And the slacking continues.

[lukon_idein]

So I'm back home, much to my disappointment. I had an unexpectedly good time back in my old digs. Really miss it up there. Want to move back to Boston SOOOOOO badly. But I really need to follow through on this school thing. I'm a bit at loose ends with my studies, which has been bringing me down. I'm hoping to garner some energy or motivation this semester but I'm not sure I can do it. Feeling very burned out.

Spent the weekend avoiding reality. Couldn't even write - even though I am very delinquent on the story I owe dentelle_noir - So sorry, my friend! Thank you for being so patient!! My muses have been on strike since I got home. Stupid bastards. (I think Duo ran off with Heero at that last rest stop in Louisiana, and I need him, dammit!) So I spent the weekend reading. Read the first three Mark Manning mystery novels by Michael Craft. An interesting look at a stable gay relationship written by a gay man - of course with murder mystery thrown in. I need action with my romance or I get completely bored. I must admit that two of the three mysteries I figured out pretty early on, but it was okay, because the character/relationship side of the story was satisfying enough. Also "read" via audio CD on my way home a Myron Bolitar mystery by Harlan Coben - didn't care much for the author's reading (his voice was a tad too Ray Romano-ish and he tended to swallow words) but the mystery was fun, and the hero's best buddy is this fastidious, womanizing, upper-class WASP/borderline psychotic who could kill you with a stale pretzel. My type of guy!! According to the text he was beaten up by bullies as a kid and swore never to allow that to happen again - and he made good in spades. He totally needs his own spinoff series, cuz he rocks, but, alas, his lack of moral code probably relegates him forever to the sidekick role. Still, I may read another just to hear more of him.

So after a weekend, and some portion of last week, devoted to reading, rather than writing, (okay, and watching old episodes of Relic Hunter) I was feeling rather low and uninspired but aching to write something of my own. And this morning, as I lay drowsing in bed in my heatless apartment (some sort of sequencer malfunction apparently), I was struck with an idea for the latest GW500 prompt. I haven't been able to come up with anything there recently, so I figured I should go with it, and write what I was in the mood to write - better than getting increasingly frustrated by writing nothing. So I did. It's a little sappy, but I hope reasonably realistic and not too boring. And now that it's out of the way, I may be able to finish off my overdue new years fic. After all, classes start tomorrow, so I will be in some serious need of procrastination projects. : )

Oh! Oh! News flash!! My heat just came back on. Yes, I'm from New England, but that doesn't make a 57-degree apartment any more enjoyable. Now I just have to worry about how long it will deign to stay on. My roommate suggested we try to include it in more of our conversations so it won't feel so lonely and left out, and then it may be more cooperative.

So here's today's insipid ramblings... (I swear, Dentelle, back to Trowa in his skimpy kilt soon!)

Title: Restoration
Author: Lukoni
Characters: Quatre/Trowa
Word Count: 1920
Summary: Quatre tackles an important repair job on a lonely night.
Rating: G
Warnings: Introspection, slight angst, violin analogies.
Notes: Written for GW500 challenge #155: Bridge. Feedback/Criticism/Typo notifications welcome. Thanks for reading!




Restoration


Quatre’s brow creased in frustration. He tried the passage again. Still no good. The balance just wasn’t right. He’d suspected it for a while now and he finally could go no further until he did something about it. With a sigh, he lowered his violin and went over to a small desk in the corner of the room. A door, the top left, held a collection of tools and supplies. Fresh strings. Extra rosin. New pegs. He took out a small leather box, his grandfather’s he’d been told, lined with red velvet, from which he selected a small knife, blade short and sharp, wooden handle stout and round.

He looked carefully at his instrument. Held it flat before his eyes so he could see the arc of the strings, spread wide at the bridge the converging on the scroll. He scrutinized. He tested. Brought up his bow and watched it skim from string to string. Satisfied, he set the instrument in his lap and began to loosen the strings. Slowly, one by one. Quatre smiled at his fancy as a thought struck him – that each string was part of the music that in turn was a part of the expression of his soul. The essence of what made him himself. G was faith. D - hope. A – trust. E – love. And holding them all up, giving them life, transmitting their message to the body of the instrument, making it vibrate with music was the bridge – Trowa. With the strings slack, he slid the thin piece of wood from its place, then set the violin gently on the desk. Any sudden moves at this stage, and the soundpost inside, robbed of its supporting tension, would fall and the instrument would be silent. He continued his flight of fancy, thinking of the soundpost as his soul, held up, buoyed by the silent warrior standing sentinel for his happiness.

A sad smile drifted across his face as he held up the small piece of wood. As a child it used to remind him of an old-fashioned cowboy, reaching for his guns as he stood with feet planted wide in the middle of the street, calling out the villain at high noon. Never dreaming, as that small boy alone in front of his music stand in the huge, empty conservatory at the back of the house, that one day he’d be the one drawing the weapons, calling out the bad guy, killing his enemies without mercy.

He shivered, then returned his focus to the bridge, and with careful eye and steady hand he raised the knife. A small knick, deepening, ever so slightly, the notch for the E string. He was trimming Trowa. The crease returned to his brow. That didn’t seem right. Was he trying to shape Trowa? To change him? To alter his very being? It is true that Trowa had changed since they’d been together – the shadows in his eyes weren’t as dark. He smiled more. Talked more, too. But he was still that placid, calming presence Quatre had always known. Still the only man that could calm Quatre’s fears and doubts simply by being in the same room. What needed to be changed? He glared at the bridge again. It only needed a slight adjustment. Just enough to restore a balance between the strings. Maybe cutting back on a few hours at the office. But that wasn’t fair. Trowa loved his work with the Preventers. And Quatre’s business at WEI called for as many late hours as Trowa racked up – they were just more... predictable. They never left Trowa alone with dinner cooling on the table, casting about for something to do at 10 pm because his lover had been ‘unavoidably detained’ in the words of some anonymous office drone. Though that was really unfair, because deep down Quatre knew that he had missed his fair share of dinners.

He looked again at the bridge, eyeing the curve, comparing it to the curve of the body. He anticipated his cuts, projected their effect in his head before touching blade to wood. Any wrong move, and he’d cut away too much. It would be useless and he’d need to replace it. That thought sent the hairs prickling on the back of his neck. Please, Allah, do not let that happen. Without Trowa there would be no music. And life without music was not worth living. Hardly seeing each other was not the same as never seeing other. Not being allowed to feel his warmth next to him in bed. Not hearing, as he lay in bed collecting his thoughts for the day to come, the sounds of him shaving emanating from the bathroom.

He glared at the bridge once more. He could cut hours at the gym. Still the avid athlete, Trowa worked out an hour each morning before work, and after he immediately went for a run, no matter the time, no matter the weather – usually five miles. It wasn’t that Quatre wasn’t interested in fitness, but he wasn’t into the long, intricate martial arts workouts that Trowa engaged in and had never enjoyed running – it was boring and bad for the knees. He opted instead for a quick workout at the office during his lunch break. Twenty minutes of weight training and fifteen minutes of laps in the company pool. It was a hard and fast rule at Winner Enterprises. Never interrupt the boss between noon and one. It felt good to be in shape, but the physical needed to be balanced with the mental. And the spiritual. Which to him was music. He’d been playing more often lately. Especially the piano, a spare baby grand he’d had shipped to the Sanq townhouse the previous spring from his L4 estate. It was a lovely instrument, with a remarkably full sound for its size. It filled up the empty spaces in the house better than the violin. The piano was a solitary instrument. Easy to compensate for the lack of a partner.

He tensed as he heard the front door open. “Quatre?” came the call from downstairs. He ignored it, and turned back to his task at hand. Knife in hand, ready to trim, to slice away the offending section that was upsetting the whole balance of his life. Footsteps on the stairs. Soon the charade would begin – Sorry I’m late – It’s okay – It couldn’t be helped – Don’t worry about it – There was a robbery/murder/fire/flood/old lady who couldn’t cross the street. – No problem, I had some work to do anyway. A small sound and that feeling. Trowa, so warm, so vibrant, was there. But so far away. Quatre looked over his shoulder to see his lover leaning against the door jam, arms crossed in front of his chest. There was a look on his face that was not easy to identify.

“Quatre?”

“Hm?” he said, absentmindedly, feigning distraction.

“I’m sorry I missed dinner.”

“It’s okay,” he smiled, then turned back to his work, staring intently at the bridge. Movement behind him. Not so much a sound as a shifting of air. A hand on his shoulder. An impression – sadness, regret, defensiveness, weariness. A voice – sweet, wistful, formal, tired.

“What are you doing?”

“Just making a few adjustments,” Quatre answered, surprised to hear a hint of his own sadness creeping through his cheerful mask. A kiss, on the top of his head. A squeeze of the shoulder. And then that warm presence was retreating. Quatre wondered if he’d pushed too far. Made one cut too many. If he will have to replace the bridge. But the next sound he heard was not the door closing. It was the distinctive click of a case opening. He turned to see Trowa inserting a shiny silver section of tube into another.

“You should play the flute,” came that soft, honeysweet voice. “Much less maintenance.” A tiny smile at the corner of his mouth. That mysterious hint of amusement that had so thrilled Quatre the first time he’d seen it nearly ten years ago.

Suddenly Quatre realized the flaw in his metaphor. The soundpost wasn’t his soul – the player was the soul – the small piece of wood that transmitted his song to the world was simply an amplifier of his song, his emotions, his happiness or grief. And the bridge wasn’t Trowa himself – he was separate, his own player, sending the bright, steady, haunting song of his soul through his flute. The bridge represented Trowa’s place in Quatre’s life. His relationship with Trowa, his understanding, his perceptions of this unique, strong, beautiful man that shared his life. It wasn’t that something was wrong with Trowa, the flaw was elsewhere. In the way they interacted.

A low note sounded. An A. Nearly. Trowa’s long fingers deftly adjusted his instruments, pulling the mouthpiece out a fraction. The note sounded again. A true A now. Adjusted and perfect. Trowa looked at him expectantly. He wanted to play. Now?

“This will take a few minutes to reassemble,” Quatre explained apologetically.

“I’ll wait,” he said simply. He took a seat near the desk and played graceful scales as he watched Quatre work. He looked rumpled, his uniform jacket showing distinctive patches of dirt on the shoulder and elbows. A scrape on one knuckle. More dirt under his fingernails. On his knees. His hair was damp in places. He slouched against the back of the chair, his legs splayed, bracing him from sliding off, as his fingers danced confidently over the keys. Quatre had never seen anything so beautiful in his entire life.

“You’ll miss your run,” he said, cursing himself for not saying ‘I love you’ which is what he’d meant to say. The notes continued down the scale, ending one short of completion.

“I’ll go tomorrow.” Quatre felt tears prick his eyes, so he turned away slightly to continue his work. To hide for a moment and collect himself. Trowa was making time for him. He looked at the bridge, deciding at last where to cut. What adjustment to make. He took the blade in hand and ever so slowly shaved a tiny sliver off, just to the left of center, where the D string rested. Hope. He set down the knife and slid the bridge back in place. He slipped the strings back into their tiny slots and began the slow, careful process of tightening them. A little at a time, pressure evenly distributed so as not to warp or tilt the delicate maple. Until it rested straight and firm, ready for the stress and strain of fingers and bow. The balance restored. Quatre hoped. He wouldn’t know until he tested it.

“I could go with you.” The scales continued, switching from minor to major. “Tomorrow.” The notes slowed. “On your run.” D major stopping at the apex.

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“I’d like that,” Trowa whispered. Quatre wanted to say so much, to apologize, to kiss and touch and taste. But that would come later. Right now, they needed this. To let their souls once more intertwine as they had done on the first day they met. To speak to each other as they hadn’t in so long. He tuned quickly, and then he had his bow in his hand and then they were playing. Together. Well into the night, until Quatre’s fingers ached and Trowa’s lip was numb. And Quatre’s discerning eye and skilled hand had not been mistaken. Balance had been restored. The music floated perfectly from the newly-positioned strings, carrying a song of joy into the air.

~fin~

Comments

[lil-1337.livejournal.com]

That was gorgeous! I loved how Quatre compared and contrasted his life and relationship with Trowa to tuning the violin. I also liked how in the end they both comparised and gave a bit to make things work. I'm so glad you shared!

[lukon-idein.livejournal.com]

Thank you!! I'm so happy you liked it. Glad the imagery worked for you, and the resolution. They're both such reasonable characters, it's easy to see them working things out quietly, rather than having flashy, dramatic fights. Thanks so much for reading and commenting!

[stillthestars.livejournal.com]

Oh, that was so nicely done! I have a weakness for Quatre and his violin, which you've exploited ruthlessly here. I liked the technical descriptions as much as I enjoyed the metaphor. I also liked that the boys' life together isn't all sugar and spice: there was a nice depth to their relationship.

Thanks for writing!

[lukon-idein.livejournal.com]

Ooooh, always happy to exploit someone's weakness! I was wary of writing another Q+violin story since so many good ones have already been done, but I don't remember reading one about the maintenance aspect before, so I figured it wasn't too overused. Thanks so much for the feedback!!

[darthanne.livejournal.com]

I love the symbolism of the bridge being Trowa and the tuning of the violin representing their relationship. Very nicely written.

(I've never heard of trimming a bridge before though. I tune and adjust my violin by adjusting the strings using the tuning pegs and screws)

[lukon-idein.livejournal.com]

Thank you - very glad you liked it! The trimming thing is a bit odd - it's not actually for tuning, but to change the position of the strings in relation to each other. My teacher did it for me once because I was having trouble with my bow hitting more than one string at once (unintentionally). Adjusting the arc of the bridge can space the strings differently making them easier to hit with more precision. (I've also been known to prop up a string or two to make them sit up higher, though God knows what that does to the tone!) I believe trimming is more likely to happen when a bridge is new and needs to be fitted to the instrument. In my case, it may just have been a quick fix for my teacher whose student didn't have a good enough technique, but it is not unheard of for good players to tinker with stuff to get a better sound. Though I've never seen it done, I've heard you can also trim a bridge, usually the underside, to improve the tone of the instrument.

Anyway, my idea was that Quatre did not like the way he was transitioning from one string to another, and that it was something that had been bothering him for a while but he'd never done anything about it (or possibly that he'd never quite realized what the problem was) until that night. (Blatant relationship metaphor much?) Hope that makes sense! I tried explaining in more detail in the story but it just got too cumbersome, so I left it out. Sorry for being lazy and vague. Thanks again for the feedback and I love your icon!! Fiddlers rule!

[dentelle-noir.livejournal.com]

*hugs the fic* I loved Quatre correcting his metaphore. I must say that fic based around explaining an metaphore get old. kudos for putting a spin on a tierd old style. I lOVED IT!

as for the rest: A)Take your Time. trowa in a Kilt is well worth the wait!
b) Mark Manning eh? Going to have the check that out. I love murder romances, but there's so many badly done ones that I can hadly wade through all the crap to find somehting good on my own.
and
c)Good way of combating writer's block! Write something else! It always works for me, I get my best stuff done after writing a one-shot!

Glad you had a great trip! Keep up the schooling. I know, it's apain to just keep going with no end in sight (dear GOD, do I know) but we must all remain vigilat! VIGILANT!

[lukon-idein.livejournal.com]

*fic grins and does a little dance* Metaphor fics can definitely get annoying (and boring), so I'm glad you liked this one!! Hee hee - I liked Q changing his metaphor too - cuz haven't we all been through the 'Oh, that is just like this... except well, this isn't right and that's not quite the same, but...' (My absolute favorite being from the David Letterman list 'Top 10 Things Overheard in Line to Kickboxer 2': "It's just like Star Wars except it's not in space and there's more kickboxing.")

Thanks again for waiting patiently for Trowa and his kilt. I've been partially held up by an architectural dilemma which I believe I have finally solved, so that will help. I also committed myself to a six-course meal when I am sooooo not a foodie! Again, problem solved, so now the only thing holding me back is my own slackerness (and Duo, who still hasn't shown up after his little disappearing act - he's probably down in New Orleans juggling go cups!)

The Mark Manning series is interesting to me because it has romantic elements, but it's from a guy's point of view so it's not as sentimental as a typical "female" romantic tale. I find that both enjoyable and educational. One doesn't often have a hero who, while completely in love with his partner, is also very physically attracted to other characters. The only things I didn't like were 1) the mystery is sometimes easy to solve and one gets impatient for the hero to figure it out (why doesn't he realize he's in a mystery novel, dammit? He'd figure it out so much faster if he knew that!); and 2) our hero is just so perfect and hot that everyone wants to bag him (I think of this as James Bond Syndrome) - a not uncommon feature of heroes, but it just started to annoy me a little by the 3rd book (although the resolution diffuses the issue somewhat). I'd say it's worth checking out the first one to see if you like it. (You can probably find a cheap used one on Amazon. In fact, I got the first 3 in one volume for less than $10 that way.) - I totally know what you mean about wading through the crap! I have the same problem with fantasy. And while I have a weakness for regency romances, there're so many dreadful ones out there, I only read ones recommended to me by trusted friends.

Thanks so much for the encouragement!! It's really nice to have some positive vibes flowing my way. What's the line from Harry Potter? CONSTANT VIGILANCE!! I'm sure I could get my thesis done in half the time if I had Mad Eye Moody heckling me every day!

[dentelle-noir.livejournal.com]

Yet, I'd never get anything done with Trowa heckling me, no matter how mad he'd get.

...was that a needed response? Probably not...but I ENJOYED IT!


((P.S. We need to chat on messenger! Do you have the MSN version?

[dentelle-noir.livejournal.com]

and I add another coment...because I'm weird like that. I've just learned the techology of AOL instant messenger! I added you to my 'buddy list'; I hope you don't mind!

[lukon-idein.livejournal.com]

Cool! A new AIM buddy!! I keep telling my friends to set themselves up, but do they? NO. So I'm always happy to have new people to chat with. Thanks! I will add you to my buddy list as well. : )

[raletha.livejournal.com]

Ah, very late with feedback - I am so glad I found this! I missed it when it was new, and am glad to have backtracked to find this. I love the epiphany through metaphor: as Dentelle mentioned, when Quatre had to readjust his own metaphor. That was beautiful -- and liberating for Quatre, to come free of his idea of dependence and move back to a place of more conscious choice. It's a very mature treatment of a relationship, and I appreciate that so much.

I also love how carefully detailed this piece was. The quietness of it, the thoughtfulness. I especially love the indirect communication and understanding and the intimacy. The romance here never once strays into tautology or clichéd notions, and that is wonderful and rare in fanfic. Thanks for sharing. I have gone ahead and friended your journal (hope you don't mind ^^;;) to reduce my chances of missing any more of your fiction.

[lukon-idein.livejournal.com]

OH WOW! More amazing feedback - you're going to spoil me completely to death, you know! Trust me, late is not a problem. :) Thanks so much for taking the time to comment.

I'm so glad you enjoyed this one. I was a little worried that I'd stretched the metaphor a bit too far. But it was fun having Quatre consciously crafting the metaphor himself, instead of having the all-powerful narrator do it for him. It made it more malleable and interactive. (Not that that was what I intended from the beginning - but that's one of my favorite things about doing these quick, short fics - you can learn so much from them!) Also glad you appreciated the maturity - it's tough being a thirtysomething anime fan - everyone's so young and hopeful and energetic!

I am honored to have you friend me!! (And hope you don't mind if I return the favor.) Yippee!! Another friend! I think that makes three - can you tell they don't let me out much? ; )

[bryonylj.livejournal.com]

I second Raletha's comments! This was a really lovely introspective piece - definitely left me with a nice satisfying feeling of "awwww". It didn't feel trite or mushy, the metaphor worked really well, and it was just, yeah, awwwwww. :)

[lukon-idein.livejournal.com]

Thanks very much!!! I fear it does sort of dip its toes in mushy... but I do try to rein myself in when I start going too far. :P The awwwwwwwww response is most humbly appreciated!