[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

[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.