whenshewasnice | Envy's Duplex, The Hegemony Compound, Brazil, Saturday

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Envy's Duplex, The Hegemony Compound, Brazil, Saturday

There'd been a lot of portaling back and forth between Toronto and Brazil, lately. Kid Chameleon was getting pretty large. Physically. Stephanie Nordegraf had joined up some time ago to play bass, but now Envy had recruited a guy called Cole to take over the drums because he was actually good (and, shut up Stephen, he was actually an okay guy, too), so she'd shifted Scott to bass because Stephanie was taking up bongos and viola.

It was most efficient that way. She wanted the band to really get known. And she wasn't sure why Scott seemed to have a problem with that.

She wasn't sure about a lot of things to do with Scott, these days.

And there was the thing where she wasn't sure whether Jim was alive or not.

So, her mood had not been the best for a while. The piano probably been had been kind of a related impulse buy. To soothe her brain. Something she felt like she deserved. Like she'd earned it by now. (There was a pack of cigarettes on top of it. Those were... yeah. Not exactly a reward.) She was sitting at the piano now, playing some melody or other. Trying to get herself out of her head.

[ooc: NFB, but open!]

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Most days when Envy was practicing, Peter didn't bother her - after Virlomi, and with her increasing absences, he was starting to find it hard to predict when she wanted company.

But it was earlyish, and he had some time before the next crisis - at least, he hoped so. (And he missed her. Not that he might say that out loud.)

So he knocked. Just loud enough to be heard. He had two cups of coffee in hand, too.

Envy took a moment to come to the door, but she did. Eventually. Kimono-style robe over what she'd slept in because it was that kind of a day, and he could just deal with her legs being on display.

"Hey."

She automatically reached for one of the cups before even stepping out of the way to let him in.

Peter's eyes dipped down to her legs for only a split second before he was looking back up at her face. "Hey," he said. "Mind if I sit in today?"

He didn't hold the world's biggest interest in music, but she knew that; he was mostly here for her.

It would've been a shame if he hadn't looked at all, anyway. they were good legs, even if they weren't on display on purpose.

"Yeah, sure," she said, as she turned to pad back into the apartment. She didn't need to shrug when her tone already did the same thing.

Yeah, well, Peter was having his own private development in terms of realizing he sometimes looked, and trying to figure out what all of this meant-- even as it seemed to be mattering less and less.

He followed her, shutting the door. "Trying out something new, or just practice?" he said.

And Envy couldn't say she didn't like when he looked.

It was a complicated thing.

"Art therapy," she drawled, because far be it from her to give a straight answer.

"Is it working?"

Peter found an easy seat in the living room, settling down in it.

"Or are we going to be hauling out a broken piano soon?"

"Please, I bought quality," Envy replied as she took her seat at the piano. She'd gotten a little more comfortable with spending money over the last year or so. Still didn't make a ton of frivolous purchases, but she had less of a problem paying a lot for something good. "This can take it. Wanna see?"

With someone else, there could've been mischief in that. For her, making making unblinking eye contact over her shoulder while she asked was enough.

"Anything you want to show me," Peter said. "Well, within reason. I don't think we can genuinely get away with bringing the house down."

Envy snorted quietly.

Then her fingers hit the keys. Tense, just barely on the contained side of jittery notes flowed out. This was music to get nervous to. And that was before she opened her mouth. "Let's get lost." Each word sharp and biting and precise. "Fingers crossed." Okay, something a little lighter, but rapid, her fingers dancing nimbly along the instrument: "It is an ordinary evening; I am broadcasting, are you receiving?"

And back to the jittery. "Sick, sick sound. All fall down.." And lighter, but oh, how she could get amused scorn in her voice. "It is a necessary evil; just like highway gas stations and people."

The eye roll was practically audible. But, hey, better out than in, right? This was probably what she'd meant with 'art therapy'. And hey here came the full-on banging on the keys. Her tone a drawl with something sinister right below it. "I remember golden days when all this was a mystery; and you could write a letter then or, God forbid, come visit me, and if you find yourself without me - can you find yourself without me? Can you find yourself without me ––"

There was something strange-- maybe dark-- about this. Unsettling, for sure. But Peter was never particularly good about identifying his specific emotions. Or who she was singing at when she did this.

He folded his hands in his lap and tilted his head, like, point made about the piano taking it, Envy.

It wouldn't have done much to ask Envy who she was singing at, either. As most things with her, it was complex.

"–– Can you find your self without me?"

Except no, that was more like 'can-you-find-your-self-with-out-me', each syllable a hard hit right after the other with a corresponding press of the keys, and she pressed on without a breath. "Hey! I'm fine." Oh, but she spat out that word. "You are saying nothing but your tongue is getting blacker all the time; it is a measurable feeling: seven on a scale from dead to breathing."

And back to the what may have been the chorus, may have been lighter. Wasn't really. "I've connected speakers to my suitors at the discotheques, and they don't know the difference: are they men or are they Memorex?" Her voice dropped lower but didn't lose any of its intensity. Fingers quick on the keys. "And if you find yourself without me, if you find yourself without me; come on, find yourself without me, come on come on come, and take your Listerine!"

Okay, she'd seemed to play fast before, but here came the part that really showcased the control she had over her hands, the notes practically falling over themselves to get out into the world. And, yes, further proof this piano was strong enough for her. That was not an insignificant amount of force she was using, especially at the end of this purely instrumental interlude.

Bang, bang, bang, and back to the chorus.

"I remember golden days when all this was a mystery, and you could write a letter then or, God forbid come visit me; I remember golden days when all this was a mystery, and you could write a letter then or God forbid come visit me, and --" A breath, more scorn, or maybe something tired and sour. "-- if you find yourself without me, can you find yourself without me?" Sharper. Crescendo. Big finale. "Come on, find yourself without me, come on come come on – and fucking find yourself without me."

Bang, bang, bang.

Silence.

Edited 2015-10-17 10:45 (UTC)

Peter waited until he was sure she wasn't going to smash that piano again.

"Art therapy," he said then. "I'm starting to get the picture."

"Doubles as physical exercise," Envy quipped dryly.

"Each of your individual fingers should be able to lift at least a tonne at this rate," Peter snarked back easily.

"And who's to say they can't?"

She ran said fingers through her hair.

"Well-played," Peter said, "I guess. You're definitely stronger than I am."

He took a sip of his coffee. "You're okay?"

Envy's smile was decidedly fake. But there was some implicit warmth in that gesture – a kind of a wryness that most people wouldn't have gotten out of her.

"Hey, I'm fine."

Ha ha.

Peter dealt with politicians on a daily basis, and he'd known her a long time.

It didn't take him any level of effort to look through a fake smile; it was just the emotion past it that always tripped him up.

"I can never figure out who does stoic better," he said, "You or Petra. She's got commitment, but you've got finesse."

It was a fake-looking fake smile to begin with.

She rolled her eyes at him. "Me, obviously. Don't be insulting."

"I think you win mostly because I always know that whatever she's covering at any particular time is probably anger," Peter said. "Last week she threw a typewriter. One of those tacky old-school things."

"Those still exist?"

That was honestly more interesting than Petra's tantrums.

Peter shrugged. "Hipsters," he said, and took another sip of his coffee.

"Those still exist?"

He made it too easy.

"Look at the course of history," Peter said, with a loud, put-upon sigh. "Have there ever not been hipsters?"

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