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Soft strumming filled the living room of Jack's apartment. Any other day he would call it his and Ryan's apartment, but Ryan wasn't here tonight, so Jack had the place all to himself. He reveled in the chance of being completely alone for once, and yet the quiet crept in like it always did. The best cure for quiet? Music.
He played the songs he was familiar with, the ones that didn't ask him to figure out the chords or think about the lyrics. These songs were all second nature at this point, just something to keep his hands busy and his brain occupied.
The heavy tip taps of Shay's claws on the floor broke his focus.
"Hey girl, did I wake you up?"
She replied by lazily jumping up on the couch and flopping her head down on Jack's leg. After squishing into the couch more to get comfortable, she let out a long sigh. With his free hand, Jack ruffled the fur on her head. Unsatisfied, she demanded more pets, nosing at his leg.
He smiled. "Alright, needy," he said, and pet her until she fell asleep.
The apartment was quiet again. Too quiet.
Testing a strum on his guitar, Jack looked down at Shay, unbothered and all too used to the noise her humans made throughout the day (and night). He continued his session, switching to the first lullaby song he could think of. Singing to his dog was one of his favorite things in the world, she was the best audience; if she didn't like a song, she would get up and leave the room (which always made Jack laugh). He was lucky—what other dog would lay there fast asleep as he sang with his guitar?
The song was cut short by a sharp snap-twang.
"Fuck!"
Jack flinched as one of the strings on his guitar snapped at him. His sudden movement made Shay grunt in disapproval and paw at him.
"Sorry girl."
He held the guitar close again to inspect the damage; a stupid string had reached the end of its life. It was Jack's turn to sigh. He had gotten lazy with his acoustic and didn't bother to change the strings when he normally did. Now, he was paying the price.
"Hey, scooch over," he told Shay, and gently pushed her off of his leg. Resting the guitar on the other side of him, he set about the hunt for extra strings.
His usual spot, a basket under the bed, was filled with everything—picks, capos, pencils, tuners—but no strings. He sifted through it all again, like opening the fridge and expecting different food to be there, and swore at the basket. The basket did not reply.
The second place he looked was in the mess of a storage closet he and Ryan shared. Miscellaneous items poked out and made his search difficult: the missing pair of gloves he thought the dryer ate months ago, the cheap handheld vacuum that never worked no matter how much they charged the battery, the coat Ryan swore he hadn't grown out of since he was a teenager that somehow survived the move, and all of the random instruction manuals never to be read again.
No strings.
The last hiding spot the strings could have been was in Ryan's room. Jack didn't think twice about breaking and entering (opening the unlocked door) to search through his music stuff. Upon entry, he saw Ryan's things were extremely unorganized. Jack rolled his eyes at the mess, something he gave up on trying to talk to him about. How Ry could find anything in the chaos was a question Jack asked himself everyday.
Tonight, he was thankful for everything strewn about, because sticking out from a small pile of notebooks and loose paper (and a watercolor palette?) was a lucky pack of strings. Jack carefully dislodged the pack, playing a game of Jenga. The tower shifted but did not fall. Checking to make sure they were the correct strings, he tapped the pack in the palm of his hand and began his emergency surgery on his guitar.
New task at hand, he retrieved his multi-tool and set to work. He sat on the floor of the living room this time, back against the couch for support. Shay sniffed at his tousled hair. Jack contorted his arm behind him with ease to scratch her chin.
"That tickles baby. Whatcha doin'?"
The smooth part of changing strings was the beginning. Balancing the guitar in his lap, he took his trusty tool, the same one he bought years ago when he first started playing guitar, and unwound the strings one by one. The first time did that, it felt wrong, and scary. Over time, it was just another part of routine maintenance. A lot of things in his life ended up that way. Switching to the wire cutters, he snipped the strings, grimacing as they broke free from what little tension was left holding them.
Untangling the strings at the top was always a challenge. The holding knots he had wrapped around the tuning pegs the last string change were tight, except for the string that snapped. He had found the problem. Jack inhaled sharply as the high E string poked through his finger while trying to untangle it. In times like these, he wished his fingers were a little smaller, a little more nimbler. Pushing through the annoying stabbing pain with each string, the first half were disposed off.
The pegs at the bottom of the guitar were also a pain. Maybe he was lying to himself about the beginning being smooth. Once again, he switched his tool's function. Pliers were necessary for pulling the stubborn pegs out. Six frustrating tugs later, the pegs and the ends of the strings were free.
In his hands he held a naked guitar. Fingerprints covered the main body, dust lingered in crevices that he swore he had brushed away, and tiny nicks and scratches showed up here and there from years of love. This was his baby. No other guitar sounded or felt the way this one did. Jack turned the guitar over. In slightly smudged permanent marker, the initials J.E.M. were written on the headstock. He could never get rid of this gem for as long as he lived.
Taking a soft cloth, he did a once over of his guitar, wiping away the oils from his hands and the leftover dust. The quiet snuck in again, and he hummed a song to fill in the empty space, one of his favorites about wanting to return home while away on tour. Funny how a song made in the sixties could apply to himself so many years in the future.
Jack tore open the pack of strings, inserting and winding them from lowest to highest. His hands were gentle with his guitar, and he talked to it, words of care and respect. The process of restringing was intimate from catching the ends of the strings just right in the pegs at the bottom of the body to softly caressing the neck with his fingers to twisting the coated wires securely at the top. Each string was like adding life back into his guitar, a new vein for music to course through.
The worst part was next: tuning. The first few strings held their tone fine. When the last two needed to be done, he grimaced in anticipation, listening for the right sound. A subtle click and a slight detune meant the strings were relaxing; he would have to do it over again to hold the tone in place.
"Please don't snap," he pleaded. His face twisted in anxiousness as the final string finally hit the right note. A sigh of relief left his body.
He cross checked the tuning, playing enharmonic notes on multiple strings, followed by a single chord, ringing loud and clear and bright. All was well. His baby was healed.
Not bothering to check the time—he knew it was late, and he didn't want to know how late— Jack returned to the couch, laying back on the arm to stretch his legs out by Shay, who had been snoozing away.
And he played. Fresh music breathed into the quiet apartment again until he fell asleep all cozy on the couch, guitar in hand, and dog at his feet.