Blood, Sweat, and Schradieck

Chapter Seventeen - Will

A/N: You might want to go back and read the last chapter because this one takes up the instant that one leaves off.

It is a testament to how worried Halt is that the teacher bundles Will right back into the car, driving the short distance back to the Conservatory and depositing him right in his practice room. 

"Play," Halt says, pushing Will towards the piano. "Don't speak, don't think, just play."

And Will reaches toward the keys like a dying man, because he knows with a painful certainty that this is the only thing in the entire universe that can help him now, can block out that horrible agony in his chest, can drown out the incessant Except Alyss ringing over and over through his head. Within a few moments, he's playing Hanon like a madman, his fingers flying in his desperation to stop and forget.

Halt stands back and sighs. Normally where Will is concerned, Halt would be staking out this practice room, standing guard to keep this enormously talented young man out of the room, so he could rest and relax and mentally prepare for tomorrow. It's frightening how much the tables have turned.

This, he thinks to himself, is why I never had children. He sighs mentally, before freezing. He shakes his head. It doesn't matter that he never married, never had children. It didn't work. Will and Gilan and Alyss, and by extension George and Horace - these are his children, bound to him not by blood but by the countless shared experiences and emotions they have felt and seen, mostly through the music that, above all else, they seek to grasp and possess. 

Will doesn't even need the music at this point, flying through the exercises in order. Halt figures he should be proud, but instead all he feels is a dawning sort of emptiness, and he recognizes this as his mind's reaction to the events of the past few days. It's the only way he'll be able to stay sane. Normally, Halt would be deep into the Hanon book himself by now, but he forces himself to stay where he is. Will needs him now. 

It's sad that this is the only coping technique that will work for either of them.

Will doesn't react or even notice when there's a knock on the door of the practice room. He's too deep into trying to lose himself.

Halt opens the door to see his close friends and colleagues, Arald Barons and Rodney Brunt, standing outside. Their faces are blank, but their eyes are full of sadness. They carry blankets and thermoses of hot coffee.

"Figured you and Will would be staking out a practice room tonight," Rodney murmurs, handing over an armful of blankets. "Thought you could use these."

Suddenly and uncharacteristically overcome by emotion, Halt swallows painfully, taking the blankets. "Thanks," he says. "It's going to be a long night."

"And the morning will come," Arald reminds him seriously, passing over the coffee. "Don't forget that it will end."

"Call us if you need anything," Rodney says.

"The bus to the operahouse is leaving a 11:30 tomorrow morning," Arald says. "Representatives are meeting in the auditorium at ten to rehearse Gilan's piece."

"Thanks," Halt says again.

Inside the practice room, Will makes the transition to the second series of exercises, and Halt glances over his shoulder to make sure he's all right.

Halt's friends see the motion. "Go take care of Will," Arald says. "Don't worry about anything else."

Rodney closes the door to the practice room, leaving Halt and Will alone with the music.

It is a long night. Will finishes the Hanon exercises for the second time in twenty-four hours, his fingers burning and his heart pounding. Halt wordlessly passes Will a container of coffee, and Will downs it all at once, the tips of his ears buzzing. Then he turns back to the piano and begins to play through anything and everything he's ever learned. 

It's well into the small hours of the morning when his fingers finally still and his eyelids begin to droop from sheer exhaustion. Will is already asleep when Halt catches his slumping form and guides him gently into the nest of blankets cushioning the hard tile floor of the practice room.

Will wakes an indeterminate amount of time later - in fact, it seems no time at all has passed in the dim grayness of the small practice room. Tug is a large, solid, comforting presence just to his right. Halt is slumped over in a chair against the wall next to the closed door, snoring softly. 

Will remembers everything from yesterday, but instead of the raw pain from before, he feels instead a sleepy dullness. He yawns, stretching, and rubs his eyes. He tilts his head from side to side to relieve the ache from sleeping in such a strange position. 

Across from him Halt stirs, opening his eyes. His teacher seems to bypass the sleepy, half-awake, in-between state, jumping straight from sleep to wide awake. His eyes are piercing as they examine Will, seemingly checking for damage.

"Good morning," Will says evenly.

Halt eyes him suspiciously. "Good morning," he replies. He slides his phone out of his pocket and glances at the screen.

"It's just after eight," Will's teacher says. "You're supposed to be in the auditorium at ten to rehearse Gilan's piece. Are you hungry?"

To his surprise, Will realizes that he is. Starving, in fact. 

"Yes," he says.

"Great," Halt says. He drains the last drops of coffee from a thermos. "Let's go get some breakfast."

A/N: Sorry about the wait for this chapter! I was so ridiculously busy the past two weeks between work, school registration, and (another) competition. Now that all I have is work, hopefully I'll be back to updating. 

There will be NO update for Sparks Flying because I didn't have time to write one and I only have a few hours before I have to work for basically the rest of the weekend.