Music to his ears — Alaric Cledwyn Vesa

[lathriel]

The wood was smooth in his hands—soft and rich. Alaric relished the feel of it: each string was taut, tuned perfectly as his fingers gently strummed across them, tentatively waiting for any sound of discord. He found none.

He stood from the chair he had seated himself in upon finding the lovely acoustic in the barren classroom, sliding the strap over his head. He let his hand glide down the neck of the guitar, in a way similar to the way he would have caressed down a woman’s stomach.

“Tellement beau…” he muttered.

He glanced at the door, and, upon seeing no sign of other students, he brought his right leg up onto the chair to cradle the guitar. Then, he began to play. His fingers slid into place, while others strummed. Soon the notes melded together into an upbeat song, and Alaric’s voice came out in a soulful jubilee of sound.

“Through mostly vacant streets, a baker from the outskirts of his town
Earned his living peddling sweets from the ragged cart he dragged around.
The clever fox crept close behind, kept an ever-watchful eye
For a chance to steal a ginger spice cake or a boysenberry pie.

Looking down was the hungry crow, ‘When the time is right, I'll strike
And condescend to the earth below and take whichever treat I'd like.’
The moment the baker turned around to shoo the fox off from his cart,
The crow swooped down and snatched a shortbread cookie and a German chocolate tart.

Using most unfriendly words that the village children had not yet heard,
the baker shouted threats by canzonette to curse the crafty bird.
‘You rotten wooden mixing spoon! Why you midnight winged racoon!
You better bring those pastries back, you no-good burned-black macaroon!’

The fox approached the tree where the bird was perched, delighted in his nest.
‘Brother Crow, don't you remember me? It's your old friend Fox with a humble request.
If you could share just a modest piece, seeing as I distracted that awful man.’
This failed to persuade the crow in the least, so the fox rethought his plan.

‘Then if your lovely song would grace my ears, or to even hear you speak,
Would ease my pains and fears.’ The crow looked down with a candy in his beak.
‘Your poems of wisdom, my good crow, what a paradise they bring!’
This flattery pleased the proud bird, so he opened his mouth and began to sing:

‘Your subtle acclamation's true! Best to give praise where praise is due.
Every rook and jay in the Corvidae's been raving about me too.
They admire me, one and all. Must be the passion in my caw!
My slender bill known through the escadrille, my fierce commanding claw!’”

The notes began to collide into a surprisingly beautiful, chaotic off-beat conflict as Alaric leaned his head back, his eyes closed in an ecstasy he had forgotten. How long it had been since he’d felt a guitar in his hands… the euphoric feeling swelled up inside of him and spilled out into the next burst of song.

“I got a walnut brownie brain, and molasses in my veins,
Crushed graham cracker crust, my powdered sugared funnel cake cocaine.
Let the crescent cookie rise. These carob colored almond eyes
Will rest to see my cashewed princess in the swirling marble sky.
Will rest upon the knee, where all the visions cease to be
A root beer float in our banana boat across the tapioca sea.
When letting all attachments go, is the only prayer we know,
May it be so, may it be so, may it be so, oh…”

Panting, he leaned forward against the guitar, basking in the glory of the afterglow. His body tingled with pleasure. In so many ways, music was like the intimacy he often shared with various gorgeous women back in France; it soothed his nerves and took him on a magical journey to another place where instant gratification was a heartbeat away and blissful intoxication was much simpler to achieve.

“How I had forgotten,” his voice came out in a contented sigh, “how absolutely wonderful your company could be. Mecri.” Alaric place a soft kiss on the body of the guitar before straightening up and settling himself for another song.





This is what he was playing... =D

[Javert]

There was a moment.

And then she was running through the corridors--her own variance of running, anyway, the stumbling gait of an out-of-shape pear-shaped girl with too-long limbs and too-long skirts and the elegance of a camel. Her arms windmilled at first, chaotically, her mouth a perfect circle, before her hands snatched her skirts and she continued to lurch forward. Her heart was pounding almost immediately against the steel ribbing of her corset. The walls blurred, and then, below the bridge of her breath, she counted the passing tapestries and windows, knowing that with each one she was closer to salvation, and safety, and--

Fran Crawford tripped on nothing in particular.

“Crumpets!” the girl squeaked, inanely. She slapped her palms against the floor before the rest of her made contact. Her skirts provided ample cushion between herself and the cold floor, but the sudden contact still made her wince, her blue-grey eyes widened to produce a more than comical effect in her blanched face. Her fall seemed to have lasted forever; in a second, it was over, leaving her panting on the floor.

“I,” she said, as she attempted to stand, “am in so so so much trouble.” She repeated the mantra with varying degrees of urgency as she repeatedly fell back to the floor. Corsets, she decided, were not conducive to movement of any kind. Finally, hair disheveled, freckles like splatters of ink against her pale face, she rose, buoyed by a great breath of air that she finally released. Common sense should have lectured that running was not the most intelligent of ideas. Instead, Fran uttered a little huff of determination, and was off again, no longer running so much as shuffling as would a terrified mouse.

This was, after all, the boy’s wing, and she was not a boy. Fran had made a wrong turn and had ventured into the wing, and it had been several minutes before she realized that the territory was unfamiliar, and that if she were caught, she would be sent home faster than any protest could fly from her lips. The thought made her wince, and she increased the pace of her awkward hastening. She was bound to find her way out eventually…

Escape remained elusive, but something else had ensnared her attention: music. Fran, ever curious (“But I’m no cat,” she thought, “so I’ll be alright!”), slowed almost immediately. The sounds of a guitar and of a voice were emanating from a nearby room. Walking now, nearly on tiptoe, Fran held her breath and stopped by the open door. She hadn’t heard the song before, nor the voice, but she remained transfixed, back flush against the wall, feeling horribly as if she were trespassing or eavesdropping on something very private. Still, she listened.

The song ended. Any normal person would have had the sense to retreat. Fran, instead, without thinking, stuck her head into the open doorway, beaming; the rest of her followed in a moment as she applauded. “That was beautiful!” she exclaimed to the unfamiliar boy. “What a clever song! Did you write it yourself? I’ve always wanted to write a song, but, oh, I have the vocabulary of a centipede, and the voice of a dying cat…” Her frothing laughter soon turned into several self-conscious giggles, and then died away entirely as her face seemed to catch fire.

“Forgive me; I‘ll be going, er, now,” Fran said in a rush, blushing horribly, and made to duck from the room.

[lathriel]

Alaric spun around at the sound of applause, ready for ridicule, only to find praise in the form of beautiful girl. He was surprised to say the least; the suddenness of her appearance had caught him off guard, leaving him unarmed in the way of sauvé words. So he stood there admiring her, guitar draped about his neck—forgotten. Her words washed over him, unnoticed, but her voice danced through the air, snuggling against his brain. It was soft and sweet like that of a robin who had not yet discovered its song. His bright eyes danced over her as her voice came to an end, her pale cheeks flushing with a red almost more vibrant than her hair.

“Forgive me; I’ll be going, er, now…” The girl turned and rushed for the door. Alaric had no intention of letting the only girl he’d seen for months leave without at least knowing her name, so with a quick burst of motion he swung the guitar to his back and jetted for the door placing an arm in front of her petite frame.

“Wait… I don’t even know your name, mademoiselle.” Alaric looked deep into her eyes with great intensity. “Please stay… I’ll play another song for you, just for you.” He let his finger gently brush against the tip of her nose and stepped backwards to a chair. He swung the guitar to his front and brought his knee up to play again. He swayed very slightly back and forth as his fingers began to strum. His lips held a smirk for the split second before he let the lyrics find their way out of his mouth.

“Hello, I love you.
Won't you tell me your name?
Hello, I love you.
Let me jump in your game.
Hello, I love you.
Won't you tell me your name?
Hello, I love you.
Let me jump in your game.

She's walking down the street,
Blind to every eye she meets.
Do you think you'll be the guy
to make the queen of the angels sigh?

Hello, I love you.
Won't you tell me your name?
Hello, I love you.
Let me jump in your game.
Hello, I love you.
Won't you tell me your name?
Hello, I love you.
Let me jump in your game.

She holds her head so high,
like a statue in the sky.
Her arms are wicked, and her legs are long.
When she moves my brain screams out this song!”

He ran his fingers up and down in quick fury of intense notes; vehemence clear in his voice as he belted out the last few words.

“Sidewalk crouches at her feet,
like a dog that begs for something sweet.
Do you hope to make her see, you fool?
Do you hope to pluck this dusky jewel?

Hello, Hello, Hello, Hello, Hello, Hello, Hello…
I want you.
Hello.
I need my baby.
Hello, Hello, Hello, Hello.”

The last note was a dramatic strum that left the air quaking from the aftershock. He let his arms cross atop the guitar, leaning his head against them, a smile firmly placed on his lips. His deep blue eyes peered out from behind the dark, unmanageable curls that fell in front of his face when he leaned forward. He waited then, searching her pretty face for any kind of response.

[Javert]

((I TOTALLY HEARD THIS SONG ON THE RADIO TODAY and it made me laugh, thinking about this thread. Hehe.

FURTHERMORE THIS POST IS UTTER CRAP AND I APOLOGIZE. I was writing all Neil Gaiman-y yesterday and now I don‘t even know what this crap is. ): ))


Fran’s exit was impeded by an arm flung across the door. Before her surprised lips could form further protests, she was suddenly meeting the boy’s very blue and very intense gaze. Eye contact usually wasn’t enough to coax a blush to Fran’s cheeks, but the fact that the eyes belonged to a male was enough; the unknown intensity of his eyes was only further incendiary for a fiery flush. She would have slapped her palms to her cheeks if she hadn’t been struck motionless by his finger at her nose. He was going to play her a song? Especially for her?

“Er,” said Fran, eloquently, when she deigned herself able to speak again. “ That’s not necessary, I mean, I don’t want to take up your time; my name is--” Her words encountered music, and the latter emerged victorious. Fran closed her gaping mouth and listened.

Within the first five syllables, she was blushing, suddenly feeling that the room was very warm and that she was very out of place. Not only was a member of the opposite sex serenading her, but he was proclaiming his love for her--it was a song, she told herself, blinking furiously, only a song, but the fact that he had chosen it made her simultaneously uncomfortable and flattered. After the first verse, during which she regarded the floor and blushed with the intensity of a thousand burning suns, Fran finally allowed herself to relax into the music, focusing not on the lyrics but on the pleasant commingling of the boy’s voice and his guitar. She found herself tapping her toe. She smiled. She listened.

When the song ended, Fran had relaxed enough to applaud once again, smiling wide. “You have a wonderful voice,” she said, too delighted to realize that she had just complimented a male and thus deserved to blush for the next four decades. “And thank you so much for the song. You could have just asked, though,” she said, still grinning. She extended her hand to shake; apparently, extroversion was finally triumphing over embarrassment. “I’m Frances. Fran, usually, but if you want to call me Frances, that’s perfectly alright.” Giggling, she added, “I wish I had a song to ask you for your name, but you’d run away screaming if you heard me sing, so me just asking will have to do.”

[lathriel]

Alaric beamed at the pale girl’s burning cheeks, meeting her hand with his own as he erected his posture from his slouching position. Frances… he thought as he absorbed the crimson embarrassment on her face with his every probing eyes, what a beautiful name…

After shaking the pretty girl's hand though, he did not let go; instead, he slouched again, but this time to gently graze the soft flesh of the hand he held in his own with his lips. His eyes rolled up, lingering over each crease and ruffle in her dress, each change of color or shimmer in the cloth or her skin—absorbing everything… until they met her angelic face. Those eyes… he though, torrents—grey swirling torrents, beautiful, grey, swirling torrents on a sea of blue.

“I’m sure you have other talents, many other talents... perhaps some yet undiscovered, mademoiselle Frances...” He spun her name about his tongue. Fran was frank, but Frances seemed so much more intimate. There was more to the longer name, more for the mind and mouth to play with. He slowly rose from his position in front of her, bringing her hand with him. He peered from behind it at her, a smirk nearly frozen in place.

“…but thank you, mademoiselle. My name, mon cher, is Alaric. Alaric Vesa—et vous êtes la plus belle créature que j'ai vu dans un temps très long, Frances.”