Legolas Thranduilion (mirkwoodscout) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2012-12-10 17:21:00 |
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Entry tags: | legolas, pepper potts |
Who: Justine and Malcolm
What: Malcolm goes to play for Justine's dancing, to see if they mesh, and improvises some music.
Where: Olive's dance studio
When: Monday morning, bright an early.
Warnings/Rating: There is ballet and classical music. And Elvish. You have been warned.
Justine was excited to get back into the swing of things. She had mostly given up on dancing professionally again, but she was too young and too talented (that was Eti that said that) for her to not bother trying. Teaching was lovely, it really was, but it didn’t quite fill her soul the way dancing professionally did. It was going to take a good bit of work to get back into the rhythm though, and that required morning practice sessions, evening gym time, and a strict schedule for everything else. Whatever was going on with Silver, plus the regularly scheduled trips through the door, had the tendency to throw off her carefully crafted schedule, but she and Pepper were working on it. For now, it was important to just take things one step at a time and everything else would, hopefully, fall into place.
Her early morning meeting with Malcolm was actually something she was looking forward to. He had a voice too, which meant he would probably be fairly understanding of the somewhat odd hours she kept. After the incident with Silver, things had gone back to the way they’d been before the Halloween party, and she and Pepper spoke for at least a few minutes every night. It was helpful, relieving a fair amount of stress and worry, but it didn’t put their relationship on par with where Justine wanted it. She wanted them to be able to talk to each other freely. If there was a way to make that happen, she was curious for it.
The sound of someone entering the studio distracted her from her thoughts and Justine immediately went to the entrance area, where Malcolm - she assumed it was him - was walking in. “Hi! Did you have any trouble getting here?” she asked warmly, holding her hand out for him when she was close enough. “I’m Justine. You must be Malcolm, right? I really appreciate you coming out here for me.” And she did. Dressed in her warm up gear, she was ready to dive right in.
“Pleased to meet you,” replied Malcolm, shaking her hand. It had been chilly in the morning, and hadn’t that been a surprise when he’d first come to Nevada -- he hadn’t known it would still be cool in the desert, somehow. He was a slender young man, swathed in a black jacket and dark jeans, an untidy mop of dark curly hair topping his head and framing his pleasant face. His eyes were dark and engaging as he looked at Justine and smiled. He had a soft voice and a pleasant accent, the sort that Americans tended to identify as generic English, and that was enough for him. Here, his diction hardly counted against him. “It was no trouble, I rang for a car. I’m not late, am I?”
“Not late at all! I’m always a bit early,” she replied, her own vaguely hodge-podge English accent coming through. Growing up, she’d lived in England, Geneva, and Dubai, and spoke both French and Arabic in addition to English, so she never quite found a category for her accent. “It’s lovely to meet you,” she added, withdrawing her hand after a bit of an excited shake. Despite just recently turning 21, she looked a bit on the younger side and certainly acted like it. “The room I’ve got set up is just inside,” Justine explained, leading the way. “There’s just an upright, is that okay? It’s nothing fancy, but it’s tuned at least.”
“No, that’s fine, absolutely,” Malcolm assured her, somewhere between ducking and nodding his head, and that combined with his slightly hunched shoulders made him seem shorter than he was. He was ill-at-ease, but trying gamely not to show it. They’d spoken on paper (somehow). This was all fine. Still, the book was in his bag, as if it was a talisman or something, and the key, too. It was probably foolish to cart them about, but he couldn’t leave them at home, either. “I’ve an upright at home, studio pianos are often the same. It should get enough volume for you if I pop the top open.”
Justine was easily reassured by his words and she wasn’t the least bit bothered by his hunching over a bit. She was more excited about dancing with live music and it was more often than not that Justine because so centrally focused on herself that nothing else seemed to matter. She led him into the room she’d borrowed from Olive, not quite wide enough to be a proper place, but enough to get the point across. Her phone and sweatshirt were on top of the piano, so she moved those things in a bit of a rush. “Sorry, just have to move my stuff,” she explained as she moved, though it was unnecessary. “Is there anything else you need? Anything I can get you before we start?”
“No, it’s fine, you’re fine, I just want you to be able to hear,” Malcolm explained. He stripped off the jacket and set it on the bench next to him, then pushed up the sleeves of his white henley as he folded back the key cover and sat down. His long fingers trailed idly over the keys, a simple major scale and chords, and he nodded, satisfied. “Sounds fine. It will probably need tuned every fortnight or so, if it’s going to get regular, demanding use.”
Justine nodded, and she made a note to talk to Olive about it later. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. It’s been awhile since I’ve had someone to perform with me so I’m just excited to get into things again. I’m hoping to practice for the auditions for the Las Vegas Ballet Company,” she explained eagerly, sliding down to the floor to begin her stretches. It didn’t take long at all considering she'd gotten started before he'd arrived and within a few minutes, she was up. “What music are you most familiar with? I can dance to a number of pieces, and the company hasn’t announced an audition piece yet either.” She was looking for a bit of direction and if his sister was involved in ballet, then he must know a thing or two.
“I can play a lot of things. Do you want something moderato to start with, for barre work?” Malcolm asked, tapping out a tempo with the heel of his boot on the floor. The piano followed, a light, almost plaintive motif in the right hand at a comfortable walking tempo. Then, the rest of the melody came in, the dark, moody, and sharply percussive style of Prokofiev revealing itself immediately beneath his capable hands as he bent over the keys. The Lieutenant Kije Suite was an odd choice, perhaps, but his sister liked moody Russians, and he’d transcribed it into solo piano just for her warm-ups.
"That would be perfect," she replied, readily agreeing and making her way over to the bar. She let him get into it, let the melody wash over her, before she got started. It was different from her usual Tchaikovsky, but Justine was very open when it came to her music and her dance. Even the worst song could be made beautiful with the right dance. His was hardly the worst and she fell into a rhythm after a few moments. It had always been easy for her to get lost in the music and now was no different. She did a bit more than strictly necessary, wanting to dance for as long as he was willing to play, but then the urge to start on the floor hit and she transitioned seamlessly from one to the other, content to let him play what he wanted and she just danced how she felt the music needed.
Malcolm watched her over the top of the piano, watching the work she was doing, where she transitioned to, how she was moving, whether the tempo was too fast, too slow, all the minute calculations of accompanying a dancer. But the original Prokofiev ran out, the first movement starting to come to its close, and instead of stopping -- she had lovely lines in floorwork, beautiful arabesques, and it reminded him of his sister -- he just started to improvise in the same key, in the same tempo. Improvisation was easy, really. He could hear songs in his brain all the time, music winding around and around his neurons and synapses, and letting it flow out on the keys was simple. The same song. The same song was the one that came pouring out, the one about longing for the sea, for the west, and in the back of his brain, in a clear voice that reminded Malcolm of nothing so much as birdsongs, he heard the words, plaintive and pleading.
The music transitioned into something softer, different than the Prokofiev, but she couldn’t place it. That didn’t matter though, because it was beautiful. It was exactly the kind of thing she preferred to dance to and it seemed like it was something personal to him as well. Emotion was what made this kind of work exactly what she wanted when she stepped out onto the floor. She danced for as long as she heard the music and when it started to wind down, she did as well. Tears were prickling at the corners of her eyes, just from the longing and the want that came through in the music. She finished just next to him and rested against the side of the piano, tilting her head to let her brown hair spill over into the open top. “That was beautiful. I’ve never heard it before though,” she complimented softly.
Malcolm ducked his head, his fingers still resting lightly on the keys as the damper pedal drew the sound out into faint trails of harmony. “It ... is new,” he finally said, chewing on his lower lip. “It’s just something I’ve been toying around with. Gets stuck in my head from time to time.” That sounded like a far more reasonable answer than, this is the song the voice in the back of my brain sings all the time, isn’t it marvellous? Rubbish. He might be going crazy, but he didn’t have to advertise it, now did he?
She smiled warmly. “It’s beautiful,” she repeated, this time a bit more assertive in how much she had enjoyed it. Though, the getting stuck in his head bit made her wonder. “Is it something from the voice in your head?” she asked innocently. She always seemed to forget that there were new people on occasion. “Mine isn’t musically inclined at all. She just does paperwork, but I think she listens to music sometimes. It’s hard to tell. We don’t talk anymore.” Justine took a breath then and looked curiously at him. “What’s your’s like?”
For a moment, Malcolm didn’t do anything but blink at her, his dark eyes gone wide with confusion-tending-towards-alarm. “I-I didn’t say that,” he stammered.
The singing in the back of his head stopped, and Malcolm felt that attention, all focused, razor-sharp, like it was pressing on his third eye, ready to burst. Listen, the voice whispered. Do not panic. Just listen.
Justine looked at him, eyes wide with surprise and confusion. “Yours. The voice in your head? Maybe it’s not a voice? Pepper’s not really a voice. She and I shared dreams. That’s how I knew it was okay to come here and that my brother was here. She’s from those Iron Man movies? The ones with Tony Stark?” She wasn’t sure if it rang any bells for him. “But lately she’s been shutting me out so we don’t even talk anymore. I know there are some people that have a really open connection with their Alters. That’s what we’ve taken to calling them. Everyone who has a journal has one. And then there’s the key. That’ll open your door in Passages, that’ll take you to their world.” She paused to consider adding anything else, but that about summed it up. “Make sense? Or am I just coming off as daft?”
Malcolm, for his part, looked a little pale, as if all the blood had ran out from his face, and faintly, he thought it was probably a good thing that he was sitting at the piano bench, or he might’ve gone right down like a lead balloon. Maybe he should breathe. Breathing was good. In and out. Focus on breathing.
“I’m sorry,” he squeaked. “Come again? This is ... connected with the book?”
She frowned then, not the least bit oblivious to his lack of color, and took a seat next to him on the piano bench. He’d scootch over if necessary. “Mhmm,” she replied, nodding as well. “The key too. You got them both, right?” Justine waited for the affirmative before continuing. “It means there’s a person, in your head. It’s not a bad thing. You’re not going crazy. There’s a psychiatrist on the journals if you want to talk to him about it. His name is Jack. But you’re not going crazy. It’s just a weird fluke type thing. I promise, it’s really okay though,” she insisted warmly, trying to be as reassuring as possible. “Your person, do they talk to you?”
Malcolm did slide over, careful to keep a polite sort of distance between them, and his jacket fell unceremoniously to the floor. He didn’t even hear it, really. “He ... it ... I don’t know, I sort of do, sometimes, just ... singing, and thinking about things and I get these awful migraines. Awful. I don’t really understand. How can anyone live in my head? It’s not that spacious.”
She giggled a little at his question. “It’s not that bad usually. I’m sorry about the migraines. Maybe ask him to not think so loudly? It’ll probably get better once you can cross over through your door. I know it’s a little scary sometimes though. If you want someone to go with you, I can. Or you can let your person through my door, into Marvel’s door, if you promise he isn’t a bad guy.” She paused there, looking at him thoughtfully. “Did he tell you what his name is?”
“No,” Malcolm said, shaking his head. “No, he just ... sings, mostly. Saddest songs you ever want to hear. It’s mad, really.” He paused, chewing on his lower lip. “Door? Is that what the whole key nonsense is? I just got the parcel in the post, I never asked for it or anything, and worse, I think my sister received one, too, I don’t know. It’s all be mad, I thought it was the pain or something, making me nutters, it wouldn’t be so unexpected, I suppose.” That was a lot. He was rambling, like a moron -- what an excellent way to carry on, really.
Her frowned turned to a bit of a pout and she immediately wrapped her arms around his shoulders to give him a reassuring hug. “I’m sorry you have to listen to his sad songs. Maybe they’ll be happier once he goes through the door,” she offered, letting him go after a moment. “Yea, that’s what the keys’re for,” Justine added, nodding. “It’s not so bad though. My brother and I both have them and we’re from the same door. Maybe your sister is too?” It wasn’t exactly the best comfort she could give, but she hoped it was okay. “It’s unexpected, certainly, but it’s not too terrible, I promise.” Unless you’ve got a bad guy, she thought to herself, but then again, would a bad guy be singing sad songs? She didn’t think so. “It’ll get better. I promise. And like I said, we’ve all got them so we all understand.” Justine offered him a reassuring smile. “Did your headache feel better while you were playing the music?”
“A bit,” Malcolm allowed. The hug had been unexpected, and it made a blush come up in his pale face, twin burning points of colour in his cheeks. “I just don’t understand any of this, really. I’m a musician. I make my living playing in a small orchestra. I’m not important. I’m not terribly useful. I’ve been known to faint when having to go to social gatherings with more than twenty people present. Why on earth would anyone want to live in my head? I don’t know that I like it that well, and I’ve been here for ages now.”
Justine shrugged. “I don’t understand it any better than you do. When I got my voice, I up and left everything behind. That’s why I’m teaching instead of dancing myself. I left the company without a word because I was too focused on seeing my brother again, and then she had people here that cared about her so she needed to stay. I couldn’t take her away from that.” From the sound of her voice, he could probably infer that she wished she’d just been able to go back home and take her brother with her. It just hadn’t been in the cards though. “You’re quite useful though, and rather important to me at the moment already.” She smiled again, pushing away all the bad feelings. “No one particularly likes it, I don’t think. But you get used to it. I promise.” She could be encouraging when she needed to be. “If the music helped, maybe try playing a little more. And if he’s singing, in your head, it might help to sing too. Just try not to think about it too much and he can probably help you with the pronunciations and the like.”
Malcolm took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Playing a bit more. It wasn’t a hardship, really. Another breath, and he put his fingers back to the keys. The music came naturally -- it always did. If he wasn’t paying attention, if he wasn’t thinking, if he was tired when he sat down to the piano, the melody that came out of his fingers was always the same, frustratingly the same. But this time, he let the words come with it, in whatever strange language they were, heartbreaking and pleading, filled with loss and longing that made his heart clench in some sympathetic grief every time he let himself really listen. “Na 'Aear, na 'Aear! Mýl 'lain nallol, I sûl ribiel a i falf 'loss reviol. Na annûn hae, ias Anor dannol. Cair vith, cair vith, lastal hain canel, Lamath in-gwaithen i gwennin no nin?”
Like all music majors, Malcolm could sing passably, carry a tune with more than adequate skill -- he’d been drilled in aural theory endlessly, and trained to be able to sing back the things he wrote or transcribed on demand. But voice had never been Malcolm’s forte, not really. He had a pleasant baritone, tending a little high, but this song transformed it, carrying with it the odd echo of birdsong into his unremarkable timbre.
As soon as his fingers found the keys again, she was up, dancing the way the music needed. It was all too easy to follow the swells of the music, to settle in and just let her body do the singing the way he was using his voice. She didn’t quite recognize the language, not really, and she was more adept at using dancing to communicate the feel of a piece, so that was what she focused on. His voice was lovely, wrapping around her like a guiding hand, and she understood the feeling alot better now that he was singing. Her movements took up nearly every inch of the floor and she wished Etienne had been there so that they could dance together to really show the emotion in the piece. She came to a stop once more, this time behind him. “Do you feel better?” she asked softly.
“I don’t know,” Malcolm admitted. “Just so very sad, really.” He pulled his hands away from the keyboard and rubbed his face. He let out a breath, scrubbing one hand through his messy curls. This was all so uncomfortable, and he felt pangs of the most exquisite homesickness. But Brighton was a world away, and wishing for it helped nothing here. “I suppose we know you can dance to my accompaniment, that’s something, anyway.”
Justine looped her arms around his shoulders again, her cheek resting against his back shoulder. “I’m sorry.” It was an honest apology. At least they’d given it a try though. “It’s something, absolutely. You’re a marvelous piano player and you’ve a beautiful voice as well,” she complimented. “I’d be quite happy to make this a permanent arrangement, while I’m practicing again. And, you know, if you just want to talk to someone who’s going through the same thing you are, and your sister too, then you can just ask. I can introduce you to my brother, and Olive, she runs this place, she has one too.” It was quite common in her circle of friends, actually.
“God, is there like, some club in this city that I just never knew about? They ought to put it in the brochures. Come to Vegas, develop benign schizophrenia. At least my dog isn’t talking to me, that’s something,” Malcolm said, a dry sort of sarcasm, but he sighed. “I suspect I’ll need all the help I can bloody get, that’s for certain.”
“Maybe we’re a club on our own,” she replied with a grin. “And I don’t think there are any talking animals, so you should be safe from that.” It was a consolation, she hoped. “Don’t worry, okay? It’ll be alright. And like I said, maybe once you go through the door, things will be okay.” Which reminded her. She grabbed a pen and a piece of paper from her bag and scribbled out her name and cell phone number. “Here,” she said, handing it to him. “That’s my number, just in case you ever need anything. And if there’s an older, serious sounding woman, that’s just Pepper. Sometimes she answers my phone, but it’s really not a big deal,” she promised. She let that sink in for a bit before bouncing around just slightly. “Do you want to keep playing? Or do you have to go somewhere?” Justine honestly didn’t know how much time had passed, so lost as she’d been in the music.
Malcolm looked at the paper, then pocketed it, and pulled out his mobile to check the time. “It’s getting on, I have yoga at half-nine, I should get on to it, I think.” He smiled a little at her, a shy kind of expression, and it had a way of making him seem younger. “Thank you. You know. For helping with this madness, or at least trying to.”
Justine nodded and gave him another hug. “It’s nice to have someone who reminds me of home,” she replied, as if that explained why she was being so nice. He didn’t remind her of anything bad, and that was good as far as she was concerned. “Whenever you’re free again, let me know?” she asked hopefully, pulling away so that he could get his things and get on. “I really appreciate your helping me out,” she added, a wide smile showing the truth of her words.
“No worries, really,” Malcolm told her, getting up from the bench to grab his bag and jacket. The later he shook out, trying to get the dust and rosin from the floor off of it. “You wanted me a couple times a week, yeah? We’ll hash out details. I can make a Monday, Wednesday, Friday schedule work. Sunday’s my day off, it’s a bit sacrosanct, but otherwise, yeah, whatever works for you.” He was rambling again. He shrugged on his jacket and shouldered his bag. “So Wednesday, I’ll see you Wednesday, then. Right.” Should he shake her hand again? They’d proceeded into hugging, apparently -- Americans loved hugging, he wasn’t so sure, apparently Justine had drank some of the American hugging kool-aid -- but instead, he just sort of bobbed his head awkwardly and smiled. “Cheers, then. Have a good one, Justine.”