BAZ

The ramparts are usually empty. That's part of why I like them. It's maybe 10:30 at night and everyone is in their own rooms. I continue to compose. I intend for this to be a melodic, romantic and yet sad song. And it comes out just so. Once I've finished my composition, I play the whole thing from the beginning just to see how it sounds all together. I'm quite satisfied with my work. I think Father might enjoy it as well. I'll be sure to show it to him over Christmas.

Suddenly, my peace is broken by a lightly-toned American accent. "Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair!"

A rope ladder springs out of nowhere, tying itself to the railing and cascading downward. Upon closer inspection I can see the rope is made out of golden colored... hair? I don't evwn need to glance over the railing to know who it is. Dylan. It doesn't take him long to climb the ladder and swing his legs over the railing. He is, however, a little winded by the time he places his feet on the solid flooring.

"Allister Crowley, Dylan! What are you doing?" I hiss at him. He grins back at me.

That damn grin. He's too cute and I'm bloody sure he well knows it. He's got this crooked little grin that shows off his round, slightly crooked little teeth. One of his front teeth is chipped.

"I heard something pretty coming from up here and I wanted to check it out," he says, his grin growing even bigger. (Is there anything this man doesn't grin about?)

"Okay, but why this?" I wave my bow in the direction of the hair ladder.

He looks over at it, then back at me. That damn stupid grin is still spread across half his face. "Because it seemed like a fun idea."

I groan. Why am I incapable of falling in love with a regular human being?

"Anywayssss," he starts. "Did you write that yourself? It sounded like you were writing it."

"I did," I say, leaning back against the railing and holding my violin and bow in place. "Would you like me to play it for you?"

He stares at me for a moment. He does this thing where he doesn't blink when he stares at someone or something. It's bloody intense and makes you want to hide. I cock an eyebrow at him in an attempt to make him do something. We stay like that for a few minutes. He still doesn't blink.

Suddenly, he looks to the side, a blush blooming at his ears. "That was very emotional. Its was sad. Beautiful, but sad. It felt lonely. Who'd you write it for?"

You. I wrote it for you, stupid. I'd like to say that, but I hold my tongue. Instead of responding, I close my eyes and begin to play.