.

When he gets up from his piano he stumbles to his bathroom. He’s only vaguely aware of the time on the clock. He rifles through the medicine cabinet, cussing under his breath as he wraps the tips of his fingers in ace bandage wrap. They hurt. He swallows back tears. It hurts so bad. He falls to the floor, back pressed against the wall. A lump forms in his throat and it won’t leave.

It hurts because even though he can barely lift his twitching fingers, he knows it’s not good enough. He still messed up. He had the faintest of feeling in his poor finger pads and yet it’s still not good enough. Tommy needed to practice. He can’t stop. He can’t stop, the moment he stops is the moment he becomes obsolete. His parents would never allow that. He’s stuck in a never ending cycle. No matter how hard he works, Tommy knows he isn’t as good as they make him out to be.

He wears a mask, hiding behind everything. He’s a coward. He can’t even stand on a stage without nerves making him nauseous. He was a performer, the world should be his stage. Yet he finds himself smaller than he ever was before. He hates it all. From the blinding lights to the big names. He hates meeting people he couldn’t give two shits about. He hates feeling like a kid but at the same time never having been one.

He cradles his hands, letting the tears soak the floor. There’s an iron band around his chest, constricting his breathing. His breaths are ragged, sporadic. The only thing he can do is let it take its course.

One day someone will see behind his cracking porcelain mask. One day it will shatter and fall. He will take a bow on stage and everyone will laugh at him. It’s that thought along with emotional distress that rocked him into a nightmare filled sleep. One day as everything he is, everything he strives to be, is laid bare to the world, he will smile and he will laugh. He will laugh at how he fooled everyone. He will laugh at how stupid it all is. He will laugh at how they stole his childhood and praised a false god.

Tommy wakes up the next morning with a crick in his neck. The bubbling bitter anger still heavy in his chest. He can’t shake the feeling of wanting to watch everything he’s worked for burn. He used to love the piano, he thinks at least. It’s been so long that he can’t even remember the last time his smile as he played wasn’t trained and forced. He gets up with a bit more feeling in his fingers than the night prior. He takes off the bandages, they were only there as a placebo anyways. It’s with care that he washes his face, trying to get the feeling of dried tears off of his cheeks.

Without waiting to see the time, or for his parents to scold him, he leaves the mansion. It’s easy enough to sneak away, and Saturdays are the only day he really gets freetime. And that’s if he’s lucky. Sometimes one has to create luck themself. The day is nicer than it has been, with the sun shining down and no sign of overcast. Though the wind is chilly and the smell of frost rested in the air, Tommy couldn’t find it in his heart to care.

He follows the familiar path, snaking his way through downtown, letting his feet guide him to Niki’s bakery. On days when it wasn’t so busy, Niki typically let Ranboo off for a bit and the two of them would talk and catch up. It’s a nice ritual, done by the fire in the bakery and with a cup of too much caffeine in his hands.

Only… Wilbur is back. Tommy tries to ignore the struggling street bum. He tries to go hang out with Ranboo like he always does. But he’s stopped when Wilbur calls for him.

“Private School Gremlin!” He calls, stopping mid song. That ticks Tommy off a little, if you’re going to be playing a piece at least commit to it.

Stuffing his hands in the soft blue cardigan sweater Tommy turned around, drifting back over to where Wilbur has his set up. It’s a simple enough thing, a stool, a water bottle, his guitar case. There’s a small brown paper bag, Tommy assumes that’s where he keeps his lunch. “What do you want?”

Wilbur only smiles, plucking at another mindless melody. “I wanted to thank you. You’re the one who tossed me the fifty right? I knew you must be a rich son of bitch for going to Mozart’s but…” Wilbur finishes the sentence with a shrug. Tommy’s nose twitches at the mention of his school, Mozart's school of performing arts. To get in you either needed blood money or you needed to be brilliant for a scholarship.

“Careful who you talk piss poor about, dickhead,” Tommy finds himself replying. He doesn’t remember thinking about what to say, only saying it. There’s something light in the air, it makes his chest all warm as Wilbur shoots back with a playful tease in his voice.

“But I thought you were nothing special.”

His breath hitches, getting caught in his throat. Tommy gives a little cough. “I’m really not.”

“Well Nothing Special,” Wilbur sits down. “Do you have a name?”

Another choice. Again, Tommy knows what his parents would want him to do. But like last time Tommy listens to the small voice in his head. “You can call me Tommy.” There’s a confidence in his voice that he hasn’t heard in a long time. Something shifts in him when he’s around the street performer, and he can’t tell if that’s a good or bad thing.

Wilbur hums in recognition. “So Mozart’s, that’s a fancy arts school. The other day you were telling me that I was playing the song wrong. You know your stuff don’t you. Fanny Mendelssohn. You have that one memorized… what instrument do you play?”

There’s a second seat next to Wilbur. Tommy sits down in it after little prompting. There’s something that draws him to the eccentric guitarist. Maybe it’s his lack of respect for his art, maybe it’s the way his callous hands seem at home on the guitar strings. Maybe it’s the way that there’s no overhead expectations. He can be the most downright nastiest person and it wouldn’t smear his name.

Tommy didn’t have to be Theseus, and that’s the most appealing thing.

“Piano,” it’s a quick answer. “I’ve been playing it for as long as I can remember.” His tiny toddler hands found their way to a piano, and he regrets that with every fiber in his body. Because if he hadn’t played that first note… then Tommy wouldn’t be in the mess he’s in. He wouldn’t have guilt that he hadn’t earned eating away at his insides.

“Why the bandaged fingers? I know I’ve done it because I used to accidentally play so much my fingers bleed but…” Once again Wilbur trails off, lost in thought. Lost in his own mind.

Tommy cradles his hands much like the night prior, trying his best to smile. “Ah it… just makes me feel better after a long night of practice.” They tremble. His fingers tremble and he tries to ignore it. He tries to hide it, but Wilbur catches sight of it. He has to have seen it for the concern to dance and flicker for but a moment across his face.

He doesn’t say anything about it. Continuing to pluck away at the strings, moving his hands across the frets. “Do you perform?” Wilbur asks. It feels like a trap. He can’t know. He can’t know that Tommy is Theseus, can he? Tommy certainly doesn’t hide his face, but it’s possible. He really hopes Wilbur isn’t trying to lead him on.

The wind bites at his skin once more. It’s a gentle breeze, a grounding breeze. Clouds roll over the sun, and away again. He chews the inside of his lip till there’s the bitter taste of copper coating his tongue. He tries to get himself to stop, but it’s the only way he can deal with the buzzing anxiety without getting yelled at for fidgeting.

“Sometimes. I have one in a few weeks actually.”

“Fascinating. I always wanted to go to Mozart. Dad didn’t let me though, he has a friend who did. Think that’s why he sent me to public. Messed with the guy's mind a bit. Says it was too competitive.” Tommy thinks of the board in the cafeteria, the one with everyone's scores plastered for the whole school to see.

He thinks about how the people at the bottom get bullied and made fun of, how they were locked in lockers and forgotten about by everyone but the janitors. The teachers didn’t care. They encouraged the behavior. Only the best of the best, and if you’re the worst of the best? Tough luck.

Tommy didn’t bother though. He keeps to himself for the most part, much to his mentors dismay. Dream’s always been big about starting connections now. But Tommy already knows all the big producers, he’s met major corporations CEO’s. He didn’t need connections. He didn’t have time for friends.

“It’s brutal.” Maybe Wilbur hears the hestiance in Tommy’s voice, maybe he already sees behind the mask. Maybe Tommy is okay with that.

“Tell me about what it’s like there. Tell me what I missed out on when I was growing up. See while I was trying to avoid kids snorting smarties in the bathroom during lunch, what were the rich kids doing?”

So Tommy talks. Tommy talks and he finds he doesn’t hate it. He’s quiet at school, he’s quiet in class. He’s invisible except during interviews and on T.V. But even then he finds the sound of his voice annoying. He finds it grates against his ear, like a dissonant harmony. He’s never told anyone stories about school, because no one wants to hear them.

His parents don’t care about what goes on at school, as long as he remains at the top of the leaderboard, that’s all that matters to them. The second he falls is the only time he gets a peep out of them. The reporters don’t want to hear about how he’s like every other kid. They don’t care that he goes to school and manages to balance extracurriculars, homework, and being a child prodigy. They’re more interested about how brunch with that one band went.

Wilbur looks like he cares. He hangs onto every word. He nods along and interjects with his own stories when he can. There’s an understanding between them, Wilbur doesn’t try to press for information about Tommy’s music career, and Tommy doesn’t tell him. It’s a nice reprieve, to be a kid that talks about everything.

Of course when Tommy gets to the part about the rankings, Wilbur rolls his eyes.

“That sounds shit, man. Sounds real rough.”

The pressure that comes from staying at the top, it’s suffocating. It’s suffocating, it has its hands around Tommy’s neck, slowly bleeding the life from his soul. “Yeah. Yeah it is.” Tommy doesn’t elaborate. It’s not something he wants to elaborate about.

Of all things, Wilbur pushes on this one. “Where are you in these leaderboards? Hm? Bet you’re at the very bottom.”

“Oh piss off. I’d be disowned if that ever happened,” Tommy tries to keep his words light. There’s a heaviness in them. A secret truth whispered, hidden behind jokes. It isn’t a joke, because they’ve almost done it before. He had let himself go, he had fallen behind on classwork, fallen down the ranks. He had never been so scared before.

There’s something flickering in Wilbur’s words, in the notes that he plays. He’s an open book, the melody the words on a poet's paper. “You never answered my question.”

Tommy rolls his eyes. He knows he’s deflecting. That’s the point. The records are public, and if he says that he’s in first place then Wilbur could know. He could know…. “The fuck? Why do you want to know? Stalker bitch.”

Wilbur laughs. He laughs. “Touche, Tommy.”

Wilbur becomes a part of Tommy’s routine. Every Saturday they meet up. Sometimes Wilbur will buy him a coffee, complaining about how much caffeine Tommy drinks and how it can’t be healthy. It’s not. But nothing about Tommy’s life as a child star is happy. He shrugs it off as on that particular Saturday, they were going down to the park.

The park is mostly abandoned. Overgrown trees and bushes take up most of the pathways. The gazebos are swamped and covered in lichen and moss. The playground set is decaying and broken. The place stank of wood rot. Still, it’s a comforting place. He can’t exactly remember the last time he was allowed a normal childhood memory, but one of them is him swinging on the now broken swing set.

“You’re very into theory aren’t you?” Wilbur asks, taking a sip of his own coffee order. “Whenever I start to play something ‘wrong’ you start to freeze up.”

“Do I?” He tries to play it off like he never noticed. He knows. He knows that the way that Wilbur can be so free in his music is tempting and exhilarating. At the same time it makes him sick, anxiety prickling at the back of his neck.

“No wonder my Dad didn’t let go to that stupid school of yours. Instruments were made to have fun! You’re a kid, you know what it’s like to have fun.”

Tommy stares at a small puddle in the cement. “I haven’t had fun in a long time.” He hasn’t been a kid in a long time.

There’s a mischievous look on Wilbur’s face. With a single swift movement, Tommy is tumbling forward. He lands in the muddy puddle, pants soaking through. His hands scrape against the cement, bits of blood beaded on the scratches. “Wilbur you bastard!”

“Oh c’mon. You gotta have fun with music. If you can’t have fun in the world you can’t have fun sitting at that piano.”

Tommy gets up, shaking the wet from his hands. He tries to wipe them on his jacket, but that doesn’t stop the rest of him from feeling the damp that creeps onto his skin. “Music isn’t fun.” Tommy snaps, because why can’t Wilbur see that? Why does the man insist on trying to make everything into something grand? “It’s our job as musicians to deliver on exactly what the composer wrote. We are bringing their vision to light, and if we don’t then we’re worthless.”

Wilbur takes a step back, Tommy tries to hide the horror in his own face. He did not mean to say that out loud. The words aren’t even his own. They are the words of his parents and his teachers and his tutors. They’re what Tommy grew up to learn, and yet… yet they aren’t his words.

Then Wilbur starts laughing. Not a chuckle or a giggle, a whole belly laugh. He laughs and laughs. Tommy can’t help but furrow his brows. When Wilbur finishes he sounds incredulous. “And what’s fucking… Tchaikovsky going to do? I bet he’s just rolling in his grave. God you’re so much like Dad’s friend.”

Tommy tries to ignore the way that heat rises to his cheeks. When he puts it like that it sounds stupid. But it has to be right, what Tommy said has to be right because it’s the only thing he knows. “Yeah. I bet your dad's friend would agree with me.”

Wilbur extended a hand. “Yeah? I think he’d agree with me. I mean sometimes you gotta live life in Vivace.”

Tommy decides not to tell Wilbur it’s near impossible to live life in a tempo. “What are you suggesting?”

“I did push you in a puddle. Come over to my place, meet my dad's friend. Let me make up for soaking you.”

Tommy has a few choices. With a smile he doesn’t even consider them, taking Wilbur’s hand. He accepts the invitation before his parents’ voices can float into his head and echo in his thoughts. He accepts it before he can think twice. It’s a nice sort of impulsivity, one he hasn’t indulged in for a while.

This, he thinks, is what it feels like to be a kid.

_____________

Tommy doesn’t speak. He doesn't dare say a noise, clutching onto Wilburs coat like a lifeline. He swears to whatever gods that be that he would never be impulsive again. He stands in the Craft foyer, dripping and drenched. It’s a bit smaller than his own house, the mansion, but not by much. It’s not the crystalline chandelier, or the heated warmth of the floors that has him vibrating.

His eyes are wide as they make eye contact. And Jesus, he’d recognize those eyes anywhere. A deep blood red accompanies a neat pink braid. The only difference is the fact that he’s wearing a sweatshirt that reads ‘Worlds Okayest Violinist’ in bold white lettering. He wears a black sweatshirt and fuzzy bunny slippers. But it’s still unmistakable.

“That’s Techno Blade,” Tommy whispers. He’s trembling, shaking. He looks a mess and he hates it. Shit shit shit. Techno Blade stares at him, holding a cup of coffee in his hands. He has on square framed glasses which he doesn’t have on any of Tommy’s posters but little details are nothing.

Wilbur tilts his head. “Yeah?”

“Wilbur, you fucking–” He cuts himself off, brain floating. He must look so stupid, in a blue sweater cardigan that’s brown from the muddy puddle. His hair flops over his face. For all his attempts to ignore his parents’ teachings, he really wishes he was more put together like they stressed. “That’s Techno Blade. Techno Blade.”

“Mhm. That’s my Dad’s friend, the one I told you about,” Wilbur nods his head as if it makes sense. Tommy ignores how patronizing it sounds. Because that’s his idol, his hero. He has posters of the guy in his room. He was a child genius like Tommy is. He retired a few years back, but Tommy still relistens to the guys renditions of songs. The technique is brilliant. The way he moves the bow. It’s awe inspiring.

Techno Blade doesn’t remove his eyes from Tommy. He squirms a little in his skin. He’s being sized up. He knows it. Techno Blade takes a long sip of his coffee. “Why have you dragged Theseus here?”

If it’s possibly for Tommy’s eyes to get any wider, they do. He gasps for air. Because Techno Blade just said his name. The Techno Blade said his name. Techno Blade knows who he is. He doesn’t even care if Wilbur’s face contorts in confusion. Tommy starts bouncing, literally bouncing from the euphoric feeling in his chest.

“Wilbur! Wilbur, he said my name. Techno Blade knows my name.” Tommy didn’t care about how much he hated the name Theseus, because his idol knows his name. His idol knew about him. He was feeling woefully underdressed for it all. His idol. Right in front of him.

“I thought your name was Tommy? Did you lie to me, gremlin child?”

Tommy calms himself with a few deep breaths, he had the grace to look a little sheepish about it. “Not technically. I do go by Tommy, it’s just not my given name.”

With another sip of coffee, Techno Blade speaks up. “Like father, like son. I can’t believe this.” Techno Blade places his coffee down on a side table. “You’re a fan?” Tommy nods, so much enthusiasm it’s almost like he’ll nod it right off his head. Techno Blade lets a long sigh. “Great,” sarcasm drips in his voice as he walks further into the house.

Wilbur follows after him, Tommy still clinging to his jacket. “Does he hate me?”

“No, he’s just a bit… Techno.” Wilbur smiles as Tommy’s eyes shine with wonder. “So, you’re the wonder boy Theseus?”

The words get stuck in his throat. He really liked Wilbur not knowing. He liked being a nobody for a few hours every Saturday. He liked waking up with something to look forward to. He could ignore the lack of feeling in his finger if it meant being just another kid. Instead of speaking, Tommy nods his head.

“Number one on the Mozart board?” Tommy nods again. He can’t find the words to say. He has so many thoughts, so many things he wants to say. The words die before they reach his tongue, they die before they can leave. “You were holding out on me! I knew you knew your stuff, but c’mon.”

“I’m… sorry?” Tommy says. Wilbur shakes his head, leading him into the rest of the house.

They lend him their shower, and let him borrow some of Wilbur’s clothes. He ends up having to roll up the bottom of the pants, they’re just a little too long. Wilbur is a tall fuck, and Tommy hates that. He wears one of Wilburs soft yellow sweaters. And goddamnit, it’s legitimately very soft. His eyes flutter close for a second, he was comfortable enough to fall asleep.

He doesn’t get the chance too. Wilbur has a playful, mischievous smile. A sort of teasing evil glint dances in his eyes. Tommy doesn’t think much of it until he’s full across polished wood floors into a room decked with instruments.

Techno Blade sits by the window, staring at the overcast skies. A violin case sits next to him. Wilbur claps his hands together, smiling like the idiot he is. The thing that catches Tommy’s eye is the grand piano. He walks over to his, fingers tracing over the fall board. It’s a thing of beauty.

“Play a duet for me.”

Techno Blade sighs, as if this is a normal thing for the two to do. Tommy sit’s down at the stool, adjusting it under him like it's a habit for him to do. He doesn’t even realize he’s going through the paces, brain under a bit of fog.

“I’m going to be honest,” Tommy whispers. He whispers it, only a bit louder than words and yet the two of them hang onto every word. “I don’t even like playing.” His breath hitches, his hands shake. He can feel Techno Blade’s eyes bare into him. His voice breaks, and shakes, it’s so much weaker than he wants it to be,

Wilbur shakes his head. He doesn't believe Tommy, and maybe Tommy doesn’t believe it himself. “You can’t be serious. You’ve never liked playing? Never once has your heart skipped a beat at the crescendo, never once as it tugged on your heart and made you weep. There’s not a single song that has made you so happy that you’ve rushed through?”

“No.” An admission. He’s a fraud. There is nothing special about the way his fingers tremble above the keys. There’s nothing special about how he plays the notes, how he plays each chord and each scale. He’s not some wonder boy. He’s just a kid who liked the tiny clink of the notes as they vibrated through the air.

Techno’s standing up, he’s rolling his shoulders– bow in hand. The next thing that comes out of his idol’s mouth is something so simple yet so extreme. “Wilbur. I hate you. Theseus, G three.”

Tommy doesn’t need more instruction. Habit kicking in. He plays the note. It rings and echoes in the air. It’s somehow bitter, and empty. It’s cold and distant, and it somehow doesn’t hang in the air. Techno play’s his violin, open note. They continue this until Techno’s tuned. Tommy somehow doesn’t doubt that Techno could have done that without his help.

Wilbur sits down. Techo fiddles with the strings a little, resining his bow again. “Do you know Fur Elise?” Techno asks.

“Do I know Fur Elise? Of course I know fucking Fur Elise. I’m the most decorated teen of the time. I play Stravinsky for my warm ups.” Tommy snaps, hands not even touching the keys, only hovering while he waits for Techno’s signal.

“Egotistical child,” and with that Techno starts. The down bow reverberated. He picks up the tempo. Tommy, despite being an expert in what he does, struggles. He struggles to keep up, to follow the notes and Techno’s pace.

The whole time he’s chasing after the retired musician. The whole time he doesn’t have time to think about his posture or his fingers. He has to make a conscious effort not to slip, he skips some notes, rests don’t hang as they should. He holds his breath, only gasping for air for his lungs after they end.

The notes don’t swim in his vision, there’s no deafening silence. Tommy can’t take the time to listen to the notes as they hang in the air. The sheet music disappears from his mind. All he focuses on is Techno’s eyes, his hands, his bow strokes. He matches, challenges. There’s an unspoken defiance in how Tommy tries to fight for control of the melody and tempo. He finds himself playing the harmony, anything that keeps Techno’s eyes on him.

Wilbur claps along.

Tommy never thought something as simple as Fur Elise could be so intense.

He collapses his head against the piano keys, ringing out in disjointed dissonance. He gasps and begs for air to satiate his lungs. There’s feeling in his fingers, feeling in his brain. There’s a buzzing under his skin that won’t leave him. It’s not an unpleasant feeling, it’s… it’s kinda nice. Refreshing. Invigorating.

“The hell was that?” Sweat dripped down his brow, catching on the white, unused keys. Because Tommy can tell, he can tell that the piano was rarely, if ever used.

Techno smiles, placing his violin down. He cracks his knuckles, looking more like a brawler than a professional violinist. “That, dear Theseus. Is playing life in Vivace.”

The smile is infectious. Wilbur’s rabid applause doesn’t make him nauseous or anxious. The giddy feeling in the air infects him. A smile tugs on his lips, he’s tired and exhausted but he wants to go again. He wants to play like that again. He wants to feel how he did in that moment. He wants to play like that all the time.

_______________

Maybe it’s not a good thing. But Tommy starts hanging out with Wilbur and Techno more. And isn’t that something. He’s routinely hanging out with the man he looked up to. It’s hard to see Techno as anything other than a normal guy. They have so much in common it’s comedical. Sometimes Tommy catches Techno’s hands trembling when he grabs his bow.

When Tommy goes over to the Craft manor he has fun. Genuine, unadulterated fun. It’s all smiles and giddy laughter. Sometimes Tommy plays with Techno, sometimes he plays alongside Wilbur and his guitar skills. Sometimes Tommy plays a little diddy all by himself. It’s not always music when Tommy goes over. Sometimes they watch movies, sometimes they hang out at the park.

Saturdays become one of the only things Tommy can look forward to. It’s the only reason he can drag himself out of bed in the morning, it’s the only thing that keeps him going through stuffy tutoring sessions. It keeps him from losing his mind as he plays scale after scale. Repetitive motion. His fingers ache and burn and they’re on fire by the time he goes to school, but he’s happy.

Tommy is happy.

Techno smiles at him when Tommy bursts through the door, he has his own key. Techno doesn’t hesitate to ruffle the kid’s hair. Tommy beams, chest light and airy. None of his problems existed at the Craft manor. That’s until Wilbur walks into the living room holding two tickets.

“Fucking… Ravel’s Scarbo? You’re in concert season and you didn’t tell us?” Wilbur flops down next to Tommy on the sofa. Techno flips through the channels, trying to unsuccessfully hide the smile that tugs on his lips. “Our little prodigy, not even telling his mentors that he’s performing.”

“Wilbur…” the warning in Techno’s voice is evident. They’ve had that talk before, the way the word prodigy makes his stomach twist and churn isn’t fun. So they’ve made sure to try to cut it out entirely.

“Right, right, sorry bout that Tommy,” Wilbur rolls dramatically, pressing into Tommy’s side.

“Get off me, prick.” Tommy huffs as he attempts to push Wilbur off of him. It doesn’t work. Tommy accepts his fate. “Besides, Dreams my Mozart mentor. He’s the one I gave the free ticket to. Cause it’s expected of me.”

Techno erupts into full belly laughter. “Dream? Dream is your mentor. I cannot wait to see his face when you run to us after your concert tomorrow. You know we went to school together. He only got top seat because I dropped out.”

“Really???? He knew you???? And? He? Never? Told me????” It’s been no secret that Tommy is a big fan of Techno. Even when the guy was just a figure on a stage, he meant so much to tiny Tommy’s mind. Back when he was still figuring out that he wasn’t just Theseus, the mask he wore around everywhere. Dream should have told him.

“Of course he did. I was top seat. We were something akin to rivals. Me and him, always a competition between us. And that's the stupid part. We were both good. It shouldn’t have been a competition between us. ” Techno starts to go on a tangent about how much he hates Mozart. It’s not a new one, Wilbur and Tommy readjust their positions. Tommy ends up snuggling against Wilburs side.

They listen to Techno rant about how stupid Mozart is, how their system is flawed and how it only promotes burnout in young artists. Tommy yawns, the white noise from the tv and crackling fireplace lulls him to sleep. He’s too tired to care, he’s too comfortable to care. He’s happy, he’s happy and at peace.

____________________

It starts with a whisper. Soft velvet curtains rise. Blinding brilliant eyes. Waiting, expecting gazes as the audience waits with bated breaths. Tommy doesn’t fear. He lets the sea of blank, voided faces watch him. He is a performer, this is his stage, this is his song.

He runs through his paces, the quiet in the concert hall is palpable. Adjusting his seat, pressing the pedals, fingers dance with fear over the pristine white keys. He takes a deep breath. There is no sheet music, the song is muscle memory. That doesn’t stop the timid way he hits the first key.

Sadness. That’s how the song starts, a reverberating tone hanging in the air. That’s how his story starts. It starts with an emptiness, a hollowness. There’s just him and the notes that dance on the edge of his vision. It’s just him and the piece. Just him and the tempo, the notes. The key floats in his air, the time signature is the only thing in the air.

His thoughts flood. An ocean drowning out and shredding the sheet music. Sadness fills the song. Worry, and grief. There's mourning in the way the notes wobble and warp in the air. He hits the keys with vigor. The sound wraps around and fills his ears. Somewhere in the audience his parents are watching his posture. Somewhere in the audience Dream is judging every second the notes last longer than a beat. Somewhere in the audience, Techno and Wilbur are beaming.

Tommy tells a story with the piece. He lets the sadness become all encompassing. He lets the tired overtake every part of every note. He lets everyone see him. See his hurt, his perfectionism. He lets them hear the way he thought the only way he could ever be good enough was for his fingers to bleed. He lets them hear the deafening, overwhelming expectations. He lets them feel the weight that has been placed on his shoulders.

He is a child. He is a child and he shows that as he fiddles with the keys. The anxiety, the rushing buzzing feeling of never being good enough swallows him whole until he is no longer in the concert hall. He is alone in his mind as he trills at the keys, as the tempo increases. There is no subtlety in the way he plays.

The rush, the adrenaline. It courses through his veins, it overtakes his thoughts, it overwhelms his system. At the moment he is not Theseus; pianist prodigy. He is Tommy, the scared child trying to please his parents. He lets that seep into his playing, into his posture and form. He lets the notes dance around him, in the air. He sees each beat as clear as he could.

There’s no stopping. No pause, no qualm. He picks up the pace, the tempo ebbing and flowing with what he wants. Tommy is the maestro, the commander of a single person symphony. He tells the story of a kid walking to a small coffee shop since he feels alone in his house. He feels alone, he is alone. He doesn’t have time for others and it shows in the quiet pianissimo of the piece.

He tells the story of a kid who becomes at home with a retired burnout, and a ragtag street performer. Tommy tells the story of swirling thoughts. Of uncertainty and disbelief. It’s a story of questioning, of learning. A dramatic retelling of losing hope, and the rekindling of a love he thought he had lost a long time ago. He strikes the keys.

More importantly he tells the story of a small child, one who died a long time ago. He tells the story of a kid who had dreams. A story of a kid who wanted the world, and he worked to have it delivered at his feet. When he got to the top he didn’t know what to do with himself. He loved his work, the kid did. He poured himself into it. More and more, perfection was his standard. It ate at him, his mind and his health. It ate at his love for the craft he had thrown himself into.

Tommy holds the last note. It rings out. Sweat drips down his brow, he’s panting and out of breath. His hair falls over his face, a brilliant smile plastered on Theseus’ face. It’s a real grin, one that reaches his eyes, one that the public has not seen on the musician's face in years. There is silence, there is silence as the last note hangs heavy in the air. He stands up. The audience holds their breath.

Tommy bows.

The crowd erupts in raucous applause. He still pants for breath. His cheeks hurt from smiling. His fingers burn. There’s a buzzing under his skin. He’s tired. It’s a good tired. It’s a tired that proves he tried. It’s a tired that proves he’s still alive. He’s still living in his music.

He hears Wilbur and Techno yelling from the crowd. He feels tears of joy welling up in his eyes. There’s a lump in his throat. He had fun. He liked playing. He hasn’t felt this way in way too long and it feels nice

It’s a new era of Theseus.

Sometimes, maybe Wilbur is right, sometimes you have to live life in vivace.