aviary | CLOSED | prompt eight

No, Piano.

[ It's not her name anymore (never was, to be fair), but he can't help it. It's what he's used to. Granted, he's used to having a name, too, but he doesn't carry one anymore. His sentence had been assigned to a blank space, and there's no one around who seems to know what to really call him. (Saul? Perahia? Nothing at all?) He thinks it's more right than not, this way. He is nothing, no one, one among billions, never meant to be anything special. But still, he'd reached for the sun, and in the end, he'd burned more than just himself.

He shakes his head, though he doesn't pull away from her touch. ]

I say.

No, Saul.

[ She knows his name. To her credit, she knows every name that he has ever carried and bore across the bloody swath of his own life. Saul. Brother. Perahia. Sally. That is a torturer's right and when Perahia — once Piano, once Inga, once nobody important either — had come tumbling down out of both Heaven and Earth to find him, she'd searched for every damned soul that had played a hand in his sentence and she burned them, broke them, tore them to ragged shreds and scattered them across all of Downside as if to say I am Perahia, and he is mine. A spectacle worthy of the name she'd salvaged from his cold corpse and placed onto her anointed head.

Her fingernails scrape against his scalp. (He'd never been kind, not even when he fucked her and those lessons have lasted, have carried her on through to Hell.) ]

You listen.

[ No, he'd never been kind, and he cannot express, not even now, how much he regrets that. But he's learned that apologies don't mean anything if they aren't paid with blood, and by the time she had arrived, wreathed in red, he'd finished his penance already (and never once, during those trials, had he shed a tear; that had come later).

Finally, he meets her gaze, and for a single instant there's a spark in his eyes that reads of the anger that had driven him so strongly before. (He has never liked being told what to do and he has always liked it even less with the application of force.) But it dies as soon as it's ignited, pummeled down by the guilt that has made a permanent home upon his shoulders. ]

Fine. Fine. What do you want?

[ Perahia sees that spark and her eyes widen briefly and for a moment, she's Piano again. Just a girl of sixteen with red hair and a borrowed name, sleeping her life away in motel rooms and through late-night car rides from here to there and everywhere death. Death and retribution.

Call it wrong, call it skewed, but here's the truth of the matter: never once did Piano fear Perahia. Never once, despite the bruises and the terrible things he called her, did she despise him or resentment or even think to wish him away. Where Perahia saw anger and ugliness, Piano had seen neverending loneliness. And her part in the Score, her silver-bell note, sang of nothing but love and companionship because theirs was her chord — discordant but true. Perahia raged and she trailed after in sweet melody and never once — not even now — does regret cross her mind.

His anger quiets but her wonder lingers, that sharpness in her eyes giving way to a distant sort of fondness. A heated longing.

Though her fingers loosen their grip they do not slip from his hair. ]

You. [ That is the simple answer. ] I want you. Saul. You will never convince me. It's already decided.

I love you.

[ In the orchestra, it is the Piano that reigns. It is an instrument capable of infinite grace as well as the harshest of chords. To that end, perhaps, Perahia had been a virtuoso. Despite the part that he had chosen to play — almost completely divergent from the great score, ugly and discordant, the instrument had turned it into the most beautiful song to come out of the whole mess even after his fingers had left the keys.

But if there is one thing that he knows, it is that he cannot claim any responsibility for that song.

As he looks at her now, it is that realization that colors his features. (Most of the time, she still looks sixteen to him. Still young, still lovely despite the life that she'd wasted upon him.) For a long moment, he simply worries at his lip, a crease drawn in his brow. ]

I love you, too, [ is all that he manages, though he seems to realize he is signing his own damnation all over again in saying so. ]

CLOSED | prompt eight | RUIN

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