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You think that under different circumstances and in another life Spades Slikc could have been a brilliant pianist.
Not in this though, because the sound of guns, explosions and the vaguely disgusting taste of your own blood has become entirely too familiar to allow something like that to happen.
He sees it as a weakness and you agree.
But still there is something oddly captivating about seeing him like this. His fingers seems to almost float over the keys, every touch creating an almost indistinguishable sequence of tones, slightly echoing in the room.
He is sitting in the only chair you haven't completely destroyed and he is staring down into the black and white of the piano keys even though he doesn't need to.
You have never seen him playing with sheets and you highly doubt you'll ever do.
It doesn't mean what he is playing is unskilled. It is soft and silent, nothing you would have ever expected, not from him at least.
All the roughness, all the anger and bitterness seem to be gone, have disappeared from the music and you vaguely wonder if that's what he would be like should he ever managed to forget his old grudges and just allow himself to be happy.
It's a stupid thought and you know that. When you look closer you can see the tension even now. The way his finger pound at the keys just a bit too hard, how his whole hands seems to stiffen into the claw, fingers so tensed you wonder if it hurts.
The anger and the hate is still here and you know that it will probably never completely go away.
Still this is almost peace for him. Letting loose if only for a moment. Everything the almost two and half bottle of whiskey you four have emptied after destroying the bar couldn't give him.
And your guess that it is on you not to judge him for this. Sometimes you wonder if he plays for other people too. If he played for her once upon a time.
You never dwell too long on these thoughts. They are useless and irrelevant in the end. You might never know and you're not really sure if you even want to.
What matters is now. And now he is playing only for you. Waiting for Boxcars and Deuce to get bored and wonder off in search for more booze. Throwing you a warily, searching look and something you would never call relief since that would imply more weakness appearing in his eyes when he can't find whatever he was looking for in your eyes.
Slowly standing up then and wandering toward the piano both of you had eyed the whole evening out of the corner of your eyes. You are saying nothing and just reach for the bottle you had successfully hidden from Boxcars and Deuce and pour yourself another glass.
Later you will be both sitting here, silently drinking together, waiting for the other to come back before you equally silently leave the destroyed bar as an example for everybody who thinks he could cross you. Later you will be lying in your bed, arms crossed under head, staring at the ceiling, waiting almost impatiently for the creaking of your door being opened.
Later you can touch, feel, have, but still won't talk.
But later is later and now, now he is playing. And you think that under different circumstances and in another life you would tell him that you love hearing him play.
But so you just take another hit and lose yourself in the music, telling stories of things that will never be.