Quixotic Harmony


Literate - - - Advanced Literate

Limited to Yaleni && silverstained.

Feel free to lurk.

Inspiration is the basic foundation for music. It comes in the most simplest of forms, the most generous of shapes. Such as the leaves carried by the wind on a soft autumn day. Such as the clouds drifting above waiting to be liquefied, waiting to fall and shower the earth in a magnetic glow. Much like when the City of Lights animated during its greatest hour. Paris.

As beautiful as the city was, as wondrously romantic and historical it was visually claimed to be, it had not been what had drawn Ria to Paris, France. No, what had whisked her from her simple German village was the music. All the money she saved up over the many youthful years of working in a Bakery as a student had paid off furthering her education in music.

She studied Piano and Composition at a commendable level.

Her private teacher, Louise Bernadette sought her out in her first year, encouraged her into studying beyond Piano, encouraged her to compose music of her own, not just rendition after others. And Ria fell in love.

"-ria, Maria!"

Key strokes. Heavy. Melody. Medium. Fast. Harmony. Light. Climax. Interruption.

A hand firmly shook at her shoulder, her solid blue eyes piercing up at her friend the moment they flashed open, "Ria! Come on, it's lunch time," Her American fleshed friend stated, calling her out of her active daydream.

Her blond hair flailed, loose in a black band, tied high against the crown of her head, as she stood from her desk, "Gabe..." His name fell from her lips, providing the only answer she could think of.

Gabriel Reed was a moderately tall, healthy man. His hair breached the comfort of his ears, fraying to his chin in dark muddy locks. His face and expression was plain and typical of an American - something Ria always made fun of him for. His nose was pointed, his lips averagely full, his eyes hazel. He had the chin of a man, the smell of a man. He wore clothing simple and stylish, though he preferred walking around in boxers over anything else. He loved the color green and obsessed over the most obnoxious of things, and yet he was her best friend.

They were born three days apart from each other, but met nineteen years later on a train leading into Paris. Along with a spontaneous pair of coincidences they wound up attending the same facility. And though they only shared one class together now, two years later, they had become friends - like get each other drunk before an exam friends. And even though they'd never gotten to the point of seeing each other naked, they were both well accustomed to walking around in underwear around each other. Well, mostly Gabe. Maria was a bit more reserved, though she had her moments.

Gabe was a bit more of a nut than she was. They were both heavily passionate about music, but Gabe was just plain obsessive. His motives were flaky, and Ria often argued with him about it. But he was much too stubborn. Especially when it came to long term relationships.

For some reason, all the women he'd dated over the past few years had developed an issue with him. Or perhaps it was the other way around. They complained about him being to wound up in playing the Cello and he pushed them away for it. Music was ultimately his life. Maria was a friend associated with him. But she was nothing more. They were more like bratty siblings or cousins.

Maria's dating life on the other hand was a bit more stable. Her current relationship was simple and honest, though it was getting more difficult to manage.

"I think I could go for a bagel..." Gabe stated as they walked into the cafeteria. It was relatively full, students weaving in and out of lines, wait for vending machines, garbage infested tables, a few lingering clean ones. It was doable though, considering after two years worth of hours spent within the cafeteria alone could easily make someone adjust to the atmosphere.

"That's all you ever eat anyway. Why don't you try eating something healthier, like soup?" Nag. Okay, so she was purposely being a nag.

Gabe scowled, "Geh, yeah okay mom."

She merely chuckled and stepped into line, Gabe following in beside her.

They were soon joined by another friendly face. A short french boy by the name of Jean Claude Pierre. "Bonjour, good day. How are you my dear Klein?" He questioned facetiously, resting his arm on Maria's shoulder.

"It's Ria thanks. I'd be doing much better if you didn't use me as an arm rest."

"But I can't very well use Gabe, he's much to tall," He replied, refusing her request with his simplistic but honest words.

Gabe only scratched his head, "Claude, I thought you weren't gunna show up today..."

"What - why not?" Maria looked at each of them, curious.

Jean twitched then made his typical goofy scowl, "Lefevre wants me playing first on Clarinet in Session."

"I thought you quit Clarinet for Flute?"

"I did."

Jean Claude was a music multi-tasker, though he only ever stuck to Clarinet and Flute. He could play violin and piano on an average level, but it was nothing of worth compared to his skill in his designated woodwinds.

"Oh yeah, how is the Orchestra group working out for you two?"

Gabe's expression went bitter, "Maybe if you woulda tried out you would know."

"Shut it. Just because you were forced back in doesn't mean I have to join you as well. Besides there would be no guarantee in me making it through auditions," Ria spat in defense.

The line had moved quickly as they were now plating their desired choice of food before paying.

Jean sighed at the two, clearly a touchy subject with Gabe and the Orchestra Sessions, "We've got a Beethoven piece this year along with a few others. Gabe's dreading it."

Ria's eyes went slightly wide as she let loose a noise of understanding. Gabe hated Beethoven.

Finally with the food payed for and gathered in their own trays, the departed the line and headed to find a seat.

Despite the fact that all of the windows were closed tightly against their frames, the sound of the traffic beyond was thunder in his ears; his brow furrowed slightly as he tried to drive it away, clear the space between them of all foreign noise, and hear only the inhaling and exhaling of his own breath as it invaded and escaped his lungs. His heartbeat was clear at the tips of his fingers, each pulse of blood a gentle pressure against the callouses on all but the smallest fingers. He focused on it; revelled in it. The storm of the outside world still lashed at the windows, rattled his concentration, but he would not be bested. The rhythm of his breath and blood soon drove out all others, rising like a canopy, leaving his fingers to spill out what his chest could no longer contain.

The overflow was a simple trickle to start with; hardened fingertips barely brushed the strings between them, as if a simple caress could compel them to resonate without his assistance. In the distance, a car blared its displeasure at a traffic circle; two men took part in a heated argument over an unresolved game of chess; the world shouted at the top of its lungs, but the coldness of the wind that carried the mournful wails of the people of Paris could not seep through the windows, nor permeate the rhythm building behind the young man's ribs. It was stronger, more definite than it had begun, and it was beginning to crave what his harp could readily give it.

Freedom.

As the pressure built, so did the tempo; the notes rose and fell like waves in a restless sea, rolling against rocks and sand, reaching eternally, fruitlessly inland. Fingers plucked and brushed as if they could do nothing else, would do nothing but this from this day onwards, like they were born simply for this purpose. They were firm, then gentle, then an agonizing combination of the two, coercing the harp to sing at its best. Never forceful, never demanding, fingers and harp had reached an accord; pure sound for pure passion. Nothing more, nothing less.

Without warning, the harp paused in its serenade. The last note hung in the air, clinging to every last corner of the room like a fog, collecting in nooks and crannies and laying claim to the spaces it found. Just as suddenly the music rose again, a sudden crescendo of accumulated pressure and loss of physical restraint. It was wild, untamed, and yet not a single string buzzed out of place, nor a note soured as the music reached its peak. He was sweating lightly now, his fine sandy hair clinging to his forehead, but he could scarcely tell; though he sat with the harp against his shoulder, he was no longer in the room, nor in France herself. He was a part of everything, suddenly aware of more than himself and the room and the city and the country and the water that surrounded it all.

His chest was tight, but he had more; there was always more, always something left to give, to pour in without hesitation or restraint. There was little left to do but simply surrender to the sound, offer everything he had, simply for the lightest touch of this sound against his ear drums -

Someone knocked soundly on the door, and Noah's eyes flew open. His hands tingled slightly, stilled by the unwelcome interruption, but he could already feel the sound behind the windows leak back in to his ears like a parasite. He breathed deeply, his shoulders sagging as he pushed the harp slowly, gently away from his chest and rose from his chair as the door was nudged open without instruction to do so.

"You're going to miss lunch again, No," said a tall man with cropped dark hair and the faintest patch of whiskers beneath his smirking lower lip, "I'll never understand how you manage to ignore your own stomach, of all things."

"The same way you manage generate enough hot air to play the horn. Marcus, you whine if you're an hour late to eat," muttered Noah, with little conviction behind his words, "If you ever manage to stop focusing on your stomach, let alone ignore it, I'll eat second helpings of everything for a week."

"You would explode," insisted Marcus, leaning against the door frame as Noah gathered his things, "As a matter of scientific fact, you would manage to get through your potatoes and maybe your veg, and you would already be so near to your capacity that you would either vomit or explode if you tried for the meat."

Though he felt he should present some sort of arguement to defend the pride of his stomach, Noah couldn't help but think that Marcus had a point, so he merely chuckled dryly and turned to the door. Obviously victorious, Marcus moved out in to the hallway, as if Noah needed to be shown the way to the canteen and Marcus had volunteered himself for the job.

Noah was far beyond used to Marcus and his habit of teasing. It was never cruel, and rarely witty, but it still rang with a certain degree of truth almost every time. As the two of them moved down the hallway - Marcus chattering without really expecting Noah to listen, and Noah not really listening regardless of what Marcus expected of him - Noah wondered, as he often did, if Marcus simply played the fool, or came across his insight in the most innocent ways and simply made use of it when he crossed paths with it. It was exceedingly hard to tell, and always had been; even as a young boy, Marcus had an oddly blunt, yet gentle way of pointing out a person's faults. It was hard to tell when he was seriously seeing something, or simply stumbling across a fact in a field of fiction and using it at random. Maybe that was the core of why they got along so well, despite being polar opposites; while Noah was content to live with his head jammed in the sand for the most part, Marcus was the sort content to greet conflict with a smile and a handshake, and let the nature of things take their course.

Pulled out of his thoughts, Noah was vaguely aware of Marcus talking next to him. "-You know? It's not as if I'll ever need to know it, really, but at the same time its not at all disinteresting, so I think I'll stick with it."

I know what you mean," said Noah absently, picking up a tray and joining the line in the cafeteria. Marcus smirked, as if Noah had just agreed to dress in drag and hand out candy to small children, but Noah did little more than raise an eyebrow at him; he would not rise to the bait.

As they shuffled slowly down the line, Noah put a small carton of milk and a cheese croissant on his tray and made a beeline for the checkout. When he looked down, however, there was also a ham sandwich, an apple and a yogurt in the space between his two original items. He paid for them with a theatrical sigh and waited for Marcus to pay for his vegetable soup and roast beef sandwich, already plotting ways to slip the apple in to the pocket of his bomber jacket without being noticed.

Noah automatically moved towards a table across from the window - the table the two of them normally sat at - and Marcus followed suit, though he was throwing his eyes all around the cafeteria as he did so. Noah noticed fairly quickly.

"Are you looking for someone?" he asked, studying his friend.

Marcus sat opposite him, snatching Noah's milk and taking a swig for himself. "No one specific, really. Just looking. Being a nosey parker."

As this was nothing new for Marcus, Noah didn't press the subject. He tore a corner off of his croissant and chewed it absently, trying to deny to himself the fact that he was actually fairly hungry. Though Marcus was devouring his food with his normal enthusiasm, Noah could tell he was distracted; he was still scattering his eyes around the room. "Marcus, really."

Marcus glanced at Noah, his eyebrows raised ever so slightly, and Noah gave him a pointed look. Marcus laughed lightly, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Fine, fine, I am looking for someone. I - a-ha!" Marcus turned in his seat, waving one arm in an arc at the cafeteria line. There was a group of people just coming out of the line up with laden trays, two of whom he was sure were in the Orchestra group with him. What were their names again? As he struggled to put names to their faces, Marcus continued to wave. "Come on, you lot! Over here, don't be shy!"

"It's raining," Maria announced, regarding her words with disdain.

"What..?" Gabriel muttered turning on the spot, tray clasped in his hands. But his attention was immediately drawn away from the broad cafeteria windows as a man with dark familiar hair artlessly called out to them.

Pierre was the first to acknowledge him, a goofy grin growing as he practically bounced over with meaningful moderation, "Hey!" He greeted, his loosely tied mane caught in the drift of his movement. There was nothing more important to him than his hair; thick, black and long. It stretched down to his midriff, even if tied back. It was like his prized possession, or rather obsession. Gabe had once made the joke to chop it off; only once. Maria on the other hand was known to envy him. Or so he believed. Mostly because of her gusty irritation with a straightening iron.

Her hair was thick and cursed with heavy curls; ringlets that were just as stubborn as her personality. Usually she gave up on them, abandoned the straightening iron for a typical hairband. Pierre didn't have to worry about that. His hair was naturally straight, though it seemed to offset his appearance.

He was short, perhaps 5'4'. His eyes cast a muddy gray, while his skin was realistically pale. And though he wasn't necessarily handsome, he was the type that could turn heads if he wanted to. But, he was not so much a rarity in form as he was in personality. There was an ornate aspect to his grin, an eccentric air to his laugh, and despite his typical french accent, his voice was known to draw the interest of others.

You could say, out of the three, he was the most social, the most outgoing one. But, all the same, he was loyal and innately honest. Ria had originally crushed on him, which initiated their meeting, however in doing so, she realized that there was absolutely no way he would return her feelings. After all, he was gay. A closet gay mind you. Though, anyone close enough could figure that out. Except Gabe. He was a bit of an idiot about it, until Pierre out-rightly stated it to him. Of course, Maria dramatically smacked herself silly at his oblivious nature.

"Who..?" Maria started, glancing at a spaced Gabe curiously.

"Ah... someone from the Orchestra group... I think..." He answered as they weaved through the tables now, in order to join their gleeful friend.

Ria blinked and looked over at Pierre as he dropped into a seat so loosely, it seemed like he purposely fell into it, "Oh... Hey, you seem kind of... gone today. What's up?" She questioned, quick to shift the subject as if trying to shake off whatever anomaly she'd just witnessed.

Gabriel merely shrugged, "Don't like the rain to much, plus I didn't sleep very well last night."

Before she could ask him why, they had reached the table. Gabe was first to set his tray down and take a seat beside Pierre, while Maria hesitated, taking a seat across from Gabe. She usually wasn't very comfortable with first time meetings, though both of her brainless friends were ignorant to this. Taking a more reserved stance, she crossed her legs under the table, her tipped heel scuffing against the bottom of the table top.

Pierre Claude held an excited expression, one he always had when playing the part of a social butterfly. Whereas Gabe had a completely off balanced expression, his eyes caught on the raindrops colliding with the windowpane.

"Marcus, right?" Pierre started in, "You play french horn don't you?"

Gabe seemed to tune in momentarily, caught off guard by Claude's intense memory. Well, to him anyway. Gabriel's memory capacity ran on a short circuit, so he could only remember things after a long period of time. Usually he had to write things down to remember, otherwise he'd forget completely until someone else brought it into perspective.

With his attention currently floating, his eyes landed on the form Maria had sat down beside. His memory flickered a bit, his eyes narrowing as he tried to recall, but with the failure his memory provided, he could only choose to give up. Perhaps he'd seen him walking in the halls. Shrugging it off to that, he caught Maria's gaze, "Now who's the one spaced out?" He exclaimed directly to Maria.

Ria stiffened a bit as she stared down at her plate, and then back up at Gabe, "Guess it's contagious. That or the weather. It's depressing."

"You're telling me-"

"Hey guys quite being anti-social!" Claude jeered, gripping Gabe's shoulder and pulling him to his attention, "Marcus, you know Gabe right? He plays Cello. And this here is Miss Klein-"

"Maria."

"Right," He laughed, seemingly oblivious as he turned to the guy sitting by Maria, "And you... you're Noah aren't you?"

Again Gabe's attention switched to the character beside Maria. His eyes grew wide, almost as if he had an epiphany, "Ah, the Harpist!" He proclaimed, making Maria jump a bit. Pierre raised his brow bemused.

"Wow, you actually managed to remember, I'm surprised," He stated, with another airy laugh to follow

Noah smiled briefly at his friend - already used to such dramatic antics and yet unable to keep from grinning at each one - before picking up the apple on his tray and studing it, his look vague and untraceable. Only moments before he had been on the verge of hiding it away in one of Marcus' pockets, and yet now the idea held very little appeal. He was actually seriously considering eating it, at least some of it, which was an odd thing for him; he was not one for apples, or very many fruits in general. On a rare occasion he would get himself a slice of pineapple, or perhaps a bit of melon, but he could not truthfully say he was inclined to eat anything with a "skin" of any sort. The very idea made his own skin prickle with discomfort. If they had called it anything else - simply stuck to "peel" and left well enough alone - he would have no qualms about eating apples. It seemed completely unnatural for something that fell out of a tree to have anything resembling a skin. Skin was for animals, who moved and existed at will, and ate things that grew on trees. It was never for the trees themselves, nor whatever they shed from their branches.

No, things with skin should be cooked. Apples were eaten raw. The idea was enough to turn his stomach on a normal day and yet here he sat, examining this God-forsaken piece of fruit and debating whether or not he should, or could bite into it with intent to chew and swallow.

As Noah considered his apple far more deeply than needed, Marcus greeted the first guest to arrive at the table with his usual fevered enthusiasm. "Marcus de Brito, at your service my friend. The horn is my muse, though a wicked lady she may be." Smiling genially, he watched as the last two of the group took their seats, still chatting between themselves. "And you, if my memory serves, are Jean Claude, master of many an instrument. I don't know how you do it, mate, I have my hands full with just the one."

In the brief moment of friendly silence that followed, Marcus noticed that Noah had Checked Out yet again. Plucking the apple out of his hands - Noah managed to look put-out, but said nothing - Marcus took a bite from the side. [COLOR="Crimson"]"If you really intended to eat it, No, you should've done so sooner. Damn thing would've rotted before long."

"Would not," muttered Noah, giving the apple one last look before plucking his milk from his tray and turning to observe the new arrivals at the table as Jean introduced them. He nodded to each as their names were given, trying as always to commit their names to memory. He was rarely successful, but he always thought it better to give it some effort before he gave up and forgot completely.

The one name he didn't need to be told, however, was Gabe's. He had taken notice of him before, during their Orchestra sessions not because he did much to stand out, but because he seemed as fed up about being there as Noah did himself. The harp was never a popular instrument with composers, so many of his parts either had to be written in specifically so he could play the more classical pieces with the rest of the musicians, or - though the harp had been in mind when the music was written - the composer knew so little about the subtle nuances of the thing itself that it was like reading a book written by someone who only thought they knew how to write. Painful - like pulling out a sliver with every note. Though not for the same reasons, it was obvious that he could find a like mind in the Cellist; Gabe wanted to be a part of the Orchestra just as much as Noah did, if not less. Having said all that, however, Noah knew next to nothing about him.

It had been easy enough to find out his name, but that was where his trail ran cold. This was not to say Noah was any Sherlock Holmes; it was just that he didn't know where to go after that. It had been a very long time since he'd drummed up the courage to be nosey about anything, let alone another human being.

When Jean addressed Noah next, the man in question gave him a small, yet genuine smile. "Noah Yorke - good to meet you outside of the Orchestra, Jean Claude; Gabe; Maria." He raised his milk to his lips -

"Ah, the Harpist!"

- And paused with his mouth open and milk in mid-air. It didn't take long for his face to split into a smile, though. "That's me, yeah."

"I had to pry him off it just to get him away from it," Marcus said around a mouthful of apple flesh, "If I hadn't he'd still be in there. One day I'm going to go in after vacation and find out he's been in there a week with it and forgotten to feed himself, hasn't slept and has legally married the damn thing."

"I wouldn't marry it, that's just stupid," said Noah, picking at his croissant. He feigned hurt, lashes cast low over green eyes.

"But you'd amit to being half-starved and sleep-deprived."

"I admit to nothing." Noah stuck his nose in the air, trying not to smile as he did so. In the end he let out a chuckle, and had to drop the charade. He tore off a bit of croissant and, before popping it into his mouth, turned to look at the rest of the table. "So, Is everyone here local, or have you got roots elsewhere? Marcus and I can't be the only ones not from France."

It was like watching a ping pong ball being whacked back and forth with the same color paddles. Nobody was playing to win, just doing it for the heck of it. Or at least, that was the twisted analogy Maria got from listening to the conversation. Rather it was pretty much the same with any heartless conversation. Jean Claude was being his usual bratty social self, while Gabe took every other minute to surprise the hell out of her. Though, she wasn't really complaining much about it, after all, it never got boring around them, especially since they were always so unpredictable. Especially Gabe, when his memory actually decided to work.

She was quiet mostly, letting the guys do most of the talking. She kind of felt like an outsider, having been the only one not in the Orchestra group, not to mention the fact that she happened to be the only girl sitting at their table. That she was used to tough. Having a guy as a best friend happened to bring that about regardless, plus, she'd always grown up with guys. And even if she didn't particularly enjoy it all the time, it was certainly easier.

Letting her memories cascade before her, she'd been completely knocked off guard by Noah's question. Before she had the chance to respond to his question, Gabe made the first initiative to respond, which once more caught her by surprise. She'd never seen him get so involved in a conversation.

"I'm from the States," He said, grinning a bit as an aftermath of the mild argument between Noah and Marcus.

Gabe, no longer looked dead or half out of it, it seemed almost as though he was just as excited as Jean Claude. Maria shot him a rather bemused look, leaning over the table as means to actually participate in the conversation, "I'm from Germany; Potsdam. Though my accent might make that obvious."

Ah, the accent. Probably one of Maria's most noticeable traits, though not one that stood out too much. There were plenty of other students who came from Germany as well. Americans were a bit rarer though.

Jean Claude whistled in next, a heavy pride on his tongue, "Ah, so I am the only one from here. Where are you two from?" He inquired avidly, taking a drink from his water bottle.

Gabriel bit into his bagel at the same time, savoring the taste. It'd always been his favourite to eat. A plain bagel with plain cream cheese. He lived on it, vegged on it. Maria of course, always picked on him for it seeing as it was just another one of his stupid obsessions, or so she stated. He didn't see anything wrong with that. After all, it tasted a lot better than that soup crap she was going on about. At this, he glanced over at her bowl, watching her as she toyed with the spoon, stirring the watery substance subconsciously. It was an ugly brown color and it looked like someone had just randomly thrown in whatever disgusting looking vegetable they could find. He scowled at this a bit, recalling when his oh so lovely mother force fed him Egg Stew.

That was a not so fond memory of his mother, but it was the only one he actually remembered bonding with her.. well, sort of. Before his brain could job on any other memories, a familiar tune interrupted, coming from Maria's direction. He glanced over at her as a familiar string rendition of the song Prayer of the Refugee caused her to drop the spoon on her tray as she went to pull out her crap Nokia from her stiff pants pocket. The tune continued, wordless as his brows scrunched together, trying to pull his memory from lalaland and force it to connect the song with the artist.

"Ria, who's the artist?" He asked abruptly as Ria pulled it from her pocket, now on her feet.

She looked up as she went to answer, "Huh? Oh, original's by Rise Against.... this ones by the Vitamin String Quartet.. -Ah, hello? Oh Mark! Hold on- Sorry guys, I've got to go," She turned to Noah and Marcus, "Nice meeting you! -Gabe can you clean up for me?" She asked, rushed before returning to her conversation through the stupid cell phone.

Gabriel immediately frowned before nodding, though he was sure she missed it as she rushed to gather up her bag and slip out of the cafeteria. Eying her now empty seat, a frown apparent, he gave a noise of disapproval, grabbing her tray and pulling it closer. He could feel Jean Claude starring at him as he lifted the bowl from her tray and set it in front of the french boy, saying nothing as he then stacked her tray beneath his.

Jean Claude merely sighed as he looked at the bowl placed in front of him, his own meal having been devoured in seconds. He didn't reject it though, now used to eating the remains of Maria's food whenever she decided to take off...

"You know, I'm really starting to..." He trailed off, figuring he sounded more irritated than he wanted to be. It shouldn't have bothered him. The fact that Maria was dating a total jerk. It really shouldn't have. But it did and that only pissed him off more.

Claude patted him on the back, "Oh come on Gabe, he's not that bad, he makes her happy. Now quit it, you're killing the atmosphere," he said, almost as though he could read his mind.

Gabe glanced over at the other two, having forgotten about them for a moment. "Sorry..." He muttered under his breath. Deciding to change the subject, he looked over at Noah, "I've heard some pretty cool things about you, or your harp playing anyway..." He started... lamely.

Chewing the piece of croissant in his mouth thoroughly, Noah gave his full attention to the conversation. This was rare for him, mostly because he always had his head elsewhere; thought ii came easily for some, Noah was not the type to whom multitasking came easily, if at all. As he was a bit of a daydreamer, he tended to be a bit of a fifth wheel in most of the conversations he had intended to be a participant in. It was never purposeful, never intentional; he would try to keep himself focused on the exchange of words around him, but time after time his mind would wander, only to be pulled back to reality when someone called his name and expected him to know what was going on. It was frustrating, but this time he was determined to stay focused. Marcus was not going to be the only one with the witty comments this time, if Noah had anything to say about it.

It wasn't as if he didn't want to be the outgoing one. Marcus seemed to settle naturally into the position, always alert, always poised for the next opportunity to meet someone or shake a hand, offer a wave or a wink. Sometimes Noah envied him so deeply for it that it seemed the emotion was a physical, substantial existence, but it was next to impossible to resent him for it. There was no satisfying the middle de Brito boy until the whole room was in stitches, and it was a well-practised art for him. For Noah, however, it was a bumbling excuse for an attempt, at best. Perhaps that was why the two of them got on so well; master and apprentice, Marcus was happy to take the misguided and sheltered Noah under his prank-playing, grin-flashing wing.

So intent was he on the conversation that he hung on every word, catching it and placing neatly in a pile beside his yogurt in an attempt to actually recall it later on. Gabe, the American; Maria, the German; Jean-Claude, the Frenchman. He was so involved in committing the mantra to memory, however, that Marcus did what he was best at; beating Noah to the punch.

"I was born in Wales, but my mother met my father in Trinidad," he said, running a quick hand through his hair, "He was meeting a client on a business invitation, and she was the man's daughter. Dad brought her to Wales two years before I came along. Needless to say, my grandfather is our best investor, and our oldest client." Flashing a toothy smile at his little joke Marcus leaned back in his chair, lifting the front legs from the ground and leaving an opening for Noah to introduce his own origins. He took it grudgingly, but without hesitation.

"I'm from Blackwood," he started, settling in to his story, "In Wales as well. We met at a boarding school in St. Clears when we were fifteen. I haven't much of an accent, though, it's all a jumble; my father moved to Greece, so from six until I turned eighteen I lived a year in Volos, then a year in Blackwood, then back to Volos, and so on and so forth. Strangely enough," he paused a moment to chuckle at himself, before concluding, "I never really learned much Greek. I can ask for directions, but I'll be damned if I can understand what I get back."

Without missing a beat, the end of his story seemed to coincide perfectly with the sudden chiming of Maria's ring tone. Though he was intrigued by the melody, he had the sense to be a little embarrassed when Gabe enquired as to the artist, and he didn't know the original. He had only heard snippets from the Vitamin String Quartet from an acquaintance, but he had been confused when they had told him the "original" artist of the song. He had just been intrigued at hearing strings in a modern arrangement - he was just glad of hearing something modern with such classical backing.

What took him slightly aback as he raised a quick hand in goodbye to Maria's retreating form was the look on Gabe's face, and the almost ritualistic qualities of the movements that followed the deeply-rooted expression of displeasure. It seemed that this was not an uncommon occourence, but the apparent routine of distributing and arranging her leavings was preformed seamlessly. Before he had long to analize the situation, though, the brief exchange between Gabe and Jean-Claude made it clear as crystal; "Mark" was not well-liked, at least by Gabe.

"Please don't apologize, it's... Don't apologize." Noah, though curious, thought it best not to get caught in the simmering hostility behind Gabe's expression. He simply offered Gabe a thoughtful, prolongued look, then offered a small, slightly awkward smile before returning his attention to his lunch tray.

However Marcus, being Marcus, was not content to let sleeping dogs lie. "I gather you don't like her beau much?" he asked gently, lowering the legs of his chair to their natural position.

"Marcus," hissed Noah softly, "Don't pry, it's not your business." Marcus kissed his teeth at his friend, but raised his hands at Gabe, effectively dropping the subject. Noah glanced nervously between them and picked once more at his bread; Marcus gave his friend an unreadable look, and sighed heavily in defeat. His curiosity had been successfully leashed.

Noah knew exactly what Marcus would've done if he'd gotten Gabe to talk about Maria's boyfriend - he knew full well it wouldn't have done any good. It never seemed to in any other instance he could remember, when his friend's chivalrous side got a broad chest and prickled hide about things. Besides, they barely knew Maria, or any of the three of them in general; better to keep shirts and noses clean for now.

Noah was pulled abruptly from his train of thought at the mention of the harp. The harp meant him, and that meant someone had been talking to him. Fighting the flush rising in his cheeks at having drifted again, Noah tried to drag Gabe's sentence back to his conscious. "W-well, I'm not certain you could have heard much," he said, gathering his composure, "I tend to play mostly on my own -"

"With the amount you play, people are bound to be curious, Noah," interrupted Marcus, "You disappear for hours on end. No normal person does that. So, you stir a bit of curiosity about the whole thing, and you get a few eavesdroppers. You are not always as alone as you believe yourself to be."

"No one asked you," said Noah, losing the battle against the heat in his neck as it spread to his ears, "I've heard about you as well, Gabe. Well, not much in the way of gossip. Nothing, really. Just what I've heard in the orchestra itself. Both of you are pretty amazing."

((OOC: Sorry if this isn't much to work off of; I'm trying to work off this cold, and all the meds are making me a little fuzzy. X_x ))

The problem most people had with Gabe, was that he was impulsive. Of course it didn't help that he was an open book most of the time. His emotions were scripted in big fat bold letters across his forehead. Of course, he was also pretty oblivious to boot, so he went highly unaware of it, despite the fact that Ria had constantly pointed it out. Though, it seemed to go in one ear and out the other. Unless, it proved to be of any significance to Gabe or had any relation to music, he showed very little interest in it. That was just how obsessed he was.

Music wasn't just a stream of emotions filtered into beauty to him, it was his entire being wrapped in itself. Every organ in his body, every vein, every breath he made, they were all threaded and weaved by the influence of music. Girls often claimed that he was more in love with music than them whenever he happened to be going out with one. It made him angry. Frustrated; so he'd stayed single after the last one. His lover was music. Though he couldn't help but miss the physical aspect of being in a relationship.

His mood was pretty much drained now, his mind complaining about the existence of Mark and his stupid egoistic brain. He tried to find something else to dwell on, or something to distract him.

They were both from Wales. Gabe had no idea where that was... he figured somewhere near England, but that was as far as he got. He wasn't very bright in geography, nor did he take much interest in it. Plus, going to school in the states, he learned only small portions of the UK. Most of the stuff he knew about were all in relation to music. And that, was pretty much self-taught. Schooling only brought him across the ocean. His ambition was what brought him to Paris, that and a lot of financial support from a very pushy stubborn family.

Immediately, he retreated from thinking about his family, trying to focus more on what was going on.

Jean Claude, despite Noah's statement, went on to blab about Gabe's issue with Mark in response to Marcus, "Haha, her beau happened to start a riff with Gabe over being to close to Miss Klein. In any case, they're just overly jealous of each other," He laughed as if it were no big deal, Gabe scowled in response but did nothing else. He knew he was being pathetic, but Mark was a jerk to him and the fact that Maria was going out with him had him worried. He wasn't actually jealous, he idea of him dating Ria was strange...

Gabe's attention fell from Noah to Claude to Marcus as words bounced back and forth, but eventually returned to Noah as a compliment was returned. Gabe flushed a little, for whatever reason. He was used to compliments, but receiving one from Noah seemed to mean a whole lot more. Perhaps it was because he was a fellow musician, and a damn good one at that. He'd only heard snippets, pieces from the orchestra, but he'd also heard things from other people. Some classmates that had passed by the practice room, people that overheard periodically.

His hands clasped together, resting his chin against the ridge of his fingers as his leaned over his tray. The plate sat, a bagel half eaten and abandoned temporarily. He'd seemingly lost his appetite with the absence of Maria.

Before he could come up with anything in response, Claude jumped back in, having quieted for a moment as he devoured the remainder of Ria's soup. "Hahaha," He laughed, amused by Marcus and Noah's arguing, "You know, Noah, you and Gabe should be best friends. Both of you seem to have some kind of obsessive compulsive issue with your instruments. This guy," He pointed at Gabe, "Can't even keep a girl because all he ever does is play his Ce-Oww!"

Without thinking, Gabe had kicked his friend in the shin, managing to shake the table a bit. As he was about to comment, however, his cellphone vibrated. He dug it out, confused. Few people ever texted him, much less called. Flipping his own crap phone up, his screen displayed an incoming call from Ria. But as he went to answer the connection was cut. Confused, he dialed her number, placing he receiver to his ear, but she didn't answer.

"Weird."

"What?"

"Ria, she phoned me, but it cut out and when I tried to phone her back-"

His phone vibrated again in his hand. This time the screen displayed a received text message from Maria. Immediately, he opened it. Reading the text was a little difficult since some of the words seemed so scrambled, it was ridiculous. But, as he managed to decipher the words, he cursed.

"What?"

"She just canceled on me!"

"Who, Maria?"

"Yeah, we were supposed to go check out that new music store on Saturday; said that Mark was taking her out to a symphony instead..."

Jean Claude sighed, "Seriously Gabe, you two are worse than my younger brothers."

"Shut up..." Gabe scowled again, putting his phone away as he stood up. "Anyway, I have to get going... I want to get some practicing in before class. Lefevre's been complaining about my lack of enthusiasm. Says that it's killing the quality of sound. Man she pisses me off..." He complained, glancing at his watch before looking up at Noah and Marcus, "I'll see you guys in class I guess... Later Noah.." And with that, he left, ditching both his and Maria's tray for Jean Claude to clean up.

Jean Claude laughed a bit, bewildered, "Oh wow..."



((occ: Blaaaahhhh, first off let me apologize for the poor quality of this post... Anyway, haha don't worry about how much you're giving me to work with XD I can usually whip up something from thin air if I know what I'm doing. Oh! And if you wanted to end the scene differently just say so... I could probably cut that last bit out. I'm just kind of going with the flow... you're just as welcome to open the next scene too or I can whatever you're comfortable with.. ~ *kicks self* I talk too much. Anywho, I hope you're feeling better!))

Noah's fingers itched. He wasn't certain of when they'd started, but based on the intensity, it hadn't been long at all. He dragged his thumbnail over the pads of the fingers on his opposite hand, trying to drive the itch away, but he knew he was only delaying the inevitable; soon the itch would intensify and, if he left it long enough, he'd end up gnawing the tips raw without really realizing what he was doing until he tasted blood. Then what good would his hands be? Bandages did half of nothing to help when you were trying to pluck a string. It was like trying to open an envelope wearing mittens - physically impossible to do with any manner of skill or precision. Elephants do not do well opening letters, nor playing the harp, and Noah didn't want to have to be an elephant until his fingers healed. It was true that his last episode of unconscious chewing had been when he was a boy, but the itch was a constant, and the possible consequences of ignoring it still lay beneath the surface of his calloused skin.

Besides, he was with Gabe and Jean Claude, and he was actually enjoying himself for once; that damned itch could, and would have to wait.

Still scratching softly at his fingers, Noah managed to focus on Claude's explanation of the animosity between Maria's man-candy, Mark, and Gabe. He was no Cupid, nor was he comparable to Aristotle, but he was a very logical thinker and, thus, he saw no logical reason for Mark to be so vindictive towards Gabe. Maria and Gabe were friends - surely that meant they'd see each other on occasion, maybe without Mark. Shouldn't that have been obvious before Mark was such a big part of the picture? Friends tended to do that. Noah could understand if Gabe had romantic intentions for Maria but, to his limited knowledge, that wasn't the case. Were men really this confusing and pointless when it came to women, or was he just too detached from the situation to see another point of view? He admitted to himself that the latter was entirely possible, but he highly doubted another point of view would yield results of a vastly different pitch.

Still, the very mention of Mark seemed enough to put Gabe in an awfully sour mood; the man in question glowered in response to Claude's explanation, and Noah knew to leash the urge to prod further. He hoped Marcus would do the same, and when his friend remained stonily silent, Noah breathed a bit easier. He loved Marcus, but he could be so hotheaded.

When the next snippet from Jean-Claude was silenced with a brief, but very present kick, both Noah and Marcus wrestled with smiles; Noah was more successful with his own, but Marcus was not one for self-restraint, so expecting more would've been foolish at the very least. Noah himself wasn't one for keeping a girlfriend, though he was admittedly no master of getting one in the first place. Even the musical ones seemed to find him too absorbed in the symphony in his head, too cut off from Everyone Else to stay long. Since he couldn't really blame them, Noah rarely if ever did much to stop them leaving. Marcus said that either made him cold-hearted or immune to tears, but it wasn't that he wasn't sad to see them go - more like he felt no right to throw a fit about it. It was hard. Harps were so much easier to get along with; they never seemed to care when you'd had an off day, nor did they ever prattle on in the middle of a session. If that made him cold-hearted, then there was little he could do but to do his best to be less so.

Suddenly on the receiving end of a compliment he seemingly hadn't intended to get, the Welshman watched as Gabe's posture changed, but was promptly interrupted by a phone call. The ensuing rise of temper from the cellist made Noah affirm his decision not to pry, but Gabe's departure left him a bit mellow. It had been so long since he'd had more than Marcus for company, and he was ready to admit it was a nice change of pace. Still, they knew of one another now; that opened the door for future conversations, though Noah couldn't help but hope they'd end on a lighter note than this one had.

"Well," he said, suddenly realizing he'd been silent rather a long time, "I suppose we should all get back at it." Piling his picked-over but uneaten lunch in the centre of his tray, Noah pulled Gabe's tray over and emptied the contents over his own. He tucked the emptied tray under the lot and offered Claude a smile. "It was nice to actually talk to you, Jean-Claude. I honestly hope we can do it again soon."

"Definitely," said Marcus, scooping up his own tray and snatching Noah's stack from the smaller boy's hands, "I'm going to assume correctly that Noah is going to nip back to his beloved harp a while before class starts up again, so I'm going to go back with the brass guys for a while and ham it up until it does. I'll see you both later!" Moving at a brisk swagger, Marcus took his leave.

Noah rolled his eyes at Marcus' back, scooping up Maria's tray so his hands wouldn't feel so absurdly empty. He offered Claude what amounted to his own version of a cheeky grin, but ended up more like a larger-than-normal smile. "Marcus is no prophet, but I am going to make his prediction come true. We've got a while before classes resume, and I'm not about to let the time between go to waste. I'll see you in class, Jean-Claude."

(( OOC: Shitty post is shitty, but it's a post at least! Dx Feel free to skip to whenever you like~ ))

About a week later, Gabe was found loitering around the practice rooms, his fingers fidgeting as a piano tuned in the room across from him. He glanced anxiously at his watch then over at his Cello, sealed inside a large leather case where it rested beside a chair against the wall. He paced, shaking out his anticipation as music, sounds from a piano, a clarinet and bassoon filtering out into the hall, taunting him. This was probably the most torturous feeling for Gabe. Having to wait to play, having to wait for a room. If only he'd booked one earlier like he usually did.

While he continued to pace, the rain pattered against cobble stone outside. Winter slowly appraoching, in attempt to replace fall. It was respectable cold, but nothing out of the norm, though Gabe had dressed prepared for snow. A scarf, dark green and gray hung around his neck, a leather coat, faded and worn resting on his shoulders. He wore jeans of the usual, navy and just as faded as his jacket. His hair was a mop, neglected by Gabe's laziness. Unlike Jean Claude and Maria, Gabe didn't care so much about his hair, to the point where he let it grow down to his ears. Though, it probably had something to do with the fact that his grandmother had always made such a big fuss over his hair, never letting it grow too long, never letting it go without proper grooming. Of course, it didn't help that she was a retired hair dresser.

Now though, that he was far across the ocean and out of reach, and not to mention on his own, he only made attempt to groom his hair when he remembered. When he cared to remember. Or, when Maria happened to be around in time to brush it before he took off. Needless to say, at the moment, brushing his hair was the last thing on his mind.

"Bonjour Gabriel," A voice called out, his rolling his r's.

Gabe glanced up from where he stood, rolling his knuckles into his palm, "Louie, hey," He replied, keeping his voice down in respects to the musicians behind doors, "What's up?" He asked, sitting down in the chair by his Cello, Louie joining him.

Louie was Jean-Claude's younger brother. He was typically shorter, and looked relatively younger, though they were only two years apart. His eyes were brown like his mothers, his nose and chin like his fathers. His hair was a rich burgundy, something hat made him unique among his family. Gabe had always wondered whether it was dyed or not, but never thought to ask. Especially since he was usually distracted by Louie's height over anything.

Maria had always claimed he was cute, almost too cute. Gabe thought he looked like a girl, like his mother.

"Came to practice," Louie stated, holding up his piccolo case, "Jean giving you any trouble?" He asked. He was much more tame than Claude, much softer, quieter. He was his mother through and through.

Gabe rarely talked to Louie, seeing as he barely saw him. They'd only met every now and then whenever he was over at Jean Claude's. And, even then, they didn't talk much, "Nothing more than usual," He joked casually, staring at the door across from him as he continued to roll his fingers.

Louie nodded, an awkward silence following suit. Gabe didn't notice much, seeing as the moment the door opened, he jumped to his feet. Watching as a girl with choppy brown hair walked out with only a folder. She was a pianist, but someone he'd never seen before. Shrugging it off eagerly, he grabbed his Cello and moved into the doorway. He glanced back at the boyish looking man, "Later Louie," He stated, closing the door behind him.

It didn't take long before he'd gotten set up and, after a quick warm up, and minor tuning, he started to play.

The moment his bow collided with the strings, a shiver ran up his spine. And as the next followed suit, he fell into a desperate trance, his eyelids fluttering shut as the melody sunk in, filling the room with a sweet sad sound.


The following afternoon, Gabriel sat, frowning in a room filled with instruments and their owners. He sat at the front, alongside a collection of other cellists, all with exceptional talent, and seemingly; poise. Something that made Gabe look out of place. He stiffened a bit as Lefevre entered, her stout form overwhelming as a wave of thick french perfume clouded the air.

Gabe glanced wearily over at Jean Claude, who was sitting among the Clarinets, to his dismay. Lefevre had pushed for it, requesting that he lead the other clarinets for the first semester of the year. Of course, Claude fought against it but ultimately gave in. Though, as he caught Gabe's stare and winked, he seemed hardly bothered by it.

Turning back to the front as Lefevre took her stance at the front of the class, Gabe reluctantly tuned in to her scratchy voice.

"Alright. Today we'll be running through Prokofiev's Romeo and Juliet, Dance of the Knights. Oboes, remember your crescendo's, flute's keep an eye on your pitches, and violins," She breathed, "Play confidently."

She waited as the room shuffled, opening up their scores and fitting them in the stands. Gabe shared one with a shy girl, who'd beat him to placing her score on the stand. Gabe said nothing, readying himself as Lefevre eyed the room, her hands hovering over her stand. Once she was assured that everyone was ready, she raised her baton, everyone following in suit with their instruments. And almost immediately, the room erupted into sound, following the instruction of her hands. Through out, she yelled out commands, "Softer flute's! Softer." "Oboes, careful on the pitches!"

Gabe felt sweat on his brow, each of his own notes seeming much more important than what the others were playing. He breathed through his nose, the girl beside him stopping to turn the page as Gabe kept up for her, she quickly joined in again, stalling only during rests.

As it went on, Gabe felt his shoulders tense, his brows creased as he kept his attention on the notes on the page.


((ooc: Just a couple of notes I guess, here's a link for the specific piece played: Clickie. Now... I'm not sure there's a harpist in this version, but I'm sure we can incorporate it in XD. Erm, I was thinking of ending the class right away, but I figured by doing this it'll give you more to work with, if not though, I can fix it up. That being said, I've decided to make Lefevre an NPC, or rather I'm up for joint custody over controlling her. I've done this with a few other roleplay partners, also with minor unimportant characters, so I'm not sure if you're up for this. If you are, you're more than welcome to make use of Lefevre. Xd))

Noah felt ridiculous. Absolutely, blatantly, unavoidably ridiculous. He wished he'd just stayed at the apartment, as Marcus had.

Once again the music settled, and once again he was forced to remove his hands from the ready position. Once again he could hear an opening, and once again he was forced to wait for his bars in spite of the obvious gap he could fill. It was maddening. If it wasn't for his obscure position in the classroom - not quite with the strings, but not quite anywhere else, either; tucked neatly in the back row with the percussionists like a forgotten toy, or an unwanted fruitcake - he was certain Lefevre would see the frustrated, hateful looks he was giving her, and the sheet music she'd given to him. As he mentally counted the bars until he would next pluck another ten strings before sitting like a lump again, he played his music in his head.

It was like the unwanted bastard child of a piccolo and a violin, living in secret with the tubas; sometimes there, but never heard clearly. He was doomed to follow the melody when it was loud enough to cover his own, blend it in with everything else like some half-assed meat stew in which someone had thrown in some sad-looking vegetables to pass it off as a balanced meal. It was vile, and he had no choice but to pluck strings like a music box on command, and only when the lid was open.

It was almost always like this. So many composers found the harp so alien an instrument, so fundamentally unfamiliar, that they either couldn't fully understand how strong or subtle it could be in a piece, or they didn't even bother to attempt an understanding. More often than not, Lefevre would have to throw up some vile concoction of orphaned notes for him to play in the background, like the unfortunate child in the school play who has drawn the short straw and must play a rock or a bush. On the rare occasion when he and the other harpists - of which there seemed to be fewer and fewer, speaking orchestrally, as he was the only one in his year - were actually given music written with the harp in mind, it felt like fifty Christmases in which you got everything you wanted occurring all at once, and ending just as quickly as you were handed another pile of mishmash to masquerade as harp music.

In this instance, it was a shame. He really did actually enjoy this piece. There were so many things Noah could've done, if only Lefevre would allow him to modify the music she'd given him. He wasn't limited to the strings with this piece - even the horns offered him an opportunity to create a harmony with them, so strong were the crescendos and so soft were the melodies that he could shoulder in anywhere and have it feel like home. Unfortunately, Lefevre did not seem keen on allowing him to modify his own music. She took the stance that, if she were to allow him the opportunity, how could she not allow everyone who asked her for the same?

Simple, thought Noah piggishly; tell them Prokofiev had actually cared to write music for their own instruments when he'd composed the Dance of the Knights, and where they could be inclined to shove their sheet music if it didn't suit. How he longed to actually say that aloud.

Noah fully realized how this all made him sound, and it really wasn't that he wanted to turn everything into a harp piece. For once in his musical career, he wanted to be able to prove to anyone unfamiliar with the instrument that it was capable of carrying just as much weight in an orchestra as any other instrument in the ensemble, rather than being shoved aside with the triangles and harpsichords into obscurity and stereotyping. He was tired of being told he had to cater to popular tastes. He just wanted to play something that didn't sound like it had been vomited from the belly of some generic learn-to-play soft cover music store bin liner.

Still, when it came time for him to pluck away at his offerings, he held his posture appropriately and played exactly what Lefevre had given him, exactly as she wanted him to play it; the pitch, the speed, everything. And, when he was done, he rested his hands in his lap gracefully and waited for his next bit of music to come about. He felt sick - like he was twelve again and still developing the callouses he'd worked so hard to build up, with his senior standing behind him with his hawk-like eyes searching for any mistake, any at all, his conductor's baton resting in his fist, poised to correct the first out of place knuckle he caught sight of.

Another prolonged rest; once more his hands to his thighs. He hated when Marcus skipped classes - he rarely spoke with anyone else, and felt so awkward on his own . As the music carried on without him, he allowed his eyes to wander over the other students in their stiff-backed chairs, eyes glued to their music stands with varying expressions - some more glazed, some almost unblinking, and many more in the uncertain limbo between the two. After picking Jean Claude out of the crowd, he let his eyes settle on one of the few other familiar faces in the classroom; Gabe. His skin shone slightly - he was probably sweating - and his face was one of utmost concentration. Noah sighed, envious, and raised his hands to his harp for another round of mimicking a hen in lieu of actually contributing to the score. He prayed the next piece Lefevre chose actually had a harp in it to begin with.


When his slow torture was finally over and the piece was finished, Noah barely needed to wipe his brow. No effort - how disgusting. Lefevre was saying something to the woodwinds about tempo, but Noah allowed that snippet of speech to flow delightfully in one ear and out through the other. All around him the other musicians were shifting in their seats, some shuffling their music, others producing bottles of water and drinking greedily from them. Noah buried his fingers in his hair, scrubbing the tangle of waves and curls to release some of the unused tension in his hands. He hated when music left him feeling unfulfilled like this; was it so much to ask that he enjoy what he played? Isn't that why one became a musician in the first place?

"- for a quintet or fewer -"

What was that? Instantly perking up at the mention of something unrelated to their current concert piece, Noah cursed silently. Of all the times for Lefevre to say something that may have been interesting! He sat upright and alert in his seat, and attempted to follow the rest of her sentence.

"There will only be a handful of positions for solo and small group performances, so you will need to audition your piece and be selected in order to secure a spot in the annual concert. The date for auditions has not yet been set, but it would be best to start preparing for them now. I will let you know when and where you may find more information on this, as soon as the final decisions are made.

"However," Lefevre peered at the students, allowing the weight of the word to settle on them before continuing, "The standards for being selected will be very, very high indeed. Just because we have the space available does not mean they will all be filled for the sake of filling them. If you want the chance to preform, you will need to exceed the standards of those judging your auditions, not simply meet them. If anyone from this class is intending to audition, I will have to ask that you are serious about obtaining the right to preform, or do not bother auditioning at all. We will know if you are being half-hearted."

The classroom errupted in a buzz of conversation. Noah brightened instantly. Student slots in the annual concert. He was instantly far more fond of Lefevre than he had been only minutes prior.



((OOC: Oooh, that's pretty; a really nice balance of sharp and soft. There's probably a super-magical music related word for that, but I dropped music after grade 8 and I can't remember what it is eleven years after the fact. xD I'll make a note that Lefevre is fair game. I'm all for NPCs - the pawns of the roleplaying world. Completely sacrificial without all the blood and cultist hooey.

Anyhow I hope you don't mind that I got the ball rolling on the option of a duet - Gabe doesn't have to accept Noah's eventual proposal x3 - but I was going to end my post without it, and it really just felt like WORDSWORDSWORDS with no substance. xD If it conflicts with what you had planned, just ignore the last paragraph or two~

Also, this is my last week of formal classes until January, so I should be able to post slightly more often when I'm not working on my portfolio. JOY! 3 weeks off! ))

He was pretty sure that by the end of the score, his notes had decided to dance right off the page. That or he'd been so concentrated he was glaring through the sheet music. Either way, he cut out for a whole bar right near the end. And it didn't go ignored either seeing as Lefevre immediately glared at him the moment he tripped up. Which brought him to the question that was bothering him since he joined up. Why the hell was he playing with the Conservatoires Orchestra? Oh that's right, it was on demand. He was there as a result of pressure from his family and aided pressure from the conservatory it self. That wasn't to say Gabe was a push over; but the whole 'we're paying for you to be there, you're going to do it,' argument played out by his father didn't really give him much other option. Which is why it was incredibly difficult for him not to be relieved the moment he lifted his bow from the string at the piece's end.

Cluing in, belated to Lefevre's rather informative announcement. The annual concert held particular merit to Gabe. It was something he looked forward to participating in every year. Unfortunately the year prior he'd been pulled back home the same week of the concert. The memory stung in the back of his head; the yelling and screaming he had to go through to make it back for the end of the concert, the headaches, the heartache from being departed from his Cello against his will. It was a significantly sour experience he did not want to live through again. This year he would participate no matter what the cost. He raked his brain as he speech ended, searching for solo pieces at first. He could always go for Bach, or a Kodály Sonata. The mere thought had him excited; the previous resentment slipping from mind.

And, it appeared he wasn't the only one getting excited seeing as the rest of the class was making use of the soundproof walls. Even the shy girl who he shared a stand with was making arrangements with a violinist, who was equally thrilled. Levefre seemed to have been pulled off to the side to probably deal with further questions regarding the event and the class was currently sitting at a stand still, even though they still had another song or two to go through. Gabe wasn't at all displeased with this however. Being in the Orchestra was a dreaded nightmare when he didn't feel connected to the music. Especially in terms of Beethoven.

He practically cringed as he flipped through the their scores. Prokofiev was their most important one, followed by Debussy's, Danses sacrée et profane as well as Beethoven and two others. Thinking on it now, Noah coming into mind in correspondent to Debussy; it was really one of the only scores he'd ever seen the Harp take front on. He frowned at the thought. Such a magnificent Harpist playing with an Orchestra that really only needed him for one or two scores and then degraded him to a percussionist sound. Why the hell was he even part of the Orchestra. What a bloody waste.

His mind continued to fuel on this as he flipped through the score and further analyzed his own notes. As a Cellist he was fortunate to have a significant part in the orchestra, despite his distaste for it and further had the notes that prevented him from being completely bored. Though really, they only frustrated him. Regardless, Noah was getting the short end of the stick; which blatantly; sucked ass.

Gabe jumped the moment a had smacked onto his shoulder, causing his Cello to slip from its stance and setting the American completely off balance.

"I'm surprised, you look so frustrated over such a magnificent event," Claude mused, his accent seemingly much stronger than usual. That was typical though. He was a true Frenchman when he was... excited for something. His accent particularly tweaked the word magnificent and sort of left a ringingly numb echo in his head.

He looked up at his friend. Even sitting Gabe was almost as tall as him, "Hmmm," He didn't really have much to say seeing as he couldn't properly process Claude's words. His accent was much to distracting sometimes so comprehending Claude's comments was incredibly redundant.

Slinking down into his chair, Jean Claude slipped into the currently empty seat beside him. He sat facing Gabe, using the back of the seat as an armrest, "Still bothered by last year?" He inquired, his accent toning down but his expression still beaming with utmost delight, "Or is this about Mark again?" The whole 'Ria thing' Claude was referring to was one of the things that had continuously been grading his mind over the past week. Mostly due to his obsessive issues. Like his obsessive resentment towards Mark; which pretty much led to endless rants about how much of a conceded ass he was. And seeing as Maia was the one dating him, the only one he could really complain to was Claude; who was relatively used to it.

"No."

This surprised him though. Claude had at least expected a reluctant yes out of that. But, it was apparent now, that whatever was bothering Gabe had nothing to do with Maria or his family at all, "Hmmm, the only thing that ever gets to you aside from Miss Klein, is music. And you've just finally shut up about Beethoven..." He glanced down at the score Gabe had flipped open in his hands. His brows stitched together, moderately confused, "Debussy? What's got you so bugged about him?"

Gabe sighed, the who so perceptive side of Claude catching onto him. Not sure how to reply once more, he dropped the scores onto the floor and sunk further against the back of his seat, turning his irritable gaze to Claude, "Debussy's fine. Some cool stuff, I'm just annoyed. This orchestra stuff isn't for me. It's so god damn limited," He muttered bitterly.

Claude whistled, "Careful, or Lefevre might hear you."

Gabe scowled.

"Relax will you, your negativity already has Maria annoyed with you. Lighten up, or at least focus your attention on the concert. You've been looking forward to that the moment announcements went up at the beginning of the year," Claude went on halfheartedly, limiting his attempt to cheer him up at this point seeing as it was otherwise useless.

"Fine," He breathed, looking over at the Frenchman again as he tried to 'lighten up' by change of subject, "What are you doing for the concert anyway?"

Claude burst into a grin, "Nothing."

Gabe blinked before going wide eyed, "What?"

"I'm not doing anything. I've got a recital and a competition scheduled around the same time as the concert."

"But the date isn't even set yet."

"Doesn't matter, besides I'd rather watch this time. Miss Klein's guaranteed a spot and I'd like to hear her from the theater," He stated ecstatic.

Gabe nodded, not really understanding, but deciding it wasn't worth further questioning.



[Finally! Again I apologize for this verryy belated reply. But now that I've managed to rearrange my classes to give me more time, I've managed to clear up my previously homework jammed weekends. Hope you're doing well~]

Noah was sitting with his harp resting against his shoulder, scrambling through a thick ring binder over his opposite knee. It was packed full of pages and pages of music and notes, a good many of them not even attached to the rings as they were already full to bursting to begin with. This binder was Noah's musical refuge; he had been collecting music in it since he was a child, amassing his favourite pieces and jotting down notes and thoughts and ideas in the margins of the sheet music. Some of the sheet music was on lined paper, haphazardly scrawled from memory and covered in revisions in different colours of ink. Some were attached to tear-outs from magazines and newspapers where he had originally heard of the piece, or found an advertisement for the composer. There were old pieces, classic pieces, modern pieces, and pieces with no identifiable origins, but he loved and coveted them all. Many of them he could play by memory, simply by looking at the first bar of music, or simply by summoning the notes to the backs of his eyes and following with his fingertips.

Not all of it was harp music. Nearly half of his musical hoard was originally composed for the piano, covered in scratches and subbed notes and arrows where he had modified it slightly to make it suitable for the harp. For many people these piano pieces would be nearly unreadable, but Noah had devised a method of revision for these pieces that made it simple to correct where correction was needed without having to completely rewrite the music on a separate sheet for clarity. His eyes picked out the existing notes and scrawled revisions, and somewhere between his eyes and his hands he could convert them into the notes he needed, and play accordingly.

Noah's hands were flying across page after page of his music, pausing every so often when a title or a note caught his eye and he was compelled to read it, humming the melody softly under his breath, before continuing his flurry. His fingers were beginning to itch again, as they had at lunch, but this time he made no effort to scratch and gave the tingling little, if any thought. He was on a mission now. He wanted to choose a few test pieces to play through, a few that caught his eye, and pair them down to the perfect solo piece. He wanted something perfect for the harp, without being stereotypically Celtic; something dreamy and melodious, but at the same time dynamic and seductive; something that made full use of the harp both as a supporter of the music, and as a figurehead. Last year, as Marcus hadn't been inclined to play in the concert, Noah had taken the stance that if Marcus didn't want to, then neither did he. to be honest, playing in front of people embarrassed him; it rather felt like he was exposing himself to everyone in the room, so he had used it as an excuse to slink away unscathed. This year, however, he was far more determined to participate. Perhaps a year of playing the lion's share of what amounted to a musical Leper colony had made him so set of portraying the harp and a valuable instrument for more than just theme weddings and Shakespeare festivals, or perhaps he had finally done what his mother insisted was a constant threat to his person and gone completely 'round the twist. Either way, sanity or no sanity, Noah was dead-set on preforming.

In his haste, a few discarded sheets of music had made their way to the floor and lay forgotten on the opposite side of his harp. A sweet-faced girl with a flute in her hands rounded up the scattered pages and handed them to Noah. "You dropped these," she said, offering him a small smile. Startled, Noah gave her and the pages an unfocused look.

"Oh," he muttered, taking the pages and stuffing them under the binder, "Thank you." No sooner had he returned the cover of the bulging thing to his knee, he was back at his frenzied search, his nose nearly touching the pages and they flipped by. The girl seemed rather surprised - what was her name? Did he even know it? - by his abrupt and somewhat clipped reaction. She seemed rather at a loss as to what to do next.

A boy from the clarinets put a hand on her shoulder and steered her away, saying softly, "Don't worry about it, Emma, he's like that with everyone. Don't take it to heart, he's solitary by nature."

When Noah was left on his own he paused in his search, his expression heavy in contemplation of the boy's words. He knew he wasn't the friendliest person, but was that really the sort of impression he gave off? Noah wasn't all that much a fan of being on his own, unless he was practising. He got lonesome easily, which usually lead him to daydream, which inevitably lead him to... What would he call it? It wasn't homesickness, as his home was two places thousands of miles away from one another; but at the same time he missed the places he was familiar with, the scenery he knew so well, so that seemed the most fitting word for it. Paris was beautiful, but under the flowers and cafés and classical architecture there was at the heart of the city a coldness, a distance that set him on edge. It wasn't what he knew - it was foreign in every sense of the word.

But he had always been distant from other people. It wasn't a conscious act, but it was a fact of his personality. He was inherently uncomfortable with people, in particular people he didn't know, and he tended to overcompensate for his feelings of disquiet with either daydreaming or over-thinking his situation. He was either too afraid or too eager, and he never seemed to find a manageable balance; he always seemed to fall too far to one side, or the other, and end up on his ass.

Suddenly the wind fell from his sails - his posture sagged, and the itch in his fingers subsided. He was staring at the last open page of sheet music in his binder as if it was offensive to him, but he was too reserved to say anything about it. He closed it without a word, pausing as a few pages attempted to fold over on themselves to tuck them back into some semblance of order, before replacing the whole thing back in his book bag. Whatever, he thought to himself; he'd come back to his music later that night, when he'd have time to brush off the comment. If that was what people wanted to think of him, then let them think foolishness until their brains rotted and sloshed in their skulls.

Wanting nothing more than to leave, Noah glanced at his watch - still early, but considering the chaos he could probably slip out without too much notice of his absence. He glanced around the room, taking in the different groups of chattering people that had formed after Lefevre's announcement, and his eyes settled on Gabe and Jean-Claude. He was instantly curious as to whether or not they'd be auditioning for the concert. Did he dare wander over and ask?

After staring at the two of them for a solid two and a half minutes, Noah mustered up his nerve and gently lifted the harp from his shoulder. Hesitating only once as he approached them, he shuffled to a stop behind Gabe. "Ah... Hullo," he said rather awkwardly, scratching the inside of his wrist as he spoke. Figuring he'd get straight to the point, he gave a reserved smile, "Are you excited for the concert? For the auditions?"