JASON
Jason's parents were fairly wealthy, to say in the least — wealthy enough that they could afford to get him a room separate from theirs. Two balcony rooms on the ninth floor, next to each other yet entirely apart if you didn't count the small door (which always remained locked) located on the wall dividing the two rooms.
Jason buttons up a purple shirt, starting from the top and working his way. Buttons down, perhaps, is better phrasing. He tucks the end of the near-silk shirt into his ironed pants; with crisp folds on the pant legs and a deep black color. He was meeting his parents tonight for a performance in the cruise's theatre. He wasn't really looking forward to it if he was honest; watching someone play harp wasn't really his thing. But his parents were insistent, so he complied — he didn't have much of a choice.
He shakes a bottle of hair gel and squeezes a small bit of it into the dip in the middle of his palms. He rubs the gel between his fingers and runs it through the front fringe of his hair, spiking up the short blonde hairs. It isn't a huge effort; not much persuasion is needed to style it.
Out on his bed is a comfy pair of sweatpants and a loose fit tank top. He's meeting his friends for dinner after the performance — at least he has something to get him through it. They aren't going to one of the two actual restaurants on the ship, instead going to the buffet on the top deck that closes at midnight, every night. In one word: paradise. He can nearly taste the BLT sandwich on his tongue.
"Jason, come on. We'll get bad seats," his mother chides from outside the door of his room that leads to the hallway.
"Coming," he says, slipping a belt through the loops of his pants and hastily running the end through the clasp and securing it into place. He washes his hands of the hair gel and flicks off the bathroom light. He slips the keycard from the counter over the small mini-fridge and into his pocket. He exits his room, trying to look as excited as he could manage.
His mother and father give him a mix between a frown and a smile. They'd hate to be seen with a frown but they're displeased — Jason seems to always disappoint them in one way or another. "Sorry I took so long," he apologized, moving down the hallway with them to the elevators.
"Those friends of yours are keeping you too long," his father admonishes. "Don't their parents want them certain places?" He asks, like it's mad parents would let their children have actual fun on a family cruise.
Jason wants to point out that the idea actually isn't mad at all and actually kinda logical, but holds his tongue. He presses the down button on the elevator panel, watching it glow orange at the tip of his finger like the electricity is his. "How long's the performance?" He asks casually, with a tight lipped smile. It makes the scar on the left side of his lips stretch in the slightest.
"Don't be rude, Jason, dear," his mom says under her breath as they slide into the elevator. "It lasts for a little over an hour." A pang of relief washes through his chest; he was expecting hours.
The ride down to the fourth floor is quick and filled with silence. His father and mother talk but it goes in one ear and out the other for Jason. He's nearly drooling over the thought of what his dinner will be tonight - a well-seasoned burger? Maybe a burrito? Followed by a ridiculous amount of dessert, sweet and savory and enough to ruin his fitness in one go. He finds himself in a love-hate relationship with the food on vacation.
He steps out with his parents onto the fourth floor, following a small crowd of formally dressed people - mostly adults - to the theatre. It's decorated in sweeping purples and golds, rich in deepness of color and elaborate marble carvings. Columns stretch to the ceiling and balcony railings are swirling iron casts. Seats are a dark royal purple - simple but comfortable, Jason finds. At least he can sleep through this, if it gets that bad.
He takes a seat next to his dad on the balcony, sitting right in front of the railings. The stage is far below in the front of the theatre, a shining wooden floor with sweeping velvet curtains and dim lights shining down upon it. Jason would nearly be impressed by the grandeur if he was an aspiring architect - but that was his new friend, Annabeth. Upon seeing the design of the theatre, she was floored. She went on for a long time about how amazing the columns were and how well chosen everything was placed and arranged so that sound from the stage could be heard - and seen. How Percy fell in love with someone who actually cared about intelligence was beyond him.
The deep rumble of at least a few hundred people talking in somewhat hushed volumes diminished as the lights further dimmed. The room fell into an elegant darkness. The grandeur of the room was still felt when it couldn't be seen. It had an atmosphere of sophistication and Jason felt so, so, so out of place.
On the stage, a single spotlight takes place in a gentle but demanding manner. It rests on a golden harp that was probably taller than Jason. That's a mammoth of an instrument, Jason thinks. It'll be a miracle if an old person can actually play this thing. As it turns out, it's not an old person with wrinkled, sagging skin who's playing.
A boy, maybe a foot or two shorter than the harp, steps into the spotlight. He's in a silky black vest with a grey button up shirt beneath. His pants are ironed to perfection to dress his tall legs. Well, no, he's really short. His head would probably reach Jason's chest, at most. But his legs seem long compared to his torso.
His hair's a glistening black and from here, Jason had no way of telling his eye color. He couldn't be bothered to know it, though Jason feels a pang of interest in his chest. Why is a teenager playing harp, on a cruise, over February vacation? Shouldn't he be with his friends eating dinner or at the club? That's rough, buddy. He almost feels bad as the boy sinks into a bow; folding over his arm at the waist into a deep bow.
The boy then sits down onto the stool positioned by the harp. He folds up the sleeves on his arms and god his arms are little. His fingers settle on a few fine strings, resting there a few moments before he begins to play. There's no introduction, no given words to say the song and who the musician is. Like he's a renowned harpist who everybody should know. And it sounds like it should be arrogant and cocky but it doesn't feel it. It feels like the boy's humble, like he maybe wants to be unknown. Like he's just on stage to play, and then vanish. Leaving people to talk and never know.
In an unexpected interest, Jason settles in to the sound of the music. He watches the boy play with a curiosity he didn't foresee.
NICO
his happiest memory is a small and short one and it always has been, though it always seems to be growing shorter. it is like an immortal being, somehow finding its way to death. shrinking, shrivelling, sucking in, before finally vanishing and giving into its fear of oblivion.
he recalls his happiest memory not in words, but in sound. his fingers, when he gets to the harp, move in a well-known reluctance. they know where they need to be but know not if they want to play, and the melody comes out slow and sad. the happiness is not successfully shared - how could a tune so melancholy inspire the desire to feel good?
beneath the demanding and strong spotlight, all there is to see is the small slope of a smile on his cracked and dry lips. the light shadows his face, falling over the bone structure like water over rocks. familiarity tickles his fingertips the more he plays, plucking at the strings with the light and gentle hook of his fingers. play on, play on -
and do not forget.
JASON
The music was transfixing. He can hear the tune that was woven throughout the performance ring in his head. Not an annoying ring, not like the buzzing of a fly near your ear, not the constant church bells at noon - the ring of something someone really wants to remember but will probably forget by the time the sun rises again.
Jason feels corny and cheesy leaving the theatre. It's like seeing a really good movie that moves you for the next ten minutes, makes you a different person and puts your thoughts someone else.
"Will he have another performance soon?" Jason asks his parents, tucking his hands into the pockets of his pants as they walk back to their rooms.
"You can check the daily schedules they put in your rooms in the morning," his father says. "I imagine he'll have a few more shows." He looks at Jason with a small and proud smile. It's a smile Jason doesn't get a lot. Jason imagines his father is pleased that he's found a sophisticated interest, like he's maturing and turning into a boring adult. Jason fights the urge to run from the smile and swallows some feeling of discomfort.
"Will you come to dinner with us, dear?" His mother asks. "We're scheduled for eight o'clock in the Sapphire Restaurant on the first floor."
Jason politely declines, remembering his plans for dinner and later events for the night. He snaps out of the transfixion the music had given him, and declines. The proud smile falls from his father's face. "Sorry," Jason apologizes, quickly sliding the card into his door and slipping inside his room.