Chapter Text
It starts with a guitar.
It’s this huge acoustic thing up in the attic, probably older than him, with dust on the strings and cracks lining up the spruce body. The finish is chipping off like lacquer off a coffee table, and it’s definitely out of tune. He runs his hands down the neck, feeling the ridges of the frets along the fingerboard.
It feels easy.
Malleable.
He could definitely get comfortable playing guitar.
He lugs the thing down the attic stairs, and (with permission from his Dad), it’s his.
He can ‘do what he wants’ with it.
And all he wants to do is play.
Guitar was always something that interested Dee, especially when he was younger. He couldn't get enough of it. He’d rush through his homework for the chance to get on the computer for just an hour and see somebody play. Now, he can’t get away from it.
His dad’s fame as a lead guitarist in his uncle’s band followed him around like a ghost for as long as he was aware of it. Their videos are plastered all over Youtube and he can’t hit up any record shop (apart from his uncle’s) in town without seeing their faces all over rows of albums. And even after they stopped touring, his father still ran an extremely successful business teaching up-and-coming musicians how to play like he does.
He’s the kind of guitar player that could start a fire from his fingerwork.
Dee knows he’ll never be like his dad.
He doesn’t even want to try.
He takes the guitar upstairs to his room and sits at the edge of his bed, setting up his laptop on his desk. He’s spent enough time learning the theory; he’s read all the books, learned the care. He could build a Yamaha from scratch with his eyes closed with how he’s read himself into circles. If he wasn’t confident in the theory, he wouldn’t have gone looking for the damn thing in the first place.
All he had to do was play it.
He pulls the guitar over his thighs and tries to nestle into the weight of it with his arms.
It’s kind of big and clunky. Uncomfortable, almost.
He opens Youtube and minimizes another tab. Just the idea of closing out the tab sends rolls of anxiety through his stomach in a way that makes him sick. He tries to ignore it and pulls up his playlists in his library. He has a full list of instructional guitar videos he’s saved over the week that are the least likely to annoy him.
He’s always found instructional videos condescending, boring. They’re bearable when needed, but he’s hardly ever needed them. He’s ‘adept’ to his dad and a ‘fast learner’ to his mom, the kind of kid that teachers thought would go far at a young age, be something.
Since high school, he’s dwindled. He’s fallen under the radar, blended in with his graduating class just to quiet the screaming loud differences he could see between himself and everyone else around him in the world. Dad has never said anything about it, but he can feel the disappointment.
He grips the neck and pulls the guitar tighter to his chest, feeling the pressure.
He presses play.
And four hours later, he’s worse off than where he started.
Fender says that ninety percent of guitar players abandon playing within the year they pick it up. The thing that irritates Dee the most is that guitar isn’t practical; it’s nothing like an equation or a language. It’s an abstract and man made instrument that relies on skill and physical dexterity to sound ‘good’.
He has to admit to himself that he’s struggling to play.
It makes him restless, stressed out. He can’t get past the notes, make any of it sound clean. He knows where to put his hands, what sounds to play, but his grip is awkward and he doesn’t know where he’s going wrong. There’s blood caked under his chipped nails and an unfamiliar ache in his hands from the angle he’s holding it.
He looks through the recommended videos after he’s done with his playlist, angry at the world.
“Dude, what’s with the strumming?”
Fuck.
He glances up at his little brother just quick enough to see his eyes start to widen, watch that loud excitement start to kick in. “Where did you even get that?” Heavy grins, staring at the guitar in his hands.
Dee gets annoyed at specific things really easily, especially being watched or interrupted, so he holds what he has over Heavy’s head. “You came in without knocking! We had an agreement. Tomorrow, I get music rights.” he reminds him.
“Damn, the dreaded knockT” he groans, glaring at the door like it personally pissed him off. “Now I gotta listen to your trashy pop music again.”
Heavy hates when Dee gets to play music in the car on Saturdays when they have ‘mandatory family night’. He likes a lot of nu metal and nineties rock bands compared to his brother’s classic early eighties thrash taste. His music isn’t ‘heavy’ enough for Heavy.
“Pop yourself.” He rolls his eyes, falling back onto his bed. Like he would ever give up System to listen to Sabbath. Heavy can’t go through a single car ride on aux without talking about how Slayer ‘changed the genre as a whole’ and ‘defined thrash’.
God, his back hurts.
Heavy stares at him for a second before pointing at the guitar. “Uh, could I give that a try?”
“Go for it, I need a laugh.”
And fuck, he feels awful when all Heavy does is chuckle awkwardly and sit facing away from him with the guitar. He immediately starts to nitpick it, he can’t ever help himself. He feels guilt for every word he says, but he can’t stop himself from saying it. There’s this dark overwhelming hatred in his heart, this need to ruin everything, and he feels disgusting when it branches out from himself to anyone else.
Especially Heavy.
“You’re not sitting right. And your fingers aren’t long enough to play on a guitar like that.”
Heavy just laughs, adjusting his position on the fingerboard. “Jesus Christ, these strings are so taut ,” he complains, testing the give of them.
“That’s nothing,” Dee grins, crossing his arms behind his head. “Just wait until you start bleeding and whining after.” And there it is again, that condescending hate that he has. He bled, but does he have to be a dick to his little brother because of it? He always wants to apologize, but he never does.
“Um, I watched a video where the guy held the strings sorta like… this?” Heavy adjusts his fingers at the frets, taking in his older brother’s advice. Press the strings extremely hard. “And. . . with the other hand, he did something that sounded like. . .” and he trails off with a little noise.
“As if you could learn such a rhythm–” Dee starts, sitting up. Heavy can’t just see somebody play and get the notes perfect. But then his words die in his chest because that’s exactly what he does. He plays ‘Scream’, just a few notes. Heavy plays a short tune before wincing and pulling away.
“Man, does this kill my fingers!” He shakes his hands off and puts the guitar back on Dee’s bed. “I’ve had enough of your guitar. If I keep this up, I won’t be able to hold my mouse right.”
Dee groans as he closes the door behind him.
He didn’t want it to come to this.