Another pitchy, busted squeaker box of a laugh saturates the dining room. He leans with each “ha” as a king cobra sways. The drag brings him marginally closer, too. Not near enough to count how many blades actually sit in Tesla’s mouth, but enough to make his eyes appear backlit. He should’ve anticipated a Pagliacci reference. Preening helps the, perhaps good-natured, jab slide off his back. Joker’s forearms mantle on the back of a nearby chair to help his shoulders and torso groove back into composure. That sweeping melody that his heart rides continues its course. He can’t stand still. Trepidation blanches him, even under layers of stage makeup.
The cigarette jars in his hand, zigzagging smoke as he tucks the filter back in his mouth and hums along. Armand is given a few nods — Joker’s been listening. Anxiety takes a toll on how he breathes and strains to keep smiling even while smoking, but Werewolf scrunches his face and rolls off the back of the chair as if he’s choreographed the maneuver. Silent footfalls carry him away from the table and its velveteen suggestion to make himself at home — vulnerable. Prey. A smile is the most he can spare.
“He was a tenor,” Joker mutters. White-bestrewed eyelashes lower so he can focus on his own silent footfalls. Shadows attempt to swallow each and every one, but Werewolf clings to the light like a talisman. “King of the High C’s!” spoken by the clown with a rare four-octave range. He clucks his tongue before adding, “I can be a tenor, too…when I feel like it.” Raptorial talons lain upon the table’s burnished surface soon ensnare Joker’s attention. He strains not to blink. A single swipe could tatter his face.
The flames had summoned him, but Joker balks when they scintillate the surface of Tesla’s nails…claws. Cold sweat dapples the back of his neck. Werewolf shies without tangibly balking. He keeps his diagonal stance, weightless footfalls guiding him away from those talons in the event that he provokes Tesla. “Soprano’s a little harder given my uh…” Joker see-saws the cigarette between his fingers. A bark-laugh splinters his posture.
Second Addition kicks his ribcage from inside his blazer. Reminds him to take the damn thing out and write the lively romantic dance number vaguely akin to Shostakovich’s second. The rhythm he’d been gliding an imaginary bow along to has died, though he humors Tesla by replying, “And it’s mine. The um…” Werewolf gestures with his cigarette, leaving Chemtrails behind; “It’s a waltz. I think. Not finished, but…” he scrunches his face to speak in a stage whisper, “Can’t exactly pull a violin out of my ass or I’d play you a few bars.” Joker’s first genuine laugh all evening takes his shoulders forward. “I don’t even think I own one…” He eyeballs the ceiling as if one might drop into his hands. Thoroughbreds demonstrate more patience while locked in the gate. “I didn’t exactly think this through, did I?”
there was something undeniably... pleasant about the joker’s demeanor, even if he allowed himself to be swallowed and so thoroughly consumed by fear. but the count can no more hold that fear against the lycanthrope than he could bear to be torn from his company. there was irony sat between them, aye, without the shadow of a doubt. this anarchist figurehead and the reanimated corpse of one who once laid down the very foundations of the law.
but the turn of conversation has armand looking at fleck most carefully. ice-like eyes craving the contact of those concealed by bleeding diamonds and caked-on white foundation. fingers made like spindles caressed the armrests of his seat, grasp tightly as if struck by sudden eagerness and the desire to destroy. at once the count was consumed by the most curious expression, trailing gaze from diamond make-up to the colorful fabric poking out from crimson jacket sleeves.
“ do you desire one? ” the count would ask in an off-handed manner, despite his focused attentions. it would not at all be out of his ability to produce such a thing, though he had preferred the joys of what few instruments he’d been blessed in life to learn. one such instrument sat in the unused den, tuned but covered in layers of grime and dust from a year of stagnancy and neglect. no one ever used that room, he surmised. he lived alone. and so it shouldn’t have been an issue should the joker wish to utilize it during the day . . .
tesla’s breath hitched, stale and iron between his lips, face flushed white from the frigid outdoor weather he felt leaking through the draught. in an instant he had stood, fingers left straightening the wrinkled hem of his house coat until the velvet stiffened smooth against the satin on his legs. “ come, ” said tesla, lifting a hand toward the hallway that would lead back into the foyer. he did not wait for him to follow, walking stiffly toward the set of double doors that would release his employee into the wild.
but he stopped short of the hallway’s bend, turning instead to the ornately winding stair. the red barricade was unclipped from the wall and left to hang solitary against the bannister, and lifting his head to the moonlit well did he usher his guest to follow. the stair was suffocated by the gleam of yellow moonlight pouring in through round stained-glass. would not one have known the count’s unique profile, the shadow cast would look too much like a gargoyle from the buttress. “ no one exists in this place during the day, and you have proven yourself most trustworthy. i am a great fan of music, my friend, and i would one day like to hear your compositions ... my house has many rooms on the second floor. they offer quiet and solitude when one may wish it. but that is not what i aim to show you ; there is one dedicated to a library or sheet music and theory, and at its center an antique harpsichord which you may enter my home and play at your leisure whenever you may wish. ”
