#murph writes

The sudden change in body position must’ve fucked with Will’s autonomic nervous system because there’s no plausible explanation for him feeling this off-kilter by just meeting someone. Standing face to face allows Will to get a better look at Macklin. His eyes are wide, and a striking green; the contrast between the small, dark pupils and light irises kind of reminds him of a snake. Or a cat. Cats are cuter. Definitely a cat.

They’re about the same height; though Macklin slouches, making Will seem taller, given his near-perfect posture—honed through several years worth of ballet. Maybe the lack of back support on a piano bench has caused it? It takes Will’s thoughts drifting for him to realize that they have been standing, holding each other’s forearm, without speaking, for an extended amount of time.

Will drops Macklin’s arm like he’s been burned. Macklin coughs, and ducks his head as he makes his way to the grand piano in the corner of the studio.

He’s visibly struggling to pull the thing away from the wall. Somebody skips arm day, apparently.

“Do you need help?”

“Oh. Uh. No. I got it.” Macklin grunts with every push.

“Works better if you take the brake off the wheels.” Will’s amusement seeps into his tone.

“Oh.” Macklin flushes patchy and bright pink, travelling down underneath his hoodie. Not that Will’s wondering how far it goes, or something idiotic like that.

With the piano moved to a more accessible spot, Macklin reveals sheet music from his pocket. “Is Clair de lune by Debussy okay? I have a solo piano performance of Suite bergamasque this spring, and the time signature is just so weird in it. I can't get it right for the life of me. I might go insane, actually.” His previous inhibitions about speaking to Will have seemingly faded in the past ten minutes or so.