americas_son | (no subject)

"It takes more concentration to improvise."

"Is that what you were doing?"

Okay, it's not the most brilliant question Cal's ever asked, but he's fine with that right now.

(He looked -

- no, that can't be right, either.)

He grins. "Yes. Sadly, while I am very proficient with music written by other people, my skills as a composer are not quite up to scratch."

"I liked it," Cal says immediately.

Even if he had been doing less listening and more looking.

That surprises him, too, although it really shouldn't.

"I'm glad."

Well. Now they are both equally inane. That's something.

"Don't let me interrupt," Cal offers.

"All right."

Smiling, he closes his eyes again and picks up—after a moment's thought—where he left off.

(He looks . . .

. . . whatever.)

Cal shifts on the couch, turning onto his side and resting his head on his arm. It's more comfortable to watch that way.

He looks, at the moment, peaceful.

It's a considerable improvement on how he looked when he first came downstairs.

It is.

Cal approves.

He still doesn't fall asleep, though after a while it becomes a bit more of a struggle to stay awake.

Some time passes before Sherlock opens his eyes again.

This time, when he sees Cal looking at him, he just smiles.

Touchable.

The thought escapes before Cal can push it back.

He's doing a lot of awkward blushing today.

"Penny for your thoughts?" he dares, smiling fondly.

"Um," he says. "Not - really -"

He can't seem to form a sentence.

"I just like watching you play."

Or at least, not one that involves saving any face at all.

So about that blushing.

Cal's pretty sure he's never made a guy blush before.

He wouldn't quite know how to react if he weren't still busy trying to regain his normal skin color.

He tries to recover with a flippant, "Pleased to hear it."

It—doesn't quite come out the way he meant it to.

Cal swallows. Suddenly it seems like a good idea to be sitting up.

So he does.

"You're welcome," he says, belatedly.

Sherlock gives him a studying look, lowering the violin momentarily. When did he stop playing again?

Cal wouldn't be able to answer that if Sherlock asked.

He looks at the floor.

He's just tired and it's been a long couple of days and he's not -

He never cared that much about watching Sherlock play before.

(Did he?)

He sets his violin back in its case and comes forward to sit beside Cal on the couch.

Another thing Cal's been doing a lot of today: Looking up to meet Sherlock's gaze.

It isn't usually this hard to do.

Well. Here they are, then.

Sherlock has a strong feeling that he should get right back up and keep playing, and an equally strong feeling that that is the last thing on Earth he wants to do. While he is deciding between them, he looks into Cal's eyes as though if he watches closely enough he can see right through them into the mind on the other side.

And now he finds he couldn't look away if he tried.

It's not as terrifying as he might have imagined it would be.

It's Sherlock.

It is.

He smiles, uncharacteristically tentative.