Re: Quiet Home: Misha & Oliver
Immediately, once Misha struck the first few notes on his instrument, Oliver could tell the difference between a fiddle and a violin, despite how much the instruments looked the same. He'd never heard anybody sing while playing the violin either, although he had admittedly only known one violinist in his whole life, and Oliver hadn't thought that boy could canary sing his way out of a coal mine. Of course, when he'd lived back at the big house of too many secrets, Oliver had often been accused of being too critical of the others. Rightfully so, being perfectionist as he was back then. But he wasn't critical of this, Misha's performance.
Crazy went on playing, stepping all over like some dance just between him and the fiddle. Oliver, meanwhile crept into a corner of the art room. He was uncomfortable in the circle of things that he didn't belong, but it wasn't just that. He wanted to sit down at one of the stools and folded open a new page of the pamphlet with a fresh margin. Oliver didn't need the artist easel, just the sharp cusp of his knee again as he made a real quick sketch. It wasn't anything legitimate, just something for him to save in his pocket for later so that he might make something real and painted out of it.
On the pamphlet, there was music notes in the blank margin. Except they weren't really music notes because Oliver didn't know anything about music. The notes were his interpretation of music notes, short lines and small circles, curves and swirls that danced across dashed lines. These notes swarmed off of the vague outline of a boy. The fiddle was more defined, more accurate, but the boy was just a shape with lines for flopping hair. The music notes were the most exaggerated, they swam away from the margin and even over the words of the pamphlet, the notes seemed to explode away from the boy-outline and the fiddle. They almost, almost… looked like wings.
The song ended, Oliver realized, although maybe he was slow to realize when. He blinked up, thoughtful. "Cool."