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The manor is silent at night.
The silence is unnerving, pricking at the edges of his mind as he minds his own business. Sleep does not come easy to him these days, and the whispers do not make it any better. He tries, of course; it would do no good to be exhausted come the morning, but even his best is not enough. The silence is too oppressive, and when it isn’t the silence, the whispers are too loud, full of doubt and mockery.
Once, long ago, he would’ve brushed it off and simply shut his eyes until they went away and he fell into a fitful rest, but he is tired of doing that. What he longs for is the familiar tune of music.
The bed creaks under him as he gets up. He’s not even changed out of his day clothes yet, he notes, grabbing a candle and a match on his way out. It takes a few tries before the wick finally catches the flame, finally providing some light in the darkness. There was a piano, he recalls. Several rooms back - past the dining hall and the ‘waiting’ room. No one will be awake at this hour to lead him there, this time. All for the better. He doesn’t need an audience, not anymore.
Thankfully, the immense amount of windows installed in the building provides more than enough moonlight to brighten his surroundings, and he takes his time to admire it all.
The manor is an impressive thing. While it’s far older than any he’s been to so far, it is large and imposing. He feels like a rat in a maze, running around in circles to find a non-existent exit. The rooms are only furnished with the bare necessities, as well as whatever the manor residents have seen fit to decorate the place with. Nothing is too over the top, nor is it too sparse; the place feels like it’s lived-in. Perhaps that’s why he likes it here so much, even though he’s seen nicer.
He doesn’t notice it at first, too caught up in his own thoughts.
The piano music drifts through the halls, soft and hesitant. Whoever’s playing it right now has not even a lick of talent or skill; the notes are just a bit too slow, and a bit too long to be the work of a professional. But that doesn’t matter. He can appreciate music no matter how it’s played. Something about this tune is eerily familiar, he thinks, with its strangely melancholy tune. So against his better judgment, he follows the sound to its source.
At the bench is a strange man, in a striped shirt and ratty ponytail. He remembers seeing him, once or twice, before the manor, though no name comes to mind yet. Clearing his throat, he raps his knuckles lightly on the doorframe, and the stranger jumps with a yelp. His hands slam onto the keyboard, and the noise is loud enough to make Frederick cringe with a hiss.
“Oh, oh no, I’m sorry!” He hurries to get up from the bench, approaching the door with a concerned look. “Are you ok? I really didn’t mean to do that- you just scared me, is all. I don’t, erm, usually see anyone else awake at this time. Did I wake you up?”
The stranger keeps on rambling, even as he begins to tune him out to take a better look at him. On closer inspection, his shirt is worn, though not close to tatters yet. His hands are gloved, and bandages peek out from the collar of his shirt. A heavy chain rests around his neck. He has leg braces on, and his hands shake ever so often as he speaks; as much as he gestures around, it's not too hard to notice the tremor. None of this is off putting, even though he knows it should be.
It’s his face that catches him off guard. His eyes are silver-grey, in the moonlight, though one of them seems to be bruised. One of his canines poke out from the corner of his mouth. There’s something familiar about him, he thinks.
“-sir? Hello? You, uh, still here?” He sounds concerned. It’s sort of endearing.
“My apologies. I’m fine, though. You don’t have to worry about me.”
“Ah! Alright, that's good, that’s good… er, sorry if I woke you up. I’ve gotten a few complaints before, so-”
“You didn’t wake me up.”
“Ohh! Ooohh, alright. What, uh, what brings you here, then?”
Frederick can only stare at him with the most deadpan look he can muster. Somehow, that gets no reaction, and he sighs, gesturing to the piano. “The same as you, I assume, seeing as you were playing the piano earlier.”
“That I was! Well, I’ve just finished tuning her up, anyways, so be my guest!” the stranger laughs, picking up a toolbox by the piano. What a strange man.
How long has it been since he’s played the piano? How long since he gave up, since he threw away everything just to never play for a false audience ever again?
Sitting down at the bench, he lets his fingers ghost over the keys. It wouldn’t be too hard to replicate the song that he heard earlier. It’s fairly simple, after all, and if it was the song he was thinking of, then it would be no effort.
It comes easily to him; it’s one he wrote, after all.
Memory is a fickle thing, but the notes come back to him as soon as he rests his hands on the keys. Call it intuition, or muscle memory, but this particular tune is not one he’s going to forget any time soon. The music chases away the thoughts clouding his mind; for once in many years, he feels content. It’s so easy to lose himself into the music again, and just let the sound hang in the air as he plays.
It’s faint, at first. He doesn’t notice the humming from next to him, not until a hand starts tapping in beat with his song, and he falters slightly, stumbling to soften the music so he can hear his voice better.
It’s….. Nice. Nothing like the concerts he used to play at, nor the parties.
The stranger laughs, leaning over the top. “Sorry if I startled you. The song, it just… I dunno. Something about it seems nice, right?”
It’s not hard to fall into a comfortable silence after that, with the piano music being the only sound. It reminds him of simpler times, when he was free to play whatever he wanted without constantly craving for the adoration of the audience.
The song has to end eventually, though. Not even he can keep on playing forever. When the final chord of the song is over, he’s surprised to find a warm weight pressing against his shoulder. It’s hard to turn around like this, with the stranger’s head resting so heavily on him, but.... it's strangely comfortable. A light nudge to his side is enough to get him to get up, turning to face Frederick with a questioning look
“What’s your name?”
“Oh! Luca. Luca Balsa.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Balsa.”
“You can just call me Luca! No need for formalities. And you?”
“Frederick Kreiburg.”
“Well then, Mr. Kreiburg, it’s nice t’ meet you too!”
“If I’m going to call you Luca, then you should call me Frederick.”
“Heh, alright!”