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Dee was sprawled across the couch the way only someone with zero respect for furniture could be — headphones in, one leg hanging off, book resting on his chest while music vibrated through him.
House was quiet.
Glam and Vicky had gone out riding.
Heavy was at some loud chaotic kid-party.
So Dee? Dee was blessed. Alone. Peace.
Until—
Knock knock knock — knock knock.
Dee froze, head slowly turning toward the door like a horror movie character who already regretted existing.
He sighed, paused his music, tossed the book onto the coffee table with a soft thud, and dragged himself up.
He swung the door open.
Standing there was a tall, perfectly ironed old man with posture stiff enough to snap steel. No smile, no warmth — just judgment.
“…Uh. Can I help you?” Dee asked flatly, keeping one AirPod in on purpose.
The man's eyes scanned what little of the inside he could see.
“Ah. Yes. I believe I am in the correct residence… judging by the interior decor.”
Dee blinked. Slow. Deadpan.
“…Right. Fantastic. Who are you?”
“Oh— I’m Seb—” the man flinched, corrected himself tightly, “Glam’s father.”
The way he said "Glam" sounded exactly like someone biting into a lemon.
“You wouldn’t happen to know if he’s here?”
“Nope.” Dee popped the “p.” “He’s out.”
“I can wait inside.”
The man didn’t ask.
He just walked in.
Dee stared at the space he’d just violated, jaw flexing.
“…Cool. Yeah. Just… let yourself in. Love that.”
He followed, arms crossed.
“So uh— ‘father.’ Funny. He’s never mentioned you. At all. Ever. That’s usually a bad sign soooo—”
“I am Gustav,” the man cut in sharply. “Gustav Shvagenbagen.”
He sat in the armchair like a king judging peasants. Dee flopped back onto the couch with equal levels of disrespect.
Gustav’s eyes landed on the pink guitar leaned near a speaker.
His expression malfunctioned.
A pink guitar? Disgraceful. No man should—
His thoughts were practically audible.
“That your father’s instrument?”
“Yep,” Dee answered, eyes still on his phone. “His.”
Gustav twitched.
“He still… plays it?”
“Kinda. Not really. Not that one. He likes the others more.”
“…Others?”
“Yeah. He’s got like… four? Ish.”
A beat.
“…Are they all that—” Gustav gestured faintly, “…color?”
Dee snorted. “Nah. That one’s special. Trauma guitar or somethin’. I dunno.”
Silence stretched.
Then Gustav spoke again.
“Do you perhaps play anything?”
Dee shrugged. “Dad tried to teach me guitar once. I irritated him. He irritated me. We mutually gave up.”
“Nothing else?”
“Nope.”
A pause… then carefully:
“Have you ever considered violin?”
Dee finally looked up.
“…Maybe? Never really thought about it.”
“I could teach you. I am an excellent instructor.” Gustav straightened with pride.
“I taught your father.”
Dee blinked. “You taught dad? Huh. Weird. Never seen him touch a violin.”
Gustav’s jaw clenched — hard.
“Would you like to learn? We may as well use the time.”
“Well we don’t have a violin soo—”
“Stay.”
Gustav stood, disappeared out the door, and returned moments later carrying a battered, ancient violin case like it was holy.
He set it down with reverence, wiped off dust, and opened it — revealing a polished violin with faint scars.
Dee raised a brow, impressed despite himself.
Gustav lifted the violin and bow, offering them.
Dee hesitated, then took them — awkward, stiff.
Gustav immediately started adjusting him.
“No— shoulder relaxed. Wrist straight. Thumb here. Scroll forward. Stop slouching. You look like a wilted scarecrow.”
Dee just let it happen with the expression of someone being forced to socialize.
“Good. Now: open E.”
“Where’s E? And what the hell is an open E?”
Gustav sighed the sigh of a disappointed music professor.
“This string. No fingers. Try.”
Dee dragged the bow.
The violin screamed.
Dee winced. “Oh god. Is it supposed to sound like a dying animal?”
“Lighter,” Gustav instructed. “Let the bow glide.”
After a few tries, the note smoothed.
Dee’s lips twitched into a tiny almost-smile.
“…Cool.”
Gustav allowed the smallest approving nod.
“Again.”
---
An hour later, Dee could play Minuet in G — not perfectly, but recognizably.
His fingers hurt. He complained. Gustav ignored it.
By the end, Dee wore a tiny proud smirk.
---
Meanwhile—
Glam and Vicky rode home laughing — until Glam suddenly went silent.
He saw the black car.
His face drained.
“Vick— stop the bike.”
His voice was low. Too low.
Vicky pulled over instantly.
Glam stepped off like his legs were made of nerves and dread and sprinted to the house.
He burst inside.
“Oh! Hey dad, look what I—”
Dee stopped mid-sentence when he saw Glam’s face.
Glam’s eyes locked on the violin in Dee’s hands — the dried blood — then Gustav.
Gustav rested a hand on Dee’s shoulder.
“You son is quite—”
“Take your hand off my kid.” Glam snapped, voice cold and shaking.
Gustav lowered his hand.
Heavy walked in confused, he had just arrived from the party.
Vicky leaned in the doorway, assessing.
Gustav lifted his chin.
"Whos that guy?" Whispered Heavy to Vicky, who just shrugged.
“You haven’t told them who I am? The man who shaped your talent? Sebastian.”
The old name hit like a blade.
Glam flinched.
“…Leave.” he muttered.
Gustav ignored him.
“I am your grandfather, Gustav Shvagenbagen” he announced to Heavy.
Glam’s jaw trembled with rage.
“You don't get that title.”
“And yet I teach better than you. Dee learns violin better than he ever learned guitar under you.”
Gustav slowly took out a ruler — the same type Glam used to fear.
Everything in Glam froze.
His hand instinctively tugged his wrist cuff, not enough to reveal anything.
Vicky saw it, how he reacted.
Heavy didn’t understand.
Dee suddenly did, but hoped he was wrong
Silence burned.
“Maybe he should stay… just for dinner?” Heavy muttered carefully.
Vicky shrugged. “Could be interesting.”
Glam swallowed hard. His voice small, tired—
“…Fine. Dinner. Then you leave.”
Heavy dragged Gustav upstairs. Dee followed after gently setting the violin aside.
Vicky squeezed Glam’s shoulder, as if saying 'thank you', then left to give him space.
When Glam had relaxed and put away all his clothes, such as his jacket and the helmet Vicky brought inside.
Glam stared at the violin.
Finally, he picked it up. Slowly, as if it was made of glass.
His fingers shook. Violently
Old muscle memory woke.
Slowly — painfully — he started playing.
And it was beautiful. All the notes just flowed out of him, without thinking much, he realxed a little.
“Ah. You remember after all,” Gustav’s voice drifted from the stairs.
Glam jolted, immediately putting the violin down like it burned.
"You know? A thank you wouldn't hurt" Gustav said as he crossed his arms
“For what?” Glam snapped, voice cracking, “For ruining my childhood? For telling me pain equals talent?!”
He turned away, forcing his breathing steady.
“Dinner’ll be ready in an hour.”
---
Vicky eventually wandered back into the kitchen.
Glam was aggressively chopping cucumbers like they personally insulted him.
“…So, I’m guessing you’re not fine,” she said casually.
Glam huffed a humorless laugh.
“No. I’m not.”
“So he’s really that bad?”
Glam paused cutting, eyes dark.
“…He’s the reason I swore my kids would never grow up scared of someone in their own house.”
Vicky didn’t speak — just stood beside him.
Silent. Steady.
Glam finally whispered,
“…I hate that he’s here.”
---
Dinner started quiet.
Too quiet.
Forks clicked. Glasses clinked. No one breathed wrong.
Heavy finally broke.
“So uh… meatballs are good, right? Right? Someone talk—”
“Heavy.” Dee muttered. “Shhh.”
But it was too late — Gustav was already watching him.
Not angry.
Judging.
Heavy shifted, suddenly very aware of his hands, his chewing, his existence.
Gustav dabbed his mouth with a cloth napkin, posture stiff and perfect.
Then, pleasantly — and somehow worse than yelling:
“Well. I see now who taught which child proper table etiquette.”
Dee looked up slowly.
Glam stiffened.
Vicky raised a brow.
Gustav gestured toward Glam and Dee first.
“You two eat correctly. Utensils held properly. Posture appropriate. No unnecessary noise. Good discipline.”
Dee frowned — unsure if that was praise or an insult wearing tweed.
Glam didn’t react at all.
He just stared at his plate.
Gustav then turned toward Heavy and Vicky.
And the tone changed.
“But you two…”
Heavy froze mid-chew.
“…elbows on the table, fork held like a construction tool, chewing with enthusiasm instead of control—”
Heavy swallowed loudly.
“…I’m just eating, dude.”
“It is immediately clear,” Gustav continued, ignoring him, “that your mother taught you your table habits.”
Heavy blinked at him.
“...yeah? That’s how childhood works.”
“It shows,” Gustav said simply.
“The difference in refinement is… stark.”
Vicky smiled.
Not the pleasant kind.
The kind that meant someone was two seconds from violence or sarcasm — whichever landed first.
“Oh? And what exactly does refinement look like to you?”
Gustav folded his hands.
“A proper dining atmosphere is orderly. Quiet. Structured. No laughing. No slouching. No chewing with one’s mouth open. Dinner is a time for discipline and decency.”
Heavy looked horrified.
“No laughing? What kind of dinner is that?”
“A correct one.”
Heavy stared.
“I would’ve run away.”
Glam flinched.
Just barely.
So small most people would’ve missed it.
But Vicky didn’t.
And Dee definitely didn’t.
Gustav went on, unaware of the emotional wreckage he was dragging behind him:
“A healthy household teaches restraint. Appearance. Precision. Not chaos disguised as comfort.”
Dee finally put his fork down.
“So… just to be clear,” he said slowly, “you think being tense and silent is better than being happy and loud?”
“It is not about happiness,” Gustav replied.
“It is about standards.”
Vicky leaned forward, voice smooth as glass.
“And you think mine are too low.”
“I think,” Gustav corrected, “your approach breeds softness. Carelessness. Children should respect structure.”
Heavy’s voice was quieter now.
“But… we do respect stuff. We just also like being relaxed at home.”
Silence.
Gustav shook his head once.
“Relaxation leads to mediocrity. A child should fear disappointing their parent.”
Glam’s fork slipped from his hand and hit the plate with a sharp clang.
Everyone went still.
Glam swallowed — too fast, too tight.
“I—” he said quietly, “need air.”
And before anyone could stop him, he stood and walked out of the room with carefully controlled steps — the kind someone used when they were too close to either shaking or screaming.
The door clicked behind him.
Heavy stared after him — confused and uneasy.
“…Why’d he leave? Did I say something?”
Dee didn’t answer.
Vicky did — voice like low thunder:
“No.
Gustav did.”
Gustav blinked, genuinely puzzled.
“…What? It was a simple observation.”
Dee pushed his chair back.
Not angrily.
Coldly.
“You don’t get it. And I don’t think you ever will.”
He stood.
Heavy hesitated — then stood too.
Vicky was last — wiping her mouth, pushing her plate away with calm finality.
She didn’t look at Gustav when she spoke:
“Dinner’s over.”
---
Gustav stood up with everyone else, pushing his chair back with controlled urgency.
“I will speak with him.”
He barely took one step when a hand blocked his chest.
Dee.
Expression flat. Voice low.
“No. You won’t.”
Gustav stared down at him.
“That is my son.”
“Yeah,” Dee said, jaw tight, “and I’m his son. And I’m telling you — he doesn’t want you near him.”
For the first time all evening, Gustav hesitated.
A crack in the certainty.
“…I merely wish to correct—”
“No.” Dee cut sharply.
“We’re done correcting.”
Silence stretched.
Gustav stayed frozen.
Dee didn’t move an inch.
And finally — Gustav sat back down.
Not because he understood.
But because Dee wasn't letting him past.
---
Vicky grabbed her jacket. Heavy scrambled after her.
“Mom— where would he go?”
Vicky shook her head, already dialing Glam’s phone.
“He doesn’t run for no reason anymore. If he walked away like that? He’s not okay.”
Call after call rang unanswered.
Heavy looked pale.
“…We need help.”
Vicky exhaled sharply — then called the only person she knew Glam would never ignore if his name showed up.
Ches.
He picked up on the second ring, sounding like he’d just woken up or was pretending he wasn’t playing games.
“Yo.”
“Ches.” Vicky breathed. “Glam’s gone. We… we don’t know where.”
Silence on the line.
Then:
“…Yeah. I know where he is.”
---
Ches found him exactly where memory had promised.
On an old wooden bench overlooking the sunset — rusty metal edges, graffiti scars, cigarette burns marking history.
Glam sat curled in on himself, knees to chest, staring at nothing.
Ches stepped forward — and a dry branch snapped under his shoe.
Glam jolted, turning fast—
Then sagged when he recognized him.
“…Oh. It’s just you.”
Ches shrugged, walking over casually like this wasn’t heavy, wasn’t emotional, wasn’t anything new.
“Yeah. Sorry. The dramatic entrance was accidental.”
He sat down beside him, elbows on knees, breathing in the soft orange light from the horizon.
For a while — neither spoke.
Then Ches nudged him gently with his shoulder.
“You good?”
Glam let out a weak laugh — the kind that wasn’t actually funny.
“No,” he whispered. “Not even close.”
Ches hummed.
“Yeah. Thought so.”
Another pause.
Then Ches started talking — not carefully, not planned — just real.
“You know my mom was an alcoholic,” he mumbled.
“You were there back then. Took one look at her and knew it wasn’t a phase.”
Glam blinked, listening.
Ches stared forward.
“I hated her. Still kinda do. I used to wonder if maybe I was just… born wrong. Like I deserved it or something.”
Glam’s eyes softened — just barely.
Ches sighed.
“But then I got older and realized— nah. Some adults are just bad at being adults. And some kids grow up thinking fear equals love.”
Glam swallowed, throat tight.
“…Yeah.”
Ches noticed.
And smirked.
“See? Look at me being emotionally supportive. Vicky would be proud. Or concerned.”
Glam let out a small shaky laugh — the first real one since dinner.
His shoulders finally eased.
He rested his head gently against Ches’s shoulder.
Ches didn’t flinch.
Just leaned slightly so Glam didn’t have to hold himself up.
A moment later, Glam reached into his pocket — pulling out a cigarette.
Ches blinked.
“…Since when do you smoke?”
Glam lit it, inhaled slow, exhaled softer.
“Since a long time ago,” he murmured.
“But only when it’s like this. When I need… quiet. Something steady.”
Ches raised a brow.
“Vicky and the kids know?”
“No.”
“Wanna keep it that way?”
“…Yeah.”
“Alright.” Ches nodded. “Secret saved.”
Glam passed it over without looking.
A silent offer.
Ches took it, took a drag — smooth, practiced — then extinguished it against the corner of the bench.
Right on top of dozens of old burn marks.
He stared at them.
“…Damn. We’ve been here a long time, huh?”
Glam gave a tired smile.
“Yeah. We have.”
The sunset painted everything gold.
The wind softened.
And Glam finally whispered:
“…Thank you.”
Ches tilted his head.
“For what?”
“For being someone I can talk to about… all of it.” Glam murmured.
“The stuff I never want my kids to ever feel.”
Ches didn’t speak right away.
He just lifted a hand and ruffled Glam’s hair softly — gentle in a way most people never saw from him.
“Yeah,” he muttered.
“That’s why you’re a better dad than he ever was.”
Glam’s breath slowed.
His eyes drifted shut.
Safe.
Exhausted.
Ches stayed still — letting him lean, letting him rest.
As the sun finally dipped behind the horizon, Ches whispered under his breath:
“Got you, Glam. Always.”
And Glam — breathing steady — finally fell asleep.
---
The world had gone quiet enough that even the wind softened.
Glam’s head rested against Ches’s shoulder, breathing steady, eyelashes low and heavy. The kind of tired that wasn’t just exhaustion — but release.
Finally safe enough to shut down.
Ches didn’t move.
Didn’t talk.
Just sat and let him sleep.
Until—
Something warm touched the side of his hand.
At first Ches thought it was just sweat.
But then he saw it.
A thin red line.
Running down Glam’s arm.
Ches’s entire posture shifted — shoulders tense, eyes sharp.
“…Oh, man.”
Carefully, so carefully, he lifted Glam’s wristband — the leather one he always wore.
There it was.
Scratches.
Fresh.
Not deep, but angry and shaky — like panic had needed somewhere to go.
Ches didn’t freeze long.
He dug into his pocket, pulling out a crushed travel-sized tissue pack — the emergency kind he always pretended he didn’t carry.
He wiped the blood gently — slow, deliberate — making sure not to wake him.
The cut wasn’t serious.
But the reason was.
Ches pressed a clean tissue over it, holding it there. He carefully slid the wristband off to let the wound breathe, tucking the leather band into his own pocket to give to Vicky later.
He sat still a moment longer.
Just looking at Glam.
Something in his expression softened — sad, protective, and angry at the same time.
“…You shouldn’t have to deal with this alone,” he whispered.
Then, with a quiet sigh, he stood — adjusting Glam so he could carry him bridal style.
Glam didn’t wake.
His head simply fell against Ches’s chest like it belonged there.
As Ches walked, he slipped one hand into Glam’s jacket pocket — casual, practiced — and pulled out the cigarettes.
He didn’t hesitate.
He dropped them into a public trash can as he passed and didn’t look back.
“Not tonight,” he muttered.
---
Meanwhile, back on the street—
Dee was walking fast, tapping his phone every few seconds as the little map dot updated.
Heavy jogged beside him.
Vicky followed close behind, quiet, scanning every street corner like a predator.
“There,” Dee whispered, pointing ahead.
Around the next turn, they saw him.
Ches.
Carrying Glam.
Heavy gasped and sprinted forward with a relieved yell:
“DAD—!”
Ches immediately threw up one hand and pressed a finger to his lips with the most exaggerated shut-the-hell-up gesture imaginable.
Heavy skidded to a stop.
Vicky grabbed his shirt to keep him from moving closer.
Glam slept through it — face peaceful but streaked with smeared eyeliner.
His breathing looked calm.
His eyes swollen like he’d cried until he couldn’t anymore.
Dee’s expression softened.
Relief hit him so hard it almost knocked him over.
They walked slowly toward Ches — not speaking, not interrupting.
When they got close enough, Ches leaned slightly, voice barely above a whisper:
“He’s asleep. Don’t wake him.”
Vicky nodded.
But Ches wasn’t done.
“Vicky,” he murmured, “carefully lift his wristband.”
She frowned, confused, but obeyed.
The second she grabbed Glams hand softly, she froze.
Her breath caught — sharp and silent.
“…Oh Glam…”
Her hand hovered over the marks like she wanted to erase them.
Ches just gave a tiny shake of his head — not scolding, just acknowledging the hurt they were both seeing.
Neither said the words out loud:
He did this because of Gustav.
Heavy didn’t seem to notice — just stared at Glam’s sleeping face with worry.
Dee noticed everything.
But he didn’t ask.
Not here.
Not while Glam was still fragile.
---
The walk home was slow, careful.
Ches refused to hand Glam off — even though Vicky could’ve carried him effortlessly.
“I’ve got him,” he murmured any time someone offered.
And no one argued.
When they reached the house — the door was unlocked.
The table was cleared.
Gustav was gone.
Good.
No one spoke as they passed the untouched violin sitting alone on the side table — abandoned like a memory someone didn’t want to hold.
Ches carried Glam straight to the bedroom and laid him on the bed — slow, gentle, as if Glam were porcelain that might crack from sound alone.
Vicky ushered the boys toward their rooms.
“Bed. Now.”
They didn’t argue.
And once their doors clicked shut, she returned — first aid kit already in hand, hair tied back like she was preparing for battle.
She sat beside the bed and carefully cleaned the cuts while Glam slept.
The antiseptic touched raw skin, and Glam flinched — a soft sound escaping him.
Not loud.
But pained.
Vicky paused.
“...Has he always reacted like this?” she whispered.
Ches leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, expression heavy.
“Yeah,” he murmured.
“He doesn’t flinch at pain — he remembers it.”
The room was quiet for a long moment.
Vicky finally taped a clean bandage in place and placed his wristband on the nightstand, worried it might press on the fresh wounds a little roughly.
She brushed Glam’s hair back and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead — the kind every mother hopes erases nightmares.
Ches stayed silent.
Thinking.
A secret sat in his chest — the cigarettes — but he’d promised.
So he kept it.
For now.
Vicky squeezed Glam’s hand gently and whispered:
“You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”
Ches exhaled slowly.
“…We all do.”
---
Glam woke with a sharp inhale.
His body jerked upright like someone had pulled a string, and for a second—maybe longer—he didn’t know where he was. His heart raced against his ribs, breath fast, shallow, panicked.
Bedroom. Home. Bed.
Safe…?
He blinked around the dim room until the world finally settled into place.
Then he felt weight.
On his lap.
He lowered his eyes—
Ches.
Asleep, arms loosely crossed, head resting against Glam’s thigh like it was the most natural pillow in the world.
Glam’s chest softened, fear melting into relief. His lips tugged into a tiny, tired smile. Without thinking, he lifted a hand to brush Ches’s hair—
—but froze.
His wrist.
Bandages.
No bracelet.
Panic shot through him again.
He frantically searched around the blankets, his hands shaking until his eyes caught a familiar glint on the nightstand.
There.
He grabbed it instantly, slipping it back onto his wrist like someone plugging a hole in a sinking ship. Only when the clasp clicked shut did he breathe out—slow, shaky, relieved.
Then, finally, he rested his hand back into Ches’s hair and stroked gently.
The moment his fingers threaded through, Ches stirred. A soft noise left him—half a yawn, half a sigh—as his eyes fluttered open.
He blinked once… twice… then looked up at Glam with a small tired smile.
“Well look who’s awake.”
He scooted up slightly, leaning closer—voice dropping to a private whisper.
“—our little smoker.”
Glam puffed an embarrassed laugh through his nose, cheeks flushing faintly. Ches nudged him with his shoulder, smug.
He slipped off the bed and stretched before opening the door—
and immediately froze.
Waiting outside like guard dogs?
Vicky. Heavy. Dee.
All three staring at him with wild hope in their eyes.
The moment the door cracked open fully, Heavy launched forward like a missile.
“Daaaad!”
Glam oofed as arms wrapped around him tighter than recommended for human survival. Dee stepped beside them, awkward but relieved, offering a small smile. Vicky walked forward carefully, carrying a tray.
Breakfast.
Glam smiled softly as she placed it near him. The kindness almost felt heavy—warming and painful all at once.
While Heavy was still clinging, Glam glanced at Vicky and subtly lifted his bandaged wrist.
Then pointed at Heavy.
Vicky shook her head
Glam then pointed to Dee.
Vicky nodded
Dee blinked, confused but pleased.
Ches watched from the wall, trying not to grin like an idiot.
Vicky cleared her throat. “Eat when you feel up to it, sweetheart.”
Glam nodded and reached for the food—
—and immediately saw Ches behind her slashing an invisible finger across his throat in a dramatic DO NOT EAT THAT OR YOU’LL DIE motion.
Vicky turned around just as Ches froze mid–mime, hand still at his neck.
“…It’s not that bad,” she said flatly.
Heavy and Dee shook their heads silently behind her.
Glam held back a laugh and cleared his throat.
“I’ll eat it later. Promise.”
Everyone seemed satisfied with that. Slowly, one by one, they began leaving the room—until only Dee remained at the door. Glam lifted a hand and patted the mattress beside him.
Dee sat.
There was a soft silence—gentle, careful.
Then Glam spoke.
“Do you still want to learn the violin?”
Dee shrugged lightly. “I mean… I’m okay with not doing it if it’s stressful for you.”
Glam shook his head, eyes warm—not pressured, not demanding.
Hopeful.
“No. I’d like to teach you—if you’ll give me another chance.”
He offered a small smile.
“What do you say? Want to try again?”
Dee didn’t even hesitate.
“Alright.”
His grin spread wide—bright, real.
“Let’s do it… Dad.”
---
Later that week, the house was calmer.
No chaos, no arguing, no forced formalities—just quiet. The kind of quiet that felt… safe.
Glam stood in the living room, violin case in front of him. His fingers hovered over the latches for a moment—not hesitating, just… steadying himself.
Dee waited nearby, sitting cross-legged on the couch. He wasn’t bouncing with excitement like before—this time he sat carefully, respectfully, like he understood this meant something.
Glam finally flicked the case open.
Inside was the same violin from yesterday.
For a second, he simply looked at it—then his posture shifted, shoulders lowering, breath softening. With practiced gentleness, he lifted the violin and bow from the velvet lining.
Dee watched like he was seeing a magician prepare a spell.
Glam smiled faintly.
“First rule,” he said softly, offering the violin to Dee, “respect the instrument, and it will respect you back.”
Dee took it carefully—both hands, steady, no joke behind his eyes.
“Good.” Glam nodded. “Hold it like this—chin here, shoulder relaxed.”
He stepped closer and adjusted Dee’s posture—light touches, checking his wrist, repositioning fingertips, lifting the bow grip.
The moment felt warm. Patient. Unlike yesterday, nothing rushed or sharp.
“There you go,” Glam murmured. “Perfect.”
Dee blinked.
“I—… really?”
Glam smiled. “Yes. Really.”
He lifted his own violin to demonstrate, (he had bought another violin for himself to teach Dee better) standing beside him.
“Now… we’ll start simple. Open strings. No notes yet. Just sound.”
Dee nodded and raised the bow.
“Slowly,” Glam coached. “Let the string sing. Don’t fight it.”
Dee drew the bow across the violin.
The sound wasn’t perfect—scratchy at first—but not awful.
Dee winced.
“Uh—sorry—”
“No.” Glam shook his head gently. “Don’t apologize for learning.”
He played his own open string beside him—smooth, warm, grounding.
“Try again.”
This time, Dee breathed first—then moved the bow slowly.
The tone that came out wasn’t flawless… but it was softer. Clearer. Controlled.
Dee’s eyes widened a little.
“That—actually sounded like music.”
Glam chuckled—soft, proud.
“It was music.”
They practiced together—slow strokes, breathing in rhythm. Dee kept glancing at Glam, watching his hands, copying the way he held the bow, the way his wrist loosened.
At one point, Dee’s bow slipped and made a loud squeak.
They both froze—
Then Dee snorted.
Glam tried to stay serious… failed.
They laughed—quiet, but real.
"Hey dad, why do you think... Gustav. Left this violin to our place? "
“This violin,” he began, voice low, thoughtful, “has been in my family for generations. Your grandfather… Gustav, he taught me on this one. Every song I learned first came through this violin. It’s got scratches, small cracks… marks from hands before mine, hands that made mistakes, hands that learned slowly. Every imperfection tells a story.”
He paused, letting Dee take it in, and then his voice grew quieter, heavier.
“My father… he wasn’t gentle. Not with me, not with the music. If I made a mistake—small or big—he would hit my hand with a wooden ruler. Hard enough to leave bruises. He expected me to be perfect. Better than my sister. Better than anyone. Nothing I did was ever enough for him.”
Dee’s eyes widened. He didn’t speak, just listened.
Glam set the violin down carefully on his lap and ran a hand through his hair, staring at the floor.
“So I learned… to hide. To survive. To keep my hands moving perfectly, even when my mind was screaming. This violin… it saw it all. Every scratch on it, every sore on my hands—it remembers.”
He lifted his eyes to Dee, softer now. “I don’t talk about it much. Not with anyone. But… maybe you should know why I care about music so much. Why I care about playing right, about passing it on.”
Dee nodded slowly, taking in the weight behind Glam’s words.
After a long breath, Glam lifted the violin again. “Alright… let’s try something. I’ll show you a few things, tell you some stories, then maybe… we bond a little. You on the violin, me guiding. Music first, my story second.”
Dee’s fingers tingled in anticipation as Glam positioned the violin on his shoulder. And for the first time, the music felt like it carried both history and healing.
Glam set the violin carefully on his shoulder, bow poised, and let the soft afternoon light fall across the strings. Dee mirrored him, nervous but focused, his fingers ready.
“Alright,” Glam said, voice gentler now, “let’s start simple. Open strings. Just sound. Don’t worry about notes yet. Just… feel it.”
Dee drew the bow across the string. The first sound was scratchy, uneven—but not horrible. Glam played beside him, guiding his rhythm, his posture, his breathing.
As they worked, Glam spoke quietly, sharing tiny stories about the songs—the first notes he ever learned, the mistakes he made, the small victories. Dee listened intently, absorbing every word and tone.
After a while, Glam leaned back, letting Dee rest for a moment.
“Hey,” he said, eyes flicking toward the stairs, “call Heavy down.”
Glam returned to the guitar room and came back carrying not one, but two guitars. Heavy’s eyes lit up.
“Alright,” Glam said, kneeling in front of him, “today you learn some basics. Simple chords. You follow me.”
He handed one guitar to Heavy and kept the other for himself, showing him the first chord slowly, fingers careful and deliberate.
Heavy mimicked him, clumsily at first. Glam smirked.
“Not bad… not bad at all,” he said. “Your mom didn’t teach you this, did she?”
Heavy shook his head, grinning. “Nope. Guess I’ve got a better teacher now.”
Glam chuckled. “We’ll see about that.”
They spent a few minutes going back and forth—Glam demonstrating, Heavy copying, mistakes met with teasing laughs rather than scolding. Heavy’s confidence grew quickly. Soon he could play a few simple progressions entirely on his own guitar.
“See? You’re a natural,” Glam said, a proud smile tugging at his lips. “Now let’s take it up a notch.”
He picked up the violin and turned to Dee, who had been watching quietly on the couch.
“Your turn, maestro,” Glam said softly. “I’ll show you the notes this time. You follow along, just like Heavy did on the guitar.”
Dee took the violin, carefully placing it on his shoulder. Glam guided his fingers over the notes gently, explaining each one with patience.
“Relax your wrist… thumb here… scroll forward… good. Now draw the bow slowly,” Glam instructed.
Dee tried, squeaky at first, but Glam’s calm corrections made it easier. After a few tries, it started sounding like actual music.
Then Glam sat back on the floor, violin in hand, and gestured for both boys to play together. Heavy strummed his chords confidently, Dee drew the bow carefully, and Glam wove his violin through the harmony, occasionally adjusting fingers, showing subtle shifts, giving gentle tips.
“Hey, Heavy—watch your strum. Not so hard. You’re trying to break the couch, not the strings,” Glam teased.
“I was aiming for dramatic effect!” Heavy shot back, mock offense on his face.
“Dramatic effect doesn’t make music!” Glam laughed, shaking his head.
Dee snorted, “Yeah, guitar smashing isn’t classical, Heavy!”
They all laughed together. Glam corrected Dee’s bowing here and there, but also let him experiment. Heavy occasionally improvised, and Glam would jump in to match his energy, turning mistakes into playful riffs.
Minutes stretched like hours, but no one noticed. There were small triumphs, accidental squeaks, playful jabs at one another, and laughter that rang out through the house.
By the end, all three were sitting on the floor, tired but grinning.
“Not bad for a first full session,” Glam said, brushing a stray hair from his face. “You boys are getting it.”
Heavy nudged Dee. “Bet I’m better than you already.”
Dee rolled his eyes but smirked. “In your dreams.”
Glam shook his head, smiling softly at both of them. “You’re both learning. That’s what matters.”
For once, the music wasn’t about perfection. It was about fun, connection, and being together—and in that moment, the house felt lighter than it had in years.
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