His hands were not made for affectionate gestures. They were not gentle, nor were they smooth. His knuckles bore scars of his father's abuse, and from then he'd never felt any caring touches. More so from the array of disentangled, momentary lovers he'd taken and marked during any drunken exploits. But Kate knew -- he knew she knew, and she knew that she knew, and all those other senseless sentiments of knowing -- that he will never learn how to hold anyone delicately, for he would always crush them in his palms and dig his fingers into their skin. He stayed quiet, blatantly ignoring the taunting of his other half once the woman expressed her amorous feelings for the music he created with physical faculties only meant for destruction and murder.
Yet they were not ordinary people. They were the Adversary. They reveled in bloodshed, and did not shun the most sadistic of beings. He cracked his knuckles out of habit, and gave his best friend a sideways glance. He attempted to recall why he'd always defended her from others of their vile kind, and now he was faced with the glaring truth in her soft features and vibrant hair. The crimson shade reminded him all too well of the glory days, and he was tempted to run his fingers through it -- which he did. Max was never one to resist temptation, after all. Long digits brushed through her hair almost eerily, and he allowed his pale skin to be buried in that stream of auburn.
"I missed you," he stated again, a soft smile -- now different from his previous excited demeanour. Before he'd been like a puppy who'd lost his master, but Kate held no power over him; if he tried hard enough, he would be able to piece together broken fragments of memories concerning the witch and her inability to be fazed by his ever-shifting state of mentality. He would remember, then, the countless times he'd asked her to stay, for fear of going on another killing spree, or having to bring Fire to his lips and misery in the bones of others.Â
Roughened pads ran along the smooth ebony and ivory keys, before he began to play once more. It began soft. Light. Lilting, like someone stepping into an oasis. Innocent, with a tinge of melancholy. The notes were beautiful and soft and smooth, and his lithe digits no longer held the heaviness and hardness of a murderer, but the softness of water as they moved over black and white rocks. As if he'd memorised the piece, he closed his eyes serenely. Lips too often bitten out of habit parted slightly as a soft sigh escapes his lips. Music was his prison and his saviour. It entrapped him and yet -- it pulled him from further insanity.
The smooth cursive of the notes, the rests, the easy transitions between bars -- oh, he could write a book with it. Telling a tale with tunes was easier and more harmonious, more appealing, than sitting down and writing silent words. Not that he didn't appreciate the words were strung together to make the whole beauty of literature all the more appealing; no, he simply preferred this. Even the brief, ringing silence once he finished, his eyelids fluttering open as if he'd been in some sort of trance. He peeked beside him, head bowed still, hands resting over the keys.
"Was that as beautiful as you remembered, kitten?" he asked, the corners of his lips twitching up slightly as his hands slid off the keyboard. One of them sought hers out, warm and soft in his own. "I hope I haven't gotten too rusty. Then again...I've spent most of my days in this place. I do hope my...ah, incarceration hasn't dulled any of my skills. That would be most unproductive to the Adversary, yes? They can't lose their top musician, after all."
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