Broken Notes - A Two and a Half Men Fanfic

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Before you start, please read the Auxiliary - "Read me" Chapter first

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The room was quiet, too quiet. Nero lay awake in his bed, staring at the faint shadows stretching across the ceiling. The ticking of the clock on his bedside table seemed louder than usual, echoing through the silence of the house. His dad wasn't home again.

He turned over, squeezing his eyes shut, but sleep wouldn't come. It hadn't come easily for months now. Maybe it was the house. The rooms were too big, too empty, and no matter how much he wanted to, he couldn't make it feel like home. Not without her.

His thoughts drifted to his mom. The smell of her perfume still lingered faintly on the clothes she'd left in the closet, and every now and then, if he closed his eyes and focused hard enough, he could remember the way she'd tuck him in at night. Her smile, soft and warm, had always been the last thing he saw before he fell asleep.

But not anymore.

Now, his nights were filled with something different. Not memories of her, but strange dreams—dreams that didn't feel like his own. Flashes of places he'd never been, faces he didn't recognize. They flickered in and out like an old, worn-out movie, hazy and disconnected. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't piece them together. He couldn't make sense of it.

It was like watching a life that didn't belong to him. A life where he was older, where he knew things a kid his age shouldn't know. But just as soon as the images appeared, they would fade away, leaving him with nothing but the lingering feeling that something was missing.

And then there were the songs.

They were always there, buried somewhere deep in his mind. Songs he'd never heard before, but somehow knew by heart. They came to him in moments of quiet, when he'd sit at the piano or strum his guitar. The melodies, the lyrics—they just flowed, like water running over smooth stones. He didn't know where they came from, but when his fingers hit the keys or the strings, they felt… right.

He never questioned it. Playing music had always felt natural to him, but now it was more than that. It was like the music had become a part of him, a way to express everything he couldn't say out loud. It helped him forget about the dreams. About the emptiness in the house. About how much he missed her.

It had happened again that night—another dream, one that felt too real to shake off. He didn't remember all of it. Just bits and pieces. A flash of light, the sound of tires screeching, and a strange, almost familiar feeling in his chest, like he'd been there before. But none of it made sense. It was all jumbled, like trying to remember a song after hearing only the first few notes.

He sat up in bed, the dream already slipping away from him, like sand through his fingers. The only thing that stuck was the feeling of something unfinished. Something left behind.

Nero rubbed his eyes, glancing at the clock. His dad wasn't home yet, and he wasn't sure if he'd be back tonight at all. Work had become his dad's escape ever since his mom passed away. Nero was used to it by now. The house was empty, but he didn't mind the quiet. At least, that's what he told himself.

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he made his way to the piano in the corner of his room. The familiar feel of the keys under his fingers brought a strange sense of comfort. It was one of the few things that still made sense. Without thinking, he began to play—a soft melody that came to him like it always did, like the notes had been waiting for him to find them.

The song was simple, but there was something about it that felt... right. Like he'd known it his whole life, even though he couldn't remember learning it.

The words followed soon after, slipping out almost without thought.

♪ "When the days are cold,

And the cards all fold..." ♪

Nero's voice was soft, the lyrics coming to him naturally. He didn't question it. He never did. The music was just there, waiting to be played. He didn't know where it came from, but that didn't matter. All he knew was that when he played, it made everything else—the empty house, the strange dreams, the feeling of loss—fade away, if only for a little while.

As the last note echoed through the room, Nero let his hands fall to his lap, a small sigh escaping his lips. The silence that followed wasn't as heavy as before. The music had taken some of the weight off his chest, even if just for a moment.

He didn't know how long he'd been sitting there when he heard the front door creak open. His dad was home?

Just then, the sound of a door opening and a voice broke the silence. "Knock knock! Or… well, I guess I'm already in," Charlie Harper announced, strolling into the house like he owned the place, which, of course, he didn't.

Nero blinked, rubbing his eyes as Charlie made his way into the living room, wearing his signature bowling shirt, flip-flops, and a grin that suggested he hadn't fully read the room yet.

"Whoa, tough crowd," Charlie muttered to himself before speaking louder. "Hey, kid. Your dad's tied up with work or something, so here I am. Thought I'd check in, you know, make sure you weren't burning the place down."

Nero, still half-asleep, stared blankly at Charlie from his spot on the couch. He wasn't in the mood for company, least of all from a stranger in flip-flops.

Charlie glanced around, his eyes falling on the piano in the corner. "Nice setup. You play, or is this just for show?"

Nero shrugged.

"Ah, the classic kid shrug," Charlie said, strolling over to the piano. "I get it. When I was your age, I didn't want to talk to anyone either. Except maybe the ice cream man. But hey, we all cope in different ways."

Charlie tapped a few keys, playing a quick jingle, the kind that made you want to buy something you didn't need. "I write these for a living, you know. Jingles. Beer commercials, cat food… the works. It's not exactly Beethoven, but hey, it pays the bills." He shot Nero a grin, waiting for some kind of reaction.

Nero didn't budge.

Charlie raised an eyebrow. "Tough crowd indeed. You know, your dad never told me you were so… talkative."

Nero sighed, clearly not in the mood for Charlie's humor. But Charlie, being Charlie, wasn't one to give up so easily.

Charlie looked around again, noticing the photos of Nero's mom on the mantelpiece. "Hey, that's your mom, right? She was a looker—uh, I mean that in the most respectful way possible. I mean, look at me, I'd say that about anyone." He laughed awkwardly, realizing that might not have been the best thing to say.

Nero's expression didn't change, but the corner of his mouth twitched slightly. Charlie, taking this as a win, leaned against the piano.

"You know, kid, when things suck—and trust me, they will—sometimes all you can do is play it out." He motioned to the piano. "Your mom teach you? Bet she showed you something good."

Nero hesitated. For the first time, something flickered in his eyes. Slowly, he slid off the couch and sat at the piano. His fingers hovered over the keys for a moment, then began to play a soft melody. It wasn't perfect, but it was something. Something his mom had taught him.

Charlie watched, his usual grin softening into something more genuine. For once, he didn't have a joke to crack.

When Nero finished playing, the silence hung between them for a moment before Charlie clapped lightly. "Yeah, that's good, kid. Real good. And hey, if you ever want to write something catchy—something that'll get stuck in people's heads and annoy the hell out of them—I'm your guy."

Nero didn't respond, but the tiniest hint of a smile crept onto his face. Maybe Charlie wasn't so bad, after all.

It was a few weeks after that first encounter when Nero found himself staying at Charlie's beach house. His dad had left again—another business trip, another excuse. At least Charlie was here, though "here" was a relative term.

The house was a disaster. Empty beer bottles sat in the corners, clothes were thrown over the furniture, and random objects—like a surfboard—were scattered across the floor. If nothing else, it was a mess that felt… lived in.

"Make yourself at home, kid," Charlie had said when Nero arrived, waving a hand toward the chaotic scene. "Or, you know, whatever you call this."

Charlie had tried to cheer Nero up, in his own Charlie Harper way—cracking inappropriate jokes about his bachelor lifestyle and telling exaggerated stories about his misadventures with women. Nero didn't laugh, but he didn't roll his eyes either, which Charlie took as progress.

The next morning, Charlie stumbled out of his bedroom, wearing yesterday's shirt and looking like he hadn't slept much. "Kid, why are you up so early? Do you know what time it is?"

Nero was already at the piano, playing the same melancholy tune he always played.

Charlie yawned, dragging himself over to the couch. "Alright, I'll admit it. You've got something going on there. It's nice. You know, for sad piano music." He squinted at Nero, leaning forward. "Me? I write jingles. For beer. You ever write a jingle? It's all about the hook. Get 'em with something stupid, and boom—money."

Nero didn't respond, but there was something comforting about Charlie's ridiculousness. At least he wasn't trying to "fix" everything. He was just… there.

Charlie clapped Nero on the back, the gesture a little awkward but appreciated. "Look, kid," he said, "I'm not gonna sit here and tell you life gets easier. It doesn't. But you stick with this piano thing. Maybe you'll figure out something better than I ever did. And hey, if all else fails, I'll teach you how to make a killer frozen margarita. That'll solve at least half of your problems."

Nero smirked slightly. For the first time in a while, the house didn't feel so empty.