Tracks: Chapter 1
Whoever said 'New York is where dreams come true' had obviously never lived here with nothing but an ancient violin and a rusty sickle. Yup, living the life, huh? The person who said that had probably grown up in this town as is. Everything must have been romanticized back then, or they just hadn't seen the parts I have. I've seen the underbelly, the ghettos, the dredges of society. They don't advertise Red Hooks or any such places, now do they? No, just the sparkle or Broadway or Wall Street. Vultures...
Sitting on the bench in one of the subway tunnels, I look around and take in the sights of morning rush hour coming to a close. Up until about ten minutes ago I'd been expertly drawing bow across the strings of my violin to earn some form of wage. It isn't much, but it was enough to buy a sandwich and a shitty cup of coffee as my breakfast, as well as pay my train fare. I could make more money, I'm sure, if my strings weren't about to snap, if my instrument wasn't old and worn, if it wasn't loud as fuck, if more people paid attention to the homeless young adult with the overgrown, choppy blonde hair and rusty eyes. If, if, if. If, if, if...
I sigh and lean back in my seat, massaging my freezing finger tips that had been rubbed raw from an hour of playing in the cold winter air that tends to sweep down into the underground and settle. My eyes scan the lingering crowd who wait for the train: a mother and her son, maybe nine years old; a couple who look about as happy as only newly weds can; a girl, maybe just seventeen, with a rounded belly casting around nervous looks at a man who's been watching her for the last five minutes.
I try not to even think what may be going on in everyone's mind, especially not the minds of the elderly ladies who gaze my way with pity and an undertone of disgust. I wonder what they see, though. A street rat in an over-sized winter coat and worn jeans? A poor sole who'd come on hard times? A boy who could have had a promising career? By the way the hold their large purses a little tighter, I know that it's the first.
There isn't much time to dwell on it, of course. The train rolls in a minute later, heading towards Washington Square from where I'd been in the lower east side, and I grab my violin case quickly before rushing on. I take a seat at the back under a heater vent, blowing on my hands to warm them up and regain some feeling.
The ride takes a little while, but the stop comes and I barely make it onto the Blue Line heading north before it leaves. The are more people on this train, more people who look at me like I'm a parasite. I guess that's alright, not many people in my position would be taking the subway around, especially not here in these parts of town, but still, I want to shrink until I disappear. No, I don't let them see. I shoot a glare at a some punk staring at me like I'm filth.
"Can I fucking help you with something, or is idiocy your natural expression?" I snap at him, scowling.
Before he can retort, his stop is called and he clears out. To hell with him. I take in someone who was watching from behind a pair of red and blue shades and vaguely recognize them from the Orange Line. We'd probably shared a car a couple times but usually his nose was buried in a book or he joined the rest of society in the all American pastime: the Let's Ignore Karkat Game. Once or twice he's dropped a couple of loose coins into my case but not too much.
I don't dwell, just lean my head back and close my eyes. I listen to the soft murmur (shss), the clicking of the tracks (chk-chk), the giggling of keys (clink-chhhhink), and the world melts away. I hear the music, and I feel the music, and I am the music. Even my broken old violin could fit into it and there are a million different combinations of notes that would fit right in this moment- no, this moment- no, this moment. It's so hard to keep up because as a second ticks by, everything is different.
Mom always told me I had a song in my mouth before I had words and that I'd written music before sentences. I didn't doubt that, and I probably never will. I remember ninth grade when nothing made sense to me but scores and I'd been pulled from school for a 'severe learning disability'. I laugh softly to myself, earning a few odd looks that I can feel but not see as I think about how they'd tried getting things through.
My trip down misery lane is cut short when my stop is called. I grab my case, get off. Pausing in the middle of the platform, I get my bearings right as Glasses pushes past me without a thought in the world and starts to head down the street. I shoot a scowl his way before starting the trek towards Central Park for my second spot of the day. Know where the hot spots are and people will come to you instead of actively searching them out.
I just sit for a while, watching people. No where to go so why not relax a little, right? Lunch rolls around and I finally set up. Killing two hours is hard when all you want to do is anything but sit. People start passing through the park - on lunch break from work, waiting between classes, just out - and I draw the first note out of the wooden instrument.
Oh, what I would do to be that song, that note, that melody that is so free and limitless. I wouldn't be tied down to earth. Then again, my playing starts and I'm a slave to the music as minutes pass and Beethoven fades into Bach which fades into modern into renaissance into whatever the hell I want it to because it is my moment, my feelings, and my life.
Someone snaps in my face and the bow slips out of my hand as I jolt, startled. I open my eyes to be greeted with a air of red and blue glasses a few feet away from my own rust coloured gaze.
"Athhole, I athked what you were playing," he says (repeats?) rather rudely. I scowl up at him, jaw working irritably while I work out the nerves in my system. No me just stopped to talk. Not ever. No one cared.
"I wasn't playing anything," I reply, voice sounding way too much like a raspy fifteen year old than nineteen.
"Oh, tho you were jutht pretending to make noithe on that?" he shoots back, jerking his chin towards my instrument.
I roll my eyes. "No, fuckass, I mean it's just notes. It's not a song, it's improvisation, ever heard of that?" And damn, does he look surprised for a brief moment before he returns to passively annoyed.
"Thtudent?"
"No."
"Oh." Ya, that's what I expected to happen anyway. All the same, he drops a few dollars into to my case and walks off. Highlight of me da- ya fucking right. I get in position to play again and get half a note out before he shouts back: "Maybe you'd make more money if you ditched the shitty inthtrument!"
"Thanks for the advice, captain fuckmunch, I'll try and remember than next time I can't afford one!"
"Hey there, my motherfucking best bro," comes a gravely, southern drawl from behind me.
"How many fucking times do I have to tell you not to sneak up on me?" I snap after finally getting my heart rate under a hundred.
I turn around in my chair to see Gamzee motherfucking Makara, looking down at me with his stoner grin and violet eyes that see everything.
"Come on, bro, don't be like that. What's all up on your mind, gettin' you so bothered? Lay it on my, my brother."
Gamzee is my self-proclaimed best friend, not that I really mind. He's got about five years on me and damn does he have a story to tell about how he ended up the split personality, art-school drop-out he is today, but hell if I can keep it straight. Then again, meeting him had probably been the best thing that'd happened to me in a long time.
A boy, maybe sixteen, sat shivering against a brick wall. His rust-red eyes were closed so he didn't have to see the whitening surroundings or watch his breath escape in front of him in misty clouds. The snow dusts his dark blonde hair as he huddles tighter under the old blanket he'd brought with him to keep originally as a cover for his old violin when he had to leave it alone. It was coming in handy right now of course.
He'd been on his own for three weeks now and it was hard, but Karkat had been scraping by. He was drifting out, half asleep, and worried that sleeping would equal to freezing to death. He forced his eyes to stay open- no, that was a mistake and he knew it as another sharp wind blew by. Damn, it wasn't supposed to be so cold!
"Hey there, lil' guy, what'cha all up and doing there?" came a gravelly voice. Karkat looked up at where it came from, seeing a man with tanned skin and violet eyes. Somehow the unusual features all came together with his lazy smile. The Cancer just gawked at him a little. "Not talking? Alright then, that's cool. You got anywhere to be going? Nah, doesn't look like it. Come on then, I know a place." He holds out a gloved hand and, after a moment's hesitation, the blonde reaches out and takes it.
Ya, he probably saved my life, and even if he didn't I would still owe him for helping me out time and time again. Right now, I'm sitting in the soup kitchen near my first and last subway stop of the day with my case on the ground, and Gamzee sitting next to me.
"Nothing is fucking wrong, clown," I grumble, taking another spoonful of the warm broth. Thank god for these places...
"Hey, something's obviously rattling around in your think pan and bringing on them wicked blues," he insists.
I sink down in my chair a little. "I just got harassed by some guy in the park today, it was nothing..."
Gamzee frowns a little and I feel his hand patting my back gently. Annoying as he is, it's times like this where I know why I like him. "You want a hug, Karbro?"
"What? No!"
"Nah, don't be like that, com'ere."
"I don't need a hug!" All the same, he wraps his arms around me, drawing an undignified squeak out of me while he nuzzles his cheek into me ratty hair like its the softest thing he's ever felt. "Damnit, let go!" I shout, too busy trying not to laugh to actually sound angry.
"You love this, stop being such a grumpy little fucker," he teases.
"Fuck you, Makara, not everyone wants your hands on them while you enforce your cuddling!"
"But you do and you know it." Okay, maybe he has a point...I give in and hug him back, sighing a little while his small shooshing sounds melt the tension out of my system.
A/N: Hey! This is going to be a lot more fun to write than I originally thought, and I already thought it would be fun. Do you guys know how hard it is to navigate New York's subway maps? I don't even live in NYC, I never thought I'd have to learn where everything is... Whatever.
My updates will be a little weird this week, may not happen for this one on Friday, may not happen for Cold Blood on Thirsday if you're following that. I have Fan Expo on Friday and the finishing touches and general prep must be done on my costume.
Many thanks to everyone who is following this and commented, I love all you guys.
~Chesh