rodrikstark's headcanons (part 2)

n. vaughan + comforting you before an audition

the rehearsal room cleared out ten minutes ago. chairs stacked, instruments put away, conversations taken to the hallway outside. just you, now, your fingers dancing over the keys, again and again, that difficult passage from the third movement.

maybe not entirely cleared out.

nick places his trumpet case on the floor behind you. "y'know why the trumpet's a superior instrument to the piano?"

"please don't—" he sits on the bench with a fake sigh, leaning back so his elbows hit some dissonant chords. "nick—"

"you're forced to breathe when you play the trumpet."

even with how annoyed you are, his words make you conscious of the tension seizing your shoulders. you relax, just a little. "piano players breathe too."

"yeah?" he challenges.

your breath catches in your throat when his calloused hand sneaks behind your head, touching the skin at your nape as he slots his lips over yours. he accidentally mashes more ugly notes into the piano along the way, but it's not enough to distract you from how good it is, as he presses and nips and smiles into your mouth, taking his time.

"nick," you finally gasp, grabbing the lapels of his jacket to keep steady.

"see? i win." a smack to his chest. "ow."

"sorry." you screw your eyes shut for a moment. "i'm nervous."

he spins ninety degrees, straddling the bench. "why?"

your fingers silently practice another line, hovering just above the keys. "i want this," you confess. "this might be my only chance to play this music with a full band, not alone in a practice room."

"you want me to take out the competition?"

a laugh, then a shake of your head. "i wanna earn it."

the bench isn't that big; nick just has to tug at your shirt to move you snug between his legs. "you already have." with gentleness, he coaxes your jittery hands into his. "you've practiced until you can play every note, and you can play them beautifully." he smiles. "that's all you need, and if they say no, they're stupid."

doubt makes your heart hammer. "that simple?"

"that simple."

"okay," you concede, your voice tiny.

he stands, grabbing his case off the ground, only to offer it to you. "you gonna keep sitting here being miserable, or are we gonna get dinner?"

you slip on the strap, feeling the comfortable weight of his trumpet on your shoulder and his hand at the small of your back. "it's gonna be so cold outside."

he chuckles, enfolding you in his arms. "just stay close to me."