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It is cold. Colder than any night had ever been before - and Antonio stands alone in the moonlight, holding a rose that had long since wilted, eyes cast against the sky woefully.
Are you listening, my love?
Can you hear me?
Tucking it into his blazer, his hands reach for the case sitting at his feet; shakingly reaching to retrieve his violin. He wonders if they’re there - if they can hear him. They’re the only one who understands… Who listens, and truly hears what it is he is trying to portray. It rests at his shoulder soon enough, beneath the crook of his chin.
The moonlit gardens were always so beautiful at this time of night. White roses sit pallor against the greenery, and he knows there is no audience.
No one had visited his manor for decades - cast aside when his only true passion became for the violin. How devastating it is, that he must be alone, and yet - and yet .
My love, you are the only one worthy of my grace.
He so enjoys the melancholy of the Chaconne; though this time he’s chosen to play the piece composed by Vitali; how ironic it is they share a namesake, how they share such a compelling… Devastating feeling.
How alone he is.
Those that had loved him left, for he had nary turned an eye towards his wife, his parents, his brothers, his sisters as he’d grown older.
“Why must you look at the violin with such affections, and yet they are not tendered to me?” She’d cried. “How is it that I have lost your attention to an inanimate object?”
“The violin is the only thing that is worthy of my grace,” he’d replied solemnly, turning back to her, eyes glassy as he cries not for the loss of her, but for the loss of his time.
Loss was a thing to be expected in an era like this. A man who had been born into upper class society had allowed him access to the emotional world of music, and as his frailer siblings passed despite the expensive doctors, he had no choice but to rely on such a thing. He remembers how happy they had been to watch him play, even as sick as they were.
He had so hoped he’d be healing them, as they listened to the soothing bowstrings of his violin. Had prayed to a God that would not listen, would not answer his desperate pleas for those around him to be safe and happy.
And soon, soon - he had been the only one left. Swept away by the hypnotising melodies that soothed his aching soul. Antonio had been expected to behave a certain way. Be polite, never allow your eyes to stray, remain on topic at all times and the greatest expectation of all - uphold the name of the family.
So when his wife had left him - the greatest dishonor he’d bestowed upon his family name, Antonio simply drew further into the musical world. The colours he created were oh so beautiful, the sounds filling the air with bright and whimsical shapes. When he played the melodies he’d played for his siblings, the colours were yellow, pink and orange.
When he’d played melodies of sorrow, they had become blue, dark shades of green and purple.
This is the colour that fills the air now. Such rumours - those who believed Antonio had been possessed by the devil simply from the words of his ex wife…
Perhaps he had been possessed. A being that would never leave his side, always listening, watching in wonder as he filled the air with the colours they said they could see too.
And yet…
They were gone now, too, and had left him for too long for Antonio’s heart to bear.
My love, return to me. Of this I beg…
He shuts his eyes, allowing for nothing but the sounds to overtake him. The colours were too much to bear when he had no one to share them with - and now he truly didn’t. There’s a hole in his chest where he knows his heart is, but the melancholy is too much. It’s so loud, louder than the music that he plays so desperately in the gardens, hoping - praying that maybe they’re listening.
Oh, how they listened.
Antonio remembers the first time they’d heard him play, stood within the empty confines of his estate manor, playing in the guest hall. They had been sitting, watching him from a chaise, eyes bright and wide.
“Your passion is one that I have never encountered before within my entire existence,” they’d said, lounging there as though they lived there.
He had been surprised to see them, never expecting anyone to even dare step foot within the halls.
The townspeople had said his house was haunted, and to step foot near it was unlucky - that one would become enthralled by the melodies that had played within it. He hadn’t left since his wife had left. Hadn’t the need to, and alone he resided, growing skinnier and more pale faced by the second.
Perhaps it was them, who had enabled him to dedicate himself to nothing but his performances. Truthfully, Antonio had grown to miss the audiences, and yet after the rumours his ex wife had spread about him, the seats soon became empty, and Antonio had played to nobody at all.
Until they came along.
“...Who are you?” He’d asked, turning, eyes wide. Shallow, seeing for the first time in years, another being.
But they don’t answer their name, and shake their head. “Please, continue. I want nothing more than for you to play to your heart’s desire.”
Antonio had obliged.
They’d sit and watch him play for hours, days passing, weeks, months.
He’d taught them how to play, once. When they’d asked him how exactly it was that he did it - how he’d made the sounds turn to colours, how they’d dance and play, even if the tune he’d picked to play was desolate and empty. Fingertips gently gracing theirs, stood behind them as he guided their hands gently to the rhythm of a tune unfamiliar to their ears.
A piece they had crafted together.
And yet, after they had left too, he hadn’t played it. Hadn’t dared to, because it brought in so much pain that it had grown unfathomable for him to do so unless they were there with him.
How he expects them to be sitting under the bandstand, fanning their face as they watch him with wonder in their eyes.
But they are not there.
Why have you left?
Why did you leave?
Where did you go?
Why - why….
Antonio realises he’s crying, and though the tears flow so freely from his face, he never stops playing. Louder and louder the music becomes, playing with a practised ease. Even if the tune grows distorted with his sorrow, beautiful in it’s own, broken way.
I can hear my heart breaking, darling.
I have never loved anyone more than I have the violin and even so…
It was always you.
There’s an ache behind his face, pain in his head and he feels weak, limp without their presence. Legs bending and bowing as he plays, tears falling against the deep mahogany hues of his favoured insturment.
His hair is tied back by a ribbon, one he’d been gifted by them - their hands carefully tying back his hair as he’d played, whispering concern that it might get caught.
And with a gust of wind, he feels it come undone, sweeping in front of his face and…
Am I to lose everything I had of you, my love?
It fades amongst the colours surrounding him, and he’d reach out to grasp at it, if the colours hadn’t grown far too bright, far too noisy for him to be able to stop.
He can’t stop. His hands move by themselves, and the sad tune shifts, changes. It’s familiar. It’s their song, he’s playing.
For a moment, Antonio swears he can feel arms wrapping around his waist. A kiss against his cheek, though his hair whips around him as the wind blows gusts of rose petals into the sky, starker than the stars above. Swears he could hear the whisper of their voice, and all of a sudden, Antonio can’t hear anything. He can’t hear, he can’t see, and it’s as though his face is splitting in three.
As though someone is prying his face open with their hands, and in the depths of his mind he wonders if he really did hear the soft whisper of,
“I’m sorry, my love.”
So when he finally collapses, and the feeling drains from his hands, from his very body… Someone lifts up his chin. Their eyes meeting, eyes that one might imagine to be soulless - though he had never thought that, having seen his colours reflected back in them, reflected back in the moonlight, a gentle smile on their face.
“I’ll be with you forever, my love.”
“I hear it too.”