He takes the case, shuffling back to let Jay in so he can flick the catches open and lift the lid.
It's smooth and simple, with a soundbox of dark brown wood, the tuning pegs bright and gleaming. Slowly, almost reverently, he runs a finger down the bridge, along the strings, tracing the frets.
"Thank you." He doesn't know how to meet Jay's eyes but he looks up regardless and tries to hold the other man's gaze. "This is really - I mean, just - I dunno why you - but, thanks."
God, but it feels like longer ago than it was, fiddling on the strings while Alex went on and on about his acoustic soundtrack and getting enough footage for the trailer, Tim reclining against the wall with the instrument in hand, Brian parked on the other side of the room as Tim contemplated the novelty of having, for the first and only time in his life, more than one friend in his apartment, if Alex could even be called that. It had felt achingly normal; he's sure it's what the average college kid did, sitting in people's apartments noodling on ukuleles and shooting the shit between the spurts of activity where they were getting actual work done.
Bittersweet as the memory is, stained with the moments where he flung Brian off the ledge and rammed the knife into Alex's throat, it still feels like a fragment of himself he can recover.
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He takes the case, shuffling back to let Jay in so he can flick the catches open and lift the lid.
It's smooth and simple, with a soundbox of dark brown wood, the tuning pegs bright and gleaming. Slowly, almost reverently, he runs a finger down the bridge, along the strings, tracing the frets.
"Thank you." He doesn't know how to meet Jay's eyes but he looks up regardless and tries to hold the other man's gaze. "This is really - I mean, just - I dunno why you - but, thanks."
God, but it feels like longer ago than it was, fiddling on the strings while Alex went on and on about his acoustic soundtrack and getting enough footage for the trailer, Tim reclining against the wall with the instrument in hand, Brian parked on the other side of the room as Tim contemplated the novelty of having, for the first and only time in his life, more than one friend in his apartment, if Alex could even be called that. It had felt achingly normal; he's sure it's what the average college kid did, sitting in people's apartments noodling on ukuleles and shooting the shit between the spurts of activity where they were getting actual work done.
Bittersweet as the memory is, stained with the moments where he flung Brian off the ledge and rammed the knife into Alex's throat, it still feels like a fragment of himself he can recover.
"Thanks," says Tim.