Heronstairs: A Fluff Collection

Love's Concerto

Jem had a habit of describing people in terms of music. It was simpler that way, and often made it easier to understand why people did what they did. Music was universal and didn't come with strange Western idioms that more often than not made him question the sanity of Europeans as a whole.

Music was simple terms that meant one thing and one thing only, designed to give life to a silent world and joy to everyone who heard it. He learned this view from his mother, who had filled their house with music every day she could, and his father, who had given him his violin as soon as he was big enough to hold one. Music connected people in a way that nothing else could; indeed, it was his only real connection to his family and his old home in Shanghai. Music simplified the world down to one simple goal- play it right.

However, if James Carstairs loved one thing in this world more than music, it was William Herondale.

Not as though that was a difficult thing to do. Loving Will was easy, a natural thing his heart had begun to do before he'd even realized it. Will, though he'd protest and say the only thing he knew about music was that he liked Jem's, and despite his affinity for pretty words and weakness for a good turn of phrase, was music in every step he took and every word he spoke.

Enter, forte, maestoso, grandioso.

Will entered a room with a forte that made Jem's fingers itch for his violin. All wild hair and long limbs, he strode through the doors, smirking when all eyes inevitably turned to him. He surveyed the people as a king would his subjects, then sprawled on the nearest armchair and made his opinion known. Conversation halted when the door flew open as it always did for Will- he knew exactly what the grandeur of his entrances did to a room, particularly if anyone in that room was female. Will was also acutely aware of the fond eye roll and small smile this would earn him from his parabatai, who seemed unfazed by his dramatics.

And wasn't that a lie if Jem had ever heard one. Acting unaffected and convincing the others was easy enough- he'd had years of practice- but hiding it from Will was another matter. Will knew how much Jem loved him, that was no secret, but how would Jem explain that every abandoned piece Will had ever seen him frown at before scrapping the attempt was inspired by the music that seemed to leap into his mind every time he saw him?

Will changed the dynamic of a room from a mezzopiano, a single violin playing a melody for the mood of the room, to a crescendo that ended in a flourishing forte of blue eyes and dark curls and wit.

Enter, sotto voce, dolce, felice.

When he was relaxed, Will was truly a sight to behold. His voice lost its sharpness, falling quietly when they were alone in the library or the back garden or in their hideaway in the attic. Instead of mocking, his lilting voice would recite poetry in an undertone, painting the sky above them with his words. He would throw his legs over Jem's if they were sitting in companionable silence, or lay with his head pillowed in Jem's lap and chatter airily about everything and nothing.

Will, when he was relaxed and alone with Jem, would finally seem happy, but there was a lingering ache there. Jem tried his best to fix it, held him when he fell apart and kissed his sadness away and painstakingly pieced him back together, but that bright bold happiness that stole over Will's features when Jem quoted poetry back at him or insulted him in Will's own language was getting stronger, and the music seemed to brighten.

Even in a sotto voce, even in that quiet undertone of his usual clamor, Will was stunning, and the concerto just kept building.

Enter, vigoroso, stringendo, trionfale.

Will on the hunt was a sight to behold. Weapon in his hand and Marks in stark contrast with the paleness of his neck and forearms, Will appeared to be an avenging angel, cast from Heaven to do the good deeds that were too bad for Heaven itself to do. Will was energy in motion, a dark blur, back pressed against Jem's own with a feral grin, ready for a fight.

There was no decay to his cacophony, either. The fight could continue for ages, Jem feeling the familiar ache creeping back into his bones, but Will seemed to draw energy from the very earth under his feet to keep fighting, faster and faster until they were standing, bloody and short of breath and utterly victorious.

Even with blood on his face and sweat on his brow, Will was beautiful, in a harsh and cruel sort of way. Vigor and strength gave him his abilities, angelic blood crafting two complementary weapons of the boys walking back, an arm slung easily around thin shoulders and a triumphant whoop thrown towards the skies.

Enter, piangevole, affettuoso, dolente.

The only time the symphony that seemed to follow Will wherever he went changed was when Jem was ill. Music came to a crashing halt, shrinking down to a lone violin. Will shooed everyone else away, silencing their fretting and their hovering until Jem was stronger. His hard exterior melted away in the face of Jem's pain, and soon he was sitting by Jem's side faithfully, hands stroking his hair back and kissing a tiny, tired smile. There was a sadness and a guilt under his affection, but the affection never wavered. He read or sang or simply held Jem against his chest through the worst of it, offering what little relief he could.

On a singularly rare occasion, they had fought when Jem was ill, finally talking realistically about what they were both dreading.

Low and slow and already grief-stricken, the melody of Will's heartbeat when confronted with shaking hands and coughs and a fever he was helpless to do anything but watch would be a melody that haunted Jem for the rest of his days. To hear so much sound reduced to a plaintive wailing of heartstrings was beyond any musician's abilities.

Enter, con amore, patetico, teneramente.

Young love had a way of making two melodies seem like one. A crescendo as loud as two heartbeats finding each other, as much passion in the song as in the kiss and as much strength behind the music as in their love. Will gave every ounce of himself, all his love and desire and support and affection and everything that made him Will, into every touch and every word.

Will's love was bold and unapologetic and frequently left Jem with bruises and marks to hide the next day. It was constant and steady and everything Will didn't believe he was. It was bliss, and it was their secret, a song meant for two hearts and two hearts alone.

The song had slow and tender moments that left Jem smiling to himself, but just as many bold and lively moments that left him gasping. Will's love shifted like the tide but never left, and Jem could only hope his song lingered in the empty spaces of Will's bed the same way Will's lingered in his imprint in the sheets.

Jem let the last note ring in the empty space of the music room, startled from his reverie by applause from behind him.

"That," Will said, rising from a chair, "was stunning."

"How long have you been sitting there?"

"At least five minutes. You've been playing for some time. Was that new?"

"Yes and no, I suppose," Jem said with a smile, setting the violin down carefully. "The music wasn't new to me. Just to you, I think."

Will looked at him with a question in his eyes, but Jem simply shrugged. "I tried to put you into a song, at the core of you. The way you enter a room, the you I get to see when we're alone, the way you fight, the way you love. All your passion and strength and wit and grace translates well to music, so..." He smiled, not quite able to meet Will's eyes. "Here we are."

Anything else he might have said was cut off by Will's sudden and strong embrace, burying his face into the crook of Jem's neck and mumbling his thanks, keeping them still in the echoes of their music.

A/N: This is the companion piece to "Maybe" from way back when.