Trowa fairly tip-toed into the house Monday afternoon.
Around his neck hung a cross necklace that he'd found in an old junk box in the garage, and in his backpack he carried a heavy-duty flashlight and a CD player. He was fairly sure that the cross wouldn't do anything useful, but superstition prevailed over his better senses. The flashlight was for all the rummaging he planned to do. The CD player was to filter undesirable noises from scaring the bejeesus out of him.
He made a straight path up to Quatre's room and began his snoop-fest.
There wasn't much to be found superficially aside from a good collection of books in the bookshelves, a mirror and pressed flower book in the nightstand drawer, and a neatly folded wardrobe of musty clothes.
A small voice in the back of his head goaded Trowa to move the hulking armoire. It seemed insensible and not just a little unkind to his back, but he braced himself and pushed it a few feet from its dust shadow. He could hear hollow boarding underneath the scraping paws of the oversized dresser and got down on all fours to figure out how to get inside the floor.
He felt around deftly with his fingertips until he detected a slight imperfection in the wood planking. Carefully, he traced the line he found forming a neat square in the settled dust. His fingers wouldn't fit between the boards, that much was obvious, so he sat back and looked around spotting a thin stream of glinting light behind the armoire. He crept over to it and felt behind it, his fingers grasping a thin brass wire that he extracted and tested between the boards. It slid between them perfectly.
Gently, he probed between the boards that he had traced with his finger and turned it so that the hook on the end would catch.
It took more effort than he would have liked, but eventually the boards groaned as they were popped out of place, and he was able to set them aside. The hole left in the floor was dark and sighing and Trowa deigned to reach into it.
He took the flashlight from his backpack and turned it on the darkness. A shudder ran through him as the light touched on a swathe of cobwebs that seemed to extend down into forever. There was a visible object shrouded in the ivory silk, so, Trowa grit his teeth and dove his hand in resisting the hardwired repulsion he felt as the gum-like strands caught on his skin. He almost jumped for joy when his hand closed around the soft edges of an oblong box. Leather?
He yanked it out and fastidiously went about sweeping clinging cobwebs off of it and himself.
He turned the object on its side and unhooked the metal buckles that held it shut. When he opened it, he almost bit his tongue.
There was no doubt in his mind that the violin he was presently gaping at had to be a hellier stradivarius. He'd never actually seen one, but, he knew that what he was looking at was it.
A cold sweat washed over his skin with the prevading knowledge that a violin of the sort that he was currently holding in his hands was worth enough American fiat to make Solomon blush and paper money look like moonfloss. He felt troubled. Even more troubled than the first meeting when he saw the specter melt into thin air.
With a terrified reverence, he replaced the lid on the violin case and fastened the buckles in place.
Then, he wedged the boards back in place and slid the armoire over them. His curiosity felt duly sated for the moment. He didn't know if he could stomach any more discovery.
Holding the case to his chest like an invalid child, he picked his way downstairs afraid to move too fast for fear of falling to a gruesome unpleasant death.
Like a zombie, without thinking, without reason, he wandered into the ghost's room.
It was waiting for him by the window, that boy. His form flickered and extinguished before Trowa could even blink.
"Hello," Trowa mumbled dutifully as he set the violin case down over the other day's conversation. "Is this yours?" He stepped back a few paces, not knowing what to expect.
The case opened itself, the sound of the leather creaking against itself sending shivers up Trowa's spine. The bow was taken from the lining of the case, and the lax strands of horse hair lifted and tightened by the will of an invisible force. From an easily overlooked pocket, a block of rosin appeared and then was drawn accross the hair of the bow. Gently, the two were set down as the violin was lifted from the case. It floated in nothingness as the pegs winding the ancient cat-gut strings turned. The strings pizzicato-ed themselves, and the knobs turned more.
When everything seemed right, the violin flew up to an invisible shoulder and the bow was taken into an invisible hand.
Trowa had to grip the doorframe for support when the first notes of Vivaldi's "Winter Allegro" pierced the air.
"...omfg," Trowa whispered vehemently under his breath, his teeth chattering.
Something about a violin playing itself without special effects no more than five feet away from him didn't sit well with his constitution. He cupped a hand over his mouth, physically denying the giddy nausea that tickled his throat.
When the piece ended, he clapped weakly feeling completely drained even though he hadn't done anything particularly strenuous in the duration of the playing.
"Thank you," an airy tenor complimented the quiet, effectively killing Trowa's pathetic applause.
"You talk, now?" Trowa asked.
"You can hear me?" the voice was omniprescent.
"Seen you twice, heard you once," Trowa replied, perturbed. "Speaking of which, why can't I see you now?"
There was a breath of silence, then, "...It's embarrassing."
"What've you got to be embarrassed of?" Trowa prodded.
"I may be ugly," the voice said, shrinking.
Trowa's eyes widened a moment, then he replied tersely, "I think you should let me be the judge of that. Besides which, it's a little weird talking to something I can't see. Makes me feel like I'll have to haul my own ass to the looney bin."
Something in the upstairs office fell with a resounding thunk against the floor, and Trowa was ready to leave.
"Don't go!" the voice implored him. "I will show you if you stay."
Trowa relaxed himself as much as he could, leaning against the doorframe and crossing his arms tense across his chest.
He raised a brow, waiting.
The outline of the young boy traced itself in the air, then two bright blue orbs, where his eyes would be, fitted themselves into his nonexistent skull.
"Jesus," Trowa cursed under his breath averting his gaze from the extremely creepy sight. When he looked up again, the boy was mostly formed, his colors attaining a pale richness. His hands were clasped together in front of himself and his eyes downcast.
"Don't lower your head like that," Trowa muttered self-consciously. "You look fine."
Reluctantly, the boy raised his eyes, their piercing luminescence seemed to light the room.
For a moment, all Trowa could do was stare. The etch a sketch in his head was being upgraded to a photo lab.
When he remembered to breathe, he couldn't help asking, "Are you an angel?"
The warmest expression overtook the ghost's features as he shook his head, "No. No, I am not."
"Could've fooled me," Trowa replied, then took a moment to brood affronted by his own lameness and berating himself for flirting with a ghost.
"Are you an angel?" the spirit asked back his eyes alight with a vivacious energy that intoxicated Trowa and compelled him to reciprocate.
"Only if you are," he teased, a half smile curling his lips.
The ghost's smile increased two-fold as he ran a hand through his goldspun hair. "Kindly keep your charms to yourself, Mr. Trowa," he parried playfully.
"You first," Trowa grinned dumbly.
The ghost laughed, the bell-like quality of it drowning out the sounds coming from upstairs.
It took a moment to recover from the moment, then there was a short spell of silence as Trowa grasped for something to say.
Then, he remembered the violin.
He pointed at it and tried to ask in an unawkward fashion, "So, where'd you get a Hellier?"
"Pardon?" the ghost replied.
"That's a hellier stradivarius, right?" Trowa inquired.
"Oh, yes," the ghost said touching his fingers nervously to his lips, staring at the instrument at his feet as if it would pipe up and tell him the answers to his own past. "...I like the violin," he said finally at a loss for anything else to say.
Trowa regarded him sympathetically. There was no deciet in the boy, and he looked genuinely upset.
He was about to apologize when the ghost asked quietly, "What year is this?"
"Are you sure that you want to know?" Trowa subtly discouraged him.
The ghost smiled, a sad smile, "I do not believe that it will be any less of a shock to me tomorrow than it will be today."
Trowa chewed on that a minute before saying, "Two-thousand-five."
The ghost nodded, "That is an unfamilliar figure."
"I'd imagine so," Trowa agreed.
"Thank god, it doesn't mean anything to me," the ghost said laughing it off. "I've been dead a while, I imagine."
"Somewhere in the neighborhood of two-hundred-something years," Trowa helped him to clarify.
The smile fell. "Oh," the ghost managed to utter. "I suppose...I would be an old man, then."
"You look suprisingly well for your age," Trowa quipped, trying to lighten the mood.
The ghost gave him a sober smile, his lips pressed together, and his eyes only mildly amused.
That smile caved as well as a loud thump reverberated above their heads. The ceiling shuddered sprinkling dust down. It fell right through the ghost but made a nice deposit on Trowa's stunned head. He looked to the ghost for some reassurance, but he seemed about as curious as himself at the moment, staring up morosely at the noises.
"Is there someone else here?" Trowa asked tersely.
The ghost looked at him calmly, "I told you there," he said indicating with his fingers their conversation from a few days earlier.
"That's them? Not someone like me, right?" Trowa demanded quietly.
"They never come here, only Rashid," the ghost replied smiling placatingly, the hypnotic beauty of his eyes easing Trowa into a lull.
It took a little struggle to shake himself free from it, "Rashid?"
"He lives on the first floor," the ghost assured Trowa in what he felt to be a comforting way. "Perhaps you will meet him sometime?"
"If he's like you, I'll consider it," Trowa replied apprehensively.
The ghost smiled easily, "Don't worry so. If you're afraid, I'll protect you."
Feeling reassured and a little mean, Trowa replied, "With that scrawny body?" Though he throughly appreciated that "scrawny body."
"When it's between you and them," the ghost nodded upwards, "I do not suspect that I will see you complaining."
Trowa smiled crookedly, "I don't suppose so."
Outside the window, the last rays of the sun crested the horizon.
"It's getting late," Trowa said with a little reluctance. He shifted his weight uneasily on his feet. "Want me to hide that for you?" he asked pointing at the violin case. "That's really valueable, and some unscrupulous people could try to steal it."
"If you think that it would be best," the ghost replied gazing at the instrument forlornly.
"I'll come back tomorrow," Trowa promised toeing the floor with his sneaker. He felt nervous, and embarrassed, and weird. Why was he trying to impress himself upon this ghost? Someone he couldn't really touch, that couldn't grow old with him, and couldn't meet his "folks."
"I will look forward to it," the ghost smiled at him unabashedly.
"I'll bring you some books, or something," Trowa said, nodding to himself unconsciously, his more base brain facilities trying to bolster his confidence in his sanity.
"I would appreciate that very much," the ghost nearly whispered in his delight.
Trowa stepped forward, took the case in one hand and waved goodbye to the ghost with the other.
He could have sworn that he'd seen some deep ennui in the specter's eyes as he left, but it could have just been his wishful imaginings that he would be wanting with his leaving.
Replacing the violin where he'd found it happened without incident.
It was when he was about when he was halfway down the stairs that it happened.
There was a loud thunderous stomping behind him as if a horse had taken up chase behind him. The banister began to rattle and the paneling beneath him groaned and popped under the strain of the beast Trowa had neither the prescence nor the desire to see.
He ran for all he was worth.
About four steps to the ground floor, a gust of force hit his back and sent him down the rest of the way.
He landed huddled on his side, and took the opportunity to glance back at from whence he had come.
There was nothing there.
The stairs were silent and still.
More angry than he was afraid, he pushed off from the floor and dusted himself off, readjusted his backpack, and left.
TBC...
note(s):
1. Springbreak is soon! Just imagining what I can do with all that extra time makes me drool
2. Sorry if I'm making the characters go OOC. It's not my intention; Trowa seems to be more sociable than he ought to be...oh well, things change
3. Stradivarius is a really really frickin' famous violin series made back in the something century. Their sound is supposed to be the best. A Hellier Stradivarius is supposed to have ornate engravings on it, at least, from my understanding.
Around his neck hung a cross necklace that he'd found in an old junk box in the garage, and in his backpack he carried a heavy-duty flashlight and a CD player. He was fairly sure that the cross wouldn't do anything useful, but superstition prevailed over his better senses. The flashlight was for all the rummaging he planned to do. The CD player was to filter undesirable noises from scaring the bejeesus out of him.
He made a straight path up to Quatre's room and began his snoop-fest.
There wasn't much to be found superficially aside from a good collection of books in the bookshelves, a mirror and pressed flower book in the nightstand drawer, and a neatly folded wardrobe of musty clothes.
A small voice in the back of his head goaded Trowa to move the hulking armoire. It seemed insensible and not just a little unkind to his back, but he braced himself and pushed it a few feet from its dust shadow. He could hear hollow boarding underneath the scraping paws of the oversized dresser and got down on all fours to figure out how to get inside the floor.
He felt around deftly with his fingertips until he detected a slight imperfection in the wood planking. Carefully, he traced the line he found forming a neat square in the settled dust. His fingers wouldn't fit between the boards, that much was obvious, so he sat back and looked around spotting a thin stream of glinting light behind the armoire. He crept over to it and felt behind it, his fingers grasping a thin brass wire that he extracted and tested between the boards. It slid between them perfectly.
Gently, he probed between the boards that he had traced with his finger and turned it so that the hook on the end would catch.
It took more effort than he would have liked, but eventually the boards groaned as they were popped out of place, and he was able to set them aside. The hole left in the floor was dark and sighing and Trowa deigned to reach into it.
He took the flashlight from his backpack and turned it on the darkness. A shudder ran through him as the light touched on a swathe of cobwebs that seemed to extend down into forever. There was a visible object shrouded in the ivory silk, so, Trowa grit his teeth and dove his hand in resisting the hardwired repulsion he felt as the gum-like strands caught on his skin. He almost jumped for joy when his hand closed around the soft edges of an oblong box. Leather?
He yanked it out and fastidiously went about sweeping clinging cobwebs off of it and himself.
He turned the object on its side and unhooked the metal buckles that held it shut. When he opened it, he almost bit his tongue.
There was no doubt in his mind that the violin he was presently gaping at had to be a hellier stradivarius. He'd never actually seen one, but, he knew that what he was looking at was it.
A cold sweat washed over his skin with the prevading knowledge that a violin of the sort that he was currently holding in his hands was worth enough American fiat to make Solomon blush and paper money look like moonfloss. He felt troubled. Even more troubled than the first meeting when he saw the specter melt into thin air.
With a terrified reverence, he replaced the lid on the violin case and fastened the buckles in place.
Then, he wedged the boards back in place and slid the armoire over them. His curiosity felt duly sated for the moment. He didn't know if he could stomach any more discovery.
Holding the case to his chest like an invalid child, he picked his way downstairs afraid to move too fast for fear of falling to a gruesome unpleasant death.
Like a zombie, without thinking, without reason, he wandered into the ghost's room.
It was waiting for him by the window, that boy. His form flickered and extinguished before Trowa could even blink.
"Hello," Trowa mumbled dutifully as he set the violin case down over the other day's conversation. "Is this yours?" He stepped back a few paces, not knowing what to expect.
The case opened itself, the sound of the leather creaking against itself sending shivers up Trowa's spine. The bow was taken from the lining of the case, and the lax strands of horse hair lifted and tightened by the will of an invisible force. From an easily overlooked pocket, a block of rosin appeared and then was drawn accross the hair of the bow. Gently, the two were set down as the violin was lifted from the case. It floated in nothingness as the pegs winding the ancient cat-gut strings turned. The strings pizzicato-ed themselves, and the knobs turned more.
When everything seemed right, the violin flew up to an invisible shoulder and the bow was taken into an invisible hand.
Trowa had to grip the doorframe for support when the first notes of Vivaldi's "Winter Allegro" pierced the air.
"...omfg," Trowa whispered vehemently under his breath, his teeth chattering.
Something about a violin playing itself without special effects no more than five feet away from him didn't sit well with his constitution. He cupped a hand over his mouth, physically denying the giddy nausea that tickled his throat.
When the piece ended, he clapped weakly feeling completely drained even though he hadn't done anything particularly strenuous in the duration of the playing.
"Thank you," an airy tenor complimented the quiet, effectively killing Trowa's pathetic applause.
"You talk, now?" Trowa asked.
"You can hear me?" the voice was omniprescent.
"Seen you twice, heard you once," Trowa replied, perturbed. "Speaking of which, why can't I see you now?"
There was a breath of silence, then, "...It's embarrassing."
"What've you got to be embarrassed of?" Trowa prodded.
"I may be ugly," the voice said, shrinking.
Trowa's eyes widened a moment, then he replied tersely, "I think you should let me be the judge of that. Besides which, it's a little weird talking to something I can't see. Makes me feel like I'll have to haul my own ass to the looney bin."
Something in the upstairs office fell with a resounding thunk against the floor, and Trowa was ready to leave.
"Don't go!" the voice implored him. "I will show you if you stay."
Trowa relaxed himself as much as he could, leaning against the doorframe and crossing his arms tense across his chest.
He raised a brow, waiting.
The outline of the young boy traced itself in the air, then two bright blue orbs, where his eyes would be, fitted themselves into his nonexistent skull.
"Jesus," Trowa cursed under his breath averting his gaze from the extremely creepy sight. When he looked up again, the boy was mostly formed, his colors attaining a pale richness. His hands were clasped together in front of himself and his eyes downcast.
"Don't lower your head like that," Trowa muttered self-consciously. "You look fine."
Reluctantly, the boy raised his eyes, their piercing luminescence seemed to light the room.
For a moment, all Trowa could do was stare. The etch a sketch in his head was being upgraded to a photo lab.
When he remembered to breathe, he couldn't help asking, "Are you an angel?"
The warmest expression overtook the ghost's features as he shook his head, "No. No, I am not."
"Could've fooled me," Trowa replied, then took a moment to brood affronted by his own lameness and berating himself for flirting with a ghost.
"Are you an angel?" the spirit asked back his eyes alight with a vivacious energy that intoxicated Trowa and compelled him to reciprocate.
"Only if you are," he teased, a half smile curling his lips.
The ghost's smile increased two-fold as he ran a hand through his goldspun hair. "Kindly keep your charms to yourself, Mr. Trowa," he parried playfully.
"You first," Trowa grinned dumbly.
The ghost laughed, the bell-like quality of it drowning out the sounds coming from upstairs.
It took a moment to recover from the moment, then there was a short spell of silence as Trowa grasped for something to say.
Then, he remembered the violin.
He pointed at it and tried to ask in an unawkward fashion, "So, where'd you get a Hellier?"
"Pardon?" the ghost replied.
"That's a hellier stradivarius, right?" Trowa inquired.
"Oh, yes," the ghost said touching his fingers nervously to his lips, staring at the instrument at his feet as if it would pipe up and tell him the answers to his own past. "...I like the violin," he said finally at a loss for anything else to say.
Trowa regarded him sympathetically. There was no deciet in the boy, and he looked genuinely upset.
He was about to apologize when the ghost asked quietly, "What year is this?"
"Are you sure that you want to know?" Trowa subtly discouraged him.
The ghost smiled, a sad smile, "I do not believe that it will be any less of a shock to me tomorrow than it will be today."
Trowa chewed on that a minute before saying, "Two-thousand-five."
The ghost nodded, "That is an unfamilliar figure."
"I'd imagine so," Trowa agreed.
"Thank god, it doesn't mean anything to me," the ghost said laughing it off. "I've been dead a while, I imagine."
"Somewhere in the neighborhood of two-hundred-something years," Trowa helped him to clarify.
The smile fell. "Oh," the ghost managed to utter. "I suppose...I would be an old man, then."
"You look suprisingly well for your age," Trowa quipped, trying to lighten the mood.
The ghost gave him a sober smile, his lips pressed together, and his eyes only mildly amused.
That smile caved as well as a loud thump reverberated above their heads. The ceiling shuddered sprinkling dust down. It fell right through the ghost but made a nice deposit on Trowa's stunned head. He looked to the ghost for some reassurance, but he seemed about as curious as himself at the moment, staring up morosely at the noises.
"Is there someone else here?" Trowa asked tersely.
The ghost looked at him calmly, "I told you there," he said indicating with his fingers their conversation from a few days earlier.
"That's them? Not someone like me, right?" Trowa demanded quietly.
"They never come here, only Rashid," the ghost replied smiling placatingly, the hypnotic beauty of his eyes easing Trowa into a lull.
It took a little struggle to shake himself free from it, "Rashid?"
"He lives on the first floor," the ghost assured Trowa in what he felt to be a comforting way. "Perhaps you will meet him sometime?"
"If he's like you, I'll consider it," Trowa replied apprehensively.
The ghost smiled easily, "Don't worry so. If you're afraid, I'll protect you."
Feeling reassured and a little mean, Trowa replied, "With that scrawny body?" Though he throughly appreciated that "scrawny body."
"When it's between you and them," the ghost nodded upwards, "I do not suspect that I will see you complaining."
Trowa smiled crookedly, "I don't suppose so."
Outside the window, the last rays of the sun crested the horizon.
"It's getting late," Trowa said with a little reluctance. He shifted his weight uneasily on his feet. "Want me to hide that for you?" he asked pointing at the violin case. "That's really valueable, and some unscrupulous people could try to steal it."
"If you think that it would be best," the ghost replied gazing at the instrument forlornly.
"I'll come back tomorrow," Trowa promised toeing the floor with his sneaker. He felt nervous, and embarrassed, and weird. Why was he trying to impress himself upon this ghost? Someone he couldn't really touch, that couldn't grow old with him, and couldn't meet his "folks."
"I will look forward to it," the ghost smiled at him unabashedly.
"I'll bring you some books, or something," Trowa said, nodding to himself unconsciously, his more base brain facilities trying to bolster his confidence in his sanity.
"I would appreciate that very much," the ghost nearly whispered in his delight.
Trowa stepped forward, took the case in one hand and waved goodbye to the ghost with the other.
He could have sworn that he'd seen some deep ennui in the specter's eyes as he left, but it could have just been his wishful imaginings that he would be wanting with his leaving.
Replacing the violin where he'd found it happened without incident.
It was when he was about when he was halfway down the stairs that it happened.
There was a loud thunderous stomping behind him as if a horse had taken up chase behind him. The banister began to rattle and the paneling beneath him groaned and popped under the strain of the beast Trowa had neither the prescence nor the desire to see.
He ran for all he was worth.
About four steps to the ground floor, a gust of force hit his back and sent him down the rest of the way.
He landed huddled on his side, and took the opportunity to glance back at from whence he had come.
There was nothing there.
The stairs were silent and still.
More angry than he was afraid, he pushed off from the floor and dusted himself off, readjusted his backpack, and left.
TBC...
note(s):
1. Springbreak is soon! Just imagining what I can do with all that extra time makes me drool
2. Sorry if I'm making the characters go OOC. It's not my intention; Trowa seems to be more sociable than he ought to be...oh well, things change
3. Stradivarius is a really really frickin' famous violin series made back in the something century. Their sound is supposed to be the best. A Hellier Stradivarius is supposed to have ornate engravings on it, at least, from my understanding.