Archive of Our Own ^beta

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Your name is Dave Strider and you have no fucking idea what you’re doing with a baby grand in your apartment.

You never really considered yourself a classical kind of guy, and you’re sure as hell the kid isn’t interested in learning. He’s too wrapped up in his robots and wires to even talk to you sometimes. You guess he’s always been that way. It fits, somehow.

But anyways.

There’s a baby grand piano in your apartment that neither of you know how to play-or play well, at least. You’ve messed around on keyboards and mixers when you were little-convinced that you’d be some kind of mad rad DJ and not…whatever you are. Some big shot movie guy, you guess. It doesn’t feel right though. It never really has.

Sometimes, you’ll sit at the little black bench, fingers poised over black and white keys, and you’ll feel it, some kind of melody itching at your fingertips- it sounds familiar, nostalgic. But you can’t find the right notes, or where to put your fucking fingers, even.

And you just sit there, itching for it and never finding it. You stare at the keys, trying to unlock what you’re hearing in your head and having it translate through your body, but it never comes and you just sit there. It plays over and over in your head, and you can’t get it out.

You don’t want to.

Sometimes the kid will stare at you when you’re like this. He’s a fucking little ninja, scurrying around the place like he’s got everywhere to be at once. But once in a while, he’ll just stop, and look at you. Like he’s got something to say, but he’s never gonna say it. And he stares at you through those pointed shades that make you feel intimidated, but they shouldn’t because that’s your lil’ bro, and you’re the one that’s in charge, not him.

But then he places a hand on your shoulder and eases you off the bench, like he knows something, and you can’t stand not knowing.

The kid’s got friends, which you would almost be surprised at, what with his weird habits and interests. (It’s a goddamn miracle whenever you can take a hot shower, Jegus.) He shows you pictures sometimes, when you’re bothered to ask. And god, do these kids look familiar.

There’s two in particular- the Crocker girl and that island kid- There’s faces there that you remember but you have no idea how or why, you just feel right when you look at them.

You feel safe somehow. Like there’s someone who’s got your back, someone you’d be willing to break an entire universe for, die a million times just to see them again.

You think that’s a weird kind of feeling to have for some kids you don’t really know, so you quietly ignore it when it rises.

It’s night now. The kid just sent some kind of…thing to Island Kid, and it makes your heart hurt thinking about it. Which is stupid, they’re his friends, not yours, and you’re just a creepy old man who makes shitty movies to them.

You look out the open window, out into the sky, into space, trying to find something familiar, trying to see past the light of the stars and the moon and whatever fucking suns might be out there, whatever planets floating around. You try to break them right down the middle with your eyes, trying to find the “Once Upon a Time” that you fit into, but you can’t seem to find it anywhere.

There’s a breeze out tonight, which you never would’ve noticed had the night not have been so still. It almost scares you, fingers twitching over where they hovered over black and white keys.

The wind blows against your fingertips. It presses down against your knuckles, nudges them into place, and you’re compelled to press down. The empty room fills with the sound of the solitary note, and you let it hang in the air, almost unwilling to stop.

Your fingers drop one by one, in a pattern you don’t think you should recognize, but do, and it feels like your heart is being pried out with something sharp.

The melody forms around your fingers, and all you can do is cry from the heartbreak.

But you still don’t know who you’re crying for.

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You worry about him a lot.

You wouldn’t call the relationship you have with your brother “close” or “loving” but…

Sometimes you just can’t help but take care of him.

He’ll just sit at that dumb piano for hours, looking out the window like he’s been chewed up and spat out, like he’s just lost everything all at once. And you can’t help but reach out towards him.

He just looks so small.

And lost.

When he comes home from a big award show (you’ll never tell him that you stay up to see him appear on the screen), or from some fancy party, and he passes out on the futon, still in his tuxedo, you’re always the one there to make sure he’s got a blanket and a glass of water to drink in the morning. You’re the one who’ll take those old shades off his face and set them on the coffee table. You’re the one that heats up the hot pockets for breakfast. You don’t really mind though.

And yeah, it gets frustrating sometimes. He’s years older than you are but he still acts like a little kid, all clingy and irresponsible. Sometimes you wish he’d remember who the adult in this relationship is, let you be the 15 year old you actually are. But then you see how ragged he is, fingers clumsily plonking their way across that keyboard, and you suddenly forgive him for it all and you just want to wrap him up in your arms and tell him it’ll all be okay. Like you’re his goddamn mother or something.

(You think that’s what mothers are supposed to do. You’re not really sure. You’ve never had one.)

One night, something wakes you up. It’s soft. It’s fluid. It’s foreign to your ears, so used to thumping beats and clanging metal. It’s all kinds of sad and solemn, and you’re not sure if you remember it or not, but it sounds like something you might’ve overheard once. That’s enough to get you out of bed, at least.

And there’s your bro, playing the piano like he’s known his entire life. His hands are shaking, but his playing is solid as stone, moving from once phrase to the next like he’s the star, it’s him. But something’s off.

It’s only when he stops, that you realize his shades are off and he’s been crying the entire time.

Normally, you’d be there in a flash, his shoulder in your hand and you’d lead him to his bed, maybe tuck him in too, for irony’s sake. But something’s telling you to let him go through this one alone.

So you silently pad back into your room, hoping the big ol’ kid he is will feel better in the morning.