#cantando

Hello.

My name is Cassia. I have heard from a mutual friend of ours that you have lately been struggling. I work in Cyber City and I am not only partnered with “Mr. “Ant” Tenna’s TV Time!” in mental health advertising, but I also work for a mental health clinic. I want to offer my services to you. I have heard much about you and your music, it is impressive from what I hear. I have worked with many shadowguys before, and I myself play various instruments. Although my composition skills are not as good as before, but I promise that my speaking and listening skills are much stronger. I hope to see you in my office my friend.

@ask-cassiaaddison 8^)

[There’s something else in here… there’s two tea bags of rhapsotea in here. That must be why it smelled so pleasant.]

*[Friday starts upright from his position on the couch, startled at the soft 'thwip' of an envelope materializing and falling onto the coffee table alongside the bottles of alchohol. His ears twitch as he peers down at the innocent rectangle staring up at him.]

*[He spares a glance over at Button. Still fast asleep. Slowly, he reaches out a hand, fingers brushing over the smooth paper as he reads the address line. To his surprise, it's not addressed to Chip, it's addressed to-]

Shadowguy #22

Friday

*[To him. By his chosen name, no less. A prickle of uncertainty crawls up his back. Who does he know that would send him a letter like this? If they needed anything, they'd usually just... find him at the studio.]

*[Friday glances over his shoulder at Button, still slumped peacefully against the arm of the sofa, then back to the letter. With a whisper of shadow, he stands from his seat and plucks the envelope from the table, moving to the kitchen with the previously forgotten mug of tea cradled in one hand.]

*[He leans over the counter, resting his elbows on the cool surface as he sets the mug down with a quiet 'clink', rubbing his thumb over the texture of the envelope. His ears perk in surprise as the floral scent reaches him. It's... pleasant. Strong, but not overpowering.]

*[With a beat of hesitation, he turns the envelope over, sliding his finger under the seam of the flap to break the wax seal, a pink, slightly shimmering depiction of a flower. With a soft 'shhh' of paper sliding on paper, he withdraws the contents of the envelope, unfolding it carefully and turning it back over to read.]

*[It's...]

*[Sheet music. His shadows ripple in gentle surprise, his tail flicking curiously behind him. The art of communicating through compositions was almost completely lost, the only exception being shadowguys themselves.]

*[Now intensely curious, Friday's gaze flicks to the key. ]

*[4/4 time, in... alto clef? He tilts his head, a single curious flute trill warbling quietly. As he began to read the first set of carefully penned phrases, another curious ripple moves through his form.]

Hello.

My name is Cassia. I have heard from a mutual friend of ours that you have lately been struggling. I work in Cyber City and I am not only partnered with “Mr. “Ant” Tenna’s TV Time!” in mental health advertising, but I also work for a mental health clinic. I want to offer my services to you. I have heard much about you and your music, it is impressive from what I hear. I have worked with many shadowguys before, and I myself play various instruments. Although my composting skills are not as good as before, but I promise that my speaking and listening skills are much stronger. I hope to see you in my office friendly.

@ask-cassiaaddison 8^)

*[He sets the letter down, tail slowly swishing from side to side as he absently smoothes the creases in the paper. Someone had actually reached out to him. In his own language. Without judgement or passive-agressive comments on its complicated structure.]

*[His gaze wanders back to the penned notes as he takes another sip of tea, and a hand flies to his mouth as a soft titter of chimes rings through the room, a bright silver bell in the gloom.]

(...c-composting?)

*[He has to fight the shaking of his shoulders, quietly pressing down the laughter at the simple translation error. It wasn't born of malicous intent, but rather, a fond amusement. The warmth spreading through his chest had less to do with the now soothing warmth of the tea, and more to do with the feeling of recognition, of someone truly trying to understand that the written music had brought him.]

*[As his amusement fades, Friday looks back to the living room, to the covered statue. Something twists painfully in his chest. He hadn't considered it before, but maybe...]

*[If someone cared enough to attempt communicating in musical notation, then maybe...]

*[His ears droop, eyes falling back to the letter. There would still be inevitable miscommunications, it seemed. Still, something cold and heavy in his chest cries out, begging him to accept the offer, to finally allow himself to be vulnerable without having to filter his words or simplifying his phrases.]

*[He raises the mug to his lips again, emptying it into his mouth. The last drops of tea send a ripple of warmth through his shadows, a gentle, hopeful 'thrum' of orchestral strings.]

*[He looks to the living room. He looks to Button, to the carefully covered statue on the bean bag chair.]

*[...he had to try. Just once. If it went poorly, it wasn't as if he was obligated to return. An anxious flicker shoots its way through his arms, distorting the shadow there. He bites back a noise of distress.]

(...!)

*[...and he really, really needed to let the churning symphony in his chest be heard. Supressing it was becoming... painful.]

*[Making up his mind, Friday makes his way back to the living room shadows weaving with ease around the familar furniture of Chip's apartment as he settles onto his knees in front of Button.]

*[Inhale. Exhale.]

*[Friday reaches out, settling a hand on its shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze. Soothed by the dark candy root tea, Friday's music weaves through the air with gentle grace, a soft viola melody designed to coax the zapper from sleep gently.]