The piano, located at the edge of the small school stage, was old and weathered, worn out by years of play. The bench, though, was fairly new, for the old one had collapsed months ago.

A young gentleman surveyed the instrument, emerald eyes furrowed slightly. His red curls were finally tamed and he skin was fair, brushed lightly with freckles.

Without a world, he took a seat at the piano, and began to play. He was hesitant at first, slow, always starting over. But he had far from forgotten.

His long, pale fingers danced over the ivory and ebony keys, plunking out a melody that drifted lazily through the air. It was a piece he had learned a while back, the only thing he remembered how to play after all these years.

Every time he thought he had missed the note, he didn't cease playing, but let out a quiet "Shit," or a "Fuck!"

Another stood, not too far away. He watched him play, pound the keys furiously. His deep blue eyes were glossed over, jet black hair slicked back.

He, too, knew the piece, for he had also learned it. But he was never musically gifted, he preferred to watch and listen.

Kyle frowned, and trailed off. His fingers stood frozen, and he remembered no more.

"Don't stop," Stan said.

Kyle looked up, showing little emotion in his face or voice. "I can't remember anything else."

Stan took long strides and stood behind his friend. He moved his hands under Kyle's feeling his soft palms, inhaling the scent of his watermelon shampoo, feel his collar brush against his chin.

And he began to play. Filling in the gaps. Guiding Kyle's hands.

And soon, Kyle didn't need guidance. He took over as Stan sat beside him, their fingers swirling together in an internal dance. Perhaps a ballet, a waltz, a mosh. They played together. Like they used to. Stan lagged a bit, unsure of himself. And when that happen, Kyle was there, playing with one hand, and guiding with the other.

When they finished the piece, Kyle kept his eyes down and heard a quiet sniff from Stan. He looked up, and saw a tear drip onto one of the keys. He reached up, brushing his hair from his eyes. Stan turned to gaze at Kyle, laying his own hand on his.

"Why are you crying?"

He sniffed.

"We had our first kiss here," he answered in a whisper.

"I know," Kyle murmured. "It's one of my most treasured memories."

"I remember it so well," Stan uttered.

They sat in silence for a moment.

"A beautiful lament," Kyle commented voice far away. He laid his finger tips on the keys.

"I didn't know how to play it," admitted Stan, "Till I saw you. Then it just all came back."

There was pain in Kyle's eyes. "I haven't seen you in years," he choked. "Not a letter, a note, a fucking phone call!"

"I know," Stan hesitated. "I'm... I'm sorry."

Kyle wanted to be angry, he wanted to be furious. He didn't want to forgive Stan. He wanted to storm out of the high school, he wanted to berate Stan for stealing his heart, for taking it with him, for leaving forever.

But he couldn't.

Instead, he buried his face into Stan's chest, sobbing his anger out. Stan wrapped his arms around Kyle's delicate body, cradling him slightly. "I missed you," he whispered. "I missed you so much."

Kyle sniffed and pulled his head back to gaze into Stan's crystal blue eyes. The eyes he wanted to lose himself in.

And they both leaned in slightly, hesitating for just a moment when they were barely an inch away, and brushed their lips together, gently, and first, before going into a real kiss.

Like their first one, years ago.