Who: Noah and Micah What: Musician meet-up Where: A club When: Recentish Warnings/Rating: Nada
The club was quiet that night, soft conversation, the clink of glass against ice, the soft notes of music emanating from the grand piano that sat up on the stage. The stage was occupied by only one person that night, short, sandy brown hair gelled back from his face, his slacks dark, shirt equally dark, unbuttoned at the top button with the pale white undershirt visible underneath. He played with a certain ease, a sadness leaking through his notes as he leaned in to the ivories, eyes closed against the world, lost in the music he created from no sheet music that was visible.
Noah attended, as promised, to see what the man who had run the advert was all about. He had no true expectations; none beyond someone with a possible injury, given the inability to move in certain capacities. He was expecting someone slightly older, given the man’s voice on the phone, and he was hoping for someone with passable talent. He was dressed in denim and a white, button down shirt that was open over a tee of the same non-color. He had a violin and flute case in his hand, and a guitar strung over his shoulder. He preferred the former two instruments, and he was hoping the man who had placed the ad would be amenable to being slightly more creative in the composition of their band than most. He had not told his stepmother of his intentions upon leaving the house, knowing she would find fault with any attempt to form a band. He stopped halfway to the stage, and he turned his attention to the man at the piano. It would be quite nice if that was Micah, he thought, even as he moved toward the bar to ask the pianist’s name.
The man who was tending bar that night confirmed that the pianist was indeed named Micah, murmuring something that he had been playing for a few weeks here and management seemed to like him. A trio of steps came at that point, the piano having gone silent and the pianist in question approaching, slow steps that he balanced heavily on a cane for. “I do hope you’re not saying anything bad about me, John,” Micah said as he hauled himself up on the stool beside where Noah stood, the bartender already moving to ready Micah’s drink of choice. “Should I know you?” Micah asked, having heard the confirmation but not the question, giving him little to go on as to who might be asking after him. There were notes of strain in his voice, and as friendly as he might have been on the phone, that same warmth didn’t seem to be present in person. The cane was hooked over the edge of the bar, sleek black and worn to a soft shine from heavy use.
“Not yet, not in person at any rate,” Noah said, setting the cases on the stool beside him and holding out a hand for Micah to shake. His youth, near as he was now, was unmistakeable. His cheeks still had the fullness of young adulthood, and his eyes were still unmarred with lines of any sort. He pushed his messy black hair out of his eyes, and he nodded back toward the stage. “That was quite good. I was hoping you were the person I was here to see.” As always, any discussion about (or around) music took all the uncertainty out of Noah’s frame, and what Micah was presented with was an open, confident young man. The incident at the hotel had, admittedly, helped matters. He was not, it seemed, going mad at all. Even the umbrella, such a mainstay in recent weeks, was missing from the evening’s excursion.
Noah, then, Micah had to presume as he took the other’s hand in a firm shake. “It’s a pleasure to put a face with the name and voice,” Micah replied, pulling his hand back and giving the bartender a nod as the glass was placed in front of him, something clear with a twist of lime floating in the liquid. He took a long drink before speaking again, giving Noah a short nod of his head. “Well, I’m glad to know that it didn’t offend your senses. You might have thought different last week with the woman who was singing that I accompanied. Flat, flat, flat,” he said, his lips twisting in a bemused expression. Another drink and Micah angled himself on his stool slightly, giving Noah a long look up and down, taking him in, noting the confidence, the age, the ease with which he spoke.
Giving a nod towards the cases that Noah had sat aside, he met the young man’s gaze for a moment. “Thinking of opening one of those tonight?” Micah questioned, also curious about his new acquaintance’s skills in music. He had shown him his own, after all, and the night was still quite young.
“The pianist can hardly be blamed if the singer is flat,” Noah said, though he’d never worked in any kind of ensemble. He was more of a purist himself, with little need for words to accompany his compositions, but the public became bored without words to sing along to, and it was a necessity he was willing to accept. He looked over at the cases when Micah nodded toward them, and he smiled a pleased smile at the suggestion. “Of course, sure. Will they let us use the stage, or is there somewhere else we should go?” he asked, looking about the club for a door that led into a backstage area. When he looked back, he took Micah in a little more carefully, closer. He was handsome, despite his age, which was good; fans were fickle. He didn’t need to the now-silent voice in his mind to tell him as much.
“True, but when the singer is flat, that’s all people hear, not the pianist accompanying her.” A small shrug of his shoulders and Micah took his cane in hand as he eased himself down from his stool, drink taken in the other hand. “And the stage is ours. I’m booked here for the evening. They’re not going to bemoan an addition to the act tonight, I don’t think,” Micah said, already moving in that direction, his pace slow though he moved with confidence, unashamed of himself. The kid was nice enough, at least with the small amount of interaction they’d shared, and if his musical abilities were up to par, Micah could see something evolving out of that. It wouldn’t be his guys, no, but he doubted that there would ever be another group like that, not that he was looking to replace them. But something new, something steady that he could grow with, he needed that. His therapists had said he needed that, and maybe he was willing to take some of their advice.
Noah watched the careful approach to the stage without any pity, but with the curiosity of youth in his eyes. An accident, possibly? He doubted the ailment was from birth. Of course it’s not, the voice in his head said calmly and without irritation in the stupidity of the boy. After all, Noah was doing as he wanted him to in this endeavor, and no one had perfected the pleased-parent routine as Mycroft had. Mycroft pointed out all the reasons the uneven gait was not from birth, and Noah just listened (for once) as they progressed. He didn’t offer to help the other man as he climbed onto the stage, because he wouldn’t want anyone helping him were the situation reversed, and he merely set his cases atop the piano. The guitar was removed last, and it was set alongside the leg of the piano as he considered his options. In the end, he pulled out a composition, something young and sharp, all instruments and no lyrics, and he set it out on the piano in case Micah wanted to accompany. Then, he draped his white over-shirt over the guitar haphazardly and lifted the flute to his lips. A few test blows later, and he was lost in the song, his feet moving until he was in the stage light. He was young, talented, and born for this, it seemed, because it was entirely liberating and his confidence was impossible to miss.
The arts were something that Greg Lestrade could respect, but ultimately had very little personal interest in. It was in these moments that he was the quietest, leaving Micah to his own devices as he settled on the piano bench, cane resting nearby. His gaze was sharp as he watched Noah go between the instruments he had brought with him, a faint smile pulling at his lips at the sight of the guitar, and then the flute, giving a small nod of approval as the sheet music was settled on the stand. A quick glance at the music, a few moments spent ghosting his fingers over the keys as Noah started to play, and then the piano joined in, flawless accompaniment. His attention was on the music half the time, the other half spent watching Noah as he moved with each note, each rise and fall of the piece, and even Lestrade had to murmur his own approval of the composition.
It felt good to play with someone talented again, someone who had music running through their veins as thickly, if not more so, as Micah did. It felt effortless, this duet, the keys warm beneath his fingers, even the pain in his hip, the pain that shot down through his leg, dulling as the moments swept by, time meaningless as he fell to the story Noah’s music created.
When Noah lowered the flute, the small gathered crowd was quiet - pin-drop quiet - and then the clapping began, and Noah turned to look at Micah. He quirked a brow that said well, perhaps we have something, and he laughed with an easy quiet as he stepped out of the light and walked back to the piano. “Almost a shame to put words to it,” he said of the joining of Micah’s piano with the flute, “but if we’ve a notion of filling large arenas with screaming fangirls,” he said, obviously joking as he leaned on the piano’s cover. “Not bad?” he asked, seeking agreement, rather than approbation. He had enough confidence in his ear to know when something was good, and the crowd provided whatever certainty was missing.
Micah lifted his fingers from the keys as Noah approached, giving a small laugh of his own as he shook his head at the sound of the applause ringing through the club. It wasn’t an unfamiliar sound, but one he hadn’t heard in some time, and it was easy to remember how good it felt to hear such things. “Not bad in the slightest,” Micah said in agreement. “There’s definitely something there, I think.” Pushing back from the keys, Micah took hold of his cane and brought it back near him, giving Noah a long look. “I’d ask you to join me for an encore, but I think we might have to negotiate a higher rate if we’re to do this again, yes? Besides, my time is up for the night.” He paused, weighing his options for a long moment. “Join me for a drink?”
Noah tucked his flute away, the sheet music following the silver instrument, and he nodded as he stepped off the stage. “If you’re paying. I might be good with a flute, but I’m rather broke,” he admitted, no real shame in his lack of funds. That was part of the reason for this, wasn’t it? Fame, fortune, independence. “I am, at present, an itinerant card shark, one that can be counted on to lose every single hand.” He smiled, all pink cheeks and youth, the kind of smile that said he’d no rent to maintain, no car payments to his name, no real concern about feeding himself. He stopped at the bar, cases in his hand as he slid onto a barstool, and he looked over his shoulder once he was settled.
Micah trailed after Noah on the way back to the bar, easing himself up onto one of the stools, a crease of pain pulling at his face before he finally settled down, indicating to the bartender that he’d be covering both of their tabs. “I’m not exactly rolling in the cash, but I’ve got enough to eat on, at least,” Micah commented, having to shake his head at Noah’s words, his amusement concealed only slightly by the visible pain. “Remind me to leave you behind if I ever develop a card habit, yes?” And that came with a smile, just the corner of his lips pulled up. Yes, this could work. He could nearly see this working.