“The Notes of your Heart”
pairing: Mysterymusic // Orville x Rodger
human au / one-sided(?) crush / mlm / sfw / no content warnings
summary: orville (called horace in human au) and rodger (he’s still rodger lmao) take a drive in the rain that doesn’t have any homosexual undertones like at all
i hid music for you to listen to while reading
enjoy !! writing is fun i forgot that
Puddles splatter under Horace’s feet as he treads down the sidewalk, umbrella trembling in his hands against the wind.
The rain patters as it hits the ground around him. Light for now, but the darkened clouds covering the sky show no sign of clearing. The sounds of the city blend in with the weather; people chattering and laughing, traffic clogging the streets, a distant bike bell.
Horace’s grip tightens on his umbrella as a strong gust threatens to rip it from his grasp. With a glance to his left, where a barbershop he walks by on his way home each day sits, he estimates twenty minutes more of walking.
He sighs, a cold cloud of his own breath following.
The scent of bread wafts over him as he passes a bustling bakery. His eyes automatically catch on the window, watching people stand in a queue and wait their turn. What use could they have for pastries in weather like this?, Horace muses. Even on the cusp of a thunderstorm, New York is at its busiest. Horace would be more concerned than relieved if the streets were quiet and businesses closed down for once.
His eyes fixed on the road ahead, Horace drowns out the noisy streets with his mind.
The sound of a car pulling up by his side passes over Horace, muffled under his own thoughts. The day’s events, whether he remembered to lock the theatre when he left, when to schedule a piano tuning, when he should call his brother—
A honk pulls him out of his mulling and back to the present quite suddenly. “Mr. Calliope?” A familiar voice calls. “What are you doing in this weather?”
He takes in a breath, grounding himself before he turns his head to acknowledge Rodger. His face has Horace hardly resisting the urge to roll his eyes heavenward. “Detective Marlowe, we meet again. I was just heading home. What are you doing out and about?”
“Ah, quite the same, quite the same. I need rest to do my best, after all!” Rodger leans forward in his seat, an arm hanging out of the window as he gestures in time with his words. Horace brushes off how quickly he took note of Rodger’s speaking habits. With how often they unwittingly end up in the same space, something he suspects is deliberate on Rodger’s end, he was bound to notice his eccentric mannerisms sooner than later.
Isn’t your house the opposite way? He wants to say. Instead, he settles for: “Right, then,” eager to cut the interaction as short as can be.
Horace turns his gaze forward and continues walking, a bit slower than he had been, choosing to ignore Rodger’s car matching his pace and trailing next to him. Above, the sky rumbles. “Seems it’s about to storm,” Rodger’s garish voice pipes from beside him. Horace’s response comes in a noncommittal hum.
The silence lasts only a few more steps before Rodger predictably breaks it again. “Could I, ah, offer you a lift home?”
Horace pauses his amble and turns his gaze to Rodger again. His fingers drum against the wheel as he awaits a response, a hopeful quirk on the corners of his mouth. Horace tears his eyes away from his lips and parts his own to decline. The words barely make it out of his mouth before a lightning strike cuts him off, sending a shiver down his spine.
“It’s not safe to have an umbrella in a storm, you know.”
“I’m aware, Detective Marlowe.”
“They increase the risk of being struck by lightning.”
“Rodger, unlock the car before I change my mind.”
Rodger pulls the car in reverse, and for a moment, Horace thinks he’s going to drive off. Instead, he turns so the passenger side faces him and reaches to push the door open. As Horace ducks inside, he quirks an amused eyebrow at Rodger, who clears his throat as his cheeks darken. “Ah.. wouldn’t want you to step onto the street and get your shoes wet, what with these potholes. They look expensive.”
A half-baked excuse, considering he had already been trudging through puddles for ten minutes before Rodger arrived, but he mercifully chooses not to mention such as he clicks into his seatbelt and folds his umbrella onto his lap.
The drive is quiet as it begins. Rodger doesn’t bother asking for directions to Horace’s luxury apartment complex; he likely has it memorized from his occasional visits for tea. Or when he spontaneously shows up at his door with a bouquet, inviting him for dinner, a walk in the park, or a trip to the cinema. His visits became so frequent, the head of Access Control offered to blacklist him from Horace’s apartment, to which he declined.
Why he doesn’t direct such energy into someone that’ll reciprocate his “admiration” is beyond anything Horace can understand. Rodger is a bigger mystery than any case laid on his desk. Perhaps he should focus less on who stole a two dollar candy bar and more on deconstructing his own emotions, Horace thinks with a huff of laughter he hadn’t realized was audible.
“What’s so funny?” Rodger inquires.
Horace leans back in his seat and watches rain cascade down the window in rivulets with every intent to avoid further conversation until they arrive, but, as he had begrudgingly anticipated, Rodger fakes a cough to draw his attention. “So,” he begins, “Mr. Éclairante. How is he?”
Horace recognizes it instantly: an attempt at small talk leading up to something bigger, probably a disguised date invitation, if he had to guess. He resists the urge to rub his temples. “Weren’t you chatting with him just last week? He invited you to his wedding.”
“Of course! I just.. it’s— a lot can happen in a week.”
Horace glances back to the road. Rodger’s dodgy window wipers barely clear any rain as they come up. “I hardly see him at the theatre lately. He’s hired someone in his place while he and Mr. Matinal plan, but other than that, there’s nothing to note. You didn’t miss anything.”
Rodger nods. “Blessings their way. And you? How have you been?”
Horace straightens in his seat and turns to face Rodger, his eyes darting across him in a quick once-over. His loosely curled ebony hair is slicked back and tied into a thick braid that falls over his shoulder, remaining strands styled in long bangs that define his face and cast shadows against his golden brown skin. His deep brown eyes, framed by a black pair of spectacles, flick between Horace and the road.
His attire is nothing Horace hasn’t seen him in before: a beige collared dress shirt framed by a black waistcoat, violet tie, black slacks, and dress shoes. The trench coat he usually wears around it all hangs off his seat’s headrest, billowing with the car’s movement. The warm orange streetlights passing by as they drive highlight and soften every sharp corner of his somewhat rugged features.
Horace distantly ponders what Rodger wears in domestic settings as he finally speaks: “I’m in good health. Though, my doctor says I could do with a little less pollen.”
Rodger’s embarrassed laugh sends an involuntary warmth through Horace’s chest, chasing away the last bit of chill the storm left settled in his bones. A smile bends his own lips upwards before he realizes it. “Easy on the bouquets, then?”
“Mercy, please. I’m running out of space for them all! And don’t go replacing them with chocolate, either.”
Rodger turns to Horace with a bit of surprise. “You keep them? I figured you tossed them out immediately. I couldn’t blame you.”
“Oh.” Horace diverts his attention back to the window, feeling his cheeks heat. Further so as he hears Rodger lean forward in his seat, trying to catch a glimpse of his face. “I just-.. That would be wasteful. I know my way around flowers, is all. Don’t read into it, as you so commonly do.”
Rodger settles back into his seat with a smile as the car makes a turn. “You enjoy gardening?”
“I took a course in college in case music didn’t work out well for me,” Orville begins, nostalgia passing across his face. “Clearly, it did, but I retained what I learned in botany. I should like to start a fruit garden someday.”
“Hm. Should I start sending you berries instead of flowers?”
Slowly, the conversation comes to a comfortable pause. Horace periodically feels Rodger’s gaze on him, but whatever he planned to ask of him earlier never leaves his mouth.
“And yourself?” Horace risks after a period of silence.
Rodger’s eyebrows furrow. “What about me?”
“Oh, don’t be a dolt. Work with me here. How have you been? Crack any big cases as of late?”
“Regrettably, no, but I am quite close to solving one. Do you remember that bar altercation that left one of the women with a broken arm? They never saw the culprit’s face.”
Horace grimaces. “Unfortunately. I hope the lady is alright. Liquor unlocks such a brutish side of some people…”
“Well, I discovered a piece of evidence everyone else previously overlooked: a fake ID at the scene. We just need to trace it back.”
“How do you tolerate such a line of work? With the crime rate around here…” The implications of Horace’s words go unspoken. Rodger catches on all the same and nods. “It can be grueling,” He agrees, his shoulders tensing slightly. “but seeing a face like yours after a long day helps a great amount.”
“Don’t flatter me.” Horace’s tone is flat and unamused, but despite himself, his heart flutters.
As the buildings outside grow more and more familiar, Horace knows they’re getting closer to his apartment, scarcely three minutes away if he had to guess. The knot of disappointment that tries to form itself around his heart is curtly tossed into the back of his mind, where the rest of the emotions he wishes he didn’t have go to die or compact against each other until they run out of space and come bursting out through his mouth all at once.
Horace considers mentioning the above to his therapist during their next meeting.
They pass the gates, and going through security, the guard gives Rodger a look he chooses to disregard when they spot him in the driver’s seat. By the time they enter the parking lot, the rain hasn’t lightened in the slightest, but no flashes of lightning or rumbles of thunder remain. Horace suppresses the sigh of both relief and disappointment bubbling up in his throat.
Reaching for his umbrella and seatbelt simultaneously, he opens his mouth to thank Rodger and bid him goodbye.
Horace pauses, but he can’t say he’s surprised. Rodger, evidently, always has something to say. “Yes?”
Whatever it is, Rodger seems nervous to speak it. He chews the inside of his cheek and looks anywhere but directly at Horace, exceedingly interested in the steering wheel. He swallows, weakly gesturing to Horace’s hand and muttering something inaudible. His brows furrow in confusion. “What?”
“Can I see your hand?” He repeats, a few notches louder.
Bemused, Horace raises his hand. It hovers above the console for a moment before Rodger slowly cups it in his own and slowly leans forward. By the time Horace catches on, his heart feels just about ready to leap out of his chest and scream, but he doesn’t pull away.
Rodger takes his inaction as permission to continue and presses a quick, barely there kiss to the back of Horace’s gloved hand, uncharacteristically hesitant.
A long stretch of silence. Rain continues to beat against the ground outside. Birds chirp somewhere in the distance. Slowly, Rodger risks a glance upward.
Horace looks at him like he’s never seen him before, lips parted in what would be a gasp if his lungs would work right. His heart skips a beat, then hammers against his chest like it never has as if to make up for it, blood rushing to his cheeks but narrowly missing his brain. Then, audaciously, Rodger flips his hand, palm facing up, and presses his lips against it again, softer this time.
Horace’s stomach flips, something warm and unwelcome curling inside of it. He could die on the spot. He’s sure if Rodger didn’t let go immediately after, embarrassed, he certainly would’ve.
His hand remains suspended in the air for a moment, frozen, just like the man it’s attached to. “..Um,” His senses slowly come crawling back as he remembers where he is. “Thank you. For the lift, I mean, not for—”
Rodger deliberately avoids Horace’s gaze, his face equally flushed, if not more. “Yes, of course, it was nothing.” He interrupts.
Horace clears his throat, clicks free of his seatbelt, grabs his umbrella, and all but leaps out of the car, starting towards his building without another word. Being out of the car is like a breath of fresh air, even as he steps into the rain once again.
He pauses just short of the entrance, turning back just as Rodger’s car begins receding. “You know,” Horace calls, watching to make sure he was heard before continuing, “if you want me to actually say yes someday, that was a step in the right direction.”
He quickly enters his building before Rodger can form a response, if there would be one, a wide smile across his face and a warm feeling in his heart.
horace it’s 2026 gay is ok
