Re: [misha & jude: the capital]
There are a whole lot of versions of that song, and every one different than the last. I never cottoned much to the belief that the original man who penned the notes was the only one worth finding beauty in. [Misha, he didn't have a lick of experience with cons or with forgery. He thought every single thing humanity wrought was perfect, and he reckoned imperfection made it more perfect altogether. The song, it was an example of that. Beautiful, but able to be changed and worked on, and Misha reckoned it could always be better some. Mutability, that was real human. The fact that the same song, it could be played 12 ways and each one could be as beautiful as the last, that was human too. In Heaven, every damn note would've been the same each and every time.
The way Jude looked troubled and shuddered, that was human too, and Misha reckoned it was on account of mentioning Oliver. Misha, he didn't ken how talking 'bout the other boy could be a bad thing, but he'd always longed for kin, and could be this just wasn't something he'd ever be able to make good heads or tails of. In Misha's mind, cutting someone off involved some real heinous act, and it didn't involve just tiring. Jude, he talked 'bout living properly, and Misha was still caught on the frown.] Do you reckon all folks get tired of the folks they love? I reckon there are a whole lot of divorces, and it could explain it if people are made for fading like that. I always reckoned it took something big, like an explosion of sorts, but I was wrong. [He looked at Jude, and it was real evident in that moment, if not before, that Misha hadn't spent any real amount of time with folks, not of long duration. Jude, he had, and Misha reckoned Jude would know better 'bout these things.
Misha, he knew better 'bout magic and gods and spirits and demons and witches, but he wasn't inclined to contradict the other boy. He wasn't a thing made for boxes, and he wasn't even normal in Heavenly standards. But, too, being mad was being human, and Misha reckoned he liked that illusion just fine. He didn't do a thing to alter it.
Instead, he nudged Jude toward the piano. And, Jude, he played. It was real pretty, and Misha found himself a chair and sat. Sideways on, arm on the chair's back, and he had a real nice view of Jude's fingers on the key. Jude asked if he was meaning to join in, and Misha shook his head. His fiddle stayed where it was, in his bag and at his back, and he wasn't inclined to do anything to take away from Jude's moment.
He just propped chin to the back of the chair, and he listened real appreciatively.]