tampered | play misty for me [incomplete]

play misty for me [incomplete]

When; Tonight (10/8, The Fog)
Rating; No warnings as of yet! Check here for updates.
Characters; Machi Tobaye (

machi_tobaye) & Armand (

amadeodivenezia)
Summary; Armand wanted to hear Machi practice.
Log;
The cold and foggy night finds Machi indoors as usual. The fog makes him a little nervous. Something about it doesn't quite seem right, and the stirrings in the dark just make it worse. He tugs his coat around him more tightly - a purple garment that's clearly too large for his small frame, smells of someone else's cologne. He doesn't keep the heat turned on in the studio, instead relying on warm clothes and hot drinks to make the place bearable. In an odd way, he is reminded of home. Machi sips from a steaming mug and surveys the room. Even filled with instruments and sound-proofed for the sake of being neighborly, this place seems oddly empty. His roommate has been gone for quite some time now, but Machi isn't ready to find a new place.

Machi sits at his keyboard set up - two in a little corner for him. He turns both on, switching on a device to make a recording. He likes to sit and play whatever comes to mind and pick through the recordings later for good ideas for songs. Laying down a soft blues beat on one keyboard, he turns to the other and starts to play, singing an impromptu song in Borginian.

"It's now very late, I put vodka in the coffee and it tastes pretty terrible, I haven't composed anything for my operetta in over a week..."

It's not that he's forgotten he invited Armand to come. He just has a way of getting absorbed in what he's doing.

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Armand has not forgotten, can not forget. In this midst of this whirlwind of new information, new people, new places, strange behaviors, and old and beloved faces, the thought of the boy who made music stays with him. Going to hear Machi play is fulfilling a commitment, not retreating, but it is a retreat as sure and cowardly as any Armand had ever made, to turn away from what hurts him and into the solace of a mortal distraction.

Who is he to give Lestat admonitions of any sort, even if Armand does not love this boy he does not even know?

He loves enough - too much - let there be, instead, fascination.

He can hear the playing when he approaches Machi's home, despite the soundproofing. It is a moot question as to whether he hears it with his ears or Machi's.

The song makes him smile softly to himself as he makes his way quietly into the apartment. Perhaps he should knock. Perhaps he should pretend to some human politesse, but that rarely stops him. It never stopped him with Daniel, and Machi is too obviously distracted in his soundproofed room to hear any attempt to knock that Armand might make.

Instead, unless something keeps him from his goal, he will simply slip into the apartment and from there into the music room with all the skills that centuries as a blood drinker have brought to wait silently until the musician takes note of his audience.

In lieu of a guard dog, a white Scottish Fold kitten trots out to find out about the intruder and follows Armand into the studio, where he begins to meow and demand attention, first from Armand and then from Machi.

Machi halts his playing. "Lumi-mew, I recording now! How did you get past the door... oh!"

Machi's first thought, strangely, isn't that he's in a lot of danger and a vampire just broke into his apartment. He's worried about getting caught drinking. Assuring himself that it looks enough like coffee not to be suspicious, he says, "You must be Armand. Sorry, I did not think anyone would make it out on this night."

"Don't worry about the drink." He lifts a hand to indicate Machi's cup. "I won't tell."

It's hardly even a cheap trick, after so many years. The greater trick would be not to hear Machi's thoughts at all. And why would he want that? If he focuses on one person, he can avoid hearing others. He can avoid scanning the City for someone who sees Daniel or Marius or Lestat and watching them through others' eyes.

He is using the boy already.

"The fog does not trouble me and I did want to hear you play. Would you go on?"

"How did you know?" A mindreader? It fits, doesn't it? Machi recalled the conversation in which Lestat told him of his numerous powers, as if that were meant to assure him that the powers would never be used on Gren. He recalls how Lestat said he could destroy someone with a single thought. Could Armand, then...? But he looks so beautiful, like someone who understands what it means to be small in a big, frightening world.

Machi turns off the recording device.

"I was just playing around there. Many times, I can write a song in a sitting, or something, but there are other times I lack inspiration. So I play whatever comes to mind, find the good bits, and write from them."

Awkwardly, he takes a drink from his mug. It is still a pretty volatile combination. Apparently, his love for strong coffee and strong drinks are not to be realized.

"Do you have any request?"

Ah, Lestat, you exhibitionist, and now you have left this boy wondering if I will turn the gifts against him. The thought was loud enough that it would not surprise Armand if Lestat heard it somewhere in the City, but he would not hear the other vampire's response, if one were to come. He had closed himself after that one thought, using that skill that had hidden him from all but the Mother and she was no more.

He chose not to answer Machi's concerns. The pianist was one who would take more comfort from actions than words, if his reaction to Lestat was any gauge.

"Play what comes to mind, Machi. Play what pleases you." He leaned against the wall, arms folded across his chest, expression placid for all the thoughts behind the facade. "That is all I will ever ask of your music."

Though Daniel might laugh at such a mild front when his fledgling had seen Armand at his worst - raging in the night and demanding and following him as a cat might with a mouse that it allowed to get away for just a moment, only to bring the paw and claws down again.

"Play for me something you love."

[ooc: Sorry about the tense shift. I'll probably just end up slipping back into past tense again and again regardless, so I'm going to leave it there.]

Edited 2008-10-08 21:53 (UTC)

Machi was oddly touched by Armand's words. Did he read minds? Is that why he knew the reason he hated playing for audiences? He never wanted to be nothing more than what someone else projected, someone else's needs and designs, but underwent the task of celebrity doing just that. It was all for Lamiroir, Lamiroir who couldn't stay by him once Machi turned to darkness.

He began to play Hey Jupiter (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UPSr_PfSf_A), a favorite tune of his. Machi had no thoughts of written music or how to play the next chord, rather it seemed to flow out of him naturally, like singing or speaking. His mind wandered as he thought of his friend Gren; his next-door neighbor, Mr. Edgeworth, on whom he had a crush; the night before that he spent drinking with his friend Artemis and all of that warmth and giddy exploration; Klavier, who brought him to live in this apartment, whose jacket he wore and liquor he drank; and Puppy, whose memory was a sweet sort of ache.

The smallest smile adorned Machi's face when he finished the song. This song always gave him a feeling of peace and affection. His typical anxieties faded.

Armand closed his eyes and let the totality of the performance wash over him - it was more than just the beauty of the piece, though it was beautiful, it was the wash of images and emotion that came from Machi to accompany the piano more fully than any orchestra ever could.

This was what kept vampiric artifice from ever rising to true artistry. He might lay his fingers on the keys as Machi did, he might play the same notes, but never in a hundred or a thousand years would he match the humanity of this young man's gift.

He kept his eyes closed for a long moment after the notes faded before opening them to drink in the smile the artist wore.

Words seemed hardly an appropriate way to praise the piece and its creator. Not its author, since Armand did not know who might first have penned it, but Machi had been the one to bring it to life and infuse it with his self.

Instead, he offered a smile and a nod of his head that was near a bow.

Machi smiled back. He was never the type who got flustered considering his performance. To him, the fact it was excellent was always expected. There were sometimes areas needing improvement, but he was never nervous because he always did his best. That being said, he couldn't quite place what element of Armand's admiring gaze made him feel so flushed and shy. "You like? Is song by 20th Century songwriter. She sing, Hey, Jupiter, nothing's been the same. So are you gay, are you blue? Thought we both could use a friend to run to." He sang the main line of the chorus. "I began to think of it more often here, you know, because all of us here are needing a friend to run to..."

He drank a little more, hoping to calm himself. Armand was so beautiful, but Machi didn't want to stare. Maybe all vampires were beautiful. Maybe the ones that weren't became in time. Armand seemed very small, he wondered if they would have been close together in age, had Machi lived those hundreds of years ago.

"You can come a little closer, if you want. There is a chair."

He began to play something a little more lighthearted to suit the mood, plinking a jazz standard: Misty (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rO0jYrxyvYY). It was appropriate for the weather, after all. This brought to mind the smoky little jazz club in Borginia, that first time he started playing with sunglasses on just to hide the black eye make up wasn't doing enough to cover. He felt great kinship and nostalgia for the song, as if speaking to an old friend. Those were desperate, hungry times, a time of complete isolation for a very young child. But it was simpler, too, just to play for his supper and a place to sleep. Simpler before the record contract, before the traveling, before the lies began.

When he finished, Machi was even more cheered on. He'd forgotten how much he liked to play for someone, see their reactions, subtle or not. "Ah, I am sorry, I did not ask if you like jazz... Perhaps something more traditional is better."

"I asked you to play what pleases you." Armand took the invitation to draw a chair to where he could watch both Machi's hands and profile while he sat at the piano. "And it has pleased me both times. Why would I not trust your choices? You are the musician and I your audience only so long as you choose to play."

Armand was reminded of Daniel by Machi's drinking, which did not please him as the music had, but this was the first time they had met and he seemed to need the support from the alcohol. Next time, though, he might have something to say about it.

"I like jazz. I like modern music and the old music. Play what you want and I will listen." To the music, to Machi's thoughts as they spilled out with the melody, and to nothing else.

Again, Machi was quite taken with this freedom. His stardom had consisted of rigid set lists, demanding rehearsals and all the time putting on the act of blindness to protect Lamiroir. Armand's insistence endeared the vampire to him. Rare enough was someone who both respected him and treated him as an equal. He thought the redhead would do well in the City.

"I will play something I have written, next. This is one of my first compositions - I was three or four when I first make. So is simple. I called it 'Cricket of the Hearth.'"

It was a beautiful, evenly paced song. The song structure is simplistic but not lacking depth, and it's easy to see how Machi earned the title of prodigy. His heart fills with a longing for the homeland he can never return to. He thinks of lamplight on snow, and the dusty piano in the choir room of the orphanage. Some of his first memories weave their way into a bittersweet approximation of a lullaby as written by one who never had one sung to him personally, a second-hand reminiscence of tenderness.

Machi hadn't played this song for someone in a very long time. And never in the City. But he felt a need to break out something special for this silent audience.

Part of the pleasure Armand took in Machi's performance was in seeing what the boy would choose for himself if given the chance. This choice, though, was a bittersweet one, evoking an ache in the silent vampire for home and hearth and an end to loneliness.

What was it they said in this century? Or the century he knew, at least? I need my space. Perhaps, but too much of that space led to madness.

He was silent even longer after the last notes of 'Cricket of the Hearth' faded, holding himself still, so still while he reminded himself to breathe and not let the ache in his throat draw too tight. It was beautiful, but a painful beauty and it took him time to find his voice and words and his semblance of equanimity.

"You have a gift. Thank you for allowing me to hear it."

Machi shrugged. To him, the gift was ordinary as breathing. It was not some torturous struggle to get his level. Though he had suffered in his own way and had been taken advantage of, he still didn't think of his ability as something to be praised.

"You know, is funny." He turned to face Armand curiously. "I am an ordinary boy, but very quiet. Look at world with the big eyes. Never cry much or anything, but the games of children seem stupid and boring. Then one day, I hear a hymn playing softly on a radio. I march to the choir room and play it exactly. Since then, I have been like this."

Machi left out a lot. Like how he didn't care for his lessons or lining up to be inspected by potential 'parents.' How he often got his ears boxed and sent to bed without supper. Machi was called an insolent child. The music he wrote and was drawn to was secular, and he flat-out refused to learn sheet music or play what was asked. As the punishments grew more severe, he gambled and ran from that place.

Was it really a gift to be that different? Maybe Machi was blessed by never much wanting to fit in. If he had been docile, he might have been adopted by a good family. He had good enough features, and was otherwise well-mannered and intelligent. He never would have seen the world, but he never would have been sealed off from the homeland that he loved dearly despite its flaws.

"I am not sure it is a gift, it is just part of me, like my arm or leg. It used to be all I care for"

Now he liked a few other things. Like boys, and pretty clothes, and Lumi.

The boy who painted icons was long dead, but Machi's words and the flow of images that accompanied them were familiar in their way. Oh, but this was dangerous, so dangerous, to him, to Machi, to what he hoped to build here.

This was what he warned Lestat against, damn the vampire.

"It used to be, but you have other things. Do they make you happy?"

"Yes and no. All things are like that in life, yes and no." The last few sips of coffee-vodka were pretty cold, and Machi made a bit of a face. Gin and milk was probably the better combination.

"If I meet a boy I like, he kiss me, hold me, say he won't leave, I am happy, yes? But then he leave without a word one day, because that is the nature of the City, so I am sad." Again, that twinge of unhappiness. Memories of a wannabe gangsta boy who talked tough but had nothing but tenderness. "I meet my very best friend, who play the saxophone so beautiful. He gives my heart such a feeling of calm, and he gives good advice, listening so much. I am happy." This, of course, is the infamous Gren, so cared for by both Lestat and Machi. "If he is with someone who is dangerous, then I am sad." Machi tilted his head. "If there is someone I grow to like very much, I look forward to each time we meet... If he is 8 years older, and does not see me, then I am sad." He had no idea why he felt compelled to be this honest about his crush. Perhaps it was the illusion of Armand being so close to his age. "This City has yes and no, too. It is good to be here, because I have so much freedom. But friends go away. Frightening things happen. So, each good thing, paid off with a bad thing."

Bored with sitting for now, Machi hopped off his bench and chased down Lumi, squeezing the white kitten and patting his head. "Lumi-mew, Armand is having a thoughtful face, what could he be thinking...?"

"Armand is thinking of yes and no," he supplied for the cat.

It was true, it was even honest as well as true.

Yes, people knew he was a blood drinker. No, it didn't change as much as he would like.

Yes, he had his fledgling. No, he didn't have him. Yes, Marius. No, Marius. Yes, Takiko. No.

Yes, this boy and his music and his stories that he told without knowing how much he revealed. No, no, no. Machi's life and happiness was already tainted enough by the blood drinker in it.

"And Armand is thinking how he would like to hear you play again."

"I would like to play for you again, so is a good trade off." Machi let the cat hop from his arms. Lumi did a little circle around Armand's legs, sniffing, then lost interest and instead went to go chew on some power cords. Machi retrieved him, and set him out of the studio area.

Crossing the room, he stopped to stand right in front of Armand, his curiousity getting the better of him. The boyish vampire was so beautiful it was almost intimidating.

"I feel, somehow, you understand my music in a new depth," he stammered.

Armand paid little attention to the cat, but watched Machi's movements with the same intensity the little creature might give to a mouse.

Calm. He could be calm. Not like the night before with Takiko. He could ignore the sound and scent and even the sight of the blood under Machi's skin.

He could look up and meet Machi's gaze with deep brown eyes that gave away nothing.

"I have had five centuries in which to learn how to listen."

Machi's eyes were very pale blue, like the winter sky early in the morning. He wasn't wearing his sunglasses, so his gaze that gave away too much was exposed.

Something about the way Armand looked at him made a blush rise in his cheeks, his heart thumping. He was sure his palms had begun to sweat too, curled his fingers against them.

"Five centuries," he parroted dumbly. "No wonder you say lonely things..."

He wanted to warm his cold fingers against Machi's cheeks in that moment. The impulse was so strong that he had to clench his hands into fists. He would not do this.

"Why is this room so cold?" It was no answer to the statement. Yes, he was lonely, but this was untenable to be so drawn. It was the loss of all that was familiar except the vampires he knew. That was all. That was all it could be.

"Is it bothersome? My friend who let me live here, he leave the City awhile ago. The thermal-stat is not easy to use, so, I guess, is better to just be cold." Machi tugged his jacket around him a little more tightly, as if he'd forgotten he needed it. He hadn't really, being so inexplicably warmed. The jacket was Klavier's, just like most everything in the apartment, from the vodka to the musical instruments. Machi didn't have the knack for possessions, really, the only hints of himself were his clothes in the closet. He still slept on the fold-out bed in the living room.

"It makes me think of home, so I do not mind too much."

"I like to be warm." He forced his hands out of their fists and folded them in his lap. See, he was calm, he was in control, he was not struggling against the urge to warm himself here, but he would not stay much longer. Could not if he wanted to return to see Machi another night.

"If you kept it warmer here, perhaps you would not need the vodka or the gin to warm you instead."

"Not me. I like the cold weather. One week of a curse, we had snow in July. It was my favorite! I hope it snows here in winter." Completely unaware of Armand's struggle, he flitted over to his keyboard set up, fussing with knobs and buttons for something to do. Something to keep him from staring.

Again, he mentioned something in Machi's thoughts. Machi glanced over his shoulder for a moment. "The coffee is to keep me warm. The vodka is to keep me happy."

He was worried again, but who was Armand going to tell? Lestat? If it got back to Gren he was drinking a lot, that might be a problem, but Armand didn't seem the type to rat him out like that. At least Machi didn't think so.

"There is snow in Xanadu even now. I saw it last night. It is within walking distance of cherry trees in full bloom." Yes and no. Cold and warm. No, he would not offer to take Machi to see them. Yes, he wanted to see if he would take in the contrast with the same sense of wonder as it had instilled in him.

He didn't ask Machi if the alcohol truly kept him happy. It was a question that answered itself in its own way. "And no, I will not tell Gren unless you hurt yourself with the alcohol."

"I have yet to spend much time in Xanadu. Mostly, I stay here. I teach piano lessons, and I visit Gren on Saturday night." Every Saturday night, without fail. Machi liked things orderly in his life. He did as he pleased, and a schedule pleased him. He went out rarely. Though he would never admit it, the crowds and bustle of people made him very nervous. Though lately he socialized more (the drinking seemed to help), he truly worried about becoming lost in an endless sea of strangers, unable to find his way home.

"You can read my thoughts, then?"

He was glad he hadn't started thinking about sex, then. Except for right then... damn it.

Machi would not like Armand's Night Island then - his creation of light that teemed with humans and brought him such pleasure, at least for now.

"Did Lestat not tell you of the mind gift? He did, didn't he? When he was telling you of the other things he could do with the power of a blood drinker."

And yes, he caught that last thought, but it was hardly a new one or shocking to him.

Machi stared blankly. "It didn't come up. That... that jerk! He could read my thoughts and he still acted that way. I really can't forgive him." Machi was fuming, small hands balled into fists. To think that Lestat was privy to the maelstrom of emotions that only manifested as his rather open resentment of him was beyond redemption. Machi hated being made fun of, and it always seemed like these creatures were a step ahead of him.

Still steamed, Machi paced the room in terse zigzags. "He only said he could kill Gren with a thought, but chose not to. And Gren trusts him. And he could be falling for him - they haven't even been together very long."

The thought of his long-haired friend made him feel oddly sick to his stomach, now. Some part of Machi knew he was being selfish and immature, but he didn't care. He never had a family, his birth parents were gone and Lamiroir abandoned him. Gren was the only one to take care of Machi, since Puppy left. Machi tended to mother hen people as a strange way of distancing his own heart. He was sure if Gren got too swept up that he would never feel that sort of connection again. That sort of being cared for.

But he had also felt a little bit of attraction to Lestat, and in his own state, missing Puppy and hopelessly crushing on his older neighbor, he hated that Gren had found someone so good-looking when Machi felt little hope for any sort of romance. It was a bitter pill to swallow, facing up to the fact Lestat may have known all of those things and still acted that way.

Almost gracious to Machi's feelings.

Oh yes, Lestat was so gracious. Or, in Armand's opinion, it was more likely that Lestat was being gracious to his own feelings and convenience; if he trampled on Machi's feelings, it might cause trouble with Gren.

He could offer that Lestat might have blocked out Machi's thoughts. It was possible, though Armand found the idea more than improbable.

His lips twisted almost imperceptibly. "You say you cannot forgive him now, but Lestat has a way of finding a way back in as so many of us have learned. If his worst sin against you is knowing your thoughts and loving your friend, you are well ahead of those who have known him longer."

"How can people just throw this word around, love? Maybe it is something with English I don't get. To love someone, to be their lover, should that not mean you spend your time with them only? Your thoughts devoted to them? How can you have more than one of this kind of person? How much love do you need?"

Machi knew. Machi knew he soaked in every pat on the head from Lamiroir, every tousled hair from Klavier, every cup of tea from Mr. Edgeworth, every kind word from Gren. He was an entertainer, after all. He needed response. And the only thing that ever came close to scratching the surface of that big, terrible void was lips against his.

Regardless of the danger, Gren trusted Lestat with his life. And looked contented to do so.

"I hate him," Machi muttered. He thought of how Gren smiled for Lestat, how they touched. There was some side of Gren Machi couldn't know. It nauseated him. "I do."

When would he ever feel something that strongly and deeply? Could he ever? Or was he always swimming at the surface of that ugly black lake, playing his piano to keep the light going?

Machi shook his head, attempted to clear the chaos. In retrospect, he'd been drinking quite a bit. The buzz was being replaced by a slow despondency. "Sorry, I... it does me no good to think of him, anyway."

"Then do not think of him." And do not think these thoughts that Armand knew so well. He had come here for distraction, not to find himself mirrored by this boy.

How cruel to leave him alone here. One so young should have companions, friends to turn to at any time, not a cold, empty apartment, a cup of something bitter to warm him, and a heart that wanted-- that wanted.

Armand was not one who could give him what he should have. He had tried this in the past, and it had ended in loss every time. This time would be no different if he thought to try something so mad yet again.

He rose from his seat, and while he told himself he was mad, he still approached Machi. "Think of your music and the friends you have here and what you will play for me when I come again. And think of your bed, which is where you should go now."

Machi nodded, once. He was embarrassed. Usually he didn't outburst like that, though it was more than possible Armand would have known what was going on in his head even if hehad contained it. Machi was a creature that survived on little sleep, but it seemed tonight he'd take the advice ofhis elder.

"Okay. I will think of a good set list, next time." The smile he attempted was very sincere, though tired. As he turned to save what he's recorded with his equipment and turn off the keyboards, he realized he still held the image of Armand in his mind while his back was turned.

A vampire, hm. It really was too bad - don't think about that, though.

Don't think. He'd have to work on that for next time, too.

More than possible, but Armand probably wouldn't speak of it. Unless he was in a mood, but who could predict those? Even Armand could not, it seemed.

"Think of what you will enjoy playing for yourself." It sounded so generous, but it was self-serving. What Machi enjoyed playing brought emotion from him that Armand doubted a more scripted performance would bring. He did not want to forgo the full experience after tonight's example.

He made no promise to avoid Machi's thoughts, no comforting gesture for the lonely young man. He was just too old to lie that way if he could help it. It was quite enough that he still lied to himself.

"Thank you for allowing me to listen."

Perhaps if he sat down and thought about it, he would realize what Armand was doing. He already caught on to Armand's mindreading fairly quickly, after all. But he was mollified by Armand's presence and kind words, his typical suspicion around people who asked him to play was absent. For him to play for a listener was truly a rare thing, aside from giving his lessons, Mr. Edgeworth was the only other person who had received a special concert.

"Any time, Mr. Armand. I hope I will see you soon."

"You will," Armand assured him. And if he did not see Armand soon, Armand felt certain the he would see Machi.

It would be wisest to watch and listen from a distance. It would be prudent, it would be kind.

"Tomorrow."

When was Armand truly wise, prudent, or kind?

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play misty for me [incomplete]

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