I just gotta get out of this prison cell.
This is, Tony thinks, perhaps what closure feels like. Two stitches and richly purpled bruises that throb with every heartbeat.
He could have taken something more for the pain; opiates are available on nearly every street corner here in their lovely Victorian prison. Given that the pain was precisely what he'd wanted-Not in some obtuse way, but rather very literally-it would be counter-productive to the entire exercise to drug himself into a stupor. Not to mention that it would be such a shame to diminish Teddy's excellent work.
In the aftermath of the fight (Can it still be called a fight if there's only one person fighting?), it's become increasingly clear that aside from his sister, no one understands Tony's motivations. Not unusual, really, but he isn't sure why a violent need to feel something other than despair should seem so strange. A day and a half later, his clarity was hard won, but he has it.
There's a large and lovely piano in the rec room that replaced the old one, ornate with highly-polished woodwork and slick ivory keys. After rifling through the stacks of sheet music presenting themselves to him on the bookshelf, he carries one small booklet to the piano and slides onto the bench with a faint smile. It's been some time since he properly played, but it will come back to him. Behind him, off to the right, the jukebox is a clockwork hulk that inexplicably still plays modern music. The moment Tony's fingers ghost over the piano keys, it whirs to life and gives him pause as a chorus of voices opens a song, instantly recognisable. It's the one sketched out in notes on the paper in front of him.
Tentatively, impulsively, he begins playing out the melody right on cue, only to discover that he isn't playing over the music, but rather supplementing it-A karoke track, perhaps, some kind of back-up mix-and when he takes up the vocals, it's his voice alone that rings out the lead, the music swelling up from the jukebox behind him.
"Each morning I get up, I die a little…can barely stand on my feet… Take a look in the mirror and cry, lord what you're doing to me… I have spent all my years believing you, but I just can't get no relief, looooooooord, somebody, somebody, can anybody find me somebody to love?"
It pulls on the split in his lip to really belt the vocals out, but it's a good pain, a reassuring sting as his fingers become more confident against the keys, remembering.
"I work hard every day of my life, I work till I ache my bones… At the end…I take home my hard-earned pay aaaalllllll on my own… I get down on my knees and I start to pray till the tears run down from my eyes, looooord, somebody, somebody, can anybody find me somebody to loooooooooooooooove?"
Everything but the piano has all but disappeared for Tony; if anyone's watching, he doesn't notice, head thrown back as that beautiful voice he's always been so noted for bounces off the wooden panels of the room. It's pure felicity, the way the air pushes from behind aching ribs.
"Everyday I try and I try and I tryyyyy, but eeeeeverybody wants to put me down, they say I'm goin' craaaaazy, they say I got a lot of water in my brain, I got no common sense, I got nobody left to believe…" Tipping forward, he falls into the bridge, barely needing to look at the sheet music any longer, and when the voices swell again, he joins them right on cue.
"Oooo, somebody… Ooo… Anybody find meeeee sooooooooooooooomebody to looooooooooove," he belts out, fingers pounding against the keys, feeling powerful, feeling right for the first time in over a month.
"Got no feeeeeel, I got no rhythm, I just keep losing my beat… I'm okay, I'm all right, I ain't gonna face no defeat… I just gotta get out of this prison cell, someday I'm gonna be free, loooooooooooord…"
Chest heaving, he stands, knocking back the bench with a clatter and drawing his fingers briefly away. Head falling back, he listens as the chorus builds to a crescendo behind him
(Somebody, somebody, somebody)
until he joins in again and then drops forward one more time, fingers deft against ivory, back bent, sending the whole thing off into a wispy warbling finish and a tinkle of notes.
[OOC: Long EP is long. Fine time to meet him, but he's banged up. Black eye with two stitches next to it (left), bruises on his jaw, split lip. He has a strong, fantastic voice; piano's a bit sloppy but okay. | → Somebody To Love | Open until 16 Dec, no limit, no need to ask. Might initially be slowish because of the party.]
He could have taken something more for the pain; opiates are available on nearly every street corner here in their lovely Victorian prison. Given that the pain was precisely what he'd wanted-Not in some obtuse way, but rather very literally-it would be counter-productive to the entire exercise to drug himself into a stupor. Not to mention that it would be such a shame to diminish Teddy's excellent work.
In the aftermath of the fight (Can it still be called a fight if there's only one person fighting?), it's become increasingly clear that aside from his sister, no one understands Tony's motivations. Not unusual, really, but he isn't sure why a violent need to feel something other than despair should seem so strange. A day and a half later, his clarity was hard won, but he has it.
There's a large and lovely piano in the rec room that replaced the old one, ornate with highly-polished woodwork and slick ivory keys. After rifling through the stacks of sheet music presenting themselves to him on the bookshelf, he carries one small booklet to the piano and slides onto the bench with a faint smile. It's been some time since he properly played, but it will come back to him. Behind him, off to the right, the jukebox is a clockwork hulk that inexplicably still plays modern music. The moment Tony's fingers ghost over the piano keys, it whirs to life and gives him pause as a chorus of voices opens a song, instantly recognisable. It's the one sketched out in notes on the paper in front of him.
Tentatively, impulsively, he begins playing out the melody right on cue, only to discover that he isn't playing over the music, but rather supplementing it-A karoke track, perhaps, some kind of back-up mix-and when he takes up the vocals, it's his voice alone that rings out the lead, the music swelling up from the jukebox behind him.
"Each morning I get up, I die a little…can barely stand on my feet… Take a look in the mirror and cry, lord what you're doing to me… I have spent all my years believing you, but I just can't get no relief, looooooooord, somebody, somebody, can anybody find me somebody to love?"
It pulls on the split in his lip to really belt the vocals out, but it's a good pain, a reassuring sting as his fingers become more confident against the keys, remembering.
"I work hard every day of my life, I work till I ache my bones… At the end…I take home my hard-earned pay aaaalllllll on my own… I get down on my knees and I start to pray till the tears run down from my eyes, looooord, somebody, somebody, can anybody find me somebody to loooooooooooooooove?"
Everything but the piano has all but disappeared for Tony; if anyone's watching, he doesn't notice, head thrown back as that beautiful voice he's always been so noted for bounces off the wooden panels of the room. It's pure felicity, the way the air pushes from behind aching ribs.
"Everyday I try and I try and I tryyyyy, but eeeeeverybody wants to put me down, they say I'm goin' craaaaazy, they say I got a lot of water in my brain, I got no common sense, I got nobody left to believe…" Tipping forward, he falls into the bridge, barely needing to look at the sheet music any longer, and when the voices swell again, he joins them right on cue.
"Oooo, somebody… Ooo… Anybody find meeeee sooooooooooooooomebody to looooooooooove," he belts out, fingers pounding against the keys, feeling powerful, feeling right for the first time in over a month.
"Got no feeeeeel, I got no rhythm, I just keep losing my beat… I'm okay, I'm all right, I ain't gonna face no defeat… I just gotta get out of this prison cell, someday I'm gonna be free, loooooooooooord…"
Chest heaving, he stands, knocking back the bench with a clatter and drawing his fingers briefly away. Head falling back, he listens as the chorus builds to a crescendo behind him
(Somebody, somebody, somebody)
until he joins in again and then drops forward one more time, fingers deft against ivory, back bent, sending the whole thing off into a wispy warbling finish and a tinkle of notes.
[OOC: Long EP is long. Fine time to meet him, but he's banged up. Black eye with two stitches next to it (left), bruises on his jaw, split lip. He has a strong, fantastic voice; piano's a bit sloppy but okay. | → Somebody To Love | Open until 16 Dec, no limit, no need to ask. Might initially be slowish because of the party.]