tornheart | [ OPEN + CLOSED PROMPTS ] I COULD LIFT YOU UP.

[ Whether you are trudging back home after a long day of class, or exiting the building in answer to the siren-song call of the weekend, you inevitably pass through the dormitory's common area. And there, atop the stainless steel of a countertop used many a time to house impromptu study-sessions and dinner parties, lies...! A cupcake tower, as inviting as it is glorious, marked with a quaint little sign which reads 'please, take a treat'. Investigate further, and you'll be sure to spy an array of sign-up sheets flanking either side of the confectionary construct, lists of what surely seem to be community activities...

One reads expressing s'more values!, another dressing for dollars!, and more still Study-Buddy Sunday! and build your own ramen bar!.

Do you decide to participate and pen your name down? Or do you decide to liberate a cupcake from the stand without bothering to sign up at all? Regardless of your choice of action, a voice from across the room sounds— ]

Ah! So you've taken an interest in this month's programming?

[ —and it is an all around good-natured voice, full-bodied and suffused with warmth, sweet (like cupcakes?) or a cup of sugared coffee. There is also a touch of an accent (foreign) which marks him as a transfer student from abroad, though perhaps you're already acquainted with Solange Aster, your resident assistant.

His smile is kind, and his eyes are bright as he bridges the distance with an easy greeting: ]

Has anything in particular caught your eye?

[ Well, aside from the cupcakes, that is. ]

Edited 2017-05-20 00:28 (UTC)

[Oh god, he just wanted to grab a cupcake, why this]

[Which isn't to say that Ciro was so rude as to just straight up grab one! He's been acing courteous, glancing over all the sheets idly, to at least make it look like he was considering it all. Still, well... He'd been hoping that he wouldn't get ambushed.]

[But nope. Thus is the cunning of the local RA, completely willing to take advantage of poor hungry students.]

[Ciro straightens up, trying to act like he isn't just a little sweaty and there isn't dirt on his jeans- listen, he's part of the gardening club and the Flower Blossom Festival is coming up soon, it can't be helped.]

Ah... [fuck what does he say] I haven't heard of what a ramen bar is... I guess I was just trying to figure it out.

Why not sign up for the event, then? [ —Sol regards the younger student with a knowing smile, a pervasive glance. For all the world, his present ~~captive~~ companion looks as though he's been 'caught in the act', and while such a deer-in-headlights look is altogether endearing, Solange also cannot help but be a touch apologetic as he explains the programming: ] It will be staged as a dinner held here, in the common area next week.

Everyone will be able to help themselves to their choice of ramen noodle and a 'bar' of toppings. There will also be prizes for 'most original bowl of ramen' and 'most noodles eaten in three minutes'...!

[ With a cant of his head, he gives further consideration to the student, their jeans smudged with dirt at the knee, and their appearance--...

Ah, it's somehow familiar, isn't it? ]

...might I ask if I've met you somewhere before?

[ Though Sol cannot fully remember it, he's been in gardening club territory many a time after being whisked away to its safe-haven in the arms of an over-concerned Haruka Sorazawa. There, Ciro might have seen him sleeping the afternoons away after too many late nights and early mornings. ]

Next week...

[Yeah, he'll probably be alive and not dead by next week. Probably. Tucking his chin against his chest, Ciro thinks on it. If nothing else, maybe he can offer to tell his brother about it- would that be enough to get him off the hook and allow a cupcake? Or is that too manipulative of people offering free food for a good cause- ]

[Preoccupied and overworked, it takes him a second to parse the question, and he blinks.]

I'm... not sure if met, but I've lived here for a while... You might know my brother? [Wait- oh. right. obviously.] I'm also part of the gardening club, so...

[ Away from the bustle of campus, Solange takes refuge in a city park, seating himself upon a picnic table banked by full-blooming spring flowers. Here, he might find the peace of mind necessary to gain a decent headway on a stack of papers—English essays, just waiting to be graded—his duties as a TA lamentably pushed aside in the wake of an on-going mystery: an application which, for all intents and purposes, boldly and arbitrarily defied the bounds of software engineering, contested ordered causality, and seemed to be closely connected with, if not perhaps in part structured by, the vast reaches of the collective subconscious manifest as--...

An ouroboros.

An ouroboros which finds itself sketched onto one of the essays—a literary analysis of Childe Harold's Pilgrimage—in stark red ink before Solange thinks anything of it, the symbol recreated from idle hands (the devil's playthings) and a wandering mind. Still, there had to be something (some detail, a variable not yet brought to light) to the mystery which he and the others hadn't yet discovered; a sensible meaning to be found in the watchful eye centered in the application's design. But the more Solange studies the drawing, the farther away his thoughts drift, and before long...! ]

O-oh! [ ...the essays follow suit, caught in a wayward breeze, the stack of papers blowing this way and that and thoroughly out of Solange's reach.

Some of the assignments catch onto passerbys (perhaps yourself, if you are strolling through the park today?), while others drift precariously close to the neighboring fountain as Solange gives chase.

The decision is yours, good samaritan: will you aid him? ]

[ Midday finds one, Solange Aster, at the edge of campus grounds in search of a truck which seems to park itself further and further away each and every day, rather matching the habits of someone keen upon severing all their ties to the world for a time, but never venturing so far away as to break them entirely. And by simple virtue of who he is, Solange would never allow for the latter to come to pass—in many ways, he himself is a tether cast out into the ~~abyss~~ greenery of the spring bloom in order to retrieve...!

A friend. A friend who so happens to be enjoying the warmth of the day by sleeping it (and class) away in his truck, the vehicle parked questionably (if not illegally) beneath the shade of a tree with its windows rolled down to circulate the leisurely, carefree breeze.

It is peaceful in a way Solange can appreciate, this bit of respite from the bustle of their academic careers, from their professors, cellphones, and peers, but even so--... To skip class so early on in the year is to risk losing the track scholarship which his friend had worked so very hard to achieve, and Solange cannot allow for the dreams of anyone (much less a friend!) to go to waste.

And so: he leans in through the passenger-side window (easily and artfully done, the long fall of his silver hair spilling down, over his shoulder to pool atop the leather seat beneath), and extends a hand to flick the slumbering party (Gabe) squarely upon the forehead. ]

Yo. ☆

[ Good morning. ]

[Gabe had been hunched over in his seat, sleeping upright out of some strange habit, scarf thrown haphazardly across his shoulders despite the heat. He looks a lot less angry when he's asleep. To bad that wont last. ]

Argh! Don't touch me!!

[ Solange's flick has him awake and recoiling in a blink, hand clutching his forhead. There's a second of confused glancing until his eyes settle on that silver hair and so irritating face. ]

You! What the fuck are you doing out here again? Can't you tell when a guys trying to get some shut eye?

[ Altogether, a flick upon the forehead is among the most harmless methods which Solange has used to rouse those parties guilty of truancy from slumber. In one such case, he even dropped a textbook upon a 'sleeping beauty's' face, but that... Well, it had certainly been well-deserved, a comeuppance long overdue for a prank, and Solange had been (somewhat) apologetic afterward, taking responsibility for the nosebleed he had caused.

In this case, though, Gabe only startles, the other student's voice still thick with sleep even as he causes something of a commotion—altogether, it is rather endearing: the scarf, the rapid blinking, the proclivity to jump immediately into theatrics...

It all feels rather nostalgic, in a way Solange cannot quite explain.

And so: he only smiles, canting his head as he withdraws back, through the truck window, if only to open the door and station himself in the passenger seat. ]

I am merely here to ensure that you make it to your afternoon class on time.

[ Relaxing back, into the seat, Solange is able to understand why Gabe is so fond of napping here, of all places—it is pleasantly warm, the leather of the interior is comfortable, and if Solange himself weren't careful...

Maybe, just maybe, he'd slip into a doze. ]

Think of me as your escort, if you will. [ Giving pause, Solange makes to glance at his wrist-watch rather than at his cellphone to check the time. ] We've fifteen minutes, yet, to make it back to campus proper.

[Gabe's nothing compared to his old self, but he's a light sleeper, and no big fan of people touching him when he's not expecting it, his glare shows no sigh of stopping. He doesn't even stop glowering when he rubs the sleep out of his eyes, even if one remains stubbornly closed.

Solange of course, simply invites himself into his nice, clean (well not clean but at least free of annoying RA's) car. He snatches a random water bottle off the seat before Sion can sit on it with his good hand and tries to somehow, glare harder. ]

It's music class. Mr. Cornett is nice enough to understand some peoples need for some shut eye.

[ Solange seems to be getting pretty comfortable. Thats no good. He knocks the other mans shoulder in return with his bad hand. me to nap pal. If you wanna escort you can take the keys and drive us to the music building.

Still, it wouldn't do to take advantage of that kindness.

[ —Solange half-teases, half-chides, sinking farther back into the passenger seat before...! He's shoved (and shoved unceremoniously), his body swaying with the motion before, quite suddenly, it is his turn to blink in surprise, a laugh falling from his lips, bemused and annoyingly bright: ]

And you'll not be rid of me so easily. [ Shouldn't Gabe know it by now, that Solange is impossible to shake? ] Tell me what it is that has been robbing you of sleep, and perhaps I will take my leave.

If not--...

[ Voice trailing off, Solange only seems to make himself more at home, distinctly unbothered by the weight of the other's student glare. Seat? Reclined back. Legs? Long and elegantly crossed at the ankles. Hand? Reaching for the radio dial with fingers outstretched. ]

I'm certain that we can enjoy the afternoon together.

[ Ah...? Did that angelic smile of Solange's suddenly deepen into a demonic one?! ]

Watch me.

[And then he turns around with a huff, adjusting his scarf as a makeshift pillow. Guts doesn't know if theirs a clearer way to say "fuck off".

Figures Sol couldn't leave it be. ]

Just some migraines and weird dreams. [Definatly not staying up late night trying to figure out what was going on with that app.] I took to much Tylenol last night and now I'm all woozy. It's probably just stress for the upcoming meet, ok?

[ He actually turns back around for that one. Spending the afternoon with Sion? He would rather take notes on stuff he doesn't get. ]

Hrhg. God. Don't make that creepy face of yours.

Edited (html is my worst enemy) 2017-05-20 21:41 (UTC)

H'oh? Is this face of mine so terrifying that you wish you were in class, instead of attempting to nap the day away?

[ If so, Sol sincerely hopes that Gabe will remember it well, this smile of his which has garnered just and due notoriety from sending spine-tingling chills down the backs of Green Valley's most rough and tumble students. For this reason alone (or so Solange would like to claim!), he'd been approached, offered a position as resident assistant by collegiate services. ]

But--...

[ Shifting ever so slightly, Solange crosses his arms over his chest, fidgeting, yet, for all that he might be making the attempt to relax for the first time in what seems likes days. ]

I understand. I've not been sleeping well myself, as of late, though I am the only one to blame for that.

[ Turning his head, he makes to catch Gabe's eyes with his own, the playful, teasing lilt fading from his voice as he speaks— ]

The meet will go well. You've trained hard all this while, haven't you? You're one to doge curfew, even, in favor of staying out late on the field.

[He doesn't answer that.]

You're a smug ass, you know that?

[Sol doesn't really scare Gabe, he's met enough honestly scary people in his life to know when someone probably isn't flat out dangerous. But it doesn't keep Sol from being a bit creepy and offputting. ]

You?? Not sleeping well? What do you even do after curfew Mr.Perfect?

[He shrugs. You know, actually he changed his mind. Smug Sol is much better then concerned Sol. ] Of course I have. Running's what I'm good at. Not a lot of thinking involved.

[ He's found himself running more and more since this app appeared. ]

[ Truth be told, though they are often at ends and seem to be an unlikely pair—Gabe, with his brusque demeanor and surly temperament, and Solange with his effervescent smile and capricious disposition—they've more in common than they likely realize: where Gabe has taken to the track, running for distance and improvement in time, Solange has made a habit of sequestering himself away in one of the campus' many music rooms during his free time. There, he has lost himself to playing his latest favored sonatas for violin, practicing until he'd achieved technical perfection if only to take his mind off of all that which remained out of his control and out of his grasp.

(And even now, it's silly, isn't it, that he should be thinking about the appearance of the ouroboros app...?) ]

To that end, I admire you. [ —expression softening into something earnest and warm, Sion turns his gaze to the windshield, admiring of the spring greenery which laid beyond it. ] Breaking curfew to pursue your goals is a mark of passion.

[ Albeit, a dangerous one with the resurfacing of the 'Shadow' murders. ]

You'll surely see me in the stands at the meet. [ Ah?? That sounds suspiciously like a promise. ]

As for myself, I think I've spent one too many late nights studying. [ The answer to what he does after curfew? Only that which is expected of him: maintain his studious, Mr. Perfect 4.0 gradepoint average. ] Unexpectedly... a new project has also popped up, posing a problem beyond my area of expertise.

It's been a bit research heavy, to say the least. I may seek out some of our software engineering majors for assistance.

Passion? Sure, I guess? I'd call it being a stubborn dumbass who doesn't know when to quit.

[He's seen the news of the murders to, but its been hard to care. He's always been the sort to press himself to the brink, and what puts more energy into your sprint then knowing that you're breaking the law! ]

Oh no. My time will drop for sure if I see your smug face. I'll have to make a detour to remove it. [It sounds suspiciously like resigned acceptance.]

Oh? Another project. Did you find a new student to bully into submission like me? [ The poor bastard. Gabe's heart is with you. His eye narrows a bit at the software engineering mention but his focus expression is gone the next second, replaced by a familiar gruff irritation. ]

Yeah? Well, if you find anyone good tell them to check the school firewalls. I got a nasty virus the other day and it won't get off my phone.

A virus. [ A silvered brow lofting high, Sol's eyes flit back to his (reluctant) companion, widening in silent question: have you seen it, as well, the app marked by an ouroboros? ] I, too, have found something similar on my--...

[ This time, when Solange trails off, his voice diminishing into nothing, it is not out of consideration of some fleeting fancy or dream—his behavior becomes stilted in a way it never is for someone otherwise so sure of themselves and the world which surrounded them; for someone so buoyant and bright.

Almost, it is like a shadow has swept over him, though with a shake of his head, Solange attempts to dispel the feeling and persists: ]

There are others experiencing the same, so very many that I--...

[ And again, he is forced to give pause, wincing as the pulse of a headache springs to life behind his eyes. Lifting a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, he attempts to focus, startled to find that the intensity of the headache only seems to worsen with each passing second— ]

I cannot seem to speak about it.

Haha, what sort of website's are you on to get a virus, Sol? [An eyebrow is raised, a question asked, but Gut's brushes it off as his head pangs. Wow its like that thought is just...brushed away. Besides, its freaking Sol. He probably has other reasons.

Of course that momentary lapse in thought is overruled because of course Sol just keeps going. ]

Others. Like do you mean with th- [His teeth clack together with a hiss as his headache redoubles. The thought, does Sol have that app to? lies out of his reach, a jolt of pain dissuading him from fully grasping it. Instead of continuing the conversation, he reaches into a glove compartment and tosses Sol some painkillers. ]

Here. These have been helping, but not as much as they should.

[ Catching the bottle at the last second—almost, he'd missed it, the sudden onset of the headache blurring his vision—Sol nods in silence, grateful as he uncaps the painkillers (ibuprofen?), and takes the recommended dosage (two pills). In all his academic career (including scores of all-nighters and early mornings), he's never experienced tension to the point of restricted movement and muddled thoughts, the pain creeping its way from behind the eyes, to the temples, then down his neck the more he struggles to maintain his line of thinking.

Viruses, others, too many questions, it must be... ]

Tutoring. I frequent online tutoring websites, giving advice to others.

[ Ever so slowly, he shifts back, turning so that his forehead might touch to the leather of the seat, the material oddly cool against the skin. ]

Thank you. [ —he reaches out, offering the bottle back. ] I really have had one too many late nights, I think.

[ … ]

Would you think less of me, if I were to tell you I felt like resting right now?

[Wow. Sounds like someones never been hungover before. What a goody two shoes. Sure Gut's has had perhaps what might be called a torrid youth, but it saddled him with a high pain tolerance and a large supply of painkillers. Guts reaches for the bottle himself and chokes down four of the things. Yeah he's passing out after this. ]

Course you-ack haha do. [Its hard to swallow pills and laugh at the same time, but he does it. Ow. ]

Why do you care what I think? If your not gonna stop me from taking my next nap, you can do what you want.

[ Hungover, someone like Solange Aster, a well-respected and well-accomplished member of the collegiate community who maintains not only his personal Dean's list placement, but aids other students in achieving their goals as well...? No, never him. Despite having grown up abroad, and in a country where the legal age to drink wine and beer is a mere 16 years of age, Solange has never cared for alcohol, and most certainly has never before been inebriated. Which is why...

The migraine is a pain, though not enough of one to prevent him from reaching out, shoving Gabe's arm when his companion (now compatriot?) begins to cough and laugh and somehow still swallow the medication down. ]

Be careful.

[ Shifting, Solange seeks out the most comfortable position he is able, winding up on his side with his hair pillowed beneath his head. ]

If I may do what I please, I'm--... [ Slowly, he allows for his eyes to fall closed, lashes fanning against his cheek. ] ...going to nap with you.

[ And that's that. ]

But you musn't tell another soul that their RA skipped his own afternoon class.

[ Honestly, Gabe never liked it much either but that doesn't mean he didn't try once or twice. Sol needs to live a little.

He shakes his head. ]

'm fine. Bleugh. [He shakes his head like he could shrug off this headache and signs, lying back. ]

No promises. You shouldn't care so much anyway. Everyone skips.

Ar~tie.

[ —Solange's call is silvered and sing-song, playful as his knuckles rap against Arturia's door because today (or rather, tonight) is Study-Buddy Sunday, and he is here in all his glory ('glory', defined as the most comfortable pajamas one might have the great pleasure of luxuriating the weekend away in!), bearing not only his expert knowledge of French (it is his mother tongue, after all!), but gifts: one plotted plant (hydrangea, in the softest shade of blue), and...!

A mysterious other something which will make its debut later on in the evening, perhaps after Arturia has seen fit to scold him not once, not twice, but most assuredly three times over his carefree demeanor, and he—the dormitory RA who only seeks to help those other students placed under his care—has quite nearly outstayed his welcome.

But ah, they haven't made it so far—not yet, at least, for the door has yet to open!

But when it does, Solange will be standing there, flowers in hand and a messenger bag (boasting textbooks, loose leaf, and other such supplies) at his hip, a smile bright as the noonday sun parting his lips: ]

I brought you something, for your room.

[ Arturia had been preoccupied with painting aside from her studies in French. It had been taught to her as a girl, but it had been so long that she had seen her French-speaking nanny that she had nearly forgotten most of it. It might be the most casual he would see her, Arturia doing nothing to clean up the mess around her room, paper tossed carelessly all over, photographs pinned to her wall, and Arturia's belonging strung about.

Unbeknownst to her, her medication carelessly tossed on her chair. It's Sunday, which means Arturia wasn't able to sleep well. Arturia had half the mind to banish Solange altogether to sleep. If only she hadn't had a big exam for her French class. Arturia's hair in her face, she greets him with a squint and her tea.

Unlike Sion, she's fully dressed, with the exception of her shoes. ]

Don't call me that.

[ The plant is lovely and in her favorite color, no less. With the mess that is her room, she defuses, taking it from Solange's hands with a bit of reluctance. She's quick to shuffle off, burying her face further behind her dark locks. ]

Ah, thank you... for this?

[ It feels weird to compliment him, let alone thank him. And it's even stranger how her hair feels like it's brushing against her cheeks, even when it's not. How would she know how flush looks. As Arturia turns to him, she has her hands on her hips and goes back to business. ]

Well, don't just stand there, find a seat.

[ As she gestures to the seat that holds her medication. ]

I would like to get this done before I start studying for my other exam.

[ It's childish, in a way, the comforting state of disarray that is Arturia's room—the photographs are things which she loves, her belongings strewn about in a way which cannot be called tidy, but so too is reflective of her mood (a mood which is presently flustered, if her blush is at all telling), and one of the many papers which Sol spies (a French study guide?) is easily plucked from its resting place, his golden eyes scanning the text as he seats himself in the chair he'd been ushered toward.

While he is certainly dressed down, Solange's posture is immaculate, alert as he sits upon the edge of the seat (missing the small bottle which is tucked neatly into the cushion crease), shoulders squared and back straight despite himself. ]

I'm happy that you like the flowers. When I passed them by in a store-front window, I could not help but think of you.

[ —he murmurs, glancing up after he's finished reading through the study guide. Altogether, he'll consider it a success that Arturia hadn't refused the gift, as she once might have when they first met. How it seems so very long ago, when he'd been the odd student out, a transfer from France at the very beginning of higher cycle. But then, perhaps due to his displacement, he and Arturia had gravitated toward one another, each on the fringe of the student body, for a time.

But then, Solange had been swept up and away into teaching, then resident assistantship, his days growing longer; his attention pulled toward the needs of the campus, though...

He always found his way to Arturia's dorm room, in the end. Once, as he fondly recalls, he even camped out in the hall beside her doorway until she relented, letting him in.

(Privately, he smiles to himself.) ]

It looks like the exam will be equal parts written and oral. [ As is typical, for spoken language courses. What isn't typical is the fact that examinations have come far quicker than normal this semester, almost as though they were meant to be a distraction from the mystery application which seems always to manifest as a shadow of a thought at the back of the mind. ]

Which section are you having trouble with?

Edited 2017-05-21 02:36 (UTC)

[ She always found herself hating being around other students, if not for the anxiety, just for the fact it forced her out to be social. Exposure therapy, her many therapists had told her. By the time she enrolled here, she kept most of her psychotic episodes and hallucinations to a minimum. It was hard to connect to others, to fully admit that Arturia had spent most of her life hold up in a behavioral hospital back in London. She couldn't find a soul here to admit to how much she struggled with those issues. She hid it so well.

The morbid, often aloof Arturia was hard to befriend and she preferred it that way. She wouldn't admit she appreciated Solange's company or that it was one of the few assurances she had. But back to French and away from her silly feelings how she could experience both high and low feelings with Solange and proceed to not look at him but grabbing one of her many notes.

After furiously through many pages and settling on her bed alongside books, drawings, and a few stuffed animals. ]

Past tense conjugation with verbs.

[ Which, for whatever reason, is very embarrassing to admit to a French native. Even more than her confusion with verbs and Sion's assistance weeks prior. ]

Verbs. They are sticky things, aren't they? More so in French than in English, or so I have come to notice.

[ —Sol's voice is light, and where he might have otherwise sought to catch Arturia's eyes with his own, in the here and now, he refrains from doing so. More than anything, he wants for her to feel comfortable in her own space, her own room, and he is not here to fluster her (beyond the offering of flowers!), only to help as she settles amid the stuffed animals, artwork, and textbooks atop her bed. ]

For example... [ Fishing through the messenger bag at his hip, Sion produces a notebook and a pen which seems like it might be better suited for calligraphy than simple note-taking. ] ...English allows for the omission of the verb 'have'.

You could say, in English, 'I lost my pen', and not 'I have lost my pen'. [ Cue: a twirl of the pen betwixt his fingers! ] In French, you must always use the helping verb J'ai perdu mon stylo, or it will sound very strange to the ears.

My apologies, if I did not explain this very well before. [ Altogether, it is something which he's had to grow used to, teaching the language most familiar to him. More than any other subject which he tutors, it requires Solange to step out of his own proverbial shoes and examine the questions from another point of view. From Arturia's view, and she has always been reluctant in asking for help in any manner, whether it be studying or reaching out to him for advice. ]

This is called the passé composé, and it is the most commonly used past tense. [ A pause, a considering hum. ] Did you notice anything about the sentence structure?

[ Only briefly, Arturia catches his eyes and then proceeds to shuffle back to her papers, ignoring Sion who may catch another glance at her. She furrows, remembering her caregiver lecturing her for not paying attention during these lessons. ]

Ah.

[ She had brought up her struggle with past tense verbs confident that she could stand on her own two legs to talk and study about French. In front of a native speaker. Solange never once teased her, but it did not erase the fear of once he left the room... what would he think of her then? She looks to his pen, not his face, and listen to his voice. ]

It was formed by the auxiliary verb- [ I guess is better than saying that she didn't know, right? ] "lose" sounds different than "lost", or rather- ...perdre?

[ Bach: one player, one instrument, and such a sound produced by the tremble of strings (a flutter of sparrow's wings) first in a slow lyric of introduction, then a pervasive fugue, followed by a contrapuntal mediation and brisk finale of passagework brought to life by a musician nuanced in their craft but so too--... isolated, a feeling of loneliness so pervasive and so profound seeping into every note of the sonata that it seems an impossible weight for the heart to bear until...!

There is a resounding snap! of an string—the E string, as it so often is—and a soft hiss of pain which might very well catch the attention of anyone lingering outside of the practice room's doorway if they'd not already been drawn in by the playing.

And then, a murmur of self-reprimand followed by a staccato click of footsteps; the sound of both instrument and bow being returned to their case: ] Ah, what a nuisance I've been today.

You need to be more careful with those strings, Sol. [Adrian Fairheights, advanced cycle history student, poked his head into the practice room. He hefted a guitar case over his shoulder and shut the door behind him.]

Not to mention your fingers.

You're late. [ —Solange greets just as the door closes, his formerly distant expression warming over with fondness for his friend; for Adrian, who he'd met under similar circumstances: an open door and a practice session gone awry, the elder student stepping in with his guitar to save the day by keeping tempo as Solange continued to play.

What a happy accident, that had been. ]

So much so that I decided to warm up in your absence. [ And then, well...

He'd gotten carried away, his thoughts drifting elsewhere while he'd gone through the technical motions of the piece. ]

If my fingers have suffered, it is only you who is to blame.

[ But that, of course, is a tease—Solange knows it is no one's fault but his own, and that is why he'll go about tending to the matter on his own as well. Handkerchief? Deftly drawn from his pocket to clot the bleeding from the minor cut he'd sustained by way of snapping string, and in the meantime...!: ]

Though I wonder... did you decide on what we're playing today? I'm certain I'll be able to find a replacement 'e' string.

[It had been a while since that first meeting. Adrian normally wasn't very forward with people but Solange made it easy. It helped that the man was so friendly and approachable that Adrian could not help but warm up to him. Their shared appreciation in music also helped.]

I'm still working on a new piece. You'll like it because it's a lot of violin but I think it can alternate with my guitar. it really needs either a piano or drums. Or both, really, but we can make do. [One of the more fortunate benefits of being trusted with the room and its equipment? Being able to use amplifiers. Alucard's guitar is electric, loving decorated with a scene out of a Gothic novel, with a castle at night under a full moon.]

Unless you have something else in mind?

How could I possibly have anything else in mind after you've said the words 'new piece'? [ —Solange's answer arrives on the bridge of a laugh, airy and bright, as his golden eyes take in the sight of a guitar unpacked, amplifiers fetched from storage, and the simple presence of his friend: something he'd needed all this while without wholly realizing, for he'd been undeniably on edge in the hours and days after discovering the existence of AppleNET.

Adrian, with his steadfast aura of calm, has never once failed to ground him, and the here and now is no exception.

Deeming the cut on his finger to no longer be in danger of causing a mess, Solange pockets the handkerchief he'd used to staunch the bleeding with, and foregoes the search of a bandaid, setting his sights upon locating a replacement string instead. ]

Do you have the notations with you? Composing is equal parts performance and theory, I think.

[ New string? Located! With practiced ease and the grace intrinsic to him, he sets to removing the snapped 'e' string, turning the peg and and loosening it from the violin's tailpiece. ]

Though I'll not deny that I am thrilled to hear it features violin.

I do try to make sure our pieces equally represent our strengths. But I could use your input to definitely improve this. You'll see what I mean.

[This is so regular and welcome after the unnerving nature of the application. Music helps him focus and put the matter aside. He pulls out a few scribbled notations, just so Solange can get an idea. Adrian plays a little bit from his end and it is a fairly ambitious piece for multiple instruments. Once again, it has no words as he's claimed to not be good at them, but it should be good to listen to.]

It's— [ Stalling, in brief, in the replacement of the string, Sol allows for his eyes to fall closed as he listens to the piece—a strong melody evocative of some dark hero's hymn, metered in beats of four—and finds himself energized in a way he hasn't been for quite some time. This, right here right now, is something to look forward to, an opportunity to compose and to build, actualizing the ambitions of someone close and dear into something beautiful. ] —powerful.

[ And that is a word which Solange does not use lightly, to say the least. ]

Captivating, too, in a way which could certainly stand on its own, but would be even more moving if supported by a chord progression.

[ Opening his eyes, Sol makes quick work of removing the replacement string's slack and checking the violin's bridge before returning the instrument to its proper place: his chin neatly atop the rest, a bow in hand as he plays—frowns, gives pause, if only to tune 'E' to perfect clarity—and plays again, toying with varied supporting rhythms which might be best suited to percussion. ]

...and also by drums, as you said. [ Smiling, Solange shifts closer to Adrian, peering at the notations set upon the nearby stand. ] May I ask what your inspiration was, when you wrote this?

History again. Reading some of those Gothic tales for my thesis. [Although Adrian quite enjoys playing music with Sol, his focus of study is history. Eastern European, to be precise. Oh, he'll certainly end up teaching European history classes for the school, but he has affinity for those old oral tales. He's always had a fascination for them that he cannot entirely explain.

At least Sol enjoys what he's written and that makes Adrian smile a little response. Sol can always manage that from him, even if he's having the worst of days. Not only that, Sol has much more of a music background and is teaching him proper form and terminology. Really, Adrian just started playing electric guitar because it made some powerful sounds and not out of any desire to become a musical genius.]

It needs more work, to be sure. Also, as much as I enjoy playing with you, I wonder if there's a way we could get those drums and piano.

[ Were he able (and had he the freedom to), Sol would have liked to pursue music as his collegiate major rather than minor, but with his father's shoes to fill, a strong political science and humanities background is a necessity. First and foremost, he must mind his academic disciplines, and where there is time ...music. And so, he can only be thankful that he's a friend to share his passion with—a friend with an impressive knowledge of history to pull from thematically. To Solange, blending the old with new (a haunting melody played on electric strings) is a perfect representation of what Green Valley, and beyond that, the city of Eddan is: a bridge between all people and things, connected to its historic roots but so too paving way for the future.

But then, Solange has always been a bit of a romantic, a dreamer through and through. ]

I wonder... [ —violin lowered, and bow held in the very same hand, Sol reaches out to touch the notations, his fingertips skimming over the handwritten music with no small measure of reverence, as he seems to consider something !! ] ...could we not hold auditions?

I can advertise our need for a pianist and drummer both in the dormitories, and with professor permission, perhaps an announcement could also be made in class.

[ Strange and wonderful, how their two-man project has suddenly grown, blossoming into something else for others to partake in. ]

Though selfishly, I reserve the right to duet with only you, regardless of however many other players we take on.

Edited 2017-05-21 18:29 (UTC)

I suppose we could at that. We only met by sheer chance, so I doubt we'll just randomly run into someone who can play the piano or the drums while we're in this room. We should probably decide on a name for our little enterprise since, "Join this instrumental group with two long haired gentlemen" seems a bit cumbersome.

[His request to only want to duet with Adrian actually makes his cheeks flush a little. Really, Sol could be so very direct with his requests. Adrian isn't used to being considered so prized in someone else's life, even if all they do is play music and occasionally meet outside of that. It is something rare to be treasured.]

Indeed. You may always reserve that right with me.

You indulge me, and I cannot say that I mind. [ Endearing to him, the elder student's blush; that hint of color remaining long enough for Solange to wholly appreciate it. If Solange is bold (and he is), it is only because he is earnest—it would be a shame, wouldn't it, to refrain from letting others know how he felt in the present when something like tomorrow remains an uncertainty.

(Uncertain and foreboding both, with the recent rash of murders; the strange occurrences surrounding the app.) ]

You'll not regret allowing me to monopolize your playing, this I promise you.

[ A gentle smile curving his lips, Sol catches Adrian's eyes with his own, amused by this recent development and by the notion that their group very well might be called 'two long haired gentleman and company' if they neglected to decide upon a proper name. ]

But as for names... perhaps argentiques? [ And here, Sol's accent becomes more pronounced. ] For taking new-age composition and washing it with something 'old', like a silver filter.

[ ...also it matches their hair???... ]

[Adrian rubs the bridge of his nose to fight the onrush of another flush across his pale skin. Really, Sol could be confusing and confounding at times. He is rather grateful with the change in subject and the idea of a name for their little enterprise.]

Argentiques? It is unusual and I feel befitting for our group. I like it so that is who we are.

Unusual enough for people to remember it, I hope.

[ Hmm... Sol doesn't think he's ever before glimpsed precisely this: Adrian, touching a hand to the bridge of his nose in order to stave off the beginnings of another flush. Usually rather reserved and stoic, any sign of fluster in Adrian is something of significance, and in a way, it is rather fitting—after all, aren't they about to embark upon a new venture together? ]

And should the 'new blood' have anything to say about it, I will defer to your good judgement.

[ 'I like it so that is who we are'... In his own way, Adrian is quite bold when he sets his mind upon something, as well, or so Solange thinks. ]

After we finish with practicing for the day, I'll put together a few signs to advertise the auditions.

I'm--... [ Giving pause, Sol cants his head up to greet the elder student with a smile: ] ...really looking forward to this, Adrian.

I am as well. [So stop ruining his perfectly stoic nature with unrelenting friendship and good cheer and get to playing. He has an amplifier in his own room, but he has to be very careful when to play so as not to disturb other people. The one provided by the school is way better, giving more of a richness to his playing.

With a few scales played and his guitar tuned, he is ready to start picking the piece apart. Possibly rewriting it where it needs to.]

Once we're done with the technical parts, we can go over anything else we've already memorized.

Mm.

[ Falling into a brief lapse of quiet, Sol listens to the familiar sounds of a guitar undergoing tuning at the hands of its master, and finds himself eased, settled by the patterns. And where he is able, he assists with the task at hand, gliding his violin's bow over its strings until both classical instrument and new-age electric sound meld together in harmony. ]

Shall I take the part of playing the melody, then? [ The subtle quirk of Solange's lips is indication enough that he's excited to try his hand at the piece, perhaps taken by Adrian's initial reveal of the work. ] On the guitar, I would love to hear what you've envisioned for the accompaniments to sound like.

[ What isn't written on paper is oftentimes the most interesting, is it not? ]

At this rate, you'll be lucky if I do not convince you to pursue music professionally.

It's...difficult for me play on guitar what I hear in my mind, but I will do my best to live up to your expectations. So do play the melody.

[He has an ear for music, to be sure, even if he still doesn't know what half the terms are. Sol taught him what each note that he hummed meant and what writing down notes actually meant when played. Still, varied skill levels meant nothing when their instruments managed to find just that sweet spot of intertwining perfectly. It's quite a bit of practice later before he answers Sol's other comment.]

If I can fit it around teaching, of course. Provided I do get succeed in the Advanced Cycle.

[ OPEN + CLOSED PROMPTS ] I COULD LIFT YOU UP.

OPEN | Dormitories (5/19 - 5/21)

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OPEN | City Park (5/20)

CLOSED | Gabe Brent (Guts)

"friend" sure jan

it's okay if guts doesn't realize it yet, grips his shoulder

his shoulder melts away from ur grip out of the power of edgy self isolation

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CLOSED | Arturia Llywelyn (Alice Liddell)

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CLOSED | Alucard

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