#Flavian does see him play

[wafflesrock16]

The Bard of Shanxi

I’m battling writers block and started wondering about turian prisoners on Shanxi hearing humans sing. Human voices are unique among the races, you’d imagine. How would an alien ballad sound to a non-human?

Inspired by Orville Peck’s “Kids”

Time had no meaning in this place. Dingy, concrete walls cast the same, gloomy shadows no matter the hour, as the soft buzz of florescent lights chorused overhead.

Bright, steel bars mocked the otherwise moldering, atrophied interior of the building where the turian POWs were kept. The humans had once used this place as a prison for their own kind. It had survived the aerial bombardment and in a sardonic case of irony, now housed those that would have been conquerors.

Flavian limply jangled a shackled wrist for no reason other than to hear the metallic clink the movement caused. He was the only prisoner in this spirits-forsaken cell. No one else in his unit had survived the aquatic ambush. The humans had risen from the reeds and tepid marsh water at sunset, slick with russet colored mud and stinking of decay. How long had they waited in that festering, putrid swamp? They’d been underwater, breathing through hollow reeds for hours, Flavian had later deduced.

His patrol had been taken completely off-guard. The human’s primitive, lead fueled guns could survive the submersion and had worked to deadly effect. Just goes to show a weapon doesn’t have to be advanced to kill, Flavian thought bitterly.

Was it a mercy or a curse that he’d been in the thick brush relieving himself when they attacked? Either way, he’d turned to come face to face with nine guns pointed at his head. And now, he was here. Nothing more to be said of his inglorious capture.

At some point in the day, a human--a tired looking male with brilliant blue eyes--would appear from around the corner of his cell and push a tube of dextro-paste over. Flavian had considered refusing to eat, but death by self-inflicted starvation was hardly worthy martyrdom. He was nobody, anyway; just a solider. A farmer-boy from Taetrus. No prestigious title or family name. A commoner tossed into this political and military shit-show without concern.

A new, sudden sound caught his attention. It sounded like the thrumming of chords that reverberated in the hollowness of the prison. There was a distinct melody to the sound and Flavian realized with surprise that the tired guard must be playing some type of human instrument. He listened with rapt intrigue, the shackles on his wrists forgotten as the steel bars and dismissal, cracked concrete walls faded away.

A deep, smooth voice began to sing. He couldn’t understand the words; translation of the human language wasn’t perfect. Yet. But somehow, the tone filled him with a sense of ineffable sadness. Something was lost, somewhere. On an alien world with an alien sun. He wasn’t sure how he knew this, but as the guard’s voice seeped into the still air, he was filled with a deep-rooted longing.

He missed his younger brother and the simpler times of childhood. Dust caked bare feet and blunted talons running through tilled fields. Bird calls in the dusky twilight and the smell of fresh cut cevern grass. Knowing his mother had cooked xemna steak for dinner and the jubilant, enthusiastic race to the table.

The guards voice hit a crescendo. He has a voice like warm whiskey, Flavian thought absently. He’d never heard a human sing. It was comparable to an asari in intonation, but closer to a batarian with the deeper ululation that accompanied some verses. A pleasant voice, he decided.

The song drifted to stop, the guard’s voice an echo clinging to the bars as the chords died away into nothingness.

“Can you sing another one?” Flavian asked into the renewed silence. His voice croaked like a dehydrated amphibian from disuse.

Stupid, he chastised himself when there was no response. He can’t understand you anyway, and you’re a prisoner, not a concert attendee--

The instrument sprang to life in a triumphant strumming of notes that seemed... happy? Optimistic, at least. The guard sang song after song in that melodious, alien voice. Some were solemn, others crisp with excitement and promise. They took Flavian far away from the grey infused prison on a hostile world. Back to home and family and loved ones.

When at last the music stopped for good, the guard peeked around the corner at him. Flavian wasn’t an expert on expressions--let alone human expressions--but the small smile on the guard’s face seemed friendly. Friendlier than anything else he’d experienced here.

Unable to applaud, he rumbled in thanks and bowed his head. When he looked up, the guard had vanished.

He never heard the guard sing again. The next day, a different group of humans, accompanied by three asari in commando leathers released him from his cell and he was accompanied to an asari ship where other freed turian POWs were being treated by a doctor.

The Relay 314 incident was over. Yet, on still nights, back home on Taetrus, Flavian drifted back to Shanxi. Harmony hugging the prison air in a show of compassion he wasn’t sure he’d deserved.

I bet that guard is a famous singer, Flavian thought as the fuzzy film of sleep crept over him. I’d pay to hear him sing. In a happier setting. Maybe one day...

[rcris123]

He thought of Arthur sucking that man off.

He thought of Arthur; how he pinned that outlaw down on the bed. He remembered that look Arthur gave: long, thin strands of auburn hair drawn messily over his face, eyes glossed over, gaze sweet, awed and that mouth let to hang open. Those lips of his, square, yet full when he don’t purse them in a thin line, were quite the sight; in part ‘cause he ain’t seen someone with a mouth that damn pretty, the rest ‘cause it made Sebastian want to shove his cock down it.

But now Sebastian’s lips are ‘round someone else’s girth; he ain’t all that careful, man was moaning hard enough to sound satisfied. For 20$ that’s all he’s getting.

He kept thinking of Arthur. Underneath him. Or above him. It didn’t matter. It felt raw; the way rough and tender Arthur kissed and bitt his neck while Sebastian was still grabbing him by the collar. He wanted that; ‘cause it ain’t making him feel hollow. A body ain’t ever meant much; somehow back then it did.

It was always physical with him; he grabbed Arthur, pulled Arthur, dragged Arthur in – and Arthur pulled him out, touched his wounds... And Arthur fucked him; did it with charm, lifted him up against the wall like he was barely some bag of groceries-

The client cummed in his mouth; Sebastian swallows and pulls away. He’s hard, pants tight; not for this feller thou.

“Ohh—I wish my wife blew like that.” The man was a mess on the bed.

“What a shame...” Sebastian smiles as courtesy.

“Oh, she’s bland, mister. Plainest. But Pop said I gotta take a wife.” Man drags his pants up. “But she’s a nice woman. Wants kids.”

“Mhm...”

He sits up, tone overly sweet: “You ain’t plain, mister.”

Sebastian chuckles: “Don’t get over your head.”

“No no...” He sounded disappointed. “Is just, ye’r pretty. Handsome.”

“Get outta here.” He tries hard to play the flirty banter game, but it ain’t coming out quite as it should.

Why would it matter if Arthur thought he’s handsome...

An odd thought. He lets the man go downstairs first, before he climbs down himself-

“Arthur?...” The cock’s still hard between his legs and it twitches at the thought.

“He got Jack-” Isaac rushes at him; Sebastian pulls away.

Who?

“Valentini.” Arthur completes the sentence. “Valentini got Jack.” That man never sounded as angry.

Sebastian’s face changes to what must be a terrifying grimace, ‘cause Isaac slips away.

“Would you tell me where he lives.”

“You won’t go there.” Sebastian cuts him, harsh. The wounds Stefano gave him were gentle, and the man owns the city.

“Dutch’ll go. And John.” Arthur insisted. “But I need to know-”

“Flavian Street; the big mansion, opposite the park.” And just as Arthur was to pull away, he grabs him by the collar spins him round. “Don’t you get involved in this, you hear- Don’t you dare.”

He knows both Arthur and Isaac at this point and if any of ‘em get involved, either dragged by Dutch or something else Sebastian fears he ain’t gonna see the end of this. Or maybe he will, but not as himself and he ain’t knowing what’s scarier: dying or losing the chance of being someone again.

“And what will you do...” Arthur’s got his own concerns and the 4 other people in the saloon at this time stop to watch.

“Hopefully, my best.” A lie. The thoughts cooking up in his head are all but possibly the worst idea he’s had.

He lets go, but Arthur doesn’t. There’s words behind those lips, but they’re sealed shut so tight he thinks they ain’t ever gonna see the light of day. And somehow, he has a hunch as to what the man wanted to say, and that’s ‘cause they just got up on their feet, and for one day it almost felt hopeful. But fate ain’t about to give Sebastian that. And he dragged this man and his son along with it.

“I’ll make sure you get the boy back.” Sebastian had to say something to break this tension; cock’s gone flacid in the meantime, and still the way Arthur gripped him threatened to have gotten it hard again if the situation were any different. “I’ll see you back at camp.”

And he wished those words were true; the smile was practiced.

 “Why are you here?” One of Stefano’s men almost pointed a gun at him. “Thought you said no.”

“Changed my mind.”

“And you think it works that way.”

Sebastian looks up: there he was, Stefano sitting on the upstairs balcony with what looked like a glass of expensive wine tipped between fingers. Man raises the glass and even though he can’t see that far Sebastian knows he’s grinning, just before he shouts:

“Let him in!”

And in he’s let, then escorted upstairs to Stefano.

“Lucian is right. Why are you here, Sebastian?” The wine is twirled inside the glass before a sip is taken.

“I have a request.” Heart drummed in his chest.

The gulp is audible: “Oh?” Glass is set down. “And what would that be?”

“Erase someone’s bounty.”

Stefano chuckles: “I’m not the government.” And he spares a glance for Sebastian, eyeing him up and down, then returns to admiring the view: “But I can pull some strings.” And then the man sits up: “Just one question, dear old Sebastian. Why? Is it for the same reason that man and his son stood in when I came to see you. I hope you’re aware you’re a terrible liar.”

Sebastian simply had his lips pressed together and his chest out trying not to breathe too loudly or to simply break out in a fit of rage.

“But I’m still curious, what’s it about that outlaw that makes him attractive. I know he runs with Van der Linde. Yes, I have one of those sheep-fucker’s offspring. They came ‘round and asked. You sent them here didn’t you?” Stefano puffs with a grin, presses two fingers to his lips, taps and pins Sebastian, the quiet, stiff, unshaken Sebastian, with another gaze: “But I have to say, this is quite entertaining. You came begging to me. Or well as close to begging as those sealed lips of yours will come to.”

Stefano passes by him, purposefully on the right side so he can tap the shoulder he so much loves to brutalize.

“I’ll play your little game, Sebastian. I’ll look into your little cowboy friend.” And the man draws away, returning to his office, but not before: “Oh, and you’re free to try and escape, but I think you’re smart enough to know you won’t exactly be going out anymore. So make yourself at home, darling.”

 It’s not home, but he lit a cigarette in the middle of the downstairs living, lounged on the couch like he owned the place. Was there mud on his boots? He doesn’t care, they’re on the cushions.

Small steps trot in; Sebastian huffs out the smoke he held in his chest to look over the back of the sofa:

“Sebastian?”

He smiles.

“Hi there, Jack.”

“You came to stay with Papa Valentini too.”

Don’t call him that...

A quick draw of the cigarette: “Yeah...” but he’ll avoid that question: “How’s your reading these days, Jack?”

“Uhhhh...” the kid rolls his eyes back, then they dart across the room: “Will you tell Momma and Uncle Hosea that I don’t like reading? ‘cause I don’t.”

“Isaac likes reading.” Sebastian insists, standing up and coming closer; and by God Isaac tried to make the kid read, told him everything of the Knights of the Round Table. King Arthur, huh?

“Isaac’s different.” Jack pouts. “Isaac’s old.”

“He’s still just a kid.”

“No, he’s not.”

“He still plays with you, doesn’t he?”

“He does...” Jack muses. “But he’s always away. He’s busy with Uncle Arthur and Uncle Dutch. And Papa.” Well John was hardly the parent, but Sebastian knows he loved his son and could bet that the moment he got taken away he raised Hell. That’s a parent’s love.

Sebastian crinkles his nose: “Say, would you like to play with me? We’re gonna surprise Momma with how smart you’ve become, what you say?”

“Yeah!”

 One hour. Two. Three. It gets dark and there keeps being a shiver up his spine and down his arms as if he’s cold, but the air is hot and muggy like it’s always been in St. Denis.

Stefano moved in to sit across from them, legs crossed, gloved hands folded neatly in his lap. And Sebastian stiffened, Jack noticed, ‘cause he clutched him harder, while trying to teach him the animals.

Lucian came in at one point: “Signor Valenitni? Dutch van der Linde is back.”

“Oh, perfect.”

Jack perked up: “Uncle Dutch!?”

Stefano opens the door and the kid runs out like a dog on the hunt. Sebastian can only watch from inside; he doesn’t want to make it worse for Arthur- and there he was, Isaac in tow. So Stefano asked them for something-

He overhears the conversation:

“Signor Van der Linde, would you by any chance be interested in a social meeting with the upstanding citizens for this city?” He eyes Arthur, even if the man stood ways away, still in the saddle. John had the child in his arms, head pressed to the chest.

And with that Sebastian smells a trap.

That Dutch fell face first into: “O’course.”

They leave; Sebastian’s left alone with Stefano; a pang hollows his guts and a shiver runs up his spine.

Stefano lets Lucian close the door behind him: “I’m really curious to see what your little cowboy does at the ball when he sees you~”

A deep breath in to gather courage: “Then wait and see.”

“Oh, seems you’ve gotten cocky?”

“I do bite.”

Stefano hums almost as if aroused: “I’d love to see that, darling.”

 He never penetrated Stefano, or have it the other way around, but the man fucked Sebastian in more ways; other ways. The downstairs bedroom with the red sheets, always stained and smelling of blood; his blood. Man was sick, always asking the same thing: half dressed, cutting himself up, moaning in pain, because it got him hard. And he saw Stefano come completely undone in those days ‘till that party.

It might have looked like the work of a doctor, precise and clean: a long line stretched down the middle of his chest, above the bone and only the bone, with the purpose of drawing blood and looking pretty. It fucking hurt. He bent on his elbows shuddering, while Stefano pleased himself, snapping shots to the wet sound of masturbation. Sebastian hated it. Other times it was bearable ‘cause he got to get away. Now he’s here; no escaping. Yet. And Stefano strung him up, tied his feet, bound his hands, stabbed his shoulder, bruised his knuckles, his knees, his face, cut his lips, his temples.

He went numb; jaw, limbs trembling without even wanting to, vision blurring, head emptying and his self feeling entirely detached from the body just so he couldn’t feel it anymore.

But he thought, all those endless hours he thought of a way to get the fuck out of this place. There’s going to be a party and Stefano’s gonna get him there just to entertain some sick idea of a tragedy like he was some British Monarch. And Stefano sure as hell ain’t Shakespeare so Sebastian could be his Romeo or Macbeth.

He’s gonna get out. He thought of it long and hard and it had to work.

 He was still bruised when Stefano handed him the suit he was to wear; a top hat as well to hide the marks on his face. But it wouldn’t matter much. Lucian ain’t seen when Sebastian slipped a knife underneath the seam of his pants, that he then dangled loosely by a string attached to the suspenders. It grazed his leg, but he didn’t care. Jaw was clenched from all other pains; some more cuts ain’t mattering.

And in one more sloppy act Stefano left his precious camera idle and Sebastian free for barely a moment-

Sebastian was brought to the balcony at the Mayor’s house, along with other friends of his that he only spoke in Italian with. Sebastian didn’t understand much, but whenever one of them or ever Stefano for that matter tried to talk English to him he would reply in Spanish. He was brought up American but his Daddy taught him his mother tongue.

“Ah, there they are, the angry cowboys~” Stefano was most pleased with himself. It hurt biting that lip like he did but he couldn’t look at Arthur’s expression as he came onto the balcony.

Still he looked; the confusion, the betrayed, the heartache, then the flame that lit up when the man pursed his lips. Dutch only spared Sebastian a distrustful look before going on to converse with Dutch.

It’s small steps: from Arthur, from Sebastian. Arthur lights a cigar, lips wrapped around the girth while hands look for a light. The hat probably hid his face well enough that it’s only now, more upclose that Arthur finally notices the cuts and bruises, and his features slack then draw together even angrier.

Sebastian puts a hand on his free wrist- don’t he do anything rash.

But it ain’t seeming like Arthur was intending to. Instead he fumed in silence watching Stefano introduce the profiles of the St. Denis high society: the Mayor, Alberto Fussar, Evelyn Miller, Rains Fall. The way Stefano talked, as if he owned the universe of this city had even Dutch speechless, features slacked, offended.

“Maybe one day you’ll kill him for me-”

“We ain’t paid killers as such...”

“Oh, I am sorry-” Stefano wasn’t as openly amused now; the dark grin slipped in. “But you do need money don’t you.”

Arthur drew in a sharp breath.

“Yes.” Dutch said.

“It’s a setup...” Arthur said it on a sigh, a whisper, to Sebastian. And he wanted to say more but lips fell shut.

“You didn’t hear it from me but there’s plenty cash at the trolley station.” Stefano keeping musing to Dutch, drawing him in. “But do enjoy your party, fine gentlemen.”

Stefano draws closer in to the pair of them, arranging his gloves as if they slipped- Sebastian lets go, leaning in for barely a moment:

“Me encargaré de esto.” He knew Arthur didn’t understand a thing, but he’s hoping that’s enough to put the man’s mind a bit at ease

“Arthur!” Dutch beacons, and Arthur follows diligently downstairs, one more stolen look.

He’s sore when moving so he doesn’t do much of it; he’s waiting for the fireworks. For now he watches Arthur from the balcony, he slips into the crowd, to gather information, same as Dutch, Hosea and that Bill.

And there’s the fireworks. A glance at Stefano, before Sebastian heads down the stairs

“Sebastian.” The man’s voice is stern, scolding, maybe even frightening.

Something compels him to smile and pretend he didn’t understand: “¿Perdóneme?” And he keeps descending, step rigorous.

It’s loud and crowded; Stefano comes after him himself, fists clenched. That camera he pocketed is taken out right when he knew that the man’ll see it, walking towards the dock, where the crowd’s thinned. He hears Stefano calling him out, walking harsher.

As much as his torn body lets him Sebastian jumps in the boat docked there, untied the rope, but doesn’t depart yet, until he’s sure Stefano’s one foot away. Camera is dangled above the water.

“You think that’s a threat? I can always get a new one-”

Oops. Sebastian drops it, and it sinks to the depths of the lake.

“You seem pretty threatened.” Stefano puffs his chest out, jaw clenched. “Come on in.”

“Sebastian-” Teeth clatter onto each other and Stefano jumps on the boat.

With all the strength he has Sebastian pushes the boat off the shore and starts rowing. Stefano falls down, from the sound of it like it’ll leave a bruise. But he ain’t caring. No he ain’t caring at all. Sebastian keeps rowing as hard as he can. One short glance at the people of the party: they ain’t looking.

One hand slides under his pants to grab the knife, just as Stefano, bare handed and filled with rage stumbles up and forwards to strangle him. Sebastian’s numb to the pain, to the fact that he sliced up his own thigh lifting the weapon.

It’s swift, harsh, filled with hate. One short grunt from him.

Blade sticks clean into the skull, poking right underneath the jaw. Stefano goes numb with barely a wheeze. Eyes stare blankly forward as the body slumps on top of him.

Sebastian can breathe again; shakes the hands that pinned him off himself, blood gushes onto him, onto the boat. It’s warm and tastes like fucking revenge; it’s sweet and salty like expensive caramels. Rows are take back into his arms and keeps on traversing the lake. The throbbing of his torn thigh starting at last to sting. The fireworks die down not long after.

Body’s thrown in the swamp.

And Sebastian should row back to the mansion. Maybe he can still meet up with Arthur... and the rest-

That’s the shore there. Not much further to row-

He can’t walk. He can’t get out of the boat; falls face first in the mud just by the side of the road.

A coach stops. He recognizes those voices. Ah... here’s hoping...