is this how the world is?

his mother was an artist, preferring to write epics and little hymns. she taught orpheus to sing, to write music, and ( perhaps her more secretive talent ) how to be eloquent and persuasive in his speaking ( though he never quite caught on ).

he was given his first guitar when he was a young teenager, given to him by a family friend. he’s mostly self-taught, with his only lessons being those given by his family and family friends. 

his parents died when he was in his mid-teens. he was placed in the care of a friend of his mother’s, who helped cultivate the already existing sense of independence and drive to succeed. he still talks to the man fairly frequently, though orpheus tends to be fearful of hearing his opinion ( read: hearing the truth --- hermes has never been one to sugar-coat anything ).

right after his 18th birthday, he moved out on his own. the apartment was small, dirty, and not in the best of areas, but it was all that he could afford. he’s been working as a server and bartender in the same pub ever since; he’s moved only once, but his current place isn’t much of an improvement from the one prior.

he owns a few different guitars, one of which is the first he’d ever received ( a beautiful acoustic, that’s very clearly seen the world ). he writes music all the time, and tends to only write songs when he’s at his guitar; he can write rhymes all day, but can’t imagine them as songs until he’s at an instrument.

he can play piano, though he’s not very good at it.

he writes poetry a lot, mostly epics. he spends hours upon hours editing these pieces, though he never re-writes them entirely; he likes to say that the first draft should always be the core of the final product --- just do a bit of cleaning, and it’s good to go ( though, admittedly, the cleaning part tends to take him a very long time ). 

he has no other surviving family, other than hermes ( and now, though he’s too quick to admit it, his girlfriend, eurydice ). he’s okay with that; family is what you make of it. sure, he would love to make the trek to the heavens or the underworld to see his mother once more, but he cannot. he tries to not dwell on it too much.

“This hasn’t happened to me before. Ever, actually.” Teeth tug the inside of her cheek, staring downward at the table for a brief moment before they flit back up to meet blue hues. “I’ve been alone for a really long time. And I was okay with that. But then, I came here and I met friends.. met you..” Once again, she feels herself losing grasp on the task at hand, which is now getting her thoughts out in the open. The young girl shakes her head, arms leaning onto the table, before quickly continuing, “I don’t know if I could ever go back to the way things were before all of this. And that’s scary.” It’s a lot, Eurydice feels, and it isn’t fair for her to tell him all of this. He deserves better, deserves more than just her. Despite this, she’ll still lean into her feelings for the first time in years. “I don’t need anything from you. Just.. a steady hand, or just being nearby would be more than enough.”

& --- To return to the deepest reaches of solitude, the lonely light shining its narrow beams against an isolated land, a room with no exit in sight; this was no way to live, and certainly so for a girl with such kindness embedded within herself (buried beneath years of neglect, perhaps, but a gem still shone even despite its grime and she, too, would reveal such plentiful beauty, even in the most unsuspecting hour). She seems so hesitant to face this for what it truly was: a change, possibly for the better (though he is ever wary of declaring such a valorous thing, lest he stake claim to this progression of clean light that washes over her; he is nothing more than a boy in love. He carries no cleansing news on winged shoes, he brings not springtime once the cold winter has drawn its final breath). His foot stalls its fevered tapping, pressed now firm and flat against the tiled floor beneath him, and the confusion that previously painted his expression begins to easily slip away, revealing a tender underbelly; this has never happened to her, and he wants to ask her this: what has not happened? Has no other man given to her the love she so obviously deserves? How could the world be so cruel, so as to preserve from her the glowing radiance of love, in all its multi-faceted wonder? Oh, the world was a cold and dark place; Eurydice deserved much more than just an unfinished vow of dedication. She deserved more than a melody, strung by fire and fear; ay, she deserved the world (though, he knows all too well, providing her this will prove itself a never-ending task, one he is entirely willing to dive into, never again to bring his head above water).

“I know you are.” Eurydice confirms this. And she does, despite not knowing him for long. How could someone break down the walls she managed to fortify after years in a matter of weeks? The delicate dance around words and feelings is maddening for her. “You confuse me.” Her voice is blunt, but it’s a sharp contrast of her softened gaze, “I..you.. I guess I just want to see where this is going.” Words, as usual, are failing her in her mind, and she almost desperately tries to explain where she herself was going with this, “You know.. dinner at your place, hanging out around the city, texting each other.  —I like you. And I think you like me, but it’s also really fucking hard to tell, and..” Another breeze moves through her bones and she pulls at her coat, a bit tighter this time, despite being indoors.

& --- Alas, as she speaks he, too, regresses to nervous tendencies, foot tapping inaudibly ‘gainst the speckled tiled flooring; her words (”you confuse me”), they echo through his mind like a chord sounding of dissonance, like two notes just a half-step from harmonization --- was it cruel, then, to wish for things to change? To wish his actions were more distinct, to wish his intentions to be more transparent; he never dreamt of being difficult to read. He never imagined a girl would sit before him and present him with this evidence to a deaf jury, these footnotes to a tale barely written; how he wishes clarification could acquit him of this foul injustice, how his mind begins to turn with sentences upon sentences upon sentences, syllables into words into what would soon become but a flimsy defense. She wants to know where this is going, and confusion itself paints an explicit reaction ‘cross the young man’s face; had his actions been more clear, more definitive, then she would know all too clearly of the pangs of admiration that ring throughout his mind (to divulge this would be to speak the truth, yes, though foresight reminds him of this: she is not accustomed to stagnancy. She is not accustomed to burying roots.) His gaze falls to the table, with its condensation and light falling victim to wood that decelerates its path, and he wonders if she anticipates rejection. He wonders if she is expecting him to back down, to lay claim to ignorance and go about his evening as if meeting her changed nothing; he digresses. Stay in the moment, dear Orpheus, lest she slip from your grasp.

“Orpheus, ” Eurydice shoots the greeting right back, leaning forward in her seats. He apologizes, for what exactly.. she’s not sure. It’s kind of her fault for asking him to hang out so last minute. “Don’t worry about it.” The girl assures him, quick to add, “I haven’t been waiting long, anyways.” A moment passes and Eurydice finds herself hesitating on words. Fingers fidget on her nail polish once more, this time in her lap. “Thanks.. by the way. You didn’t have to come out tonight.” I just didn’t want to be alone, she wants to tell him, which is completely out of character. Opening up to anyone was difficult for her, let alone someone she’s only known for less than two weeks. He’s different, she tells herself. Whatever it may be that she can’t seem to put a finger on, Eurydice almost wants to fall back into it, like a soft place to land. “I just wanted to.. talk.” That’s an understatement.

& --- The reassurance that she hasn’t been waiting long brings comfort to his heart, a warmth that spreads like an epidemic through his vitals (and somehow, despite it all, it still feels cold; oh, how kindness aches, like the cold that surrounds them, like love being blinded). He nods a bit at this, faint yet acknowledging; the sound of his name being spoken is like a tune he’s known all along, an old song the gods must’ve sung long ago (when the world was simpler, when times were easy and camaraderie lived not synonymous with ill-intent); he notices her fidgeting, but opts not to mention it --- at least not yet, anyway. Calling attention to a quirk such as this could prove unfitting, bordering upon unjust; he can assume it is a nervous habit, and he has many of his own to bear, lest he imply hers are more daunting than his own --- a wicked sort of thought, one he hesitates to speak aloud. This sagacious boy, with winding melodies lilting in his mind (most sung by the voice in front of him, like honey, or a lullaby), he is briefly concerned with her comment regarding his appearance not entirely being necessary; truly, he could’ve easily postponed. He had prior obligations, after all, but what is a man, if he curls into doubt? What is the use of a backbone, if he never stands upright? Lo, he knows abandonment to be a word made of velveteen: soft, yet sturdy, and he ought not build a noose of this, he thinks, though he knows demise due to love to be the worthiest of deaths a man can endure.

First impressions don’t mean anything, apparently. To Eurydice, he was just some guy with a guitar looking to make anyone who would listen swoon. But it turns out that Orpheus was different. Someone who cared about people, about the world. It reminded her of how things were when they were good. She’s not sure what she wants to gain from tonight’s outing. Reassurance? Comfort? Eurydice figures she may as well just wing it. It’s all she’s ever known.

& --- To claim that Orpheus was naive to the world would be to place innocence upon the stoop of his urgency (which is to say: perhaps, but what good does this implication provide itself if no one looks to see it?). He is currently holding down a part-time job at a local establishment, serving partially as a server and partially as a bartender (though the former is his preference; it is easier to place blame elsewhere in that aspect, as doubt creeps in like a steady wind too insistent to ignore); he is scheduled to work tonight, well into the late evening hours, but chance is a fickle thing. He knows this just as well as anyone, and who is he to deny the request of a woman who holds such honor, such untapped eloquence, such undeniable beauty? Perhaps this is where the descriptor “naive” should fall into play; perhaps, too, this is where the young boy should stop to reconsider. This girl, one he barely knows anything more than a name of, could pose a threat; she could be a poor girl with darker tendencies, with connections in the underworld (that which houses beauty, yes, but even in its neon glow, contains an infinite darkness paralleled only by that can be found in the hearts of soulless men). He should decline the sudden invitation, sure, but he has waited so long now to find a purpose in this life; trusting the gods will provide will only get you so far, as his mentor so oft reminds him. And so, he quickly goes to his manager at the small pub, insists that an engagement has come up --- all too abrupt, yet all too urgent --- and he has to leave, he has to abandon these earnings he works for so feverishly. Is it selfless? Perhaps, but he is all too aware, also, of this undeniable fact: he would do anything for this girl who, even before they met, he felt he has known all his life.

He arrives to the bar, stains on his jeans, denim jacket pulled tightly ‘round his shoulders; it is cold tonight --- the winter seems unbearable, as if it came on too soon --- but he will persevere, nonetheless. He scans the establishment, spotting those he assumes regulars, and those he assumes have begun to lean too strongly into a recurring habit; a shame, he thinks, though he has no room to object (for isn’t he, too, leaning on a habit? Music is a habit, just as revolution and love are habits; good, yes, but self-destructive, even despite themselves). He spots her nearly immediately, smiling timidly as he approaches her table in the corner. With a small wave, he greets her.