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The guitar laid on his desk, opposite to Mo in his cramped room. Already whipped down from dust and clean. He kept looking it over, from body to neck and neck to body. The internal turmoil from the memories this guitar was stirring inside was on the verge of giving him a headache.
Mo’s school organizes a talent show every 3 to 4 years, the first place winner gets a decent amount of money. It’s a good opportunity, his mom will be able to breathe the next couple months, maybe she’ll work less overtime.
But Mo couldn’t help sinking into all the memories he’d dug up by taking this guitar out, both the good and bad. It’s by far the only thing they didn’t sell when his dad’s business went to shit.
“It’s too precious, the only thing you have left of your father, I can’t sell your gift”
That’s what his mom said back then, maybe it’s about time he’d play the damn thing.
He stuttered in a breath while sitting on his bed, guitar in hands. The memories pour in, unforgiving, as he feels the carved wood warming in his palms. Memories of his dad tuning guitars feels so real, the only solid thing he can vividly remember from his childhood.
Mo strum hesitantly across the cords, the out of tune strings echoed back and he cringed.
He slid the pads of his fingers across the neck of the guitar and to its head, and started twisting the knobs while strumming each cord softly, like how his dad taught him to.
His dad, once young and bright-eyed, would sit on the couch in the living room during the afternoon with Mo after school to teach him the guitar. Mo didn’t have friends then, so he didn’t mind spending hours learning, it was plenty of fun. If he had the opportunity now, he would spend eternity itself playing guitar if it meant being with his dad again.
Mo closed his eyes shut, battling the stinging of fresh tears, and trying to slow his breathing to focus on tuning the guitar.
In a matter of 5 minutes or so, and plenty of sniffling later, he finished tuning the guitar.
He slid his fingers across the fretboard, one on each string, just like he’s done plenty of times as a kid. The neck fits comfortably in his hand, he doesn’t struggle to grasp around it, and no one comes to fix how his fingers sit on it.
He takes in another breath, now he actually has to play.
The cords twang softly, vibrating against his fingertips and he can feel the sound resonate within him as the guitar’s body is pressed against his, the echo travelling from wood to flesh.
His fingers dance across the sound hole, nostalgia wrapping around his ears and leaving a bittersweet feeling as a lump in his throat.
The house is empty except for him, he knew how much his mom loved hearing his dad play and he didn’t want to see her cry, having purposefully dug out the guitar when she was at work. The notes bounce about in the house, through the paper thin walls and recoil back into him.
The vinyl polish on the body glitters in the sunset rays that sneaked between the window blinds, it glows warm like his eyes and hair, but it's a sight for another set of eyes to see, dark and admiring irises widen.
He Tian stands still, in the street under Mo’s open window. He knows that Mo’s mom is usually at work at this hour. He never knew Mo could play so beautifully, or let alone play at all.
The tune continues spilling from the window and into the street and the stairwell, following Tian as he walks closer to the skinny front door.
He doesn’t register much as he pulls out the spare key from under the rug and unlocks the door quietly and closes it behind him. The tune gets louder as he approaches Mo’s open door, he can faintly hear lyrics slipping past his lips, tumbling out softly.
And there he is, and even though He Tian has full marks in linguistics at school, not a single vocab can help describe the scene in front of him.
Tan brows lay easy across his face, eyes closed while he mouths lyrics from a song He Tian doesn’t know. His hands moving across an acoustic guitar, it sparkles as Mo moves it while playing, a color he knows by heart. He sat cross-legged on his bed, by far the most relaxed He Tian had ever seen him.
And he tries to engrave the sight deep into his memory, so that even when wrinkled by age he could draw it blind. He feels like he’s stepping into a different world when he gets closer and knocks on the door frame, to capture the other’s attention.
Mo jolts in surprise, gripping the guitar closer to himself in reflex. He snaps his head and sees He Tian. Leaning on the frame, smirking, and before he could snap at He Tian for scaring the living shit out of him, the dark haired boy speaks.
“Who would’ve thought you play the guitar so well, little mo?~” Even if Mo couldn’t see him, he would still be able to hear the smile in his voice. He frowns a little and closes his eyes again.
“You made me lose my rhythm” He relaxes again and leans his back to the wall as he crosses his legs again.
He Tian steps into the room, inviting himself to Mo’s bed as he shrugs his bag to the floor and sits next to the red head. “Don’t mind if I do,” he turns and smiles “do continue playing, momo”. Mo doesn’t flinch at the nickname anymore, but he does get a tad bit warmer.
“Just be quiet and let me focus. '' He tries to relax his face and remember where he left off, as the bed squeaks while the dark haired boy makes himself comfortable next to him. If Mo gets redder at this, the sunset hides it in its warm rays that trickle about his face.