(Untitled)

[turnedtoproust]

Generally, Scripps has found a sort of calling in playing the background for the whimsy of his friends, allowing them to sing and act and be fools around him. It's not to say that he doesn't partake, but every group needs a steady anchor to provide the backing music and the task has fallen to him. It's not as though he's the most responsible, per

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[off_the_ceiling]

"You're good," said Jess, tapping her foot along with the song but not going so far as to lean against the piano as he sang. It was a little bit tempting, though. It was that kind of a moment. "Like, actually good, not just the good you tell your best friend she is when you're at karaoke."

[turnedtoproust]

"I have had the practice over the years," he admits, the singing fading as he continues to play the notes, gesturing for her to come and join him -- the bass sounding heavy with no treble to support it. "I don't suppose you know any Sondheim?"

[off_the_ceiling]

"Not really in my repertoire, sorry," said Jess. Not without some sheet music, anyway, and even then it'd be a stretch. "What else do you know?

[turnedtoproust]

"I'm afraid the majority of what I know was produced before the eighties," he admits, though he does launch into a brief campaign on the piano keys, vigorously enjoying a good version of Campdown Races. "Are you suggesting something particular?"

[madeofstories]

She's come to the rec room looking for a book. Not that she doesn't love the ones that she has back at her hut, but Grace is hoping that she'll have luck finding something new today. Instead, she finds something quite a bit better.

Quietly, Grace takes a seat on one of the couches to listen to Scripps sing and play. The last thing she wants to do is interrupt, especially when he sounds so lovely.

[turnedtoproust]

He's noticed her, of course. Out of the corner of his eye, he'd seen her creep in, but he changes little. In fact, he hams it up because it's been his experience that an audience is cause to perform and when he's through, he lets the last note fall away and offers her a proud smile. "Were you really just going to sit there and not join in, after our last discussion?" he asks as though offended.

[madeofstories]

"I didn't want to interrupt," she says, and while she fully remembers their last conversation, it still seemed rude to barge in while he was in the middle of playing.

"Besides, I never got a visit from Winston the pigeon, so I wasn't sure that I was invited."

[turnedtoproust]

"Winston the pigeon has failed me wholeheartedly," he informs her, leaning his elbow on the edge of the piano where the rough skin meets a smooth surface. "Honestly, I'd be surprised if he was anything but dinosaur chum at this point. A terrible fate, to be sure, but what good is a messenger pigeon who can't deliver a message?"

[willbewonderful]

Duck enjoys listening to the more musically talented members of the island. It's not a sentiment he dares display too often, for fear that his husband might be hiding around the corner, lying in wait to pronounce him a fan of musicals, which Duck's not, per se. He just likes good music in any form. And so, upon looking around and finding no sign of Geoffrey, Duck slips through the rec room door, waiting for a break in the music before offering up his quiet applause.

[turnedtoproust]

Scripps feels the inane and desperate desire to do something mad and egotistical like bow. He curbs that interest with a quick reminder to himself about modesty and how Jesus never took a bow after delivering on a miracle (not that he wouldn't have deserved it). "You're far too kind. It's all going to go to my head, you realise," he warns, a warm hint in his voice.

[willbewonderful]

"I bet I can stand it," Duck replies, "We don't hear singing like that around here too often. It's a shame there's not a singing group. Used to be one, but the girl running it disappeared." Duck shrugs with a rueful smile. "Happens a lot, unfortunately."

[turnedtoproust]

"Well, I'm hardly in the market," he admits, mostly because he's used to being told what he's meant to strive for. "I'm Scripps," he introduces himself, leaning over the piano in order to offer a hand out to him for a good and proper introduction. "Usually, I accompany my mates, but they're not about. I suppose I'm just filling the void."

[highf]

It isn't until the last strains of the song are coming to a close that Kurt makes his presence known, a chronic lingerer around the rec room on the best of days, approaching the piano and resting his chin on the instrument with a soft smile and an admiring gaze. He knows, of course, that Scripps can sing. Knows that Jamie Parker, if nothing else, certainly has a set of pipes that Scripps should be able to better train, if he suffers from the same problem as Anatoly Sergievsky does. But there's something especially breathtaking about having it right in front of him, the simple enjoyment of being helping to push all other thoughts and worries from Kurt's mind, and in this moment, he knows that this is the sort of thing he wants to do for the rest of his life. Perform.

It's a hell of a lot better than getting caught up in the mundane.

"And here you've been playing coy, playing accompaniest to my simple voice when you've got the chops to pull it off all on your own," Kurt sighs, shaking his head. "This is quite the blow to my ego,

[turnedtoproust]

"I don't have half the talent you do," he informs Kurt with the air of a man who truly believes in what he's saying. "I might have charisma and charm, but that doesn't mean that I hit the notes as well as others do. People excuse a bit of faltering when you're willing to wink and smile." Not to mention, he's always been told that he has a lovely tone. He imagines that saves him when he's in a pickle of a bind, as well. "Besides, I have to slow the pace horribly to do it and it's no fun at all!"

[highf]

"Nonsense," Kurt shakes his head, unwilling to accept this level of self-criticism from Scripps, especially considering the fact that he doubts Scripps spends the majority of his day trying to refine both the act of singing and the act of doing so while tickling the ivories. For someone who's just going at it like a lark, Kurt knows that there's a great deal of talent there, waiting to be tapped, and it'd be a lie to say that he isn't tempted to push Scripps in that direction through whatever means possible. There's little that he finds more disappointing than talent that goes wasted.

"You have twice the talent that I do, considering you're both singing and playing the piano, and the pace is something that you'd totally improve if you did this more often. Which you should. If for no other reason," sighs Kurt, "than the fact that it makes me quite deliriously happy."

[turnedtoproust]

"Is this the beginning of a terrible friendship in which you whip at me day and night," he intones evenly, "until I improve to your Dear Eliza standards?" He's joking, of course, but there is a touch of fear to his eyes, as though worried such a thing will come to pass. "Now, we should discuss the idea of me teaching you to play the piano. In which case, you'll no longer have reason to praise me for such silly little things."

[not_for_ages]

Even Freddie himself recognises how silly it is that the scenario playing out in front of him reminds him of his sister. Karen hadn't played piano; she'd barely been a singer, if he's honest about it. There's something about the performance aspect of it that draws her to mind, though, maybe because she lingers at the back of his mind a lot these days. He never could have imagined missing her this much.

"You're really good," he says in a lull, hovering beside the piano with a faint smile.

[turnedtoproust]

"I make do with charisma and the endless years of practicing," he admits, playing the last few chords and finishing up with a trill of the keys before he offers Freddie a bemused smile. "Honestly, my parents thought that it'd get me into Oxford on music alone, but what they didn't know is how enamoured I am of Mozart."

"Apparently," he muses, "a death knell to dons."

[not_for_ages]

Never in his entire life, not even for the space of a breath, has Freddie ever hoped to get into Oxford by any means at all. Most of what Scripps is saying to him slips swiftly over his head, but aside from a momentary rounding of his eyes, he gives little indication of this.

"…right," he says, feeling as if he's expected to reply but having no idea what to possible contribute. "I've never really listened to much classical music."

[turnedtoproust]

"It's not as bad as people like to make it out to be, certainly not so boring," Scripps says, cracking his knuckles as he begins to let his fingers dance over the keys in an effort to play Rachmaninov. "Some of it is rather exhilarating," he promises, and stops talking because some pieces require all the attention a man's got (and sometimes far more than that).