It's the Yellowhammer that starts it - Beethoven is sitting on the sofa, his chin resting in one palm as he faces the garden. The girl, Kanae, will probably scold him for kneeling on the cushions later, but the window is open and he had feels like some fresh air.
One of the others - from the pitch it sounded like it was most likely Schubert - is humming broken snatches of a tune from the kitchen. It's the early afternoon, and the house is surprisingly quiet - Beethoven is left to his thoughts, gazing out of the window. That's new - he is rarely content to simply gaze, he has to examine everything sharply to find some kind of hidden meaning to it.
At some point a gently steaming cup of tea has been placed on the small table beside his perch. (Definitely Schubert, then - nobody else bothers with tea but Liszt, and they hardly spoke, let alone made one another drinks.) The slightly perfumed scent combined with the cool draught from the window calms his normally edgy nerves, the soft tune floating into the room sending him into something of a daze.
His posture gradually loosens, and Beethoven has almost dozed off when he hears the trilling call from the garden. As with before, it feels as though the fresh air has entered his mind and renewed it as something about the sound sparks his consciousness. He tenses, leaning forward so that he can better glimpse the source of the sound.
There's no mysterious caller hiding in bushes this time, though. Something stirs within Beethoven when his eyes finally catch it - a small yellow bird clinging to the rim of the violin-shaped pond, it's crest streaked like a mint humbug. It tilts it's head skywards with an air of humble delicacy, unaware of Hasshie watching from nearby, highly affronted that his domain has been invaded.
He gets up, keeping his eyes fixated on the bird as long as possible as he sidles to the door, before quickly opening it and stepping out, hoping to get a better view. The door swings shut with a rather loud click, causing Beethoven to wince slightly in frustration and the bird to pause, turning it's head slightly to glance back at him. He freezes, waiting with bated breath until the bird turns once again.
It begins sipping water from the pond, occasionally shifting one foot or the other so as not to fall into the water. He doesn't know where this fascination with the creatures has come from, but Beethoven can't help but come closer, enamoured with the small bird.
He is just a few metres away from the pond when something falls over with a crash across the street. The yellowhammer gives a jerk as it twists it's whole body around, fixing him with an almost accusing stare. His turquoise eyes meet the dark orbs as he finds himself locked in the creature's gaze, a defiant yet controlled thing that holds him captive.
He remembers something else that has always done so - fate. It's dark grasp is one he has eluded and been ensnared by and eventually beaten down, and yet he still thinks of it's fateful knocking on his door. A knocking that sounds almost similar to the sound the creature makes - and yet there is just something else that captivates him so.
Suddenly the moment is broken as Hasshie lurches forward, apparently tired of waiting for the bird to drink it's fill, driving the ball of yellow down off towards the gates. It perches on the wall the gates are connected to, giving a last call as an act of defiance. As he watches it flit away, Beethoven can feel a prescence behind him. He doesn't turn immediately, preferring to escape from reality a moment longer until Schubert's soothing baritones reach his ears.
"In early spring, when winds blow chilly cold,
The yellowhammer, trailing grass, will come
To fix a place and choose an early home,
With yellow breast and head of solid gold."
He tilts his head inquisitively, looking almost comically like the Yellowhammer for a moment as his glinting eyes meet Schubert's slightly dimmed magenta ones.
"My - my apologies, Beethoven-Senpai... I mean, um, Beethoven."
Schubert corrects himself as Beethoven looks at him almost reprimandingly, a silent reminder of what he had established about the addressing of Schubert's idol before. He doubts the sense in the younger composer's admiration as it is, without such nicknames being thrust upon him.
"It is quite alright, Schubert. May I enquire as to the meaning of what you said?"
Schubert looks surprised and slightly pleased to be asked, as if glad that his words seemed to be significant to Beethoven.
"Oh, i - it's nothing much, simply a verse I remember reading a while back. Seeing the creature just reminded me, is all. Why do you ask, if you don't mind my saying?"
Beethoven shrugs, taking note of the slightly more pleasant, if not entirely relaxed, atmosphere.
"I was simply curious about the creature. A Yellowhammer, you say?"
Schubert nods. He seems as though he wants to ask something else, but shakes it off and turns to retreat back indoors. Beethoven follows, falling into step behind him. When he has closed the front door once again Schubert is already heading to the kitchen counter with two cups in hand. Beethoven places a hand on his shoulder, taking the cups from Schubert and continuing to the kettle where he flicks it on. He turns to the other man, deciding that it's only fair if he makes the coffee once in a while - Schubert seems to do enough running around after him already, and a small part of him can't help but feel guilty that he shows so little appreciation for those who ensure his wellbeing sometimes.
He hands a cup of tea over to Schubert, hoping that it is to his liking - how is it that he knows so much about Beethoven's quirks and preferences, and Beethoven so little about his? - and returns to the living room. There he sets his drink down on the table as he retrieves some notepaper from the mantlepiece and heads back to the kitchen briefly, to fetch a pencil from the drawer of odds and ends that is usually found in various states of disarray. Now it is in some form of order - most likely Schubert's doing, as Kanae is too busy clearing up the messes made by his fellow classicaloids and, subsequently, him.
He retrieves one and turns, noticing as he retreats that Schubert is smiling slightly into his cup of tea, and has resumed humming that song in snatches of verse, as if trying to work out how it goes.
He seats himself back on the sofa, the right way round this time so as not to soil the cushions, and leans his elbows on the table slightly as he begins to sketch a delicate, downy shape, filling in the details and finally ending with the eyes, the dark eyes of fate that urge his mind on as he feels the reminisces of a song curling at the edge of his memory...
