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A/N: Inspired by Vanessa Carlton’s “White Houses” music video, which is a work of art I can’t think to contend with.
The first floorboard squawks like an old timer as Dean’s nimble feet hit the staircase. Honestly, if he isn’t more concerned about making it up the steps, he’d bring a crowbar pry the thing open. If attending Juilliard’s taught him anything it’s that curiosity, unsubstantiated or not, could cost him next month’s rent.
Nonetheless, he makes it to the studio with little energy. The ballroom’s mirrors reflect the low-hanging fans, the spotted wooden finish, and every destination-less dust particle in-between. The place smells stickily of sweat and ambition. Dean’s presence does nothing to change that.
There’s a piano across the barre that’s a polygon of smaller, more intricate shapes. The harpsichord’s had little time for dust accumulate on the hypnotic cypress and skeletal keys. Like Gatsby’s Excalibur Convertible, the top is always left open, but despite its perfectly good condition, no one seems to take advantage of its sound. Not that Dean’s seen, anyway, and he practices pirouettes practically every day in this studio until the sun’s recasted by a sparkling sugar cookie.
Dean sheds his flannel in favor of the black leotard underneath. One peek in his tote bag confirms he forgot his MP3. He represses a groan in a thousand different languages because another pair of footsteps—these ones slower and more cadenced—occupy the small room.
This guy is more compact underneath a stalker-y beige trench coat, with hair as haphazardly thrown together as a stack of twigs in a campfire. The only thing keeping it matted down is a giant purple and orange pair of Beats. He trots to the piano, completely unfazed by his surroundings. His backside meets the stool, and as if out of tradition, he closes his eyes, sips from the bottled water he brought in, and starts playing.
The song is in C Major, one note quickly accompanied by a dozen more as his fingers move deftly across the keys. It’s a beautiful piece—even more so when the pianist’s face reenacts to every measure mercurially. It’s enough for Dean to break into a seizure of plies and glissades, making up the choreography as he goes.
**
Castiel plays furiously into the tenth measure, fingers practically gliding on air as a bead of sweat falls onto the keys. In moments like these he feels so alive—so free from the constant demands of life. Here, in this studio, he feels like a bird. But not just any bird, one with big enough wings to soar across the sky.
He swings his head back, playing into the bridge. Just before his eyes crowd with black and white again, they catch on something even more beautiful.
There, dancing with the grace of an arrow and the flight of a Phoenix, is a boy with rich caramel hair and eyes as green as the Granny Smith hiding beneath it.
The only reason he knows that is because he falls in front of the piano like a godsend moments later.
**
Dean’s head is whirling like a washing machine, contents rattling like forgotten change as he grasps the concept of breathing again. He missed a step. He missed a step. He never misses a step. Twenty three years of his life led him to this untimely fate: slouched over a cool hardwood floor with a near twisted ankle in front of a talented stranger.
“Oh my God,” the pianist breathes in a voice as grated as Dean’s knees. Soon, Dean’s self-depreciation is drowned by nostalgia—the boy’s eyes are as blue as a Kansas lake. “Are you okay?”
His lips are also very distracting. They’re plush and pink, like salmon biting on fresh bait. “Yeah, I just… ah,” he hisses as he tries to shift his weight forward. The boy’s head snaps to his foot with heavy urgency.
“Oh jeez, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s not broken,” Dean reassures, using momentum to push his left foot out from the grips of his buttocks. He succeeds, but not without the searing pain that shoots up his thigh. He bites back a cry. “I studied physical therapy before Juilliard, this is just a sprain—a very… very painful sprain.”
Water from the lake washes onto the creamy shore: “Wait, Juilliard? Holy crap, now I feel awful. I could’ve cost you your tuition.”
“You?” Dean asks, leaning with his arms behind him. “I think you mean me, I’m the one who screwed up.”
“No, I was playing way too fast and I had no idea you were even in here until—”
“Listen, man, let’s just agree we both screwed up,” Dean compromises before gesturing his head to the piano. “You’re one hell of a pianist, though, Jerry Lee.”
The boy chuckles, unveiling dimples in his partly gummy smile, “Castiel,” he says, eyeing Dean head to deformed toe, “and for a solid minute there, you had me convinced you were a hell of a dancer.”
Dean scoffs, “It’s Dean, by the way. And you’re an awful liar.”
“I can live with that,” Castiel admits as he helps Dean to his feet. His hand is calloused but warm. It distracts him—until Dean fumbles again. He blames it on the wink Castiel gives him a second later. “Whoa, easy,” he says, wrapping a cautionary arm around Dean’s middle.
Castiel sets Dean in one of the stacked chairs in the corner before pulling out two more, stealing the cushion from the piano stool, and grabbing his bottled water he left on the rest. Soon, Dean’s ankle is propped up by a makeshift pillow and squished beneath a cool compress. Impressive.
“What was that piece?” he asks, again distracted by the brush of Castiel’s fingertips as he holds the bottle.
Castiel shrugs, like what he says next isn’t worthy of praise: “‘Molto Allegro’. It’s just Mozart.”
“What do you mean just Mozart?” Dean blasphemes, “Mozart is just short of amazing.”
Castiel blanches as white as the frosted ice meeting Dean’s skin. “I think so too.”
“Listen, Cas, you have a gift, alright?” he says, squaring his eyes to match the sincerity in his tone, “Don’t go underestimating yourself. You think I got into Juilliard because I thought I could do it?”
Cas nods contritely, color resurfacing to his cheeks. “Thanks. I’m sorry; I’m not good at taking compliments. When you’re not attending a prestigious school, your talents can sometimes get trampled over.”
“I get it, man. My dad didn’t approve of my career move at first.”
“What did you do?”
“I killed him.”
Like two kernels popping in chorus, Dean and Cas burst into laughter. Dean hasn’t made many friends in New York yet, but Cas reminds him how easy it is—how easy it should be, anyway.
“You sure you’re okay?” Cas asks not a moment too soon. “Surely you’re in no condition to drive tonight.”
It takes Dean one more near-fatal swan dive to finally agree with Cas. Plus, having Cas drive him home gives Dean twenty minutes to study his face like the back of a ballet handbook.
He allows himself to be guided out of the studio.
Dean wishes he’d spraint his other ankle because a month later, when Cas drops him off at his apartment, he not-so gracefully dances into his lips.
He blames the song of “Molto Allegro”.