Rosy's Song Ch2

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The Role-playing Scientists

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Chapter 2

Rosy's Song

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ATasteForVintages

ATasteForVintages

@atasteforvintages 2 years ago

Narrator's note: guys, please be careful of what you say to the characters. Just like in our own lives, some of them can hear you and your words have a real, lasting impact on the way they feel. Never say anything to a Lodger that you wouldn't say directly to someone's face.

Thank you.

Chapter 2

Rosy bought tickets to the symphony for the upcoming week. He wasn't sure why, usually using the prospect of artful music and jovial conversation as a bi-annual incentive to get work done. Some pull had led him to take up paper to pen a message to his booker.

Preparing for a night out had never taken the doctor so long, though he didn't tarry to think of the implications. He dressed in floor length, draped salmon satin, looking like a breath of air (if he did say so himself).

Taking a look at the clock, he was shocked at the late hour, rushing the final steps and taking to the staircase to get down to the awaiting hansom.

His heart squeezed in anticipation, and he didn't have it in him to question why.

---

The production was beautiful, as is expected of the venue. But what truly captivated Rosy the entire time was a far-off figure, sitting in the shadows behind the conductor's right shoulder, the wave of hair at the back of his head strangely familiar to Rosy, causing his breath to catch.

Rosy was just able to see the way the man’s fingers flew over the keys, as though the difficult concerto was nothing but second nature to him. His head bowed low over the keys, forehead practically on the mahogany of the body. Rosy’s eyes never left the sight.

When the show concluded Rosy was the first on his feet, applauding joyfully and with abundance. A smile split his face and he couldn't recall a better production.

As the gas for the lamps was turned up Rosy made quick work through the aisles, before the crowds formed. He walked to the backstage area almost on autopilot, before encountering a large man dressed in stage blacks holding up a hand to stop he from rounding the curtain.

“Hello, good sir!” Rosy put as much faux-cordiality into his voice as he could muster, “I’m here to see one of your fine establishments musicians!”

“Name?”

“Oh, yes. Dr. Rose--” he was reaching into his bag to grab his card when he was interrupted.

“Name of the player.”

“Oh! Um…” It was only at this point in his plan did he realize that he had completely blanked on the other man’s name. “Um. Something...something Slavic, I reckon.”

“Which one of these string-pluckers isn’t a tibla?” The stagehand said with disdain. “Sorry, lady, I can't just let you back--”

“Sativsky.” It was Rosy’s turn to interrupt the rude man, “I believe it’s Sativsky. Shea, or something along those lines.”

“Savitsky?” Rosy nodded with a smile. The man let out a laugh, “Lady, I pretty sure you're barking up the wrong tree. You gotta know these artist types--”

“It’s nothing like that,” Rosy waved a hand dismissively. “I just need to speak with him.”

The man just shrugged a meaty shoulder. “Suit yourself. Gotta warn ya though, none of these vodka guzzlers speak a lick of the Queen’s language. Especially after they get a few shots in, which starts when the curtain goes down.”

“I'll take my chances.” Rosy said between gritted teeth, pushing past the stagehand. He took in the sight before him, the sight most symphony viewers don't get to see. String players loosening bows and wiping down instruments, brass dismantling their many pieces, woodwinds blowing out the collected saliva. It was humanizing after seeing them practically split heaven and earth just a few minutes ago.

He made his way around the chairs, taking in the idle chatter and sly jokes and booming laughter that filled the pit, a plethora of languages spilling from the musicians lips.

He finally caught sight of man who he was looking for, still hunched over the piano, another man in a black suit stood over him, talking amiability. Rosy walked over and stood to the side, not wanting to intrude, and not knowing what the two were talking about, as it was spoken in what Rosy could only guess was Russian.

Hazel eyes turned to him, as if sensing he was there. “Vrach!” Shaya shot off the piano bench, turning to Rosy with a small bow, “Good to see you!” He stepped over the bench and took a step closer to Rosy. He turned back to his earlier companion, speaking in the language that wore heavy on Rosy’s ears, before turning back. “I tell him how we met. His English, not good. My English, not good, but…better.” He let out a small laugh, mopping the claminess of his palms on the legs of his trousers.

“You speak English well,” Rosy said without hesitation, taking a step closer to the other man. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you, I just saw you during the show and…” He trailed off, a small wave of uncertainty clenching at his throat.

“I tell you where to find me.” Shaya pronounced with a shrug, “You choose to do so. No harm. I am happy.” His small smile was back, and Rosy was really starting to appreciate the curve those pink lips took whenever he did.

“I am happy too.” Rosy said with a smile back. “You played beautifully tonight, by the way.” Quick was he to compliment the man, seeing as Shaya had managed to captivate his attention for the entire two hours of the performance. “I knew you were a musician, but--I mean--that is to say,” Rosy took a pause to gather his words, “What you played tonight was transcendent.”

For the first time in their few encounters Shaya’s smile bloomed fully, “I do not know the word, but sounds like high praise. Spasibo.” He turned back to the other Slav, speaking to him quickly with many gestations until the man left, taking with him the last few straggling musicians still in the pit.

“Come.” Shaya said with a wave of his hand, stepping back over the bench and sitting down before the keys, “Come here. You say you sing for me. Do.” Rosy walks over and takes the offered space beside the man, taking care to make sure they weren’t touching, as the doctor had previously catalogued Shaya’s aversion to touch.

Rosy watched the man fall back into his element, first giving a light tap to middle C before ascending into several complicated scales, his eyes closing slowly as he played. “What you sing?” It took Rosy a second to realize he had even spoken, so fixated on the man’s hands.

“Do you know Casta Diva?”

A light laugh, “By heart.”

“Play, then.”

And they took off together, and didn’t descend for hours to come.

Hours later they sat on top the roof of Shaya’s hotel, sharing a bottle of wine on an ratty blanket, taking in the stars.

Rosy was already slightly tipsy from his one and a half glasses, cheeks flushed and tongue free. “How do you pronounce your name? I tried giving it to one of the theater workers earlier and completely butchered it.”

There was the half smile Rosy had now come to adore. “Shaya Savitsky.”

“Shea--”

“Nyet.” The smile broadened, and Rosy had the dizzying thought that he’d butcher this man’s name for the rest of his days if it meant that smile would never fade. “Shaya. Like two words--”

“Syllables.”

“Two ‘syb..idels’.” Rosy wasn’t going to correct his pronunciation. “Sha-ya.”

“Shaya.” A hesitation, but it was clear.

“Da. Shaya Savitsky.”

“Sat...v.. I think I will just call you Shaya, then.” A giggle behind a warm palm.

“For the best.” Glass clinked on glass as Shaya emptied the rest of the bottle’s contents into the coffee mug he was using.

“I hope I’m not offending you,” Rosy said with a rush, “I haven’t met many Russians.”

“I am not Russian.”

Rosy paused for a second, taking in the bearded man’s face with a look like he was questioning every second of his life. “You’re not…?”

“I am from Empire, I am not Russian. Belarusian.” His voice grew distant, his eyes shifting away from the other man.

“I...I didn’t know there was a difference.” The doctor cringed at his own words but couldn’t stop them from falling out.

Shaya turned his eyes back to Rosy, a smile on his face, “Do not worry. Even Russians don’t know difference.”

Rosy let out a small, mirthful laugh, hand falling on Shaya’s shoulder.

It wasn’t until the other man shamefully and with great hesitation recoiled from Rosy’s outstretched digits did the doctor remember.

“I’m sorry!” Rosy felt a rising in his stomach very much like being sick, but it sat just below his chin, burning and ugly, cheeks flashing red.

Shaya folded his hands in his lap, taking a steadying breath before looking at Rosy from the corner of his eye, “Do not be sorry. It is not you.” Rosy turned a questioning face to him, “I am...not fine with women’s touch. Hesi…” He struggled.

“Hesitant?” There was a nod. “I’m sorry.”

“Not sorry.”

There was a lapse, a moment of awkward silence that seemed to stretch on forever.

“Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Woman.”

It was Rosy’s turn to turn away suddenly, face burying into his own shoulder, breath catching.

“No, no!” Shaya exclaimed, words strained. He shifted onto his knees, bending around Rosy to try to meet his eyes. “I do not want to be mean! I only ask.”

“It’s...awkward.” Rosy finally said after another moment. He flitted his eyes to the Slav, who was currently looking at him in confused worry. “Not fun to talk about.”

“I ask one question?” Shaya’s eyes were wide, as if he feared something beyond just the word ‘no’.

There was only a slight nod in reply.

“You are man, yes? Name is Henry, you voice is deep, hairs come in,” Shaya gestured to his own sideburns before pointing at Rosy’s face. “But you are woman?” Rosy looked down at his hands, which were currently churning the the fabric of his skirts, not being able to meet Shaya’s gaze. “I knew men like this in Russia, but they...they did it for reasons. You are different.”

“I am.” Rosy clenched his jaw and turned back to meet Shaya’s gaze, “I am different. But there is nothing wrong with that. I’m Dr. Henry Rose, but you can call me Rosy.” He swallowed thickly. “And there is nothing wrong with that.”

“No.” A cracked, cold hand laid on top of Rosy’s balled one. “There is not.”

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Catt Hatter • 2 years ago

((Aww! That was so cute. ^u^))

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ATasteForVintages  Catt Hatter • 2 years ago

This is my favorite chapter, actually.

Everything leading up to it is really rather fanciful and flowery, all the makings of a Hallmark courtship, but here it slows down and we see the raw real parts of their souls.

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Catt Hatter  ATasteForVintages • 2 years ago

((It's beautiful!))

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ATasteForVintages  Catt Hatter • 2 years ago

Isn't it just?

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Elaina Hyde • 2 years ago

(D'awwwwww

That was adorable

I love this character)

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ATasteForVintages  Elaina Hyde • 2 years ago

Mystery thanks you kindly, your praise means a lot to them~

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