His fingers were chubby; stout little sausages wrapped in milky skin, fingernails lengthy and unkempt with grime lining the sheltered pink. One imagines the hands of a pianist as lengthy and clean, with smooth, creamy covering, eloquence and preciseness, fingers arched at the joints as if born with a destiny physically imprinted. But his defied cliché.
He was proud of the vibrant veins or the patches of discolored skin, it's doubtful that he would be, but one always liked to think he looked at his hands. They truly bore the gift; though his fingers seemed to slide down the keys awkwardly, fumbling over one another and hitting the correct keys as if by accident, the music reverberated about the room, within your ear, and you knew. You could feel it. Few musicians truly bring their work through their heart. But every note he struck was like touching a piece of it. It took a while to grow accustomed to the feeling; it was almost eerie, the resonance of emotions the blonde felt every time his fingers graced the alabaster keys.
Sunlight bathed his figure in an unearthly glow as the sun rose along the rooftops of the towering skyscrapers, each ray like the gentle caress of a lover against his brow or his cheek, or the embrace of a child, or the touch of God. He would gaze fixatedly at the piano as he played, and prior to it would he survey the instrument, running his hands lovingly over the mahogany, tracing each curve with his fingertips, almost recoiling at times as if he was unworthy for its presence. And then he would lift the casing, run his palms against the length of the keys, and echo them out once more.
5:12 AM
Leaving the ebony instrument with a final reverberant, he arose from velvet seating, bare feet padding on the wooden floors creaking with each extension of his bony feet.
A lethargic yawn creaked from his vocal chords, running calloused digits through his frizzy blonde locks. Fingers shaking, cramping in stiffness; blasphemies uttered in hoarseness, massaging each joint as he hissed. Azure eyes invaded with crimson veins of exhaustion, replacing the porcelain flesh was black and blue capillaries, bruised. Insomnia the brass knuckled fist that blackened his fair porcelain flesh.
Walking like a man risen from his grave, the 20 year old stumbled past his grandfather's snores, knitting his thin eyebrows together as he rubbed eyes.
In his exhaustion, the young man could hear the sounds of distant voices, Don Knotts perhaps? His ears perked at the sound of the customary whistle of the classic 60's show that his grandfather adored so much. Alabaster tainted with ink, the age before the vibrant yet alluring colors of flat screened glass, never did his azure eyes adjust to such glaring, at least without deepening the shade of umbra patches that rested under his bleary eyes, slumber quite scarce.
In its place was the harmonious combination of notes G, A, B, C, D, E, and F, closing insomnia stained lids for mere seconds on full, quarter and half rests, stopping repetitiously only for when his bony extremities would shout sharply in severe pain massaging each palm out of such rigid position, letting his heavy head collapse at the pillow of melanoid and chalky keys; the monotonous metronome ticks, a mothers lullaby as bloodshot orbs shut in finality, ending the concerto of insomnia and restlessness and letting the symphony one would call A Dream, dance across the keys.
Placing a light English Muffin in the silver appliance, the coffee almost dripping in the same lethargy caliber of the sluggish blonde.
I know I was up late... I'm never this exhausted, must be crashing...
Wearily listening to the usual morning groans that croaked out of his grandfathers throat, as he stretched, unhinging his ancient bones with a cringe worthy crack.
Looking towards Armin with an apprehensive stare, "Up all night again Armin?" The stout man inquired as he opened the scarcely filled fridge, hoping to find some form of decent nourishment. Only to find a half bottle of relish, a few slivers of bread, and what was assumed to be rotting fruit.
"Yeah..." Groggily yawning as he sipped at the large mug of liquid caffeine, "I need to keep practicing for that audition..."
"What audition?"
"For the 104th St. Sina Orchestra," he replied spreading the last of the butter on the toasted piece of bread, making a small mental note to buy another package, "They have an opening for the piano concerto... Professor Smith really wants me to get it."
"Is he the guy with the blonde hair and those ridiculous eyebrows?"
He nodded as he bit into the toasted grain, "Mhm..."
The elderly man ran a feeble hand through the scanty wasps of hoary, Armin could now see his zaffre veins protruding from his sagging, ashen skin, liver spots dotted along, as if someone had come along with an pallet of umber ink, painting him almost like a canvas; the artist wanting to cover any trace of the past portrait. The robust mass of muscle of his late twenties had perished in his ancient form, stout, stooped over almost painfully. Bags rested under stormy eyes, wrinkled and folded as time dragged onward, stretching the once securely clenched skin into small flaps on his cheeks.
Indeed time had truly won the race with him, but alas Armin would never dare say how sickly he looked.
"I'll have to go food shopping later today, we're running low again." The aged man grumbled as he hobbled back to the living room, the black and white screen still presenting The Andy Griffith Show, the cliche audience laughter sounding with each corny escapade.
He clenched the mug tightly as he stumbled in bare feet across the wooden floors, "I'll do it, I've been putting it off-"
"No, Armin." he said reclining back into the sooty, feces colored love seat,
"I can do it on my way home from work it's no..." A yawn croaked, "...no problem..."
"You're overworking yourself boy. You need 8 hours of sleep and by the looks of it you barely get an hour." He scolded the sunflower. "You need to sleep Armin, one of these days you'll just collapse-"
"I'm willing to suffer that consequence." he grumbled, the scolding had gotten quite old.
Gulping down the last of the caffeine, he made his way back to his bedroom, stumbling and walking into things; still quite sleep deprived.
Stripping out of plaid boxers into ecru shaded pants, an alabaster polo slipped under an ashen sweater vest. Clenching an elastic hair tie between calcium rich pearl whites as he yanked his sunflower hair into a tight ponytail, cursing around his toothbrush as his side bangs slipped from hold, now getting the mint paste caught in strands, spitting.
Packing dead weight novels of sheet music into his burnt sienna satchel, slipping comfortably into an ochre pair of Loafers, pulling an ink stained suit jacket onto his scrawny shoulders, flipping a cardinal plaid scarf, preparing himself to face the fierce glacial bite of late November zephyrs.
After exchanging a final send off, Armin made his way down the winding staircases, picking up his stride to catch the 6:40 train to the conservatory.
Posters pass by in a lightning flash dazed orbs meeting the floor, avoiding the gaze of the few people aboard the contraption.
There was a businesswoman, holding deathly onto her laptop to each jostle of the train, an old man, whisked off to a world of dreams as he fell to slumber against the metal pole and a presumably divorced father with a young girl resting upon his lap. Of course there was Armin, groggy, miserably attempting to rub the exhaustion out if his orbs before facing his morning lectures.
The 20 minute ride was an agonizingly slow one, the blonde briskly exited the metal doors, only to be met by a sharp crescendo of inner city chat.
Businessman shouting blasphemies at their imbecile co workers into their cellphones, infants whining and wailing in hunger, the angry shout of a mother pushing her children on the train. The smell of greasy food, intoxicating mounds of cologne and perfume, the grotesque stench of leftover garbage, and quite a variety of other stenches that he would never dare to identify.
Horrendous stenches and ear piercing infants aside, the blonde jogged up the concrete staircases and into the piercing morning air.
Streets built in agonizing morning traffic, the sound of angry honking scaring him half to death, alarming. As if shouting at him to brighten his eyes and wake up. Narrowly avoiding various bikers, runners and skateboarders that flew in the opposite direction, some colliding into people, buildings, hell even a parked vehicle someone carelessly parked along the roadside.
Taking a sudden curve, he once more climbed the concrete stairs into the finely crafted brick building, ducking to avoid the humongous instruments that could knock a man to heaven. Brushing past carelessly brisk students dropping various music sheets as they attempt to beat the morning buzzer.
Amidst the chaos of the dawn, he fished the crumpled schedule out of his jacket pocket, trying to recall where he had to go first.
Was it Music Theory or Orchestra Ensemble?
His eyes scanned the severely folded parchment, landing on the Monday schedule. Labeled with black ink and chicken scratch, room A207, on the third floor.
Orchestra Ensemble
To most musicians, it would be a joy to practice their blessed craft at such early hours.
But being in the state he was in, Armin wasn't really in the tenor to listen to booming drums or squealing trumpets. He would rather sit in Music Theory and listen to Professor Hannes drone off his hangover, than shatter his eardrums, especially this early in the day.
Crinkling the notebook paper back into its original ball form he shoved it back into his pocket, sighing in preparatory agony, and began his mountainous trek up the spiraling staircase.
"God Armin, you look terrible." Was the first comment he received as he stepped into the amphitheater lecture room, coming from the mouse haired male he called one of his childhood friends, Eren Jaeger.
"Thanks for the compliment Eren..." He croaked as he rubbed his eyes, taking a seat next to the male. "Love to hear it."
"You weren't up all night again were you?" Inquired the female next to Eren, a vermillion scarf wrapped under her coal colored hair, Mikasa Ackerman.
"Well-"
"Not again Armin, you know it isn't good for you." She hissed coldly, her mother hen nature seeping into her normal blunt tone.
"I-I know Mikasa."
Friends since childhood, all three looked out for each other. They protected one another from harm, well it was more like Mikasa protected them. Even though Eren never would confess to it, he wasn't the best of fighters.
As they grew older, each found a craft, a musical instrument they each found solace and tranquility in. Mikasa the cello, Eren the Viola, and Armin the piano.
In coincidence they all applied to the same conservatory in Sina, and still stuck close to each other.
He stifled a croaked yawn, resting a hand on his cheek, patiently waiting for the morning sugar rush to kick in.
"He's a busy guy Mikasa, he works part time, takes extra piano lessons and goes to the conservatory, cut him a break for not sleeping. Hell I barely get any."
Armin knew Mikasa would obviously contradict whatever Eren said, and always ended the conversation with the last word. She always knew what was right, always a mother to Armin and Eren.
"You're normally up all night copying last minute notes or suffering from your internet addiction, Eren." She stated, returning to a cold stare, "It's becoming habit, I'm just worried, you'll drive yourself to a break down."
"I'll be okay Mikasa... T-Trust me, I'm fine." Armin sighed tucking a fallen blonde strand behind his ear. "Please, don't worry about me, alright?" He forced a simper in reassurance, hopefully easing her anxiety.
Although hesitant, she curled into a smile, mouthing the words of 'okay' it was after that, Mikasa ended the discussion there. A curtain of her onyx locks falling in front of her face, as she turned to talk to another classmate.
Eren's countenance soon turned into a contorted mockery of his step-sister's face, managing to make Armin playfully punch the Burnett in the shoulder, "You know she'd kick your sorry ass to high heaven if she saw that."
Before Eren could come back, the room came to a sudden silence, as a man of buff stature and parted blonde hair marched into the hall, his icy blue eyes piercing into the crescendo and creating the finest tranquility; pure silence.
His name was Erwin Smith, or as most students joked 'Commander Smith', due to his authoritative presence, his position as a conductor of the school's orchestra also made the nickname quite suitable.
"Alright people, get in your places. Sergei Rachmaninoff didn't die of advanced melanoma in order for you to mess his master piece 'Piano Concerto No. 2'," he said, his tone demanding with a hint of dark humor, making his way up to the conductor's post, "I hope you've all been practicing." His eyes pointing to certain beings in the ensemble.
Taking a seat at the achromic instrument, Armin dug out his sheet music, placing his coal colored jacket and plaid scarf aside, his fingers putting light pressure on the onset notes; taking deep exhales as he watched Smith for the signal.
"A one, a two," the wind instruments readied at the lips, the strings placing their bows at light pressure at the nylon strings, percussionists tapping mallets lightly against the horse skin cover, "A one, two, three, four!"
It almost seemed sudden, as his wand started waving swiftly through the air igniting a crescendo of strings as their horse hair bows pressured into thin nylon, barely missing a beat he flies over to percussion, drums start beating in time with his feet. One could only watch in awe, at the magnificence of the occasion; the ravishing resonance never falling upon deaf ears.
It was then and there, as his wand waved over silencing the ascension, amethyst eyes piercing over to the blonde; the signal.
Digits placed onset, he took a sharp breath as he finally awoken his senses from their sleep depravity.
It was then, when his fingers flew across the alabaster and melanoid keys, was when every piece of his puzzle life had fallen perfectly into place, a complete picture.
He felt truly alive.
The train was much busier when the blonde boarded, which one could predict from the time. Most were leaving from work and school; trying to get themselves to their humble abode. Failing to unearth an open seat, Armin slackened into leaning against the metallic pole, trying to sustain his balance with each tumble, clenching it for dear life. Each jostle of the train slamming his cranium back and forth in whiplash. It was as if the train was trying to tell him to wake up before he went to work his late night hours at the dingy cafe.
The rest of his lectures had gone by in the same caliber as a snail drenched in fresh molasses; agonizingly slow and painful. He had slowly come out of his deprived state during his Advanced Conducting lecture, but had slowly fallen back into it when Hannes was trying to drone off his afternoon hangover in Music Theory. He had almost fallen back into slumber, but was kept awoken by the blatant and continuous drumming of one Jean Kirschtein, who had his earphones plugged in, quite unaware of the other people in the room.
"Attention Passengers; We Are Now Stopping At The St. Sina Train Station, Have A Nice Rest Of Your Evening."
The intercom monotonous, Armin struggled to straighten himself out, as his head was still recovering from the beatings of the pole, and stumbled out of the hot and humid contraption into the crisp late autumn air; once again met with a variety of noises and smells.
It was then, his now ringing ears picked up on a sound.
No, it wasn't an infant wailing nor a businessmen screaming.
Music.
It wasn't the cliche train station music one normally heard, it had its own tune. It was soft, yet it could be heard out of the hustle and bustle. Melodious, alluring and absolutely magnificently beautiful. He picked up a stride, following the sound, drowning out the curses and wailing, he could only hear that one sound, that one harmonious siren that made his ship crash onto the rocks of each note.
A mahogany bow soaring across nylon strings, calloused fingers plucking at each note, flying in mellifluous manner.
The siren behind such an alluring sound, a blonde beauty. Her leucous fringe bouncing and diving as her head and shoulder passionately wiggled with her tune, round eyes shut tight in, focused, as if she could see the melody with her closed eyes. Her complexion porcelain with slight undertones of salmon pink on her cheeks, only a few trickles of sweat lined her brow, enthusiasm; pure passion. You could feel it; few musicians truly bring their work through their heart, you could almost touch the passion that reverberated through your ear. She played almost like she would never touch the instrument again, like it was the last time her bony fingers would touch such mahogany. One would never find such mellifluousness in a melody, such strong emotion. Each nylon note she brought across her bow, seemed like she was plucking a piece from her soul; you never heard it anymore. In defiance of the baggy cloth she bore, her semblance screamed in absolute radiance.
The song ended with a slight sound of applause from the very few beings in the audience, tossing a variety of dollars, nickels, dimes and pennies as she stared coldly into the velvet case, the blonde dropping the last of his money in his wallet, leaving only an inquiry. But before he could form his words, she already spoke, her tone harsh and piercing like knives
"What are you fucking staring at?"
Hope you enjoyed reading :3