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liaromancewriter · 2 years

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A Year of Kisses: June

Series Premise: It’s twelve months of memories as they celebrate one year of wedded bliss.

Book: Open Heart (post series) Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Cassie Valentine) Rating/Category: Teen. Fluff. Words: 925

Series Masterlist

Chapter summary: Cassie finds the perfect gift for Ethan and discovers there’s more to learn about her husband.

A/N: We’ve come to the end of this series and I thank everyone for coming along on this ride with me. Submission for @wackydrabbles prompt 142 which will appear in bold.

As soon as she saw the cello in the front window of the antique shop on Newbury Street, Cassie Valentine knew that she had to buy it. It was a beautiful instrument with curved lines and a glossy veneer; surely something a professional would value.

Well, Ethan Ramsey was no professional, she thought, but it was positively perfect for her husband of twelve months.

She still remembered the wistfulness in his voice all those years ago when he’d told her how he used to play the cello in his youth, finding the deep stirring vibrations soothing.

She could well imagine a young Ethan, eyes closed, a lock of his dark hair falling across his forehead and a somber expression on his face, softly drawing the bow across the strings. Lost in the music and likely escaping the memories of abandonment that haunted him.

That is until his asshole neighbor smashed the cello into splinters because the plebian found it noisy instead of melodic.

She knew she should wait until next month. Ethan wasn’t a fan of ‘just because’ presents even if he had slowly started to accept that it made her happy to give them.

If she waited, it could be an anniversary or a birthday gift since both occasions were only a couple of weeks apart in July. But her feet had a mind of their own and she found herself reaching for the door.

I’m not doing this right now, she thought once more. I’m just looking, she tried to convince herself as she entered the store, the bell above the door ringing in her wake. The shopkeeper was waiting on another customer and he nodded in her direction, letting her know he’d be a few minutes.

Half an hour later, Cassie watched the store owner and her ride share driver carefully place the instrument wrapped inside its hard case in the trunk of the car.

The Holstein cello had once belonged to a cellist in the Boston Symphony Orchestra and had been quite expensive. But she hadn’t been able to resist; in her mind she was already imagining Ethan appreciating its history as he sat down to play.

Later that night, she paced in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows waiting for him to arrive home from work. He’d texted to let her know he was on his way and she had used that time to set up the cello in the living room, right where he’d see it as soon as he entered.

Eventually, they could keep it in his office and he could play it when he wanted to take a break. Their apartment was soundproofed and there was only one other unit on the opposite end of their floor.

She heard the keys in the door and went to stand beside the cello, her hands locking and unlocking in a nervous gesture at odds with her excitement.

She wondered if she had messed up when she saw him stiffen, his expression unreadable as his eyes fell on the instrument. When he didn’t speak, just stared, she began to regret her impulsive actions and moved to pack up the cello.

And then he was there, his hand closing over hers, taking the bow out of her hand. One hand cupped her chin, lifting her face towards him. She let go of the breath she didn’t know she’d been holding when his eyes softened, a small smile curving his lips.

She thought she saw tears prick his eyes before he blinked them away and knew that he was moved beyond words.

He placed the bow down on the chair and gathered her in. She wrapped her arms around his waist, leaning into him, her hair falling down her back as she tilted her head and stretched on her toes to close the distance.

She was about to brush her lips across his when he suddenly turned and the kiss landed awkwardly on the tip of his nose. He grinned and she snorted in laughter.

Not realizing he was about to kiss her she moved, the top of her head snapping against his chin with a loud crack making him jump.

Cassie doubled up in laughter, hands clutching her belly, watching the inventive curses leave her husband’s mouth as he rubbed the sting out of his chin.

Before she could take another step, he sat down on the armchair next to the cello and pulled her down on to his lap. His hands framed her face, keeping her still, and then he proceeded to show her exactly how much he loved his present, skillfully using his mouth and tongue to turn her giggles to moans.

A short while later, Cassie was curled up on the living room couch, her eyes misty, watching Ethan play the cello exactly as she’d imagined a few hours ago. His blue eyes were closed; the expression on his face more relaxed than she’d ever seen him before as the music carried him away.

She was wiping at the tears spiking her eyelashes when his eyes flew open, capturing her in their laser blue gaze. He mouthed ‘thank you’ and she nodded, blowing him a kiss.

They had been married a year now and been together as a couple for four. After all this time, he could still surprise her and she had much to learn about him.

And she wouldn’t trade away a single moment of their time together for anything in the world. They were inevitable. She was his and he was hers.

Soulmates.

Perma-tags: @jamespotterthefirst @genevievemd @forallthatitsworth @queencarb @potionsprefect @quixoticdreamer16 @schnitzelbutterfingers @mainstreetreader @bex-la-get @headoverheelsforramsey @thegreentwin @dorisz @custaroonie @takemyopenheart @jerzwriter @mm2305 @a-crepusculo @rosebudde @lucy-268 @crazy-loca-blog @writer-ish @wanderingamongthewildflowers @trappedinfanfiction @rookiemartin @anonymousrookie @natureblooms24 @coffeeheartaddict2 @mysticalgalaxysstuff @lady-calypso @sincerelyscarring @beezybean

@choicesficwriterscreations @openheartfanfics

#ethan ramsey #ethan ramsey x mc #open heart #open heart choices #choices fic writers creations #cfwc fics of the week #open heart fanfics #open heart fanfiction #fiction #romantic fiction #ethan x mc #ethan ramsey x cassie valentine

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g-a-y-b-a-c-o-n · 4 years

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Eskel’s Guitar

This is a modern au thingie I did and sent to @mellow-child at ungodly hours of the night. Thank you for putting up with my bull.🥺

When he’s younger, Eskel remembers listening and watching Rennes play a guitar and singing for the young ones and being so intrigued with the instrument and his vocals. He remembers looking at it like it was the most incredible thing in the world. He found that the vibrations calmed him down somewhere deep in his core. It always helped him after training and even after his hardest trials. ————————————————————————

His first year on the path, he finds himself watching buskers on the street after rough hunts or stressed. At some point, someone failed to pay him in cash and instead gave him a six string guitar and he decided, “Why not? I can learn. How hard could it be?” So he spends all his free time learning how and, at some point, when he goes home for the winter, he practices there too. In private of course. Probably the barn with the animals. What he doesn’t know is that his brothers in arms and father are all secretly watching him from behind. He gets super embarrassed when they all start whistling for him and clapping and such. Getting all red and shy.

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A few more years pass by and he’s still practicing, getting better, controlling his voice, strumming more smoothly. This time, it’s just Vesemir that catches him at night, sitting on the horse fence and strumming away, singing his sorrows into a soft and sweet tune. Vesemir can’t help but think of when he first found out Rennes could play, the young man reminding him so much of the older wolf.

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Fast play to decades later, after the raid of Kaer Morhen, the news of the burning school sweeping the nation and interviews of an old instructor, a lone survivor as they call him, hopping around. There was low whispers of another Witcher with him. A man with deep scars who denied an interview and stayed away from cameras.

Years after Geralt’s incident in Blavikan city and the new little musician on his tail, spreading his stories around for people to listen and love.

A couple years after Geralt brings Ciri home and teaches her the ways of the wolf witcher with his brothers and father. Her new family.

Geralt decides to bring Jaskier home with him. Decides that now is a better time than any, tells Jaskier to pack up warm and drive him all the way up to the beaten and battered school.

He’s only there two weeks before noticing the guitar sitting in its case in nearly mint condition on a mantle and begging Geralt to just tell him who it belongs to so they can make something together.

Geralt gives in a tells him. Tells him it belonged to another mentor figure, Rennes, and how he can’t exactly play it anymore now. Jaskier gives an apologetic, “Oh...” with tears in his eyes at the story before Geralt perks up for a moment, not liking seeing the other man like this. Not again. “I do know somebody that can play right now, though!” And Jaskier doesn’t have to do much prying to get the information out of him. The eldest of the boys owns and plays a six string, and he’s got one mighty fine voice to match it and that’s all it takes for Jaskier to bound up to the scarred man’s room, banging on the door and hollering to be let in that instant and demanding to play his cello alongside him.

Eskel’s sputtering out that he’s hardly any good and that he gets stage fright, or, well, just fright in general if he’s around anyone that can hear him, let alone watch. But Jaskier is determined and manages to get one song out of the man, accompanying him with a cello.

Both are supposedly alone in the libray, but poor Eskel doesn’t realize that Jaskier had invited everyone in the keep to come watch in silence at the doorway.

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Jump cut to several years after the modern equivalent of wild hunt. Eskel is the new caretaker of Kaer Morhen and he’s as happy as can be, sitting on the porch, overlooking the entire training grounds and then some, Ciri sitting with him and listening to him play willingly. Soon, Yennefer joins, seated next to her daughter. Then Jaskier. Then Lambert and Kiera. Standing at the porch door is Geralt, tears in his eyes as he listens to his brother playing such a familiar tune. And it’s here that it comes full circle.

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Here’s a playlist I made (I know I could make it on Spotify, but I’ve found that I like the live performances more than just the official audio of a few songs.) it’s all in order with the story so all you need to do is press play to get a feel for what I’m talking about.

#the witcher #witcher #witcher eskel #eskel #the wolf school is full of cowboys #unlike the bear school who have the distinct lumberjack aesthetic going for them #or the cat school who is 80s bikers #vipers are just punks—#the arrays of gays #love me a modern au #witcher au #modern au

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notwithd · 4 years

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A whole new world of music

(So, all this started because of this piece of art i made, i couldn't stop myself i just love Cellist Cas so much. so here it is this fanfic i wrote hope you enjoy it.)

Damn Sam and his stupid puppy eyes, and damn Ruby for dumping him on this exact day. Sam had planned the perfect date night; he had flowers and tickets to a concert at the city.

Dean was ready to spend the night watching Dr. Sexy and eating tons of pizza when Sam came back not even fifteen minutes later, head down and bouquet still in hand. He looked so miserable Dean couldn't take it.

"Ok, let's go," Dean grunts, getting up from the couch.

"What? To where?" Sam looks tired and confused, as he drops the flowers on the table.

"Dude, you spent like fifty bucks on those tickets! We are not letting them go to waste! I'm going with you," Dean replies.

That's why Dean is now at a fancy theatre, waiting to go into the concert hall. A girl in a tailored suit comes to them and asks Sam to show her their tickets. She then takes them into the hall and to their seats. “A friggin balcony,” Dean thinks as they take their seats that are close to the stage.

Dean looks at the crowd around him and based on first impressions, he assumes that all these people are music snobs. Every person is wearing their best garments and talking excitedly, causing Dean to feel weird and out of place. Dean is grateful that Sam insisted he dress up.

"At least put on clean pants and a decent shirt, Dean," Sam had said.

Feeling a bit insecure, Dean decides to go to the restroom to check on himself and make sure he looks presentable enough.

"I'm ok," he thinks moments later when he's inspecting his reflection. The green dress shirt he chose brings out his eyes and his hair is well combed and soft looking. "Yep, I could be wearing a damn potato sack and would still look hot as fuck," he says to himself.

Suddenly, the restroom door flies open and someone runs into a stall. Dean needs to get away because that's a sign that somebody is about to puke, and he doesn't want to be there. There's no chance for Dean to escape because the man comes out almost immediately and goes to the sink, his face a pale shade of green.

"Are you ok man?" Dean asks worried.

The man jumps, obviously startled. Apparently, he hadn't even noticed Dean in his hurry. "I'm good; I thought I was going to be sick, but it was a false alarm," he replies with a Russian accent.

The guy is extremely handsome: blue eyes, dark hair, pretty lips. He’sexactly Dean's type. He's wearing an ugly tan trench coat over a very elegant navy-blue suit. The man looks like he’s about to faint as he removes the trench coat, letting a strong muscular body show, and stares at his own face in the mirror.

"I'm about to go on stage in a few minutes. I'm just feeling pretty nervous," he tells Dean.

"Is it your first time?" Dean asks just to make conversation; he's definitely getting this guy's number.

The man shakes his head as he replies, "No, I've done this so many times, but it's always the same."

Dean feels sorry for the musician and tries to offer words of comfort. "I'm sure you'll do just fine. It’s my first time coming to this kind of concert and listening to this kind of music, if it makes you feel any better. I’m freaking out about how I look since everyone is dressed so fancy."

The guy smiles and finally looks at Dean, "Thank you; I'm sure you will love it."

They look at each other for a moment. Dean wonders if this is a good moment to make a move, but the guy jumps suddenly. "Oh fuck! I have to go." He runs to the door, but right before leaving, he turns back and says, "You look pretty good to me, since you said you were worried about it." He winks before rushing out the door.

When Dean gets back to the hall, he’s smiling like an idiot. There are at least fifty musicians getting ready on stage already. Each one of them is in their own world as they quickly check their music sheets or tune their instruments. The handsome restroom guy is nowhere to be seen.

Then Dean looks up and sees the mural painted on the roof. It is a blue sky with fluffy clouds and angels flying in between them. Some of the cherubs are playing instruments; others are just looking down with curiosity. Dean stares at the mural until Sam distracts him by handing him a program.

Dean takes it and reads:

Cello concerto in E minor. Edward Elgar

1. Adagio – Moderato

2. Lento – Allegro molto

3. Adagio

4. Allegro – Moderato – Allegro, ma non-troppo – Poco più lento – Adagio

Dean doesn't know what any of this means, but Sam seems very excited about it, so it must be good. He just hopes to not fall asleep in the middle of it or Sam is going to kill him.

Suddenly, the lights dim and the concert hall goes silent. Every musician is sitting at attention and ready to play. The director comes onto the stage and is received with applause. Dean claps a little bit and quickly looks at the program again.

“Guest director: Baltazar Vaughan,” the program reads. Dean glances at a picture of the guy and thinks he looks British and snooty.

Dean reads the next line, “Guest cellist: Castiel Novack.”

The name is followed by details of Castiel’s musical trajectory and career. There’s probably a picture on the next page, but Dean doesn't have time to read.

He looks up just as the director makes a sign with the baton and all the musicians play the same note until they sound like a single instrument. Once the orchestra is tuned, the director makes a welcoming gesture to the side of the stage and that's when Castiel Novak makes his entrance.

Dean’s eyes widen in shock as he realizes Castiel is the guy from the bathroom! He still looks a tad nervous as he thanks his welcoming applause with a little bow and a hand to the heart. Dean claps harder and Castiel looks directly at him for a second, recognition in his bright blue eyes. Castiel is breathtaking and Dean is sure he's blushing.

Castiel shakes the director’s hand and then goes to the only chair that's still empty, the one in the middle of the stage. As Castiel takes his seat, he maneuvers his large instrument into place, stroking it with love and care. The dim lights brighten and focus on Castiel, illuminating his perfect face as he takes a deep breath. He is poised and prepared to begin, and Dean has never seen a more angelic beauty.

Without warning, the bow slashes the air and Castiel starts playing strong notes. His expression is one of defiance, like he is a rebel that decided to start before the director was ready. That's clearly not the case as the director is expectant and gives the cue to the rest of the orchestra moments later. They join Castiel quietly, raising the intensity little by little as the cellist plays a low dark note that reverberates everywhere.

Dean shivers with emotion as he feels the music vibrate through his body. The mood is now sweeter but sad. Castiel stares at the roof as if he were in mid prayer, not even looking as his hand moves up and down the fingerboard. The notes produced are beautiful, and Castiel makes it seem effortless.

The music intensifies as Castiel plays a descending scale with a dramatic vibrato. The orchestra then erupts with a fortissimo which quickly dies down, so Castiel can play his desperation, slowly lowering his own sound until he goes quiet.

At this point, Dean realizes he's on the tip of his seat, leaning over the balustrade. His cheeks are on fire as Cas looks directly at him again, changing the position of his right hand to play some chords in pizzicato. Dean stares at the musician as he caresses the strings in a way that is almost romantic, and Dean feels his heart beating fast.

The rhythm becomes faster as Castiel’s blue eyes finally leave Dean’s. He gets more and more excited as his fingers move rapidly and his bow slashes the air. He wears a smug expression as if he is having a battle with the music and he is winning.

This part of the concert speeds by and soon Castiel is playing with eyes closed, biting his lip, very clearly enjoying himself. His face is red and sweaty; his previously neat black hair is now all over the place. Castiel’s the hottest damn thing Dean’s ever seen and Dean knows he’s going to die before the concert is over.

As soon as it started it finished. Now Cas has gone quiet again, the seconds without sound feel like the aftermath of war. Then Cas starts to play a melody so sad and beautiful it is painful.

The mood in the hall has changed dramatically; the orchestra dies down to pianissimo as Castiel plays what sounds like a lamentation. The bow glides smoothly, and sweet notes float through the air as the orchestra plays louder, adding drama to the soft melody.

Cas is sorrowful as he plays a high note that is both quiet and full of misery. He looks as if he's about to cry, blue eyes shining with unshed tears.

"No, no please don't cry." Dean can't stop thinking. "Angels are not supposed to fall."

Dean hears a sniffle beside him and finds Sam wiping tears with his sleeve. “Don’t say a word,” Sam mutters.

The final notes Cas plays have a trembling vibrato, as if he's about to give up. He goes quiet, head down as the echo of the last note resonates through Dean.

This silence is longer, and for a few seconds Dean thinks it is over. He wonders why nobody is clapping for this awesome performance because Cas deserves a standing ovation. "Psst, Sammy why is no one clapping?"

"Shhhh, you're not supposed to clap between movements." Sam whispers harshly.

Movements? Dean is about to check his program again when Castiel raises his head and takes a deep breath. He's not giving up, and the fight starts again.

This time Cas is fearless as he plays intricate passages full of emotion. He breaths with every phrase, and every change is accentuated by the orchestra.

Dean feels like he's watching a real angel, all greatness and elegance, but also noble and good. When the tempo slows for a little bit Castiel looks directly at Dean again. Ocean blue collides with forest green and the two men share a secret smile.

Finally, the orchestra breaks into fortissimo as Cas finishes the piece with a couple strokes and a strong victorious note.

The theatre bursts into a standing ovation, Castiel's smile is bright as he thanks everyone with a reverence. Dean is standing, clapping hard and whistling every so often. He thinks Cas’ smile is the most beautiful he's ever seen. Cas looks his way and does a little bow with a hand over his heart, like he's thanking him specifically!

"Sammy, I think I'm in love," Dean says as his heart rate kicks into overdrive.

Sam is not listening to his brother’s love declaration; he turns to Dean and hugs him hard. "Thanks for coming with me; I can't believe I almost missed this."

"I know! it was awesome!" Dean exclaims.

When he looks back to the stage, Cas is gone, and even though the ovation is extended, he doesn't come back.

Later that night, Sam and Dean are walking back to the Impala since Dean doesn't believe in valet parking. So, his baby is parked more than two blocks from the theater.

He's thinking about Cas, and how he won't see the man again. As they round the first block, they find Cas near a crappy Lincoln Continental. He's wearing his tan trench coat again, and he's putting his cello case in the back of the car. He looks like a completely normal person rather than someone who just performed in one of the best concerts Dean’s ever seen.

"Dude look, it’s Castiel Novak." Sam points at the musician, but Dean is already walking towards Cas with a purposeful stride.

"Hi, my name is Dean, and I just wanted to tell you that your performance tonight was amazing."

Cas freezes like a deer in headlights, and his cheeks turn pink when he realizes Dean is the guy he was ogling at the concert. He had been saddened when he realized at the end of the performance that Dean was accompanied by someone.

"Thank you, I'm glad you and your companion enjoyed it," Cas says carefully as he glances at Sam for a second.

Dean's a little bit distracted. Cas is even more beautiful up close, and his voice is just delicious which causes his words to take a while to reach Dean's brain.

"Wait a minute, you think he is my date?" Dean asks incredulously, pointing at Sam. "That loser? He's my brother, Sammy."

"Oh." Cas blinks in surprise. "I saw you guys hugging, and I assumed. I'm sorry."

"You're beautiful," Dean blurts. "I mean, your interpretation was beautiful."

Dean is so embarrassed; he feels he could cook an egg on his face. It is all worth it when he sees Cas’ lips spread into a beaming smile.

It turns out that a profound bond was created that night and love was found through music. It sounds like a chick flick, but it’s true.

Dean couldn't be more grateful that Ruby dumped Sam on that exact night because thanks to her, he discovered a whole new world of music and scored a date with a hot cellist.

especial thanks to my friend and beta reader @shadowywerewolfqueen you are amazing!

#Destiel #destiel fanfic #Musician AU #Cellist Cas #my writing #castiel #dean winchester #spn fanfiction #debut fanfic

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zhonglishrine · 4 years

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God is Good and never Evil

Pairing: Reader x Fyodor Dostoevsky Word Counts: 5k Note: There’s a lot of heavy context in this with religion and too much unnecessarily philosophy talk of Good and Evil. Originally from my fanfic that I have unpublished and now were revised as stand alone one-shot instead. Credits to my friends Negin, Mel and @soukokuwu for helping me proofread this one and everyone else who helped me with the definition of Good and Evil!

He always thought that he was complicated and no one could understand him. It might be difficult, yes, but not impossible, if you could catch up to the level of his intelligence. But that might also prove to be challenging, as no one actually knows what goes in that genius head but Fyodor himself. He appeared hard to predict and read, and trying to figure him out will only wear you out in futile attempts as he is always three steps ahead of everything, and that’s how he believed himself to be: superior and above everyone else.

Where was he?

Just as you were running out of places to look, you figured out where he might be. If he wasn’t in his private library reading his massive collection of books, then he would be inside his music room, spending time alone with his mind while playing his dear cello. He always spends his time thinking about various things; about the world he wants to cleanse and simple things that he came across in his martyr. You know your dear Fedya, he is an excessively meticulous man- perfection is what he always strives for and no mistakes are permitted. Sometimes when in doubt he would go back just to make sure everything went according to plan. Despite his overbearing confidence, he bites his thumb until it bleeds, and the gnawing exhaustion shown on his face when he is deprived of sleep after staying awake for several days straight, lets you know how fragile he still is.

After all, no matter how grandiose his claims are to you and how ridiculous they might sound, he is still a mortal being. No God would bleed and no God would need rest like he does, because isn’t God supposed to be all perfect? He still has his limits, though you always want to remind him not to push his frail body too much. How little he would bite off his loaf of bread, simply adequate to satiate his hunger and no more, his body emaciated day by day with the little care he put. However, Fyodor doesn't like it when he is reminded of those petty things, and so most of the time he prefers to be left alone. No words are spoken on the topic, but you know; he doesn’t need to explain every single basic detail for you to know. He knows what he is doing and needs no mothering from you or anyone else. He can actually be a bit childish and immature sometimes, and that's a trait he didn’t even realize he had; flaws that he didn’t want to admit but you noticed.

He is still a young man, too young to shoulder all the rest of the world’s sin, but he took the matter into his own hands and let it be soaked and tainted in blood of his sacrifices and fallen victims within his act of mercy.

Entering his room, a tray in your hands with a glass and ferrous sulfate tablets for him to take, you carefully tread your steps forward, not making any audible noise to disturb his moment of quietude.

The tranquil and calm tune overflows like an external heartbeat with each rhythm, and the volume crescendo in sweet vibrations octave to your hearing ears. His nimble and deft movements on the instrument play ever so gracefully, creating the heavenly sounds that soothe your quivering heart.

There are no words present, but every dance of his slender fingers on each string manifest their own poetry, and it guides you to an ode to his own universe. He changes his pace and tone, sometimes quick and sometimes it becoming slow, his eyes shut closed as his delicate hand moves the bow, scraping the hair against the string as he angles it differently. His raven tresses draped around his pale complexion follow his movements as he tilts his head with the tempo, his legs spread and toes curling the more he gets into it. He was in his own world and he is sending you an auditory message through your mind, telling you the unspoken journey he has gone through in his pilgrimage, inviting you to join him sail over the oceans of tunes that filled the grandeur ambiance in rapt silence, like he was the captain of his ship and you were his crew.

When it is faint and low – he is feeling sorrow and sadness.

When it is heavy and strong – he is feeling regret and remorse.

When it is high-pitched and piercing – he is feeling angry and furious.

When it is gentle and soft – he is feeling bliss and a sense of gratefulness.

There are so many emotions he conveys through the cello that rests against his frame on his left shoulder, as if he was lamenting alone from the exuberant song that he orchestrates. Akin to how waves would crash through the shore and saturate every breach lying within the grains of sand, it rushes to fill your hollow soul. This tide continues to flourish, seeping into your veins and healing you like a divine medicine with the superfluous melody as you continue to watch and listen in great trance, almost as though you were spellbound by it. There's just something about how Fyodor can make it sing and scream so beautifully it’s so painful to hear.

Just what is this...?

Why...why have you started to cry...?

Your hand clutches at your chest, clenching down. Why does it hammer so painfully inside your ribcage? It was as if the music was the exact voice that you have long since lost. Your throat burns in quietness and your vision becomes blurry with a dot of crystal pearl, until it drops and becomes a small rivulet staining your cheek. In the equilibrium of each note he plays, it tells a different story. A story that you felt as if you were a part of it. From the beginning of birth, soft and calm, it portrays the innocence of a newborn baby that you are. Then, it starts to pace up slightly, the progress of your life. As you grow, you face struggle and hardship in life, and it starts to go faster. A lot of details then take place, you experience a variety of emotions like a crashing wave, you make a decision and you sin through your voyage. And at the end, it becomes slow again, life becomes slower and the flame that ignites you starts to dim until it eventually extinguishes as you take your last breath.

Just like the music that grows ever so faint, it eventually fades by the end of the bow that caresses against the string before it departs.

Fyodor opens his eyelids, revealing a pool of his violet orbs with a crescent shaped illumination within, soon after a stillness encompassing the air with serenity. He flutters his lashes, his gaze landing on you as you still stand with a tray in your hand before him. Your glossy eyes sparkle like rubies before the dull brightness of the candlelight, and you simply keep on staring at him with never-ending tears. At this, Fyodor curves the corner of his lips to form a thin smile, then speaking to break the silence, "Tell me... what do you think of Good and Evil?"

Fumbling with your thoughts, you thrive to answer the sudden inquiry with your muddled mind. Fyodor plays another classical piece of music to fill the gap in the meanwhile. Perhaps it was from Tchaikovsky, Prokofiev, Rachmaninoff or from someone else entirely. You weren’t sure which one, since he knew many different famous composers, but that is not important to guess right now.

"Good is..." You begin, ransacking your brain to formulate your thought and remember what the definition of the concept is. There are many standards for good and evil around the world as noted by philosophers throughout history, and it differs with each religion that exists, but for the basic definition of it, then they are almost about the same. It is akin to two notes in the same symphony. Each thing in nature changes according to the opposites; like hard ice melts into water which is then soft, the combination resulting in a harmonious whole. Just like how it is in music, harmony results from the combination of low and high notes, while in our universe harmony flows from the combination of the opposites that are good and evil.

"Having the moral and compassion to do the right thing. And evil is the opposite, it is wicked and in all immoral sense.”

Fyodor raises his brow slightly, hearing rather a short reply from you. "But if I do evil deeds for the greater goods of mankind, what does that make me? Do you think evil is not necessary after all?" He counters your statement, and you know exactly what he means by it, as he planned to wipe away all ability users from this world. Regardless of races, genders, and ages. There could be an innocent child that never did any bad deed, there could be an old man waiting for his last breath, there could be a woman who never knows they have the ability. Regardless of the sacrifices he shall make; he will still make his goal come true without any sparing mercy and treat them all equally. Like plucking the weeds before they grow wild in his garden or trim the one that has wilt.

“I am not sure about that. But isn't evil supposed to only bring harm?”

Fyodor subtly chuckled, and you were unsure whether he agreed or not.

“Then I will have to ask you something. Do you like scorpions and snakes?”

Again, when he is in the mood to indulge himself with these sorts of discussions and questions, he always asks the strangest thing and you always have to dissect the meaning behind it, whether he was thinking about it or it is just something random that crossed his mind.

“Well, I don’t really dislike them. But they are poisonous and dangerous if not handled carefully.”

“True, that is the most logical thing to think. However, that wasn’t it at all.”

“May I know what you mean by that?”

Pressing the topic further, he scrapes his bow in a deep thought, a few seconds elapsed in his silence.

“Scorpions and serpents are poisonous indeed. But are they really good or evil, for they are existing beings? Yes, a scorpion is evil in relation to man; as is a serpent; but in relation to themselves they are not evil, for their poison is their weapon, and by their sting they defend themselves."

Fyodor remembers that he has read the quote somewhere when he did his research before. He had a deep fascination to learn through different religions there in this world. What makes it interesting for him is how every single religion has its own God and belief but none of them can prove their God exists. At the very least for him, that’s the conclusion he came to. That is why at one point, he thought that if there is no God then he would become one himself. His God complex didn’t just develop in one night, it took him many, many days and nights searching for his answer and he found none after seeing the world at its demise and the despair it has.

Interesting thing about what he just said is that, Good and Evil is the embodiment of how his ability is. Still, it was a mystery to you, but you have seen how it works when Fyodor touches someone and they drop dead and fall to his feet, just by the tip of his fingers. Crime and Punishment that is neither good or evil. In the eyes of someone he might have seen as someone dangerous with that ability, a demon clocked in angel disguise, but neither can they judge which one is his true nature.

And if all people aren’t good or evil and they're just people that sometimes do cruel things because they have to, you wonder what that makes him if that was the case.

The evil one?

A demon?

Or... a Savior?

"So your intentions...define itself with what good and evil is as long as you know."

He hums, "Care to elaborate it?"

"I... l think it depends on our belief, the interpretation of our choice. Good and Evil is a paradoxical concept that is inherent in human nature, but man has to be rational with them. People are inherently “evil” while society's perspective of good comes from sustained effort. It is a very humane construct because it has to do with morals, and pretty much because no other animal has this compass. There are several concepts of good and evil, first is the collective good or evil, in which society dictates what is what. This however, differs for each individual, depending on their own moral compasses so they may agree or disagree with society. It helps maintain societal structure, but at the same time, good and evil can be viewed as pretty nonexistent simply because it is a social construct.”

He listens to your explanation as his hand never stops from playing the instrument. Again, you continue.

“But such trivial concepts are just definitions pun on abstract concepts. There is no line between good and evil. It's only the perspective that defines how something is seen, close to how war is portrayed by the winner in a way and by the loser in another way. That's why in some cases, murder can be good. Because in the eyes of a murderer, it's always good. Even the people that do charity sometimes do it to feel good themselves and beliefs say that itself is a sin therefore a bad thing. Since everything came and was given birth by God itself. He is the one that creates everything, all things that are good. But good things alone can be evil if one indulges too much in it and evil things can be good as long as we stay away from it... but purely based on intention is not all right either, for mere intention cannot make a bad act good. But a bad act performed in good faith can be excused but it cannot be classified as a good act either."

Based on your answer, he took his time to assess and ask you the next inquiry that piqued his interest.

"So, you do believe in God's existence too?"

"I..." You ponder for a moment before answering, your tongue somehow feels somewhat dry with the said inquiry. "I am not sure... there can be one, and there can be none. It depends on the reality we see, and the faith we held or the religion we have. I'm sorry if my answer is vague..."

"Hmm. It's fine, I don't blame you. I understand." He assures you and arches his head upward, exposing the bulb of his Adam's apple that was visible on his exposed neck. In this moment, he relished the time when someone was engaging in his long spiel.

"The good want power, but to weep barren tears. The powerful goodness want: worse need for them. The wise want love; and those who love want wisdom."

Fyodor says in soft oration, quoting a line from Percy Bysshe Shelley. "In the Garden of Eden, God creates an apple and forbids Adam and Eve to eat it. He is who all-knowing, know that one of them would eat it, but yet he still created man in immature form, created man that will end up resorting to eating it, created the talking snakes knowing it would coerce man into eating it, even already predicting it and going as far as to plan on what state would come after they did. Now which decision was good and evil? Was it a good thing to eat the apple if a man knows that was good for them? Or was it evil to go against the God that created them because they were tempted by the very snake He created?"

Although it seems as if he is asking you, the question was more so directed to himself, so you do not speak to answer him. He continues again with a solemn voice, Fyodor shifting his head again and now staring at the floor, "Sadly, since the beginning, humans are already reigned by sinful nature. They know the consequences of their actions, yet they still can not resist and repel the radiance from the fruit itself; to taste the knowledge of Good and Evil. They then bring chaos to this world, staining the land with corruption from their deadly vices and tyranny. You have seen how foolish humans can be, haven't you? The futile war that you fought, the countless meaningless bloodshed that you witnessed, all because the stupidity that was bred from humanity itself as they keep repeating the same history."

Casting your gaze down into your reflection on the surface of water, there are faint memories flashing by from when you were a soldier. Though not very vivid, the vague image is still there, flickering at the back of your mind in a blaze; the image of mangled bodies, blown apart children, blood running into gutters, rain of missiles dropping like flies on the ground and explosions everywhere blowing up like fireworks. You were there in the front lines, fighting for your own people, for their peace and nation, ready to sacrifice your life. But that was all a fleeting memory of your past; you do not need it anymore. Albeit, there is this simmering feeling that stirs within the deepest recess of your heart, a raging feeling of being betrayed and being cast aside and locked down for years. All because of fear. A fear that came from the fruit of knowledge itself that you were a dangerous ability user. With the said knowledge also comes power, with power comes corruption, and with corruption comes evil; where power becomes absolute, so does evil. War is like a disease festered inside man's heart, and it spreads like a plague and wildfire. Yet sometimes, it’s a necessary one, when the conflict could not be resolved in a peaceful way and war was unavoidable. Then, was it a good thing if it involves mass sacrifice? In a world where the hierarchy of power and different classes of society exist, could man settle the conflict without getting into argument, without evil influence their judgment and without discrimination between their different views and opinions?

Even up until today, there's no ending for human suffering and pain. Left and right you can hear the screaming silent voice cry out for Justice, with a voice pregnant with tears, broken hearts and despair, and the blood of innocents that was spilled when the world's leader moved their piece on the world map like playing a game of simple chess against their opponent. From the first World's War, the Holocaust, systemic genocide, gulags, famine, earthquakes, disease and so forth. All were rooted from the cause of Evil. And Evil first entered the world because Adam and Eve ate the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, which God had forbidden them.

"But... if God did not create the apple in the first place... then would Good and Evil cease to exist?"

Fyodor scrapes one long tune, he closed one eye from your question with another thin smile.

"A predictable nuance that one would think of if we were to avoid all the root of origin. If we put the blame to God itself by essentially placing all blame on Him, then it will prevent the problem of humanity blaming each other. But the problem of evil is the problem of accounting for evil in a world created by an all-powerful, all-knowing, all-good God. It seems that if the creator has these attributes, there would be no evil in the world. But there is evil in the world. Thus, there is reason to believe that an all-powerful, all-knowing, all-good creator does not exist." He says with a scoffing voice, "It is therefore natural to think of God's commandment forbidding Man to eat of the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge as ironic since God Himself had planted this very same tree in the garden. If God hadn't placed the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil in the Garden of Eden in the first place, Adam and Eve wouldn't have sinned and the world's problems would be moot." He changes his bow pace to create a different tune, "If God exists then, he is testing the virtue and the faith of man by placing the tree in the garden. Then, a man by their own free will may choose their decision to choose between Good and Evil. Back to my question earlier, man could choose to obey the commandment and choose to do Good, or man could choose to disobey the commandment and choose to do Evil. However, if both choices ceased from existence, then humans will truly be free from their sins. But that would mean that people would have no choice to do evil, since evil is completely being erased. And without the choice of doing good, people will be happy not because they are happy, but because there is no longer the choice to be sad. They will only experience positive emotions, because the concept of suffering and pain has been removed and taken away from them. But would that really be a bad thing if one wishes to continue feeling happy without all the negative emotions? And would that be a bad thing if one will not make any evil deeds anymore? The line between good and wrong is distinctly thin after all as you said, as human is stupid to differentiate between what is Good and Evil for them." Fyodor gives the answer then counter it back with his question.

"However, wouldn't that be a blissful world if there was no Good and Evil? Ivan is the perfect example for that concept of being robbed from his negative emotion to be in a state of eternal bliss without any suffering had the apple never been created in the first place, and he would do all Evil simply because he does not see it as Evil since Evil does no longer exist in him." And he, as though acting as God, praised his own creation in delight and fervor that it reflects in his eyes. "You said it yourself that the Good and Evil interpretation is based on what we believe. That isn't exactly wrong now, is it?"

You remain silent to think about it for a moment. Then, with or without it, the world is still fated to be doomed. Evil is still created through man's misuse of his own power to act. He gets into evil of his own. Man misuses his discretion to act under pressure of his desires and satisfaction of his sentiments. That is why man is a sinful creature. With their own carnal desire, they will end up destroying each other even knowing the outcome and aware that they were being controlled by their own avarice. Simply, a foolish human being as he always stated.

Fyodor finishes playing the cello and the music fades from your ears. You instantly feel like you miss hearing it once he has done.

"Ah, pardon me for making you listen to my long ramble, you can put that on the table, I will get to it later." He gestured to the tray you held since the start that has few tablets and glass of translucent water. However, you knew better than anyone else that he might get engrossed into his work later on and forgot to take it so you have to be stricter.

"It's fine... but Ivan would be mad at me if he knows you haven't taken your pills..." You reply back with an even tone, but your hand was quivering from the intense feeling whirling like a torrent inside your heart from listening to his soliloquy, unsure how to feel. You love listening to his voice, and you were trying to digest every word he says. Each time you listen to his long speeches, it's like he is telling you a bedtime story, but with heavy context related to his ideologies. It always left you to think with your own reasoning. Fyodor took notice of that, and he rested the cello on its stand. He gestures to you to come closer to him and your feet move on their own as if he has a magnetic force to command you so.

"Make me," He said with a small smirk adorned his visage.

You creased your eyebrow in confusion at first, "Sorry...?"

"Make me so I can take those pills." He repeated again, now with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"How do I make you?" Your question was anything but innocent. However, for him, that just gives him a chance to tease. A moment he would rarely display.

"Here, I'll make it easy for you." He took the pill from your hand. "Now..." And he guides it to put it on his tongue as he parts his mouth. "Make me swallow it."

Faint blush erupted across your cheeks, and your usual straight expression slightly flustered. Seeing you that way, he merely chuckled. "Hmm? What are you waiting for? Didn't you say Ivan would be mad if I didn't take my pills yet?"

"Ah, yes... that is true." Gulping and with your shaky hand, you place the tray at the nearest desk, taking the glass to sip an amount of water hesitantly. Your eyes dart everywhere as you don’t know how to proceed and avoid eye contact with him as you close your eyes, leaning closer to his face inch by each with your heart beating loudly. You can smell his lavender scent; you didn't know whether it was from his shampoo or his perfume, but nevertheless it invites and guides you. You then open your eyes again, seeing he was looking at you with such an amused expression when you felt his warm lips collide as he drank the water from your mouth, your whole face beginning to heat up again and how you wish you could disintegrate by embarrassment right now. Fyodor tucks the strands of your hair behind, and the lump from his throat swallowed both the pill and the water you transferred to him directly. His tongue sweeps across your moisten lips and he tugges it teasingly in between, nibbling it softly. You relish it as much as you can, desperately craving the affection he gives you for some more.

He broke the kiss, gazing at your flushed face as he lifts your chin to prevent you from looking elsewhere with a small chuckle, "Now, that isn't so hard, isn't it?"

How you hate it that he could pull this confidently without getting flustered as you are. All the more reason when he is enjoying it. But you can never resist him, can you? Not after he has taken so much space inside your heart.

"F... Fyodor..." Your lips tremble calling after his name, there was desperation laced in your voice, a need in your eyes. He looks into you with an adoring unadulterated gaze.

"Hmm?"

"May I...?"

"What? Oh? You mean that..." Understanding what you want from him, Fyodor spread his arms widely. "Alright, you may as you wish."

Enveloped by his frame dearly with his consent, your hands hug his warm body and you rest your head against his solid chest, hearing the rhythmic beat of his heart. Although he plays such beautiful music with his cello, there's no music that ever sounds better than this. You feel his warmth spread on you, and when he returns and gives you a hug back, placing his hand at the back of your spine and he begins to stroke it, your heart swells with happiness. His touch is like a remedy to your starved soul, and it wasn't frequent that you get the chance to be with him this way since he was rarely present at the base.

Fyodor is indeed a strange man, and his mind is always complicated to understand. You never know or could tell what he was thinking. He is no God like Prometheus, not son of Lapetus and Themis. Not the champion of mankind known for his wily intelligence, who stole fire from Zeus and the gods and gave it to mortals. He is just he, a human named Fyodor Dostoevsky. A man who is acting in the place of God to carry the Good and Evil in this world. To bring salvation and destruction that humanity needs. He took the burden and huge responsibility on his own. That is something that you do admire him greatly. Albeit feeling a bit sad that you could do nothing but can only watch his back.

When he talks, you love to listen and take every detail in. You take a breath in and take in his scent again, calming you, feeling safe to be with him despite the reputation he has. Fyodor is not a man that is a fan of great affection; skin contact with another human being is a foreign concept to him. His ability could be activated at any moment if he so desires it, and then you would die in his arm in serenity. He would cleanse you off from your sin without any pain that torments you further. But he let you savor and indulge the solace he could provide you for now, as he did not dislike the company you have provided him as well. Strange as it may sound to him, he now secretly craves for the attention you give to him, as if he is the only center in your life and you are the only one for him, his dorogaya. How you wish you could stay like this with him forever.

However, you know, forever is a grand wish to have, as there is never a good thing that will last forever as it is with evil in this world. Until the end, he will stand alone, just like God he aspired to be.

#fyodor dostoevsky #fyodor dostoevsky x reader #fyodor x reader #bungou stray dogs #bungoustraydogs #bsd #I never like my works before but this is the one I can be proud of #maybe #fyodor actually doesn't want to take the iron pills #that's why he drag the conversation #as noted of my friend before #he is being extra and more dramatic than gogol lol xD #tell me what you think about this #I hope I don't mess this up #not a christian so things might not be correct

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beautifulletdownfics · 4 years

Text

Twenty Good Reasons :: Part Nine

I woke to hands running up and down the back of my thighs.

"There she is," Harry croaked softly, the duvet falling moving off me as he rose up, so his chest pressed against my shoulder while his mouth traced the line of my jaw, "G' morning."

"Hi," I sucked in my tummy when Harry pressed one hand into my stomach, and the other rose up the small of my back, "This is nice.”

"Hmm," Harry agreed, his lips vibrating against the skin of my neck, "Arms," He said quietly, drawing my t-shirt up with his hands and moving back to pull it up over my shoulders and then off my head, "That's better, lemme see you.”

I lay beneath him naked, but yawned and stretched my arms up above my head to push away the tightness in my muscles from sleep. Harry's eyes greedily took me in, and I could feel him hardening against my thigh. We'd not gone to bed until around 3am the night before, and after a quick fuck in the shower had collapsed into bed without the tender reunion I had been craving.

This was more like it.

"You're beautiful," He said, pressed a warm kiss to the skin under my left breast.

My hands came down to tangle in his hair, holding him in place for a moment before Harry raised his mouth and licked up and over my nipple. His face appeared in front of mine, wearing an expression that told me he was planning on driving me absolutely insane.

His dimples popped in a glinting smirk, and he gave me a sweet, chaste kiss, "What time did you want to leave for Bath?”

"You're coming?" I asked hesitatingly, he'd not given me an answer last night.

Harry nodded, "Yeah, I am. Sent Dan an email, might have to take a few calls but they should be fine without me."

I wound my arms around his neck and pulled him down, pressing my smiling lips against his, "Thank you. Thank you," I kissed his mouth over and over, "I think this is a good idea."

"Me too. Now, how much time do we have?" His fingers pressed into the skin of my hips and pulled me back to the moment.

"We can go whenever," I replied, distracted when Harry's hands slipped under my thighs, and he started hitching my legs up around his waist, "Whenever you want."

His head tilted to the side, amused that he was flustering me, "Whenever?"

"Don't be a tease, Harry," I breathed.

Harry rocked his hips against mine, and sucked in a breath when his cock slipped between my legs and pressed into me there, "M'not teasing," He muttered, "M'being sexy."

I clamped my hips together to try to hold him in place, and Harry's sucked in a breath, "Be sexier if you were inside me."

I knew I'd won because he groaned and cursed, dropped his forehead to my shoulder and swiftly slipped inside me. Harry held himself still for a moment, watching the ecstasy play out on my face before he pulled out and started pumping. Watching Harry like this never got old. He bumped his nose against mine and covered my mouth with his, only halting a moment when I scraped my nails down his back and held onto his backside, urging him on.

With a satisfying gleam to his skin, Harry brought us both to orgasm, letting us come down from them slowly. When he pulled out and away, he laced his fingers through mine and pulled me up on shaky legs for a shower.

Under the spray, Harry held me tightly against his chest, and we stood together for a long time, not speaking. I watched the water bouncing off his shoulders and running down the front of his chest while his fingers mindlessly sorted out the tangles in my hair.

"We're gonna be alright," He murmured so quietly I almost missed it. "Promise we are."

Harry drove to Bath, and for the first little bit Dan, his manager, was on speakerphone giving an update on the meetings he missed that morning.

I didn't mind. I put my headphones on and worked on my laptop.

After an hour, Harry's hand landed on my thigh, and I pulled the headphones off, "How's it coming along?"

I saved the program I was working in and shut the lid, "It's going okay, actually. Struggling with the strings, but I always do."

"Hmm," Harry hums, knowing the tears that I've shed over violas and cellos over the years, "Maybe your dad could help over the next few days."

"I'm hoping he will … He's got an exciting announcement to make tonight at dinner," I grinned at Harry when he looked over at me, "I'm sworn to secrecy though, so you have to wait. Not even my mum knows."

"Tell me," Harry states plainly, shaking his head at me, "You have to now that you've said that!"

"I can't," I propped my knee up to my chest and held Harry's hand up to my cheek, "But we should stop somewhere on the way and get some champagne."

Harry rolled his eyes at me but agreed if there was one thing I knew about him it was that he didn't shy away from a celebration that warranted champagne.

By the time we were rolling into the driveway of the sweet AirBnB my parents had booked for the week, it was nearing 4pm. We had stopped on the way for lunch and for Harry to spend nearly forty minutes deciding what celebratory drink everyone would want for a celebration he had no idea of the details of. I'd already called my mum to let her know Harry was coming back with me, and part of Harry's extreme detail orientation I decided might be down to him being unsure of how much my family knew about our last few rocky weeks.

My parents were standing on the front step when we walked up to the house, "Hello!"

"Hiya," Harry smiled up at them both, "Nice digs!"

"It is beautiful, isn't it?" My mum responded, taking a bag from my hands and going back through the door. "Laykn's putting the kettle on for a brew."

We all walked through to the kitchen, Harry put our bags near the stairs up to the bedrooms. He walked around, sticking his nose into every room to check them all out then eventually found his way to my side at the breakfast bar.

"What have you all been up to here," Harry asked, taking a sip of the tea my dad handed him.

Almost an hour later, between Harry and Laykn, nearly all the afternoon tea baking my mother had prepared had been devoured. Everyone slowly retreated and left the kitchen—Harry and Laykn went for a run, and my dad went back to finish some work—but I stayed watching my mum prepare the lasagne for dinner. After a few minutes, she started bringing out items for a salad and held the knife up to me, inviting me to help if I wanted to.

"How are you?" She asked quietly once I was settled chopping the celery.

The worried look on her face was warranted.

When I arrived in Bath by myself the night before last, the moment I saw my parents, I burst into tears. I spent the night on the sofa with my mum pouring my heart out about Harry and I, and how scared I was we were going to break up. I still hadn't completely let go of the fear, but at least Harry and I had gotten somewhere since he landed in London.

"Better than I was," I told her simply, "Still worried about Harry. Maybe more so now … But … I think we'll be okay."

"Relationships are hard," Mum told me, repeating the line she'd used multiple times two nights ago. She was waiting for me to offer more. I knew she wouldn't push me if I didn't want to, but I was surprised by how much offloading it all on her had helped, and I knew nothing good came from any of us bottling things up.

"The first hour or so with him last night was awful," I started slowly, "He's so wrapped up in work at the moment, and I've never seen him so angry about anything as he is about this leak. I think …" I shook my head, "I don't know. He bottles things up, which scares me. When it comes out there's stuff bothering him we haven't spoken about, and I just feel blind-sighted or like I've failed on something I never had the chance to help with in the first place."

Mum didn't say anything for a little while, "You know … When your dad and I got married, it was normal to do marriage counselling before your wedding. Maybe you and Harry should consider some kind of couples therapy … It might help iron out any kinks or bad habits you don't want to take further into the relationship."

Both Harry and I had separately spoken to people over the years. Harry had a therapist in L.A. I knew he liked and often used to talk to when he was touring. I hadn't heard him mention them in a long time though. And I had my own monthly check-ins with my own psychologist.

I'd never considered seeing anyone together. That felt like a last resort, anomy gut reaction was that Harry and I weren't at last resort.

Maybe this was how to avoid that, though.

"I'm not trying to suggest anything—

"I know you're not," I cut her off, "I was thinking … It's probably not a bad idea. It's just …"

"Tricky to bring up," She finished for me.

"Yeah."

My mother, in her wisdom, left me to think about it and we spent the rest of the time together cooking chatting back and forth about what we could all do as a group the following day. Harry and Laykn returned from their run, traipsing right through the kitchen to see how long dinner was. As he passed me, Harry pressed a sweet kiss to my cheek and went up to shower. I wondered if his head was swirling like mine was, a hundred little fixes and doses of care our relationship needed running ragged in my thoughts.

Over dinner, my dad shared his exciting news. We popped the bottles of champagne as the letter he received was readout. The letter detailed his being awarded an Order of the British Empire for contributions to Music and the Arts. Dad managed to keep it a secret from my mum, so her reaction was the one I waited to see. Tears instantly rimmed her eyes, and she snatched the precious letter from him, having to read it herself.

"Dad's a bloody knight!" Laykn cried out.

"And a Sir," Dad laughed, "Don't forget that, son."

"It's incredible!" Harry added happily, "Congratulations! That's … I mean it's … So well deserved. Cheers!"

Our glasses all chinked together again as everyone cheered, and it was impossible not to be swept into the celebration.

I caught my dad's eye, and he gave me a wink.

After dinner, Harry and I ended up curled up on the small outdoor sofa on the patio. Harry lit the fire pit, and we put on extra layers of clothing and stole a blanket. With legs tangled together and Harry's arm around my shoulder, we watched the flames quietly.

I coughed into my hand and dropped my head to Harry's chest, "Harry?

"Yeah."

"I think we need to move."

"Move … Like houses? In London?"

I nodded, "Yeah, I do. I love our house … So much but …"

Harry rubbed his hand up and down my arm when I started getting choked up, "I know. I love that house too. But I don't know how we can make it more secure. We should look for something more secure."

I pulled his hand out from under the blanket and settled his fingers through mine, "And maybe we just have to think of it as like, a new start for when we get married? Something with a garden big enough for the dog that you'll convince me to get someday."

Harry's chest moved behind me as he chuckled, "I'm getting close to convincing you, hey?"

I only nodded in response.

"I'll ask around for a good agent in London," Harry continued slowly, "We can start looking together when I'm back."

Harry had just three weeks left of this half of his tour. Then, there would be a whole month until he started again in Europe and the U.K. Thankfully the second half of the tour was shorter, the countries were closer together, and I'd be able to see him more often. The Asian and U.S. legs always dragged on.

"There's something else," I said before I could back out of it.

"Hmm?" Harry took a sip of what would now be a cold tea. He leant forward to put it on the ground near our feet. "What?"

I bit my lip, not sure how Harry was going to react. I was terrified it wouldn't go well.

"I …"

"You?" Harry squeezed my arm lightly, "Spit it out, you're starting to freak me out, love."

He wasn't going to take this well. I knew he wasn't.

I took in a deep breath and tried to say it as best I could, "The last couple of weeks really scared me, Harry … And I wonder if when you're home, maybe it could be worthwhile going to see someone together?"

My words hung in the air, no reply came from Harry for long enough that I craned my head around to look up at him. He was frowning harshly at the fire, jaw clicked in and eyes set. I watched his nostrils flare slightly and then looked away, waiting.

"I think it could be useful to …" I thought of my mother's words from earlier, "Sort out things we don't want to become habits."

Harry looked out to the garden, "So that's it then, you've decided?"

"No," I shook my head, "I just wanted to talk to you about what you thought. Whether you think it's something we should do."

"Well, obviously I look like a wanker if I say no," He retorted quickly.

"I didn't mean to make you feel trapped in it," I said, "Twenty four hours ago I thought we were going to break up, Harry! I don't want to get to that point again. You didn't feel like you could talk to me about what was going on and I hate that, I need to get better at that."

"So you go see someone then," Harry said, standing up abruptly, "I'm going to bed," He mumbled out, leaving me alone in the with only the sound of the door to the kitchen closing a little too hard.

I'm not sure what I had expected. Not from Harry at the moment. Not when he had everything else going on. I piled onto it and ruined the tiny island of peace we'd managed to construct in the midst of it all.

"Shit," I whispered into the night, unable to stop the tears that arrived almost immediately.

My first instinct was to go upstairs after Harry straight away. I decided to stay put though, deciding going now with my emotions pouring out of me wouldn't be helpful. My instinct was what got me here in the first place. So I spent my second night in Bath with tears falling down my face, worried about Harry and I.

It was such a strange landscape to be in. I could honestly say in all of our relationship I'd spent hardly any time doubting it or worrying we weren't working. Even when the first break-in happened, and we had time apart, I never arrived at the thought Harry and I weren't suited. We broke then because fear and anxiety and trauma sullied the water and my depressive episode had me completely self-destructing.

I wiped my face with the sleeves of my jumper, not wanting to go back to that place. Right now, it wasn't about me. Harry was struggling, and it would serve us both well if I remembered that and didn't get caught up in my own mind.

"I'm going to bed," I said to my parents as I walked passed the living room, "Dad, can you put the fire out?"

"Sure thing," He nodded.

"Sleep well," My mum said, smiling warmly at me. I was glad for the darkness hiding my red, puffy face.

"G'night," I waved before making my way to the stairs.

The bedroom was dark when I slipped through the door, trying not to let too much light from the hallway in. Harry was just a lump on his side of the bed. A few of his belongings were around the room. I turned on the light in the ensuite and then mostly shut the door, giving off just enough light for me to find what I needed in the dark.

A few minutes later, in complete darkness, I sided up to the bed and slipped under the covers. I held my breath, hoping I hadn't disturbed Harry or woken him if he was asleep. I was fully expecting him to pretend to be asleep or rollover to face away from me. But after a long time of lying on my back, starring into the dark, I started easing my shoulders into the mattress, beginning to relax.

I woke with a start to the bed, shifting around me, in sleep, I had rolled into the middle. My eyes opened to see Harry's back rising above me as he got out from under the sheets. I listened to him move around the room for a few minutes before the door opened and clicked shut behind him.

I turned back for my phone and read the time, 5:27am.

My mind naturally compared this morning to the one before it, when I woke up to Harry running his hands all over my body. Now, it seemed he couldn't face lying next to me a minute longer than necessary.

I let out a long sigh and tried to stop the tears, instead of rolling back into the middle of the bed and willing myself to go back to sleep for a few more hours. Harry probably took his laptop down to the kitchen to do some work with a coffee. Or he was figuring out a way to get an earlier flight back to where the tour was picking up again. I squeezed my eyes shut and banished the thought.

For the second time that morning, the bed moved around and woke me from sleep.

"I'm sorry," Harry said quietly, his hair wet from the shower as he sat on top of the covers watching me. A drop fell on my exposed shoulder, and his eye followed it before he lent down to press a gentle kiss there, "I was a jerk. Again."

Barely awake, I blinked at him and wondered where the softness in him was coming from, "I didn't mean to upset you."

"I know," He smiled sadly, standing up and joining me under the covers, "I got defensive. Felt angry about it for some reason."

"Where did you go?" I asked, taking in his freshly showered state and the pink on his cheeks from the cold outside.

"For a run with Laykn."

I felt my eyebrows rise, "Another one?"

"He's got girl troubles," Harry supplied carefully with a look that told me not to pry, "Helped me clear my head too. I'm … I'm scared about the thought of us needing help, Nina. I hate feeling like we're failing at this somehow. It's shit. I … I just want things to feel … Not like this."

"Me too."

He pushed some hair off my cheek and left his hand, resting comfortably on my neck, "I know. And I think seeing someone … It definitely can't hurt, can it?"

I swallowed, "I'd rather go see someone now than two years down the track when it's too late, and we've hurt each other too much."

Harry nodded against the pillow and gave me a strained smile, "I figured that out at about mile four."

There was something about the security of being in bed that was both calming and somehow propelling. I reached for Harry's hand and slowly brought his knuckles up to my lips. After a few soft kisses, I pulled back and rested my chin against the back of his hand, "I love you."

"I love you," Harry returned, "You're my favourite soul on earth, always."

"What's all this?" I stood in the kitchen door, emerging after working on my compositions for much of the afternoon.

Harry frowned and pressed his wrists to his hips, mucky fingers sticking out in a deliberate attempt to keep his sweater clean, "Well, it's a …" He waved one hand around over the kitchen bench, searching for his words, "It's ravioli. Mushroom ravioli with truffle oil and sage." Harry gave his handiwork a decisive nod.

"Oh."

"It's got truffle oil in," Laykn piped up from where he was crouched in front of the oven.

I frowned at my brother, "Ravioli goes in the oven?"

Harry's frown line got more profound as he looked up at me, "We've never made it before! Don't be rude."

I held up both hands and shuffled into the kitchen, laughing, "I'm not rude! It was a genuine question."

"You were judging us, I could hear it," He accused, flour coating the wine glass he brought up to his lips. Harry and my brother were quite a pair.

"I wasn't, you know I couldn't do any better, but at least I can follow a recipe … You never do which sometimes ends up great but often ends up … Interestingly."

"You really are being rude today, aren't you," Harry narrowed his eyes at me, "And you've stolen my clothes again!"

I shrugged, "They're comfier. And they're clean."

"You could wash your clothes, you know," Harry grumbled, but it wasn't genuine. He was grinning at me.

"Okay," I rounded the bench to Harry and slotted my arms around his middle, "Conversation do-over, I love you, and I love that you've made us pasta for tea. It smells delicious, and the cook never does the cleanup, I'll wash up after."

"I helped you know!" Laykn yelped behind us, "Why does he get all the credit."

I turned to my brother, "Because you're a pathetic cook and Harry's a fantastic one. It's not hard to figure; he did all the heavy lifting."

"Thank you," Harry nods, "I am a bloody fantastic chef."

"Cook," I corrected teasingly, "I didn't call you a chef."

"Finally," Laykn grinned at Harry, "M'glad to see her giving you shit for once. Picks on me all the time but the sun shines straight out of your arse."

I was dying to ask about what Harry had diagnosed as Laykn's 'girl trouble' but didn't. I hoped that with their time running and cooking together, my brother had been able to find a dependable friend in Harry. I wondered if it was reciprocal but figured it probably was only to a degree. My big sister urge to step in and demand an emotional declaration from my brother itched.

"Have you made a dessert?" I asked them instead.

Laykn tutted at me dramatically, and Harry sighed heavily, pushing me away gently, "She's got no bloody faith in us, Layk."

"None at all," Laykn returned, pulling a dish from the fridge and holding it out in front of me.

"Honeycomb mousse?"

"The Anne Styles Classic," Harry confirmed, "Rang her for the recipe and everything."

"Could we skip the ravioli and go straight to the second course?" I asked cheekily, knowing Anne's mousse was absolutely to die for.

Harry flicked me with the tea towel I hadn't noticed was right next to him on the counter, "Alright, that's enough out of you, out. Out! Go away until we say dinner's ready."

I skipped out of the kitchen happily, holding my bottom where he'd managed to whip me multiple times. The day had settled nicely. Harry and I went for a long walk after breakfast. We talked more about the process of buying a new place in London and listing the old one for sale. Harry wanted to discuss budgets and money, but I managed to get him to agree to wait until we properly started looking. I wasn't keen on going all out with something luxurious, I wanted something that felt like a home.

We spoke about our wedding as well, and by the end of that conversation, I felt a weight lifted I hadn't realised was there. I was exhausted by people asking—all well-meaning, of course—about details Harry and I just didn't have yet. They were decisions I didn't want to be making on my own.

A lot was going to have to fit into the month break Harry had coming up.

"Can you tell me what's going on with my brother?"

"No," Harry replied, eyes on the road.

"Are you sure?"

"Positive," Harry confirmed.

I sat back in my seat, Bach playing through the car speakers as we drove back to London for Harry to catch his flight, "Is he okay?"

Harry's head turned to me quickly, "Of course he is. I wouldn't keep anything severe from you. He'll share when he's ready. I think he's going to go on a trip somewhere though, just a heads up. Getaway, out of his own head, you know?"

"Like overseas?" I asked with a frown, "Why didn't you just invite him to tour with you for a bit."

Harry smiled, "That was the first thing I did, love. But he needs to get out into nature for a bit or go explore someplace he's never been. I've told him before he can come to meet me anytime, he knows that."

"Did Layk get his heart broken?" I guessed sadly.

"Something like that," Harry provided carefully. "Stop asking me about it though, he asked me not to share it."

"Okay," I gave in finally, accepting Harry's hand when he offered it to me, "How are you feeling? Excited to get back to it?"

"A little," He began, "Gets harder leaving you every time, though, doesn't it?"

My heart sank a little, I felt the same but didn't want to bring Harry down or contribute to the feeling, "We'll be better this time. We've got a plan, right?"

"Right." Harry nodded.

I desperately wanted to suggest that Harry contact his therapist and start-up that habit during touring but didn't want to push him. It felt like something I should let Harry come to himself. I didn't want to over insert myself, which was hard when I knew without a doubt, it was what would be best for him.

"And you need a few weeks of performances before I come for the last one anyway," I tried lightening the mood, "You need practice, so my show is the best one."

Oh boy are you guys ready for this?

#1dff #one direction fanfic #one direction fanfiction #fic: twenty good reasons #harry styles #harry styles fic #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles stories

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randomw07 · 4 years

Text

Day 6: Music - Norway, Romania

Written for day 6 of @aphrarepairweek2020

Turned out longer than planned, but I’m really happy with this one! Only ended up doing 4/7 days, but I’m alright with that. Thank you for reading!

Word count: 1837

Warnings: None

Most nations have picked up at least one musical instrument over the course of their existence. Such a long lifespan requires a hobby, and learning a craft offers years of entertainment. What pastime could be better than learning how to spin intricate melodies by plucking a few strings or sliding a bow across nylon? What offers a better distraction than memorizing eighty or so different keys, or regulating your breathing so notes can be held for longer? What better way to liberate the anger simmering from the injustices of nationhood than the beat of a drum or the growl of an electric guitar?

With boredom often knocking at Norway's door, the Nordic nation has learnt to play so many instruments, he struggles to name them all. If asked which he prefers, he would reply stringed instruments without a trace of hesitation, be them plucked or bowed. From harp to cello to guitar, each has brought him great pleasure, though he no longer possesses them all. History has stolen them from him, sold them off to collectors and museums, to be put on display and admired by his people. Their absence doesn’t bother him anymore; he ensures they're well taken care of, requests someone play them every now and again so they don't forget their purpose.

Of those that remain in his possession, the one he cherishes the most would have to be one of his people's inventions. Small in size, the Hardanger fiddle sings higher than a modern violin, eager to bring life to festivals and celebrations that fell out of fashion centuries ago. Four strings vibrate beneath those his bow dances across, warm and vibrant, a stark contrast to the nation the instrument is partnered with. Norway himself designed the ornate purfling inlaying his treasured fiddle; he has taken care to replicate it countless times in the past, when a tragedy occurred and forced him to craft a new one.

Yet the instrument people ask him to play most often will always be his three-hundred-year-old violin. Norway places its fame on the numerous composers who saw potential in its voice. Entranced by its ability to sound joyous or sorrowful, to transmit a vast array of emotions, many placed it at the heart of their compositions. Sociable, it begs him to mingle with his people's orchestras, to perform in concert halls across his country. He never lingers long, however, never gives the conductor an opportunity to convince him to stay. Orchestras are too noisy, too cramped. Their expectations stifle his creativity. Play what's written down without question, obey the conductor's gestures without thinking too hard about it. There's no room for variation in the music's rhythm, no time for slight changes in its tempo. Norway feels trapped in such a strict world.

Norway may be a perfectionist, but he improves on his own terms, in his own time. He decides for himself what flows and what rings clear, asks for advice only once he's fully satisfied with the sound. He doesn't need someone to tell him exactly how something should be played. His pride won't allow it.

Norway finds a regular audience in Romania. His boyfriend often listens to him play, claps loudly when the music comes to an end.

He, too, plays a few instruments, though Norway has never heard him play. Wind instruments. Simple melodies to soothe him when nightmares tear him away from sleep. Norway wonders about them, but knows not to pry. His boyfriend will talk to him when he feels like it. He can only hope he doesn't wait until the problem worsens.

Apparently, Romania also plays the viola.

Norway makes the discovery one summer afternoon. As is his custom, he catches the next flight to Bucharest and makes his way to Romania's house unannounced. He's taken extra steps today, after the unnecessary drama his last visit caused. A note awaits discovery, explaining where he's gone, who he's meeting, when he expects to be back. Hopefully his superiors will think twice before telling his secret services to track him down and drag him back.

If only humans trusted their nations more... Norway is wise enough to know when his presence is needed and when his country can cope without him. Besides, no matter how his relationships develop, his lands and people will always come first. After all, he is a nation before he is human.

Romania looks forward to his partner's unexpected visits. He opens the door with a grin, wraps his arms around him before ushering him inside so they can enjoy each other's company. A procrastinator by nature, he easily ignores the piles of paperwork that lie abandoned on his desk. He'll get back to them later, when Norway is forced to return to his own country.

Today, however, Norway's hand hovers inches away from the doorbell. Music drifts from the living-room window into the street, the powerful chords of a viola echoing a song Norway has never heard before. His heart races from its intensity. Its despair transforms into rage that makes his blood boil. How could he ever think to interrupt such a magnificent performance?

Norway swallows down a protest, scolds himself for eavesdropping. He can hear a shuffling sound from inside the house as Romania hastens towards the door and lets him in. To the Nordic’s bewilderment, an embarrassed grin dampens his enthusiasm, as though he feels ashamed he was caught playing in such a manner.

It doesn't take long for understanding to dawn on him.

Romania isn't one with his viola like he is with his flutes. Unlike Norway, who has been playing for so long his violins have become nothing less than extensions of his body, the Eastern European frequently fumbles with his bow, his viola occasionally screeching instead of singing. His fingers trip over themselves on the fingerboard, so his melodies are fragmented, his timing all wrong. He struggles to both read the sheets before his eyes and place his hand and bow in the correct position, ignoring rests, shortening his semibreves by one beat.

The beginner's mistakes he makes saps his confidence, hinders his ability to play around others. Yet Norway finds the music he produces beautiful anyway, because it reflects the man he loves perfectly well.

While the Nordic nation prefers to play classical music and folk songs, Romania enjoys video game soundtracks and covers popular tracks he hears on the radio. Elitist snobs may turn their noses up at such blasphemy, but Romania has never cared for their unspoken rules. He plays what he wants to play because he feels like it, not because others expect him to.

"Fancy playing together sometime?" Norway suggests.

Weeks pass until Romania accepts his proposition. The opportunity to work on something they both enjoy finally wins him over one sunny morning, and Norway almost leaves another message for his superiors to find. Unfortunately, they have need of him for things of little importance, and another week passes before he can a catch a flight to Bucharest again.

They go over music scores together, searching for something they both enjoy, something that compliments their respective instruments. They have no intention of putting on a performance like some nations Norway could mention, but that is no excuse not to give it their all.

At first, the piece is battered with imperfections. Hesitant, the music falters as Romania struggles to keep up with the notes on his sheet of paper. The viola drowns on the fiddle, but when the latter tries to compensate for this difference in volume, its partner suddenly goes quiet. One moment their tempo is too fast, the next it's too slow. Nerves cause Romania's fingers to tremble, disrupting the clear sound that flutters into the air. Impatience and a desire for perfection persuades Norway to rush, to lose focus, his vibrato ringing out harsher than intended.

"Imagine I'm not here," Norway says.

Useless advice. How could Romania hope to forget his presence when a crowd gathers outside their open window just to listen to him play? How could Romania imagine he's practicing by himself when his boyfriend's enchanting melodies weave around his own stuttering notes?

"I just need practice," Romania replies.

Indeed, no solution could be more simple. They practice whenever they find the time to do so until, finally, they perform the song without error. With every flawless performance, Romania's confidence grows. His fingers cease their shaking as his nerves settle. His gaze flickers away from the music sheets to Norway, so they can silently queue each other on entrances and warn the other when they feel the tempo slipping away from them.

Soon, they are ready for the next step: composing their own songs. Stunning melodies that reflect their respective cultures and tastes. Every time they meet - be it for business or pleasure, in their own countries or someone else's - they bring their instruments with them.

Nothing is more thrilling than joining forces in such a manner, Norway can't help but think one summer evening. Their styles and tastes blend together to create a series of melodies that has accidental listeners looking around for its source, enchanted by the beautiful music they produce.

Lost in the peace such an activity brings them, they only notice that night had fallen when shadows hide the notes they've written down, now blots of ink that become one with the lines. Even then, nothing prevents them from venturing into improvisation, where Romania shines even brighter than Norway. Glances with a hundred meanings are exchanged as they take turns playing the main melody and harmonies, as they laugh and roll their eyes at silly mistakes they no longer care about.

Norway surprises himself when he begins to sing along to the music. A mournful poem in a language he once spoke fluently, but now must concentrate to remember correctly. Not quite trusting his own voice to sound as soft and ethereal as his partner's - besides, he doesn't understand the words sung - Romania hums along to the melody, adds an element of joy to the sorrowful tune.

Only when their voices grow hoarse do they lay their instruments to rest in their velvet cases. Their fingers have long since turned numb, their necks and shoulders ache as they stretch their limbs, still they promise to play again tomorrow.

"You played brilliantly," Norway whispers to Romania, fatigue tugging at his eyelids.

His boyfriend beams at the compliment. His grin is so bright Norway's heart almost bursts from the sudden warmth that engulfs it and brings a tender smile to his face.

There isn't an instrument in the world that could echo the love he feels for Romania. No amount of practice could turn its song into a work of art so powerful it causes the rest of the world to disappear, so intense it makes Norway's heart flutter, so incredible it fills his entire being with bliss.

For no matter how often music tries to replicate that emotion known as love, it never quite succeeds.

#aphrarepairweek2020 #hetalia #aph norway #aph romania #romnor #my writing #pretty much a ramble #because it's been 7 months since I last let myself write one #like we've got about five headcanons in here #I love writing this pairing so much #even though it always ends up sappy #my more cynical/realistic romance is reserved for dennor for some reason

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jonogueirawrites · 5 years

Text

Save me from myself.

Chapter 3

AO3

Summary:

After months looking for the correct man, Lillian finally got what she wanted, and with that came unwanted people.

TW: none.

Champagne and broken bones.

Her fingers brushed the wine silk of her long dress. The transparent, bubbly liquid in her flute touched her red lips, but not her tongue. The single long earring caressed her left shoulder when she turned to watch the cellist who played a beautiful sad song for the captivated audience.

Lilly threw her hair back to its place and walked to the restroom to retouch her lipstick, at least that’s what she wanted everyone to think, when in truth she was going to adjust the switchblade on her inner thigh, and check if the equipment she had installed were still working.

Leaving the restroom, she turned right and discreetly headed to the balcony, her target was about to arrive, and she needed some air to focus her mind.

For six months, she had been chasing the information the woman was going to give her, wanting or not.

-----

It was the fifth time he adjusted his tie and collar in the last thirty minutes. He hated those clothes, how tight everything was, and how vulnerable he felt. His metal arm was impossibly constrained, and he was afraid the fabric was going to tear at any given minute.

The super soldier dragged him to that mission, saying it was something simple; fast. He had also said it would be good for him to go out a little, see how everything had changed. He hated his clothes, but he hated himself even more at that moment for letting Steve convince him.

His fingers curled on the glass, and he finished his drink in one swig. How he wished he could get drunk again.

Not being able to be around those people anymore, he headed to the fire escape and closed the door behind him. He thanked the gods for the minute of silence.

-----

The woman, whose name she had repeated so many times, was talking to an older gentleman near the violinists. She looked at the instruments, and a feeling of longing filled her heart; her fingers touched invisible strings and played a long-forgotten song.

Her eyes fell on a young couple that reminded her of her parents, and for a second her resolve faltered, but when she lifted her head and her eyes met the woman’s, her hands balled and she felt her nails digging into her skin.

“Arisanna.” She dipped her head in respect and waited for the woman to address her.

Arisanna looked her up and down, and Lilly could see judgment in her eyes. Whatever it was that she saw resulted in her approval because she decided to grant Lilly a second of her time.

“How may I help you, child?”

“My name is Bian. I believe Logan has spoken of me.” She prayed the old thief was true to his word.

“Ah, yes. The little girl who is between a rock and a hard place.” Not understanding what the woman meant, Lillian raised her eyebrow. “Do you believe in the occult?” She asked curiously and continued after she shook her head. “Well, I do. What do you think the most dangerous thing about it is?”

Lilly wanted to roll her eyes but reminded herself she needed the information and calmed down, entertaining the old lady.

“I honestly don’t know, but please tell me.” She showed Arisanna her winning smile.

“When you see what lurks in the shadows, they see you in return.” The old lady narrowed her eyes. “Are you sure you want to be seen by them?”

The warning in the woman’s words echoed in her mind, and after a few seconds of pondering, she gave the old lady a short nod.

With sadness in her action, Arisanna used her chin to point to a far corner. A tall man with skin as white as snow and hair touched by the sun talked to a woman who could only be his complete opposite.

The man had his hair short; even from this side of the room, Lillian could see his ice-blue eyes gleaming with intelligence. His black suit was impeccably clean and straight; she dared say there weren’t wrinkles on his clothes nor his skin. On his long thin fingers, a single silver ring displayed his true colors; red, black, and white.

The woman, on the other hand, let her long black hair loose on her back. The yellow dress she dressed was provocative and elegant, her powerful dark brown legs could be seen through the double slits of its skirt. The diamonds on her jewelry alone could buy Lillian’s house and more.

With a shuddering breath, Lillian walked towards the pair. Excitement sent goosebumps all over her skin, and she could feel the chase nearing its end.

-----

Through his earpiece, Bucky got Steve’s confirmation. Their target was in the party, but he had been stopped from advancing and needed him to keep his eyes and ears open.

Making sure his clothes were okay, and that damned tie was in place, he opened the door and entered the party with a deep breath. The musicians played something that he guessed was Beethoven. The cellos, violins, and piano resonated around the room, and the vibrations from the instruments were felt in his bones.

His eyes scanned the area and landed on a beautiful lady who was talking to a man he guessed was German. Her nimble fingers brushed an invisible speck of dust from the man’s spotless suit, and her lips displayed him an inviting smile, one that the man’s eyes showed growing interest.

Bucky walked in their direction. His hand grabbed a flute from the tray of one of the waiters, but the glass never reached his lips and was soon lost on one of the nearby tables. The closer he got to the woman, the more the noise around him became low in his ears.

The piano notes grounded him to that moment, and each new violin chord was a step forward. The smell in the air intoxicated his senses, and his eyes stared at the couple.

A meter from them, his fingertips caressed the soft skin of a woman's bare back, and her soft long black hair curled around his rough fingers. Her scent reached his nostrils, and he paused for a moment, completely forgetting his target as the woman in question turned to him and their eyes met for the first time since the beginning of that endless night.

The depth and darkness in her tempting eyes made Bucky remember things he desperately wished he could undo, but besides the shadows, which threatened to drown him, he could also see everything she had suffered, everything he had taken from her.

-----

Lillian let out a soft gasp when cold fingers touched her skin, sending a shiver down her spine. Her first reaction was to turn with a strained smile to whoever dared interrupt her, but as soon as she saw the reason for her distraction, her lips stopped midway their curve up and her face turned into a scowl.

-----

They stared at each other for what seemed forever. No words were spoken through their mouths, but judgment was passed through their narrowed eyelashes.

-----

His hand rested on her waist. The fabric of her dress was smooth under his fingertips, and he unconsciously curled his hand on the small of her back, bringing her closer to him when one of the guests walked behind her heading somewhere he didn’t care.

Her midnight black hair was loose on her back, and he could feel it on the back of his hand, the mint scent coming from it filled his lungs and he stopped the urge of bringing a lock to his nose and breath its smell in. The red lips taunted him, dared him to feel how soft they were, how delicious they could be. He got drunk from the wine color of her dress, and the pale skin of her shoulders demanded to be touched; to be kissed and worship.

When his eyes met hers again in the next second, his mind ended his reveries.

-----

His hair was cut a bit shorter since the last time she had seen him. His beard was trimmed and taken care of, leaving his lips beautifully framed. It was the first time she had paid them some attention. The first time they met, he had his face covered; the second she had more important things on her mind than those full and tempting lips hiding perfect white teeth behind them.

With his chest so close to her, she could feel the warmth and power irradiating from him. His suit fit him perfectly, and she stopped herself from running her fingers on his lapel and adjusting his tie. Cursing herself, she pressed her hands to her sides to prevent them from caressing his shoulder and tangling his hair around her fingers.

His warm palm pulled against her skin, bringing her body closer to his. He was taller than her, and she had to lift her chin to look at his mesmerizing blue eyes that stared at hers; that saw her secrets and fears; that saw her soul.

“How dare you touch me?” Lillian had to muster every bit of restraint not to shout and punch him.

“I didn’t know it was you.” Bucky released her from his grasp. “I apologize.” Giving her a short nod, he continued on his way. His hand mourned the loss of contact.

A few steps later, his wrist was caught in a firm grip by soft fingers.

“What are you doing here?” She asked him in a whisper. Crossing her arms over her chest, she prevented him from going further.

“I cannot give you the information you are looking for, Lillian.” He saw the way she closed her eyes and wrinkled her nose when he used her name. “I am here with Steve. You can go and ask him, in the meantime, there’s something I have to do.”

She interrupted his path again, her hand on his chest and an accusatory tone on her words.

“Who are you murdering this time? What’s the name of the child who is becoming an orphan tonight?” He felt her hold his tie.

Curling his fingers around hers, he gave her hand a light squeeze and made sure to look into her eyes.

“I’m not the monster you think I am,…” Bucky closed his eyes, and his next words came out in an unsteady breath and low whisper, “not that monster at least…” He let his words float in the air and rolled his head with a deep breath.

The Winter Soldier could fool Steve but not her, not after everything he had done.

“I am not a defenseless child anymore. I will not let you harm anyone else. I will show everyone what your true colors are; I’ll show them all where your loyalty lies.” Lillian made sure to grab his tie and bring him closer.

“Good,” Bucky straightened his back and took her hand from his clothes once again, “it is a favor you’ll do us both.” He left her there speechless.

Approaching the pair, Bucky realized that he had no clue of what to say or what to do. He knew he had to get the information from the woman, and it would be such an easy thing to do if only it were some years back, but after being the Winter Soldier for so long, he had to admit he didn’t know where to start. He was grateful for Lillian’s interruption for the first time.

“Good evening, lady.” Lilly gave the woman a warm smile and a nod. “Gentleman.” To the man, her smile was bigger. Her eyes were more mischievous. “I’m sorry for interrupting, but I need a word with you.” she turned her body to the man and opened her arm, silently asking him to follow her. “Arisanna’s spoken wonders about you.” As soon as he heard the old woman’s name the man followed behind her.

Bucky could only watch as they disappeared among the crowd. The woman behind him cleared her throat, and as if waking from a dream, he turned to her.

“The name is Vanessa. It is a pleasure to meet you!” She studied Bucky from his head to his toes, and by the sly smile on her face, he knew she liked what she saw. “And you would be?”

“Good evening!” He tried to give her a warm smile, but all he managed was a short nod. Over her shoulder, Bucky saw Steve approaching and he let out a long breath.

“Evening, ma’am!” Steve saw the woman raise her left eyebrow at him.

“Mister Captain America,” Vanessa picked a speck of imaginary dirt off her nail and gave him a side glance, “what can I do for you?” She took the last sip of her glass and caught the attention of one of the waiters who were waiting nearby.

“If you follow us. There are some things we’d like to ask you.”

“Such as?”

Steve dropped his smile, and his Captain America stance took place.

“There is a new gang spreading its territory, and we happen to know you have information that would lead us to the leader.” Bucky took a step closer to them.

“Well,…” Vanessa tucked her hair behind her ear, “whoever gave you that information must be desperate to tarnish my reputation.” She turned to Bucky and ran a finger over his shoulder. “Still, what would you have offered me if I possessed such delicate knowledge” Without taking her eyes, which were filled with lust from Bucky, she asked Steve.

“For starters, we would overlook the fact that you were seen with members of said gang,” she snapped her head to him, “and then we would give you some time to think about what you really want for your future.” His smile was big and showed all his teeth.

For a moment, the woman narrowed her eyes at him and bit her lower lip. Steve and Bucky looked at each other; none of them wanted an open confrontation.

“Fine!” Vanessa huffed. “But my name will never be mentioned after this.” He gave the men a pointed look.

Steve, Vanessa, and Bucky walked to an empty spare room where Steve activated his blocking device to have a quiet and secret conversation.

With the information collected and warnings made, they left the building heading to the HQ. Bucky finally took his tie off, almost tearing it in two. Crumpling it with his metal hand, he shoved it into his pocket while Steve chuckled by his side.

The noise of struggle coming from the alley caught their attention, and they cautiously made their way there.

About to turn the corner, Steve had to take a step back when a man was thrown on the sidewalk in front of him.

His hair was disheveled, and his clothes torn and dirt. Bucky noticed his right shoe was missing, and how he cradled his right fingers on his left hand, there was also blood trickling down his eyebrow. Inspecting the man with more attention, he immediately recognized him.

“Thank you for the handkerchief, Mr. Schneider.” Bucky’s eyes fell on the woman who was cleaning her hands on the piece of fabric. “I’ll have you know that the intel you gave me will be used wisely.” Her sly grin reached her eyes when she threw the object onto his face.

Lillian finally noticed their presence, and with a nod of her head, the man scurried away almost falling in the process.

“Steve.” She acknowledged his presence while walking away from them.

“Is everything alright, Lilly?” He fell into step beside her, and when she ignored his question, he stopped her progress, putting his body in front of hers. “Lilly?” He crossed his arms over his chest.

“Peachy!” She tried to sidestep him, but her attempt to walk away was once again stopped.

“That’s all you have to say after more than six months?” Steve placed his hands in his pocket and tilted his head. “Who was that man? What did you want from him?”

Sighing and fixing her clothes, she avoided looking at him.

“I’m so sorry, Steve, but I cannot tell you right now.” She eyed Bucky who caught up with them and stopped a few steps away. “I see you’re keeping him close.” This time she was the one who crossed her arms.

“If you hadn’t fled-”

“Fled?” She laughed. “I didn’t flee, Steve. I left.” She gathered her hair and made a messy bun over her head. “You expected me to be near him?” She pointed at Bucky without looking at him. “With the murderer of my parents?”

She waited for Steve’s reply, but he clenched his jaw and she was done waiting. Walking to Bucky, she poked his chest.

“Why? What information was more valuable than their lives?” Tears pooled on her eyelashes. “Say something!” She punched his chest and shoulders.

Seeing that she wasn’t going to stop and that Bucky wasn’t going to defend himself, Steve pulled her away from his friend.

“Lilly, please!” He stood in between them and held her by the elbow.

“Of course, you’ll defend him!” She took a deep breath and cleaned the hot tears that ran down her cheeks. “Stop looking for me, Cap.” When he raised an eyebrow, she continued. “I know you’ve been looking for me. Just stop.” She pushed his hand away. “One last thing before I go, Steve. Watch your back, they are closer than you think. And you Winter Soldier,” Bucky lifted his head to take a good look at her, “I’ll see you around.” With that, she walked away.

There was a loud thunder that rattled their bones, and thick drops of water soon cooled their skin and started to drench their clothes.

The men saw her wave a cab, and when she entered the car, Bucky felt a shiver ran down his spine, and his metal arm shifted, waiting for something he didn’t know what. But what he did know was that she was set on proving him guilty, no matter how many times he said that himself.

If what he saw in the man’s hand was what he thought. If the object around his little finger was the reason for her warning… he knew she was on the right track, and that he had to keep his guard up.

-----

Not far from the trio and leaning on a smelly garbage container, Schneider gingerly placed his cellphone back into his pocket.

Holding his broken fingers and clenching his jaw, he snapped the bones back into place. After a few moments of deep and irregular breathing, the man walked away from the dirty alley.

Twirling his ring around his little finger, the man spoke with pride in his voice.

“Hail Hydra!” A smile tugged the side of his lips.

I hope you liked.

Likes and reblogs are super appreciated!

Next chapter

#bucky barnes #winter soldier #lillian #save me from myself #marvel #the avengers #chapter 3 #champagne and broken bones #tw:#violence

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virgilantejustice · 5 years

Text

On the edge of the end of the world

I wrote this when i was supposed to be doing composition coursework while listening to a ton of cello music because cellos are the best instrument. So, enjoy!

Word count: ~2100

T/Ws: mentions of death, apocalypse scenario (tell me if i missed any)

Ships: none

Notes: Honestly, ask me any questions you need to, i don't know if this is confusing or not for people who don't play the cello....

------------------------------------------

When it was announced that the world was at an end, Logan’s first thought had been “finally, what took you so long”.

You see, Logan wasn’t a huge fan of ‘the world’.

But, Logan’s second thought had been something more along the lines of, “everyone's leaving”.

And his third thought was, “everyone’s gone”.

Logan usually had a lot of thoughts, far more than just three, all moving around and mixing together on his head like a swarm. But when he watched his parents leave the house with suitcases in tow, when he went to his friends' houses to find them shuttered and empty, when he saw Roman and realized that it was just the two of them now, the two of them against the end of the world, his thoughts had become as sparse and meaningless as the dust on the deserted road.

Deserted, all but for a boy and his cello.

He gripped the cool, wooden neck tightly as he walked. /Everyone had fled, where to Logan simply could not fathom, there was to be no running from the end of the world. But, not to be left out, Logan’s friends had fled with the rest, jumping overboard to escape the sinking ship. But Roman had stayed, as he knew as well as Logan did that they weren't sinking, it was a head on collision that would kill them before they had the chance to drown, no matter how hard they tried.

Perhaps they had gone underground, Logan had heard that many people intended to. But he didn’t understand it. Soon enough there would be no ground to hide beneath. The earth had protected them this long, but now could do no more than a blanket.

After the rest of his family had left so hide in their earthy blanket fort, Logan and Roman went down the road to the local theater. A small-ish building, but plenty big enough for the end of the world to seek out in time.

He had tried to reason with them, tell them that there was no point in running, but they wouldn't listen, and so he had stayed behind. Now it was just him and his cello verses the end of the world, and the theatre seemed an appropriate arena for the final showdown.

The wind blew down the road, whistling and roaring as it was funneled between the rows of houses, picking up dust and blowing Logan’s hair onto his face. He didn’t brush it back into place as he would have liked to, for he held Roman tightly in one hand and his bow in the other. And, besides, he had walked this same path in his head so often that he knew the way.

Logan had promised a long time ago, as soon as he had found out that the world would come to an end, sworn not only to god but to himself, that he would perform before he died. And there wasn’t all that much time left before that was going to happen. He was glad that he had also sworn to himself, as his already tenuous belief in god was dwindling with every brick that fell.

The sky was red with fire and dust and the end of the world, burning like hell had finally risen, like the sun had focused a deadly flare.

Or maybe it was just sunrise.

The last sunrise? The last on earth, certainly, but just because you die and your world ends, the sun will keep on shining, and the other planets certainly won't shed a tear.

There were sirens in the red sky. Blaring sirens, screaming and sighing as they completed their cycle of loud and quiet, high and low, a dog chasing its tail. Logan hoped, as, yes, he had resorted to hope, that he could create better music than their symphony of metal droning.

Logan stood, a lone wolf in a world of dogs, with only a cello to fend off the pack.

He would take those odds, he decided, almost as if he had a choice.

If anyone else had seen the look that was on Logan’s face, they would have called it grim and set, determined and driven. They would have seen the tears in his eyes and the tightness of his lips.

But there was no one left to see the look on Logan’s face.

Although they would have been right.

Logan looked out over the seats from the stage. He estimated that there were about two hundred. He doubted that there were enough people left in the county to fill them all. That’s what happens when you're right next to the end of the world.

And so they remained empty.

Logan placed Roman gently on the ground, carefully, as if the end of world would spare a cello, and slid his hand into his pocket and pulled out his phone.

He didn’t need a phone anymore. Who was there to call? Who was there to call him? Patton had been ‘evacuated’ days ago. Logan really wanted wherever he ended up to be at least marginally safer than a crumbling concert hall on the edge of the end of the word, but he knew that no matter how far you ran, you'd still be on earth.

And Virgil. Virgil seemed to have run away with the rest. He had always said that they would stick it out together, go down together, but you simply cannot deny the call of safety when it is so loud. At least, Virgil couldn’t, nor could he be expected to.

And so there was no one to call. And no one to call him.

His phone landed on the floor of the stage and he ground the heel of his shoe into it. The glass cracked, then it crunched, then it gave completely and turned to dust. Glittering dust and the metal organs and innards that was all that really composed a phone. Logan smiled a grim smile, on the inside at least.

Turning away from the end of that little bit of his world, the bit that he had ended himself, Logan fetched a stool. It had to be a stool. Not a chair. A stool, that was what he had always been told. He found it in the wings, it had a simple wooden circle on three slightly spindly wooden legs. Probably for the backstage crew, but now it was center stage as Logan picked up his cello and his bow and put them together.

Roman's voice sounded thin and reedy as it echoed around the cavernous ceiling of the theatre. Logan scowled at his shaking hands, as he knew that his fear would only get in the way.

But, on the other quivering hand, extra vibrato.

He began to play again, and Roman sang bold and proud with the shaking of his hands adding an ironic warmth into the sound.

Harness the fear and make it work for you, Logan thought. If you can't beat them, control them.

As Logan played, it would have been easy to assume that he was improvising, spewing out one note after the other with little to no plan. But improvisation wasn’t exactly Logan’s strong suit.

In actuality, he could simply play from memory. Muscle memory to be precise. He wasn’t quite sure what the next note would be, but he knew that his hands would find it if he just didn’t think too much.

That also wasn’t his strong suit. But, his unwieldy fingers found a way, and Roman sang.

Logan felt himself sway slightly from side to side. He had never been one to obey the marking of espressivo that found itself on his music far too often, but he supposed that now was as good a time as any to explore the romantic era.

He raised his elbows, as he had always been told to do, and pushed even harder still, distilling gold from the aluminum of the four strings, as Roman began to sing more beautifully than Logan had ever managed to coax from him.

The bracelet that hung from his wrist clattered against Roman’s body with each sweep down his neck into fourth position. His teacher had always told him to take it off before he began to play. But his teacher wasn’t here. And so each high note, each harmonic, each glissando was accompanied by a small clicking sound as the metal beads flittered against Roman's shoulder.

He willed his hands to work faster still, his fingers to push harder until they turned white and ached like he had frozen them in ice. But they worked and pushed and played more beautifully than anyone had ever heard him play, more beautifully than anyone ever would.

A part of him was bitter for that, but he had no time to dwell on it, no time at all. All that mattered was that they played. Boy and cello, playing as one.

A scuttling came from somewhere behind him but he didn’t turn around to see. Earth was a sinking ship, and the rats were still aboard.

Something fell on Logan’s right. Not close enough to hit him, but close enough to startle him into dropping his bow. He picked it up again without so much as a word and looked it over. There was a scratch on one side. Logan didn’t much care, so he began to play once again. Nothing as common as a collapsing building was going to stop them playing.

The end of the world was going to have to face them itself if it wanted them dead.

And so he played and played, closing his eyes so that he didn’t stop playing as the ceiling collapsed around him.

When his eyes were open, he was facing death. But when they were closed, he had some extra percussion from the crashing down of his little, temporary world. So he kept them closed and led his orchestra in their cello concerto.

When it seemed the world could hold no more of his music, crumbling as it was, Logan stopped, drawing out the final note on a perfect cadence and letting the sting continue to vibrate, unwilling to stop Roman from singing so soon.

There were so many gaps in the surviving walls that they looked like lace, and Logan could see the red sky, bleeding onto the reddened earth.

“The world is dead, Roman,” he said, licking his dry lips and shaking his sore hands. “Am I to die with it?”

You see, Logan didn’t much want to die yet, but of course: “Only a for considers oneself above death,” he swallowed, “perhaps I'm more foolish than I like to believe.”

Logan blinked and squinted a little (absolutely not holding back tears, and offended at the suggestion) as he placed his hands back on his cello’s body to rest.

“I sound like you,” Logan continued, gazing down at Roman. “All these unnecessary decorations.”

He sounded a little like these words should have been spoken with a laugh, even just a small, dry one. But he didn’t laugh. Not even at the fact that he was speaking to his own cello while drowning in the apocalypse. Instead, Logan ran a hand softly over Roman’s head, letting his fingers fall into the gentle rises and falls and cervices of the carved curl.

‘Unnecessary’ was such a subjective word. The curls and cutouts that covered Roman’s head and bridge and sound holes may not change the sound, but all of this talk of necessity called into question the necessity of music itself, and therefore the integrity of the artform.

“Perhaps,” Logan told Roman, “if the purpose of music is to beautiful, the tools with which one makes it should be beautiful also.”

As another section of the ceiling feinted and collapsed in on the building, a new ray of sunlight shone onto the stage, and Roman preened in it, glowing and reaching out to his audience.

Logan smiled, just a little, just the tiniest little bit, and he placed his hand back on the strings.

This time he played something different. His hands glided up and down and his fingers moved with far more grace than ferocity.

Logan smiled at the end of the world as his gentle melody reached out, as Roman reached out, to where the other walls of the theatre once stood, long fallen with no heed from either of them. Roman reached out a hand, or was it Logan, and together they welcomed the end with suppressed tears and smile alike, and a song in their outstretched fingers.

---------------------------------------------

taglist (tell me if you want to be added or removed): @stop-it-anxiety @combine-the-kitchens @randomavengersquotes @soakinforsif @uwillbeefoundtonight @hopeoncelivedhere

#sanders sides #thomas sanders #fandom #ts fandom #roman sanders #logan sanders #e speaks #e writes

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dustedmagazine · 6 years

Text

The Body — I Have Fought Against It, But I Can’t Any Longer (Thrill Jockey)

I Have Fought Against It, But I Can’t Any Longer. by the body

It’s a good trick: making music that’s ruthlessly devoted to bumming people out and compulsively listenable at the same time. It’s a trick the Body have excelled at for the last ten or so years. Especially on All the Waters of the Earth Turn to Blood (2010) and on Christs, Redeemers (2013), the Portland-by-way-of-Providence band made idiosyncratic songs that vibrated with the ponderous intensity of doom metal, even as they cut against the grain of the genre’s Sabbath-inspired (and perhaps Sabbath-anchored) conventions. Some things remained constant: Chip King’s unearthly scream and bottomlessly low-end strings, Lee Buford’s simple and punishing percussion and the pair’s deft sense for where to drop a creepy sample or draw on the cold snap of a drum machine.

On 2016’s No One Deserves Happiness, the ratio of electronics to guitars shifted decidedly in the direction of the knobs and toggles and effect boxes. Given the album’s thoroughgoing interest in (and loathsomely effective critique of) the vapid textures of contemporary pop music, all the digitally derived sound made sense. But that shift seems to have represented more than one album’s worth of conceptual interest. With I Have Fought Against It, but I Can’t Any Longer, the Body have generated a record of power electronics, descending at times into harsh noise, punctuated at points by mournful passages of ambient beauty.

So back to that good trick: It’s a hard record to listen to, but once you do, it’s hard to listen to anything else. Check out “Nothing Stirs”, smack in the middle of the record, and one of its longest songs: it starts with digital beats, shuddering and hollow. It’s the attenuated sound of mechanized culture. A synth and what sounds like a cello drone, emptying an ominous space around the beat. Ninety seconds in, cacophonous cymbal crashes and King’s batshit falsetto drench and tear at the beat. Kristen Hayter, who records under the moniker Lingua Ignota, adds her magisterial voice, which rises along a cresting synth line. Then Hayter demonstrates the other gnarly stuff her voice can do: repeating “March on, march on…” she begins to growl and chew on the syllables, gurgling and bellowing. Eventually the instrumental tracks drop out, leaving only the harrowed sound of wind through a tunnel. It’s grim, and beautiful, but mostly grim.

Much of the record follows that prescription: aesthetically profound, emotionally disconsolate. A song title sums things up well: “The West Has Failed”. Listening to the Body, scrolling through news, watching the Republic collapse — it’s hard to argue, and I Have Fought Against It, but I Can’t Any Longer provides a fittingly despondent soundtrack. The concluding song, “Ten Times a Day, Every Day, a Stranger”, slides into near-total despair, comprising two minutes of distorted glissando, then six minutes of doleful piano and a recitation of what sound like journal entries by a paranoid, alienated, isolated man: “My whole room hurts, my whole bedroom. The view from the window hurts. Kids go to school, people go shopping, everybody knows where to go. Only I do not know where I want to go….” And so on. The surprise is that the words are provided by Bohumil Hrabal, from his Total Fears: Selected Letters to Dubenka. Hrabal was a Czech intellectual, dissident and writer who survived the Nazi occupation and then decades of Soviet political oppression. Few minds have borne greater witness to modernity’s varied monstrosities, and then written about suffering with greater sensitivity. It’s a remarkable reference for a metal band to drop, but entirely in keeping with the rigor of the Body’s cultural project: a testament to art’s capacity to live with pain.

Jonathan Shaw

#the body #I Have Fought Against It but I Can’t Any Longer #thrill jockey #jonathan shaw #albumreview #dusted magazine #doom metal #lee buford #chip king #metal #electronic

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raulsparza · 7 years

Text

Ghost Quartet 11/4/17

I can’t stop reliving every little bit of Ghost Quartet in my head so I figured I would share with everyone! I was sitting on a cushion on the floor, right in the middle across from Brittain and Gelsey.

-@louarn kept mentioning that the theater was in a random part of town and when we went into the lobby area outside the actual theater she said it was absolutely a liminal space. Then she saw the sign ‘part of ghost quartet takes place in complete darkness’ and was like where tf have you taken me. Quite a wonderful start

-I was sitting on my cushion, happily absorbing the atmosphere of it all, when suddenly Gelsey was right in my field of vision. I almost screamed. And then Brent and Brittain and Dave were all there too and I fully realized just how close they were and how small the space really was like wow my dudes. They all just walked out and poured whiskey for themselves and got ready to start.

-Dave’s pre-show announcement sounded just like the one he does on the McKittrick hotel live recording he’s just always awkward it’s wonderful. And I kept just having little moments of realization like oh Dave Malloy is here and talking and real. It was nuts.

-I don’t know was super sped up and I kept looking over to watch Brent absolutely kill it on the cello. What a star. And him and Dave kept making eye contact across the room. And Brittain and Gelsey are just ethereal human beings words can’t describe them

-It was probably just from the AC/not intentional but there was a tiny breeze in the theater that would ripple the hanging strings on the lampshade between Brittain and Gelsey and it felt perfectly spooky

So much more under the cut this is v long

-Brittain sounded so lost/annoyed/confused for the camera shop scene. Like absolutely a customer not wanting to deal with a store worker/a generally stressed human not wanting to be around others

-Brent shook his head back and forth a little to help emphasize his bear voice. I fell in love with him during this show. Its casual

-Starchild was surreal and I never realized Gelsey played the metallophone during it so that was neat to see!

-Subway was startling and scary. The floor vibrated and the sound grew and surrounded us and closed us in and I was shooketh

-There was a special mic for Lady Usher that made her sound ghostly and echo-y and far away and Dave probably also had an echo mic (though I couldn’t see him very well) (save for his fluff of hair bouncing when he moved) and it was so unnerving to hear all the reverberation/lingering sound in such a small space

-What the heck was soldier and rose omg! I don’t think Gelsey is real?? Her voice is so loud and clear and all-consuming she had no mic and no music and she just went for it like damn. She also kinda conducted herself using her fingers on her left hand which was adorable. Brittain’s flirtations were too much. I think my heart stopped.

-Gelsey scurrying around to hand out instruments during any kind of dead person was far too adorable. Shoutout to @louarn and @hawkeyeing for sharing their shaker and cowbell with me! Such a fun atmosphere to be a part of!

-Dave made sure all the instruments were collected ‘especially that big one (drum), get that out of here!’ and he put his hand to his ear really dramatically to hear brent playing Thelonious monk what a nerd, and then assumed his position in the front of the room for the astronomer. He sang it like such a full-of-himself fuqboi rockstar it was hilarious. At one point he did a silly riff that wasn’t on the album and I laughed quietly and he NOTICED and nodded his head and smiled

-before family meeting starts Gelsey poured dave a drink and brought it to him over at the piano and dave says ‘thank hon!’. And then brittain just haphazardly bangs her hands on her keyboard while shes ‘playing’ as Roxie. Brent was so flippant and annoyed. This will always be my favorite spoken scene in the show.

-Four friends was wild suddenly dave was placing whiskey bottles along the top of his piano that he then passed out to everyone. pouring myself a cup of whiskey in a tiny little theater while four beyond talented performers sang their hearts out was practically an out of body experience

-I drank my whiskey really slowly to savor it all. feeling the burning warmth in my chest was a welcome addition to the intensity of fathers and sons. Brent and dave brought drums to the middle of the room and slammed on them while glaring into each other’s eyes. Brittain and Gelsey each held mics for them. When Brittain and Gelsey sang about the man on the platform together Brittain looped her arm under Gelsey’s arm so Gelsey could continue holding the mic for Brent and her and brittain could sing into brittain’s mic together

-Gelsey sat with her legs up next to her for the beginning of tango dancer and then danced with her arms wrapped around her a little. She is a mesmerizing human

-Brittain and Gelsey dancing together during monk was so sweet. And seeing this played out live really helped me to solidify the understanding that Scheherazade is telling the story of parts of ghost quartet itself to Dunyazad, similar to how Edgar tells the subway story to Lady Usher in usher part 3

-Dave said lights out and then all the lights went out, save for the exit signs and a couple pieces of glow tape on the instruments and furniture (‘too many little lights’). I actually loved the glow tape because it was small enough that it would seem to vanish if you looked at it directly, and it would jump around as you moved your eyes. I also fully closed my eyes for a couple seconds to experience complete complete darkness

-all of side three was so haunting because every once in a while someone would be lit for a second with a distant light that made them kinda fuzzy with a ghostly aura. And sometimes there was a bit of an afterimage the second after the light disappeared. I don’t remember specifically when the lights came on because it happened so suddenly and intermittently, but I know that all in all it was a perfectly disorienting experience and I want to hug the lighting designer

-Prayer specifically was so chilling because I was so hyperaware of the gentle sound coming from every corner of the theater. I always wish that song was longer it’s so beautiful

-and then the lights came back on and brittain picked up her mic stand and moved directly! In front! Of me! for hero and geez I was not prepared for that to happen. I was stunned and starstruck and trying to hold back tears so I definitely looked like a mess and she was so beautiful and her voice was so full and then she cried for real and I just wanted to hug her omg. Also Gelsey plays accordion during this song?? I was so distracted by Brittain but then suddenly I saw an accordion in the background and like. alright. Classic dave malloy.

-@joannachristie got a drum during wind and rain and was kind enough to let me tap it a few times! And then Gelsey looked up and made direct eye contact with me and she picked up her metallophone and put it in front of me and crouched down to show me which key to play and I was in shock and disbelief and had so much fricken fun. It probably went on for like two minutes after they left the area

-Talked to everyone after the show and handed out letters to all of them and took pics. They are all such wonderful, sweet, genuine people. louarn went around telling them all it was my 21st birthday and they were all cute and excited for me

-Brent helped me pick out the best tee shirt size and he excitedly told me about cello techniques and I asked what he was using instead of his bow at one point and turns out he just uses a drumstick bc it’s easier during a transition lol. he has such a gentle speaking voice

-Brittain hugged me immediately after she found out it was my birthday and im pretty sure i left that plane of existence. I asked her what she was singing during Pearl’s death speech in usher part 3 and she said she switches it up each night, it’s usually some sort of folk song. She couldn’t remember the name of the song she did that night so she just started singing it! Directly to me! for like, a while! It was so beautiful I am so beyond blessed

-gelsey told me I could develop my own scream if I practiced (and I joked about not practicing enough) so now any time I scream, ever, it is dedicated to her

-while I was still standing with Gelsey dave leaned over to me, extended his hand for me to shake, and said ‘hey I heard it’s your birthday! Well done!’ he said well done a couple times. I couldn’t handle it then, and I can’t handle it now. Well done. Also he said he liked the dragonflies on my scarf im in love. We talked about moby dick a little and I just thanked him for like anything hes ever done ever

so thankful and elated to have been able to experience this incredible show

#ghost quartet #dave malloy #brittain ashford #gelsey bell #brent arnold #mine

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penguin-cafe · 7 years

Text

Midnight Berceuse (WIP)

WIP #1. Here’s a music AU sort of! The gist: Tsukki is a wealthy kid who is basically a cellist prodigy. Yama is on the other end of that spectrum and believes he excels at nothing. His mother becomes a nanny over the summer for Tsukishima which leads to a blossoming friendship. (well, it’s supposed to)

---

Yamaguchi Tadashi heard the music as a quiet murmur through the door, the soft vibrations of something heartbreaking tearing through the muffled barrier.

The boy stood by it, his fingers barely touching the wood, just reaching to the knob. He sucked in a breath, feeling the small gust of wind from the room as it opened.

Tadashi, two months from his twelfth birthday, counting the days with eager breaths, had felt he’d never seen something more beautiful, felt he couldn’t possibly be allowed to ever see something more beautiful than the sight he witnessed with the opening of the large, oak wood door.

A quartet played.

Piano, violin, and viola all took a somber cue at the mark of the next page. A cellist played beside them though he found his place at no one’s side as he stood out on his own. The pianist boy shifted in his seat as the melody drolled out, the violin’s rhythm becoming slower as the viola and cello seemed to meld together on cue, the cellist bobbing his head of blonde hair ever so slightly, the slightest yet the most elegant of movements, and began his solo of the piece.

The air seemed to chill and only the intoxicating sound of a hushed, velvet whisper of a bow against string filled the hall. The piano quieted, falling into a slow and light pattern with the two string accompaniments only switching from two notes. The cellist wound his arm tightly around the beautiful instrument.

Tadashi noted that the boy’s eyes were closed and a peaceful, yet haunting expression fell over his exposed features.

Something tugged at the nearly twelve year old boy’s heart.

Then, something actually tugged at his sleeve.

He looked up and found his mother’s smile and light brown eyes as she crouched down beside him. She seemed to take stock of her son’s lingering gaze as his brows creased in a saddened expression of their soon departure. He wanted to hear the rest of the song.

She lifted her hand to the side of his cheek, rubbing her thumb at a patch of freckles, wiping a smudge of dirt.

“We have to go now.”

Tadashi looked down at his shoes, his ears still following the strokes of the cello’s tone.

“Is that the boy, mom?” He asked, a little nervous, anxious, and afraid all at once. He flickered his eyes up again as the music flooded around them, quieter this time, allowing the pianist to leave the closing statement of their somber lullaby. Tadashi yearned for more of the cellist’s melody.

“Yes, that’s him,” She replied as Tadashi looked over to the blonde haired boy again, who’s eyes were still closed in his own world. He heard the sigh of his mother above him, realized she had stood and was waiting for him to come along.

“Will we live with them?” He asked, shuffling his feet toward the doorway. His mother made a small laugh.

“No, honey. I’m only going to be a temporary nanny. Three months and they’ll shift me out.”

“Oh, okay,” Tadashi thought out loud as he finally walked out of the door, feeling a rush of disappointment as he heard the echoing thud of its closing behind him, then the click of his mother’s heels against the tile as they made their way out of the large, posh building.

“Oh?” His mother questioned, patting his hair gently. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. I was just thinking about something…”

“About what?”

Tadashi shook his head, a little unsure. Then, he shook it again, realizing he remembered the thought that made him sad.

“He looks a little lonely… Little scary too,” He looked up to his mother who, in turn, looked into the confines of her purse for her keys which jangled somewhere within.

Tadashi sighed to himself as he stood by the car, kicked his shoe at a small rock.

“I don’t think he’ll like me.”

He knew he'd have to see the boy more often, his mother had to take Tadashi with her to most of her jobs, if they allowed it, afraid of leaving him home alone. Since Summer was coming, he'd have nowhere else to be.

His mother gave him a tender scrunch of her brow as if to ride off that ridiculous statement.

“Of course he’ll like you,” She said under her breath as she finally found the keys and ushered her son into the car. He did so with small movements and once they were settled, she looked over to him and drew out a breath.

“His mother told me he doesn’t have a lot of friends.”

Tadashi chewed at his lip, kicking his legs beneath him.

“Those weren’t his friends?”

“Who?”

“The people. Those kids playing?”

His mother smiled gently. “Maybe. She says other children aren’t used to him. Buckle up.”

“How come? He plays the cello really good,” Tadashi remarked, placing his seatbelt on, wondering that if he had a special talent, anything special about him, then he wouldn’t be as lonely as he was. Special people had friends, unlike him. They deserved to have friends because they had something that Tadashi didn’t. He wasn’t unique. He wasn’t special at all.

Sometimes he felt like he was bullied in order to push something out of himself, maybe a bit of courage or some ambition he never knew he had. His mother liked to say he was a late bloomer. But that just felt a little weird and uncomforting to him. He wanted to shine, not bloom. He wanted to shine like that boy with the blonde hair and comfortable expression, the boy who he bet had friends.

---

The clinking of fork against plate seemed to irritate their maid, her eyes narrowed in the young blonde's direction.

“Kei, you need to eat,” she said with a forced politeness.

The boy shook his shoulders.

“I don’t like it.”

She sighed and looked at the older boy sitting across from him, raising her eyebrows with a half-tired smile. The older boy smiled back, wiped at his chin, and looked at his younger brother who rolled a piece of broccoli along the edge of his plate in complete concentration.

“Hey, remember that story in the paper the other day? That whole controversy with that athlete on steroids one.”

“Sure. You kept talking about it. I couldn't not know,” the younger brother answered immediately, although was unwavering. Akiteru raised a brow at him with a small nod, though the boy couldn’t see.

“Yeah, so, turns out the guy-- completely innocent. Can you believe it? Huge as a boulder with that body mass index.”

“Fascinating. And what next? You’re going to tell me it was all because he ate his veggies as a kid and grew into a meaty giant?” Kei retorted, but regardless, lifted the piece of green broccoli to his lips and chewed. “That’s almost as bad as the Popeye the Sailor Man story.”

He continued to stab at his plate, ignoring the way the maid sighed below her breath, the way his brother gave a small shift of quiet laughter. He ignored the silence he left in the room.

“Can I eat in my room?”

“No, you can’t.”

“Why?” He swiveled his fork around his spaghetti in disinterest.

“Because you're having a family dinner, Kei,” she said patiently. Akiteru glanced between them briefly. He wanted to release a large breath but felt it would disrupt the already tense atmosphere. He looked carefully at his brother.

Kei stared at his plate.

“Well, I’m not hungry for ‘family dinner’.” He said under his breath, making small quotation marks with his fingers.

Before their maid had a chance for a reply, Akiteru piped up, clearing his throat dramatically and snapping his fingers as if he had just remembered the most incredible of coincidental circumstances for conversation.

“Hey, they’re playing your piece, right? At the concert hall?”

Kei averted his eyes, making no expression.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“That’s incredible!”

“Not really. Lots of kids have been chosen before.”

Akiteru laughed and shook his head vehemently, watching as his brother shrunk into the seat.

“It wasn’t ‘lots of kids’, Kei. You’re only one of five adolescents to ever be chosen to play their piece at that concert hall. That’s exciting, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, one in five out of five applicants for classical composition. Real exciting stuff.”

His brother rolled his eyes with a grin as he poked the end of his fork in Kei’s direction, pointing at him.

“Well, mom and I are excited. Can’t wait to hear when it’s finished.”

Kei felt a prickling irritation bubble in his stomach and fought a grimace.

“Cool. Can I go to my room now?”

He waited only a moment, glancing between his brother and the maid, both with brows furrowed, wanting to understand the boy who barely understood his own anger.

“I'm just... tired. Nervous. End of year exams are coming and all,” Kei excused, gave a small shrug of his shoulders to avert their watchful attention.

Akiteru took the bait, smiled with a nod.

“You'll do well. You always do. Summer’s coming soon, too.”

Kei forced a tight smile, scooted from his chair, and started to make his way to his room, when:

“Maybe dad will be back by then, too,” Akiteru said. Kei paused. “Mom’s going to visit him after her interview with the nanny on Saturday.”

Kei shuffled his feet to a stop on the cold, linoleum floor. He looked down at it.

“Cool.”

Akiteru turned in his seat to gaze at his brother softly.

“Hey… don't worry. I'm sure he'll keep his promise this time. I know she's assigned a nanny but that's just Mom with her backups, just in case flights go wrong, meetings are shifted, plans--”

“Plans get canceled. Expect the worse. I know,” Kei retorted.

Akiteru furrowed his brows, looked to the side.

“You know he doesn't mean to be so absent, Kei. It's his job. We all got jobs to do, sacrifices to make,” He said gently, trying to make him understand. But the boy stood with his back facing him, silent and fuming.

“Mhmm. I'm going to bed,” He looked back at him, gave his brother a small smile, then looked away. “Goodnight.”

Without another word, Kei ascended the stairs, reached his bedroom at the end of the hall, and closed the door tight. He scanned his eyes around the space, sought his white headphones at his bed, and immediately set them on.

The tune of a frantic symphony rang in his eardrums. He let it fill his heart, flood his mind, calm his nerves.

Tapping his fingers at his phone, he sat at the edge of his bed and drew out a long breath. His eyes scanned the room, large windows framing one end of it, where his white desk sat against it and his cello rested in its corner, a notable presence.

He stood up, padded to the space, and reached into the top drawer of his dresser, fingers flitting over clothing until touching the edge of something stiff. He reached for the object and withdrew a framed photo.

It was old, and he wiped the dust from his fingers in distraction as his gaze fell on two smiling faces. One, a bright grin of a blonde man with crinkles at his eyes. The other, a younger version of himself, smile soft, and if pictures could produce sound, he would hear an eruption of giggles.

But that was then.

He pushed the photo back under the clothing where it belonged. Out of sight, but always at the back of his mind. Just like the man in the photo. Just like his dad.

He felt his heart hammer. His throat was burning, neck itchy.

He reached for his cello, withdrew it from the warm comfort of its case and set himself up at the corner of his room, forgetting the sheets of music stacked on his desk, as he placed bow to string.

And he released.

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