
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1004302.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Original_Work
  Relationship:
      OMC/OMC
  Additional Tags:
      High_School, band_nerds, Sixty-Nining
  Collections:
      Shousetsu_Bang*Bang
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-10-14 Words: 3948
****** Reed fixation ******
by Kimyōna_Akage_奇妙な赤毛_(kheradihr)
Summary
     Justin Preston always wanted to get into Varsity Orchestra but
     bassoon seats were few and far between. When Carson Finn, Prince of
     Double Reeds, offers him a chance as an oboe, he takes it. What
     neither of them expected to discover during private lessons was
     something extra in common other than a love of double reed
     instruments.
"Justin Preston!" a voice calls over the din of the symphonic band warming up.
I start from my fingering and look around. The voice calls my name again. I
can't see who's calling my name until Carson Finn of the varsity orchestra
mounts the podium and blows our conductor's whistle. There's immediate silence.
"Once again," he says, sounding annoyed, "I need Justin Preston to meet me in
the instrument lockers. Now."
Everyone stares at me as he steps off the podium and heads out the door. I
nearly bite my reed as I maneuver my bassoon's butt strap into my left hand so
I can carry my bassoon with one hand and pick my way through the seats. My
second chair looks like she's about to cry as my first chair slaps my ass and
makes a comment about making messy cork wax with the Prince of Double Reeds.
That's really what we call him. He plays just about every double reed
instrument in modern orchestral history. Even the sarrusophone, which is an
actual instrument. We borrowed Mr. Sparks' iPhone to Google it when he brought
it in for Period Ensemble rehearsals last year. Oboes and its siblings are his
specialty though. He's in the instrument lockers putting his oboe together, not
looking at me. I'm watching him roll his reed in his mouth a little too long
and I have to suck on the spit that's threatening to fall out of my reed.
I end up choking on my own reed.
He glares at me before recognizing me. "Justin, right? You're fourth seat
bassoon."
I nod, my bassoon's bell knocking against my head when I straighten.
"You were second seat last month when I sat in on your seat test. Why fourth?"
"I caught strep throat and couldn't play for two weeks."
He stops waxing the cork joint on his bell to look at me. "From your
boyfriend?"
I roll my eyes. "From my little brother. He's eleven." And a little shit for
spitting in my orange juice; I'm going to put catnip in his drum kit. With
three cats in the house, I'm sure one of them will trash it.
Carson shrugs and puts his reed into the oboe. He plays a few notes, fingers
rolling over the keys in a manner so skilled even the most het of the straight
guys gets hot under the collar. Satisfied with its sound he pulls his reed,
double-checks a sticky key, and takes it apart. When it's back in the case he
offers it to me. I just stare at it. I can read his name and address on the
metal plate embedded into the leather. It looks old.
"Take it." He sounds annoyed again.
"Why?" I blurt. That's one of his oboes. He's offering it to me. That's about
equivalent to someone handing over their highly protected virginity. I'm
getting flashbacks to last year's formal when Daniel Ellison tried to force
himself on me in the restrooms; I yelled for an adult and I still don't regret
it.
"Because starting next week you're taking private lessons from me."
"But I don't play oboe!" I don't. When I was six I was told that my fingers
were too long to not play bassoon. I fell in love with it and never considered
the oboe. Besides, the only person I know who could play it effortlessly was
trying to shove one of his off on me. The fact that it's his oboe has me torn
between just running and listening to the voice in my head telling me to stop
being a spaz.
"You will by the end of the semester. Mrs. Richards wants you to join varsity
orchestra as my third oboe."
Third oboe. There are currently seven seats in varsity and the first three get
solos. I take the case just to have him stop staring at me and make my way back
to my seat in symphonic, the case under my seat like a bomb.
The sympathetic looks I'm getting from the double reed section are almost as
disconcerting as having to spend hours with the strictest musician in the
school.
*******
Last bell rings for the day and I find myself sitting on a bench in the
instrument lockers. I've had the oboe for a few days now; thanks to the
internet and a lot of hand massages from my mom I've figured out a lot of the
fingering for the oboe. I'm nowhere good enough to pick a note without peeking
at the positioning of my fingers – which some may be wrong since I don't have a
reed to check pitch – but at least I shouldn't embarrass myself for my first
lesson with Carson.
My fingers ache at the thought. My fingers are freakishly long and not used to
folding themselves in half to press well-cared-for but still old keys. I'm
pretty sure that I'm not rolling my fingers back properly when fingering the
notes that need a half-covered hole. Right now "embouchure" is a dirty word
because I'm sure my mouth doesn't know what to do with a reed that small.
Carson's head peeks out of one of the practice rooms that dot the locker room.
He actually smiles and opens the door wider. "You're here, great. Come on in
and get set up."
He flips through a book as I put the oboe together. It's similar to the bassoon
in that regard, though I'm using the stick of cork wax that I found in the case
instead of my own so it smells musty. Little-known secret: I'm learning to make
my own waxes and shines for instruments. Which is why my bassoon never smells
as bad as everyone else's.
I practice basic fingering for a little bit. His C key always sticks and
doesn't loosen unless you use it a lot. He's staring at my hands when I look
up.
"Are they cramping?" I shrug. I'm not going to admit that my mom soaks my hands
in Epsom salts for half an hour after practice. "You should stretch them more.
Your hands don't do me any good if they can't move."
My fingers stop moving as my brain stutters over his words. I can't even blush
because all the blood is heading south. Shit. I duck my head and mumble
something along the lines of, "Thanks."
Luckily he doesn't notice any of my spazzing and just nods. He only has eyes
for his oboe, the one I have in my hands. It's fairly possessive and I wonder
how old this oboe is. His dad is an oboist and his mother plays the clarinet.
It's public knowledge – band gossip is only truth when it comes to instruments
– that he plays his father's oboe, a gift for getting first seat in varsity
orchestra. That was early sophomore year. He's a senior now.
"It's my first," he says quietly as if I couldn't keep my thoughts to myself.
My hands still and then tighten around the joints protectively.
"Why?"
He meets my eyes and there's passion behind his straightforward gaze. "Because
the fastest way to become better is to play a difficult instrument."
His words ease the aching in my fingers. The way he puts it makes so much
sense. I remember my first bassoon, a rental with sticky keys that nothing
could alleviate. But when I got my first bassoon – my only bassoon and the only
girl I'll spend the rest of my life with – playing was effortless. My mom
actually put me on a time limit each day; I couldn't put her down.
We're staring at each other for at least a minute too long before my finger
twitches the wrong way and I misfinger a note. His lips twist disapprovingly
and whatever was passing between us is lost in him correcting my placement.
It's how we spend the rest of the week's lessons, him in close proximity, hands
all over me breaking bad habits before I start them.
********
Next week Carson had something special for me. It's in the form of a tin about
the size of his hand, thin and rectangular. He selects something from it,
reverent, and offers it to me. It's the most beautiful reed I've ever seen. I
know what an oboe reed looks like but this was different.
An oboe reed is longer, thinner and finer than a bassoon reed. But both types
of reed are handmade. This one was as well except the craftsmanship was a work
of art. The curvature is nonexistent, a gradual elegant slope from the cord to
the near-translucent tip. Bassoon reeds lack that delicate elegance and that's
why I don't reach for it. Carson smiles, sympathetic.
"Don't worry, it's not yours yet. You'll get this when I decide you're good
enough. For now, you learn to play this."
I nearly loose a sigh of relief when he puts that reed away and pulls out a
synthetic reed. Handmade reeds are good and worth the money we pay for them.
Professionals have a lot, each reed for a specific sound the musician wants or
a certain orchestra or ensemble they're a part of needs. I have three, two for
regular use, one just in case my reeds decide they want to split halfway
through the Christmas concert. Considering Carson's career he probably has at
least ten between all his instruments.
The synthetic reed has no taste as I stick it in my mouth to wet it. My tongue
rolls it idly and I already miss the texture of a real reed. Watching Carson
slip his reed in his mouth made me very jealous of his tongue. By the end of
this I'm going to want to crawl into his mouth and rub my face against it.
In a nonsexual way, of course. Sexually, I'd rub myself all over his fingers.
Those are sexual objects.
"Justin?" I look up to see Carson watching me. He smiles and I nearly faint,
the blood going south so fast. "If you're back with me I'd like to teach you
how to hold a reed. Again."
*******
I'm bad at holding a reed in my mouth. At least an oboe reed.
Bassoon reeds need strong lips to hold it in place as well as keep a good seal.
That kind of strength shuts an oboe reed down and forces the air out my nose
and dislodges a booger. Carson snickers and I want to put the booger on his
nose.
"Your embouchure is nearly perfect," Carson says admiringly as he turns my head
with firm fingers on my chin. "It's the pressure that's stopping the flow."
He really needs to stop talking. It's all coming out innuendo and if I pop one
I will kill myself with this reed. He's chewing on his lip now, considering his
fingers. I refuse to consider his fingers for reasons mentioned above. He
points his pinky finger at my lips.
"Fit your mouth around my finger as I showed you with the reed," he commands.
"The reed is too small for you to learn the proper pressure on."
I swallow and stare at the pinky finger in front of me. He wants me to put his
finger in my mouth. My heart drops into the pit of my stomach as I flush and
lean forward. It takes all my self-control to resist running my tongue against
his finger as I close my mouth around it.
"First, I want a bassoon's embouchure."
I comply, rolling my lips inward and finding the sweet spot right behind his
nailbed. If I couldn't smell him, I'd think I was handling my own reed. I blow
out of habit, letting the air flow out my nose instead of through my
nonexistent reed. He nods approvingly and my tongue twitches.
"For an oboe you have to pull your lips in more so your teeth make the seal at
the edge of your lips and not in the middle. Good. Now blow. Stop, stop. If you
keep your cheeks that firm you're going to close off the reed. Let them and the
area around your mouth puff a bit." He watches me try and fail. There's that
annoyed slant to his mouth again. He pulls out and kindly suggests I practice
at home.
****
Carson is in a bad mood today. I can tell because when I meet him he just
grunts at me. Instead of making a beeline to the practice rooms he picks up his
things and gestures for me to follow. We head for the basement where the
library stacks are. Further back, past the rare book room the previous
principal's widow donated to the school, I see practice rooms. They're gross,
soundproofing at least two decades old and peeling. I wince when I see the
unpainted cinderblocks through holes in the panels. The sound of us setting up
chairs and stands sounds off-key.
"Once again we're going to get you to hold a reed," he says, tossing me mine.
I'm not going to go into detail about this. Needless to say, I still haven't
figured out how to relax my face muscles enough to allow for some puffing.
After years of keeping a firm face it's hard. After a half hour of this, Carson
was at the end of his patience. He tells me to put away my oboe. We're not
going to be playing anytime soon.
"I hope you kiss better than you hold a reed because god, do you suck," Carson
mutters under his breath. The click of latches closing punctuates his annoyed
tone perfectly. My teeth grit in a way I was grateful that I didn't have a reed
in my mouth.
"Try me and find out," I retort unthinkingly.
He shrugs and says, "Sure," then turns on me.
Truthfully, when he came at me, hand raised, I thought he was going to punch
me. I'd punch me. His hand went to the oboe in my hand and took it, leaving it
to rest on the stand, possibly crushing my reed. As I open my mouth to warn him
that he's crushing his precious reeds, he slots his mouth against mine,
climbing into my lap. I do what I've always wanted, licking into his mouth,
running the tip along the ridge of his hard palate, catching my tongue against
his teeth as he curls inward, shuddering. I pull out before he accidentally
bites me.
He chases after me, smooth-worn fingertips from years of fingering keys
slipping down the back of my shirt. They're cold, as if his oboe transferred
its chill to him rather than Carson warming it. I lean back in the chair,
trapping his fingers. They dig in.
Now, he's too far away. If he leans the entire distance, he'll be licking my
collarbone the entire way—which he's doing now. I groan and he hums contentment
against my neck. I reach for his knees, surprisingly knobby for an avid swimmer
and pull him closer. He lets out a noise as he rocks back and glares at me
first, then down to my pants. I've been hard since he climbed into my lap. He
rocks against me, once, obviously testing me.
I grab his ass and rut against him. He does that inward curl-and-shudder again,
and I have to nose at him to get him to look at me again. His pupils are blown
wide and he's flushed from his hairline down into his shirt. I kiss him gently,
like I'm learning the feel of a new reed, and he falls into me. He tastes like
his reeds, I realize as my hands are crawling up his back, bracing it so I
don't gain distance from him. The next time he curls inward and shudders –
nipping at the edge of his lips this time – the movement is shifted lower into
his hips and he rolls against me. We moan into each other's mouth as our dicks
brush.
"Tip your head forward," he gasps at me. My brain is barely working, overloaded
from the feel of Carson against me. I hadn't even registered one of his hands'
getting loose and playing along my hairline until now. I nod, taking the time
to acquaint myself with the artery pulsing strong in his throat. It's following
a tempo much higher than the metronome ticking away the minutes somewhere in
the practice room.
No, it's the school's bell ringing the hour. Five p.m. I'm suddenly grateful
for the fact that no one is down here after two. We'd definitely be caught and
I want to do more to Justin before lesson ends at six.
He's more sensitive where his throat meets his collarbone than under his jaw.
He shifts and I jolt as he places a sucking kiss at my hairline on the back of
my neck. It hurts a little and I wonder if I'll have a mark there by the end of
this. He's grinding against me, our dicks sliding easily restrained by our
uniform pants.
His other hand is suddenly free and reaching for my belt. It pauses. In pants
and shared breaths that multiply in the room I give consent and my belt and
snap comes undone in what seems like one movement. Smooth fingertips followed
by what feels like sandpaper fingers slipped inside my pants, wrapping around
my dick. I thrust up into his downward stroke. It's my turn to arch back away
from him. I'm already seeing stars as he leans in and scrapes his teeth against
my Adam's apple.
I want to feel him. My hands move upwards and he chuckles, extracting himself
from me to let my hands coax first his sweater and then his shirt off button by
button. My mind jump-starts as I watch his hair fall back in place and I follow
the line along his throat, across the arch of his collarbone and down his inner
arm to his nipple. He shucks off the rest of the shirt. I tongue it
experimentally.
As expected, he curls inward over my shoulders, scrabbling at my back with a
choked moan. I swirl my tongue around it quickly and went lower, nipping at his
ribs.
"Justin, please," he begs hoarsely as he bucks up at me. I can't help but
laugh.
"I'm not that flexible."
Before I can finish the sentence, he's squirming out of my lap. I catch him and
bear him down to the ground where he takes my shoulders and pushes me lower.
There's a faint throbbing in my knee until his buckle distracts me. His belt
comes apart easily. He's eager to get rid of his pants and wriggles enough that
I can get them down to his knees. I hear his foot kick off his shoe before he
sticks a thumb into his pants' waistband and tug one leg the rest of the way
off. I kneel between his knees and breathe on his erection as it half pokes out
of his boxers. Before he can take a gasp I swallow him. My name gains an extra
twelve syllables and I hum around him.
His hands are grabbing at my shirt, bunching it at my armpits. I slide back –
teeth gently scraping against him, he keens and I've found my new favorite
sound – and let him take the shirt. There's a plop from it landing wherever he
threw it; I could care less, I'm nosing his legs further apart.
"No."
My head is up and hands are clearly away from him. He reaches for me and
repeats himself. "You have to talk to me, babe; you said no."
He blinks away the lust for a moment and that annoyed slant to his mouth comes
back. I want to kiss it but no is no.
"I want to do you too." He rolls onto his side and I get the hint. I so get the
hint. The sound of music stands scraping along the worn carpet sets my teeth on
edge but it doesn't stop me from rotating around so we're facing each other.
He's shoving my pants down as fast as he can while I go back to swallowing him.
He teases me, a lick to the underside as if I'm a sax mouthpiece drying out
that drags across my frenulum before worrying at my urethra. I buck and he hums
around me, too hot and too wet. I can hear the smugness in it. I worm my tongue
in between his foreskin and crown as my fingers massage his balls. I'm going to
cheat and I don't care. Two fingers slip back further until I find his puckered
hole then it's a game of just enough pressure to tease but not enough to coax
him open. He sucks me deeper and harder.
After that, it's an infinite loop of sensation. We've set a rhythm of
alternating thrusts, trying not to choke each other in our haste, though I'm
pretty sure Carson has no gag reflex with how deep he's taking me.
Without warning, I come, crying out something around Carson's dick, and it's
enough to send him over the edge. I swallow what I can. What dribbles out of my
mouth is forgotten as he gives one last suck before things go hazy.
Reality rebuilds itself around us slowly. My knee felt like I tore a hole in it
when I slipped and I could still feel the ghost of Carson's dick pulsing in my
throat. I hear Carson breathing, too close. When did he move, I can't remember.
I swallow and Carson speaks.
"The carpet, no, the entire room is shit. I'm having the boosters to fix these
up."
He's so sure of it it makes me laugh. "Why? No one comes down here."
Carson smiles and I'm suddenly grateful I never provoked this side of him
before. We'd have been fucking from day one and I'd be even more behind.
"Exactly."
Even though I'm spent, my dick pulses at the possibility of more. Of whatever
this was.
Carson has his head on straighter than I do because he reaches for me, tucking
me away gently and doing up my pants. I reach forward to help him but his are
already done. I reach again and this time I find the bundle that was his
shirts. I untangle them and get him to stop threading my belt to slide his arms
into his shirt. I button while he buckles, both of us smiling though light
kisses left in the afterglow's wake. He shakes out his sweater and pulls it on.
Somehow my shirt ended up in it and it pops out with his head. We're laughing
too hard to do anything but sit back down.
His phone vibrates. It takes a couple of tries, but Carson makes it to his
backpack. He groans. "I have to get going if I'm going to make my next lesson."
I nod, the mood gone even though the giddy holy-shit feeling is still there. I
get my shirt on; Carson packs up our instruments. He packs my reed back into
his case; looks like I still haven't earned take-home rights yet. We head out,
Carson making sure that the door locked behind us.
Just as I'm about to say bye, he catches me and pulls me close. "Private
lessons at my place on the weekends. You're good, but not that good."
I've been around him long enough I know he's still talking about my embouchure
and not my oral skills. I laugh and kiss him. "I want breakfast."
"When you earn your reed."
I knew it was going to be this way. "Deal."
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