Re: Quiet Home: Misha & Oliver
Misha watched the boy's face some, real unhurried. There wasn't nowhere Misha needed to go, but it was something more than that. Living was about living for the boy with the pretty nails, and there wasn't a point rushing through it all. Standing in the moment was something Misha was real fond of, and this was a moment, watching feeling shift and pass smoky over this boy's face. It was like art, Misha thought. Faces in Heaven, they never did that. Now, Misha had dared to go to Hell a few times, and faces in Hell were expressive as could be, but not like this, not with the painful fragility of borrowed time. It was real hallowed.
He was expecting a whole lot more silence, because Oliver was obviously caught in memories, but Misha smiled wide and pretty when Oliver asked about his fiddle. He held up a finger, and he booked it on out of the room. Now, Misha could have got himself to his room in quicker ways, but he ran on squeaky sneakers, and he was back in five minutes, fiddle in hand. It looked just the same as a violin, same size and maybe just the painting and chin rest different.
Misha hopped himself up on one of the room's tables, standing on old wood, and he tucked his chin against his baby. "They're the same instrument. Fiddling is just a different kind of music, real different, so we call it a fiddle instead of a violin," he explained, as he started playing. He didn't sing any at first, he just played until he got all caught up in it. By the time he started singing, he was already moving. Steps left and right, and playing like there wasn't a thing in the world but his fingers and the music. His bright blue eyes were closed tight, and there was something resembling transcendence on his face. Gone was the long-limbed boy. He was just an extension of song, and he grinned on down at Oliver was he was done. "Fiddle," he said with a smile and real plain.