Disclaimer: I don't own DNAngel.
Transposition
People were brusque. Blunt. They lacked nuance and romance, and any concept at all of perfection. And their speech had no nobility or eloquence, all vulgarity. Argentine had never been fond of people, really.
The girl was sleeping softly in his bed-- he couldn't really mind, he never used it anyway --more ladylike at least than when she had arrived, all amess with boyish clothes and foolish confusion. She was really much better when she was silent, when she let Argentine turn his back to her and pretend she wasn't there. If he couldn't see it, it wasn't there.
Instead he splayed his fingers lightly along the surface of the ivory, feeling the warmth of what was yet to be living from beneath the cold exterior. The music was there, he just needed to release it. Nothing like people. Argentine spoke music. He knew. Everyone else just spoke. With them it wasn't like a piano, the right words weren't always there right below the surface just needing said. People just opened their mouths and said what they thought would be good to say, not really knowing; they took a bow in hand and simply dragged it pitilessly across the strings of a viola. They were fools in their own crafts, simple and rude.
Argentine did not live a life alone though. He had a piano; a friend, a life. He had flowers; beauty, happiness. He simply lived a life away from people. He lived to be bored and hardhearted, to feel very little and speak very seldom, but it was better to have a beautiful heart than to laugh hollowly and be pained.
He had roses next to her, a white glass vase holding them up with fairy fingers, flowers next to the curtained balcony doors, two vases twins of each other, and to his left, in perfect distance from the piano bench, was vase empty of water but full of purpose. Full of his white roses, dried by now.
"Better to die in solitude than to lose innocence."