A/N: A little original fic here; no fandom. Kind of het, I guess? But not really. If you like it, pimp it on your journal please. There's no way for me to really get it around because all the communities I'm part of are fandom communities. This took way too long to write. An experimentation in style of writing.
I’ve seen him from the back of the room, fingers moving furiously across the strings. Sorrowful music washed all over the hall, echoing from the ceiling and dancing all around us. Arching and sweeping, aching and harsh, it swept over everything, agonizingly beautiful. And a final note hovered in the air before he lowered his bow and bowed awkwardly to the crowd before rushing off to the sound of applause.
My father glared at me when he saw me leaning up against the back wall, ankles crossed, surely disheveling my dress. I had my hands clamped tightly by my sides, refusing to give him even the slightest applause. And there I was, defiantly still in the crowd of lively people talking and mingling, sounding like nothing more than happy, carefree individuals. Not like him.
I wouldn’t clap because I could tell he didn’t like playing. The way his shoulders tensed up just a bit when he was asked to play and the way his mouth near imperceptibly tightened into a line. The way he ran off the second he was done. It was more than shyness, I had come to learn. He had this gift, this flair for playing, and he didn’t like it.
Yet he was interesting, this boy. His dark hair and shy smile caught my interest at once. Not quite as big as me, and still so much a child, I watched him. The gentle curve of his neck, the unremarkable brown eyes below his unruly fringe, the tan skin. It was all burned into my mind, and I felt branded.
It wasn’t love; it was never love. Just a simple curiosity blossoming into something more for this strange, mysterious boy who had never spoken a single word, who had never made a single sound.
And yet there was something more. There was always something more. This boy, this child, was completely unlike anyone I could ever imagine. He was meek and silent and shy, but there was something about him that was wild, and unexpected, and… And spontaneous. Something under his skin, in the glimpses of his eyes, something in his simple expressions that gave the impression that there was so much more underneath it all.
Then he was there again, shoulders hunched, looking determinedly at the ground. My eyes followed him all around the room, boring into the back of his head, studying and analyzing every move. He finally stopped right next to one of father’s statues, almost cowering in its shadow. And there I was feeling it again; that attraction, that need to be closer just to make sure he was real. And then he looked right over at me. His eyes were half concealed by his scruffy hair, but I could tell he was apprehensive. I could tell after the months of examining, of scrutinizing, of observing, that he was just the slightest bit scared.
I wanted to shake him. I wanted to catch him off guard and make him smile. I wanted him to stop looking like that, because whenever he did, my heart twisted just a little bit more. So almost without thinking, I grabbed his arm, entangling the rough cloth between my fingers. Motioning for him to follow me, I pushed aside the heavy red drapes to open the large glass door to the verandah.
His eyes were wide, poking out from beneath his fringe. Every emotion he was feeling, all he was experiencing, it was all bared on his face. And it was all because of me. I had drawn them on with bold strokes, painting his feelings and planning his reactions like a painter in front of his finest work. And that’s what he was; he was my masterpiece, the one thing no one could take from me. He was the one thing I knew best, the one thing I knew so well yet at the same time naught at all. He was my angel, keeping me sane in this world of high-class insanity.
I looked at him curiously out of the corner of my eye, taking in his posture, his positioning, the look on his face as he looked out towards the gardens. It was all so familiar to me. The smooth lines of his profile, the half-lidded eyes. That expression of his I had grown to know so well, the one that belonged to a trapped animal. It hurt. It hurt me whenever I saw it, and it hurt more when I denied it.
I put a light hand on his shoulder, feeling the jerk of surprise when he remembered that he was not alone. I took a deep breath, grasping for a way to tell him what I wanted to say. I looked nervously at the drapes inside the house, and how they suddenly seemed like dark red blood dripping down the window, staining everything in the house in regret. And when I looked back, he was still there, solid and real beneath my hands, cheeks slightly reddened and only slightly tenser. Before I realized it, I was leaning down, touching my lips to his.
It only lasted a moment, but even after I backed away I could still feel his cool lips against mine. My hands were still on his shoulders, and he was staring at me, stunned. I smiled lightly, brushing the hair out of his eyes for the first and last time, and a second later he was slowly fading into the night, never taking his eyes off me. And for just a second before he completely disappeared, I could have sworn I’d seen a pair of wings erupt from his back and hear disbelieving, light-hearted laughter dance into the night.
And that’s all he ever was; a ghost at the strings, a silhouette fading with the last dying note.