Chapter 5: …Another One Isn't Guaranteed to Open
A/N: Wow guys, you all are pretty awesome. I really didn't expect anyone to really respond to this, especially since it was never pre planned, but you all have made my day. Because of that, I'm going to make and even meatier chapter. Hope you all enjoy (rest of A/N is after the story)
oooOOOooo
The golden lights pierced through his tuxedo sleeve, making his skin slightly slick with sweat.
He was nervous. Why was he nervous? He had done this before.
He straightened his tie, fastening it with a little too much strength, and stepped onto the podium. It was a flimsy thing, barely supporting his sturdy weight, but he managed to keep both feet pressed together. Chin up, shoulders back, chest raised. His mantra had not failed him so far; his own superstition, of sorts.
Staring down at the persons in front of him made him feel powerful, respected. He smirked in pride, studying the faces that waited on his cue. He controlled them in that aspect; every movement they dared to make was at his call, and it created a surge in him that was electrifying. He lifted his arm, feeling the familiar power as it elevated, and brought it to peripheral of his eye. The audience drowned in silence, yet their attention was solely on him. Watching for the rhythmic dance that would exist in his fingertips. Praying that he would cast their existence away, if only for mere hours, and replace it with something his own; something more soothing than the pains of fussy children and draining jobs.
And he would bless them; he would be their god, his justice merciful and forgiving.
So he brought his wrist down.
The music washed over him in colors; setting his olive skin aflame with fuchsias and yellows and teals. He could almost taste the notes if he tried hard enough, and each one was a sugar cube on his honeyed tongue. His knees almost buckled at the euphoria of it all, but he kept his composure and indulged in his vice further.
He studied their faces as the cellists prepared to bundle their notes in the other musicians' blanket of pizzicato. He had especially loved composing that part; he envisioned it as riding down a river on his back; the dusk creeping on him as he lost himself in the awe of nothingness. Sweet, tragic, and most importantly, captivating.
But something was off, in the name of a violinist. It was an annoying bug in his ear at first, and he figured a stern look would set the musician straight, but now it was ridiculous. The flat note was getting louder as the man plucked away on his string with such force that it threatened to snap. He looked at the player with complete hatred and disgust. How dare this man filth his composition with such immature playing? The man was smiling at him, a sly grin that was as gleeful as it was poisonous, and stood up, walking closer to the podium. He plucked harder as he walked, his heavy feet following in synchronized steps. The orchestra kept playing, their eyes trained on their god, not even bothering to look at their sheets. It unnerved him, the entire scene, but the man was closer now and his uneasiness was replaced with rage.
He opened his mouth to speak but the music choked him; his words getting lost in chords and staccatos. The man was bold, he had to admit, to disrupt the concert. His concert. He would ruin this man's career, whoever he was. The lights were so blinding, and to his most recent observation he realized he couldn't make out the man's face. There was, however, no denying the sharp point that his flamed hair came abruptly to. He raised an eyebrow at the finding. Why was this man's style so familiar, and furthermore, why did everyone in the orchestra have the same hairdo?
More of the players started to sour their notes, almost intentional, standing up in defiance and grinning at him. What was their problem? Why were they set on humiliating him like that? He wanted to lower his arm; stop conducting and yell at them all and call them third chair idiots. But his arm had its own agenda, dancing along to the beat in perfect rhythm and synch. It made his stomach churn.
The audience was a still kind of quiet, similar to twilight painting a forest, their appreciative eyes begging for more, as if they weren't already emerged in the dark shadows of bliss. They were greedy; he wondered how much more he could give. He questioned their sanity for a brief moment before focusing back on his own orchestra. Why couldn't he stop? At the very least, he just wanted to get the hell out of there.
"You're doing great darling!"
That voice. The familiarity of it created a tingle in his stomach that was unforgiving, and he nearly doubled at the sound of its sweet melody. He turned, letting his arm continue its snake charm, and found the source. A woman, based on her figure that was all but swallowed in shadow, waved to him from the upper balcony. She was leaning so dangerously over the edge and he wanted to tell her that she should move backward. But his voice was inaccessible.
"Are you playing for me? I certainly hope so! This sounds like the one you wrote all those years ago!"
His perception of the music changed. This was an old piece, and he bathed in the memories at his nostalgia. He had written it with a heart drenched in affection…
"Oh, I love that part!" She clenched her chest and closed her eyes, her body leaning more and more over the railing. "Yes, darling, you know how much I love the cello! And you play it so well, so beautifully! How did I get so lucky to have you?"
He wanted to tell her he knows that. He wanted to tell her he loved the feeling of the bow against the string because it was made from the structure of her smile. He wanted to tell her that she was too close to falling and that she needed to sit down.
"Oh, Vegeta. You've made me so happy with your talent. I just know the rest of the world is going to love you as much as I do." She opened her eyes and looked at him with the warmth of the sun, and for a moment he could see her clearly. His eyes widened, moistened in the corners, and yet he still could not reach out to her. She tossed something at him, a rustic gold object, and blew him a kiss. And then she fell.
He heard the sickening crunch of her bones snapping and his mouth gaped in horror. He wanted to scream in mourning, but all he could do was stare. His arm kept betraying him, swaying to the growing off key of tone. Why was this still going on? She had just fallen to her death in front of them all, and no one batted an eye.
The music still played on.
And no one noticed her.
oooOOOooo
Vegeta sat up abruptly, his chest racing to catch up with his labored breaths. He fought to bring himself back to reality, the haze of his dream slowly wearing thin around his vision.
He ran his fingers through his course mane and took a deep breath. He didn't want to think about things like that, and yet his brain decided to make it a motion picture presentation for him. He was just as cruel to himself as he was to others, apparently.
He placed his feet against the cold wood of his apartment and glanced at the clock in front of him. 3:42 pm. He wasn't even supposed to be napping; he was supposed to be composing. The papers taunted him then, brushing against his foot. He had only managed to write notes for three bars. Great.
Standing up and stretching, Vegeta shook his head from the hellish nightmare that still attached itself to him like a scored shadow. If he had the power to unplug memories from his brain, he would be all the better for it in the long run. He glanced around his cramped apartment and sighed. He had been sleeping in his living room for the past year because his piano, cello, bass, saxophone and other instruments and accessories had completely taken up any comfortable space in his home. He knew better when he moved here in the first place, but at the time he wasn't thinking and was making decisions on auto pilot. Now he was prepared to change that.
His real estate agent had told him about a spacious, factory style apartment in South City's industrial district. The asking price was cheaper than he would have guessed, and he was told that he would be able to fit all of his instruments in with additional room to spare. He was sold in that aspect, despite not having seen it yet. Even though he arranged to view it Friday, his impatience and current mood demanded that he see it now. The old mad would have to oblige; who else would buy a property in such a noisy, polluted part of town? And to buy it completely off of his hands for good? Vegeta would lose any ounce of respect for the man if he complained, and losing respect in his eyes meant his sharp tongue came out to play.
He groomed himself over and tossed on his coat. The crisp winter day yawned at the promise of slumber, producing a tight wind that rustled Vegeta's hair. He briskly walked to his car and dialed the old man's number. Maybe seeing where he would be staying would erase the weight in his shoulders. He hoped the walls would be white, an indication of a fresh start, instead of the uncharacteristically warm yellow ones that he saw daily. Ones that were too bright, too old, and too full of screaming anxieties from his past.
Yes, white would be the perfect color.
oooOOOooo
"Come on in Vegeta, I guess you're who I've been expecting."
Vegeta eyed her curiously before taking the bait and stepping inside. He had never seen the woman before in his life, and with her bright teal hair color it would definitely be hard to forget her, and yet she was everywhere he turned lately. He could barely tolerate Yamcha enough as it was, and now the woman he was dating would be popping in and out of his daily routine as well? He certainly wasn't letting that happen without a fight.
"Where is the older man I spoke with, Dr. Briefs?" A scowl painted his face, the lines of his cheek sharpening with his tense jaw. He folded his arms across his chest and glared at her. "I would like to handle this professionally."
She put her hands on her hips, allowing all of her weight to fall to one side as she met his hard gaze. Her blue moons that she called eyes hardened like cement. "And just what makes you think that I'm not capable of the job? This property is just as much mine as it is my father's."
"You don't say?" He eyed her up and down then, taking in her black overalls that were possibly a size too small as it practically devoured her figure, and her wild hair that was an attempt at an updo. She settled on dust as makeup it seemed, and if Vegeta didn't know her already he would assume she was a squatter. "Do you always conduct business matters looking like a beggar?"
Bulma blinked her large eyes in his direction and he could see the contained fire that ignited beneath them. "E-Excuse me?! Just who in the hell do you think you're talking to?! You want to buy my property and you dare insult me like that?!"
"Exactly, I do want to buy your property, and if you're set on ruining that then please keep screeching at me like a banshee."
"The nerve of you!" She closed her eyes, pressing her lips into a tight line as she tried to regain whatever composure she had left. "Perhaps we have gotten off on the wrong foot." She cleared her throat and managed to paint a porcelain smile on her lips. She caught his gaze, a stare so sharp that it contradicted the curves of her mouth. "I would like to perhaps show you around the lot if you are interested in buying it-"
"I don't need a spiel," he turned on her, leaving her fuming, and walked near the bookcase on the wall, "I don't waste my time and I'm already here. It's obvious I want to buy it." He looked at the literature on the shelf, and grimaced at the thick layer of dust that collected it. Splotches of paint replaced the wood, leaving Vegeta quizzical. "Titian, Raphael, Michelangelo. I see the last tenant was a fan of the Renaissance pieces."
"Perhaps," Bulma squint her eyes at him curiously, before shaking her head. She was used to Yamcha asking "Who's that babe?", even when she assumed that everyone should know those painters at least. But Vegeta was no Yamcha, it seemed. Of course someone of his fine musicianship had a broad knowledge of various arts.
"Do I get to keep the artwork too?"
"W-what?" Bulma was pulled out of her trance as she regained sight on Vegeta again. He was staring at her now, annoyed.
"The pieces of art," he pointed down to the various canvases that lined the walls, "I want to know if they come with the apartment."
"Oh!" Bulma hurried to one of them, trying frantically to turn them around. "Don't pay attention to those…" she clumsily knocked one over, adding to her anxieties. Her father really should have told him not today. "These stupid things aren't for sale, not that anyone would buy them."
"Why not?" Vegeta looked offended at her words, glaring at her as if she were incompetent. "I assume the current leaser isn't coming back for their items. It looked like they've already ravaged through the good things. The paintings aren't that great that you'd want to hang on to them."
Bulma let out an exasperated sigh as she chuckled in disbelief. Vegeta watched her with confusion. Apparently he had touched a nerve, but he wish she wouldn't be so sensitive. He was willing to buy everything at this point and save them the trouble if she would let him sign the damn papers already.
"You are a piece of work," she let out before standing up straight, her chest out and shoulders perched back. "I'm the current leaser here, okay? And these paintings aren't for sale because they're mine."
"As in you painted them?" He didn't believe her, or rather he didn't want to. Then he'd be forced to give a compliment, and he'd rather do so many other things than stoop to that level of gratitude.
"Yes I painted them! As it so happens, this was supposed to be my own art studio, but…" she looked off in the distance, staring out of the large square-tiled windows. The purple sky cast shadows on the side of her face and Vegeta took in how sad she looked in that moment. She blinked away whatever it was and sighed. "Things happen. And we can't let it stay without an occupant while we pay for an empty space so that's where you come in."
He nodded and looked around the space again. It looked like it was used for a shoe factory instead of a home, but it was perfect for what he needed to do. High ceilings that domed overhead, spacious without a lot of wall dividers, windows that doubled as walls themselves. It was the perfect recipe for someone to play their hearts out, and he knew finding another spot would be troublesome.
The paint splotches continued throughout the apartment, and for a moment Vegeta imagined how many nights she had spent in here working on her pieces. He looked at them again, the fine detail that she spent in perfecting skin tone. The light wisps of color that seemed almost angelic, ethereal. She was very talented; just looking at one alone made a melody itch the sides of his brain and he knew that he would soon have to sit down to write it out. He wondered why she hadn't taken off on her own as an artist yet. He knew of the Briefs, of Capsule Corporation. He knew who she was as soon as she said her last name, but he knew nothing of her. Why live in the shadows of someone else's gift when you had your own to behold? The thought was maddening.
"So?" She brought him out of his thoughts, and he looked at her. "Are you interested?"
"I suppose. It would make a nice place for my music."
"Oh!" Her face lightened as he mentioned that and he didn't miss it. Curiosity tickled him as he wondered what had changed her mood, but thought better than to ask. "Are you planning on living here or using it as a studio?"
"Both."
"Really? I thought you were a penthouse kind of guy, not urban/industrial studio man. Is there a reason, or-"
"That's none of your concern." He cut her off sharply and turned to face her completely. "I didn't come here for an interview, I came here to look at the place to see if I like it. And now I want to buy it, so can I sign the damned papers and be on with it, or do you want to play another round of twenty questions?"
She dropped her mouth in awe, unable to wrap her head around his words. He wanted to chuckle; he never knew how entertaining it was to ruffle the feathers of this bird.
"How is it even remotely possible that someone that is such an asshole can be so magnificent when he's conducting?! How!?" Her words dripped with acid and she was practically shrieking.
"If I wasn't who I am, the music would have a very different outcome. If you like it so much, then you should consider yourself lucky that I'm such an asshole."
"Do you even hear yourself?! It's like your some kind of different person! Up there on stage you were so…so…regal and powerful! But right now you're just a douchebag with a terrible personality!"
"You say that like you have even the slightest clue as to who I am."
"Getting to know you seems impossible! I'm trying to close out this deal and we can't even do that without arguing."
"Then perhaps you should stop talking."
"I-!" If she were a cartoon character, Vegeta was sure that someone would draw fumes coming out of the side of her head. She took a few deep breaths and struggled to regain herself. "Listen, I don't know why you're so impossible, but there's no need to bring me down with you."
"You're a grown woman capable of making her own decisions. Surely you don't have to banter with me if you choose not to."
"Whatever! I don't have the papers with me for you to sign. My father has them at his office, so you'll have to stop by there in the morning to finalize everything. I was asked to show you the place, and I did that. Satisfied?"
"Not entirely."
"Well what's the problem?" She said through practically gritted teeth, swallowing the harsh words that wanted to climb the ladder of her throat.
"This is a rather large space," Vegeta eyed the blank walls that screamed at him. "And I don't have many things to decorate them with. I would like the pieces you have here to adorn them." He clenched his jaw and looked away from her stare. "They're inspiring," he said so low that she almost didn't catch it.
Her stance relaxed them, her pink pouty lips forming into a small circle as he eyes rounded. "Inspi-inspiring?" She scratched her head and smiled lightly, just in time for Vegeta to catch it, thrown off by her light and airy voice change. "You really think so?"
"Look, I'm not here to stroke your inflated ego, Miss Briefs-" he wanted to continue on with his serpent tongue, but something in her eyes made him stop. He recognized that look; he once wore that look. It was the look of someone who was insanely talented, but for whatever reason had doubts. And those doubts personified fear when others around didn't give helpful critique. He couldn't be a hypocrite to the arts; it was all he had left. He sighed as he watched he eyes dance over curiosity, waiting for him to save her faltering hope. He wasn't even at a concert, yet here he was conducting this conversation.
"I don't know what you want me to tell you, but they're good. You have a gift, and it would allow me to keep a creative space."
Her eyes shone then, as if he had brought her back to life with his words. The blues in her orbs intensified marvelously, encompassing him with their weight. They were like oceans that glittered under the mid-day sun, and for a second Vegeta wondered what it would be like to swim in them. Drown in them.
He looked away from her, but not before the heat of his cheeks flushed his words.
"Thank you," she said softly, and he saw her staring at her feet through the corners of his eyes. She looked grateful, her cheeks resembling his own. "I know I've already said it, but I think you're an amazing conductor. Watching you up there was so…surreal…and it got me in a creative mood. So there's one painting in particular you can't have, and that's because it's not finished. But the rest are yours. I could show it to you when it's finished," she said meekly, like a child asking for a cookie they don't know if they'll get, and looked at him through fluffy blue lashes, "if you want. Since you'll be here and all."
Vegeta watched her from the corner of his eyes penetratingly. How had the conversation turned so quickly? First they were arguing, and now she was pretty much telling him that she would come back to show him the painting? Like he was an old friend that admired her work? And why was she looking at him like that? Her lashes bounced as she blinked, her cheeks rosy from her bought of anger, her pillowed lips slightly parted…
He cleared his throat, suddenly uncomfortable. The air in the room was thickening and he didn't like it. "That won't be necessary," he said with clipped words as he moved past her, "I'll take what you'll allow me to have. Tell your father I will sign the papers in the morning at his office." He buttoned his long black coat to his neck and slipped on his gloves. He opened the door, letting a draft in and causing Bulma to shiver.
"See you around, Vegeta," she called after him, "I can't wait to see what you've done with the place."
There she was again. Making statements like she was going to be coming around more often. What was her deal? Didn't she know who he was? The scar faced idiot was her boyfriend, didn't she say he filled her with horror stories? She had all but called him a monster in their initial meeting, so what did she think she was trying to do?
He signed up for an apartment, not a side kick buddy with distractingly blue hair and a loud mouth.
He didn't like this. He didn't like this at all.
oooOOOooo
A/N: So thank you guys so much again from the bottom of my Vegeta filled heart! Thanks for the reviews and the messages and everything! It made me want to give you guys a little something more! I had to hold myself back from giving all the Vegebul goodness in this chapter, which of course due to plot development, pacing and the characters so far can't happen yet. But ooohhhhh I can't wait for it.
Definitely be prepared for more concert Veggie, especially now that he's found a place of his own. I really hope you guys enjoyed this! R&R please!
Until next time my friends,
Bitchii-usa.
PS: I know that some of the readers here may be from Tumblr, but if you're not and you want to add me and fangirl with me, feel free to follow me and I will follow back! Tumblr name is Bitchii-usa as well.
