2. an attitude with sheer talent.
Arthur rapped his knuckles on the blue door of the flat. "It's me," he said very loudly, so that the people on the other side of the door would hear him.
"Door's unlocked," came the answer.
Arthur let himself inside the spacious home of Roma Vargas. The wooden floors were as pristine as they usually were, polished and shiny, and looking around, Arthur could see that Roma had hung yet another painting of an Italian vineyard on the cream-colored walls. He slipped off his trainers and breathed in the smells of tomato sauce and melting mozzarella that always hung around in the flat. A fancy stereo system was wired through the flat, and it was currently blasting an upbeat electro-rock song. Arthur bobbed his head along to the beat. "Who's this?"
Roma shuffle out of the kitchen, holding two steaming pastel-colored mugs. He was looking down with a very nervous look on his face, like he was afraid of them slipping out of his hands and shattering on the floor. "Hold on, hold on, hold on…"
He set one of them down with relief, and handed the other to Arthur, who accepted it gratefully and took a long swig. Roma always made Earl Gray for him when he visited.
"They're American," said Roma, crashing down on the soft black-leather couch. "They're called The Strokes; I think you've heard of them."
"I have," Arthur said. "But I haven't heard this song."
"It's new," Roma said. He closed his eyes and exhaled. "I'm just completely obsessed with it! I can't seem to stop listening to it!"
"Me neither!" Feliciano piped up, laughing, and he skipped out of the kitchen and into his room with a bowl of gelato in his hand.
Arthur scoffed good-naturedly at the weirdness of the Vargases and sat down on the couch also. No matter how hard he tried, a small grin worked its way across his face as he dropped his schoolbag at his feet. Surely Roma had more sense not to swoon over a song like a fangirl and a Japanese comic book, but he supposed the man was as emotionally mature as his youngest grandson.
"So what are we going to do today?" he asked the Italian native, who had closed his eyes and was tapping his foot to the song. "Are we going to work more with bass? Because I think I've got a better feel for it now—"
"Arthur," Roma said with a sudden seriousness to his voice that Arthur wasn't used to. "Be quiet for a moment."
The blond boy looked up, surprised. Roma breathed in and exhaled.
"I know."
Arthur's unusually thick eyebrows crinkled together in confusion. "What? I don't follow, sorry."
"South Premier Queen's Residential Academy. I know that you applied and got in."
Arthur swallowed uneasily, and tried to laugh—it came out very bitterly and very forced-sounding. "What—that's rubbish, that is—"
"Don't lie to me, Arthur. You've walked through that door nearly every single day for the past three years; I think I know well damn enough to know when you're lying." Roma adjusted the cross necklace around his neck. "And you're lying right now."
"I—no, what—"
"What, Arthur? What?"
"…I didn't—It wasn't supposed to…" Arthur yanked his hair, which was quite painful seeing how his hair was quite short. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
And he really was sorry. The guilt had formed a little hard stone in the pit of his stomach. His eyes were cast downward, towards his black socks, studying the way his toes curled like a little boy's. He didn't dare look up into Roma's golden gaze, into the frown of disappointment on his face. Roma was the last person in the world he wanted to let down.
There was a heartbeat of silence, before Arthur heard Roma shift in his seat. "When were you going to tell me?" the Italian man asked quietly.
"I—I didn't know you knew," stammered Arthur after a moment's hesitation.
"Nothing gets past my Lovi," said Roma with a touch of affection at the mention of his grandson. "Isn't that right?" he added at the teenager with dark hair who had just come in and was pulling his shoes off at the doorway.
"Shut up," Lovino growled, and he disappeared into his room.
"How?" Arthur tentatively looked at Roma, and found the Italian's eyes closed with only a trace of a smile on his face.
"He's in your form, if you've forgotten so quickly." Roma shrugged.
Arthur looked down into his cup of tea again.
"Fourth year," Roma said with an odd inflection of voice. "Changing schools in the middle of your secondary education."
Maybe Roma wasn't intending to do this, but Arthur felt very awkward. Roma was someone he usually opened up to easily, but now… now, it felt like Roma was a complete stranger. Like when they'd first met on the streets of Liverpool.
"Why?" asked Roma when Arthur remained silent, and Arthur felt compelled to answer. With difficulty, he opened his mouth and moved the leaden muscle in his mouth.
"I just… I didn't think I could take it anymore… the people at school and John and Ian—" Arthur cut off; his throat had closed up suddenly and pressure had unexpectedly built up in his chest. "I just… I had to get out," he burst out finally, and so did the tears in his eyes. He cursed them. He wasn't sure what his problem was, crying all the bloody time in front of the one person he most admired and looked up to, blubbing and making a mess like he was just a child—
He was caught in a crushing hug. The fabric pressed up against his nose smelled like cologne and lasagna and the musty scent of guitar wood.
"Arthur. It's okay," said Roma softly. "I believe in you."
Arthur opened his eyes a little wider as the tears kept flowing. Roma kept talking.
"Arthur, I know you. I know you have suffered. You've suffered and fought and struggled; you've held the burden of raising yourself for the longest time after you lost your mother; you've tried so many times and failed so many times. Your own family has pushed you down and kicked you around and held you back and molded you into a bitter and contemptuous person. For the longest time you have lived on your own, without anything to anchor you to the world.
"But you found your way. You found your gift, your God-given gift. You found the music inside you.
"The last three years I've taken you in and taught you guitar and bass and piano and shown you music in all its genres—not just rock, but pop and hip-hop and classical and jazz and dance and techno. I've seen you absorb everything and take it into yourself. I've seen you grow and mature and develop. I've seen you get loads better at everything, I've listened to your compositions, I've fed you good Italian food"—here Arthur couldn't resist a little bit of a smile; the food really was good—"and I've heard you develop the sound of Arthur Kirkland.
"And I want you to know this.
"I love you so much. I love you as much as I love either Lovino or Feliciano. And I know, that you, Arthur James Henry Kirkland, are destined for great things. You are going to one day make your mark on the world, wherever you go, whatever you are going to do." Roma smiled at him gently. "I believe in you."
Arthur said nothing; the amount of emotion inside of him was too great to be put into words.
"Now come on," said Roma kindly, some of the spark coming back into his golden eyes. "I have something to give to you."
With a nudge, Arthur was coaxed up out of the couch, and into the bare bedroom with the piano and guitar in it, the room he'd walked into so many times for the last three years. But there was something different about the room (and it wasn't the fact that the walls had been repainted a pale sky blue).
In the middle there were three cases, all guitar-shaped, all slim hard cases of high quality and texture on the outside. Bronze clasps ran around the sides of the cases. The long one was colored a dark blue like the Irish Sea. The smallest of the three was a sort of maroon color, and the last, biggest case was black. Arthur trembled to think about what could possibly in them. Knowing Roma, probably something good.
Roma opened them, and Arthur felt his jaw drop.
In the black case lay a lovingly used acoustic guitar, the same one that Arthur had seen the first day he'd met Roma on the street—black with a golden rim. The red one held an electric guitar that was black, like the acoustic guitar, but it had a golden pattern of swirls and dots and thorns that crawled across the surface. The long blue case had a red bass that faded to a golden yellow near the bridge.
"My babies," Roma said fondly, his amber eyes glistening with nostalgia. He picked up the bass, studying the grain of wood streaking across its body. "And I'm giving them to you."
Arthur shook his head. "What? No, no… I can't take these."
"You should," said Roma emphatically. "And you're going to. I have no use for them anymore; I've other guitars to use." He tapped the strings and they echoed faintly and metallically in the spacious room. "They should be in good condition. Well, the strings can be replaced, maybe, since they look awfully worn, but that should be fine."
"But… they're yours!" Arthur protested. "I couldn't possibly—no!"
"Yes, you can." Roma put his hands on Arthur's shoulders. "Take them. Make a name for yourself. SPQR won't know what hit them."
"SPQR Academy," Arthur corrected, in a daze.
"It doesn't matter," Roma said, his amber eyes boring into Arthur's own green eyes. "I believe in you."
Arthur's heart jumped, and suddenly it was Roma wrapped in a crushing hug, with just two words to accompany it.
"Thank you."
.
"Sir?" Someone's hand shook Arthur's shoulder very hard. "Sir? Are you awake?"
Arthur grumpily pried his eyes open and squinted up into the concerned face of the train guard. It was annoyingly bright and hard to see, the sun streamed brightly through the windows of the compartment.
"Sir, we've arrived at Kings' Cross," said the driver. "Is this your stop?"
Bloody hell. He'd fallen asleep on the train. How long had the ride even been? A couple hours?
"Yes, sorry," he said hurriedly at the scrunched-up frown of the guard. "I'm getting up right now."
And he stood up so fast that his head started spinning and he nearly fell over.
"Careful, please," said the man, and Arthur shook his head swiftly. He picked up his rucksack and his three guitars and stumbled out of the compartment, still drunk with sleep.
"Your trunk, sir," said the man, holding it out to him, and Arthur groaned. He didn't want to carry another goddamn load. He angrily took the trunk and slung his guitars over his shoulder. With heavy, leaden feet he trudged out onto the platform of crowded people, not even bothering to look at the sign that read "Platform 9 3/4" and the fake trolley stuck in the wall under it. To be bloody honest, he didn't care. He was too tired to really care.
He flagged down a taxi, and after about twenty minutes, it pulled into a campus full of teenagers milling around, weighed down by trunks and bags and the like. Looking out the window, Arthur could feel a flood of bitterness in his throat; the kids had already sectioned off into groups. Great. He was never going to fit in here.
He wished suddenly that Roma was here with him, with his loud Italian laugh and his oddly childish eagerness and twinkling amber eyes, but he wasn't. He would have come if London hadn't been so bloody far away and if Feliciano and Lovino had been any less of a handful. And Arthur could take care of himself. That's what Roma had said, anyway.
Sighing, Arthur paid the driver and got out of the car. Then he dragged himself all the way to Eckland Residential Hall (or so the sign proclaimed), up the stairs to room 218, and flung open the door.
He was so tired he didn't have the slightest clue where he was going and when his foot hit something very hard and painful, he almost sat back and watched his world flip upside-down… that is, until his face rammed down violently onto the hard floor. His nose squashed down uncomfortably and he felt something wet and viscous clog it up.
He lifted his head and saw red liquid forming a very tiny puddle on the hardwood. So that's what that was.
A snort behind him sounded from the doorway, and Arthur turned around to see a pale, slim boy standing there. He was rather tall, with a cocky expression on his whitish face and eyes like the drops of blood bleeding from Arthur's nose—dark red. He'd thrown on a red jacket over a white button-down, both of which were left open to display a black shirt with something written on it in grungy letters. One hand was brushing white-blond hair off his forehead, and the other was jammed in the pocket of his dark jeans.
Arthur hated him immediately.
"Shut it," he said rather crossly, narrowing his green eyes at the boy, and gingerly pressed his nostrils together.
"Sorry, couldn't really resist," said the other boy, not apologetic at all. Arthur widened his eyes slightly in shock; the boy had a scouser accent like he did. The guy couldn't be from Liverpool, could he? He looks like a git. He is a git.
There was a very tense silence where neither of them said anything, but glared judgmentally at each other. Arthur saw the other boy's reddish-violet eyes surveying Arthur with distaste.
Arthur looked down at his clothing, which consisted of black skinny jeans, a dark faded Beatles T-shirt that Roma had given him (Roma had pretty much given him everything that was really worth owning) and a purple hoodie jacket with green paint splatters artfully splashed all over. Arthur was suddenly very aware that he had multiple steel studs pierced in his ears and in his face (two on each lobe and one in the top part of his left ear, along with a ring around his lip, to be precise). He was also aware of the dyed red hair that swept over his forehead; a sort of rebellious act to annoy his ungrateful siblings, who had more ginger hair. Lastly, he was aware of the somewhat-scary effect this had on people who saw him.
The other boy only sniffed, and looked disdainfully at Arthur. "Gilbert Beilschmidt," he said loftily. "You?"
"Why would you care?" Arthur asked with a nasty edge of tone. The name sounded vaguely familiar, but it wasn't like he was about to reveal that. He stood up and shrugged off his rucksack.
"I care," Gilbert began, "because I'm going to be your roommate."
That made more sense. Arthur had seen that name on the list of room assignments down in the lobby. Arthur sniffed. This was certainly going to be a fun year. He very much already wanted to throw something at Gilbert's head.
It was a beautiful start to a long and beautiful friendship.
.
The bell chimed on the warm autumn day. The British boy strode across the grassy fields of the school with purpose.
It was four o'clock, time for tea. Oddly enough, though, Arthur wasn't really in the mood for tea. He'd already drunk enough Earl Grey to probably keep him up for a week straight, and he wasn't exactly in the mood for sandwiches. Even if he'd discovered that in the month he'd been at SPQR that the food was downright delicious. Especially the scones. He wasn't sure why people avoided them like the plague, but he'd already managed to sneak a couple at breakfast and wasn't in the mood for any more.
He felt like going to his dormitory. So he was going to his dormitory.
He climbed up the stairs, feeling very mature in his school blazer and nice trousers and everything. What a crazy, deluded fool he was. A very nicely dressed fool with a bag full of books.
He opened the door.
"—and so ze value of x would be ze same as ze value here because—"
"What," Arthur interrupted, his voice tense with annoyance. "What is going on?"
Three pairs of eyes looked up. The first of which was reddish purple, the second green like unripe grapes, the third blue as a clear, cloudless sky.
"Oh, well," Gilbert said, with a smirk and a little flip with his short whitish hair, "I decided to invite Francis and Antonio over for a cram session; I hope you don't mind."
Two teenage boys sitting on the floor waved to Arthur. The first person, the boy with green eyes, grinned cheerfully and hugged his knees to his chest. He had tanned skin and brown hair that was tousled and messy. Like Roma's.
Arthur inhaled, exhaled and eyed the other boy dubiously, who had shoulder-length blond hair and a handsome, broad face. The sleepy smile on his face sent a prickle of distaste through Arthur's spine and he could catch a whiff on some kind of expensive cologne. God, the frogginess is just drippingoff of him.
"Hey…" Arthur narrowed his eyes at Francis. "Are you… French?"
Francis looked taken aback slightly. "Um… yes… Yes, I'm French."
Arthur's skin seemed to crawl, and he shrank away from the French boy, nearly tripping over a stray textbook. "Get out!" he yelled in disgust, his green eyes squinted up in annoyance.
"I—sorry?" Francis said weakly, hurt showing on his face.
"Get! Out!" Arthur snapped. "Get out! Get out, get out, get out!"
"Desolée—I mean, I'm sor—"
"Shut. Your. Trap." Gilbert said, his red eyes flashing. "This is my room and Francis is my friend. You will not treat him like this."
"Who died and made you King of England?" sniped Arthur, matching the loathing in Gilbert's voice. "This is my bloody room, too. You could at least tell me when you bring in your froggy friends in my—"
"I'm sorry!" Francis managed to burst out, concern in his pale eyes, but Gilbert stepped forward to come nose-to-nose to Arthur.
"Don't. Call him. A frog," Gilbert said, with deadly intent. "Don't fucking call him a frog. Don't call him anything."
"Who are you to tell me anything?" Arthur said, matching Gilbert's tone. He was practically shaking with fury.
"Because I," began Gilbert, "am awesome. And you"—he cocked his head—"are not."
The rage was bubbling over now; Arthur could feel it boiling and spilling over in his gut. He couldn't believe the fucking nerve of this guy! To act like he was the boss with the simple, lame excuse that he was awesome? "Don't," he said, his voice shaking with barely suppressed emotion. "Don't cross me."
"Yeah?" scoffed Gilbert, and lifted his chin. "Try me."
They held each other's gazes for another moment, acid green burning into blood red, until a vibrating mobile broke the tension. Arthur, still glaring at his roommate, reached into his pocket to look.
Sadik Annan: where are you? we need a guitar, hurry up!
Arthur exhaled sharply and stepped back. He really ought to get going.
"This isn't over," he said darkly, and grabbed a grungy t-shirt and skinny jeans to change into. He wasn't about to wear his stuffy school uniform for the rest of the day, but he wasn't willing to change in the room right then, especially with that perverted frog looking on.
"E-enchanté," stammered Francis, and immediately bit his lip when Arthur fixed an annoyed green glower at him.
"Nice meeting you," said the tanned boy with an uncertain sort of cheerfulness, like he was afraid the Brit would explode into fury on him.
Arthur grabbed his electric guitar and gave the trio of boys one last glare before he closed the door.
He was better off without them.
.
It was nearly midnight when Arthur opened the door to his dormitory again.
He tried to sneak in quietly, but Gilbert stirred when he opened the door. The German boy sat up, blinking and squinting, and grunted softly. "The hell?" he muttered into the darkness, his voice echoing emptily in the shadows. Arthur sighed and flicked on the light. It was useless to try and pretend that Gilbert hadn't seen anything. And he couldn't see much anything in the dark, either; the stage lights had nearly blinded him.
Gilbert put a hand up to his eyes, eyes scrunched up in irritation. "What're you doing up so late?" he demanded, his voice sounding kind of quiet compared to the club that Arthur had played in. "You smell funny."
Arthur frowned and pulled the collar of his shirt to his nose. It smelled vaguely of sweat and alcohol and that dusty club smell that always hung around the stage. It was the smell of excitement and adrenaline and glitter and the grungy sound of the guitar. He could probably stand there smelling it forever, if not for keeping up the appearance of sanity. Dear God.
"It doesn't smell like anything," he lied, and pulled it off. Tiny beads of sweat still dribbled down the back of his neck and onto his shoulder blades.
"Uh, yes it does," Gilbert said, scoffing slightly with contempt. "I can smell the alcohol from here."
Arthur shrugged, and pulled on his pajamashirt. He didn't bother taking a shower; it was too late for that. There would be time for that tomorrow.
"Um… you know, you have a history exam tomorrow," Gilbert said, still looking at him with an odd look on his face.
"Yes, I know," Arthur said. "You don't need to be my planner; I've already got a mobile to do that for me." He yawned and flicked off the light. "Good night," he added sharply, and settled down as comfortably as he could in his bed. It wasn't actually too comfortable, but only because Arthur could still feel his blood pumping traces of adrenaline rush. He grinned into his pillow.
"You're breaking curfew," Gilbert said, with an edge of desperation. Like he was trying to get Arthur to care. The British boy almost laughed.
"And you don't all the time," retorted Arthur, rolling over. It was true. Gilbert often came back to the dorm past ten o'clock after "studying" with Francis and Antonio, though Arthur rather thought they did other things, since Gilbert never got good marks in his classes. What they did exactly, he didn't care much to figure out. He didn't like any of them, so why bother?
"Then what are you doing?" Gilbert demanded. He wasn't sleepy anymore, which was especially irritating. Arthur grunted in annoyance.
"Are you always this talkative at night?" he snapped back, and turned on his iPod. He needed music to study; he needed music to perform; he needed music for the sake of music, and of course he needed to sleep too. If he just focused on the riffs, how to play them, when to vibrate, when to bend the note so it slid up smoothly… he'd be nearly asleep in ten minutes.
As the song filled his ears, he couldn't help smiling to himself. It was scarcely twenty minutes ago that he was playing this, surrounded by colored smoke and lights and drunken idiots.
That was all right. Drunken idiots would always be drunken idiots.
But this? This would be his secret.
.
The next night, after successfully avoiding his German-British roommate, Arthur slipped on a grungy t-shirt (that would probably have to go in the wash soon, he thought with a sigh) and black jeans. Then he threw on a vest for good measure, because all of his other jackets were missing, and he always felt kind of exposed without something over his t-shirt. Damn Gilbert, he thought bitterly, and grabbed his guitar and headed out the door.
It wasn't hard. The buildings were ridiculously old, and the school hadn't bothered to install cameras or anything. The walls around the building weren't too high, once one got used to vaulting them. And the vines always helped, even if he ripped a couple in the process.
There was a van outside, waiting. It was turned off, for inconspicuity, but if Arthur squinted, he could make out the glow-in-the-dark stickers that decorated the sides. They were really tacky, Arthur thought, but they made his life easier, so he wasn't about to complain.
He was almost to the van when there was a crash and a rustling in the grass behind him. He paused for a second, his heart beating faster. Then his face was suddenly smashed in by a flat surface of dirt and grass. "Umfffph!" he groaned into the ground.
"I got you!" said a familiar, insufferable scratchy voice behind him. "You're sneaking off campus!"
"So're you!" Arthur grunted back. He heard the doors of the van sliding open and footsteps on the ground.
"What's going on?" demanded a deep voice. "Get off of him!"
The pressure on his back lifted, and Arthur rolled over, hugging his guitar protectively. Gilbert glared at him indignantly over him, as did several other faces—one that was kind of fair-looking in the darkness with a cigarette sticking out of his mouth (that was Jager), and another that was tanner, with stubble (Sadik). The fair-looking one was staring Gilbert down.
"What's wrong with you?" said the deep voice again, and Arthur sat up, yawning, thinking suddenly of his literature homework. Read chapters one to six and answer the following questions with thoughtful answers with at least ten sentences. Maybe he could finish it during lunch, since lit class was in the afternoon.
"I just wanted to know where he was going!" Gilbert whined, and Arthur scoffed. "What's with you?" the German boy added, looking at the British teenager.
"Nothing," said Arthur.
Jager checked his watch. "We'd better go; otherwise we won't have time to set up."
"What about the kid?" Sadik said, grabbing Gilbert by the collar (much to Arthur's pleasure).
Jager stared at it for a second, and ran a hand through his gelled-to-stand-up hair. "Let's just take him with us."
"Are you serious?" Arthur nearly yelled, and earned glares from both Sadik and Jager. "We can't bring him there!"
"We're going to have to," insisted the Dutchman, after taking a drag from his fag. "We don't have time."
And with that he jerked his head towards Sadik, and they all crammed into the van. Arthur was squished between another girl about their age with brown hair and green eyes (Elizaveta, the keyboardist, he remembered), and Sadik, who was cramming some kind of Asian crunchy snack into his mouth. Arthur wrinkled his nose slightly and turned to look the other way, which, unfortunately involved looking at Gilbo staring at Elizaveta, who had her eyes closed. Sure, Lizzie, as everyone affectionately called her, was pretty, but not much to Arthur's taste. Arthur wasn't even sure he was partial to that kind of thing.
He'd already found his love anyway, he thought, glancing fondly at his guitar.
It was good enough.
.
The show never seems to be long enough for Arthur. He could have stayed there all night if not for his algebra exam the next day, but maths were easy. Tedious. Unlike this.
The rush was always great. He could breathe in the alcohol and feel slightly dizzy, or he could breathe in the music with his guitar and feel adrenaline rush, but either way it was intoxicating. Leather and steel studs and strings, the thump of the drums, the smoke and the lights and the shadows, he could do that forever if he wanted to, just be one with the music and the crowd and the band…
And it was done. Well, nearly. They were playing last, and the people wanted an encore. So Arthur figured he could do a little something. Maybe.. .just… a little bit of revenge.
He nodded to Jager, and stepped up to the mike. "London!" he proclaimed, grinning widely—all an act, but performing it's so worth it—and waving a little bit. "Well, we're the last show tonight, so I hope you all don't mind that we're going to change it up a bit. Is that okay?" he asked them, and received a great cheer in response. There was an awful lot of people in the club that day; word had obviously gone around.
"So," Arthur continued over the cheers. "I actually brought a friend of mine to come see our show… Gilbert wherever you are, get up here!"
More cheers and clapping, and the German boy was hoisted onto the makeshift stage. He grinned and yelled "The awesome is here!" Arthur rolled his eyes.
"So Gilbo here," Arthur began again, throwing an arm around the other boy (Arthur really only wanting to get this over with, but Gilbert was milking it harder than a farmer did a cow), "has decided that he might—might!—join our little band here! So we're gonna let you decide for yourself, because this old boy right here is going to sing a song!"
The crowd cheered again; it was a bloody animal, Arthur thought. But tonight he didn't really care, so the thought was in and out of his head faster than he could really process it. All he was thinking about was Gilbert's murderous look over his shoulder, directed at Arthur and meant with I'm going to bloody get you for this later. Arthur nodded encouragingly, fake-smiling and shoved him gently towards the mike
"Yeah, um… hi," Gilbert said, and the crowd laughed. That gave him a bit more confidence, and he grinned. "Well, uh… if I completely blow this, then you know whose fault it is."
More laughter. Arthur rolled his head back, laughing. On another day he would have been offended, but the adrenaline and stage lights and everything had made everything brighter, and he couldn't really be bothered by it right now. He'd played one of his greatest sets ever; he was about to humiliate his horrid roommate. Nothing could touch him right now.
"So…" Gilbert said awkwardly. "Should we play something?"
"What do you know?" Jager said lazily. He fingered a random riff on his bass.
"You don't happen to know any Beatles, do you?"
Arthur snorted. It was an odd sound to make onstage, but he really couldn't resist. Gilbert made a face at him.
"Don't be stupid," Sadik said, twirling his sticks in the air. "Jager and I could probably play every single Beatles song recorded. Name it and challenge accepted."
Gilbert took a deep breath. "I Am The Walrus."
"A wise choice," Jager said, grinning. "Arthur, Lizzie, I'm going to assume you know that one, too."
Arthur nodded and grinned. He was ridiculously giddy. He'd never felt so damn happy; being on stage was just the best rush ever. He remembered the first time he performed with Jager and Sadik and Elizaveta—so exhilarating and empowering he was smiling so hard his face hurt. He was smiling really hard now. He might've been a tad too happy at the idea of Gilbert embarrassing himself., too, but right then he didn't care. He thought he would burst out laughing any second during the song, as Elizaveta began fingering it on her keyboard, and Arthur shifted his fingers to the first chord.
Gilbert took a deep breath.
"I am he as you are he and you are me and we are all together…"
Arthur nearly dropped his guitar—not that it would have really done anything, since he had his guitar strap over his shoulder.
But Gilbert… Gilbert was brilliant. Bloody brilliant.
It wasn't perfect. His singing was most definitely not perfect. A couple of his notes were flat intonation-wise. Sometimes it was thin and scratchy, too much so for Arthur's liking. Whenever he went to a higher register, his voice would strain slightly, and it didn't sound the greatest.
But he had talent. Raw talent.
His voice was amazing in that sense. Simply amazing. There was this mellowness he had, a certain kind of mellowness that came from deep within the chest, not the throat. And even then it still had the classic rock scratchiness, but only a smidge of it. Arthur licked his lips and forced himself to focus on the Lennon masterpiece that he was playing, and not the songs that bubbled forth to his own consciousness. The voice that sang them then was Gilbert's. He couldn't hear anyone else's voice anymore; just the obnoxious German boy who was his dorm mate, the obnoxious German boy who sang with a powerful soul that Arthur only channeled through his guitar. Arthur could sing, yes, and before it had been his own voice that sang… but now it was just Gilbert, all Gilbert.
Focus! Arthur shifted his fingers, and listened to the magic.
"Semolina Pilchard, climbing up the Eiffel Tower…"
It was over before he knew it. Gilbert's voice had stopped singing and was now shouting stupid things like "Hellooooooo London!" and "Make some noise!" He waved his arms around and he spun around on the balls of his feet like he was Elvis or someone like that, striking a pose and causing the girls to squeal.
Arthur, in the meantime, was simply standing there, letting the world run around him in a blur of color and alcohol and smoke and music. He could barely feel the wires under his shoes.
The voice. It'd changed his world. Gilbert hadn't even been trying. Arthur hadn't even been trying.
If he closed his eyes, he could see it. This vision. He could see it, hear it, taste it—the sweet taste of fame. Standing on the stage, guitar in his hands, criss-crossing the stage, spilling out of boxes and amps and everywhere. Stage lights hotter than the sun on his face, sweat pouring in buckets down his back. Gilbert headbanging in front of him, pouring his soul into the microphone and letting it spill out of the speakers. And then in the back. A tall boy with wild hair, pale wild hair with hands like blurs, they moved so fast…
Who? Arthur said to the boy. Who are you?
"Are you talking to someone?" asked a quiet voice behind him, and Arthur spun around to see Elizaveta looking at him with perplexed (and slightly amused, if he wasn't mistaken) eyes.
"Er, no one in particular," Arthur said quickly. He hadn't realized he was talking out loud. He swore under his breath. He must have come across as quite ridiculous, considering Elizaveta's amused look. And he gave a sheepish smile for good measure; Elizaveta was a sucker for his smiles. And he turned around to help Jager and Sadik clear off the stage.
But when he went to sleep that night, he couldn't shake that image from his head, that shining image of glory and stage lights.
And Gilbert next to him.
He couldn't get Gilbert's voice out of his head.
author's note~
Final word count: 6,038. …/shot (And it was going to be longer, too! Aghghhg)
Jager van Vliet = the Netherlands.
South Premier Queen's Residential Academy doesn't exist, sorry. /sweatdrop