Angel of Music

He holds his hands tight against his chest as he looks up at the cathedral, heart beating too quickly as he remembers the last time he was here. Looking back, things hadn’t been so perfect then, either - worrying about rent, worrying about their future together, worries buried and tucked away temporarily at Lincoln’s insistence that he wanted to save up for a trip to Paris. But this moment had been theirs and theirs only; back then, he’d hoped it would become something more than just a memory.

Then even as he stands in the middle of a crowd, he hears a voice calling out to him, melodic, gentle. My hero, he says, and Lincoln feels himself melt a little, almost wants to wrap his arms around the older man just so he can rest his head. But he very much keeps his hands to himself, pulling at his own sleeves when he feels Vincente’s hand on his shoulder.

“The past, mostly,” he says, tearing his gaze away from the other for a moment to look at the great structure again, “wanted to see if anything had changed.”

But he doesn’t want to burden anyone with his own thoughts so he nods, stepping away from the crowd and following closely behind Vincente. “But it’ll have to be on you, Vincente. I can barely save up to get lunch outside since, you know, since I’ve been bumped down to Stratum Three,” Lincoln hums, “I deserved it, I guess.”

“Oh, you’ve been here before?” An innocuous thing if not for the way he looked at the church. Vicente gazed back at the building too. Who knew it was possible to long for anything beside something made of flesh and blood; than an old church turned tourist spot could encapsulate so much it was impossible to misread Lincoln’s expression for anything but pure yearning. “Has it?” You asked. “Doesn’t look much different from the pictures.”

 Leading the way Vicente put his sunglasses back on his face and sauntered through the crowd. “That’s fine.” He said, waving it off. “I was going to anyway, since I’m dragging you away from your business to spend time with me. Now we’re even.”

At the mention of dropping down to Stratum Three Vicente slowed down long enough for Lincoln catch up and began walking in step with him, hand hovering near the back of his shoulder. “Nonsense, you’re one of the most reasonable people here. Whatever it is you’ve done, this is likely all for show and it won’t be hard to get back on Metzger’s good side. He’s an easy man to please.”

☒: The hardest thing about roleplaying your muse?

Not pulling my punches. There are a lot of moments where I wonder “is this line too conceited; oh maybe that’s a little too forward; this is pushing things intensely forward, should I dial back?” when I know that in Vicente’s reality he’d have no reservations. (on the flip side his cruelty is subtle and it’s easy for me to pretend it’s not there when of course for him to work it must always be under the surface)

Also unlike my other muse the line between who he is and how he presents himself is a little thinner, but it’s there. I’m not sure if I’ve been clear enough that he’s always giving away just a little more of himself away than he means to or realizes. (which is probably the case for most people???)

❤ ; A trait you admire in your closest friends?

Confidence. (and/or the perception of it). My closes friends are very good at presenting their ideas with conviction. At times I feel lucky that they hang around me because I’m openly more dependent on affirmations.

☮ ; What’s your life motto?

One of my top 5 quotes from Hamlet: “There are more things in heaven and earth, than are dreamt of in [ my ] philosophy.

✌ ; An achievement that you’re proud of?

Maintaining high grades after a really painful semester due to mental health stuff. I was really worried about failing or disappointing people because everything was ten times harder than before because I had all this other baggage weighing me down, but in spite of that I had managed to actually boost my GPA by the end of the year. It felt like an achievement in the sense of not allowing my depression and anxiety to stand in the way of my goals. And if I can do it at my lowest point I might be able to overcome other things.

malachileclair‌:

He’s not drunk, but he doesn’t share what’s in the dark glass on the table, the only alcohol as some sip from Lenore’s drink when he was carrying it to her. (He’ll have to walk them home; he’d know these streets drunk in the dark, but he doesn’t figure they do.) 

And he’s something silent here, something watching, but he can be a presence too in silence, in the he holds himself here, never slouched, always something tall, quirked eyebrows with Lenny’s question toward Vicente, something all daring in his, but doesn’t let it speaks, let it be all felt. Lenore is felt, all angles; Vicente is all that’s in his level line of sight when he looks forward.

And he doesn’t mind how he takes space, Lenny’s space, as much as she takes of his. He speaks low, tilting a head down as if it’ll help her to hear, as if speaking secrets, “You’ll have to move for that,” teasing, when her head is hear his shoulder, but legs almost ready to stand.

“Here I thought you two would be more interesting than that, did you forget how to take a dare, Vicente?” A hand on the crook of Lenore’s arm, moving gradual to her waist to move the arm from his, to stand. “It matters how you prove you hold your liquor.”

@vicente-deleon

“Oh, I can’t?” Lenore asks him, eyebrows lifting. There’s a telltale grin slowly pulling at her lips; crooked, charming in the way it’s almost wolfish. It’s at his order that she leans back and whistles low, “Ay, ahora sí. Bueno,” She tilts her head and without breaking eye contact with him, says, “I’ll have two shots of whatever he’s having, then. Just to be fair.” 

Even silent, Malachi still carries his presence. Her smile doesn’t turn sheepish at his words; it widens, eyes gleaming. 

“He didn’t forget how to take a dare, Mal,” She tells him, looking back to Vicente with her head cocked right, “Solamente no sabe cómo tomar uno.” (He just doesn’t know how to take one.)

“Baby, are we not interesting enough for you? Do you want us to have more drinks?” False shock on her features: a widened mouth and eyes, a smile that still threatens to break through. As if all the smiles that failed to appear today are coming to the surface. She gives Vicente’s hand a squeeze. “Vicente, how about we do this round of drinks, and then…” 

Her eyes move to the stage at the far right side of the bar, currently occupied by a person singing rather off-key (and loudly) to a song in French. “We do that.” 

How Malachi is going to reign the two of them in tonight, we’ll have to wait and see. 

@malachileclair

The lift of her eyebrows and her mischievous grin will be the death of him, but he can’t resist the opportunity to wipe the smug look off her face. Call it a battle of pride or ego, but Vicente de Leon is not about to lose and certainly not her. He’d never hear the end of it.“¿Crees que podrías manejarlo?” He asks sarcastically as she request two shots of her own under the guise of being fair and has to keep himself from asking for a fourth.

“He speaks! Oh, am I boring you.” Vicente says, drawing out the word boring. Malachi’s silence doesn’t bother him, he has a quiet yet strong presence; there has never been a time where Vicente’s forgotten he’s in the room because he faded into the background. Thinking he is boring, however, is unacceptable. He takes it back, out matching the most competitive person in the world while impressing the not easily impressed will be his end.

“Don’t get too cocky, I’m just getting started.” Pointing an accusatory finger at Lenore before turning back to Malachi. You already know I can hold my liquor.” He flashes his trademark smirk. Although for all the drinks Malachi has brought to his room and Vicente to his they did more talking than actual drinking.

The squeeze of his hand draws his attention back to Lenore and Vicente follow her line of sight to the stage. The off-key notes make his face face cringe, but the implication hits him like a train.

There’s almost a laugh, almost, instead, it’s a smirk, a slant across his mouth, with a quirked eyebrow, tilted head, does the dim light shine against his cheek? Ask him if he smeared it there - right where he wanted it. “Is that so? And how many Parisian men have you known, or is it just me? I hear more here French as the language of romance, I admit to high standards.”

(Is it a compliment, to be unspoken of in the history of who you are? Are you someone so important, someone can’t speak of you? Or did you ever matter at all? It’s the better question, if anyone will ever know.)

And then there’s a real laugh, something gradual, something slow, like a weaving, and maybe there’s fondness there too - but not a kind you feel now, you think of now. Most will ponder it later, if they care to, if dared, if that smile is real, if that laugh is real, how many layers peeled back until you reach the skin? “Isn’t that all the songs, in any language?” Songs for ruin. Isn’t all love, any type, a ruin? 

(What would you do for love? If it’s a partner, if it’s a son, if it’s a song? Only one matters in the end, Malachi knows. He’s already reached the end.) “Do me a favor, and try to make it worth it then.” Make themselves a story he’ll tell, or better, one not told at all. “You didn’t tell me we were playing truth or dare; knew you liked the game.“ And he’ll never ask for truth.

He doesn’t react to the twitch, not in his features, but fingers do lightly further into a neck, a hint to something, perhaps, or just something unconscious too. Perhaps. And he knows it’s not a kiss the man leans in for, knows as he would do the same, the same move, almost the way he imagines his breath would feel against Vicente’s hears too if he did it first. And without a beat, he switches their hands to be on his own neck, even if his beat is steady too, another match. “Maybe I was hoping you would tell me.” One hand leaving him to take a place light behind Vicente’s head, his neck - almost touch hair, almost touch skin - almost. “Haven’t you ever written a song for someone?”

“Quite a few.” You lied. “There is more to my life than you just, my circle is wider than you think.” Except less than half were as interesting, it was more of a rank than a shape and with every day Malachi pushed his way to the top.

“You have my word. Vicente crossed his heart with his finger. He always did. The trail of broken hearts was miles long, but none could say they didn’t like being caught in his orbit, burned by the sun. This was how he would assure immortality in Malachi’s mind.

“It’s not as fun if I have to spell it out for you.” Vicente said, still whispering in Malachi’s ear. “All this time and you still can’t figure out what I like? Now I am disappointed, here I thought you were observing behind the those blank eyes.”

He pulled back so they’re face to face again and one would think he had leaned deliberately into the touch, the fleeting chill from the feeling of his palm against the back of Vicente’s neck, but he suspected his eyes must have given it away, widening and then returning to its normal state again. “Of course, isn’t that what artist do?” He began to move his hand down the side of Malachi’s neck to rest on his shoulder. “Projecting all their love and heartbreak and desires and misery for the world to consume.” Could remember the nights standing in the back of bars, hovering around venues long after the show was over, and the way fans always found some way to corner him and transform him into whatever they wanted him to be. “And then later the world asks: What’s this about? What’s her name? Who or what hurts you, makes you feel alive? Oh Vicente, it’s like you can read my mind; it so nice to know you feel the way I do.” Vicente tilted his head to study him. “Would you like a song?” A chuckle. “It’d be a good one, all of them are.”

There were already lyrics half formed in your mind and it was too soon to tell if the song was actually about Malachi or like all his song for someone who could never hear them. Whatever it might have been, it was too personal to sing in that moment, the line between humour and sincerity too blurry to not risk accidentally crossing over. So instead Vicente sang something familiar that he knew all the the bends of and his lips curved into a teasing smile because he was giving away nothing.

“Since my heart is golden I've got sense to hold in Tempted just to make an ugly scene. Who says we have cold hearts acting out our old parts.

Listen, I don't really know you And I don't think I want to But I think I can fake it if you can Let's agree there's no need, no more talk of money Let's just keep pretending to be friends, oh oh oh

I get carried away, carried away, from you When I'm open and afraid 'Cause I'm sorry, sorry 'bout that Sorry 'bout things that I've said Always let it get in my way.”

“Fart jokes, really? I’ll say this, there is no area of music that I am not talented in. Make of that what you will.”

vicente: “no comment.”

he has to practice somehow!

Vicente spots him from the doorway of Notre Dame Cathedral, half lost in a sea of people, and whatever the man standing in front of him is saying  — possibly something about showing him around, getting lunch; he doesn’t seem to notice that Vicente is neither fluent in French or cares enough to about the conversation to try and bridge the communication gap — takes a back seat to flagging Lincoln down.

“That’s nice. Je suis….désolé….Je dois-” Vicente gestured across the pathway, waving to Lincoln to get his attention and calling out his name. He neither waits for confirmation that Lincoln heart him or the man’s response before giving him a hard pat on the arm and walking away.

“Ah, my hero.” The waves of people seem to part, instead maneuvering around them to make a clear path. Up close it’s clear that Paris has not been as kind to him as it has been to Vicente; he cast all his worries aside as soon as they arrived, Lincoln still seems plagued by whatever heartache brought him to his room several nights ago. Given the way that night had ended, his series of question that Vicente had not been prepared to confront or answer, he considers pretending to not notice at all.

But he never could resist the opportunity to pick someone a part.

“That more depends on who you ask, or when we ask each other,” on life being more than drinking. It is. Of course. But, is it? Is like more than a numbing pleasure? More than seeking it? What more is there to do with a life you have no care for, nothing to care for when it’s already dead - when it died in the streets so close? What do you search for in life, when it lives on the impossible possibility of life? Answer: we drink. And call it filling. 

And maybe he would show Vicente lived, when he was more than this, when he was more than drinking, when he was more than caverns. (Or is he more now? Is this the man he was meant to be? Nights tend to forget what was the best.) Doesn’t expect Vicente to ask, doesn’t expect for himself to say anything, but to just end up in those places anyway, if he just walks, if muscle memory takes over. (And maybe he would ask Vicente to show him anyway, show him anyway the town he lived in. Not the greater parts. Homes will do.)

It takes him a moment to think of how to answer him, of how to look at him (because theory is different than application, and it still feels like hands in his chest, digging). The gleam of an eye, that Malachi matches, smiling for him, something coy. 

“You want childhood?” Childhood he can answer. “We would go dancing, or I would ask them to go dancing. A film - you can’t move, only stare. Can get boring, after a while.” And he says it with the same expression, but those fingers are still digging, “Paris won’t change, not for us,” let Vicente take that as he wants. Let him decide what’s full truth, what’s hidden. 

“Should I assume the only name you’re writing on that lock is yours and Wilde’s? Or should I be more flattered tonight?”

”Sounds nice.” Vicente say, eyes scanning store windows. “I did about the same. Ships passing and all that, as the saying goes.” He cannot picture it, at least not he as thinks Malachi means it, he is always full formed in Vicente’s head. Can anyone can really see the youth of someone they haven’t known from that age. Vicente hopes not. The memories of adolescence are not entirely pleasant. Just before he had taken his life into his own hands and left home. A thrilling combination of confidently wanting to be in the spotlight at all times, preferably guitar in hand and the muscle memory of his idols guiding him, and the insecurity of feeling as if he might die if certain people looked at him for too long. That anyone had agreed to go dancing with him the year before his braces came off, and oh what a tumultuously period that had been, in hindsight was miracle, but then again his heart was practically stitched on to sleeves that didn’t quite fit back then and so who could deny such earnestness. 

“Well when you put like that, yeah. Is that what movies were like for you?’ Vicente flashes him an expression of feigned sympathy. “Pity.” Truthfully, Vicente can’t remember the last in the past few years that he went to the movies for something that wasn’t an event, just two people sitting in a theater together, nor can he imagine tapping into that person he was almost a decade ago to see a movie with Malachi now. The particular brand of anxiety that came with not knowing what to do with hands, scared that one wrong move meant encroaching into the space of someone, and the belief that drink holders were the worst things to be invented.

This was not the road Vicente meant to go down, but it was best Malachi knows him as he is now.