Chapter Text
The speakeasy sat hidden beneath a tailor shop at the edge of town. From the street above, it looked like nothing—dark windows, faded signs, just another dying storefront swallowed by the humid southern night.
But below ground was another story entirely.
Liquor flowed despite prohibition. Gold light spilled across velvet wallpaper stained brown with age and tobacco. Men in suspenders crowded around card tables while women draped in silk leaned against the bar with smoke curling from painted mouths. Somewhere in the midst, a ceiling fan turned lazily enough to be useless against the heat.
Edward Nygma looked as if he belonged there in a way most people didn’t.
He moved through the room like he’d been born to it—a sharp green suit pressed pristinely despite the humidity, gold cufflinks gleaming beneath the low lights. Every inch of him looked expensive. He was expensive.
People knew his name here. And not just here, either.
Most places with a piano somewhere between the river and the state line knew of Edward Nygma. The man who could make a room hold its breath with nothing but black and white keys beneath elegant fingers.
He was the best of the best, and everyone knew it. Which was exactly why he’d been booked weeks in advance for tonight’s performance.
Edward sat at the piano, tapping carefully at the keys to test its tuning. It was an old thing, worn down by years of southern heat and cigarette smoke soaked deep into the wood, but workable all the same. He’d played on far worse, after all.
Behind him, muffled beneath the noise of the club, he overheard the owner speaking sharply to someone near the stairwell.
“You’re late.”
“Got turned ‘round.”
The voice that answered was low and rough around the edges.
Edward glanced up briefly.
A tall man dressed entirely in black stood near the back hallway, broad-shouldered but thin as a rail, half swallowed by shadow beneath the low amber lights. He carried a violin case loosely at his side.
Interesting.
Edward watched him a moment longer.
The stranger tipped his hat back just as the owner muttered something under his breath, ushering him toward the back rooms.
Edward straightened from the piano bench. “Excuse me—”
But the owner disappeared before he could ask the obvious question.
Edward frowned faintly.
A fiddle player then.
Curious.
***
By the time the performance started, the club had filled nearly all its tables.
Edward sat beneath warm stage lights, fingers gliding effortlessly across the keys while the room softened into an attentive hush around him.
He played cleanly. Beautifully. Every note polished smooth as glass.
The crowd adored him for it. He had them eating out of the palm of his hand, just like always.
But then, halfway through his second-to-last song, the backroom door opened with a violent bang.
He flinched but didn't halt his performance.
Then came the fiddle.
The sound cut through the room, sharp as a blade.
Edward’s hands faltered instantly, missing keys in the process.
The music wasn’t polished like Edward’s piano music. It wasn’t delicate or refined. It came alive rough and wild and unapologetic, flooding through the speakeasy with enough force to turn heads immediately.
Edward looked up sharply.
The man from earlier stood near the foot of the stage now, violin tucked beneath his chin as his bow moved fiercely across the strings.
And for one brief, infuriating second, Edward forgot to play.
His attention was fixed solely on the stranger.
The man was all sharp angles and dark clothing, hat casting shadows across a severe face made softer only by startling blue eyes fixed entirely on the instrument in his hands. He played like the devil himself had taught him how.
The crowd erupted almost immediately.
Edward caught himself a second later and attempted to continue his piece, jaw tightening as he pressed back into the melody.
But the music clashed horribly. Polished piano against raw fiddle.
The result sounded like two storms colliding.
Edward stopped abruptly.
The fiddle player did not.
He carried the song alone now, dragging the entire room behind him until the final note snapped clean through the smoky air.
Applause thundered through the speakeasy.
Edward stood slowly from the piano bench, furious.
“What,” he said sharply into the noise, “exactly is the big idea?”
The man lowered the fiddle calmly. “Playin’ my set.”
“You interrupted mine.”
“Owner hired me too.”
Edward stared at him in disbelief. “At the same time?”
One corner of the man’s mouth twitched faintly. “Seems that way.”
“That imbecile booked two headline acts for one evening?”
The stranger shrugged lazily. “Could be his idea of a joke.”
Edward scoffed. “That was no joke. That was sabotage.”
The man finally stepped closer along the stage, his expression unreadable beneath the dim lights.
"Jonathan," he said, one hand extended.
Edward narrowed his eyes. “Edward.” He didn’t take the offered hand.
Jonathan rested the bow across his shoulder casually. “You always play from sheet music?”
“Of course I do.”
“Hm.”
Edward bristled instantly at the tone. “You got a problem with that?”
“You play pretty,” Jonathan said. “Real pretty. But every note’s planned out before your fingers ever touch the keys.”
“And your point?”
“My point is you don’t listen.”
Edward let out a short laugh of disbelief. “Listen? You stormed into my performance like a drunkard with a death wish. And now you’re criticizing how I play?”
A few nearby patrons laughed into their drinks.
The man’s expression barely changed. “You know how to improvise?”
Edward lifted his chin. “Obviously.”
“Then prove it.”
The room quieted almost immediately.
Edward stared at him.
Jonathan simply waited.
He seemed confident. Annoyingly confident.
Edward hated him a little already. Which was precisely why he sat back down at the piano.
“Fine.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
Jonathan lifted his violin again.
Edward struck the first notes deliberately—a challenge more than a melody. The other man answered instantly with the fiddle, weaving around the piano instead of fighting against it this time.
The air in the room changed.
Edward felt it immediately.
The music moved strangely now, unpredictable in a way his performances never were. Jonathan played entirely by instinct, twisting around Edward’s melodies with rough southern charm and reckless confidence.
And infuriatingly, Edward found himself enjoying it.
He adjusted, pushed back harder, and the fiddle answered.
Soon the entire thing became less performance and more argument set to music, piano keys striking sharply beneath Edward’s fingers while Jonathan’s fiddle danced around him wild and grinning and impossible to pin down.
The crowd lost their minds for it.
By the time they finished, people were standing.
Edward sat breathing hard, staring across the piano at the fiddler still holding his violin beneath the stage lights.
Jonathan looked smug.
Edward hated that too.
And yet—
“Well,” Edward said stiffly while the applause still thundered around them. “You’re good; I’ll give you that.”
Jonathan barked a laugh.
“Careful now,” he drawled. “Almost sounds like praise.”
Edward rolled his eyes, though the corner of his mouth twitched involuntarily.
Jonathan stepped closer to the piano, lowering his voice just enough to get lost beneath the noise of the crowd.
“Play here again next Friday.”
Edward arched a brow. “Are you asking or demanding?”
“Yes.”
Edward studied him for a long moment.
The sharp blue eyes. The fiddle, worn with years of use. The grin that looked more dangerous than friendly.
Then Edward glanced toward the crowd still buzzing from the performance.
Something unfamiliar settled low in his chest.
Not annoyance and not rivalry.
No.
Something far more interesting.
Slowly, Edward closed the piano lid.
“…Fine,” he said at last. “But if you interrupt my set again, I’ll have you removed bodily from the building.”
Jonathan smiled wider at that.
And somewhere beneath the cigarette smoke and whiskey fumes and low golden lights of the speakeasy, something new silently began.