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The air is crisp and frigid, the beginnings of a gentle frost illuminated beneath the orange streetlamps. Hiking his backpack higher on his shoulders, Markus treks over the footprints of the other night owls traversing the campus sidewalks. The cold air strikes the back of his throat as he sucks it in, and he watches it expel from his mouth and evaporate when he exhales. His shadow follows him along the pathways, down the stairs, and across parking lots to the performing arts building on the far side of campus. It's dark, and quiet, and tranquil.
He wrestles his phone from the front pocket of his hoodie, the cold nipping at his fingers as he checks the time. Just after midnight. He presses on through the mostly empty lot, up the handful of stairs to the front of the building, and enters through the doors that remain daringly unlocked during all hours of the day for students like himself in the throes of finals, those with upcoming critiques and presentations and performances.
Markus is hit with a wave of heat the moment he steps inside, and the stark contrast causes him to break out in a sweat almost instantly. He continues, wet shoes squeaking against the slate tile as he passes by classrooms occupied by hushed chatter and the labor of students painting and sculpting. To the end of the hall, down the stairs to the music department, nestled in the basement. Down more hallways, around the corner until he reaches the practice rooms.
There are six tiny rooms, three on each side of the hall, but only half of them have a piano, Markus's focal instrument. His recital is in less than seventy-two hours, and he is wildly unprepared, so he decided to follow in the footsteps of other procrastinating music majors by sacrificing his sleep schedule and dedicating the next two and a half days of his life to a practice room.
He heads for the second door on his left—one with a piano—that he reserved for the night and freezes. Through the small window on the door, he notices someone else's stuff strung out across the room. A guitar, electric blue, leaning up against a chair, attached to a long cord that snakes its way to an amplifier on the floor, and its hard plastic case balanced against the wall. Markus looks around and finds no one. He pauses, unsure what his next move should be. Wait for whoever left their stuff behind to return, or take over the room anyway? It feels wrong to intrude, but he needs to get his practice in. The other rooms are taken, the faint sounds of violin and clarinet reaching his ears through the thick walls. Plus, he reserved this room—his name is on the electronic screen hanging beside the door. He's going to use it while he has it. He turns the handle.
He enters the room and lets the door fall shut behind him. He removes his backpack, then his hoodie, tossing both of them into the corner as he fans himself with his shirt, trying to reduce the sweat that formed on his abdomen from the dramatic temperature change. Sighing, he reaches into his bag and pulls out his tablet and sits at the piano bench, looking for his sheet music.
Placing the tablet on the music stand, Markus breathes and then begins. He makes it no further than six measures into Chopin's Fantaisie-Impromptu before the door to the practice room opens once more, and Markus stops playing, the middle C note ringing out clumsily.
When Markus turns around, he's met with the surprised look of some blond kid lingering in the doorway. He's in the midst of fiddling with the sleeve of his flannel when he freezes, his blue eyes flying to meet Markus's, clearly not suspecting anyone to have taken over his space. For a moment they merely stare at each other, and it almost begins to feel painfully awkward, although it likely only lasts for milliseconds.
The boy breaks the tension.
"Oh," he says, and the word is uttered so quietly it almost doesn't make it out of his mouth. His licks his dry lips and tries again. "Sorry. I was just in the bathroom."
"It's cool," Markus replies. "I have the room reserved, though."
Blondie's on the move before he finishes his sentence, grabbing the guitar off the chair and yanking the cord from the body. "Yeah, no, that's fine," he says easily, and Markus feels a tinge of guilt for rushing the guy out. But he has pieces to rehearse, and he doesn't think this guy is even in the music program.
He watches him hastily grab the guitar case and lay it on the floor, flicking open the metal clasps and gently placing the instrument inside before closing it up again. He switches the amp off and rolls up the wire. "I didn't mean to interrupt. I didn't realize there was a reservation system. That's my bad."
The slight breathlessness in his tone seems to be more from the exertion of getting his stuff together than from nervousness, but Markus feels the need to ease the vibe between them. "You can set up a reservation time online. I can show you how to do it," he offers, already reaching for his phone.
"That's okay," the kid shakes his head. He picks up his guitar case in one hand and the amplifier in the other. Everything about him is long, Markus observes. Long legs, long arms, long neck and nose. His hair sweeps across his forehead as he straightens himself.
"Sorry again, take it easy," he says, throwing a final glance in Markus's direction, and before Markus can say anything else, he exits the room.
A few moments pass silently before Markus turns back to the piano. His sheet music is still up, and he places his fingers over the keys, his foot over the pedals, straightens his spine—and doesn't play. He half expects the hear the crack of the door again, for some strange reason. He lets his right hand dance lightly on the keys, playing scales that are pure muscle memory and don't require any brain power or effort on his part.
It takes him several hours before he actually gets any real practice done.
Markus survives finals week, practically living in the practice room until his recital, at which he performs a near perfect Fantaisie-Impromptu, pleasing his father, and does well enough on his other exams to secure his place on the Dean's list for yet another semester.
His holiday respite passes rather quickly and unceremoniously, and he returns to campus in January with two brutal piano courses on his schedule and an economics class that he's dreading. He notes right out the gate that procrastination will not help him this semester—he already has three new pieces to learn within a few weeks—and he'll need to dedicate most of his spare time, or, perhaps, all of it, to practicing.
He reserves his usual room in the arts building, having to once again select a late hour on account of all the rooms being booked throughout the day. It's whatever. Markus sleeps little anyway, so staying up to practice when there's no one to bother or distract him is probably for the best.
He arrives to his room on Monday night and finds it empty. He hadn't had any more run-ins with Blondie after their first encounter the previous month, and tonight appears to be the same. A quiet curiosity blooms in the back of his mind, but he doesn't give it too much attention. He switches the light on, settles at the piano, and sets to work on his next piece. Saint-Saëns's Danse Macabre. After an hour, his fingers are numb and twitching from overexertion, and he curses himself for having allowed himself to slack off over the break. He can hear Carl's jesting derisions. I told you so and so on. You need to keep with it. Markus had brushed off the old man's advice for not the first time in his life, and is profoundly surprised, for not the first time in his life, that his words hold weight.
So he suffers that first night of the spring semester, fighting to hammer down the correct finger positions and handle his dynamics properly. He gets the hang of it eventually. Tuesday is the same, as is Wednesday. On Thursday, he reserves his room and shows up a tad early. It's been vacant every day this week, and he figures he can snag a little extra time or even bang out his econ homework while he's there.
When he approaches the room, there's the muffled sound of grungy rock chords coming through the door, and as Markus peeks into the window, he sees none other than the guitarist from last semester, relaxed in the single chair, using the piano bench as a footrest, strumming on the same electric blue guitar.
He doesn't seem to notice Markus standing on the other side of the door, but isn't startled when he enters the room at last. He easily sits himself up and begins to pack up his equipment. Like before, Markus almost feels a bit guilty at kicking him out, but the guy doesn't seem irritated in the slightest. He even offers Markus a quick smile as he picks up his case. "It's all yours," he says as he slips out of the room.
Markus is completely burnt out from all his practicing that he takes Friday off. He resumes his horrible midnight sessions the following week, but notices something different this time. On the electronic panel beside the door, above his own name and scheduled reservation, is another, one he's never seen before. Simon Podolski — 10PM - 12AM. Inside the room is Blondie, rolling up the chord to his amp. He has a name for the face now. Markus waits for him to exit the room before he speaks to him.
"You figured out the reservation system," Markus comments.
"Yeah," he says. "It wasn't too difficult."
He flashes a smile at him, a quick one, and flexes his grip on his amp before turning to leave Markus alone in the practice room. Markus watches him go.
"Take care, Simon," he calls after him.
Simon turns his head to nod at him. "See you, Markus," is the reply from down the hall.
Simon begins to consistently book the second practice room before Markus's usual time, and although he could easily reserve another room at an earlier time—some of the rooms have started to open up throughout the day—he decides to keep up with his tradition. Sure, he doesn't trek back to his room until well past three in the morning most nights and he fights to stay awake in his econ class at eight, but he'd say his progress on his piano compositions are progressing pretty decently. And he runs into Simon quite often, mostly on Mondays, Thursdays, and Fridays, to whom Markus is always pleased to see. He finds that their minute long interactions and Simon's slouched posture as he carries his guitar case and amplifier down the hall are usually the highlights of his busy and tiresome days.
Markus ends up in the music department one night, tucked away in one of the study lounges near the stairs. It's well ahead of his reservation time, and he hasn't even reserved his room for tonight, but he fell behind on his economics work and has spent the past two hours playing catch up. Every incorrect answer on his online homework program reminds him why he settled on a music major.
He hears feet on the steps above him and thinks nothing of it until Simon appears before him, heading toward the practice room. He walks by without even noticing Markus.
"You really carry those around everywhere?" Markus asks, looking up curiously from his laptop.
Simon spins around to face him, adjusting his hold on the guitar case handle. He shrugs. "What else am I supposed to do with them?"
Markus knows that any professor in the department would hold a student's equipment for them, in their office or a storage room somewhere, but Simon is clearly not a music major. He gives him a grin and even the hint of a good-natured eye roll as Simon continues down the hall. He disappears into the practice room and Markus returns his attention to his homework.
For about ten minutes. There's just too much to remember, too much vocabulary to memorize. Even the things he knows are supposed to be simple he was getting wrong. He was never good at multiple choice.
With only a handful of questions remaining, but no energy to risk any more incorrect answers, Markus gets an idea. He stands from his seat, laptop in hand, backpack slung over his shoulder, and heads for the practice room. A quick glimpse through the window reveals Simon in his usual position, slouched in the chair with his sneakers up on the bench. Markus opens the door and catches a few notes of whatever Simon's playing—something softer, slower than the pulsating punk rock that Markus has heard echoing from the other side of the door before. Simon stops abruptly as soon as Markus appears. Twice now, Markus has invaded his space unexpectedly, but Simon seems wholly unbothered.
"Sorry to interrupt," Markus says, glancing between him and his laptop. "I have a question."
"Shoot," Simon replies smoothly, ghosting his fingers over the frets of his guitar without plucking them, as if still playing the song in his mind.
"What the fuck," Markus asks, "is stagflation?"
Simon's momentary blank stare is replaced with a quirk of a smile on his lips and quiet chuckle deep in his chest. Markus can't help but imitate it. "I think it has something to do with having high inflation and unemployment rates and little economic growth."
Markus moves to sit on the edge of the piano bench, prompting Simon to move his feet, and locates the answer that resembles Simon's description the closest. The program shows him mercy and allows him to finish his assignment shortly after.
"Thank you," he tells Simon as he's closing all his open browser tabs. "If you couldn't tell, this isn't my field."
Simon chuckles again, and Markus finds himself smiling at the sound of it. "That class is a pain in the ass," Simon says. "I don't understand how anyone would want to study economics."
"Tell me about it. As painful as it is sometimes, I'm glad I picked music."
As if on autopilot, Markus's fingers drift to the keyboard and tap out a few arpeggios. The sound drifts around the room and dies when his hand leaves the keys, leaving behind only the fuzz of Simon's amp. It's a white noise, something Markus hardly noticed before, but in the quiet of the room, it's much more audible.
Simon adjusts himself in his chair, mindlessly fiddling with the guitar cord as he holds the instrument against him. "Yeah, sociology's not too bad, all things considered. I wouldn't want to major in anything else."
Markus feels himself smile, if just for a second, and bites his tongue before he sputters something along the lines of Who the hell would waste their time with that? knowing damn well he doesn't have the room to talk.
"What do you want to do with that?" he asks instead.
"Who knows," Simon shrugs, before turning it back around on him. "What do you plan to do with music? Teach? Write your own stuff?"
Now it's Markus's turn to shrug. "Not a clue," he confesses. Ironically, wealthy artistic parents and fifteen years of private piano lessons didn't allow him much educational freedom. He was good at music, so he'd study music, it was agreed well before Markus even knew what a university was. He had never really minded, only in quiet moments after a particularly grueling performance or harsh feedback from an instructor, sleepless nights and aching fingers and wrists, wagering with other professors to accept a late assignment because he just had to perfect this piece. He likes it, but after he walks across the stage and has the diploma in hand, he doesn't know what he'll do.
Before he has the chance to spiral, Simon slowly begins to pluck at his guitar again. Markus watches his hands, the fingers on his right hand nimbly pulling at the strings and his left contorting into their chord patterns. It seems to loop endlessly, Simon keeping a steady rhythm and even humming under his breath, barely audible over the guitar. He's a bit mysterious, Markus discerns. There's so much he wants to ask. The music distracts him, though, and he doesn't.
When Simon's reservation time comes to an end, he diligently packs his gear up, like always. No one has the room afterwards, but he calls it a night anyways, and Markus chooses to do the same. They leave together, walk from the warm building to the freezing parking lot, to Simon's piss-poor excuse of a car.
Simon loads the guitar case and amp into the back of his car. Markus shuts the trunk for him.
"Do you want a ride?" Simon asks.
"That's okay, I'm just across campus," Markus says, and notices too late the hint of disappointment in Simon's face, before he drives off.
"Play something."
Markus looks up from his phone to Simon's expecting stare from his corner of the practice room. For once, the guitar is leaned against the wall, not even plugged into the amp. That's how it's been lately—forgoing the actual practice just to hang out, talk to each other. Do their homework. Vent. Their reservations became one, essentially, just barging in on the other knowing there would be no negative consequence.
Simon is playing with the zipper on his jacket, still waiting for Markus to fulfill his request. His smile is almost teasing—almost. Markus doesn't know how to describe it, the nonchalant but genuine energy about Simon. Both guarded and relaxed.
"Play what?"
"Just something. Anything."
Markus groans dramatically as he gathers himself at the piano, and silently notes how Simon automatically sits upright in his chair in his peripheral vision. He even inches the chair closer, to see the keys better. Pondering for a moment, Markus mulls over the million things he could perform, but opts for the first thing that comes to mind. Grieg's Piano Concerto in A Minor.
His hands rest on the keys gently as he begins, quickly building intensity before slamming them down at the other end of the keyboard. It's a piece he's had memorized for years, a piece his father likes and frequently plays. There's no special attachment to it, no integral meaning to him. It's just something he can play, like Simon had asked. And Simon listens to him play it, the whole first movement, for six uninterrupted minutes. He holds the final notes for their full duration before he removes his fingers and turns his head toward Simon.
"Happy?" Markus asks, a little sarcastically.
Simon is leaned forward, elbows resting on the tops of his knees, a pleased smile on his lips. "Yeah," he says.
"Have you ever played piano?"
"Yeah, no," Simon scoffs, "That'll never happen."
"Why not?"
"No one needs to hear that train wreck."
"Oh, come on," Markus stands from the bench and invites Simon to sit. "I'll teach you." Simon protests, but after a short staring contest between them, he relents, moving from the chair to place himself in front of the piano. His left hand rests in his lap while he brings his right hand up, tapping a finger onto the F note and allowing it to ring out for a second, before retracting it.
"There, I played something," Simon jokes.
Markus shakes his head. "Mm-mm. Not good enough. Here, try this."
He brings Simon's hand back to the keyboard and spreads his fingers to form a simple C chord. Simon presses down. Then an A chord. Then D. He copies them all with a trepidation that Markus doesn't expect, a little clumsy and so gentle that the keys almost refuse to emit any sound. He quizzes him on the chords and is proud that Simon remembers them all. He demonstrates a nursery song that he learned to play when he was three, something simple and repetitive, and Simon follows his lead, an octave higher, and by the time he's finished the tension has left his shoulders and his hands fall back down to his lap.
"Happy?" Simon mocks, and Markus hums in appreciation.
"Not too bad," he contends, and Simon rolls his eyes in response, smiling all the while.
"Okay, now it's your turn," Simon says.
"I already played something."
"No, I mean on guitar."
And Markus wants to fight back, but Simon gives him a pointed look, one that screams I had to, why shouldn't you? and he knows he's been defeated. He turns on his heel in the cramped room to grab Simon's guitar and pulls the strap over his head, letting it dig into shoulder. The instrument is heavier than he expected. Its blue body glimmers in the horrid yellow overhead light, polished and clean, no trace of fingerprints besides the ones he leaves behind as he handles it, holding the neck awkwardly with one hand and not quite knowing what to do with his other.
Simon leans to plug the amp's wire into the guitar, and the jolt of static that spurts from the machine when he turns it on makes Markus jump. Taking in the knobs and strings and tuning pegs, Markus locates the pick tucked snugly under the strings on the first fret and removes it, taking it into his right hand and giving the guitar an experimental strum. The sound comes out loud and startling.
Like with the piano, Simon teaches him the basic chords. He has to position Markus's hands properly, stretching his fingers in ways he was unfamiliar with, and instructing him which particular strings to strum. His first attempt is straight lousy—the pressure on the fretboard isn't right and the noise it makes is muffled and distorted. The metal of the strings buries into his fingers, leaving painful divots in their wake, and he thinks of how Simon's fingers must be rougher, more calloused, to endure the bite of the steel.
Simon corrects his fingers when they slip from the proper positions, and Markus feels his cheeks burn a little. He didn't expect to be a natural, but he didn't expect it to be as difficult as it is. Failure doesn't look good on him, and as unserious as it is, he doesn't want to make a fool of himself in front of Simon.
He struggles through Simon's impromptu lesson with little improvement, and once he's had enough, he hands the guitar over to him. Markus's fingertips sting in the aftermath.
"That was…less than perfect," Simon confesses with a jesting smile.
Markus's cheeks burn even redder but he can't help but smile, too. Simon holds the guitar in his lap and immediately jumps into a rock song that is fast and loud and catchy. Markus watches intently as Simon had earlier.
"I don't think I ever asked," Markus says when Simon pauses his playing. "How did you get into this?"
"I got my first guitar when I was eleven," Simon tells him. "I used to play those rock band-type video games as a kid. So my parents got me a real one for Christmas, and here we are today."
Markus hums.
"It was an acoustic, my first guitar," he continues. "Just a used, resold one. We didn't have a lot of money. I worked for years to save up for this one." His eyes shift down to the guitar in his hands, where he traces the outline of the body. "It's just always been my thing, I guess. I don't have many other hobbies. And it's a good distraction, being able to focus on something that isn't…life."
He doesn't elaborate further, and Markus doesn't push him. Simon cares to talk about most anything but himself, and Markus has had suspicions on why Simon comes to campus so late just to play his guitar. Still, he won't press the matter; he just nods and listens to the slow pull of strings, watching Simon's fingers dance up and down the fret board.
At some point, he dozes off, too many late nights in this room catching up to him. He wakes when Simon nudges him with his shoe, having packed up his stuff and ready to head home. Markus takes Simon's outstretched hand, and it's cold in his grasp as he's hauled up from the chair he slumped over in. It feels wrong when their hands part, leaving Markus with an urge to feel the calloused pads of those fingers and warm that freezing palm with his own.
They leave the room, climb the stairs, and wander out into the lot where Simon's car is parked in its usual spot. The moon is full and bright and Markus follows Simon's shadow on the ground with his eyes until they reach the vehicle.
"Thanks for spending time with me," Simon says after the guitar and amp have been placed in the trunk. There's a melancholy drip in his voice, and he fiddles with his keys like there's more he wants to say. He doesn't.
"You can come back with me," Markus offers. "I have a double to myself, so you can have the extra bed."
"Thanks, but I have to get home." The response is almost instant, and yet he hesitates, shivering in the chill of the night.
Finally, the seal breaks, and Simon opens the car door. "I'll see you," he says as he climbs in behind the wheel.
"Yeah," says Markus, "I'll give you another piano lesson."
"And I'll give you another guitar lesson. Frankly, you need the practice."
He grins, his earlier embarrassment replaced with a different kind of warmth, one that he wants to hold onto.
"Goodnight, Markus." Simon's voice is soft as he sticks the key into the ignition.
"Goodnight, Simon."
The car door shuts, the engine sputters to life, and Markus waits until Simon is out of sight to trek back to his room on the other side of campus. He adjusts his bag on his shoulders as he walks, remembering the work he ought to catch up on. Midterms are approaching soon; he'll need to put in the extra time to prepare for that stupid econ class, and he should be practicing for his upcoming recital. And yet, those things seem trivial when he can still feel the faint indents from where Simon's guitar strings engraved his fingers, and the coldness of Simon's hand in his own.