Silent Songs in the Dark

[Macabre Beauty]

The spirits were restless; or so he presumed. Tuned though he was, eyes focused ahead on the environment around him as he pulled himself inward during his walk, Mischa couldn’t be certain. Energy spun about him. A low hum that resonated against chilled skin. Rain cleared the air earlier in the evening, scent fresh in the roof of his mouth. A brisk mist hung low as it crawled across the manicured sites. Name plates winked with a moist sheen, peeking glimmers through the fog. The rubber soles of his shoes squeaked along; quiet ‘urps’ interrupted by the occasional “shlock’  when mud stuck.

A place allocated for peace of mind, or quiet reflection. The resting place of the dead. Where bodies are buried to remember the spirit. Some, he supposed, found the yards eerie --the dwellings of the dead accompanied by an inescapable sense of foreboding. But, to him, a bunch of bodies bundled in boxes and thrust beneath the crust of the earth seemed more --cramped and uncomfortable than ear-marking any pending doom.

His stride ghosted him through the marked sites, he seeming thoughtless --or lost in thought.  Weeks --Months? had passed since the gig at the carnival. The pay, in part, went to violin repair and maintenance. The rest stashed within the crushed velvet that encased the beloved instrument. His last fix had been somewhere around then. Not that he remembered the particular cocktail the fae gentleman had provided. A tick in his jaw ached for more, fading in and out as it did with any involuntary detox. The knot of nausea was more hunger related, but he really couldn’t bother himself to eat. Food would come across his path soon enough and he was well enough with the gnaw to simply --enjoy his present wait.

He’d contacted the fae drummer again, if not for the drugs --for the adventure the man and his troupe could provide. They hadn’t, the kid said, anything lined up at present, but the festival season had yet to start and there were also traveling carnivals and shows. Until then it was just a matter of biding his time; and, Mishca for lack of anything better to do turned his path to the graveyard. A melody entertained his mind, resonating in the hollow at the base of his skull. Inaudible strains hummed alongside chorded strings picking out repetitive patterns to build new music. It kept the hunger at bay, at the very least --or rather made him forget altogether the knot was there.

[Pocky]

Stolen supper carried in a plastic bag, Adagio saw the young man that he'd met once and briefly.

"Serendipity," he said under his breath, curling smile upon his lips. He hadn't forgotten the young violinist but he hadn't sought him out either, distracted by mundane tasks like seeking out food and clothing without money. He'd busked for a while, earning dollars while hearts hardened around him. His music was beautiful even as it devastated and he attracted many curious stares and questions about his lute, thirteen courses of medieval origin. As their strings vibrated, frowns appeared and arguments between lovers started. Tiny tendrils of power thrilled their way up his spine.

And now, after lifting a Thai meal already paid for and leaving a disgruntled customer for the restaurant to deal with in the near future, Adagio crossed the road to the cemetery for a quick slow getaway--not wishing to fly with his hot food and make it cold--he saw the violinist from the carnival skulking across the grounds a short distance away. A calling out distance but Adagio didn't. He flanked the young man, fairly sure it was his musician from the glimpse beneath the outer radius of a park light. That one liked to stick to the shadows. There wasn't a lot left to corrupt in him, Adagio could feel it, but he wasn't of interest to the dark angel for the sake of corruption.

His music. Adagio had never been touched emotionally by music played by any mortal hand. Some of the older creatures could manage, having practiced and mastered their craft to a point of near perfection. None of them could match the angels, dark or light. This one, though, came so close that it was transcendent of its origin, in young hands it seemed an impossibility. The fact the youth was already tainted by darkness only made the music sweeter.

There was another reason he hadn't looked for the musician. What if he'd remembered it wrong? What if he'd been caught up by the smells and excitement of the carnival and the discordant sounds around him and heard the masterful playing of the violinist and he'd put more promise in it than he should've. It had sated him, he did remember that, but he'd also been ravaged by guilt that night and looking for an exit. Had it been a perfect storm? Could the young man set bow to string and do it again?

Down wind and behind a mausoleum, Adagio caught up with his quarry. He stepped out carrying his plastic bag of Thai food in one hand, palm up in a brief greeting with the other, broad smile and dressed in a black leather vest over black leather pants, feet bare and cold upon the grass. He was a metre away from the young man and he softly spoke his welcome.

"Fate brings us together."

[Macabre Beauty]

The scent of curry carried in the mists. Leaving a gnawing stomach to gurgle in the silence. Distant though he was from it, music on his mind, the dishes of the Thai Palace pervaded the evening air, telling him just how close to the road he'd come. He not of much a mind to mingle in the open world, heavily booted feet clipped a hard quarter turn to wander back toward the hill's lower slope. Other energies could potentially disrupt his melody. Before he could make the trek back downhill, however, a taller figure pulled into his path.

Separated from the shadows of a nearby mausoleum, the stretch of the dark angel's leaned into his line of sight. The musician's spine stiffened. His senses already woven in to the environment around him. With unbidden wariness, ebon eyes followed the shadow only to narrow at bare feet. He'd met a couple characters with bare feet. But, none of them were clean. Immaculate, the nails and skin, perhaps due to the angel's otherworldly nature.

Wariness waned, receding as he took in the dark angel's apparel. Leather vest, leather pants, neither of which worn by the man he thought might be stalking him. "Fate?" he parroted on a drawl. He didn't have candy in his mouth this evening, but his focus did find the bag of carryout. ""You've come to feed me?" The question rueful in audacious bemusement.

[Pocky]

He watched the other while clothing was inspected and a lingering gaze upon his feet. Adagio wriggled his toes, tickling them with the tufts of grass and the cold compact iciness of dirt at night. His word came back at him in a tone that had him raising his brows. The next question caused Adagio to laugh.

In the midst of his mirth he answered, words spilling out between and within chuckles. "This supper shared will only feed one of your hungers," he said, free hand lifting so his index finger could touch the side of his nose. "Will it be enough? For now, at least?"

He looked about and decided on a flat pedestal of a headstone to mosey over to and hop up on. Shuffling his butt backwards on it he beckoned the violinist over. "Wooden chopsticks or plastic fork?" he asked, delving into the plastic bag that held both the utensils he'd named plus a paper napkin and a container within.

[Macabre Beauty]

Free food, something he certainly couldn't say no to. Particularly, when hadn't any candies to leven out the hungers. The second, the one that sat in the joint of his jaw and made the muscles work when acknowledged, had near been forgotten. Then the dark angel appeared. His presence, and knowing taunt, a reminder even as he offered to share that which would sate the gnawing knot winnowed away by melody.

"Fork," He returned, drawling the word, but answering without hesitation.

As he approached the headstone, he silently reappraised the figure seated upon it. Their first meeting, he recalled, he'd been at the caravan park. He'd traveled with the troupe to the route's end, before being --picked up, pursued by the being. He, of course, drugged up on some cocktail from the other-realm. Trip hazards were nominal as an experienced flier. Therefore, while the event could've been one big hallucination, he revisiting the character in absence of the drug, the request for him to play didn't --align with an induced state of existence. Which confirmed, in turn, the reality of the male's presence --and tonight, the reality of the food he brought with him.

"Definitely a fork," he repeated, dropping his weight into a hip upon reaching Adagio's perch, "And yeah, enough right now --is anything. So, we're good."

[Pocky]

Twisting his lips in amusement with a quick glance up at the violinist, Adagio's attention resumed within the plastic bag. A few soft rustling sounds later had him producing a white plastic fork which he held outward without fanfare. Once the utensil was plucked from his fingers the next thing that came out was the container holding the food. He offered that next.

"You may have the first feast of it, my fellow musician. What name should I call you by? I am myself unironically, Adagio." He gave a light sideways nod, like a bow.

[Macabre Beauty]

The first... feast of it? Was the kid from.. well, perhaps he couldn't place the era; but, the phrase definitely sounded anachronistic. Such were his thoughts as he received the fork. The plastic bit of cutlery danced across half-clad fingers, twirled while he reached for the food. He, now, more musing than honed in on hunger. He couldn't exactly place when he'd last been asked for a name. To the fae he performed with, he was just a kid with talent enough to appease them. Not to say he was --wholly aware of their ethereal existence. Not normal would be the best definition --as was the long ago "beast" in the park, the geaser he teased --and now...

"Adagio," he repeated, the name drawled in a firm intonation, "Ahh--dah--jii--O,  well didn't you just get the luck of the draw."

His gaze slid to meet the elder musician's, stark and critical as ebon analyzed the worth within. All the while, he stuck the fork into food and shoveled in his first helping. Between the second and the third, he posed, "Was that your first time at the carnival?" He rather ignored the request for a moniker. If the kid felt it to be that important, the query would come again --otherwise, it was of little consequence.

[Pocky]

The amused quirk of Adagio's lips at the corners shifted downward while a portion of his upper lip snagged. Not long after his expression changed he aimed his face at his meal, sighing through his nose. The question about the carnival hung in the air for a long moment as the musician continued to eat Adagio's stolen meal.

"No." There were no more words forthcoming. He waited and watched, fingers holding chopsticks at the ready while hands relaxed in his lap.