troubled waters (FierroChase AU)

nine

Magnus had come home thinking intensely about his new neighbour. It was a strange feeling of excitedness, as if he somehow knew or felt that something was going to happen. That there was something special in the air, though he could not define nor describe it. Alex. A-L-E-X. Something about that name was very appealing though he had heard it a thousand times. He thought about the person he had seen earlier on in the café, passing by, confident, attractive, sexy, with such an exquisite style, that green shirt leaving their shoulder damn wide open...

He lost himself in these thoughts, just sitting on his couch tranquilly, his eyes open, but not really seeing his flat, but seeing that person, as a silhouette a shadow, and then again full of colour, pink and green. He had to remind himself that he had never even spoken to Alex, he could not possibly develop any kind of familiarity, of closeness or attraction just like this, could her? And anyway, this domain was new to him in so many different ways, recalling the lines of a face he had barely seen, it was clear to him that he was entering something odd and strange, something that he struggled to express.

And of course, literature is about love very often. That was clear to him, but somehow, he had never really found access to it, sticking to other pieces, other genres. He preferred realism and modern literature over romantic books, he was thinking a lot about the self, a person's mind, consciousness of oneself and the world surrounding, deep emotions far beyond love, fear, anger, dove into the depths of nihilism and society; he was a modern writer, dealing with a lot of difficult themes and subjects, never thinking about the easiest and most popular one: love, attraction, closeness.

It was beyond the edge of human sanity, of manners and socialization and thought that he wanted to look, losing the closeness of relations and positivity, searching for something more, the divine and the demonic, never finding anything in one's heart, all in one's mind; and of souls, of substance beyond our understanding he thought, in a complexity far exceeding the one of something as simple as love.

At least, he thought so. For love, as he was to discover led far beyond what one perceived in popular culture, on tv or simplistic novels. It was grand and omnipresent, it was a force stronger than anger, than fear, than ambition or egoism and it bore a deepness of complexity, of thought in it, like an empty well, descending further and further looking for the water that is love. He had read theoretical disquisitions about the complexity of love, about its potential for writers, about its role throughout history and the strength and importance it could develop. He had never experienced it though. The only person he had ever loved was his mother. A painful reminder of what loss can mean to a person's soul.

Thinking and thinking, he had stood up, walked around a little in the room, unconsciously looking at his book shelves, out of the window, opening the door to sit in the small garden outside. He was not aware of what he was doing, just staring at sky and daydreaming. This was something he would occasionally do, but which did not happen very often. He was a dreamer, that was true, but doing nothing in this strange intensity of just staring holes in the sky, was uncommon even for him.

Slowly regaining consciousness of what he was doing, he decided to practice on the piano, something he had restarted doing after a long break since his mother had died. He would play almost daily, if he had the time and Sundays, when he had no obligations at all, was the perfect day to let himself go entirely, to try new things, to improvise, to be free. He had been really talented, and without the break he might just have studied music.

Though he had never really come to composing, being more creative in writing than in playing, he had an elaborate feeling of the music, being able to vary, to create new simple themes, to build upon and to interpret, so that in good days, the melodies would literally flow through his body, connecting his brain and his soul, and sometimes, only sometimes, capturing a glimpse on his heart. This expression was something he needed, it was a more active way of dealing with everything. He would not think a lot about the precise shape of creation, as in literature or poetry, it was a more spontaneous outlet, wild and free, and this was what his Sundays were all about, finally.

After practicing some simple pieces to warm up and a Beethoven sonata he was working on, he came to play freely and did so for more than half an hour, jumping from theme to theme, from idea to idea, thinking and thus playing, in a direct connection he rarely managed to establish. He thought about Alex, he thought about his new life, but also about his mother, about the book he had read earlier on, about the sun and the clouds shadowing it. All his thoughts and expressions and feelings, everything occupying his mind, mixed together and he found a melody that expressed that puzzle of emotions and thoughts, making sense of it all and flowing, just flowing.

Sometimes, he thought, music was just like water, flooding the holes and spaces left open and accessible by people, giving way to an invincible power of flow, never to end, just proceeding and proceeding, further and further. Music was life and all of life could sometimes be expressed in one simple melody, with all its variations and possibilities included.

Magnus played with finesse and expertise, but also with an emotional, soft, thoughtful and sometimes hesitating feeling, almost caressing the keys, creating harmonies that resounded in the chamber of his heart, creating an astonishing yet beautiful resonance that refilled his mind with the thoughts originally creating that music. It was a process that could have gone on forever. He wondered if Alex had heard him, abruptly stopping. It was a weird feeling that installed itself after being enraptured so strongly. It was anxiety, nervousness, but also delight and excitedness of meeting the cause of his heart's disruptions.