The Great Grey

Peter was no stranger to new pupils; they were an absolute requirement as composition did not produce constant income. Did Peter require a constant stream of income? No. His family would fund his lifestyle. Peter preferred to fund some of his less-approved antics, and thus, he had to earn money his family could not track. In this case, his new student was not providing monetary compensation. Peter could have thought of several interesting ways for a beautiful man with fine features to make it all even in the end, but his focus was on the music. They were making an exchange of lessons. Part of the hour was for him to teach his favored instrument, and the other was for his new friend, Mister Walker, to teach his. Peter had done his best to tune the instrument but regretted that it was not as well-tuned as it could have been.

Scrymgeour had a habit of understating his studio. The stand-alone brick building in Westminster used to be a dance studio for the instruction of young girls who would become dancers in various theater companies. A better facility became available in Highgate, and Peter insisted it had to be his. The large empty room had perfect acoustics despite Peter's random assortment of instruments decorating the walls. Most were purely for decoration. The elegant German zither, with its curled top and delicate spindle behind its many strings, was the only one beyond the Cello he even attempted to tune or play. Funnily enough, there was a Chinese instrument on his wall of string instruments. Peter had no idea what it was, only that it was a lute of some sort, a pipa lute, and not that he knew so much about it. All he knew was that it was a stringed instrument and a unique addition to his collection made some years ago.

In the center of the room sat the most important pieces in his music room collection: the pianos and the harpsichord. He called them the three sisters if only because they were all similarly stained rosewood pieces. His rosewood mistresses would never compete with the mahogany beauty he kept at home, but they were still lovely and capable of beautiful sounds. Peter abandoned his piano to greet a servant as they came to collect their master’s son. The boy gathered his things as the men spoke of his progress. Peter knew the boy was skipping his practice at home and instructed the servant of his recommendations as he ushered the two figures out of his studio in time to spot his newest pupil.

“Ah, Mister Walker, right on time. I hope you had no trouble finding the place.”

The way Peter spoke of his “little studio” often had people checking various doors on the street, assuming it was one of the smaller venues, not the larger stand-alone building on the lane.

“I regret that I had difficulty tuning the zither. Perhaps you would not mind helping me with that when it gets to my part of the lesson?”

The calluses on the tips of his fingers were different now, hands no longer the sort one would expect from a man with more money than responsibilities and more time than he knew what to do with, but that was to be expected. In many ways, Xiao had left himself on the shores of his homeland, along with his name and his family, but in fewer, more specific and more peculiar ways, he came to London, with those parts of him shut away in a trunk that sat at the foot of his bed.

Though it was not truly his bed, now was it? Xiao was not nearly that presumptuous.

His musical prowess had been something to accompany him, preserved on the journey over and then left to wither, with no time to truly nurture it. Apparently Xiao had assumed too quickly, of its use, and through an attempt to rectify that misunderstanding, he found himself outside of one Peter Scrymgeour’s studio, an interesting sort of arrangement worked out. He passed a boy and the boy’s chaperone as his feet made their way up to the building, the boy had books tucked under his arm and it was only a reasonable conclusion to assume he had come from the studio that Xiao planned to enter. He wondered if he was supposedly on the same level as that child, at least when it pertained to western music. He was hardly surprised, given his limited exposure, but Xiao let the thought burn nonetheless.

“Mister Scrymgeour,” Xiao called, face brightening. After their last encounter, Xiao had devoted a decent amount of time to perfecting (or at least, ameliorating) his pronunciation of the other man’s name, and it felt almost natural on his tongue. The weight was familiar, if not over-rehearsed, Xiao hoped that his tone did not betray his efforts to improve. In his mother tongue, Xiao had become quite adept at using tone and diction to further or disguise his meaning, something he had not fully mastered in English. Another area in which he fell short, Xiao supposed.

“Lovely to see you,” He closed the distance between them with large steps, shedding any uncertainty lingering in his body as he approached. He waved off any concern goodnaturedly, making an effort to flatten his hair lest it had strayed in the wind on his journey over. “Of course I do not mind, it is probably the least I could do,” Xiao agreed, dark eyes flickering up his instructor’s frame. Mister Scrymgeour, Peter, Mister Sword was a fair bit taller than he was, something noticed when they had been in much closer quarters, and something realised again as he entered the studio, casting a glance over his shoulder to where the other man’s previous pupil had disappeared into a carriage and subsequently around a bend.

Belatedly, Xiao pondered the dilemma of his shoulder, the sort of injury that limited his mobility for the near future. Not nearly as painful as it had been at first, but still inconvenient enough that even with Xiao’s own instrument, his arm did not fully cooperate as it should have. He wondered if he should inform the pianist, but immediately suppressed the thought, Xiao loathed the idea that it could be seen as an excuse for his lack of skill, even if that was what it was.

Perhaps he was overly prideful, concerning his talents with the guqin, but he had put enough effort into the instrument that it felt justified. He tipped his chin up, to meet the other man’s eyes, before cocking his head to the side. There was something strangely reminiscent of this scene, but Xiao could not quite place it. “Do I call you Instructor?”

“Perfect. Shall I take your coat? I regret that my butler has already retired for the evening. I swear I should get a butler for the studio specifically so it does not affect his work at home.”

The studio was blisteringly warm compared to the bite of winter outside. There was no snow, which was a shame. Peter liked looking out the various windows of the studio to watch the snow drift down around the building. It made him feel like he was working in a snow globe. Because there was no snow and the uncovered windows did much to diminish the efficacy of the fireplaces, the shutters were already drawn closed. Peter’s butler had retired from assisting him at the studio and returned to his home to prepare for his return after his last lesson. Did Peter dismiss him because he hoped to get to know Mister Walker better? If he had, it was a subliminal impulse. Michael always left an hour or two before him, regardless of whether he had another student or anything else planned. Peter knew Michael’s routines well enough to play the part of butler and instructor, helping his guest with his coat and hanging it beside his own on the rack by the door.

“You may, but Mister Scrymgeour or Peter will suffice. However, I will insist you come by the fire and hold your hands out for a little. The piano is easier to play when your joints are not stiff.”

Even if Mister Walker was wearing gloves, Peter worried if they were effective enough to keep his hands warm against winter winds. Peter had thick suede gloves lined with the softest rabbit fur he had ever felt, and he found it useful to warm his hands by the fire before he tried his hand at the piano.

“Are you completely new to the Piano, or have you already learned the base scales and that sort of thing? I usually start there when someone has never played.”

Someone. Peter did not say “a child” because Mister Walker was not his first adult student, potentially starting from scratch. He doubted the man would be his last.

“Ah well, I suppose so.” Xiao said after a beat, attributing the flush of his cheeks to the drastic change in temperature and not to anything else. He shrugged off his overcoat, adjusting his vest and flexing his fingers. He wished he invested in some good winter clothes, outside of the necessities that his first cold England winter had spurred him into buying. He saw some lovely scarves, on his journey over, pulled up over cold cheeks with chins tucked into the soft material. It was perhaps something to look into later, but Xiao was not one to spend frivolously, at least not on something as singularly self-serving as a scarf. He blinked, the notion of a butler having anything to do with Xiao was almost laughable, now. Aside from knowing exactly when to come into the Argyll manor to avoid the staff, there was little Xiao really had to occupy himself with, as far as hired help went. Especially considering, Xiao realised, he was technically considered hired help.

Was he actually helpful? Xiao didn’t know, didn’t want to think about it. He was satisfied with leaving things unsaid and undefined. It’s how he found he worked best, Xiao knew, in the grey area.

Unrelated to any of that, Xiao offered the musician a smile, dark eyes shining as he tried to catch the other man’s gaze with his own. Companionable, he hoped. Xiao whispered Mister Scrymgeour under his breath, repeating it quietly enough that ideally, his instructor wouldn’t notice as Xiao approached the fire, rubbing his palms together to generate some heat between them before he reached the flames. Under his shirt, his shoulder chafed in its bandages and his bicep pulled in in its sleeve, Xiao hoped that his slightly-limited mobility wouldn’t affect his playing, but he was not foolish enough to expect a flawless performance, especially with the ways his muscles ached as they found themselves soothed in the heat. Xiao wandered closer, he almost wanted to push his palms into the fire directly, to feel it lick his palms and do away with the restlessness in his fingertips. He wouldn’t, of course. Xiao wasn’t that stupid, nor was he that cold, but it was a thought that comforted him nonetheless.

Xiao waited for his hands to warm up sufficiently before he pressed them against his cheeks. They were cold to the touch. “I’ve only barely touched one of those accoutrements,” he admitted, repeating the process as his hands tried in vain to drink in the heat of the fire. “But I read the book I bought,” He added, feeling that it was rather fruitless, anyways. Once again, Xiao did not enjoy feeling so inexperienced in a domain he was supposed to be an expert in. It pulled at his gut in a way Xiao was looking to forget about.

His eyes drifted to the zither on the wall, maybe in an effort to maintain some form of control, or his own footing. “And you, Peter?” To hell with it, the offer was there, Xiao decided to take it, his tongue and his thoughts thanked him for the mercy. He asked, palms pressing to the back of his neck. “Are you already a master of the zither? A connoisseur of Eastern melodies?” Xiao probed, though he felt he already knew the answer. He had learned that word recently, Xiao was feeling a little glad he got to use it.

His weight shifted between his feet, Xiao found himself torn between sinking into the pull of scores and song or finding a distraction in something else, it prickled at the back of his mind, restlessly.