Kon hated this winter. Not only was it cold - something he could put up with - but he looked like some kind of Darcy. He was not an English gentleman, but that was the only kind of outfit he could make the clothes box give him. Finally, he'd settled with a simple pair of pants and a white shirt. He had a coat, but he'd hidden it away almost as soon as he'd found his way inside. He didn't want to get more jokes than he was already likely to get.
He had been heading to the kitchen, but he stopped when he heard the song. He winced when he heard the lyrics. They sounded like his life. All of his friends - or at least most of them - had someone. Was it so hard to believe that he wanted someone, too?
He startled when the singing stopped and he realized he'd been staring for most of the song. "Sorry. I just, uh, like that song."
"It is a popular one," Tony quips back, and affords the bloke a quick smile as he ducks to right the piano bench. Superman he knows well enough in the distantly acquainted sense; Billy had been so pleased to move into the GAE, after all, and had spent months helping build prior to that. This fellow, however, is not him. Tony fixes him in a curious, narrowed gaze as he settles onto the bench again.
"More that I feel like the..." Kon ticked off the number on his fingers. "Fifth wheel. Two of my best friends are dating each other and the other - my ex-girlfriend - is dating someone else." Okay, so if he did find someone to 'love', he wouldn't really argue. He'd just kind of given up looking. He was pretty sure it wasn't going to happen. Of course, maybe that's why it wouldn't end up happening.
"So find yourself a sixth wheel," Tony replies, as if this is the most obvious thing in the world. "You're an attractive bloke, should be easy enough. Not that I'm condoning monogamy, but the point is that you have the means to remedy your problem with a minimum of effort."
With a day to dwell on it, Maxxie thinks he gets it. Gets part of it. For all his sneaking, his little tricks and mind games, Tony's never been one to chose subtlety when the option for something bigger is there. He can't just get Sid laid, he needs to get everyone involved. He can't just come onto Maxxie, he needs to snog him hard with no warning. He can't just let Billy leave him, he has to go out with a bang. Make everybody see how much he's hurting. Only no one does, seems like.
Maxxie stands in the doorway of the rec room, watching Tony play, sing, get lost in the music in a way Maxxie truly understands. It's almost beautiful. He's beautiful, even with the bruising. Him, alive, sharp, powerful. Tony Stonem is beautiful. His voice is beautiful. His playing is fair, but the feeling powering it is beautiful. But it hurts, too. It hurts knowing Tony hurts.
And it hurts knowing that, apparently, Maxxie's got something to do with it, too. He doesn't know how else to interpret Effy's glares, the way Tony won't even let him touch him.
( ... )
From the corner of Tony's eye, he sees him: The tentative steps, the uncertain slant of his shoulders. Much of what happened Friday night is a wash to Tony now, but he remembers clearly enough Maxxie's expression of shock. Any contrition now is likely to be the vague and overarching sort-I don't know why I'm in trouble, but I'm terribly sorry about it. Tony ignores him.
The piano bench is still overturned at his feet, and he bends to right it so that he can settle atop it again and rest his fingers back on the keys. He begins picking out another tune from memory, initially stilted and unrecognisable, and then slowly sings over it.
"Give me something to believe in, 'cause I don't believe in you anymore, anymore…"
His mouth pulls tighter into a displeased line as he is blatantly ignored. Maxxie knows full well it's a rubbish opening, that he's done something wrong, but it's not fair for Tony to close him out and make it so hard for him to make amends. Maxxie would never do that.
He's got the impression the song's supposed to mean something to him, maybe, if Tony's being that generous (If you could call that generous.) but he's not going to play that game. He moves closer to the boy and piano. "Talk to me, Tony. Please."
As if it's honestly that easy. Whether he knows it or not, Maxxie Oliver holds the singular distinction of having broken Tony's heart; that isn't remedied with a few casual words. Where exactly has Maxxie been the past month, if not off fucking his precious new boyfriend? You do not get to care when it's convenient for you, Maxwell, oh no, no, no.
Tony pulls up the faded memory of some Tchaikovsky and moves his fingers over the keys without so much as glancing up.
Scripps has seen his share of performances before, but never so passionate as the one in front of him -- though Posner has given his fair share that come close, but they're all tinged with the desperation of young, unrequited puppy-love (the sort that hurts your teeth with sweetness and breaks your heart with sadness). He clears his throat as he gets closer and gestures to the piano. "Encore?" he suggests. "If so, I can take over playing duties."
He doesn't mention the state of the bloke's face -- not yet. It's impolite to do on a first date, so to speak.
"Is that a remark on my playing?" Tony asks with a tilt of his head, but it's good-natured, and the corner of his mouth quirks up in the ghost of a smile. He bends to pick up the piano bench and then makes a sweeping motion to it.
"Generally," Scripps says as he slides onto the bench and flashes a bright smile to echo the boy's own, "this is what I do. Others sing, they act, they performing their endings, and I accompany," he says proudly, not mentioning that maybe it'd be nice to have someone else do the playing rather than doing it through the injuries he's seemed to rack up. "I'm Scripps," he introduces himself, easing into an intro of the self-same song that had been in performance when he'd walked in.
"Your parents didn't give you a first name?" Tony asks with an arch of his eyebrows. "How ghastly. Tony Stonem," he adds, with a faint smirk. "I'm sure your lone moniker doesn't detract from your playing at all."
Dakin had never really been one to indulge in random public outbursts of song, mostly due to the fact that he had an unfortunate tendency to be the one that said random public outbursts of song were directed towards. This one's different though. At least, Posner never sang with his face looking quite like that.
He sat quietly through the performance, waiting until the end before applauding, the look on his face equal parts amused and confused. "Can I ask what brought that on, or is it a common occurrence here?"
"The bout of musical sentimentality, or the black eye?" Tony swings bright blue eyes over to the other bloke and fixes him in a steady gaze. He sees the affected calm, the confident spread of his knees, and Tony thinks, perhaps, he knows this type. He himself is this type. Cock of the walk.
"Both. Though I'm more curious about the eye really," he said after a moment's thought. One sad bastard singing about love at a piano usually tended to be exactly what it looked like and Dakin wasn't about to sit there listening to someone else's relationship woes. (And the other didn't seem like the type to readily tell them.) The bruises at least held the promise of a somewhat interesting story behind them.
"Well, they go hand-in-hand, actually," Tony replies, and then tilts his head in consideration. "And both are intended ironically. I'd rather a black eye than someone to love, so I went out and got one." With a bored shrug, he turns his attention back to the keyboard and trills out a random scrap of melody.
Seifer had stopped when he heard the music, not out of any great interest in the song, but just because it was a noise and he was bored. But he stuck around long enough, leaning against a nearby wall, to get a good look at the musician and that piqued his curiosity enough for him to hang around a bit longer, he wanted to talk to the guy once he was finished.
"Ouch, man," he asked, with a smirk and a distinct lack of empathy. "Who'd you manage to piss off that much?"
"A rather large blond boy in need of an anger management regimen and a bigger brain," Tony easily replies, and bends to right the piano bench again. He settles back atop it with a bored sigh. "I besmirched the pristine reputation of his beloved," he adds, and then flicks a glance up to the bloke. "Which is to say, I got there first."
"Something like that," Tony allows. He'd not thought of it quite on those terms, but it isn't inaccurate. Obviously Teddy has a problem with the fact that he won't be the one to pluck Billy's precious rose.
"As a bonus, I will now have a dashing scar," he adds with a flick of a finger toward his stitches. "Bit of a win-win for me, really."
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He had been heading to the kitchen, but he stopped when he heard the song. He winced when he heard the lyrics. They sounded like his life. All of his friends - or at least most of them - had someone. Was it so hard to believe that he wanted someone, too?
He startled when the singing stopped and he realized he'd been staring for most of the song. "Sorry. I just, uh, like that song."
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"Looking for someone to love, then?"
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Maxxie stands in the doorway of the rec room, watching Tony play, sing, get lost in the music in a way Maxxie truly understands. It's almost beautiful. He's beautiful, even with the bruising. Him, alive, sharp, powerful. Tony Stonem is beautiful. His voice is beautiful. His playing is fair, but the feeling powering it is beautiful. But it hurts, too. It hurts knowing Tony hurts.
And it hurts knowing that, apparently, Maxxie's got something to do with it, too. He doesn't know how else to interpret Effy's glares, the way Tony won't even let him touch him. ( ... )
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The piano bench is still overturned at his feet, and he bends to right it so that he can settle atop it again and rest his fingers back on the keys. He begins picking out another tune from memory, initially stilted and unrecognisable, and then slowly sings over it.
"Give me something to believe in, 'cause I don't believe in you anymore, anymore…"
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He's got the impression the song's supposed to mean something to him, maybe, if Tony's being that generous (If you could call that generous.) but he's not going to play that game. He moves closer to the boy and piano. "Talk to me, Tony. Please."
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Tony pulls up the faded memory of some Tchaikovsky and moves his fingers over the keys without so much as glancing up.
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He doesn't mention the state of the bloke's face -- not yet. It's impolite to do on a first date, so to speak.
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"By all means."
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He sat quietly through the performance, waiting until the end before applauding, the look on his face equal parts amused and confused. "Can I ask what brought that on, or is it a common occurrence here?"
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"Ouch, man," he asked, with a smirk and a distinct lack of empathy. "Who'd you manage to piss off that much?"
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"As a bonus, I will now have a dashing scar," he adds with a flick of a finger toward his stitches. "Bit of a win-win for me, really."
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