Play my heart

Chapter XXII

The charity concert is the 23rd of December. On the 20th, Darren picks up his pianist from the hospital and treats him to coffee at his favorite place before driving him home. Both Lisa and Darren's friends wanted to do some celebration, but Lee strongly refused every offer on the basis of needing to practice.

It's 3a.m. on the 21st when Darren's phone rings next to his bed. He wakes up with a groan and takes the call without checking who it is, just to make the sound stop.

"Hm?"

"Can't sleep."

Lee's voice is enough to get his brain going, a bit more alert. He sinks back on the bed, phone clutched to his ear.

"Okay."

"I was thinking."

His sentences are clipped, no unnecessary words, which is a source of concern in itself.

"What about?"

There's a pause where Darren assumes Lee's gathering courage.

"The concert's in two days," he says, is if Darren could forget. "What... what happens after that?"

Darren frowns, it's too late in the night for any kind of question about the future, or about anything, really. "We hopefully get some money for the orphanage, I guess."

"No, you idiot," Lee spits out. "I mean, what happens to- to us."

His sleep-muddled brain takes a second to understand what Lee's talking about. That's right, after the concert, they won't need their daily rehearsals, they won't meet everyday at the school's practice room to bicker over style and interpretation, to end the afternoon sipping coffee bought from a vending machine sat side by side at the window. He hadn't thought about it, but now that he does, there's no doubt he will also have trouble sleeping. Bubbles of fear pop somewhere near his lungs.

"I don't know," he breathes finally, throat suddenly constricted.

Lee remains silent, so he tries again.

"Though... I don't know about you, but I guess I tolerate you now," he says, "so it wouldn't be terrible to keep hanging out. If you want."

"I do," Lee rushes, and promptly regrets it. "I do tolerate you, I mean. I can consider the hanging out bit."

Darren smiles despite the trembling of his hands. "Whatever."

There's a charged pause. He can hear Lee's breath on the other end, rhythmic and a little too fast, and it does something to his sleep-fogged mind. His mouht goes dry as he runs a hand through his hair, searching for a way to keep him there a little longer. Just a minute, or an hour, or the rest of the night. Even if they don't say anything.

"Well I'll leave you to sleep then."

"Wait, um", Darren falters, scrambling for words. "Uh... you're coming to my place on Saturday, right?" The performance is on Sunday. Lee hums in confirmation and Darren swallows. "You- you should stay over. So none of us gets too nervous, don't you think? I'll even make good luck pancakes for breakfast the next day."

"Good luck pancakes?"

"Surprise ingredient, can't tell you."

The pianist's laugh grazes his ear, sends a chill down his back, liquid heat pooling on his lower belly. This is why he wakes up everyday with the vague memory of dreams about hands and lips and a voice—a voice whispering, a voice giggling, a voice like a feather on his hair, a voice like flames all over his skin. All of this, it's all his fault.