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In George’s experience, almost everything comes with a story, especially when it has to do with his friends. It’s why his desk is covered in little artifacts— or “clutter” as Quackity insists on calling it. It’s a collection of things that remind him of his best friends.
There’s a little quartz elephant that reminds him of $5000 and three careers launched at once, gripping Dream’s hand tightly as the three of them plunge into the unknown. A panda pin leans against a plastic-covered Pokémon card and he thinks of rap music in a Discord call, of someone who’s changed entirely since they met but is, in a lot of ways, largely the same. There’s a rock that reminds him of filming vlogs in the country that he left behind, of cloudy skies and uncontrollable laughter. Everything has a story, from old movie stubs to his collection of Mr. Beast cups, which is why George probably keeps a bit more than he should.
When he moves to Orlando, he finds that his new home is filled with the same kinds of artifacts. There’s a chipped mug that Sapnap brought home the time that he brought Dream’s sister to Universal and a magnet on the fridge that Dream got from a family trip to New York when he was 14. A painting hangs a little too low on the wall because it’s covering a hole Sapnap accidentally put in it three weeks ago and there are three separate OU pennants hanging around their living room. Every item in the house bleeds Dream and Sapnap and it makes George feel an almost overwhelming sense of home. This is where he’s meant to be, surrounded by the two people he plans on spending the rest of his life with.
There is one item in particular, pushed neatly upright against a corner in Sapnap’s office, that intrigues George every time he catches a glimpse of it: a hard black violin case that he’s never seen opened. A folded-up music stand and a foam-lined shoulder rest sit on the ground next to it. George knows that Sapnap has a few books and a folder full of sheet music on his bookshelf, sitting mostly untouched next to countless books of manga.
He’s only heard him play a handful of times, during sporadic late-night sessions when Sapnap randomly remembers the instrument in his room and, behind a closed door, quietly plays beautiful melodies.
George’s fascination grows more and more each day. If everything in this house tells at least one story, that violin tells a million. He remembers long hours spent listening to Sapnap rant about his orchestra in TeamSpeak back when they were both much younger. He recalls mentions of concerts and pictures of him smiling brightly donned in black formalwear.
Sapnap has only ever played for him once, in a voice call about five years ago. George hadn’t realized how special it was then. Because Sapnap was his friend then but he was also this annoying kid. It never occurred to him that it could possibly be different a few years later when they were both far more mature.
Music means everything to Sapnap. It’s something that he realizes now that he’s so fixated on him. He belts out rap songs in the shower and hums hyperpop under his breath while he’s flipping eggs in a frying pan on Sunday mornings. Maybe it’s something that other people think is lame but George finds this intense beauty in it. Then again, he finds that in most things that Sapnap does these days.
That’s probably why he feels so drawn to the violin. If he holds the violin in his hands, cradles the expensive wood gently in his soft palms, he thinks that he might better understand what it means to him. He wants to press the fine horse hair of the bow to metal strings and carefully draw out notes so that he can get lost in the music that has morphed Sapnap into the man that he is. This violin, in George’s mind, is Sapnap. To touch it would be to feel unshakably close to the very person that he hasn’t been able to purge from his mind since he visited him in London back in March.
George leans his chin on his palm as he stares at it from across the room. He’s sitting next to Sapnap at his desk while he edits a video that they recorded a few days ago. George is supposed to be editing a video of his own but he’d much rather watch Sapnap do this than do his own work. Fans are getting content either way, so what does it matter?
“What’re you looking at?” Sapnap mumbles under his breath, tearing George’s attention back toward him. His voice is a bit gravelly, riddled with sleepiness, and his green eyes are a little red because he’s been staring at a screen for so long.
He shrugs, trying to keep up an air of nonchalance. If he pretends it isn’t a big deal to him, then maybe Sapnap will be a little more likely to humor him. “Your violin. I suppose that I just realized I haven’t heard you play it.”
Carefully, he examines Sapnap’s expression, watching for a lift of his eyebrow or a slight curl of the lip. He watches as Sapnap chews on his lip lightly, looking toward the violin for a moment. He looks almost nervous.
“Do you actually want to hear me play?” he asks him.
George nods and glances back at the violin again. “It’s such a big part of you, isn’t it? It’s been a creative outlet for you since you were young. I bet you’d sound so awesome.”
He tries not to cringe at his own words. Part of him thinks that he’s coming off far too eager. But Sapnap hasn’t cared about that before, so why would he care now?
Sapnap frowns and twiddles with his thumbs for a moment before standing up. “Okay. But I’m a little rusty so don’t set your expectations too high. I’ve like barely played since high school.”
“It’ll sound amazing to me regardless,” he replies, hesitating for a moment before gripping Sapnap’s hand, much larger than his own despite their similar heights, and dragging him toward the violin.
He sits cross-legged on Sapnap’s soft rust-colored carpet as he watches Sapnap set up the metal music stand, slotting pieces together and turning screws until it's able to balance upright. He thumbs through his bookshelf for a moment and pulls out the folder, flipping through sheets of paper until he pulls out three of them that have been stuck together with Scotch tape and carefully places them on the stand so they don’t fall in either direction despite hanging off both edges. The paper is covered in messy scrawl, both in Sapnap’s handwriting and someone else’s, and there are probably nearly as many words scribbled in the margins as there are notes on the paper.
“This is my favorite song that I played in school,” Sapnap explains as he pops open the clips of his violin case. “It’ll just play the melody part for you since it’s like a full orchestral piece.”
George just nods. He’s too focused on Sapnap’s hands flipping the black case open to reply. He’s been waiting to see this violin for ages.
It’s beautiful. Lightly polished orange-brown maple makes up the frame of it, with sleek black wood curving around the front where the chin rest is and running down the fingerboard. The bow is made up of a different wood entirely, dark brown and threaded with loose yellowed-white hairs.
He takes out the violin first, slotting the shoulder rest into place before gently setting it on the ground next to him and moving for the bow. Sapnap holds the wood of the bow, careful not to touch any of the hairs, and twists the knob on the end of it until the hair is taut. He reaches into a small compartment in the case that’s hidden under the neck of the violin and pulls out a small wooden block filled with something amber and translucent, worn down with lines of white where something carved into its surface.
“This is rosin,” Sapnap explains as he pulls his bow along it, the hairs turning whiter with each stroke as the smallest puff of particles fall onto the soft red velour of the case’s interior. “Basically, it makes the bow hair sticky so that it can actually grip the strings.”
He finishes what he’s doing and places the rosin back in its spot, flipping the case closed and kicking it out of the way before climbing to his feet and gently setting the bow on the stand before pulling out his phone.
George watches as he thumbs over to an app he’s never seen before and plays a singular tone, placing the phone down on his desk before picking the bow back up again as he slots the violin under his chin. He drags the bow slowly along the third string from the left, stopping to adjust one of the pegs on the end until the note he plays is exactly the same.
When he sets the bow down again and reaches for his phone, he expects him to play the next note and do the same thing. Instead, Sapnap closes the app and locks his phone, returning to his stand. He plays the two middle strings at once, adjusting one of them until the tones ring together nicely even though the two notes are entirely different. He does the same with the lowest two strings and then the highest ones, making final adjustments with the thinnest string using a small screw closer to his chin. He recalls an old picture of Sapnap where he had a screw there for each string. It seems like a testament to his abilities that he doesn’t need them all anymore.
It’s kind of mind-boggling to see. George has a guitar and a ukulele, but those have clip-on tuners that do the hard work for him. Most of Sapnap’s tuning process seems to come from a finely trained ear, something he accomplished with years of training and experience.
“Uh, alright,” Sapnap says when he’s done, shifting his weight from side to side as he speaks in a shaky tone. “I guess I’ll just play now.”
With a deep breath, Sapnap adjusts the violin under his chin and straightens his posture, delicately placing the bow on the string near its tip. He whispers a few numbers under his breath, counting himself in before gently lifting his shoulders in one final breath and pushing his bow across the string in one long, crisp tone, wiggling his finger quickly where it touches the string to make the note vibrate just a little.
The song gets quicker, his fingers dancing up and down the fingerboard in a smooth yet precise way, always landing in the perfect spot even though there are no frets or tapes to tell him where they belong.
Briefly, George recalls a conversation from a late night on call a few years ago. Sapnap had finally gotten his tapes removed and he was proud. He said it was scary, having to know exactly where to put your fingers based on muscle memory alone, but he also knew it meant that he was good enough of a musician to rely on his instincts instead of safety rails.
As Sapnap plays, he sways with the music in a way that blends with the melody. He’s sharp when the notes cut clean and quick like little cracks of lighting and fluid when they slur together like ripples cresting in a lake.
George thinks it’s beautiful to watch him like this. He’s so engrossed in his own playing, lost in the music to the extent where he feels as if Sapnap’s forgotten that he’s playing for him entirely. Every note is an extension of him and each of them rings so true in George’s ears.
With every drag of the bow, George falls a little more in love with him even though he hadn’t thought that he could possibly love him more than he already does. It’s like Sapnap’s chest had been cracked wide open and he’s just finally catching a glimpse at his shining soul underneath, like a glittering purple amethyst that he wants nothing more than to reach out and gently drag his fingers along.
Eventually, Sapnap stops playing, breathing heavily and turning to meet George’s eyes. “How was that?”
He blinks for a moment, unsure of what to say. He’s at a loss for words. How could he slap a review on something so meaningful? “Amazing” wasn’t a big enough word for everything that it made him feel.
“I’ve never heard anything like that,” he says finally.
I don’t think that any other music could ever possibly mean as much as me as this moment does, he thinks to himself but doesn’t dare speak aloud.
Sapnap looks him over for a few seconds. “Do you want to try?”
George’s eyes go wide. There’s nothing that he wants more in the world than to cradle such an important piece of Sapnap’s life under his chin and press his fingers into metal strings that Sapnap has touched hundreds of times before. He doesn’t feel like he’s worthy of that, but he craves it nonetheless.
“Are you sure?” he asks, slowly climbing to his feet.
He nods, smiling softly. “I’ll teach you.”
George’s breath hitches as Sapnap places the violin under his shoulder, lightly pushing George’s head with his hand to get it into the perfect place.
“You have to pinch down a little to keep it in place, but not too much. It’s meant to rest here, not on your hand,” he whispers into the shell of his ear.
“Okay,” he breathes out.
Next, Sapnap hands him the bow and pushes his fingers into a weird position. It’s somewhat uncomfortable and the bow is kind of heavy, but Sapnap swears that it’s important to get it just right. It’s a lot easier to hold it when it’s balanced on the string.
Sapnap takes a step away and George’s heart falters at the loss of his warmth hovering over him as he walks around to the front so he can see George properly.
“The lowest string, on the right, is G,” he explains. “Then D, then A, then E. Try playing a D for me.”
George tries to drag the bow along the D string but it slips and the note comes out thin and hollow.
He shakes his head. “You have to dig it in there, but not too much. You need a little friction otherwise it’ll sound like shit.”
With a nod, George tries again, pushing down this time as he pulls the bow across the string. It comes out gritty, like he’s pushing a little too hard, and he winces.
But Sapnap’s lips curl up into a soft smile. “That’s great, George. Just like that. Now, the only other thing you’re gonna want to make sure you do is keep your arm in like a box shape so the bow doesn’t go sliding all over the fingerboard. Like this.”
Sapnap lifts his arm and puts it in a square-like shape before moving it back and forth. “You move from your shoulder and elbow instead of your wrist. Try again.”
Gritting his teeth as he concentrates, George pushes the bow across the string again. It still slides across the fingerboard a little but the tone is somewhat more steady.
“Here,” Sapnap says, coming up behind him.
His entire back presses against George, making his breath hitch, as Sapnap places his hand over George’s own. He pulls the bow across the string with him, their arms connected in a line, and a clearer tone rings out.
“Just like that,” he whispers into George’s ear.
George gives half a nod in response. He’s happy that Sapnap’s behind him now so that he can’t see the pink slowly blooming across his pale cheeks.
Sapnap puts his other hand behind George’s hand, lining up their fingers the best he can despite the size difference and pushing the first into the metal of the D string. It’s too soft to hurt, but George wishes it would bruise. What he would give to have bruises marring each of his fingers in the spots where Sapnap presses them into his violin, marks to prove that this happened when he lays awake in his bed tonight.
“This is an E,” Sapnap tells him, dragging the bow across the string again before adding another finger a step away. “And this is an F sharp.”
George barely breathes as they climb up the scale and back down again. He doesn’t think that he’s ever felt this close to somebody in his life. It’s like they’re connected, bound together by their pressed-together bodies and the music that they’re so tenderly drawing out of the violin.
When Sapnap steps back again, he clears his throat. ‘Yeah. That was awesome. Really good, George.”
“Really?” he breathes out in response. When he turns to face Sapnap, he sees that his cheeks are bright red too, eyes blown wide as he stares at George with something all-too-familiar knitted into his eyebrows.
“You’re a natural, dude,” he says weakly. Sapnap’s bright green eyes never once lift from George’s heavy gaze.
If George could blush any more, he does, pulling the violin down from his chin as he does so. “Thanks, Sapnap.”
“I-” Sapnap mumbles, looking from the violin in George’s hands to his face for a few moments. “Give me that real quick.”
His heart falls as he hands the violin back over to him. He doesn’t understand what he’s done wrong. He had figured that when Sapnap said that he’d teach him, he’d get to learn a song. If they’re stopping after a scale that took less than five minutes, he must have screwed something up.
Except, Sapnap doesn’t put the violin away. He just places it carefully on his desk and turns back to George, placing a big hand on each side of his head, thumbing gently at his cheeks as he steps close enough for George to feel his hot breath on the tip of his nose.
“Is this alright?”
George nods, his eyes fluttering shut as Sapnap leans forward and presses a tender kiss on his lips, George’s hands falling gently around his waist.
He thinks that the way Sapnap kisses him is a little bit like a song. His movements are smooth and grow more and more intense, so slowly that George doesn’t even notice it until it’s surrounding him, wrapping his mind in the sweet melody of every press of his lips and slide of his tongue. He pushes back and pulls when he needs to, ebbing and flowing like twin violins performing a seamless duet. They’re creating something together, just like when they played that scale— a kiss so special that George doesn’t think that he’ll ever be able to forget it.
When Sapnap pulls back, they’re both breathing heavily. The soft smile cresting across Sapnap’s lips feels like the raucous applause of a crowd.
“We should do this again,” Sapnap tells him.
George smirks and decides to tease him. “Music lessons?”
Sapnap rolls his eyes but George sees nothing but fondness etched into his expression. “I mean if you want but I kind of meant the whole kissing thing.”
A warm giggle spills from his lips. “How about both? You can teach me violin and I’ll repay you by allowing you to kiss me.”
“Dude,” he snorts. “Allowing me?”
He lets out an overexaggerated sigh. “Fine. I suppose that I’ll just kiss you anyway.”
His smile widens. “I’ll do both. But I’m gonna need to redeem another kiss like now. The first one wasn’t nearly long enough for me.”
George steps forward and slots their lips together again, the violin catching his eye for a moment before he closes them.
That violin is full of stories, just as it’s always been, but now it has one more soaked into its orange maple. Because now it tells a story of George and Sapnap, two guys who love one another, finally drawn together by its gentle song.
Truly, that’s an artifact that George knows that they’ll keep with them forever.