Luke wakes up later than he would have liked, even considering his lessons aren’t until later. He prefers getting up in the early morning, no matter what time he falls asleep, or he tends to feel groggy and disoriented all day. Already he feels a little fuzzy; the extra sleep blankets his normally sharp mind and gives him an unwanted peace.
By the time Luke gets dressed in his unofficial uniform of a clean white button down, a tie, and jeans, Ashton’s already making breakfast for himself. When he catches sight of Luke, he preemptively sticks another piece of toast in the toaster oven.
“Morning,” Ashton says, turning his attention back to his schoolwork lying open on the counter.
“Morning,” Luke says. “Got class today?”
Luke shouldn’t bother asking; he knows Ashton’s schedule by heart. While he learns at the Conservatory on a full scholarship for his music, hardly anyone is so lucky; Ashton takes evening classes in addition to his cello lessons.
“Yeah, theory,” Ashton says, grimacing as usual. As far as Luke can tell, finding someone who actually likes theory is nigh impossible.
“I’m going down to the conservatory,” Luke continues, having finished with the morning small talk. “The performance hall should be empty until noon. I want to practice in the hall before the recital.”
“Oh,” Ashton says, turning from the breakfast process. “Can I come?”
“Why?” Luke asks, heading back to his bedroom to grab his violin. “Shouldn’t you finish your theory?”
“I’ll bring it with me,” Ashton says easily. “I’ll be your test audience.”
“You’re a shitty test audience,” Luke points out, though half smiling. “All you ever do is tell me how nice it sounds and stare.”
“You know, some people might actually appreciate that,” Ashton gripes. “And what can I say? I like watching you play.”
“You just like watching me.”
“I wouldn’t have asked you out if I didn’t find you at least mildly attractive.”
“Mildly attractive,” Luke grumbles.
“But extremely talented,” Ashton says with a wink.
“We can stick with mildly attractive,” Luke objects, moving towards the door.
Luke has trouble taking compliments. For someone who gets so much praise, Luke’s oddly unaccustomed to accepting it. Probably that stupid instructor’s fault. Although, Ashton didn’t know Luke before the Conservatory, so it’s difficult to say if he was always this way or not. Luke’s only been here a year, coming in early at 17, and Ashton didn’t even meet him until a couple of weeks after he arrived, when he was accepted (and, much to everyone’s alarm, promptly made concertmaster) to the symphony orchestra. And he didn’t really know Luke until they’d both submitted requests for a flat following a breakup that left Ashton stranded with no roof over his head.
Ashton hurries to catch up with Luke, who’s halfway out of the flat, grabbing his theory book on the way out.
---
The minute Luke had walked through the doors on the side of the stage, he’d spotted Calum on the opposite side--doing the exact same thing.
Luke catches his eye and Calum freezes, eyes narrowing at Luke, immediately gearing up for a fight. Luke glances uneasily down at Ashton in a chair in the front row, silently pleading for help. Ashton’s hardly a fighter, but he’s at least bulkier and knows his way around.
“I was here first,” Calum says, breaking the silence. “Go find a practice room.”
Luke takes a deep breath. “I was here first. I need to practice for my recital next week.”
“You always get the performance hall,” Calum snaps, advancing, setting his viola off to the side. Luke mirrors him, putting his violin by the edge of the stage. “You can spare it for one day.”
“What’s your problem?” Luke hisses, exasperated. “I need it. I have a recital next week! Perlman will gut me if it’s not perfect.”
“Well, not my problem, is it?” Calum says, folding his arms. “Scram, kid, I have work to do.”
“No,” Luke protests, trying to hold his ground. Calum smirks, the little bit of height he has on Luke making him infinitely bigger in Luke’s eyes. “I-I’m using the performance hall today.”
“No, you’re not!”
“Yes, I am!”
Before they know it, Ashton’s clambered up on the stage, shoving Calum away from Luke and standing between them, arms crossed. He glares Calum down, Luke hiding behind. Luke thanks the heavens for the godsend that is his boyfriend.
“Back off, Cal,” Ashton says, purposely tensing his arms so his muscles are visible. Not that either of the other boys are oblivious to the fact. “Let him have it for a day.”
“Go fuck yourself,” Calum says, planting his feet, clearly not intending to go down without a fight. Luke cringes. “This is just adorable, isn’t it? Standing up for your bitch.”
Luke squeaks, bringing his nails up to his mouth to chew on them. “Seem to recall you were my bitch not so long ago,” Ashton bites back, and Calum’s face darkens. “I’ll count to three before I start swinging.”
“Are you fucking serious, Ash?” Calum says, but he steps back, eyes blazing. There’s a fury to his demeanor, rigid and barely contained. “Whatever. Take the stupid fucking hall. Good luck at that recital, Luke. Hope you fall off the stage.”
Luke watches him go with a mixture of relief and guilt. He peeks around Ashton’s body, waiting until the door slams shut before he breathes again. The hall still echoes with the rioting emotions from just moments before.
Ashton visibly deflates after Calum leaves.
“One day, you’re going to need to learn to fight your own battles,” Ashton says, flicking his hair out of his eyes.
Luke wants to disintegrate. If he wasn’t so useless, if he could get up the courage, he could have fended Calum off alone. There was no need to involve Ashton. It’s not fair to put Ashton in such an awkward position; Luke knows he avoids Calum as much as humanly possible, more than even Luke (and Luke’s main goals include avoiding Calum).
“Sorry,” Luke mumbles, and Ashton sighs and pulls him closer, taking him by the hands.
“Hey, now, I’m not mad,” Ashton says calmly. “It’s just--Cal, you know?”
Luke is uncomfortably aware--always--of the fact that the two of them used to be a thing. He can hardly imagine it, because Calum borders on spiteful most of the time. Still, when he met Calum, they were still involved, and Calum had been nice to Luke. Really, really nice, even after the breakup, right up until he’d figured out that Ashton had moved in, and moved on, with Luke.
“I know,” Luke says, body language still shrinking away.
“Why don’t you start,” Ashton suggests, “and I’ll get going on my theory, yeah?”
Ashton has this way of redirecting Luke’s thoughts; of pretending, for him, that he can’t tell anything’s wrong. It would make most people bitter, but Luke’s not most people. It’s better than having to talk about it--it saves Luke embarrassment.
“Okay,” Luke says, detaching his hands and reaching for his violin as Ashton hops off the stage. He kneels and takes the instrument out with care, marveling as always at the beautiful sheen the centuries-old varnished wood takes on under the performance hall lights.
After he tunes, he hesitates to start, glancing down at Ashton, who smiles encouragingly before looking back down at his books.
Ashton finds it difficult to focus on his theory. It’s not the music; he could easily fall asleep to Luke’s violin. Rather, it’s Luke himself. There’s something enviable about the ease; if Ashton didn’t know him as well as he does, he could swear it really was effortless. If Ashton didn’t hear him muttering and playing intermittently through the night, he would swear Luke didn’t need to practice at all.
But Ashton understands that, as far ahead of his years as Luke is, his progress comes not only from his unprecedented skill, but from the grueling hours of practice he puts in every day and every night. Ashton has never, not in his twenty years of living, the eighteen of which he’s been a musician, eleven of which he’s played in orchestras, and the latter two years he’s spent studying at the Conservatory, never has he seen anyone as incredibly dedicated to their instrument as is Luke.
Of course, Luke is arguably too dedicated--obsessed, maybe. It’s not like he doesn’t get tired of it; Ashton’s familiar with the signs, being whiny and clingy and weepy. And boy, does he see plenty of that side of Luke. But even exhaustion and tears don’t slow him down for long; within minutes, something will slide over his eyes, glass and impenetrable, and he’ll keep going until he’s satisfied, or until Ashton physically takes the violin out of his hands and forces him to go to bed, for both their sanity.
Yet, on some level, Ashton understands. Luke has his reasons, like anybody else, reasons to persevere, reasons why he feels the urgency to practice so excessively. And Ashton would almost be able to admire his motives, but it’s fairly killing Luke, and who really wants to watch their boyfriend sink like this?
---
(a/n) so there ya have it
andante: walking pace (tempo)
in case you don't know what music theory is: just basically the bane of every musician's existence. like history and technical details of music and terms and reading it and etc
there's nothing left to say except it's christmas break so I'll try to update both fics twice this week but I'm exploring personal fanfictions that I probably won't post so I might take this opportunity just to write drabbles and stuff that I want
and merry christmas to all of you maybe I'll write you an angsty christmas oneshot for y'all thank you goodnight
i love you all
bye xx