Roll Over Beethoven

"Shouldn’t we be tightening my skills?” Curtis asks, looking over the sheet music, looking at the strange patterns of beats, the faint rhythm beating a drum in his head. It’s strange. His father wanted him to have classical knowledge of music not… This is barely music.

Shrugging, Bucky walks over to the piano, flipping up the fall board. “Maybe. No. This isn’t classical music, Curtis. This is rock. We don’t want precision, we want emotions.” And then he starts playing. It should sound dirty, no skills or anything good about it. But that would be- But Bucky’s playing that on purpose. His notes are spread apart and broad, clanging down to fling music upwards. Like a wave. The notes that are dirty, just a little off somehow, they make Curtis feel like something’s wrong with the world, something’s horribly off, but then- Then Bucky makes it all better and closes it up. 

“I could play you some fuckin’ Beethoven. Right? But that’s been done already. Numerous times. You wanna just copy the best? Or become the best? You gotta hone in your own style.” Bucky says, and gestures to the sheet music again. 

“Bucky’s ‘style’ is hitting whatever notes he thinks sounds pretty. No rhyme or reason.” Steve mutters, shooting Bucky a mean look. Bucky just sticks his tongue out right back. 

“And Steve’s style is slamming a tiny fist on the piano until something sounds close to music.” Steve shrugs at that, because. Well, it must be true. 

“You’re not Beethoven, and you’re not going to be playing at Carnegie Hall. So why be precise, when you can be emotional. Your music should speak to you. It should be fun. Play the jazz piece.” He gets up and practically pushes Curtis back over to the piano, raising an eyebrow at him. 

He gets a snicker or two from the others at the way he prepares to play, all pomp and circumstance. “Look, he just said this isn’t Carnegie, Everett.” Tony says. “Just play. Feel the notes. Feel the keys loosen. I don’t know. I don’t play piano.” He snorts.

Curtis looks back at him, then Steve, and finally Bucky, who’s grinning at him, giving him a soft thumb’s up. Playing in front of people is nerve wracking. Playing a different style than he’s ever done? He’s terrified. The first few keys he plays are nebulous, wavery, and he can feel Steve thinking he can’t do it. 

And it takes a few  measures, but he eventually gets the way the beats move, clanging and then soft, loose and fluid in a way that implies rather than tells. This isn’t even emotional. It’s dance music, probably. But the people who would listen to it… They would feel something. And sure, classical can be emotional, can tell a story without any words. But at this point? Most of the people listening to it are there because it’s a proper social even. They don’t care about the music past the status it implies. 

This…. This isn’t any of that. It’s old, probably from the 20′s, and it’s bouncing. Music for poor people. Curtis can’t help but think it’s better. Freeing. 

Steve and Tony looked skeptical at first, but now they’re sitting up and nodding in approval, giving ideas on how to make it more fluid, less strict and formal. 

Maybe the smoke in the room is affecting him, because he’s grinning. Leaning into the music , then leaning back to see Bucky’s expression. He’s got the blunt back, and he’s since sat on top of the piano to tap along with the beats Curtis is playing out. 

“See?” He says, when Curtis finishes. “Won’t see that kinda smile playing for a hall of stuffy politicians. Now, when it gets good, is when you’re writin’ your own shit.” He goes back to the shelf, and Curtis relaxes a little. He was waiting for that approval. 

“So you sticking around, man?” Tony asks, grinning at him. “We really need a pianist. Maybe even teach you some other instruments that’ll no doubt corrupt your proper upbringing.”

Curtis can’t help but huff at that, shrugging. “I think so. I mean- A rock ‘n roll band? My dad’ll throw a fit.”

“Ah, the ol’ family rebellion.” Steve drawls, jabbing an elbow into Tony’s stomach. “Ask Tony if you want tips. He’s a Stark, after all.”

“Full blown hippie now, and there ain’t nothing dad can do about it.” Tony snorts, jabbing Steve right back. 

“You better be staying.” Bucky says as he comes back. He drops a literal pile of shit on top of the piano, grinning. There’s more sheet music, binders, books, and enough records that the pile’s gotta weight twenty pounds. “You’ve got homework.”

“Really, Barnes? Making our poor newbie go through the devil’s anthology of music?” Tony asks, and Bucky shuts him up with a well-placed look. 

“Ain’t joking, Tony. This is important. Our boy had a proper upbringing. Even more stiff than yours, since your dad was a crazy engineer like you. He ain’t heard of Buddy Holly, or Chuck Berry and the Beatles are probably a fucking drug-addled myth. He’s missed twenty years of rock’n’roll. Damn shame.”

“Bet he ain’t even heard of the Rolling Stones.” Tony tsks. 

“You kidding? His father would probably call in an exorcist if he saw Their Satanic Majesties Request on the record player.” Steve snorts. 

“Boys, if you’re done making fun of our friend…” Bucky rolls his eyes and puts a hand to the pile. “Listen to everything. Write down what you liked. Start with the oldest music and work your way up, so you can see how music’s progressed. It’s gonna sound weird as fuck. You might hate it. Listen to it, and play what you can on the piano. Get a feel for some of the grooviest damn music in the world.” He grins and pushes the pile closer to Curtis. 

“Call me when you’re ready to write some tunes with us, man. Or else I’m gonna pester you after a week.” 

Curtis stares at the pile and scoops it into his arms, grunting at the weight. Homework. All because he’s lived a sheltered fucking life. Well then. He glances at the top record, some band called The Doors. 

As he’s walking down the stairs to leave, he tries not to color at the fact that somehow Bucky has his phone number. Tries not to color at the fact that they all want him in the band. 

Tries not to color when he realizes how excited and pleased he was when Bucky’s face lit up in pride at the way he played that jazzy tune.

--

He’s been putting off listening to the ‘homework’ Bucky gave him. It’s nothing against Bucky, or the band, it’s- It’s-

Curtis is afraid. Afraid of rebelling too much, of his father taking this away from him. What kind of right does he have, trying to play music with filthy hippies when he has a responsibility to his father and his father’s company?

After all, he hardly knows Bucky. He’s hardly even heard his music, except for- 

He sits up at his desk, glancing towards the door of his room before he rummages through his bag to find his journal. It’s innocuous by design, looking more like a daily planner than a journal, but the margins are filled with small, tiny script. 

A tiny, hidden life away from the grand one. Only one of them is pretend, and he’s still not sure which one it is. 

He flips to the beginning of an entry, two weeks prior- The very beginning of September. The entry even starts to acknowledge that; the weather cooling down but being confused, tumultuous as the leaves change and tides turn. His entries are always several pages in length, written whenever he has time. The first portion of the page ends with a soft question- What will change for me?

The entry is grand in the ways Curtis can’t afford to be in real life. Dramatic and full of long, winding sentences, trying to describe everything and every thought he has- a catalog so he can fix himself later. When he first starting writing these, it started out as a list of things he needs to hide better, a list of ways to change and be the perfect son. It’s since blossomed out into soft declarations of his soul, melancholy ruminations that he has to burn and kill all the parts of him that makes him happy. 

The September entry is different. Halfway down the first page, right under the soft, quiet question, are the words I met someone.

Curtis huffs at the simple words, so innocuous and so innocent. He reads the rest of the entry, trying to still his warring heart.

I met a man. He had the same amount of care in his eyes as the cigarette hanging lazily off his lips. I was drawn to him immediately, for reasons I can’t even describe. He’s not like most of the men I’ve felt myself grow attached to. This was different. 

I tried to ignore him. After all, what could he offer me, as my father would say? Or, more accurately… What could I offer him, except perversion?

And yet… He caught my eyes and smiled, and his eyes were this mixture of blue-grey that I could never hope to describe. He asked me my name, and when I gave it, he slung the guitar sitting on his lap up to a playable position. 

I… I want to say I forgot the words he sang to me while the strings of the instrument played out something melancholy. But it would be a lie, and only in this journal do I swear to never lie. 

I will never forget the words, nor the way his voice turned around the syllables, wrapping around them like his entire soul was curling around the song, and me.

‘Curtis, of a soft and gentle nature,

Wrapped around a suit of harsh denial.

Won’t you realize you’re truly a savior,

Rather than an incarnate monster, truly suicidal?’

I’ve heard of street performers and musicians crafting songs for people, just in jest. But this wasn’t that. This was him, cutting to my soul as though he knew me. I was shaken, to say the least. I threw him a twenty dollar bill and planned to leave, but he touched my shoulder and gave me a slip of paper. The paper had his number on it… and. A note to call him, because I have pianist’s fingers and he has needs for me.

…I have called him. We will meet tomorrow.

Curtis steels himself once he finishes the entry, huffing out a soft, pent-up breath. He closes the journal, chews on his thumb for a moment, and then crosses the room and places one of Bucky’s records on the player. The drop of the needle is like a stab to his heart. With the first swell of music, he can’t help but think of the September tension and changes.

--

When Curtis put the first record in, he hadn’t noticed that a small slip of paper had been nestled in the confines of the record slot. He picks it up, frowning for a moment because it looks like a paper ripped from a book. There’s a sentence highlighted in fading yellow ink, which makes it clear that Bucky slipped this in.  

He reads it out loud slowly, softly. “And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.” Nietzsche. Who knew Bucky was a read man? But still. It makes something in Curtis’ heart flutter, and he almost doesn’t turn the paper over. But when he does, he’s greeting with long, slanting and messy handwriting, the mark of someone who’s hardly consciously thinking while they reveal their soul. 

‘Curtis- Required listening on this album is Johnny B. Goode, Maybelline, Memphis, and Roll Over Beethoven. Our honey Chuck Berry is one of the first, one of the greatest… Take notes, baby, and enjoy the groovy, groovy ride. ;) ‘

He huffs at the way Bucky writes, then looks to the record sheath again, so he can see the songs he’s gotta listen to. He’ll just- If he doesn’t like it, he’ll listen to the required, only. No need to listen to thirty minutes of music he doesn’t like. 

The music gets his attention.

The guitar clangs like the beach in simplistic cords, and Chuck Berry’s voice is almost yelling at the audience, a smile in his guitar and happy and excited. This isn’t some three-hundred year old piece detailing the story and the emotions of rich men. This is detailing a man sick and fed up with stuffy Mozart’s and Beethoven’s. Goodbye classic. Goodbye organs and stuffiness and opera houses. Roll over and let the guitars weep and the clanging emotional sounds of the youth and the underrepresented take the stage. 

The way the notes play across the air is jittery, fast and quick and fervent, like Chuck Berry can’t wait to get his thoughts out to the world. This isn’t the church music his father approves. This is the devil’s music soaking up his room and pushing on his ear drums. 

He finds his feet tapping, and he finds himself listening into the quick jitter of the piano in the background, the clang and slam of fingers on the key. There’s no careful movement to stop interference from the real world. No, this is dirty and recorded as such. This isreal people, making music and sending a message. 

Curtis is staring at the record player, his fingers clenching on the paper of Nietzsche Bucky gave him, but…. He’s not seeing or feeling any of it. He’s listening, and that’s it. He’s practically seeing the notes rise up in the air, sharp and fast and exhilarating. 

It’s not like he’s never heard the popular music and the rock on the radio. But he’s never paid attention, always switched it to the approved music he grew up on. He’s never heard Chuck Berry. He’s never listened to the way this music is loose, is free. You can do whatever you goddamn want with this music. 

He lets the A side play out, and he nearly moves to immediately listen to the B side, but. He feels- There’s an impulse in him. 

He rummages in his drawers until he finds the slip of paper with Bucky’s number on it, and before he can talk himself out of it, he dials and calls. 

Each second of the dial tone in his silent room is excruciating. He’s finally understanding people’s needs to have music playing as often as possible. 

“What’s hangin’, Curt? You been listening to those tunes?” Is Bucky’s first words when he picks up, voice lazy and happy. 

“Bucks.”

“Hm? What’s-”

“Can you come over?” His voice is breathless and hollow. But not in a dead way, no. This is hollow in a way that wants to be filled up, pumped full of more crooning notes from Chuck Berry and the others Bucky has deemed important. 

“Wha- I mean, sure. You been- Oh, you’re finally listening, huh. Who you on?”

“C-Chuck Berry.”

“Well damn! You just started, baby!” Bucky laughs, and it sounds like three piano notes all at once, rising through the air and cutting through Curtis’ soul. “Tell you what. Finish with Chuckie, listen to the, ah, Buddy Holly record, and when I get there, we’re going straight to the first Beatles record.”

“…You’re coming?” He lets out a breath and tries to ignore how needy he sounds, how needy he feels. 

“’Course! Fuck, Curtis, I don’t want to miss your first exposure to the Beatles, arright? I’ll be over in an hour.”

Curtis gives Bucky his address shakily, giving him instructions on how to come inside without anyone noticing, and by the time they disconnect, he’s practically shaking. With another confused, shaky noise, he gets up and plays Side B.

–

A few minutes before Bucky is due to show up, Curtis opens up the sleeve of the first Beatles record. There’s two- With the Beatles, and Revolver. Another slip of paper falls out of the first sleeve, and he picks it up, curious. 

He’s calmed down since he hung up with Bucky, and has wholly avoided beating himself up over being impulsive and stupid, absolutely ridiculous in every way. He shouldn’t have called Bucky, shouldn’t be playing this game with him and yet? He- He doesn’t care. Bucky is something he can have without his father knowing. 

His one piece of happiness. 

The highlighted message on the front is different, from a different book, even. Hamlet, he’s pretty sure. ‘This above all: to thine own self be true, And it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.’ ‘Man’ is underlined three times, like Bucky felt it was important. Curtis huffs at the lines, feeling his heart swell. 

Somehow, after only knowing Curtis for a couple weeks, he knows him better than anyone else he knows. 

On the opposite side, Bucky’s comforting handwriting reads, ‘All My Loving, Roll Over Beethoven, I Wanna Be Your Man = Required listening. If you don’t love it and make the connection, you’re gonna break my heart, ma belle.’

His thumb is brushing over those last two words when his door bursts open, and he jerks and scrambles to put everything away, afraid his father is going to demand to see what’s going on. But it’s- It’s-

It’s just Bucky, wearing an unbuttoned button down over a wife beater. He looks around the small room, giving a small nod like it’s what he expected, before he goes right over to the record player, holding out a hand for With the Beatles, evidently. 

“How you like Buddy Holly?” He asks, no preamble or anything. 

Curtis tries to calm down his fucking heart attack, jerking in motion again. “Bucky. You can’t just walk in like that.” 

“Wha- W-” He turns around and sees that Curtis is serious, and a frown tugs down on his lips. Curtis never wants to make him frown again. “I’m sorry, man. I didn’t realize. I’ll be quiet as a mouse next time. No one saw me, though, in case you’re wondering. I’m pretty decent at sneaking into places.” He jerks his hand and Curtis slowly hands over the record, letting out a breath.

“It- It’s fine. I just don’t… I thought you were my father.”

Bucky sets the needle down slowly, pink tip of his tongue pushed out in concentration to get it right. It’s fucking adorable, and Curtis tries to push down his feelings. “Promise. I’m not. I’m way better looking than Alec Wilford. No offense to you and your genetics.” 

“He’s my step-dad, none taken.” Why is he saying these things? So openly? It’s as though Bucky is a key to the chest in his heart, opening it and letting his insides well out like food coloring in a jar of water, mingling and creating new shades and hues that he never knew he could make. 

“Well. All the more reason to celebrate, then.” Curtis notices that Bucky moved the needle to a specific song on the B side, and he’s about to ask why, when Roll Over Beethoven starts playing. 

But- It’s not Chuck Berry. It’s softer, better produced, but still the same song. Clapping underlies the beats this time, and then a chorus and overlay function of a young man starts playing the song. 

Bucky grins and laughs when he sees Curtis’ expression, and he dances and jigs for a second before he gets in Curtis’ space, practically screaming the lyrics at him, emphasizing each line of Roll Over Beethoven. From Bucky’s voice, it’s even more of an affirmation that this is a fuck you to the society Curtis grew up in. 

Play the shitty music, play the emotional music and put up a middle finger and a glob of spit to those who look down their noses at the youth and the marginalized folk. 

“Rock music cycles. It expands. We’re a mass crowd of people who found our niche, and we wanna change music forever. We want to give hope to people, show them that music isn’t just for the stuffies in suits. Chuck Berry was one of the first.” Bucky grins and smiles and mouths a line he seems to really like, fingers tapping to the beat, before he slowly  moves to wrap both hands around Curtis’ forearms. 

The song has changed, moving on to something else, but Curtis isn’t paying attention. Neither is Bucky, who’s still talking. “Chuck Berry influences four young men from Liverpool to branch out into this weird, weird style of music. They try and copy shit in ‘59, and now, ten years later, they throw a rooftop concert in New York that spontaneously gets so big, it cuts off and shuts down entire streets. People swoon. A genre is born. Get inspired, Curtis. Maybe we’ll be on that roof, soon.” 

Curtis stares, transfixed. His eyes dart to Bucky’s lips when they say, slowly, carefully, “Roll over, Beethoven.” He ain’t talking to Beethoven. He’s talking to the culture that fucked them all up and spat them out. Either you’re alienated and thrown to the curb-like Bucky, who even with his cheery disposition, can’t entirely hide the bags beneath his eyes, or the needle-marks in his arms- or you’re bent and reformed into their perfect little tool, so lost in delusions and lies, that you’re forced to kill off to stay alive. Roll over, Beethoven. 

“Time to write for us, and spawn a generation of people who wanna love to love and care to care.” Bucky says. 

Curtis’ mouth is dry, and he gives a shallow nod. This is all new but he- He agrees with it all. Bucky turns around and flips the record over, changing the song to something specific. Curtis misses him touching his arms, but then- 

Then- 

The words “Close your eyes and I’ll kiss you…” are playing, and Bucky is holding him and doing just that, lips pressing against Curtis’ and his eyes shut closed, hands wrapped around his forearms. 

He pulls back only once to sing with Paul McCartney, “All my loving, I will send to you…” And then he’s back, pressing against him with the heat and intensity of a thousand guitars playing one single chord, and Curtis can feel the reverberation of every single string resonate within him. 

He falls into the kiss, the music, and all that exists for a few moments is the warm press of Bucky to his body, and the crooning soft love song circling his entire being. 

--

“You’re ridiculous, Tony.” 

“What? For saying the kid should get exposure on the record?” Tony huffs and leans back in his chair, frowning severely. 

Bucky sighs, rolling his eyes. “Yes. He’s been practicing with us for a month. You really think that’s enough time?”

“He’s written three songs already. Dunno what other proof you need.” Tony says and gives a thumbs up to Curtis, who’s sitting on top of the piano and staring between the two like they’re equally crazy. 

A show. They want him on an album. On a stage. Finally formally recognizing that he is, in fact, masquerading around as some kind of rocker when he should be donning a suit and being his father’s son. 

“That…. That’s a good point. Uh, Curtis.” Bucky turns to him, cocking his head. “What’dya say? You wanna release an album with us? You can keep your three songs on there.”

He huffs, freezing up, not. Not sure what to do. It’s only when Bucky comes over, soft and hesitant, pushing up against him and giving a few soft kisses and promises that it’s okay, that everything is fine, that Curtis is able to unfreeze and nod, murmur “Yeah. Yeah I’d like that, Bucks.”

Bucky grins back at him, honestly happily surprised. “That settles it. I’ll call up our managers.”

–

Bucky disappears, sometimes, for days at a time. It worries Curtis, the way he’ll grow tense all over for a few days, and then come back a few days more, loose and fluid and heavy, not all the way there. 

It bothers Curtis, but well. They all have their coping methods. And it’s nothing to worry about- Bucky going out on a bender once a month, getting higher than a kite and fucking with his brain? That’s fine. He’s so happy the rest of the month, over the course of the other weeks, that he can’t complain. And he’s always good not to do it when they’re busy, when they have things to do.

He never blows Curtis off, always upholds his promises. 

“I’ll never leave you.” Curtis murmurs to him one night, his face nestled into his neck. Bucky smiles against his temples, a small line of worry clearly etched into his face. Curtis can feel it. And even if he couldn’t, he would know it’s there anyways. He knows Bucky better than anyone in the world. 

“Promise?” Bucky asks, his voice tight.

“Promise. There’s nowhere I’d rather be. I’ll never leave you.”

Bucky sags against him and nods, then murmurs, “I’ll never leave you, either. You’re the only one for me.”

Curtis squeezes him and says, half-joking but so very, very serious, “Promise?”

“I promise.”

–

The lights are bright, beating down on both the band and illuminating the crowd in harsh, vibrant colors. Curtis ignores them, so that he doesn’t lose his concentration. He’s surprised to hear- There’s waves of voices, shouting for him. They want him. They find his voice a bright light in a dark spot and it’s what they crowd around. 

He huffs and hunches over the piano, taking a slow drink of the water on top of it. Bucky’s giving his introductions. He’s a natural stage performer, and paired with Tony’s sudden and jaunty banter, Steve’s poignant and cutting comments, they make a wonderful team. 

“Ready for us to fuck your brains out?” Bucky asks the crowd, and they scream and shout and laugh when Bucky gives them a look and continues, “Might take a while, ladies and gents. There’s a lot of you. Think we’ll do an easier time fucking you out with our music.” 

There’s more screaming, and a fan goes “Either works!,” which prompts Tony to point in their direction and tell them backstage is open after the show.

It’s comfortable. Fun. Just playful banter. And then, a moment later, after a tense bubbling moment growing and getting heavy, Bucky strums a single note on his guitar, and the crowd goes insane again. He holds up a finger and refuses to play another note until they quiet down. Then, and only then, does he lead the band into a song- One of their bigger ones, one that even the most lackluster fans will recognize. 

It was written before Curtis came to the band, but he’s learned the notes anyways. It’s simple, easy. He barely has to pay attention to the way his fingers fly across the keys, which suits him just fine. 

He’s paying attention to Bucky, instead. Bucky wrote the song, and it’s basically, entirely, just a thank you to everyone who listens. It’s usually sung with gusto, loud and proud and full of screaming praises to the crowd. 

But this time, it’s almost as if that crowd persona has shrunk back. He’s playing it softly, fingers just barely hitting the chords. It doesn’t sound bad- On the contrary, it’s soft and melancholy and beautiful in a haunting way. It’s just different. Curtis wonders why he’s playing it this way, why his voice breaks on the soft declarations of you all have been my cup of wine, my victorious dine. 

The crowd goes crazy when at the last stanza, instead of winding the song down and making it quiet, Bucky all but shrieks and screams the lyrics, Tony ushering to meet him and beat the drums, the bass giving out a discordant whine. 

The rest of the show moves just about the same as their normal shows. Loud and boisterous, and soft and grateful in the right places. They’re known for putting on a show, and it’s evident. Other than the strange start, it’s a normal show, the kind that Curtis has gotten used to. It’s comfortable, and makes his heart swell. 

The last song is normally their biggest. It has the biggest hook, the one that’s made it to Number One on the charts. It’s a declaration to everything they’ve done, and it’s a song they worked hard on, a song they didn’t sell out on to make it. It’s perfect. 

But instead of playing up the stage banter and the mockeries of leaving before they can play it, Bucky grows quiet again. He asks the stage managers for a stool, and sits down, right up to the mic, guitar on lap. 

“I’d like to end the show a little differently tonight, if that’s okay.” He starts, giving an uncomfortable little laugh, like he’s not sure it’s okay. The shouts and screams he’s met with give him a little more courage, though. “Thanks. Uh. Curtis? You’ve been working on a song since I met you. I know you have. How finished is it?”

Curtis blinks and pulls the microphone connected to the piano closer to him. “Uh, well, I’d say it’s done.” The crowd is hushed and whispering, thinking this is all a ruse, something planned to introduce a new song. But it’s not. Curtis has no- He doesn’t know why Bucky would start this without talking to him first. 

“How comfortable would you be in playing it on stage for the first time?” Bucky asks, his eyes pleading and body weary. And. Well. Curtis can’t just deny him. 

“I… Think I could manage that.” He’s scared, he doesn’t like this, but he’s gotten good at responding to things on the fly with Bucky. He can deal with this nonsense. 

Bucky grins at him, mouthing thank you, before turning to the crowd. “Alright. Well, then bear with us folks. Curtis is gonna sing you all a song.” There’s more screaming and yowling, even if it’s confused and unsure- After all, a new song from The Composers is a time for celebration.

Curtis flashes Bucky a look that screams ‘We’re talking later,’ before he fidgets on his seat for a moment. The entire venue falls into silence while he prepares, knowing this is going to be something… Something special. Especially when Bucky turns his back on the crowd to watch Curtis play. 

He centers himself, recalling the lyrics and the music in his head. He didn’t- He wasn’t ready. He wasn’t sure if he would ever play this, not for the masses. But he’s been given no choice, and there’s something wonderful, amazing, about getting to play his song, a song that’s been two years in the making, tonight, in front of the masses.

But he’s not playing for them. 

Curtis locks eyes with Bucky and starts the slow, broad streak of notes across his palette. He’s glad the first notes are supposed to sound nebulous and unsure; because that’s what he is. 

He began writing this song, in his head, the first time he accepted to be their pianist. The day that Bucky first kissed him. The first part of the song is supposed to be bumbling and awkward, an unsure smattering of fingers across the keys. 

Bucky’s eyes widen when Beethoven’s Concerto Number 5 is played, halfway through the first portion. It’s perfect, classically perfect the way his father trained him, and Curtis can’t help but have his confidence boost when he can look Bucky in the eyes as the keys get sloppier, messy, and he moves into a piano rendition of Roll Over Beethoven. And then, only then, do the vocals start, once the heavy rock keys slow down into something quieter, softer. Truer to Curtis’ nature. 

In September, change was upon us, friend, 

And in October, I fell in love.

The crowd is wild behind him, but Curtis isn’t paying attention to them. This isn’t for them. It never was. This was meant to be played behind doors, where only Bucky could receive the notes. And truthfully, Bucky’s eyes are welling up, threatening to spill into tears as he realizes that Curtis’ unfinished song… The one that’s taken him two years to write… Is a love song to Bucky himself. 

We’re too bitter, you and me

For Nietzsche hope and Hamlet dreams,

But you’re the one dot of blue, in a sea of grey.

The notes slow, then kick up, then slow again. A sea of rising and lowering tides, because he realized that the only way to convey to Bucky that he really felt this, was to write it to the tune of his heart. Up and down. Thump. Thump. My heart beats for you.

I longed for death, until I found you,

And now, I fear, we’ve been born anew. 

Even Tony and Steve are just staring. This is gutsy. Curtis isn’t hiding it- He’s declaring his love to Bucky directly, and Bucky is just about weeping. He has to turn down and look at the keys for the next part, a strange amalgamation of Roll Over and Beethoven, and when he looks up, he’s surprised to hear guitar meat his piano. Softly, hesitantly, but there. Bucky is matching him, and as always, the strum of his heart meets and matches the piano notes of Curtis’ soul. 

The song ends with a soft, but earnest plea that Curtis wanted to cut, wasn’t sure if it was too desperate, but by the way Bucky breaks down at the last tone of the piano, he’s glad he didn’t.

Our souls have entwined, creating a galaxy worth’s of music, 

Forever and always in love and harmony. 

The crowd is confused. He doesn’t care. Adrenaline is taking him off the stage tonight, his heart beating and pounding, and the second they get backstage, Bucky is against him, laughing and crying and licking into his mouth, pouring out soft thank you’s and I love you, I love you, I love you. 

It will be the most memorable concert of Curtis’ life.

–

That night, while they’re laying in bed together, Curtis traces the tattoos that arch around Bucky’s back, the ink soft and almost faded, like every other part of him. Maybe only be in his twenties, but always seeming so much older. So much wiser. So much more exhausted. 

“I should get a tattoo.” Curtis mumbles, and Bucky nods solemnly, giving him a soft kiss and brushing a few fingers across his breast. 

“Right here, on your heart. To remind you.”

“Remind me what?” Curtis scoots into his touches, ducking hid face so he can look at the soft fingers touching his heart. Where they belong. He almost shivers at how light a touch they are.

Bucky hums and spreads his hand out, making a hand print. “That I’m always right here.”

Curtis does shiver at that, smiling softly. “Lemme trace your hand and I will. Promise.” He loves the ides, even if a palm is a little big. 

Fooling around to get the paper and the hand print take a while, and it spurns another round of passionate sex, Bucky fucking him like he’s desperate, feverish in his needs. He’s not normally so… Frenzied, but Curtis understands it’s been a strange night. It’s wonderful. It’s beautiful. They whisper one another’s name when they come, and when they’re lazily tracing their bodies, Bucky tells him to whisper the lyrics of that song in Bucky’s ears.

Curtis does, and by the time he reaches the last stanza, Bucky is sound asleep. His hair frames his face like a halo, one hand over Curtis’ heart and the other just barely touching his thigh. Curtis doesn’t dare move for the rest of the night, instead falling asleep on his side, where he can see Bucky first thing if he wakes up. 

–

Bucky’s gone when he wakes up. It’s nearing noon, and he sits up, groaning. He stretches slowly, feeling the burn of after-sex in his limbs. It feels good, he feels good, and most of all, Bu-

There’s a frenzied knock on the door, and Tony bursts in, wide eyes puffy and red. Not in exhaustion. In mourning. “It- It’s-”

He starts, and Curtis sits up fully, waking up in an instance. Tony is never this emotionally open, never this verbally constipated. 

“It’s Bucky.”

–

It’s the last concert he ever performs in.

–

It was an overdose. It’s ruled a suicide, death marked at 5:36 AM. Two hours after he and Curtis fell asleep in bed. One hour before Bucky sneaked away from the bed. Thirty minutes before he scrawled one last note, pushed into the old Chuck Berry record, like the first one Curtis found. Five minutes before he shot up with enough heroin to kill three men.

–

The note is three paragraphs, and it takes six months for Curtis to read the one paragraph relevant to himself. In the meantime, he clutches a hand to the black outlines over his heart and cries himself to sleep.

–

Please continue to make music, Curtis. Our souls will entwine again someday, and you’ll feel my music again. In the meantime, feel the echoes, feel my voice, and know that I love you. Rock’n’roll, she ain’t a pretty mistress, and my life was a cruel master. But you… You’re the only star in the night sky, for me, my guiding light. I broke the most important promise I made to you and I’m sorry; I love you. 

–

On a September Monday morning, Curtis Wilford walks into Wilford Industries, humming an indistinct Beatles tune under his breath. The life in his journal was the fake one after all.