Louis had expected for the musician to be just another person, someone he saw and would promptly forget about, but that wasn't the case. Alfie handled himself in such a unique way, that once Louis started to notice it, he was hooked. His eyes stayed more focused on the man, his ears were up and turned towards him.
People should be afraid of the lions--not just because they were a pack of male lions in their prime, but because they were Shishigumi. They were the apex predators of the Black Market. They were on top of this dark little world right now, held there by their own ferocity, Louis's planning, his ice-cold will, and their claws. Anyone with sense should be afraid of them--so either Alfie didn't have sense, or there was more to him than met the eyes. So, so much more.
"He smells like a hybrid," Agata said, once the man had gone. He wrinkled his nose and rubbed the back of a paw against it. "Gross."
"Hey." Free smacked his shoulder. "Don't be a bigot, what the fuck?"
"Yeah, well, you're not the one Melon stabbed with a fork."
"Never getting over the fork thing, huh, kid?"
Ignoring their banter, Louis walked up closer to the edge of the stage, although he was careful to stay out of sight and out of distraction's range, but barely aware of it. It was only Louis's long respect for the stage that kept his feet rooted to the spot, as that strange little kangaroo started to sing.
The music was--
Louis had never heard anything like it before. His breath caught and held, his eyes widened, and although he was aware of the rain starting to fall more heavily now, it didn't matter. Alfie wasn't singing to him, he knew that, but the power of his music, the words of the song--it felt like he was. That was the gift of a true performer, the red deer knew that, and knew he wasn't immune to the effects, but still. The words cut him to the quick, the building strength of the song, the understanding the man sang it with...
Louis was spellbound.
He ignored the rain, ignored the way all of the lions moved away other than Free; he stayed, opening up an umbrella to hold over his boss while the other cats sought shelter under various overhangs and pavilions. Louis gave the smallest twitch of an ear in acknowledgement of the rain no longer falling on him, but that was it. His eyes were on Alfie, his heart was held in stasis, and even his soul felt like it was in danger.
It wasn't until the song ended that he felt like he was breathing again. The crowd was cheering and applauding, far more for this act than for most, but Louis couldn't move. He wanted to clap, but he couldn't. He shook himself, trying to recapture his self-possession, but still, he couldn't look away.
Who...
Who the fuck was this guy?
The bridge hadn’t built so much as it fractured.
Alfred’s fingers slowed their pace, not quite enough to break rhythm, but enough to make him feel as though something inside him had slipped, and when he resumed, the sound of the guitar seemed heavier. Not louder. Just weighted.
His eyes closed again.
Not gently. Tightly. Like he was bracing himself against something.
My soul is painted like the wings of butterflies…
The line came out rougher than anything he’d sung before. Not off-key. Not uncontrolled. Just strained. Like he’d been forced to pull it up from deep, deep down, against his will.
Rain ran down his face now, collecting in the fur on his cheeks, sticking in his eyelashes. It was impossible to tell what was rain and what wasn’t.
Fairy tales of yesterday will grow but never die…
His voice wavered.
Just once.
Just enough of a fracture in the sound that, if you were close enough, if you were paying enough attention, you’d know it for what it was.
That line. That line was when it started. Sixteen years old. Smoke filling the stairwell. Heat climbing up the walls faster than he could think. A guitar clutched against his chest because it was the only thing he’d been able to grab. And nothing else.
I can flyyy-ee-ie, my frieeends—!
It came out desperate. Like he was trying to convince himself it was true. His hand slipped on the strings, wet and shaking, and the sound of the next chord was harsher than he’d intended.
Then the chorus—
no, not a chorus anymore.
A release.
The show must go on, yeah— Show must go on—!
His voice cracked.
Fully this time.
It didn’t break the note—it warped it, stretched it thin with everything underneath it.
His shoulders tensed, breath hitching hard before he forced himself forward.
I’ll face it with a grin— I’m never givin’ in—
His jaw clenched.
There it was.
That sixteen-year-old again, sitting alone with a guitar in a room that felt too big and too empty, writing these exact words with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking.
On with the show—
The words came quieter.
Not weaker.
Just… raw.
Then the final build.
His fingers hit the strings harder now—almost too hard—notes buzzing slightly under the pressure, rhythm pushing forward like he was trying to outrun something closing in behind him, hitting the last verse with a most unearthly, ephemeral, musical howl of grief and pain and fury and helplessness and a million more emotions besides.
OOOH, I’ll top the bill, I’ll overkill— I have to find the will to carry—
His voice faltered.
Stopped.
Just for a fraction of a second.
Breath caught, stuck, like his throat had sealed around it.
The rain hammered down harder. The crowd vanished. The stage vanished. All that was left was that night.
Heat.
Noise.
Loss.
His hand trembled visibly on the fretboard.
On… with the—
He tried again.
It came out broken.
On… with the—
Another breath—sharp, uneven—
And then he forced it out.
Not clean.
Not perfect.
But fierce.
“SHOOOOW... MUST GO OOON!!”
The final chord slammed out beneath it—loud, ringing, just slightly off from the force he’d put into it.
Then—
silence.
Alfred stood there, motionless, his shoulders tensed, his chest heaving in and out too quickly, his fingers locked around the strings like if he let go, the whole thing would fall apart.
Rain poured down over him.
He didn’t move.
He didn’t look up.
He didn’t acknowledge the crowd.
For a moment, it didn’t even look like he could.
Then, slowly--
very, very slowly--
his fingers began to relax.
The music died away.
His head dropped, his ears tilting back, his breathing ragged as he swallowed hard, trying to get himself back under control. When he finally looked up again, his eyes sparkled a little brighter than they had before.
Not with tears.
Just… wet.
He blinked once, sharply, and let out a breathy laugh, almost, but not quite.
“…Heh.” His voice, when it finally came, was rough.
Stripped.
“Thanks.”
The applause, when it came, caught him a second later.
Alfred barely registered it.
Because without thinking, without meaning to, his gaze had already moved back to the edge of the stage.
To Louis.
And this time, there was no playful smile. No confident air. Just a look.
A look like he’d just given something precious…
and had no idea what to expect in return.















