ORIGINAL FIC: Private Lessons Part 1 (M/M)
Sep. 9th, 2016 01:29 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tarotgalHaving a tough night, so I'm posting this to take my mind of my kitty for a while. Also, because if I don't post it, I'm just going to keep epiloguing.
Title: Private Lessons
Author: tarotgal
Rating: PG-13 (mentions of sex, but it doesn't happen on camera)
Summary: Dustin's got a crush on his music tutor. It's finals week, which means it's his last chance to confess his attraction.
Beginning notes: Written for Empathic Mystery, whose writing I have fallen in love with. I hope this is even remotely what you had in mind.
Lesson #13
After checking in and getting his room assignment, Dustin turned the corner and tried to keep the goofy smile from his face. After a semester of lessons, it was all coming down to today: the final lesson. And as soon as it was done, Dustin was finally going to take the plunge and ask his tutor out on a date. He’d spent months talking himself into this and hours today worrying that it wasn’t the right thing to do, so he had a thank you card burning a hole in his backpack just in case he chickened out or couldn’t find the words. Because so often around Sang-Ook, he had a hard time with words. Thank goodness most of their lessons only required there to be music.
Sang stood, tall and lanky, leaning with his back to the window at the end of the hallway. He wasn’t too far away for Dustin to see his wire-rimmed glasses perched a third of the way down his nose or his fanciful bowtie as a burst of color against his pale yellow buttoned down shirt. He held onto the handle of his instrument case with both hands, and he perked up the second he saw Dustin; Dustin tried not to read too much into it, but he loved when Sang looked at him like that. He loved everything about Sang, every morsel of information revealed offhandedly and every mannerism he got to know.
“We’re in practice room eight,” Dustin said, tilting his head toward the right. From opposite ends of the hallway, they met at room eight. Dustin swiped his student card to give them access then led the way in the tiny room. They unstacked two chairs and sat down beside each other. That was easier than trying to sit across from each other and trying to do the reverse. It also let them share a music stand. Dustin liked sharing. Dustin pulled his music folder out of his backpack, fingers brushing the card as he did so. It wasn’t the time to whip that out though.
“So how did your practicing go?” Dustin hesitated to answer the question, and Sang knew exactly what that pause really meant. “Oh come on! You’ve got a final this week, and you didn’t practice?”
“I practiced!” Dustin insisted. “Just… not much… and it didn’t go especially well.”
Sang sighed, and Dustin thought the disapproval would end him. He kept his eyes on the floor and kicked his backpack with the card in it out of the way. Should he apologize? “Well I’ll see where you are at the end of the session today, but we might just have to meet every day this week.”
Dustin’s head snapped up. “What?”
Sang popped open his instrument case and spoke with casual determination. “You hired me to make sure you passed, right? Because I know you didn’t hire me to get you to fall in love with the French horn. And if there’s a chance you’re not going to pass and this one grade is going to pull your GPA down way too far, we’re going to have to put in the effort together to make sure that doesn’t happen.” He took his French horn out, adjusted the parts, popped the mouthpiece on, and assumed his ‘let’s get down to business’ expression.
Something inside Dustin sang at this. He loved how seriously Sang-Ook took his job as a tutor. He loved that Sang-Ook wasn’t willing to let him fail. And he loved the idea of seeing more of Sang-Ook.
Even if it meant more of the French horn. With a reluctant nod, Dustin pulled out his rented French horn and plopped the bell on his thigh.
Sang was smiling again.
“What?”
Sang shook his head. “You really hate this thing, don’t you?”
“No…”
“Yeah,” he laughed lightly. “You completely hate it.”
“I don’t,” Dustin insisted. “I just don’t like being forced to learn an instrument. I’m a singer, not a player. The program requirement is a stupid waste of time.”
“Mmm.” Sang coughed through another laugh and cleared his throat. “In any case, I’ve got you for the next fifty-five minutes and during that time, you’re going to pretend you’re a player.” He coughed again. “Now, let’s warm up.”
They buzzed into their mouthpieces, which always made Dustin feel silly. They did some elephant calls, which were Sang’s favorite. And they did a few scales, which Dustin messed up, but not as badly as usual. He might just squeeze a passing grade out of this semester after all. He played a few more notes as Sang made sure they were as in tune as they could be.
“Okay. Let’s start with the piece you’re going to have to play for your exam. Let’s play through it in its entirety, and that’ll give me some idea of what to concentrate on for the rest of the lesson. Are you ready?”
Dustin wasn’t really ready at all, but he nodded. It was a boring song for a French horn player. The French horn so often provided the baseline or the background part of a song, not the melody. And Dustin was a big fan of melody. That was what he was used to singing, as a tenor.
Sang tapped out a beat in 4/4 time with his black converse sneaker and nodded when the first measure began. Conveniently, the French horn’s part didn’t come in until the third measure. Dustin readied his mouth, checking its position and readjusted the hand he had resting, cupped inside the bell of the horn. He counted along with the beats and came in precisely when he was meant to.
With the wrong note.
He quickly corrected, hoping Sang might not notice the mistake this time, but knowing that Sang always caught every single mistake. He was too good a player not to. Though only three years older than Dustin, and therefore already out of college, he had been playing the French horn since he was seven. But it was more than just seventeen years of playing the instrument that made him good.
Sang had a love for the French horn that Dustin admired, even if he neither truly understood it nor shared in it.
To Dustin, it was a heavy, shiny piece of twisted metal he couldn’t wait to return to the music store next week.
He managed the rest of the piece with only a handful of flubs. His timing was excellent, but the notes were off and the tone was amateurish. Playing alongside Sang made him realize how good the piece could be and, thus, how badly he played in contrast. When they got to the end, Sang gave a hard tap of his foot against the floor at the last crescendoing note. Dustin bit his lip, waiting for the critique.
Sang sighed and coughed and rubbed his hand at the back of his neck. “Ah, I think you’d better plan on those extra sessions this week. How’s noon every day sound to you?”
“Fine. I’ll be a lunch date!” He gritted his teeth at the sound of that. “Ah, not that we’ll be eating lunch. Or that this is a date, of course.” He was rambling now. “But my final in this is Thursday. I don’t know if we need to meet on Friday.”
“I like final lessons to be assessments. We can take a look at how far you’ve come and figure out what the future has in store for you as a French horn player.” Dustin managed to not laugh at the absurdity of the statement. It was obvious he was never going to be a professional at this. His talents lay elsewhere. “I see—” he broke off, coughing. This time, it wasn’t just a single or double, it was a small fit. Alarmed at its sudden takeover, he turned and buried the lower half of his face in the crook of his arm. When it had passed at last, he lifted his head. “Gosh, sorry about that.” His voice had sounded a little off before, and now Dustin realized it was ever so slightly deeper than usual, maybe even a little hoarse.
“You all right?” Dustin asked, mostly out of genuine concern but a little because it took the discussion off of the French horn for a few seconds.
Nodding, Sang cleared his throat. “Feels like I might be losing my voice or something. I’ve been doubling up on tutoring lessons lately with finals week coming up. Must be talking more than usual.” He cleared his throat again. “I’m gonna go grab a water from the machine down the hall. You want one?” Dustin did, and quickly forked over two dollars toward the cause.
Sang got up and placed his horn gently on the chair. Then he reached over to the music stand, riffled through the pages in Dustin’s folder, and pulled out a sheet of scales. “While I’m gone, I want you to work on these. Go slow. Really concentrate on each note before you play it.”
Dustin got his horn back into position and set to work. The first one he tried went well; he only missed one note. The next few weren’t much worse, but it all went downhill after that. He was pretty sure he had the right keys pressed, but he just couldn’t make the note go as high as it was supposed to go. That had always been his problem with the instrument. With only three keys, any given fingering had multiple sounds. And he was supposed to know by now how to suddenly produce the right sound the first time. It was all in the mouth. He tried again and again. Frustrated every time he hit a wrong note, he finally lowered the horn.
Following a deep breath, he sang the scale. His pitch was perfect. His notes were accurate. It seemed the easiest thing in the world to do. He sang the next scale and then the next. Then, reluctantly, he repositioned the French horn and tried to play another scale. This time it went better. Keeping the notes’ sound in his head helped, but he was sure most of his success was due to luck rather than skill.
A knock on the door meant Sang was back. Dustin got up and opened it for him, receiving a bottle of water in exchange. They both drank in gulps and set the bottles down on the floor when done. “How’d the scales go?” Sang’s voice sounded no better after the water. In fact, it sounded a little more strained. Dustin could practically see his irritated, overused vocal cords contracting from the cold water. What he really needed was something warm and soothing like a good herbal tea. Sang didn’t really give him a chance to answer. “Let’s find out. Play me the C major scale.”
Grateful, because that was the easiest, Dustin gave it a try. His pacing was painfully slow, but he actually hit all the notes.
“Great job!” Sang’s face was alight with a smile that made Dustin want to do nothing more than earn it every time, as unlikely as that would be. “Now the E major.”
Dustin took another deep breath, centered himself, and envisioned the notes in his head. E, F♯, G♯, A, B, C♯, and D♯. He was fairly certain about the fingerings, but hitting the right notes… He gave it a try. And succeeded.
“Nice one!” Sang patted him on the shoulder, and the touch made Dustin’s insides sing with pride.
“Another one?”
“No, this time I want you to do C major again…” He reached down and twist-pulled the mouthpiece off Dustin’s horn. “With just this.”
Dustin groaned. It never sounded right that way. It was his perfect pitch that helped him get even remotely close to begin with, and this took that largely out of the equation.
“Embouchure is one of the most important parts of playing the French horn. You’ve got to practice enough to have muscle memory, so you can hit the notes outside the scales, during any piece of music. You have to know what C, D, E, F, and so on feel like to your mouth. Remember, keep the corners of your mouth tight. Keep the mouthpiece higher on your top lip than your bottom. And keep your lips loose when you buzz. Take a good breath and go ahead.”
Sang always gave him too many factors to keep in mind at one time, but at least now he didn’t have to worry about fingerings and keys. And all his years singing had taught him good posture and breathing. So he gave it a try.
And failed miserably.
Sang rubbed a hand over his face.
“M’sorry!” Dustin insisted, that beautiful smile of Sang’s gone in favor of a look of disapproval. “I think maybe something wrong with my mouthpiece.”
Sang took it from his hand and buzzed a perfect scale: C, D, E, F, G, A, and B. “And A minor.” He buzzed again with A, B, C, D, E, F, and G. Then he handed it back over. “It seems fine to me. Embouchure, Dustin. If you don’t practice enough, you’ll never nail a piece of music. Let’s practice for fifteen minutes, do a few exercises, then finish with your prepared piece.”
Though Dustin didn’t like the contents of the plan, he knew it was a good one. He pressed the warm metal mouthpiece to his lips and tried again. Each time he missed a note, Sang played him the scale again on his own mouthpiece. It took eight attempts back and forth before Dustin got it. His hands shot in the air in triumph and his French horn slipped from his lap. It would have fallen on the floor if Sang hadn’t reached out to catch it. “Thanks!” He’d never get his deposit back if it was dented.
Sang smiled. Then he coughed and reached for his bottle of water. “Um, which was mine?”
The two bottles sat between their chairs, neither one further from each chair than the other, both with just about the same level of water. Dustin wasn’t sure. “I think… this one was mine?” he guessed, reaching down for whichever was the most natural for his hand to go to.
“Funny, I was going to say that one was mine.”
Dustin shrugged. “Doesn’t really matter.” He took one bottle and sipped from it while Sang drank from the other. “Time for exercises now?”
“Ha ha. You’ve got another five minutes working on embouchure. You can’t build muscle memory without practice. C, D, E… come on. You can do it.”
Dustin loved the reassurance, no matter how misplaced it probably was. So he buzzed. He made a mistake and buzzed again. And again. He made more mistakes than not, but he did get it perfect again twice.
And he had to admit, working on it made the exercises seem easier. And this time when they played the piece together, he got nearly all of it.
“Good work today. You might even get a good grade on this final.” They dumped their spit valves and put their horns back in their cases.
“Only if you’re there to play with me.”
“Well then, when you’re playing this for your exam, imagine I’m there with you. And when you practice, imagine I’m there with you. You will be practicing tonight, right?”
Dustin thought about his other finals this week; one on Tuesday, one Wednesday, and two others on Thursday, including a vocal performance. Picking up the French horn was the last thing he wanted to do tonight… but he knew he had to. And permission to imagine Sang right there with him as he did it almost made the idea worth it. “Yes, I will.”
“Good man. I’ll see you tomorrow at noon?” He coughed again.
“Sure. And take care of your voice. Tea will help. It’s what we singers do when our voices start to fail us.”
Sang nodded. “Thanks for the tip.” He tipped his almost empty bottle of water in a salute toward Dustin as they grabbed their cases and headed out. He took few more gulps to finish the bottle off and winced. “Ugh! Hurts when I swallow.”
“I’m telling you, tea,” Dustin insisted. “No sugar, if you can stand it like that. It’ll do wonders to your throat if you’ve tired it out. Trust me on that.” Sang patted his back in appreciation as they headed down the hallway, and that something in Dustin warmed and sang out to him once again.
Lesson #14
When Dustin turned the corner on Tuesday at noon, he saw Sang-Ook at the end of the hall of practice rooms, waiting for him like usual. Unlike usual, this time Sang look tired. There were bags under his striking, dark eyes and his nose… it looked a little pinker around the rims than it should have been. “Hi there,” Sang greeted him, and his voice was a whole lot rougher than it had been yesterday.
“Whoa. Your voice…” Though not a singer, Sang’s voice had always had a particularly musical quality to it, as far as Dustin’s ears. “We’re in Room two today, by the way.”
Sang nodded. It looked like effort just to push off from the window and trudge back down the hallway, but he did it and followed Dustin into the room. “So how’d your practicing go? How are you feeling about your final?” His voice sounded even worse up-close like this, broken and cracking, rough and deeper; Dustin with his perfect pitch picked up on that right away. But there was also something else to it he couldn’t quite identify yet.
“Practicing went well,” Dustin replied, in that he had actually spent time practicing, not that he’d managed to nail the piece during his practice session. “But how are you feeling? What happened during the past twenty-four hours?”
Unstacking a chair, which he placed a foot and a half further away than normal, Sang answered, “Full disclosure: I’m pretty sure I’m coming down with a cold. I… oh… hold ohhh-on-hnyhhh!”He seemed to hold his breath, mouth tightly closed, even though his nostrils twitched and flared widely. He pulled a small, white square out of his pants pocket, unfolded it, and snapped it to his face. “heyitschhhh!” He followed the sneeze with a wet snuffle into the tissue, wiped back and forth beneath his nose a few times. Then he balled it up and stuffed it into his other pocket. “Excuse me.” He cleared his throat again, repeatedly, apparently accomplishing nothing by the act apart from irritating his throat more. “Started to realize it last night when I got all sniffly. And the first thing I did when I woke up this morning is sneeze. Thought for a second it might be allergies, but I’ve got a headache and this congestion that just won’t quit.” He cleared his throat again. “I think I might have caught it from one of the elementary school kids I tutor. I think one was sneezing last week during a lesson. Anyway, I’ll try to keep my distance today, all right? I don’t want to get you sick too.”
“That’s sweet of you.” Sang-Ook was sweet. And thoughtful. And just about perfect.
“hnn-Gytschhh!”
And sick. “Are you sure you feel up to this? If you need to go…”
“No, I’m…” He snuffled into another tissue and stuffed it into his bulging pocket as well. “You need this lesson.”
“And you probably need to rest so you can fight off this cold. I don’t want my awful French horn playing to actually make you feel bad,” he joked, though he genuinely meant it. He loved the chance of being with Sang more than usual, but he couldn’t live with himself if this was making Sang worse.
“The French horn is my passion. There’s nothing that makes me feel better than holding it in my hands. And I want to see you do well with it in yours.” He coughed and nodded toward Dustin’s case. “So break it out and warm up.”
Skeptical, conflicted, Dustin nonetheless followed his tutor’s advice and undid the clips on the case. The shiny gold smiled back at him, full of promise. Maybe if he played well, he would make Sang proud and they could cut this lesson short so Sang could get some rest. He was determined. Embouchure. Fingerings. Pacing. Pitch. He could do this. He had to. “What are we starting with this time?” Dustin pulled his music folder out of his backpack.
“Let’s… um… let’s ease into it with a few exercises to get the feel of… things.”
Dustin narrowed his eyes, even as he flipped through his level one music book. They’d only made it through about half the book in class, but he’d done every exercise in it at least once now, thanks to Sang’s lessons. Most of them weren’t easy, but they were certainly easier than the final exam piece. He was confident he could play them. He wasn’t so sure about Sang, and he wasn’t so sure what to say about that. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Just trying… not to… cough.”
“Aw, Sang. It’s okay if—“
“If I start, sometimes it’s hard to stop.” He leaned over, barely able to reach the music stand, and flipped to one of the harder exercises that required quick fingerings in 6/8 time. “This one.”
Dustin’s first time through wasn’t perfect, as he’d hoped, but it wasn’t bad. It even earned an approving nod from Sang, who was clearing his throat repeatedly. “Again,” he said. He had come prepared with his own water bottle this time, but the water wasn’t helping much. He winced every single time he swallowed, clearly uncomfortable.
Dustin played it again. And again. And again, until he got it right. And that earned him that smile of approval he loved to get from Sang.
“Last week, you couldn’t have done that, and now listen to you,” Sang said, his voice rough, weak, tired.
“Listen to you,” Dustin began, but he didn’t have a chance to finish his thought.
Sang ignored the concern. “Get the final exam piece out. Let’s give it a try now.”
Dustin nodded He felt like he might actually do it this time. If he played it perfectly the first time, then he’d be able to do the same thing during his exam. And if he proved that to Sang, they could end early. Determinedly, he prepared himself during the first three measures, counting carefully. And when he came in, he did so with the right note. He got through the next measure. He got through the next line. When the key change came up, he got through that as well. This was it. The notes were coming easily. He could almost feel the next note. What Sang said about practicing really was the truth.
And then it happened: a wrong note. He meant to play a low C but got an F instead. Then he meant to play a D and got an A instead. He wanted to quit, but he was nearly at the end of the piece. So he fiddled with the note until it was a D, limped through the last few measures until he got to the crescendo. “Sorry,” he blurted out the second it was done. “I know that sucked. Ugh, I am horrible at this instrument!” He felt like throwing it back into the case and leaving it there. “I’m going to fail this final.”
“You’ve got to cough think about what you’re doing right. Luckily, you came into this being able to read music. And now you know how to breathe right.” Dustin cringed, remembering the way Sang had literally covered his face with his palm the first time Dustin had played anything for him. Sang explained that French horn players never puff out their cheeks. This wasn’t a trumpet and Dustin was not Louis Armstrong. From then on, Dustin had at least had good form, even if the sounds coming out weren’t the right ones.
“Okay, but I know my mouth wasn’t as tight as it should have been. I kept missing notes. I know I’ve got the right keys pressed, but I just can’t hit them the way I’m supposed—”
Sang burst into coughs. Harsh, full coughs that filled the small, padded room with their sound. He carefully set his instrument down and turned away from Dustin, burying his face in the crook of his arm to try to contain both the sound and the germs. His face flushed. Beads of sweat dripped down his forehead. “Sang?” Dustin asked, concerned. He reached out, putting a comforting hand of support on Sang’s back.
But Sang pulled away, coughing even more violently as he did so. “Can’t cough cough get cough you cough cough cough cough sick.”
Dustin’s heart sank. Sang sounded awful, and he was suffering through this because of him. “If I promise to practice, like, three hours tonight, can we cut this lesson short?”
Sang looked at him, face still buried against his bent arm. “What?”
“You sound bad, Sang. You need sleep and tea and apparently all the heavy duty cold medicine money can buy.”
“I’m okay,” Sang said, his voice strained. “Playing just… took cough more out of me cough cough than… I thought.” He took the mouthpiece off his horn, dumped the valves, and then placed his French horn back into its case. Then Sang-Ook drew his legs up onto the chair with him, bent at the knees. He wrapped both arms around his legs and rested his chin against his knees. “You play. I’ll listen.”
“Sang…”
“It’s your final cough exam cough not mine. And you’re playing so cough well today compared to where you were last week, I believe you can get this piece right if you cough just concentrate.” He snuffled and cleared his throat. “Just… don’t stop playing if I have to cough or sneeze, promise? Just ignore that. Focus on the music.”
Never during his private lessons with Sang-Ook had he ever been able to focus just on the music. Not with Sang right there. So close. Dustin promised anyway and began tapping out the resting measures himself before coming in.
It took the rest of the lesson, but he managed to get through it without a single wrong note, despite his concern rising with every sniffle coming from his music tutor. Sang was too tired for his usual bright smile, but he managed a weak one. “You’re going to practice tonight, right? I believe you said three hours?”
Dustin nodded. “I will. And you’re going to rest, right? It’s your turn to promise me. Or I’ll come to your house and… make sure you… rest…” It sounded stupid coming out, he knew it. He flushed and focused on putting away his own instrument.
“I’ll rest,” Sang said, unfolding himself with another cough. “Not sure I have much of a choice, honestly. I feel beat. And my chest literally hurts from coughing.”
“Put a warm compress on it,” Dustin said. “A warm shower will also help. And sleep as much as you can.” He was distracted, momentarily, by the image of Sang-Ook in his bed. He wondered how Sang slept. All curled up under blankets? Sprawled out with limbs all over the place? With comfy pajamas? Without pajamas? Dustin’s flush intensified. “Uh, ‘cause you can’t cough if you’re sleeping.”
Sang nodded back. “See you tomorrow. Practice. Practice. Practice.”
Lesson #15
When Dustin rounded the corner, he saw… nothing. Well, he saw a hallway with closed practice room doors. And he saw a large floor-to-ceiling window that looked out on the performing arts quad. There were students down there dancing, practicing instruments, and reciting monologues. They looked ready for their final exams. He hoped they felt more ready than Dustin did. Because he wasn’t feeling so great about his finals. And turning the corner to find the hallway without Sang-Ook in it wasn’t a good sign. Sang-Ook always got there before him for lessons. Always.
Dustin set his French horn case down and got his cell phone out of his backpack. According to the phone, it was 11:59 a.m. on Wednesday. And there was no Sang-Ook here for a lesson. Dustin typed in his passcode and checked his text messages. There was no message from Sang-Ook. He checked his voicemail. Still no message from Sang-Ook. The man was always habitually early; this wasn’t like him at all. Could he be hurt? Dead in a ditch by the side of the road? Seemed probable. He could have coughed or sneezed and run himself right off the road.
Before he had a chance to consider calling the police, he heard something behind him, a slow shuffling, and he wheeled around to see a girl struggling with a giant instrument case. “Should’ve taken up the violin,” she said, giving him a shy smile. She slid her card in a practice room door lock and shuffled inside, putting her body in-between the closing door and the expensive cello.
Dustin smiled but still wondered where his tutor was. Should he go in and start warming up without him? Should he call and make sure that whole ditch possibility hadn’t in fact become a reality?
“htchnshhh! heykschhhhh! Heh hnnnh! heyetchhhhh!” Sang came around the corner at a brick pace, a wad of tissues pressed to his nose and mouth. He coughed and snuffled into them. Then he lowered them so he could give Dustin a sheepish smile and an apology. “I ab so sorry. I did’t get buch sleeb last dight. I just could’t stob sdeezig. So I overslebt this bordig, add I’ve beed ruddig late all day.”
Dustin checked his phone again. “Four minutes late. That’s nothing.”
“Odly four? That’s great. I was fifteed late for by last lessod. Guess skippig ludch was the right… right… oh doe… gotta sdee… sdeh hehhngshhhhh! Uhhhh. Snrfff! I’b sorry.” He said the last bit with a bit of a song in his voice. Dustin loved hearing that. But he hated the rest—the part where Sang was sick and sneezing and having an awful morning after having a worse night.
But what could he say? Go home and get some rest clearly had not worked the way it was supposed to. And Sang’s voice was still all scratchy with soreness and now full of congestion too, so tea alone wasn’t going to fix it. He had nothing he could offer. He couldn’t even offer a hot, homemade dinner tonight, because he had a final at five o’clock and another two tomorrow. That didn’t leave enough time for looking after a sick tutor… as if Sang would even accept such an offer of caretaking.
“It’s okay. But if you don’t feel up to a lesson—“
“Your fidal is toborrow. Cough! Show be what you’ve got, Dustid.”
When Sang said Dustin’s name, even though his voice was all stuffy, Dustin felt another burst of warmth inside him and a song from out of nowhere filled his head with the urge to prove himself, to make Sang proud, to make all of this worth it. Quickly, Dustin led the way into the practice room, unpacked his instrument, and started warming up.
This time, they didn’t waste time on scales or exercises. They went straight to the final exam piece. Dustin had played it enough to know it well, but this time Sang wanted to walk him through it, as if he was sight reading it for the first time. “The biece starts softly; the Fredch hord bart doesd’t cub id udtil beasure four. The begiddig is about settid the bood, lodg dotes, so work od your tode. Your tode is ibortadt. There’s a key chadge here od the secod bage add thed the tebbo gets faster. Sniff! Sniff! Add it edds with… with… od gosh… sdeeze… heh! Cobig… heh hnnngh!” He pulled a tissue out of his pocket and clamped it to his face. “heyyyIHtchhhhh!”
“Bless you.” Dustin felt strangely self-conscious saying that. It sounded too personal, too caring. Though he wasn’t even sure Sang heard him.
“heyschhhh! Heh-tihshhhh! Heyy-IHTchhhh!” Sniffling into his hand now, as the tissue was far beyond use, Sang bent over and flipped his instrument case open. In the bell of his French horn he’d stashed a few packs of tissues and one bag of cough drops. He pulled a few tissues out and snuffly blew his nose into them. “Sorry, sorry, sorry. Sniff! Sniff! Sorry.”
“Hey, Sang, it’s okay, really.” He smiled and tried to make a joke about it. “It’s not like I didn’t know you had a cold.”
Sang coughed so hard tears squeezed from the corners of his eyes. Exhausted, he wiped them away slowly.
“It is just a cold, isn’t it?”
“I thidk so.”
“You’re not running a fever or anything?”
Sang looked doubtful as he touched the palm of his hand to his forehead. “I dod’t thidk so.”
“You can’t feel it yourself. Let me…” he hesitated, his hand shaking slightly. He stilled it by pressing down on all three keys of the French horn. Their soft, metallic clicks were strangely reassuring. So he kept going. “Let me check for you.” It was supposed to be a question. He had intended to wait for permission. But suddenly he was gently nudging Sang’s hand out of the way, feeling its damp warmth against his skin, and touching his tutor’s forehead. It was warm as well, but not fever-hot. He could feel a faint pulse, too. Sang-Ook’s heartbeat. And it was speeding up. So was Dustin’s.
And suddenly he realized he was still touching Sang’s forehead. He pulled his hand back at once. “Yeah… um, good news! You’re not hot.” Dustin’s face went red. “Um, I mean you don’t have a fever, not that you’re not attractive, because you are, of course.” Of course? Oh, he was such an idiot! “Um… how about we play this piece?”
Sang nodded. “Souds good. Let be just… snrfff! blow by dose ode bore tibe.” He did. And then they played.
And it wasn’t too bad. The tempo seemed a little slower than usual, but they stuck to what Sang had set. Dustin missed a few notes, but he was sure the performance would earn him at least a passing grade. “That B…”
“I know, I know. I’ll get it next time.”
“Blay a B for be.”
Dustin pressed the middle key down, took a breath, and played a shaky E.”
Sang shook his head, sniffling, and pointed a finger toward the floor.
Dustin adjusted his embouchure and the note changed to a B.
Sang motioned for him to stop playing, which was good, as Dustin was just about out of breath trying to hold the note. “Dow I wadt you to sing a B note for me.”
Confused, Dustin still did what he was told. He hit the note perfectly.
“Thidk about what it took for you to hit that. Thidk about your throat add bouth add breathig add all the thigs that go idto it. It’s dot so sibilar frob the Fredch hord, is it really?”
“I guess not. But I’ve been singing all my life. I barely have to think about how to hit a note now.”
“If you blayed the idstrubedt edough, you would’t have to thig about it either.”
Dustin nodded. He’d never really thought of it that way, like singing with an instrument instead of his voice. It was all just music, after all. Same notes, just a different way of getting to them. He took another breath and buzzed into his mouthpiece, creating a wobbly but accurate low B.
Sang smiled. Then he sneezed. “HEHYDShhhhhh!” And clapped his hand over his nose, startled. “Oh doe… so sor—”
“Sorry, I know. You’ve said. It’s okay. I don’t think you sprayed me. Don’t even think you caught the French horn. Bless you, by the way.”
Sang’s eyes shone with gratitude for a brief second. Then they quickly shut and he pitched forward in his seat with another sneeze. “heyitschhhh!” And another. “heh heh-Ingtchhh!”
Dustin got up and grabbed one of the tissue packs from Sang’s case. He offered it over. Then, realizing there was no good way for Sang to take tissues without exposing what was probably an embarrassing mess, Dustin pulled a few tissues out and swapped them for Sang’s French horn. Grateful, Sang turned and blew heartily, wetly, and repeatedly into the tissues.
After almost a full semester of lessons once a week, Dustin had seen Sang’s French horn many times, but he’d never held it before. It was the same sort of horn, with the thumb key and the pinkie rest. But it was so much different. It was so smooth and well-polished it was almost soft to the touch. It was bright and shiny, as though glowing with some magical, musical force that made it unique. Taking advantage of the volume and length of Sang’s blows, Dustin pressed the keys down. They barely made a sound, moving with a swift, well-lubricated fluidity. Dustin could see what love and care Sang put into this horn. And he kept it safe, holding it gently until Sang finished rubbing his nose and reached to have it back.
“Thadks,” Sang said, still sniffling through his words. “This cold… I cad’t stob sdeezig, it seebs.”
It did seem like that. “I’m sorry.”
Sang cocked his head. “For what? You did’t give be this cold.”
Dustin’s heart was racing again. He did all he could to blurt out something stupid. Just as if he were starting a song, he took a deep breath. “No, but I know how it feels to have an awful head cold. And I’m sorry you’re suffering from it. Is there… anything at all I can do to help?”
Sang smiled back at him, and that joyous, happy song started up inside Dustin at the sight of it. “You just did it. Thadks.” He took the tissue pack from Dustin as well. “Thidk I’d better keeb this close, yeah?”
“Good idea,” Dustin gave a little laugh. He wanted to be the one kept close. Of course, he wasn’t necessarily as useful right now as a pack of tissues, but he had his uses, certainly. At least, he hoped he did.
“Let’s blay the biece agaid dow.”
Dustin took his seat, picked up his own instrument, and began again. There were three measures of resting, and then he hit the first note with perfection. In fact, it had been a while since he’d missed it. That thought gave him an extra boost of confidence. Tone. Sang had said the beginning was about tone. He tried to keep the notes smooth and pure. They weren’t as good as Sang’s, certainly, but they weren’t too bad. At least they were the right notes. And he actually—
“btjddBWACKK!”
Immediately, Dustin stopped playing. He looked at Sang and, for one split second before the man covered his nose with his hand, he saw two trails his nose had not been able to contain during the sneeze. Sang hugged his horn to his chest and pulled all the tissues that remained—at least six of them—out of the pack at once. He held them all to his nose and started snuffling and wiping furiously. He cleaned himself up well and leaned back in his chair with a sigh. “I’ve beed blayig the Fredch hord for sevedteed years dow, add id all that tibe I have dever sdeezed idto it like that.” He looked mortified, so much so that he couldn’t even meet Dustin’s eyes. So much so that he might just pack up and leave and cancel the rest of their lessons.
“No sweat. It was kind of a funny sound. And it was nice not being the one to mess a piece up for a change.”
He spoke casually with a smile in his voice. It was enough to draw Sang’s gaze back to him so he could flash his tutor a reassuring smile.
Sang returned it with a light one of his own. “You were doig so well, too.” He sounded so disappointed in himself.
“Well then, it stands to reason I can do it that well again. How about you pack up and just listen to my playing? Grab your tissues, suck on a cough drop, and give me pointers as I go along. How does that sound?”
Sang smiled again. “Okay.” He put emptied his spit valve and took off his mouthpiece. Dustin watched him lay the horn down with respect, as though he was sorry for having sneezed into it. Sang started to unwrap a cough drop then hesitated. “There’s goig to be a lot of cherry id this roob. You okay with that?”
Knowing this was not the time for a joke, or to bring up the fact that he hadn’t lost his virginity, Dustin bit his tongue and just nodded. Managing to hold back the nervous joke was probably more progress than he’d made on the song. But images of sex with Sang-Ook still ran through his head. That talented mouth. Those swift fingers. Sex with Sang-Ook would have to be amazing.
It was going to be harder than ever to keep his mind on the music, but he wouldn’t have traded this French horn tutor for any other in the world.
“heyy-YINtshhhh!” Even when he sneezed. “huh-Ngtshhhhh!” Because even the way Sang-Ook did that was kind of sexy, in its own way.
Dustin tapped his foot on the floor, counting out the beats, and started the song again.
When he was able, Sang commented on this or that. ‘Watch your tone’ or ‘a little softer’ or ‘watch this transition.’ Sometimes Dustin wasn’t able to decipher the stuffy talk in time to use the comments, but he kept them in mind during the next go-around with the song, then the next, and then the one after that. He did nothing else that lesson but practice the song. And by the end, with the room smelling of cherry and filled with the sound of quiet sniffling, Dustin was feeling pretty confident that he’d do better than a passing grade. With any luck, he might even squeeze out an A.
Title: Private Lessons
Author: tarotgal
Rating: PG-13 (mentions of sex, but it doesn't happen on camera)
Summary: Dustin's got a crush on his music tutor. It's finals week, which means it's his last chance to confess his attraction.
Beginning notes: Written for Empathic Mystery, whose writing I have fallen in love with. I hope this is even remotely what you had in mind.
Private Lessons
Lesson #13
After checking in and getting his room assignment, Dustin turned the corner and tried to keep the goofy smile from his face. After a semester of lessons, it was all coming down to today: the final lesson. And as soon as it was done, Dustin was finally going to take the plunge and ask his tutor out on a date. He’d spent months talking himself into this and hours today worrying that it wasn’t the right thing to do, so he had a thank you card burning a hole in his backpack just in case he chickened out or couldn’t find the words. Because so often around Sang-Ook, he had a hard time with words. Thank goodness most of their lessons only required there to be music.
Sang stood, tall and lanky, leaning with his back to the window at the end of the hallway. He wasn’t too far away for Dustin to see his wire-rimmed glasses perched a third of the way down his nose or his fanciful bowtie as a burst of color against his pale yellow buttoned down shirt. He held onto the handle of his instrument case with both hands, and he perked up the second he saw Dustin; Dustin tried not to read too much into it, but he loved when Sang looked at him like that. He loved everything about Sang, every morsel of information revealed offhandedly and every mannerism he got to know.
“We’re in practice room eight,” Dustin said, tilting his head toward the right. From opposite ends of the hallway, they met at room eight. Dustin swiped his student card to give them access then led the way in the tiny room. They unstacked two chairs and sat down beside each other. That was easier than trying to sit across from each other and trying to do the reverse. It also let them share a music stand. Dustin liked sharing. Dustin pulled his music folder out of his backpack, fingers brushing the card as he did so. It wasn’t the time to whip that out though.
“So how did your practicing go?” Dustin hesitated to answer the question, and Sang knew exactly what that pause really meant. “Oh come on! You’ve got a final this week, and you didn’t practice?”
“I practiced!” Dustin insisted. “Just… not much… and it didn’t go especially well.”
Sang sighed, and Dustin thought the disapproval would end him. He kept his eyes on the floor and kicked his backpack with the card in it out of the way. Should he apologize? “Well I’ll see where you are at the end of the session today, but we might just have to meet every day this week.”
Dustin’s head snapped up. “What?”
Sang popped open his instrument case and spoke with casual determination. “You hired me to make sure you passed, right? Because I know you didn’t hire me to get you to fall in love with the French horn. And if there’s a chance you’re not going to pass and this one grade is going to pull your GPA down way too far, we’re going to have to put in the effort together to make sure that doesn’t happen.” He took his French horn out, adjusted the parts, popped the mouthpiece on, and assumed his ‘let’s get down to business’ expression.
Something inside Dustin sang at this. He loved how seriously Sang-Ook took his job as a tutor. He loved that Sang-Ook wasn’t willing to let him fail. And he loved the idea of seeing more of Sang-Ook.
Even if it meant more of the French horn. With a reluctant nod, Dustin pulled out his rented French horn and plopped the bell on his thigh.
Sang was smiling again.
“What?”
Sang shook his head. “You really hate this thing, don’t you?”
“No…”
“Yeah,” he laughed lightly. “You completely hate it.”
“I don’t,” Dustin insisted. “I just don’t like being forced to learn an instrument. I’m a singer, not a player. The program requirement is a stupid waste of time.”
“Mmm.” Sang coughed through another laugh and cleared his throat. “In any case, I’ve got you for the next fifty-five minutes and during that time, you’re going to pretend you’re a player.” He coughed again. “Now, let’s warm up.”
They buzzed into their mouthpieces, which always made Dustin feel silly. They did some elephant calls, which were Sang’s favorite. And they did a few scales, which Dustin messed up, but not as badly as usual. He might just squeeze a passing grade out of this semester after all. He played a few more notes as Sang made sure they were as in tune as they could be.
“Okay. Let’s start with the piece you’re going to have to play for your exam. Let’s play through it in its entirety, and that’ll give me some idea of what to concentrate on for the rest of the lesson. Are you ready?”
Dustin wasn’t really ready at all, but he nodded. It was a boring song for a French horn player. The French horn so often provided the baseline or the background part of a song, not the melody. And Dustin was a big fan of melody. That was what he was used to singing, as a tenor.
Sang tapped out a beat in 4/4 time with his black converse sneaker and nodded when the first measure began. Conveniently, the French horn’s part didn’t come in until the third measure. Dustin readied his mouth, checking its position and readjusted the hand he had resting, cupped inside the bell of the horn. He counted along with the beats and came in precisely when he was meant to.
With the wrong note.
He quickly corrected, hoping Sang might not notice the mistake this time, but knowing that Sang always caught every single mistake. He was too good a player not to. Though only three years older than Dustin, and therefore already out of college, he had been playing the French horn since he was seven. But it was more than just seventeen years of playing the instrument that made him good.
Sang had a love for the French horn that Dustin admired, even if he neither truly understood it nor shared in it.
To Dustin, it was a heavy, shiny piece of twisted metal he couldn’t wait to return to the music store next week.
He managed the rest of the piece with only a handful of flubs. His timing was excellent, but the notes were off and the tone was amateurish. Playing alongside Sang made him realize how good the piece could be and, thus, how badly he played in contrast. When they got to the end, Sang gave a hard tap of his foot against the floor at the last crescendoing note. Dustin bit his lip, waiting for the critique.
Sang sighed and coughed and rubbed his hand at the back of his neck. “Ah, I think you’d better plan on those extra sessions this week. How’s noon every day sound to you?”
“Fine. I’ll be a lunch date!” He gritted his teeth at the sound of that. “Ah, not that we’ll be eating lunch. Or that this is a date, of course.” He was rambling now. “But my final in this is Thursday. I don’t know if we need to meet on Friday.”
“I like final lessons to be assessments. We can take a look at how far you’ve come and figure out what the future has in store for you as a French horn player.” Dustin managed to not laugh at the absurdity of the statement. It was obvious he was never going to be a professional at this. His talents lay elsewhere. “I see—” he broke off, coughing. This time, it wasn’t just a single or double, it was a small fit. Alarmed at its sudden takeover, he turned and buried the lower half of his face in the crook of his arm. When it had passed at last, he lifted his head. “Gosh, sorry about that.” His voice had sounded a little off before, and now Dustin realized it was ever so slightly deeper than usual, maybe even a little hoarse.
“You all right?” Dustin asked, mostly out of genuine concern but a little because it took the discussion off of the French horn for a few seconds.
Nodding, Sang cleared his throat. “Feels like I might be losing my voice or something. I’ve been doubling up on tutoring lessons lately with finals week coming up. Must be talking more than usual.” He cleared his throat again. “I’m gonna go grab a water from the machine down the hall. You want one?” Dustin did, and quickly forked over two dollars toward the cause.
Sang got up and placed his horn gently on the chair. Then he reached over to the music stand, riffled through the pages in Dustin’s folder, and pulled out a sheet of scales. “While I’m gone, I want you to work on these. Go slow. Really concentrate on each note before you play it.”
Dustin got his horn back into position and set to work. The first one he tried went well; he only missed one note. The next few weren’t much worse, but it all went downhill after that. He was pretty sure he had the right keys pressed, but he just couldn’t make the note go as high as it was supposed to go. That had always been his problem with the instrument. With only three keys, any given fingering had multiple sounds. And he was supposed to know by now how to suddenly produce the right sound the first time. It was all in the mouth. He tried again and again. Frustrated every time he hit a wrong note, he finally lowered the horn.
Following a deep breath, he sang the scale. His pitch was perfect. His notes were accurate. It seemed the easiest thing in the world to do. He sang the next scale and then the next. Then, reluctantly, he repositioned the French horn and tried to play another scale. This time it went better. Keeping the notes’ sound in his head helped, but he was sure most of his success was due to luck rather than skill.
A knock on the door meant Sang was back. Dustin got up and opened it for him, receiving a bottle of water in exchange. They both drank in gulps and set the bottles down on the floor when done. “How’d the scales go?” Sang’s voice sounded no better after the water. In fact, it sounded a little more strained. Dustin could practically see his irritated, overused vocal cords contracting from the cold water. What he really needed was something warm and soothing like a good herbal tea. Sang didn’t really give him a chance to answer. “Let’s find out. Play me the C major scale.”
Grateful, because that was the easiest, Dustin gave it a try. His pacing was painfully slow, but he actually hit all the notes.
“Great job!” Sang’s face was alight with a smile that made Dustin want to do nothing more than earn it every time, as unlikely as that would be. “Now the E major.”
Dustin took another deep breath, centered himself, and envisioned the notes in his head. E, F♯, G♯, A, B, C♯, and D♯. He was fairly certain about the fingerings, but hitting the right notes… He gave it a try. And succeeded.
“Nice one!” Sang patted him on the shoulder, and the touch made Dustin’s insides sing with pride.
“Another one?”
“No, this time I want you to do C major again…” He reached down and twist-pulled the mouthpiece off Dustin’s horn. “With just this.”
Dustin groaned. It never sounded right that way. It was his perfect pitch that helped him get even remotely close to begin with, and this took that largely out of the equation.
“Embouchure is one of the most important parts of playing the French horn. You’ve got to practice enough to have muscle memory, so you can hit the notes outside the scales, during any piece of music. You have to know what C, D, E, F, and so on feel like to your mouth. Remember, keep the corners of your mouth tight. Keep the mouthpiece higher on your top lip than your bottom. And keep your lips loose when you buzz. Take a good breath and go ahead.”
Sang always gave him too many factors to keep in mind at one time, but at least now he didn’t have to worry about fingerings and keys. And all his years singing had taught him good posture and breathing. So he gave it a try.
And failed miserably.
Sang rubbed a hand over his face.
“M’sorry!” Dustin insisted, that beautiful smile of Sang’s gone in favor of a look of disapproval. “I think maybe something wrong with my mouthpiece.”
Sang took it from his hand and buzzed a perfect scale: C, D, E, F, G, A, and B. “And A minor.” He buzzed again with A, B, C, D, E, F, and G. Then he handed it back over. “It seems fine to me. Embouchure, Dustin. If you don’t practice enough, you’ll never nail a piece of music. Let’s practice for fifteen minutes, do a few exercises, then finish with your prepared piece.”
Though Dustin didn’t like the contents of the plan, he knew it was a good one. He pressed the warm metal mouthpiece to his lips and tried again. Each time he missed a note, Sang played him the scale again on his own mouthpiece. It took eight attempts back and forth before Dustin got it. His hands shot in the air in triumph and his French horn slipped from his lap. It would have fallen on the floor if Sang hadn’t reached out to catch it. “Thanks!” He’d never get his deposit back if it was dented.
Sang smiled. Then he coughed and reached for his bottle of water. “Um, which was mine?”
The two bottles sat between their chairs, neither one further from each chair than the other, both with just about the same level of water. Dustin wasn’t sure. “I think… this one was mine?” he guessed, reaching down for whichever was the most natural for his hand to go to.
“Funny, I was going to say that one was mine.”
Dustin shrugged. “Doesn’t really matter.” He took one bottle and sipped from it while Sang drank from the other. “Time for exercises now?”
“Ha ha. You’ve got another five minutes working on embouchure. You can’t build muscle memory without practice. C, D, E… come on. You can do it.”
Dustin loved the reassurance, no matter how misplaced it probably was. So he buzzed. He made a mistake and buzzed again. And again. He made more mistakes than not, but he did get it perfect again twice.
And he had to admit, working on it made the exercises seem easier. And this time when they played the piece together, he got nearly all of it.
“Good work today. You might even get a good grade on this final.” They dumped their spit valves and put their horns back in their cases.
“Only if you’re there to play with me.”
“Well then, when you’re playing this for your exam, imagine I’m there with you. And when you practice, imagine I’m there with you. You will be practicing tonight, right?”
Dustin thought about his other finals this week; one on Tuesday, one Wednesday, and two others on Thursday, including a vocal performance. Picking up the French horn was the last thing he wanted to do tonight… but he knew he had to. And permission to imagine Sang right there with him as he did it almost made the idea worth it. “Yes, I will.”
“Good man. I’ll see you tomorrow at noon?” He coughed again.
“Sure. And take care of your voice. Tea will help. It’s what we singers do when our voices start to fail us.”
Sang nodded. “Thanks for the tip.” He tipped his almost empty bottle of water in a salute toward Dustin as they grabbed their cases and headed out. He took few more gulps to finish the bottle off and winced. “Ugh! Hurts when I swallow.”
“I’m telling you, tea,” Dustin insisted. “No sugar, if you can stand it like that. It’ll do wonders to your throat if you’ve tired it out. Trust me on that.” Sang patted his back in appreciation as they headed down the hallway, and that something in Dustin warmed and sang out to him once again.
Lesson #14
When Dustin turned the corner on Tuesday at noon, he saw Sang-Ook at the end of the hall of practice rooms, waiting for him like usual. Unlike usual, this time Sang look tired. There were bags under his striking, dark eyes and his nose… it looked a little pinker around the rims than it should have been. “Hi there,” Sang greeted him, and his voice was a whole lot rougher than it had been yesterday.
“Whoa. Your voice…” Though not a singer, Sang’s voice had always had a particularly musical quality to it, as far as Dustin’s ears. “We’re in Room two today, by the way.”
Sang nodded. It looked like effort just to push off from the window and trudge back down the hallway, but he did it and followed Dustin into the room. “So how’d your practicing go? How are you feeling about your final?” His voice sounded even worse up-close like this, broken and cracking, rough and deeper; Dustin with his perfect pitch picked up on that right away. But there was also something else to it he couldn’t quite identify yet.
“Practicing went well,” Dustin replied, in that he had actually spent time practicing, not that he’d managed to nail the piece during his practice session. “But how are you feeling? What happened during the past twenty-four hours?”
Unstacking a chair, which he placed a foot and a half further away than normal, Sang answered, “Full disclosure: I’m pretty sure I’m coming down with a cold. I… oh… hold ohhh-on-hnyhhh!”He seemed to hold his breath, mouth tightly closed, even though his nostrils twitched and flared widely. He pulled a small, white square out of his pants pocket, unfolded it, and snapped it to his face. “heyitschhhh!” He followed the sneeze with a wet snuffle into the tissue, wiped back and forth beneath his nose a few times. Then he balled it up and stuffed it into his other pocket. “Excuse me.” He cleared his throat again, repeatedly, apparently accomplishing nothing by the act apart from irritating his throat more. “Started to realize it last night when I got all sniffly. And the first thing I did when I woke up this morning is sneeze. Thought for a second it might be allergies, but I’ve got a headache and this congestion that just won’t quit.” He cleared his throat again. “I think I might have caught it from one of the elementary school kids I tutor. I think one was sneezing last week during a lesson. Anyway, I’ll try to keep my distance today, all right? I don’t want to get you sick too.”
“That’s sweet of you.” Sang-Ook was sweet. And thoughtful. And just about perfect.
“hnn-Gytschhh!”
And sick. “Are you sure you feel up to this? If you need to go…”
“No, I’m…” He snuffled into another tissue and stuffed it into his bulging pocket as well. “You need this lesson.”
“And you probably need to rest so you can fight off this cold. I don’t want my awful French horn playing to actually make you feel bad,” he joked, though he genuinely meant it. He loved the chance of being with Sang more than usual, but he couldn’t live with himself if this was making Sang worse.
“The French horn is my passion. There’s nothing that makes me feel better than holding it in my hands. And I want to see you do well with it in yours.” He coughed and nodded toward Dustin’s case. “So break it out and warm up.”
Skeptical, conflicted, Dustin nonetheless followed his tutor’s advice and undid the clips on the case. The shiny gold smiled back at him, full of promise. Maybe if he played well, he would make Sang proud and they could cut this lesson short so Sang could get some rest. He was determined. Embouchure. Fingerings. Pacing. Pitch. He could do this. He had to. “What are we starting with this time?” Dustin pulled his music folder out of his backpack.
“Let’s… um… let’s ease into it with a few exercises to get the feel of… things.”
Dustin narrowed his eyes, even as he flipped through his level one music book. They’d only made it through about half the book in class, but he’d done every exercise in it at least once now, thanks to Sang’s lessons. Most of them weren’t easy, but they were certainly easier than the final exam piece. He was confident he could play them. He wasn’t so sure about Sang, and he wasn’t so sure what to say about that. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Just trying… not to… cough.”
“Aw, Sang. It’s okay if—“
“If I start, sometimes it’s hard to stop.” He leaned over, barely able to reach the music stand, and flipped to one of the harder exercises that required quick fingerings in 6/8 time. “This one.”
Dustin’s first time through wasn’t perfect, as he’d hoped, but it wasn’t bad. It even earned an approving nod from Sang, who was clearing his throat repeatedly. “Again,” he said. He had come prepared with his own water bottle this time, but the water wasn’t helping much. He winced every single time he swallowed, clearly uncomfortable.
Dustin played it again. And again. And again, until he got it right. And that earned him that smile of approval he loved to get from Sang.
“Last week, you couldn’t have done that, and now listen to you,” Sang said, his voice rough, weak, tired.
“Listen to you,” Dustin began, but he didn’t have a chance to finish his thought.
Sang ignored the concern. “Get the final exam piece out. Let’s give it a try now.”
Dustin nodded He felt like he might actually do it this time. If he played it perfectly the first time, then he’d be able to do the same thing during his exam. And if he proved that to Sang, they could end early. Determinedly, he prepared himself during the first three measures, counting carefully. And when he came in, he did so with the right note. He got through the next measure. He got through the next line. When the key change came up, he got through that as well. This was it. The notes were coming easily. He could almost feel the next note. What Sang said about practicing really was the truth.
And then it happened: a wrong note. He meant to play a low C but got an F instead. Then he meant to play a D and got an A instead. He wanted to quit, but he was nearly at the end of the piece. So he fiddled with the note until it was a D, limped through the last few measures until he got to the crescendo. “Sorry,” he blurted out the second it was done. “I know that sucked. Ugh, I am horrible at this instrument!” He felt like throwing it back into the case and leaving it there. “I’m going to fail this final.”
“You’ve got to cough think about what you’re doing right. Luckily, you came into this being able to read music. And now you know how to breathe right.” Dustin cringed, remembering the way Sang had literally covered his face with his palm the first time Dustin had played anything for him. Sang explained that French horn players never puff out their cheeks. This wasn’t a trumpet and Dustin was not Louis Armstrong. From then on, Dustin had at least had good form, even if the sounds coming out weren’t the right ones.
“Okay, but I know my mouth wasn’t as tight as it should have been. I kept missing notes. I know I’ve got the right keys pressed, but I just can’t hit them the way I’m supposed—”
Sang burst into coughs. Harsh, full coughs that filled the small, padded room with their sound. He carefully set his instrument down and turned away from Dustin, burying his face in the crook of his arm to try to contain both the sound and the germs. His face flushed. Beads of sweat dripped down his forehead. “Sang?” Dustin asked, concerned. He reached out, putting a comforting hand of support on Sang’s back.
But Sang pulled away, coughing even more violently as he did so. “Can’t cough cough get cough you cough cough cough cough sick.”
Dustin’s heart sank. Sang sounded awful, and he was suffering through this because of him. “If I promise to practice, like, three hours tonight, can we cut this lesson short?”
Sang looked at him, face still buried against his bent arm. “What?”
“You sound bad, Sang. You need sleep and tea and apparently all the heavy duty cold medicine money can buy.”
“I’m okay,” Sang said, his voice strained. “Playing just… took cough more out of me cough cough than… I thought.” He took the mouthpiece off his horn, dumped the valves, and then placed his French horn back into its case. Then Sang-Ook drew his legs up onto the chair with him, bent at the knees. He wrapped both arms around his legs and rested his chin against his knees. “You play. I’ll listen.”
“Sang…”
“It’s your final cough exam cough not mine. And you’re playing so cough well today compared to where you were last week, I believe you can get this piece right if you cough just concentrate.” He snuffled and cleared his throat. “Just… don’t stop playing if I have to cough or sneeze, promise? Just ignore that. Focus on the music.”
Never during his private lessons with Sang-Ook had he ever been able to focus just on the music. Not with Sang right there. So close. Dustin promised anyway and began tapping out the resting measures himself before coming in.
It took the rest of the lesson, but he managed to get through it without a single wrong note, despite his concern rising with every sniffle coming from his music tutor. Sang was too tired for his usual bright smile, but he managed a weak one. “You’re going to practice tonight, right? I believe you said three hours?”
Dustin nodded. “I will. And you’re going to rest, right? It’s your turn to promise me. Or I’ll come to your house and… make sure you… rest…” It sounded stupid coming out, he knew it. He flushed and focused on putting away his own instrument.
“I’ll rest,” Sang said, unfolding himself with another cough. “Not sure I have much of a choice, honestly. I feel beat. And my chest literally hurts from coughing.”
“Put a warm compress on it,” Dustin said. “A warm shower will also help. And sleep as much as you can.” He was distracted, momentarily, by the image of Sang-Ook in his bed. He wondered how Sang slept. All curled up under blankets? Sprawled out with limbs all over the place? With comfy pajamas? Without pajamas? Dustin’s flush intensified. “Uh, ‘cause you can’t cough if you’re sleeping.”
Sang nodded back. “See you tomorrow. Practice. Practice. Practice.”
Lesson #15
When Dustin rounded the corner, he saw… nothing. Well, he saw a hallway with closed practice room doors. And he saw a large floor-to-ceiling window that looked out on the performing arts quad. There were students down there dancing, practicing instruments, and reciting monologues. They looked ready for their final exams. He hoped they felt more ready than Dustin did. Because he wasn’t feeling so great about his finals. And turning the corner to find the hallway without Sang-Ook in it wasn’t a good sign. Sang-Ook always got there before him for lessons. Always.
Dustin set his French horn case down and got his cell phone out of his backpack. According to the phone, it was 11:59 a.m. on Wednesday. And there was no Sang-Ook here for a lesson. Dustin typed in his passcode and checked his text messages. There was no message from Sang-Ook. He checked his voicemail. Still no message from Sang-Ook. The man was always habitually early; this wasn’t like him at all. Could he be hurt? Dead in a ditch by the side of the road? Seemed probable. He could have coughed or sneezed and run himself right off the road.
Before he had a chance to consider calling the police, he heard something behind him, a slow shuffling, and he wheeled around to see a girl struggling with a giant instrument case. “Should’ve taken up the violin,” she said, giving him a shy smile. She slid her card in a practice room door lock and shuffled inside, putting her body in-between the closing door and the expensive cello.
Dustin smiled but still wondered where his tutor was. Should he go in and start warming up without him? Should he call and make sure that whole ditch possibility hadn’t in fact become a reality?
“htchnshhh! heykschhhhh! Heh hnnnh! heyetchhhhh!” Sang came around the corner at a brick pace, a wad of tissues pressed to his nose and mouth. He coughed and snuffled into them. Then he lowered them so he could give Dustin a sheepish smile and an apology. “I ab so sorry. I did’t get buch sleeb last dight. I just could’t stob sdeezig. So I overslebt this bordig, add I’ve beed ruddig late all day.”
Dustin checked his phone again. “Four minutes late. That’s nothing.”
“Odly four? That’s great. I was fifteed late for by last lessod. Guess skippig ludch was the right… right… oh doe… gotta sdee… sdeh hehhngshhhhh! Uhhhh. Snrfff! I’b sorry.” He said the last bit with a bit of a song in his voice. Dustin loved hearing that. But he hated the rest—the part where Sang was sick and sneezing and having an awful morning after having a worse night.
But what could he say? Go home and get some rest clearly had not worked the way it was supposed to. And Sang’s voice was still all scratchy with soreness and now full of congestion too, so tea alone wasn’t going to fix it. He had nothing he could offer. He couldn’t even offer a hot, homemade dinner tonight, because he had a final at five o’clock and another two tomorrow. That didn’t leave enough time for looking after a sick tutor… as if Sang would even accept such an offer of caretaking.
“It’s okay. But if you don’t feel up to a lesson—“
“Your fidal is toborrow. Cough! Show be what you’ve got, Dustid.”
When Sang said Dustin’s name, even though his voice was all stuffy, Dustin felt another burst of warmth inside him and a song from out of nowhere filled his head with the urge to prove himself, to make Sang proud, to make all of this worth it. Quickly, Dustin led the way into the practice room, unpacked his instrument, and started warming up.
This time, they didn’t waste time on scales or exercises. They went straight to the final exam piece. Dustin had played it enough to know it well, but this time Sang wanted to walk him through it, as if he was sight reading it for the first time. “The biece starts softly; the Fredch hord bart doesd’t cub id udtil beasure four. The begiddig is about settid the bood, lodg dotes, so work od your tode. Your tode is ibortadt. There’s a key chadge here od the secod bage add thed the tebbo gets faster. Sniff! Sniff! Add it edds with… with… od gosh… sdeeze… heh! Cobig… heh hnnngh!” He pulled a tissue out of his pocket and clamped it to his face. “heyyyIHtchhhhh!”
“Bless you.” Dustin felt strangely self-conscious saying that. It sounded too personal, too caring. Though he wasn’t even sure Sang heard him.
“heyschhhh! Heh-tihshhhh! Heyy-IHTchhhh!” Sniffling into his hand now, as the tissue was far beyond use, Sang bent over and flipped his instrument case open. In the bell of his French horn he’d stashed a few packs of tissues and one bag of cough drops. He pulled a few tissues out and snuffly blew his nose into them. “Sorry, sorry, sorry. Sniff! Sniff! Sorry.”
“Hey, Sang, it’s okay, really.” He smiled and tried to make a joke about it. “It’s not like I didn’t know you had a cold.”
Sang coughed so hard tears squeezed from the corners of his eyes. Exhausted, he wiped them away slowly.
“It is just a cold, isn’t it?”
“I thidk so.”
“You’re not running a fever or anything?”
Sang looked doubtful as he touched the palm of his hand to his forehead. “I dod’t thidk so.”
“You can’t feel it yourself. Let me…” he hesitated, his hand shaking slightly. He stilled it by pressing down on all three keys of the French horn. Their soft, metallic clicks were strangely reassuring. So he kept going. “Let me check for you.” It was supposed to be a question. He had intended to wait for permission. But suddenly he was gently nudging Sang’s hand out of the way, feeling its damp warmth against his skin, and touching his tutor’s forehead. It was warm as well, but not fever-hot. He could feel a faint pulse, too. Sang-Ook’s heartbeat. And it was speeding up. So was Dustin’s.
And suddenly he realized he was still touching Sang’s forehead. He pulled his hand back at once. “Yeah… um, good news! You’re not hot.” Dustin’s face went red. “Um, I mean you don’t have a fever, not that you’re not attractive, because you are, of course.” Of course? Oh, he was such an idiot! “Um… how about we play this piece?”
Sang nodded. “Souds good. Let be just… snrfff! blow by dose ode bore tibe.” He did. And then they played.
And it wasn’t too bad. The tempo seemed a little slower than usual, but they stuck to what Sang had set. Dustin missed a few notes, but he was sure the performance would earn him at least a passing grade. “That B…”
“I know, I know. I’ll get it next time.”
“Blay a B for be.”
Dustin pressed the middle key down, took a breath, and played a shaky E.”
Sang shook his head, sniffling, and pointed a finger toward the floor.
Dustin adjusted his embouchure and the note changed to a B.
Sang motioned for him to stop playing, which was good, as Dustin was just about out of breath trying to hold the note. “Dow I wadt you to sing a B note for me.”
Confused, Dustin still did what he was told. He hit the note perfectly.
“Thidk about what it took for you to hit that. Thidk about your throat add bouth add breathig add all the thigs that go idto it. It’s dot so sibilar frob the Fredch hord, is it really?”
“I guess not. But I’ve been singing all my life. I barely have to think about how to hit a note now.”
“If you blayed the idstrubedt edough, you would’t have to thig about it either.”
Dustin nodded. He’d never really thought of it that way, like singing with an instrument instead of his voice. It was all just music, after all. Same notes, just a different way of getting to them. He took another breath and buzzed into his mouthpiece, creating a wobbly but accurate low B.
Sang smiled. Then he sneezed. “HEHYDShhhhhh!” And clapped his hand over his nose, startled. “Oh doe… so sor—”
“Sorry, I know. You’ve said. It’s okay. I don’t think you sprayed me. Don’t even think you caught the French horn. Bless you, by the way.”
Sang’s eyes shone with gratitude for a brief second. Then they quickly shut and he pitched forward in his seat with another sneeze. “heyitschhhh!” And another. “heh heh-Ingtchhh!”
Dustin got up and grabbed one of the tissue packs from Sang’s case. He offered it over. Then, realizing there was no good way for Sang to take tissues without exposing what was probably an embarrassing mess, Dustin pulled a few tissues out and swapped them for Sang’s French horn. Grateful, Sang turned and blew heartily, wetly, and repeatedly into the tissues.
After almost a full semester of lessons once a week, Dustin had seen Sang’s French horn many times, but he’d never held it before. It was the same sort of horn, with the thumb key and the pinkie rest. But it was so much different. It was so smooth and well-polished it was almost soft to the touch. It was bright and shiny, as though glowing with some magical, musical force that made it unique. Taking advantage of the volume and length of Sang’s blows, Dustin pressed the keys down. They barely made a sound, moving with a swift, well-lubricated fluidity. Dustin could see what love and care Sang put into this horn. And he kept it safe, holding it gently until Sang finished rubbing his nose and reached to have it back.
“Thadks,” Sang said, still sniffling through his words. “This cold… I cad’t stob sdeezig, it seebs.”
It did seem like that. “I’m sorry.”
Sang cocked his head. “For what? You did’t give be this cold.”
Dustin’s heart was racing again. He did all he could to blurt out something stupid. Just as if he were starting a song, he took a deep breath. “No, but I know how it feels to have an awful head cold. And I’m sorry you’re suffering from it. Is there… anything at all I can do to help?”
Sang smiled back at him, and that joyous, happy song started up inside Dustin at the sight of it. “You just did it. Thadks.” He took the tissue pack from Dustin as well. “Thidk I’d better keeb this close, yeah?”
“Good idea,” Dustin gave a little laugh. He wanted to be the one kept close. Of course, he wasn’t necessarily as useful right now as a pack of tissues, but he had his uses, certainly. At least, he hoped he did.
“Let’s blay the biece agaid dow.”
Dustin took his seat, picked up his own instrument, and began again. There were three measures of resting, and then he hit the first note with perfection. In fact, it had been a while since he’d missed it. That thought gave him an extra boost of confidence. Tone. Sang had said the beginning was about tone. He tried to keep the notes smooth and pure. They weren’t as good as Sang’s, certainly, but they weren’t too bad. At least they were the right notes. And he actually—
“btjddBWACKK!”
Immediately, Dustin stopped playing. He looked at Sang and, for one split second before the man covered his nose with his hand, he saw two trails his nose had not been able to contain during the sneeze. Sang hugged his horn to his chest and pulled all the tissues that remained—at least six of them—out of the pack at once. He held them all to his nose and started snuffling and wiping furiously. He cleaned himself up well and leaned back in his chair with a sigh. “I’ve beed blayig the Fredch hord for sevedteed years dow, add id all that tibe I have dever sdeezed idto it like that.” He looked mortified, so much so that he couldn’t even meet Dustin’s eyes. So much so that he might just pack up and leave and cancel the rest of their lessons.
“No sweat. It was kind of a funny sound. And it was nice not being the one to mess a piece up for a change.”
He spoke casually with a smile in his voice. It was enough to draw Sang’s gaze back to him so he could flash his tutor a reassuring smile.
Sang returned it with a light one of his own. “You were doig so well, too.” He sounded so disappointed in himself.
“Well then, it stands to reason I can do it that well again. How about you pack up and just listen to my playing? Grab your tissues, suck on a cough drop, and give me pointers as I go along. How does that sound?”
Sang smiled again. “Okay.” He put emptied his spit valve and took off his mouthpiece. Dustin watched him lay the horn down with respect, as though he was sorry for having sneezed into it. Sang started to unwrap a cough drop then hesitated. “There’s goig to be a lot of cherry id this roob. You okay with that?”
Knowing this was not the time for a joke, or to bring up the fact that he hadn’t lost his virginity, Dustin bit his tongue and just nodded. Managing to hold back the nervous joke was probably more progress than he’d made on the song. But images of sex with Sang-Ook still ran through his head. That talented mouth. Those swift fingers. Sex with Sang-Ook would have to be amazing.
It was going to be harder than ever to keep his mind on the music, but he wouldn’t have traded this French horn tutor for any other in the world.
“heyy-YINtshhhh!” Even when he sneezed. “huh-Ngtshhhhh!” Because even the way Sang-Ook did that was kind of sexy, in its own way.
Dustin tapped his foot on the floor, counting out the beats, and started the song again.
When he was able, Sang commented on this or that. ‘Watch your tone’ or ‘a little softer’ or ‘watch this transition.’ Sometimes Dustin wasn’t able to decipher the stuffy talk in time to use the comments, but he kept them in mind during the next go-around with the song, then the next, and then the one after that. He did nothing else that lesson but practice the song. And by the end, with the room smelling of cherry and filled with the sound of quiet sniffling, Dustin was feeling pretty confident that he’d do better than a passing grade. With any luck, he might even squeeze out an A.
