Two Hands Touched

CopyrightEmily Burns

September 23rd, 2003.

Mycroft Lewis was a loner. While he did enjoy the company of those who understood him, he didn't appreciate ignorant people. Ignorant people included people who didn't understand or like music, for Mycroft was a musician. His profession? A high school teacher. But in his heart, he was a musician. A professional musician, a wedding singer, a music teacher, a rock star, whatever. A musician.

He knew how to play every instrument. He had a beautiful baritone voice, and a wonderful take on the colours and ranges and tints and concepts of music. Music was his life, for he had no significant other. He had never been in love. He was thirty six years old, and a bachelor who played music and taught high school students. When he needed to vent his feelings, he strummed it out on his guitar, belted it out in his empty house, where nobody else could hear his words of pain. He didn't talk about it to anybody, because there wasn't anybody to talk to. Nobody that would understand.

Until the day that he met Samantha. Samantha, the fair haired, aqua-eyed beauty of a female. She was beautiful, intelligent and charming. And he knew that she couldn't be one of those ignorant fools with no musical taste, for he had met her at a music festival where one of his students was competing. Samantha was thirty four, and when she smiled, it blew the world up into tiny smithereens. She was just that kind of person.

Mycroft wasn't the kind of man who took risks. But when he met Samantha, he knew that if he didn't take a risk, he would regret it for the rest of his life.

"Hey, you said that you liked Italian," he said, raising his eyebrows at her, "Do you want to go check out the new place in Little Italy for lunch tomorrow?"

She grinned (and subsequently, the world exploded.)

"Sure," she threw her hair back from her face, "I'd love to. And maybe afterward, we could stop by the theatre or something. If you'd want to, of course."

"Of course! Of course, that would be wonderful."

He knew that his eyes were revealing his sincerity. Probably also his colossal excitement. But he didn't care.

And so, the very next day, they went to lunch, saw a movie, went to a museum, walked through a park, bought hot dogs from a vendor, and ended up at a music store, browsing through the merchandise. At the end of the day, Mycroft dropped Samantha off at her apartment.

"I had a wonderful time, Mycroft," she smiled warmly at him, and he could feel redness creeping up his neck.

"Oh, so did I." he said, trying not to notice the little gasps in his voice. He hated being a nervous person. So very much.

"So," she slung her purse over her shoulder and reached for the car door, "I'm going to be away for the next two days, I've got to go and visit my brother in Denver. But, I'll be back. I have a birthday coming up."

"Really?" Mycroft's ears perked. He loved buying presents, "When's this?"

"Saturday," she nodded and winked, "Twenty-nine, right?"

"Always," he swore, and as he pulled out of the driveway after seeing her close her door behind her, he rolled his eyes into the back of his head.

How mind numbing could a woman be? Actually, no other woman could compare. Samantha was wonderful.

When he got back to his house, which was about fifteen minutes away, he leapt out of his car, unlocked the door and swept in. He was singing, he was dancing, he was on cloud eleven after skipping nine and ten. And, for some reason, he was crying. He could only fathom them tears of joy.

He sat down at his desk after about ten minutes of performing showtunes to invisible audiences, and brought out a stack of blank paper. Teardrops blotted into music notes, and before Mycroft knew it himself, he was writing. He was writing, and writing, and humming under his breath, knowing that he was in that state where he would not be able to do a single other human thing until he was finished. But what it was, a song, a poem, a story, an autobiography, he did not know. But he could not stop, not until it was finished.

When two hands touch

In admiration

In formality

Adoration

There's a different touch

For different touches

For different people and different lives

He sang under his breath as he swung around the corner of his kitchen to reach for his ringing phone on Friday night. He'd written the song, he'd bought the card, he'd made his plan. Tomorrow night, he was giving Samantha her birthday present. He was singing her the song that was for she and she alone.

"Hello!" he exclaimed happily into the receiver, wondering if his lilted voice would be enough to scare off a telemarketer or maybe his mother.

"Hey, Mycroft," said a soft voice that he had quickly come to recognize as well as his own.

"Samantha!" he yelled into the phone, then took a breath, "Samantha, you're back. That's great, how was Denver?"

"Denver...Denver was," she seemed to struggle. Mycroft noticed that her voice was slightly strained. Did she have a cold?

"Denver was?" he prompted.

"Denver was...great. Denver was great."

His brow knitted together. He leaned on the doorframe of the kitchen with the phone cradled between his head and shoulder, "What's the matter, Samantha?"

He could hear her sigh, "Mycroft, I had a really good time the other day..."

His heart sank. He could feel it without her words. Rejection.

"I'm so sorry, Mycroft. I just...I can't be dating right now."

"Who'd you meet in Denver?" he asked in a falsely bright tone.

"Nobody," she said quickly, then gave a defeated groan, "Oh, Mycroft, I went there, and I lived there for awhile before, like I told you, right?"

"Right."

"So, so," she stammered, "I went there, and I saw somebody. That I used to...that we used to..."

"You found an ex and got back with them." he said flatly, and he could hear her misery.

"Yeah. I'm sorry Mycroft, it's just that we just met, and if I have another chance with this guy...I mean, I was with him for a really long time, and we almost got married, and I screwed things up for us, but he forgave me, and-"

"Look, Samantha, it's fine, don't worry about it." he said, clutching his head in his hands, "It's all right. It's not like we signed a contract or anything."

"But I didn't mean to lead you on, I really didn't, I feel so horrible about it."

When two hands touch

The world collides

With other planets

No one knew about

And the light and dark

Melt together

To make the world know

Two hands touched.

"Shut it out of your mind," he said, but his head was screaming at her for breaking his heart.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure. But there is one thing that you can do."

"What's that?"

He sighed, "Let me see you tomorrow still. Not as a date. Just let me see you."

"Well," he heard a glimmer of the tinkling laugh he'd memorized a few days before, "That can certainly be arranged."

"I'll be at your place at six, is that still all right?"

"Sure thing. I'll cook a ham."

"Great. See you tomorrow, Sam."

"Yeah. See you."

When two worlds meet

Inside another

when two arms link

one with the other

When two lives merge

father and mother

Two hands touch.

They'd eaten dinner, they'd made small talk. She'd even told him a little bit about Gerald (the "lovely, intelligent gentleman that she had once loved.") She had opened her cards. And now it was time.

He was standing in front of her, she sitting on a couch chair, waiting expectantly. His eyes shone, just a little, he could see it in the reflection of the glass cabinet behind her blonde head. He was near crying, and his fingers were holding the paper with the lyrics, shaking, and he had to force himself to look her in the eye when he parted his lips to release the first note. He nearly stopped dead when he saw the look on her face. Oh, the look on her face. But no, he could not stop now.

When two hands touch

The world collides

With other planets

No one knew about

And the light and dark

Melt together

To make the world know

Two hands touched.

He didn't stop. He didn't blink or stop or move the entire time that he sang. He sang with every morsel of his being. He sang because he couldn't laugh and he couldn't cry and he couldn't be. He sang, because he didn't want to know what would happen if he stopped.

But eventually, he had to stop. And after he stopped, there was a hug, and there was a goodbye.

And the world will forever be

Two hands linking you and me

two hands shaking, breaking, taking

everything

And the world will forever be

taking on you and me

and we'll win

"Sir, who's this song about?"

"Well," he began, forcing himself not to lose his cool, "This song was for a girl. Obviously. Couple years ago. A girl named Samantha."

"Did you guys go out?" asked Miranda, his newest soprano.

He shook his head, "No, well, we went on one date."

"Tell us, sir! Come on!"

"No, I'm not gonna tell you guys!" he shook his head and laughed despite himself. He'd been teaching too long. He had known as soon as he brought this song out to these kids that they would want to know who he'd written it for. Of course.

"Please, sir!" the whined, they crooned, they begged, and finally he threw up his hands.

"Fine! We went on one date, just one date, okay? It was great, and she was great...we had a good time. It was like, a twelve hour date and we did everything."

"Aw!" the class said in unison, and he groaned.

"But," he interrupted the aws, "We didn't go out after that. Her birthday was a few days later, and I wrote her this song, and I sang it to her, and we didn't go out after that. Okay? Will you stop asking questions now?"

"Aw!"

"Shut up, guys," he sat down behind the piano, trying to indiscreetly hide from the group of teenagers, "Just, if you sing this, don't butcher it, ok? This is mine. I wrote it, and it's special to me, and I keep it very close to my heart. So please, just do this for me?"

The class (splashed only with the occasional male face, of course) was staring soulfully back at him, expressions of mingled sadness and amazement. He knew that this was because of the brainwashing that every child goes through, the eternal idea that teachers slept at school and weren't interested in anything but teaching. In a literal sense, he knew that his class was aware of the falseness of that myth. But they seemed to be really understanding now. And he appreciated that.

"So," he took a breath, and readied his fingers at the piano, "Let's try this. I'll sing with you, and you can follow the words on the board."

They sang.

And sang.

And sang.

And he didn't stop them. He couldn't. He couldn't stop his fingers from grazing the keyboard, he couldn't stop his own voice from melting into theirs to produce a soulful, beautiful tone, he couldn't stop the tears from stinging his eyes again. He couldn't stop. And he couldn't let go.

When two hands touch

The world collides

With other planets

No one knew about

And the light and dark

Melt together

To make the world know

Two hands touched.

Mycroft rushed around behind the red curtain, searching for his choir. "Why aren't you humming? Lucien, get rid of the gum! You guys ready? You're all ready? You've practised and warmed up and you're all-"

"Yes, sir!" exclaimed Elvira, "We came all this way, to perform for all of these people. We've been practising for months! Why wouldn't we be? We're warmed up, we're ready and-"

"We won't butcher your song!" chorused the group. He grinned.

"Get out there and sing, then."

As they filed out onto the curtained stage, he watched in great pride - and maybe a bit of apprehension. But he knew in his heart, they would knock the audience off their feet.

There's a different touch

For different touches

For different people and different lives

Strong or weak or large or meek

Two hands are linking

The sunrise is sinking

As he struck the last notes on the piano, he knew that however many times he'd teared up during rehearsal and practise and even the early days of their learning, he would not be able to stop the flood when this was over. It was overwhelming. They had been perfect, gorgeous, amazing, beautiful. And as he beamed up at them, as he turned around and took a bow, as he surveyed the wildly applauding crowd, he caught an aquamarine eye that was filled with tears. He smiled at Samantha and took another bow.

And he whispered, "Happy Birthday."

Two hands touched...

Two hands touched...

Two hands touched...