he’s out on the lanai as the sun sets, guitar balanced on his lap, getting used to the weight and the feel of it again after going so long without. it isn’t like riding a bike, exactly, but there’s something to be said for loving what you do; he’s rusty, but he hasn’t forgotten how to coax a pretty sound to life with his hands, and that’s what’s important.
(no, what’s important is the way that it makes him feel, young and bright and so serious about his music. he remembers the callouses he used to wear like badges of pride, remembers driving mary insane playing the same song over and over again until it was just right, remembers the smile at the corner of his mom’s mouth when she’d stand in the doorway and listen to him play. that’s what’s important.)
he’s listening for him so it’s not hard to hear the door swing shut and know danny’s inside. his fingers fumble on the strings, nervous suddenly when he’s not certain he’s ever been nervous around danny before, but this is personal. it might seem stupid, might seem insignificant, but music’s a part of his life he hasn’t shared with anyone in a long time, but --
but it feels like the closest he can get to an apology without explaining what he’s sorry for, and anyway. danny got him the guitar.
“out here,” he calls out, skimming his thumb over the strings to test the sound, softness growing at the edges of his smile. “you bring beer?”
