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Luca Balsa was a dangerous individual.
He had murdered his mentor - renowned inventor Alva Lorenz - in a fit of rage after Alva questioned Luca’s invention. Edgar remembered reading articles describing him as a “selfish, narcissistic monster,” as they revealed the timeline the police had constructed of the murder.
Despite the crime happening overseas, the news had taken Britain by storm. After all, Alva and Luca had visited several times, usually business-related. They were friendly with British scientists and often visited to see their ideas and inventions. So friendly, that they had been invited to multiple parties in Britain.
There were many events - usually dinner parties and galas - that Edgar had seen Luca at. He would be conversing with people Edgar didn’t know (probably other scientists), swirling a glass of wine with one hand, making expressive gestures with the other. That was one thing Edgar noticed about Luca, all without talking to him - he spoke with his hands. Just a quick glance in his general direction always ended up with him staring at him. Not because he was entranced or anything - that’s ridiculous , he hadn’t even spoken to the guy - he was just curious about what was so exciting that Luca had to be swinging his free arm in circles for. He looked incredibly stupid from where Edgar stood.
That being said, Edgar did always have the intention of introducing himself. They were both around the same age, prodigies in their respective fields. And it was a bonus if he got a front-row seat to his absurd hand gestures. But every time he began approaching, someone would grab him by the arm and drag him over to the easel and paints in the corner, asking for a painting. It annoyed him endlessly at the time, but after the news of Alva’s murder was released, Edgar concluded those bothersome people had been saving him from danger.
Now at the manor, Edgar there was no more longing to introduce himself, or interest in his comical gestures. He had placed him in a box with the other strange, threatening individuals. Luca Balsa, to him, was of the same calibre as that stiff mercenary, who always threw him a cold glare whenever he entered, and that towering prospector, who barely spoke a word to anyone.
At completely different ends of the dinner table, Edgar sometimes felt Luca’s gaze on him. He would fight the urge to glance back, just to really see if it was him he was looking at. On the days when he couldn’t fight the urge, he would take a quick look. And every single time, Luca’s dusty eyes would be almost transfixed on him.
He always attributed the heat that rose to his face to anxiety. His quick heartbeat had to be the result of the unease of a murderer’s watching eyes. The memories of Edgar watching Luca across a crowded hall at parties from long ago floating up meant nothing.
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Thankfully, Edgar had no more matches today. He was free to do whatever he wanted in the manor. While decoding in his last match, Emma invited him to come to the garden. The roses were in bloom, and she thought he would like to paint them. Edgar planned to make use of the offer, making his way to the garden with his canvas and paints in hand.
It was relatively empty, with most of the others preparing for or already playing in their matches. Edgar took a different route than usual. It was already a pretty far walk from his room to the garden, so what were an extra few turns going to do to him? Rather than making his way through the grand dining hall, Edgar had opted to continue going through the hallways. Since everyone just passed through the dining hall, these hallways were generally untouched. While he had seen a few suspicious figures lurking often (namely, the mercenary and prospector), he wasn’t worried about confronting them at all. Vera had mentioned her match today was with the prospector, and Mike said the mercenary was in his.
The hallways just got narrower and narrower, but Edgar didn’t mind it. They were quiet and empty, but that only added to his attraction toward them. Every few steps he would be greeted with a painting or photograph from, what he assumed, was the host’s past. Most, if not all, were just photographs of a husband and wife, browning and dusty. The corners of the frame were home to spiderwebs, and despite seeing the webs, Edgar still flinched every time he saw a spider crawling from beneath the frame.
At some point, the silence ended, a sweet sound replacing it. It started off so hushed and slow that Edgar hadn’t really processed it, his brain screening it out. But it gradually grew louder and louder, the music speeding up, basically demanding his attention - and the music definitely had it. It had taken him straight back into one of the many parties he attended, watching a pianist debut their new piece. Their lips would always be tugging into a small, prideful smile as the audience would hush to listen in awe, but that smile would fade the more captivated they got into their own song. Their hands fluttered over the piano, their fingers kissing each note as the piano sang a grand and complex tune, something that Edgar could only dream of ever playing himself. Many pianists had asked for him to paint them, to which he would begrudgingly accept. It wasn’t that their music wasn’t beautiful, but rather they played for the validation of others. He saw it in the way they tried to mask a grin when their friends pushed them towards the piano, trying to gather the biggest crowd they can for their songs. Whatever passion they started playing the instrument with was lost to lusting for these large crowds and grand parties.
But whoever was playing now was not one of those pianists at the parties. These halls were empty - they were only playing for their own satisfaction. It became even more abundantly clear that this individual was not like them, because as Edgar moved closer, he realised how many mistakes were being made. Every now and then, his trance was interrupted by the wrong chord or flat, but the mystery musician did not let that stop them, continuing the piece nonetheless. It was not perfect, but Edgar had taken a liking to it.
One door was open slightly ajar, allowing the music to seep out. Edgar didn’t want to lurk just outside the door - he wasn’t a creep - but it seemed rude to just barge in. However, with the volume it was at, it’s not like they would be disturbed by the creak of the door. He slowly pushed the door open, emitting a long, creaking noise, groaning from the movement like an old man. But the door’s aches and pains were soothed by the music, and finally, Edgar could see who made the piano sing.
Brown hair was pulled into a messy ponytail, with some strands too short to reach resting at the base of his neck. His shirt was worn, the black and white stripes that adorned it being faded from many washes. A shackle was fixed around his neck, probably accounting for his hunched position over the piano. Cream, stitched-up gloves covered the hands that played the delicate tune.
Edgar’s breath hitched.
Luca Balsa.
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He should move. He really should go.
But he stayed, fixed in place. Edgar simply watched those gloved hands continue playing the piano, fingertips gracing each note. He wished the music would become a cacophony, giving him reason to leave and cover his ears and go back to the hallway, but the music remained anything but. Despite every little mishap Luca made, Edgar found himself revisiting memories he had long since forgotten. They weren’t full memories - only flickering moments in time, where he was amongst a crowd of nobodies, and the pianist played and played. Each piece was it’s own symphony that had the misfortune of being tainted by the avariciousness of the player, sparking a resentment within him.
It was unfair, really, that the one time he could truly appreciate the piano was when a brute like Luca Balsa was playing it.
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Summers and winters could have passed, and Edgar wouldn’t have noticed. He allowed himself the freedom to be swept away by each note, even the mistakes. Such freedom should be restricted, however, and Edgar planned to leave when it seemed appropriate to. Maybe right before the next stanza began, but at every opportunity, he risked another few notes, which gradually became the next verse, and then the next few minutes.
So, really, he shouldn’t be so anxious when the song ended and he was still standing there.
That damn creaky door closed on its own, and without the cover of noise it would be louder than Bonbon’s bombs, but if he left quickly and just booked it, Luca wouldn’t have the opportunity to even see him, so-
“Edgar?”
Oh, shit .
Luca was still seated at the piano, his body still pointing towards the instrument, but now he faced him. His face was screwed up in a look of confusion, almost like he was trying to figure out if Edgar was even real. Edgar felt the unbearing glare of his ash grey eyes, trying not to focus on his bruised eye. Who knows where on Earth he had earned that mark.
“What are you doing here?” the confusion evaporated almost instantly, replaced by a look of genuine curiousity. Luca swung his legs over the piano seat so that he fully faced Edgar.
“I was just leaving-”
“Did you want to paint the piano?” Luca interrupted, pointing at the canvas.
Upon further inspection, the piano was in a detrimental state. Any note Luca did not touch was covered by an inch of dust. He could confidently bet that Luca’s gloves were dirty with dust. Besides that, it was old and decrepit. It was honestly a miracle that Luca had been able to produce such music.
“I didn’t get around to cleaning it,” Luca said, reading his thoughts, “but I tuned it during my break.”
“You could manage to tune a piano but couldn’t manage a bit of spring cleaning?”
“Inventor, not a cleaner,” Luca argued back playfully, “you go on and paint, don’t mind me.”
“Are you leaving?” Edgar asked. It came out rude and almost accusatory, but Luca didn’t even flinch.
“Nope,” Luca got up and pointed to the far left of the room, where a small stool sat next to a radio. Unlike everything else in the room, it seemed in use, even if it was a much older model. It was bulky and unattractive, and many different tools that Edgar couldn’t identify were scattered all around it.
“I’ve been trying to fix up this radio,” Luca said, plopping down on the stool. He picked up the radio, carefully placing it on his lap, “it’s busted, but I’m sure I can get it to work.”
He grinned, that exact same grin Edgar would see across the room at those fancy parties. It was strange that now Luca was an infamous murderer did the physical gap between them close.
“Go on and paint,” Luca said, not even sparing him a glance as he grabbed a tool, “I’ll try and get some music going for us.”
He really should go. He has no business painting in the same room as a murderer. And besides, Luca already seemed so fixated on the radio that he’s sure he’s already forgotten about Edgar entirely. His grey eyes were brighter than ever, completely captivated in his activity. If he left now, he bet Luca wouldn’t even notice the creaking door and the empty room.
But against all better judgement, Edgar stayed. The light that leaked through the window above made the piano look quite charming, after all. His choice to stay had nothing to do with the strange nostalgia of having Luca Balsa so close, yet so far away.
Besides , Edgar thought, as he set up his canvas, he seems awfully harmless . For someone that should be as dangerous as the mercenary or prospector, Luca wasn’t stiff or eerily quiet. He was the one who started the conversation and invited him in, and he felt like he could leave if he wanted too. The danger that should be lurking - that crippling, cold fear that built up inside of him when he saw the mercenary and prospector - was absent.
“Don’t be too noisy,” Edgar warned, beginning to mix colours.
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Though Edgar agreed to paint in the same room as Luca, he kept his guard up. He threw numerous glances in the prisoner’s direction, and each time he looked he was completely engaged with whatever he was doing to the radio.
At around the billionth time he looked over, Luca met his gaze. He was still fiddling with the knobs of the radio as he did so, dull grey eyes looking back at Edgar, expectantly.
“Am I distracting you?” He asked bluntly. He maintained eye contact but his hands still worked on the radio.
Edgar broke the eye contact, going back to working on his painting. So far he had the base colours down, he needed to refine it. He cleared his throat as he began mixing a lighter shade of brown, for where the light bounced off the piano lid.
“No,” Edgar lied, “just curious.”
Luca thumped the radio hard on the back of it, surprising Edgar and making him drop his paint tube. He turned to see what the hell his problem was, but Luca simply smiled at the radio which began whining. It quickly escalated to a screaming static, and Edgar covered his ears to protect them from the foul sound. Luca just began playing with the knobs, undisturbed by the noise. If anything, his grey eyes brightened, and his smile just grew. The static was soon replaced by the sound of someone reporting the news, and Luca turned the knob again - a saxophone solo - and he turned it again. He kept twisting the knob, searching for who knows what, and finally stopped when an orchestra played. Something that belonged in a ballroom, maybe an opera instrumental.
“Edgar,” Luca’s smirk seemed cheeky, so Edgar narrowed his eyes at the brunet man.
“I think we both deserve a break,” Luca stood up and placed the radio on the stool, “care for a dance?”
His hand was outstretched towards Edgar, waiting for Edgar’s own hand to slip into it. But instead, Edgar huffed.
“I don’t dance,” he said, grabbing his palette and paintbrush, “so if you excuse me-”
“It’s not that hard,” Luca pressed, “I’ll lead. I think I remember how to.”
“That’s not very reassuring.”
“Don’t hold me to such a high standard if you can’t even dance,” he quipped.
“I said don’t ,” Edgar snapped, “I never said I couldn’t dance.”
“And who are you convincing if you just stand off to the side and paint the whole time?”
Edgar scoffed. The audacity of this guy. So unashamedly throwing himself at him and threatening his pride. He should not entertain the ideas of a hardened criminal.
But his pride is at risk and he will not lose it to Luca Balsa, who gestures like a mime when he talks.
So he placed his hand in his.
Luca flashed him a cocky grin and dragged him into a more spacious part of the room. His left hand held Edgar’s hand gently, but that feeling of delicacy was lost because of how worn and dusty his gloves felt. Luca’s right arm supported his waist, his hand steady against his back. Edgar’s breath quickened at his touch, probably from anxiety.
“4, 3, 2, and 1!” Luca counted, and with that, he took the first step.
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Luca was rusty, that was obvious. There were an embarrassing amount of instances where his ‘leading’ had taken them straight into a wall. The first few times, Luca just sent them crashing into the wall, leaving Edgar absolutely astounded at how bad he could be at this. He would ask if maybe he should lead and show him how it’s really done (partly to show off, but mostly to stop Luca from giving the both of them brain damage via crashing into a wall) but each time Luca would shake his head, proclaim that he’s “got this!” and continue with a furrowed brow.
After a while, Luca would only lead them a few inches from the wall. Enough to get Edgar’s heart beating faster, his hand clamping down on Luca’s own, and soon Edgar wondered if he was just getting near the wall for his reaction. Once he stopped reacting so harshly to being near the wall, Luca suddenly discovered how not to dance into a wall.
They kept at a steady pace, in the comfort of the spacious middle of the room. Edgar pondered when exactly he should take lead, but never wanted to ask Luca. Grey eyes were clouded as they stared into his own blue ones, and he seemed deep in his own head, probably looking for times in his past where he would’ve danced like this. Maybe not in a dusty, empty and long-abandoned room with a painter who was somewhat intimidated by him, but maybe in one of those grand parties when the band started playing and couples flooded the dance floor. Maybe Luca would’ve found a nice man (or woman) to take to the dance floor, dancing just like this. But hopefully with a lot less crashing into walls. Though, Edgar did entertain the thought of Luca leading his faceless partner into other couples, tables and walls.
“I knew I remembered you,” Luca said suddenly, clouded eyes coming back into focus, “you always painted at those parties in London.”
Edgar refrained from responding, more or less from curiousity at what he’d say next.
“I’m sure you don’t remember me,” Luca said quickly, taking the silence as apprehension to his suggestion, “but I always meant to go and talk to you. But you were always painting. Maybe, if I had gotten around to introducing myself, you’d remember me too.”
Those words should not have had such an effect on him. They should’ve just fluttered off into the wind like dandelion seeds, endearing for a moment and forgotten the next, lost to the wind and never to be returned. But no, Edgar couldn’t brush off Luca’s wish and watch it go into the wind. He wanted to, but instead those words hammered themself into his head, the final confirmation that his interest was returned. That maybe, famed apprentice Luca Balsa also found himself throwing quick glances to see if Edgar was busy or not. Maybe, Luca also wondered what on Earth he was talking about to fellow artists. Maybe he even started approaching him before being snatched away by a wearisome guest, left making a longing glance in the other’s direction before allowing themself to be taken away, thinking that they’ll get around to it someday.
And then the news broke, and those parties felt so much emptier.
But here they were, anyways.
It wasn’t how Edgar imagined their first formal meeting would go, and he could confidently bet Luca wouldn’t have guessed it either. Instead of a magnificent party, with chandeliers that blinded the guests and a professional band, it was just them two, the dim sunlight, a dusty piano, and the archaic radio that Luca fixed five minutes ago. Edgar had expected a formal introduction, a handshake, and some small talk about their respective professions. He would finally have an answer to what Luca talked about, and also a front-row ticket to his weird hand gestures. Maybe a dance, but Edgar didn’t entertain the idea too seriously.
In hindsight, he really should have, because at this moment he was dancing with Luca Balsa. Not the ball he expected, just some creaky old room in a creepy manor. Edgar could feel the sweat in his palm and was unreasonably overjoyed at the fact that Luca wore gloves, but also prayed that the heat in his face wasn’t totally obvious. His mouth gaped open like a fish, but he didn’t have the self-awareness to shut it. Thank God Luca had such a steady grip, or else he might have just melted right then and there.
“I do remember you,” Edgar said. His voice had come out much quieter than he intended, but Luca had picked it up, a spark appearing in his eyes.
“You did?”
“Yes,” Edgar said, allowing Luca to spin him before he continued, “you were always speaking with these silly gestures. It’s quite hard not to notice, actually.”
There is not a shred of embarrassment on Luca’s face. If anything, he’s prideful now, his grip becoming a little stronger, but not hurting him at all.
“You’re saying I caught the eye of the beauty-seeking painter?”
“Don’t go putting words into my mouth,” Edgar snapped.
He hummed, “but that’s what it sounds like to me.”
Edgar retaliated by stepping on his foot, earning a whine from the prisoner.
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” Luca apologised, absolutely not meaning a thing.
Maybe too fittingly, the orchestral piece came to it’s grand close. Moreso because Edgar had stepped on his foot than because the song ended, Luca let him go. The rough gloves that were leading him disappeared, leaving Edgar with a lingering feeling of where they once were holding him. He hoped another piece would play, but instead two hosts got on the air and began discussing the intricacies of the music.
The dance was over.
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Luca went back over to the radio, turning the knobs again and again, and Edgar retreated to the painting. He, maybe stupidly and prematurely, expected some kind of change in the atmosphere of the room. However, there was nothing. Just the constant flickering of radio station to radio station as Luca looked for a stable and good radio station.
“By the way, Edgar,” Luca said. When Edgar turned, he was still bent over the radio, adjusting the knobs, his eyes focused on the technology in front of him, “did you mean what you said?”
Luca’s brows were furrowed as he kept incessantly changing radio stations, not really listening to what each station could offer. The edges of his lips threatened to fall, and his eyes, which were bright and clear when he was working on the radio initially, just seemed cloudy now.
“Yes I did.”
He immediately stopped playing with the knobs, turning to look at Edgar. Any sign of frowning had disappeared, and the storm passed. A beautiful pink dusted his cheeks, a genuine smile appearing on his face. Not cocky or mischievous, but a genuine, glad grin.
Edgar became awfully aware of how precious Luca’s grin was to him.