(Untitled)

Aug 04, 2007 17:59


Evening on the island and Laura hasn't yet figured a way outta this joint. It had taken a couple days before the idea of it had braced her but good. She's better off here, at least for the moment, she knows that; there aren't many better ways to lie dormy than to disappear completely, but this wasn't what she had in mind for a clean sneak when she ( Read more... )

laura dannon, peter smith-kingsley

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aminorkey August 6 2007, 16:18:03 UTC
Peter's still wandering and the music almost calls out to him. Perhaps he's not fully settled, but he's not about to yell at some poor kitten for existing anymore (and he'd come close to doing such a thing). Now, as it happens, he just watches the young girl at the piano.

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aminorkey August 9 2007, 03:56:09 UTC
Well, that explains quite a bit of it. He supposes people have forgotten the classics in that time. "Have you ever heard of a Smith-Kingsley piece, by chance?"

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follyofyouth August 9 2007, 04:07:04 UTC
Laura shakes her head, appearing apologetic. "I don't believe I have, no. Do you write music, then?"

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aminorkey August 9 2007, 04:16:24 UTC
"Apparently not any that mattered," Peter says, somewhat dejected and feeling even less like playing. Not even posthumous notice.

Lovely. Absolutely lovely. With sarcasm, of course.

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follyofyouth August 9 2007, 07:24:45 UTC
It's curious, the title of her head, the slope of her neck, the way those peepers read folks without processing. She comprehends without understanding, and she can see she's said the wrong thing. Telling something on the square for once, she's gone and made a soup job of the thing; it ain't quite guilt flickering through her, but it's something.

After a moment, she settles back, sliding her gams a few inches outta his way. "Play something for me?" she asks, smiling, paws in her lap. "I've clearly missed an opportunity in the cultural wasteland I so recently called home."

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aminorkey August 9 2007, 15:30:12 UTC
He's still not quite so sure he wants to touch the piano. He feels quiet in his head and normally there's something there, a melody or a brief piece of music or someone's voice that's quite musical.

But now, it's this unending silence.

He offers her an apologetic smile. "I'd much rather hear you play."

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follyofyouth August 9 2007, 21:46:34 UTC
Praise was coffee and cakes to Laura, dust on a beach, but this wasn't that and she couldn't crab the meaning in the look behind the gab. She didn't get this one, and that made him worth noting.

Blinking slowly, she watched him, half-smiling. "What's your story, Peter?" She began to play, obliging, simple chords beneath her words, the opening of 'The Sun Whose Rays Are All Ablaze.' She will not think of Brendan. "Something has you spooked and I can't figure it at all."

It doesn't occur to Laura that maybe it ain't her rap to be poking.

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aminorkey August 10 2007, 15:39:36 UTC
Peter's not truly in the mood to respond either and so he studies her technique rather than respond. "Perhaps this is how I always am," he points out to her, simply.

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follyofyouth August 10 2007, 20:18:41 UTC
He's a funny bird, she'll give him that. It's enough to keep her intrigued for now. "Perhaps," she agrees. "You're not from my time, are you?"

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aminorkey August 13 2007, 14:40:57 UTC
"I sincerely doubt it," he remarks, but it's utterly infused with charm and care. "1958. Yourself?" At this point, he'd truly not be surprised if she's from centuries ahead.

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