[fic] RE8, Wintersberg: nobody's poet [spirit hat extra]

[hexmix]

written for the April 20th prompt "a lot of boxes" for spring_renewal. takes place during 'all i need is some sunshine' sometime after ch12 and before ch18. listened to my own fanmix on repeat while writing this, and the title does in fact come from the Pina Colada song lmao.

the prompt of course reminded me of Karl cleaning out the shed in ch12, and Karl harassing Ethan with mixed tapes he found there is something i'd been wanting to write for a while c:

Title: nobody's poet
Fandom: Resident Evil Village
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Ethan Winters/Karl Heisenberg
Content Notes: none (spoilers for the rest of 'all i need is some sunshine')
Prompt Being Filled: Any, Any, a lot of boxes [April 20th]

also available here on squidgeworld

He found the box of cassettes first. Ethan told him what they were later. Stood next to Karl in front of the open shoebox picking one out after another and making quiet commentary under his breath, a snort or a softly muttered Really? or Damn that was really only telling Karl that Ethan seemed pretty picky about his music.

“Nothing to play them on,” he declared at last. “Just throw them out.”

But Karl had noticed him lingering on a few, his thumb rubbing along the edge of the cassette’s case, sort of absently, while his eyes tracked the little song list. Was it interest? Karl was certainly interested. He really only knew what kind of music annoyed Ethan enough to make him change the station when they were driving.

It was something he thought about off and on: the kinds of things he knew about Ethan (he preferred to sleep on his side, he worried too much, trusted too easy, he snored, he preferred boxer briefs, he had so far hated every “limited” Blizzard flavor Karl had bought for him) and then all the things he didn’t.

It didn’t exactly bother him, how little he knew, but he kept the cassettes all the same. Set the shoebox aside and kept digging through the rest of the boxes he’d unearthed from the shed. 

He found the radio some time later. Knew it was a radio from the look and feel of it, though he’d never seen one like it before. Clued in pretty fast to the cassette tray, to what it was for, and even though he could have figured it out on his own he still got Ethan to show him how.

He was curious what cassette Ethan would use to demonstrate.

“Like this,” Ethan said, after he’d spent some minutes going through all the cassettes again (I can’t believe you kept these). He slipped one in with the open edge up and pushed the little tray closed. He went through and pointed out all the buttons, one after another, Play, pause, stop, and explained fast-forward and flipping the cassette to get to the other half of the songs on the other side.

“Haven’t messed with one of these in years,” he said, low, like he got when he was mostly speaking to himself. Karl found himself watching the little half-smile that was playing around the corner of Ethan’s mouth.

“Here,” Ethan said next, and hit play. 

And hell if Karl didn’t recognize the song; it was one of the ones the radio played a lot. One of the ones Ethan would sometimes change the station to avoid hearing.

“My mom really liked this band,” Ethan said. He cut Karl a weird sort of glance, still kind of almost-smiling, but not like he was happy exactly. The link wasn’t helping any either, giving Karl nothing but a neutral sort of static that felt a lot like sea foam. Soap suds.

And that was one of those things he didn’t know; Ethan’s parents, the rest of his family, was a great fat blank. It was only recently that it had even occurred to Karl that he must have one. That his life hadn’t only been his wife and his kid. 

The song played on, persistently upbeat, and Karl said, “Not a fan?”

Ethan blinked at him. “It’s the Beach Boys,” he said, which meant precisely nothing to Karl aside from clearly being the name of the band.

“And?” Karl pressed, expecting the way Ethan’s expression scrunched a little while he was thinking and grinning to see it.

“They’re just…” Ethan turned to frown down at the radio, like it held the explanation he was clearly searching for. “It’s like the Beatles,” he said at last, turning back to Karl. “You can’t really avoid hearing them.”

Karl was ready to protest that he’d been doing a damn good job of avoiding them, except that it occurred to him how often they played on the radio and that maybe Ethan had a point. “Alright,” he said, agreeable enough, “but what do beetles have to do with it?”

And then Ethan’s eyes went wide, sheer disbelief, and Karl wanted to stretch it out, wanted to see if Ethan would go out of his way to explain The Beatles, but he found he couldn’t stop the grin. Decided to lean into it and winked, which elicited the eye roll he knew was coming.

The song ended and another started and Ethan said, “Enjoy your tapes, I’ve got to get started on dinner,” and they were standing close enough there on the porch that he brushed Karl’s arm as he passed, vague annoyance through the link.

Karl watched his back as he headed inside. Noted the way his shirt was a little too tight so that his shoulder blades pressed clear through it; the way his hair was ruffled by the breeze; the way he held the screen door open as he stepped out of his shoes. He never let it clatter like Karl liked to. Pulled it quietly closed and then paused when he noticed Karl watching him. “What about you?” he asked.

“What about me, what?” Karl said, feeling a sort of playful amusement through the link and knowing that Ethan was about to say something he thought was funny.

Ethan arched a brow like it should be obvious. “Think you’re a Beach Boys fan?”

Karl hadn’t thought about it. He didn’t think about most of the music he let the radio play beyond liking the noise of it; the way he could drown out his own thoughts or Ethan’s worry by letting it play loud enough.

Karl didn’t know how many songs were on the cassette. Figured from the sounds of it the lyrics would be just as fucking stupid as everything he’d heard back in Bucharest at that mall. 

But it was sort of interesting, thinking about Ethan listening to this. That connection with his mother; a woman Karl had never met but who he’d gotten flashes of sometimes, Ethan’s memories filtering disjointed through the link. 

So Karl shrugged a shoulder. “Guess we’ll find out,” he said.

**

He worked through all the cassettes. Multiple times. He’d play them while he was working or while Ethan was and Karl would sit out on the porch and watch him contorted all under the truck, covering himself in sweat and grease, fingers nimble and skilled enough that sometimes Karl would daydream about getting Ethan to work alongside him in his factory. Ethan’s fingers were more slender than Karl’s were; he’d be good at fiddly shit. Hell, watching him mess with the damn truck it was clear as crystal that he was already good at fiddly shit.

Other times Karl would amuse himself by thinking about what other uses he could put Ethan’s hands to. Ethan would catch him smirking about it sometimes and hit him with a suspicious What? that Karl would only smirk all the more.

Sometimes, depending on the cassette and the song, Ethan would start singing.

The first time Karl heard him he was out skinning the coverings off wires on the porch, unspooling them from the tangled mess of Christmas lights he salvaged from the shed. Ethan was in the kitchen with the window open, the clink of glassware and soft splashes making it clear he was doing dishes. 

Karl wasn’t paying attention at first; had barely noticed that one song had ended and another started up–it was all still mostly noise to him.

He paid attention when he heard Ethan though; he always did.

He sang a little lower than the singer did, and he wasn’t singing very loud, but Karl paused his work just to listen to him.  

Ethan knew all the lyrics to the song; sang right along to it. Only cut himself off to curse when he dropped something in the sink with a clatter and a splash. 

Karl made sure to play the same exact cassette the next time, curious to see if Ethan would sing along again.

And he did, but to a different song entirely.

It was like a game after that, trying to see which songs Ethan would sing along to, Karl wondering if that meant Ethan liked them. He certainly knew them. Sometimes Karl would catch him humming them later, in the shower or while doing laundry or even while walking out across the marsh together, Ethan interrupting himself to complain about the bugs or the smell or the mud.

Karl liked listening to him a hell of a lot better than the damn cassettes. He liked that one day Ethan would sing along to a song and the next time Karl played it he’d complain about it, loudly, and then go right back to singing it the next time it played.

He wondered at Ethan never singing along to the Beach Boys. He never complained about them either, just listened in silence, the link gone that neutral sea foam static.

Unavoidable, Karl thought, picking a little at it. At what exactly he was even doing with all this shit in the first place, none of it really mattering, all of it just something to fill the time with, even as much as he liked Ethan’s singing.

But he did like Ethan’s singing. He liked that it was almost drawn out of him despite himself sometimes. He liked the sound of his voice and the way he’d go all soft and easy while he was doing it.

“If you play the fucking Pina Colada song one more time I’m burning the damn tape,” Ethan would say. Or sometimes, “Wish they’d added a better Eagles track than this, here–” and then he’d pull something up on his phone for Karl to listen to that didn’t sound any different to him than what had been playing previously.

Then, one time, when it’d gone dark and the fucking insects were nearly louder than the cassette playing, Ethan had groaned and said, “Shut that off–here–” and pulled out his phone and played jazz for them. Set it out in the center of the coffee table and leaned back against the loveseat, all loose-limbed, smiling as he listened and drumming his fingers against the armrest.

And Karl had heard most of it before–Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald–had found records that villagers had probably snuck in via the Duke and played them on the record player he’d found and fixed in the factory’s head office. Played them just to see what was on them. What it sounded like. Wanting to know if he’d recognize any of it, if he’d have heard it before. If it’d place something for him, any lost scrap of memory from that blank stretch of time he had from before the village and Miranda and all the rest of it.

And it hadn’t. Of fucking course it hadn’t. And there was a sort of bitterness there, listening to the music now.

But then, this was what Ethan had decided to show him. This was apparently what he liked.

Because he did clearly like it; loved the hell out of it, if the pleasant buzz traveling across the link was any indication.

It made him happy to listen to it. It stilled something inside him.

He felt the way Karl did listening to Ethan sing.

So he made himself stretch out on the loveseat next to Ethan and just listen. Close his eyes and focus on Ethan there next to him, on the link and the way his mind emptied out of every worry like it was some kind of damn spell.

 

And that, Karl thought, seemed like a fair enough trade.