why can't I hold all this indie

[gadjos]

Who: Mirror!Peter & Open.
Where: One of the music rooms
When: Two days after the crossing
Rating: PG
Summary: Melancholy & Pianos
The Story:

On the first floor, down one of the more well-traveled hallways, there is a room adorned with instruments from all over the multiverse. It's the simple sound of piano that fills it now, though, seeping out of the half-open door and invading the hallway.


Rumancek sits at the bench, head bowed and face hidden behind artfully tousled hair, lost in the piece he's playing. Music is different on this side, much less gray and hollow than on Mirror Side. He's not all that interested in puzzling out the answer to the riddle, he's not interested in messing with any Reals, he's just here to feel a little more alive.

It's a vacation, nothing more, nothing less.

Comments

[oversight]

Far be it for Blake to get distracted from the task at hand, but as he finds himself passing a door on the first floor, he can't help but be drawn by the sound of music. It remind him of Blaine, of a time well past these days, and while he's certain he won't find young Anderson when he peeks into the room, there's a lingering desire that plagues him, one that wishes those long gone to be returned some day (and more unrealistically, with their memories of him attached).

But it's not Blaine that he finds, nor a person who would have many past memories to bring the table. Instead he spies... someone familiar but not. The messy hair hides a face, but the coloring and size go a long way. He thinks he knows the person — Peter — but it's a bit harder to tell which Peter from this angle.

"Hey, uh..." Blake leans in the doorway and gestures to the piano. "You're good. What's that song?"

[rumantic]

The piano falters a little at the sound of Blake's voice. It carries on for another second or two before slowing to a stop, because he doesn't suppose it would be all that polite to carry on when he's clearly being addressed. When he looks up, it might be a little clearer which Peter this is. Though Blake doesn't know him well, it's hard to go from looking that unkempt and wild to this pale and clean-shaven overnight.

"It's nothing," he responds, voice carefully neutral, eyes wary as he gauges for Blake's reaction. Reals, he's learned, aren't nearly so welcoming to mirrors. Even ones with nothing going on, even ones who aren't messing with anyone, even ones who just want to sit around and play the piano. "Just something I heard once and never really forgot."

Which isn't really true, he guesses, if you believe the accepted consensus that mirrors are fake and reals are real, though some mirrors like to poke at the contrary. Peter figures even mirrors of humans still carry the human will to survive. He doesn't really care.

[oversight]

"Doesn't sound much like nothin' if you never forgot it, but maybe you've got an ear for music," Blake reasoned, his voice even and calm. The man at the piano is so pale he almost sparkles and it reminds John a bit of every account of Edward Cullen from the Twilight books, but he internalizes this revelation for fear that it will sound more like an insult than its meant to be. Instead he just wonders if there's much less sun on the Mirror Side these days.

Drifting into the room, the ex-cop loosely crosses his arms and gestures for Peter to keep going if that's his intention.

"Do you play like this when you're on the other side? It's hard to know what happens when the Mirrors are afraid to communicate with us. Used to write back an' forth with a coupla guys but they've long since gone," he explains at length. Mark's Mirror had been very helpful, and for a brief time Blake had enjoyed the back and forth with Dean's Mirror counterpart. They aren't all bad from what he can tell.

[rumantic]

Peter would absolutely take it as an insult, a direct and scathing one, but then again Robert Pattinson would take that as an insult too, and he starred in the damn movies. Nobody wants to be associated with that douche, but Real Peter might find a lot more humor in it than this guy.

At the go on nod, his fingers start up again, softly resuming the melody at a half step down, a little more slowly. He considers Blake's words and the implications behind them, considers why he's even considered a viable conversational partner when they're from two separate worlds.

Blake wants something, he supposes. Information, a tell, insight into the queen. It's fair enough, he's not as loose a cannon as the people he shares a home with, and he doesn't mind so much being used.

"There isn't any point in playing over there," he responds finally after a long beat of silence. His voice carries traces of muted annoyance. "Things are different. Sound is different. It's like... listening through poor quality headphones, in a way. The music's not alive, it's just a reflection of something that's alive."

Hoo, boy.

[oversight]

Blake remembers Mirror Side vividly. He hasn't crossed over since the last riddle, but he has no problem recalling how different things felt over there. Out of order, displaced, confused even. When he'd come back to the Real Side, the colors appeared so much more vibrant, it had taken his breath away at the sight of it. Which reeks of poetry in a terrible sense, but nothing like the stuff Peter's pumping out.

"That's not a theme, though, is it? Hate to think that's somethin' that relates to more'n just music." As soon as he says it, he thinks it sounds forward and maybe a bit cheap. It's not meant as an insult and he doesn't try to come off as an unfeeling prick: he's genuinely curious. Unfortunately, it doesn't always play out in such a way that people understand that.

See, he wants to know. He's always been the curious type. When he was given the choice, he would always take an interview — of criminals, victims, witnesses — over any other part of the job because of an insatiable desire for a better understanding. Running police lines doesn't work for a guy like that, just like skimming the surface won't work for him here.

So, if Peter's willing to talk, to answer questions, to entertain a Real, then Blake's on board. It can't hurt (unless he's really caught of guard, that is — Philip we're looking at you).

[rumantic]

The music trails off again at the question, and after a beat of hesitation, he turns to look Blake in the eyes. He studies the other man's face, gauging, deciding whether or not it was meant to be offensive. He can't tell, ultimately. Blake is too hard to read. Either way, it is crassly abrupt, a little too probing for a man he doesn't know, and he calmly closes the lid over the piano keys.

"Does it matter?" He asks, raising an eyebrow. "Really, truly, does it?"

The bench slides out with a loud scraping noise, and he rises. Takes a moment to adjust, smoothing wrinkles out of his shirt. "You guys think we're all the same, and you've only got two reactions to us. Hatred- which I get, I guess, I hate most of us, too. But the second one's worse."

[oversight]

"It's not as much pity as you think, if that's where you were goin' with that," he says in response, his hands sliding into his pockets. "Or even distant intrigue. I know you're not all the same 'cause I've met more'n one that wasn't even close to wantin' to take my head off.

"Everybody's here's got the ability to be what they want, near as I can figure. Maybe it means a mark for you guys, maybe it means deaths for us, but we do choose." Mirror Meltzer had been the first to prove that to John and he wouldn't dare take that for granted. For whatever reason, he felt almost as fond of that man as he was the Real Mark.

Blake tries not to look too bristled. "So, yeah, it matters. Wouldn't ask if it didn't. In case you haven't noticed, I'm not exactly the chatty-chatty smalltalk type."

[avoirfaim]

The thing about art, Peter, is that it moves us beyond all other human experiences. With art we can commune with our own emotions and with God, whether you believe in a God or simply in the chaos of natural energy. There were new sensations to be added to his newest composition, after recent accomplishments on his part, perhaps a movement with contradicting sharps among the flats. While the rest ran around like chickens whose heads are only hanging on by a flap of skin, he could create.

Or he would, if the music room wasn't already occupied. He watches for a while, his composition papers in hand, listens before commenting.

"That's very good. Did you write that piece yourself or should the credit go to someone else?"

[rumantic]

Peter, this Peter, doesn't believe in God. He doesn't really believe in art anymore, but he believes that anyone with as much time and patience as him can sit down at an instrument and figure out the math behind the notes. He wouldn't even call it creation, no, he didn't write it, and half the time, the people who say they wrote it are only misremembering a hymn they heard a decade ago.

Which gives him an interesting answer to an unexpected question, and he trails off quietly as he considers it a moment. Doesn't look up as he responds, "I didn't create the chords, discover the notes, or invent the piano."