🐳 s y d 🐞

James did not even have to look at the fretboard. His eyes stayed locked on the lyric sheet in front of him. Soft flows of the song followed as his fingers systematically plucked at the strings. Blackbird was a beautiful song — one of the only songs that James had played more than once in front of Will. As he continued to sing, he looked ahead. That was until his eyes settled softly onto Will.

He ended up pausing for a second, settling the guitar down. He instead reached for the electric one and stood up. Plugged into the amplifier, James began to pluck at the strings in a rhythm Will had not yet got to memorise. The strumming was quick, deliberate, and careful. He smiled down at the guitar as he began to sing. Lyrics followed in a sweet tone. These lyrics were different to the others. This time, the words were deliberately strung together as something soft. Something that was oddly confessional. Not the sin type of confession — how could it be? James was not religious. But the sort of confession that gets swept under the rug as people have stepped over it one too many times. The kind that has been ignored and suppressed.

The lyrics lingered on forests, tides, and changing seasons, but there was something beneath them that Will could not name. Maybe it was about love. Maybe it was not. It could have been about the world around that James had become ever so sensitive to. Every verse sounded like it was trying to tell Will something without ever saying it outright. Of course, as they always did when James was vulnerable with his music, questions circulated Will’s head. This could be about anyone; of course he wanted to know more.

Some uncertainties survived because nobody dared ask them aloud.

The silence which stretched between them was vast. It was possible for one to hear a pin drop. The silence was deafening. James settled down his guitar and moved to his desk. A mixing table sat, recordings on cassette tapes and VHS tapes sat stacked. Snippets he wanted to distort for the songs, parts he needed to change or retry… As he sat down, he continued to compile all these musical aspects. It seemed as if playing that song aloud to Will had filled this panicked pit. It gave him clarity; the song was perfect.

The table was buried beneath clutter. Unnecessary equipment and broken headphones lingered there. It was typical of James to have never had the heart to throw them out. Managing to navigate his way through the chaos, he reached for a pencil. Quickly, his hands scrawled something in the margin of the lyric sheet, then James paused. “I kept thinking about you while I wrote this.” He said it so casually that it almost sounded like an afterthought, his eyes never leaving the page.

Will was not sure whether to thank him or ask what he meant. What could he say in this situation? His brows furrowed slightly and he fought the corners of his mouth as they tried to lift. Will's eyes drifted anywhere but James, the words catching in his throat as he croaked. Nothing he tried to get out escaped. It felt as if his voice just did not work.

“I- Uh.” Will quickly became a stuttering mess. Who could blame him? He swallowed, his eyes drifting down to his lap for a second before he slung his feet up onto the sofa. Acting cool was the best way to go about it.

For this second of recollection, all that could be heard was the scratching of the pencil across the paper.

Suppressing his stutter, Will spoke the only way that he knew how to: “Soooo… Do I get song writing credits now? Whole song about me, huh?” A cheeky grin quirked up at the corners of his mouth.

That was when James retreated. A small chuckle escaped him, but he used the songwriting paper as if it was a sort of barrier. He hid behind it, his legs bouncing relentlessly against the floor. A nervous laugh escaped him. The lyric sheet rose another inch, hiding the smile that had already disappeared. His heel tapped relentlessly against the floor. Regardless, James was now on the spot.

Finding courage within him took a while. James stayed silent as he made it look like he was drawing. He needed to come clean, and maybe impulse was the best way to go about it.

James stayed silent and his hand froze.

The pencil stopped moving.

He stared at the unfinished lyric in front of him.