Zhi Yin (WIP?)
definitely not proof-read, but it's 2 AM, and I feel gross about myself and my writing, so have my ramblings as a treat. I'll definitely go back to edit and re-write this when I have time, and while it's kinda complete in this form, I might add more on later.
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Something about the way the busker on the sidewalk up ahead played piano seemed awfully familiar to Corbeau as he wove his way around the groups of teens huddled together in front of the stores.
He was incognito today, messy hair, contacts, and suit jacket nowhere to be found, since he wanted to do a personal inspection of the grunts that were stationed in this area right by the mall. So far, most had passed with flying colors, but he was going to have a little chat with Philippe later about one of them. It seemed like that one had decided to pointlessly guard the holovator instead of following his orders. When Corbeau reached the busker’s keyboard, he paused.
Usually, the buskers that performed in Lumiose were loud and proud with their identity, setting up signs with their socials and dressing up in flashy clothing. While it bordered on the point of obnoxiousness, he couldn’t fault them. Rent in Lumiose was disgustingly expensive, and Corbeau knew what it was like to starve. Unfortunately, he hadn’t quite figured out an entry point into manipulating the housing market yet. It was a delicate operation, and he was unwilling to fail in this regard. This busker, however, wore a nondescript dark gray windbreaker, a face mask, and a baseball cap pulled low over their face. He couldn’t even see their hair color. They were good though, amazing even. Corbeau never learned piano nor did he play any other instruments, but he enjoyed classical music, and if he had to say so himself, he had built up a discerning ear for it.
This busker played beautifully: dramatic yet masterful dynamic control, gorgeous shaping of phrases, and while Corbeau was only vaguely familiar with this piece, he could tell that they had molded it to their personal style. It was artistry in action right in front of him. He would never disparage any musician, but unlike the other buskers who roughhoused with the music like a Skitty with a yarn ball, this busker moved as one with it. It was clear that they had significant training and experience.
They transitioned to another song, a jazzier piece this time, and as Corbeau stood and listened, something arose in the back of his mind, triggered by the way their fingers danced over the keys and the way they played. It was the memory of spying on Grisham playing piano in the ballroom through the cracked doors.
He had been sneaking late at night through Lysandre’s mansion in the country that doubled as the secondary Flare headquarters when he heard the soft notes coming down the hall from where the empty ballroom should have been. He snuck over to the door and peeked through the crack. It was Grisham with his hair down and in his pajamas. He was playing a piece that Corbeau recognized from his lectures from Lysandre about the importance of conserving the elegant art of classical music, but his heart didn’t seem into it. His fingers wandered drunkenly over the keys, and after a couple more half-hearted notes, he slammed his hands down. Corbeau jumped at the discordant noise, but thankfully, Grisham still hadn’t noticed him. He started up another piece, swing jazz if Corbeau was remembering correctly. This time, his hands danced over the keys rather than stumbled, and when Corbeau dragged his eyes away from Grisham’s fingers, his heart skipped a beat at the content expression on his face.
A nearby shriek of laughter startled him out of his musings, and he shook his head to clear his mind. Why did this anonymous busker remind of that time?
He hadn’t seen Grisham in years now, and he wasn’t sure if he still played piano. Last time, he attended one of his recitals, Grisham had stood up abruptly halfway through the set list, and stormed out, screaming at his parents. He wasn’t even sure he was still in Lumiose after Lysandre had tried to end the world. Corbeau’s phone buzzed insistently in his pocket, and when he didn’t immediately pull it out, the Rotom inside shocked him. Little bastard.
He pulled it out and swore. He had lost track of time, and Philippe had bombarded him with text messages about a meeting he needed to be at in less than an hour. Corbeau shoved his phone back into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and tossed some money into the propped open piano case. The busker acknowledged the tip with a bow of their head.
He came back a couple more times, sometimes with Philippe, sometimes with Paxton, but most of the time he went alone. Philippe had complimented them multiple times on their artistry; he was also a fellow piano player and was even trying to get Corbeau to let him teach him, but Paxton had winced and said piano music wasn’t really his thing when Corbeau asked him what he thought.
The crowd milling outside the mall ignored him whenever he was in his incognito getup, but when he stopped by after a meeting one day, everyone had given him a wide berth. Even the busker had clammed up, an almost imperceptible tension in their shoulders and playing when he strode up to the post he usually stood at.
Corbeau always left money though, and regardless of the form he took, the busker acknowledged him every time with that same polite bow of their head. They remained frustratingly anonymous, and while Corbeau had wanted to ask if there was any other way he could support their art, he couldn’t bring himself to breach a wall that they obviously were adamant about keeping up.
However, there was one day where he had caught a glimpse at the artist underneath. During a water break on a sunny day, they had leaned down to pick up their water bottle. They were wearing a baggy t-shirt today, and when the baseball cap shifted just the slightest amount forward, he saw ginger and white hair, a color combination he only saw once before: on Grisham. Whoever this was took a swig, and Corbeau watched a droplet of water bead up at the corner of their lips before sliding down their jaw and down their sweaty neck, feeling disoriented and ashamed at how much he wanted that bead of water to be his lips. His dreams were even more hazy that night, and when he woke up, he could only remember seeing glimpses of long, nimble fingers and fiery-red hair.
A week later, he and Philippe were strolling down that avenue together, discussing the mall’s latest realty developments and the new small business that was in need of funds that just opened up. They saw the busker again and stopped like they usually did. By now, the busker had come to anticipate them, and Corbeau swore that they always brought out the best pieces in their repertoire whenever him and Philippe came around. They stood there and listened attentively as usual when there was a loud commotion off to his side. He heard a woman shout, “Someone stop him!,” before a man bowled through, knocking aside Corbeau and knocking down the busker and their keyboard.
“Fucking Flare freak,” he shouted, “Coming into our mall and ruining it with your presence.” The busker, now on the ground, pulled down on their cap, but when they saw the man kicking away the keyboard and piano case, they scrambled to throw themselves at the man, abandoning their efforts to hide.
“What makes you think we want your kind here,” the man sneered, “Trying to crawl your way back into society after what you did to my family in Geosenge. You make me sick.”
The busker pleaded with him, shrinking back as the man began crowding into their face.
“Step foot at this mall again, and I’ll fucking kill you, I swear it. You’ve taken everything from me, and I’m going to take everything from you.”
Corbeau, having regained his footing thanks to Philippe, was bringing out Scolipede’s ball to break apart this fight when he heard a loud slap. When he looked up again, he hid his gasp. The busker’s cap had finally fallen off. It was Grisham.
It had to be because he remembered those eyes and that distinctive hair color. While Grisham didn’t have his glasses on, deep down Corbeau knew it was him, despite not having seen him for three years now. It all made sense now; no wonder their playing had reminded him of that night in the ballroom. Corbeau released Scolipede and with his partner and Philippe in tow, strolled up to the man, a knife become human.
“I suggest you step back and turn yourself in before I have to get involved,” he said, smiling coldly, “I have little patience for people like you, and you best remember that.”
He leaned in and grabbed the man’s collar, “I'm going to call the police, and you're going to turn yourself into their custody if you don’t want to find out what happens when the Rust Syndicate comes calling.”
Corbeau let go, and the man dropped to his knees in shock, however Corbeau had already turned away and knelt down to help Grisham up. His cap was on the ground, and he was turning his face away, trying to hide even now. Under his face mask, there was the edge of an angry hand-print on his cheek.
“Hey Grish, long time no see. Are you okay?”
Grisham nodded.
Corbeau helped him stand up, but to his disappointment, he immediately pushed away from him as soon as he was on his feet, hurrying towards where the keyboard and overturned piano case. Corbeau knelt down and helped Grisham gather his things before he got up and strode over to Philippe, speaking to him quietly, “Can you stay and make sure Officer Jenny takes this man into custody? I’m going to take Grisham to my apartment. I’ll take the car, and when everything’s handled here, I’ll send a car to pick you up.”
Philippe acknowledged him with a tilt of his head, and he walked back to Grisham’s side, picking up the keyboard case for him.
“Come with me to my apartment. We have a lot of catching up to do.”
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Title Explanation: here
Zhi Yin or 知音 is one of my favorite words in mandarin, and I just love that concept of knowing someone so deeply that you can tell it's them just by the way they play music. Anyways, I actually am not a piano fan, so if the piano playing descriptions are bad, woops. I was in drumline in high school, and I play a Chinese harp called Guzheng. I've played guzheng for almost a decade now, and I really want to learn drumset in the future since I enjoyed drumline but got so burnt out from it. It's been years since I've gotten to be in a proper performance group, and I miss it a lot, so part of my reason for this grisbeau piece was just to reminisce on how fulfilling it is to play music. Practicing alone is nice, but it doesn't beat feeling like you're a part of something bigger.