[Piers/Reader] “Kiss on 3, Okay? 1, 2... 2 and a half... umm???”
OOOOOooooo I’m working up my sanity and skill to write fanfic again so what better way to do that than by procrastinating on a paper due later tonight WHOOOHOOOOO!!!!
SUMMARY: “You're working on music for Piers' next set, and confirm a few things to yourself. Really just mindless fluff/angst stuff in a very stream-of-consciousness ficlet - don't mind me~~~”
Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/35575087
(Hit Keep Reading to read the whole thing~!)
“Uhhhmmm --” his humming interrupts your thoughts “-- I beg yer pardon?”
You turn back towards Piers, blinking ever so innocently as you stirred the honey further into your cheap, instant-make coffee. His brows are furrowed, thick black barbs of shadows wrenched into one along his forehead. Blue eyes piercing -- he hates whenever you say that.
“What’s the matter now?”
He jabs his thumb back towards the computer screen. “What the hell did you do to the second chorus?”
“I put it into cut time.”
“Why?”
“‘Cause,” you linger on the sizzle of your words, resolving it’s hiss with a swig of your piping-hot coffee, “it mellows things down for a bit, gives everyone a breather.”
He scoffs, glancing down at the notation software on the computer you presented to him not too long ago. “Yeah, right. Like I ever need a breather.”
You don’t deny that statement. Better sip your coffee before that thought ramps up.
He drags his eyes across the screen once more. One finger rests instinctively around the silver of his choker, toying with its spikes and slides, mindless, clueless -- you were sure by now that he had no idea of how often he fidgeted with that damn thing. Once, you’d caught him doing it almost fifty times in one sitting; you were watching a new show -- together, for once -- legs tangled up below a heated blanket he insisted you buy before winter hit (even though he always ended up hogging it the whole time). Too distracted to watch, you pretended to watch, while watching other, more important things. Specifically someone’s nervous ticks.
His left hand slaps the spacebar. Listening to a payback of some section -- probably the bridge, you think to yourself as you steal another sip of your coffee. Good thing you’d bought some honey this time; Piers prefers his coffee as black as night, and while you weren’t against that, sometimes you needed to bring some goddamn happiness into your life. Piers oughta figure that out too -- he’s getting there, you figure. He’s getting there, even if it takes baby-steps cut in half.
He pulls out the earbuds. Shooting you an incredulous look, you make the poor decision to muscle through your mouthful of coffee -- there goes most of it, spilling down your lips and onto your shirt as the laughter shoots through you in a disastrous tremolo.
“Yer shittin’ me --” he’s trying not to laugh -- you know he’s holding it down, trying still to play like a hardass, “-- what the actuall fuck is happening after the bridge?!”
“Oh -- so you got to the fun part then, yeah?”
He snaps your name -- his snarl always loses its edge then, when it has to deal with matters of you -- and Marnie too, but that’s a different tone altogether. You meet his glare, smug despite your coffee stains. “Do I look like a bloody Octillery or what?”
Another laugh slips out of you. “It’s just a little metric modulation, a little tempo shift, no big deal -- a little extra practice and I know you can handle a few itsy-bits quintuplets on bass, yeah?”
“Yer killin’ me.”
You shrug. Makes us even, then.
Finally satisfied with your drink (or what little you actually got to drink), you deposit your mug into the awaiting sink before taking the long way around the kitchen back to him. His eyes are back onto the screen once more, lost to the world of not-music, his thumb pricking itself with the dull point of the upper spikes in his collar.
Pfft, collar -- you called it that once, teasing the metal in your own fingers, wanting to see his reaction. He had stared you down for so long that day, default sternness remaining hauntingly so on his face, you almost pulled away, afraid that you had gravely overstepped your boundaries. Before you made it out of reach, he flicked the wrist of your retreating hand, hiding his snicker with the click of his tongue -- “Do that again and yer gonna be the one fitted for a collar, got it?” You’ve been stuck here ever since, hopeless and thoughtless, trailing after the likes of someone who literally forgets to do amazingly simple things, like actually drink his disgustingly bitter coffee.
“Oh, right,” he mutters, watching you snake around behind him to retrieve his half-drunk coffee cup from the table. You can feel him stealing glances as you pop the cup into the microwave. His wordless thanks reach you even still, easier and faster with every day you stick around. Hell, one day he might even figure out how to say it.
You don’t let your thoughts dwell too long on things that can’t be helped; instead, you swivel around again, crossing your arms over your chest with a curious tilt of the head. “Thoughts?”
He glances down at the screen. Lips pursing, frowns furrowing, jaw clenching -- goddamn this isn’t fair. This is hardly a fair fight. You’d told him that before, too, shamelessly honest and true with your feelings for once -- “Relax, it’s just one battle -- you’ll catch up to me soon enough.” He hadn’t gotten it, but it’s not like you made it easy for him to understand. The two of you were amazing at these foolishly clever ways to say half-truths, burrowing feelings beneath computer screens and heated blankets and honey-less coffee -- a match made in heaven, one may say. Not you, though, not aloud.
He sighs, a crooked smile sparking instinctively onto his face.
“Guess I’d better get practicin’ then. Don’t wanna disappoint my music theorist, right?”
It’s your turn to scoff. You’re even there, too.
“Not a thing, but okay.”
“Eh, close enough.”
The microwaves beeps. Piers’ eyes are back onto the computer screen, everything pursed and furrowed and knotted and tangled and just a step out of reach. You open the little door to pull out his warmed, not-sweet-enough-or-at-all coffee, cheap and easy, to bring back to his side. You do so, ignoring the stains on your white work shirt that you’ll likely have to bleach late tonight, knowing Piers’ll use your every weakness in effort to keep you around a little while longer to practice his next set. And you do so well, knowing that you’re here hopelessly and thoughtlessly, finding every stolen glance -- every wordless thanks -- from him to be worth it a thousand times over.
You take your usual seat beside him.
“Close enough.”
Close enough.
