[for petre]

[umbralla]

[The weather's already starting to edge past "cool" toward "cold," but that just means Ghyslain puts on a coat before going outside. Everyone needs fresh air sometimes, and while he's not big on the garden area (fall allergies can be as bad as spring when it comes to flowers), there's lots of rolling grass on which he can sit or stretch out, trees under which he can tuck himself.

He's got a book with him today, along with an Mp3 player and earbuds tucked into his ears, keeping the world at bay for awhile; if he doesn't, he'll listen endlessly for the text chime on his phone, and that's the last thing he needs to be doing. They agreed they needed time. He still needs the time. Being antsy is just ridiculous.

But he is, ridiculous or not, so he's outside bobbing his head to a song and barely skimming over the words of his current assigned reading for English Lit. It may have been a bad choice of course, in retrospect, but one of his advisors said it would give him a more complex understanding of English. Complex is about all that's correct in that statement so far.]

Comments

[umbralla]

[This is so strange, though. When Petre starts to smile, look more at ease, Ghyslain finds himself wondering if he smiles the same way. If his eyes have that same eager light when he asks for a favour of sorts. Does Petre's personality inform quirks like that, and in turn Ghyslain's own the same, making them actually look different?

He has no idea. He can't watch himself do things. But it's hitting him again that they really do have the same face, down to the most fine detail.]

Ouais. Yes. The music room, it should be open. [Not that it's ever really closed during school hours - he just has a crystal-clear memory of Fallon's office hours, and since the office is attached to the room, he avoids it like the plague then. Now they should be safe.

He gets up and gathers his things, earbuds slung around his neck, iPod in his pocket, book tucked under one arm.]

Come with me.

[nowheres]

[If nothing else, Petre probably has a light in his eyes that doesn't quite translate the same way in Ghyslain's. The spark of someone seeing something new for the very first time, of taking in information like a sponge and trusting it every step of the way. It vanishes completely when Petre does, too.]

Okay.

[The smile is barely contained, actually excited he's being invited. He didn't really bring anything with him, so he just wipes his hands on his pants and follows.]

[umbralla]

[That light, the excited smile - they're charming mannerisms, and then he finds himself wondering if that's arrogant. They look nice on Petre, but Petre looks like him.

It must be a personality thing. He knows he's not attractive.

He lets the walk to the school and the music room pass in silence, because conversation is so difficult between them. Only once he's sat at the grand piano does he speak, hands resting lightly on the keys.]

Modern or classical?

[nowheres]

[Sorry, Ghyslain, his answer will be boring.]

Your favorite?

[umbralla]

[It's hard to pick a favourite now, with everything he listens to and learns on a regular basis, so he takes himself back to childhood again. To the time when he loved one playing one song above all others. It was usually played more quickly on the organ, but he liked it on piano, played slow.

His fingers are very light and graceful on the keys, seeming to spring up before they've even created enough pressure to push them down, and only very slightly bent. Long, slim fingers, blunt nails. They're almost alive, like their own beings. Ghyslain closes his eyes when he plays, sways just a little from side to side.]

[nowheres]

[He sits at first, looking like he has no idea how to appreciate classical music - which he does not. He just clasps his hands and lets it play, smiling a little dumbly.

But soon as he sees how Ghyslain gets into it, something in him mellows out completely. It feels really sweet. Special that Ghyslain would share this with him.

When he's done, Petre claps.]

[umbralla]

[He blushes quite deeply at the applause, which irritates him - he hates how easily he blushes, and how prominent it is on his fair skin.]

You do not need to applaud. You said Mozart... [After thinking for a moment, he launches into a much moodier piece. This time he moves more, leaning in when the volume intensifies, head bobbing along when his hands strike harder.]

[nowheres]

[He's grinning right back, maybe blushing a little, too. A lot less aware of it, though.]

This is Mozart?

[umbralla]

Oua - yes. [Does he look like that when he blushes, too? It's so strange. He thinks that somehow, even being identical, Petre must be much more appealing than he is. Scruffy and even smaller, but so endearing when he isn't frightening.]

Yes. But Mozart is not always so - er, dark. There are also songs like -

[A softer, prettier one for him.]

[nowheres]

[It is softer. Prettier. A light melody and paced rhythm that makes the constant dark buzz of his gift dissipate a little. The other Petre is like a tight grip on his ankle that eventually goes numb until something moves, but now - now he feels a little more free.

Is that just the music, or is Ghyslain having that effect, too?]

Beautiful. [his grin spreads, a little cheekier.] Concert.

[umbralla]

[Concert? He laughs again, turns to smile at Petre and - oh. That slightly mischievous smile is even cuter. His cheeks are burning nonstop now.

Is this happening? Can it? You can't be attracted to yourself. That's ridiculous. He frowns at his own reflection on a regular basis, wondering when he'll look like a grown man if he hasn't come anywhere near yet at nineteen. Wondering why he's so fey and effeminate instead of properly handsome. And yet, looking at Petre...

Too strange. He can't think about it. Instead he'll turn back around quickly and deliver on that concert, switching to modern at last and giving Petre a taste of his voice - the English is still just as highly accented when he sings, and his voice is quiet and low, obviously not an instrument with which he performs as often as the piano. Good pitch, though, and a nice sound.]

[nowheres]

[There's always a bit of awkwardness when someone is having music played for them and can do nothing but sit and listen. He hasn't been to any concerts himself, so he has no idea that's just what you're supposed to do, but is afraid he might be rude if he gets his own ideas.

When Ghyslain starts singing... His heart skips a beat. It feels a lot more intimate now, too. His voice and his fingers producing art just for Petre to hear. No one's ever done that before. Sad lonely boy.]

Your voice. Very good.

[There's a softness in his tone that his words don't quite convey.]

You become star.