"She's in the bathroom," Austin blurts, as soon as his brother's tall form slips through the soundproofed door.
Austin wouldn't know. He hasn't seen Kayla since she opened her violin case, yawned, rocked back on her heels, and climbed out the window.
But who knows. Maybe she's been in the washroom for the last three hours. Camp food is tricky. Shit happens, literally. Sometimes devastatingly so.
"No, she is not," Will snorts, and Austin knows the game is up.
But he's not a snitch, so.
"She's playing hooky with Julia in a tree somewhere," Will says wryly, idly brushing Austin's shoulders as he walks past. "She gets pissy every time I bring it up, but I have it on good authority that they are not simply talking up there." There's a shuffling noise, the scrape of a chair against the floor. Austin watches, out of the corner of his eye, as he pretends to adjust his reed; Will tucks himself in a chair in the corner of the small music room, one leg brough up and held against his chest. Cheek resting against his knee.
Austin is careful not to say anything.
"Good for her, honestly. Lord knows I was making worse decisions at that age. Mainly Cecil."
He can't help the snicker, pulling off the mouthpiece before he wrecks something. The lamps flicker, ever so slightly, as Will grins, cheeks just barely red.
"You're distracting me," Austin chides, even though he isn't. Will had startled him, when he slipped inside; Austin had glanced to the clock mounted on the ceiling (no, he doesn't know why, other than camp is just Like This, always) and realized, with a grimace, that he'd been staring at nothing for a full forty minutes. "I'm trying to write."
But Will takes him serious, smile dropping.
Austin nods, once. Brings the mouthpiece to his teeth. His reed is dry. He needs to soak it. Professionals would put it in a glass of water but it's -- it's inefficient, is what it is. He's got a mouth right there. He makes spit for free. It's fine. It's fine.
It goes no bueno, his songwriting. To his expectation. He's been stuck for the better part of a week, every sound sad and dull or, worse, derivative. He has neglected his Youtube account out of shame. The comments keep piling up. He has talked himself down from deleting the entire channel and then also blowing up the website in shame. Mostly because he doesn't quite know how to nuke a website. But also because, well. Drama. He knows he leans towards it. Father's curse, et cetera, et cetera.
He can feel his brother's eyes on him.
This is not unusual. Nor is it particularly stressful. Austin doesn't mind an audience, never has. But he's human, and he got antsy on stage as a kid, antsier performing in the Lake's cramped living room, in front of busy, overworked but supportive mothers, bored cousins, narrowed-eye grandparents. There's no audience more critical than family.
Will isn't critical. Not by a long shot.
And Will's eyes are always on him, really. On Kayla. On Nico, on Cecil, on Lou Ellen, on Annabeth. Harley. Lacy. On the people whose files he has carefully tucked away in the bottom, locked drawer of the nurse's station in the infirmary, the siblings, the friends, the little ones. The risks. The people whose files he checks three times a day like clockwork, before every meal. Clinically. Biting a hole through his bottom lip as he mouths along the long-memorized notes, scrawls updates in overcrowded margins. Nico's been walking funny in the mornings, and when he exerts himself. Joint pain? and Keep eye on Lacy during CtF, flinching at noises, ASD maybe and Up late June 2nd. Annie had nightmare. Bad. Up meds.
He mumbles them in his sleep, sometimes. The notes. Austin wouldn't notice, except Will sleeps propped against the wall. So when Austin lies down on his top he can hear him, perfectly. And he's a light sleeper.
And he checks the notes sometimes, too. With the key he smuggled from around Will's neck one night, and paid Travis twelve dollars to copy without questions. He doesn't look at the medical stuff much. Not his business. But he can tell, based on how densely packed each new page is, when the spiraling will start.
"You can join me, if you want."
Will startles, even though Austin had been careful to speak quietly, casually; flinches his arms and drops his leg to the floor, whipping up to stare so fast Austin can hear the crick of his neck.
Austin rolls his shoulders, slow and cool.
Will says it quick, swallowing heavy. In that way he does, when he wants to hide the words. When he wants to lie, but can't.
"No? Everyone is allowed to play."
"Physically, I mean. I -- can't play." He laughs, and it is self-deprecating and mean. "Can't carry a tune worth a damn, hun."
Austin tries not to react. Hun. He wishes Kayla were here, and mentally calls her back out of her make-out tree -- that is what they get, when Will wrings his hands. Gnaws at his lip. Picks at his bandages. It is dolly, usually, or even more often, dork ass or twerp or, most lovingly, and most applicable, brat.
But he calls them hun when he is emulating his mother. When his own words get tangled up in between his chest and his throat and he blurts out whatever else he has memorized over the years, whatever other truth he can scrounge up instead. Whoever he can parrot.
"'Course you can play," Austin says instead, keeping his voice light. He pulls the padded strap off his neck, ignoring Will's rapidly shaking head, and tugs it over poufy blond curls, pressing brass onto scarred palms. Austin has seen him hold 13 mol hydrochloric acid with less wariness. "Just takes practice."
Will flounders as Austin swaps out his mouthpiece, tightening the ligature over a new -- soaked properly this time, see, he's a real musician -- reed. Austin lets him. He imagines two tiny little Wills battling in his brain: one, haughty and stood straight, lecturing on practice makes improvement, the other tense and twitchy and convinced he can do nothing right. He hopes haughty Will wins. Which is saying something, because haughty Will drives him nuts.
"I -- can't," Will settles on eventually, and then slumps miserably. He reaches up one hand -- having carefully checked the saxophone was steady in the other -- and pointedly tucks his hair behind his head. "I, uh. Can't hear when I'm flat as a board." He meets Austin's eyes and smiles, shaky, thin. "Some child of Apollo, huh."
Austin is already shaking his head, frowning, because it's a mean thing to say, and not just to himself. If another Deaf kid walked into camp right this second, shining sun blinking above him, Will would never dream of saying something so dismissive.
"Not fair," says Austin quietly. "Most famous composer in the Western world was Deaf, Will."
"...True." He fiddles with the key guard. "I'm no Beethoven, though. I've...tried, especially when I was a kid. Used to play the guitar and I knew all the fingerings but people would, you know." His ears flush. "Mom's roadies would laugh when I played. And Lee and Diana and the others musta tried to get me in here a dozen times a week, but it was just a disaster. I couldn't keep up and I couldn't tell what I was doing wrong." He shrugs. "Is what it is. I should stick to my strengths, anyway."
"Strengths are what you work on."
"I have worked on it, Austin." There is the first crack of frustration in his tone, the tightening of his hand on the neck of the sax and the twitch of his soft jaw. He takes a minute, swallowing heavy, before sighing, forcing his muscles to relax. Forcing a small, tight smile. "I promise you I have worked and worked and worked on it, buddy. I still -- I dunno, it's still all off. Tuners blink red and nothing ever comes out right. It's fine. I should let you practice, anyway, I just came to watch --"
Austin holds firm to his shoulder, pressing him back to the chair. Wil is stronger than him -- broader, taller -- and could push away. Austin won't even hold him back if he does. His eyes flick to Austin, and then to the door. He knows this.
But he didn't come just to watch. Because he never does. Because he hates coming in here at all, hates to stand by the door and itch at his shoulders and look longingly at shining brass he's convinced himself he's not allowed to touch. He watches their every performance and even joins in on guitar, when he's feeling brave, or when there aren't many foreign eyes to watch him stumble. But he schedules a shift in the infirmary every music block every day without fail, and waits outside to take them to dinner, to their next activity. Looks at his feet when they file out, Kayla first, humming, bopping her head; Austin behind her, locking the door. Guiding the little kids out, in the summers.
"Sound hits in more than one place," Austin says quietly. "You can feel it, you know."
Will says nothing. Looks resolutely forward, hands deceptively loose around the instrument. Slowly, Austin leans forward, swapping their mouthpieces again. Tilting the neck of the saxophone so Will is holding the body, still, but Austin squishes in next to him, bending awkwardly but holding fast, familiar. He can feel Will holding his breath.
"Close your eyes," Austin mumbles around the reed. He moves Will's fingers on the body, pressing down the right keys. "Just -- focus on the buzz in your hands, okay?"
Inhaling slow, Austin pauses, considering. And then he blows the first note, and blows it steady, clear. Flat, because it's supposed to be, in this key, but bang on in tune. Concert C.
"Okay, I'm gonna play sharp, now. Same note. Just -- faster, waves a little closer together."
He doesn't wait for Will's nod. He knows how sound works. Instead he just pulls out the mouthpiece, so it's barely balancing on the greased cork, and blows the same note, doesn't change Will's hands on the buttons.
It's sharp, alright. Austin fights back a wince.
But beside him, he can feel Will still. Watches the bounce of his leg freeze, watch his breathing uptick.
"Play it again," he asks. "Please. Uh, not sharp, then sharp."
Austin nods, then does. He plays it a little louder, this time, too, with more force, and is rewarded when Will laughs -- a small, bewildered thing, and when Austin looks over he is wide-eyed, eyes sparkling blue, jaw dropped and freckles glittering.
Austin grins. "Try this."
He adjust, plays the normal note again. Then pushes the mouthpiece in as flat as it will go, lowers his eyebrows for good measure. Honks. And it sounds awful, even worse than the sharp, but it is worth it for the pure glee in his older brother's giggle, the straight jut in his spine that Austin recognizes -- he can feel the phantom zip of electricity up his own back because he knows that feeling, the feeling of finally getting it. Of laboring over a piece for more hours than there are notes and hardly feeling the muscles on your face, of pushing back tears and fighting the urge to launch five thousand dollars worth of expensive tubing and keys at the wall with all your strength, promising yourself: one more time.
And then getting it, that time.
Feeling the practice really start.
It's humbling, to see it on someone else. To see it on someone who has been trying so desperately for as long as Austin has known him, longer; there is pure, genuine joy on his big brother's face. Not amusement, not satisfaction, not something quietly pleased but something bright and blue and electric, like neon lights on the fourth of July, like the cracking relief of a first loose tooth. Will laughs that snorting, too-bright laugh again, lamps flickering wildly, and asks Austin to play it again. And again.
Austin indulges him, even though his embouchure hurts something smarting; he plays another concert C, and then a D, and then all the way up a scale, playing half-steps, wholes, in-between that don't have names. And Will calls them all out, accurately, finally able to put all the theory he's memorized year after year to use. Finally able to feel what it means to be off-key. To hit the wrong note.
They miss dinner. Will doesn't hear the horn and Austin doesn't bother telling him. He watches, instead, Will slide his own mouthpiece on the saxophone and honk his heart out -- not music, not yet, but sound, and good sound, and isn't that step one. Wrong but strong. Stronger than he's ever been, and glowing for it, veins lighting up like glowsticks.
Austin lets him play until sundown. And the Sun, too, lingers, waiting to relish in the endless giggles between every successful blow of his horn.
@willsolaceweek day 2 -- siblings
