Chapter Text
Lamp was slowly flickering to life, it was obvious no one had entered this room in the last month or so. Thick layer of dust covered all the surfaces, including lamp shade with long tassels. It looked like it was yellow once, but now it was either grey or brown from nicotine and dust accumulated on top of it. He couldn’t resist the temptation and swished the long threads, sending light into a mad dance across the room. With a grimace he wiped his now sticky fingers on the nearby wall. Entire house smelled of smoke, but this tiny room even more than others. Law knew it was once a guest bathroom, but with the fixtures removed, and walls covered in re-purposed carpets, it was transformed into a tiny home studio. The only thing still reminiscent of the room's origins was a small window with rippled glass above the sofa, and a towel dryer, currently used as a suspension for various wires and headphones on the right wall.
The solicitor gave him keys this morning, passing a condolences offhandedly. He and Corazon were not related by blood, so no one bothered to let him know when the man had passed away, but as soon as the will was revealed, it was discovered, Law was assigned as the only heir to all the bearings of Corazon Donquixote, including house and ridiculously bright ute.
In truth they were really close. At least Cora was important to Law, and while he was grieving now, he was very pleased to know he was important to Cora too.
With a heave, Law entered the room and shut the door behind. It was also covered with some soft material, an old bath towel perhaps, to capture echoes and sounds attempting to escape. Studio looked just like he remembered it, few ethnic drums standing by the sofa, keys covered with old tablecloth, all items placed so they can be easily reached from the little rotating stool. On the left wall three guitars were proudly displayed: bass, white electric guitar that Cora often borrowed to Law during their jam sessions and the third one, with exceptionally long neck - corpus dark and glossy.
”Ah-ah-ah, Law. Don’t touch this one,” He remembered Cora's hoarse voice telling him. “This one is cursed. You can only play it if you mean it, or it will eat your soul!”
Law scoffed, Cora frequently told nonsense but this was for sure his masterpiece. He carefully lifted the guitar of the hook and landed on the sofa, long legs tucked uncomfortably between its swollen side and the rotating stool. This guitar’s neck was ridiculously long and difficult to maneuver in the tiny space. Law gently plucked the strings, checking the tune; the sound quite without amplifier or a headset. To his surprise it was almost perfect, Just the first string needed some tightening. Law reached to the pegs, smiling to himself. He remembered how Cora used to play this guitar, bumping in walls or sofa all the time. Guitar's neck was indeed ridiculously long. One would need to be at least around Law’s height to be able to take a chord. She was a beauty - sleek-black, with silver head and bright-red pickguard, fretboard painted with white crosses.
As his fingers reflexively landed for G, he noticed a small label on the side of the neck, just above the second fret. It read “KIKOKU”.
Trafalgar wanted to play. Just now he realized how annoyed he was by the fact he couldn’t find time for music through his med school. And besides, he was always tempted to play the “cursed” guitar, with her voice deep and whining. Blindly his hand went searching for the jack to connect to the amplifier, which he knew should be under the sofa. He found none.
Next 20 min Law spent on his knees rummaging under the sofa, while Kikoku peacefully rested by the wall. It appeared that the cable from the amplifier was torn out, only a few naked wires sticking from the black box. Law had also tried headphones - the one hanging from the towel dryer appeared to have no sound in one ear, and his own were wireless.
Cora’s song was playing in his head on repeat.
“Lost and forgotten at the dawn of the night,
Naked of people and naked of light,
We failed to notice, to show her we tried
To keep her from falling, to save this sole child.”
Heavy riffs rolling as waves, up and down, up and down. He never understood how people came up with the lyrics, or even why they bothered to have it. But music - music spoke to him. Since that night many years ago.
He hardly remembers it now - time and the brain's tendency to self preservation bleached out the memory. He was a scrawny teenager then, hands and knees beaten, face full of snot and tears; he sat in the little nook by the back door and cried, too afraid to pull the keys from under the rubber mat, to open the door and… find no one there.
He was afraid of this silence.
As if some kind of a drunk fairy godmother, the neighbour broke the silence with a squeak of the door. His lanky silhouettе approached the chain-linked fence separating them. Law squinted his eyes against the light, the man held a cigarette in one hand, guitar in the other. He lowered himself heavily, his back facing Law, bit his smoke with teeth and played a wordless tune. He played for a few hours this night, until it got too cold to bend fingers to strike a chord.
“Let’s go have some tea.” He said, and Law followed the man inside the tiny house, not feeling as empty anymore.
His hands absentmindedly danced along the fretboard. With how obsessed he was with the idea of playing again, the guitar might be cursed, as well. He needed to play!
Air was chilly when he left the house. Sun had set but the street lamps were still off. This alley would be completely dark, if not for the line of busy takeaway shops, their brightly lit windows emitting colourful light.
Law was always cold with his spaghetti constitution, so he tucked his fists deep in his pockets. This also helped not to pretend play the guitar as he walked. His brain was still ringing with chords. Kikoku rested on his back, hidden in a simple black case, her long neck didn’t fit in properly, and he ended up sacrificing his scarf to protect her from humidity.
Music shops were probably closed by now, but even a set of headphones would help to quench this hunger for sound. He tried to quiet this feeling down by listening to his regular playlist, but only ended up feeling disoriented, as if Cora’s music yelled louder in his head - consuming all other sounds. So he turned Spotify off and just kept on walking.
“... fucking killer!” He heard someone barked his way.
With side glance Law confirmed this was indeed directed to him. He stopped and lifted one headphone up, facing the stranger.
“Yes, I am talking to you, poser.” Man continued angrily. ”There is no fucking way you have guitar there. So is it a sniper rifle or just a broom? Fake!”
Law frowned as he tried to process what was happening. Angry man held his hands in pockets. Black case, similar to his own, slinging over one shoulder, blond hair tossed. Law blinked slowly as the pulsing sound in his head subsided. Was it curiosity he felt?
“Excuse me?”
“Do you have problems hearing? Is it a concussion after loud shots? Let me repeat then - ARE YOU A FUCKING KILLER?”
Law crossed his arms in a protective gesture, almost leaning backwards. The man was shorter than him, but the amount of pure anger he was emitting, made Law uncomfortable.
“I am a doctor, if you absolutely must know.“ He answered. He wanted to turn away and continue on his way, but something stopped him from inside, as if he was craving attention, even when given in this weird, aggressive form.
“Same shit. This is an overgrown scalpel!” Man kept on pressing.
He didn’t yell anymore but the aggressive stance didn’t falter, he was looking for a fight, Law concluded.
“Man. Let me at least put her down, so she is not damaged.” He sighed.
The Blonde freeze for a second. His face contorting and rearranging.
“So it is a guitar!” He whispered with an awkward smile. “She must be so fucking ugly! Do you play?”
Did he? He was obsessed with music once, regularly made a run from orphanage just to play with Cora. He wanted to be a musician too. But then he became older. And when time came to choose his future career, he chose medicine. His own guitar sold together with the rest of the house as he moved away to study. Never looking back. Hell, he didn't even call Cora once!
Сlick of the lighter brought him back to reality. Blond lit his cigarette and made a deep inhale. Smoke laced around Law as a heavy scarf, bringing warmth, scent reminding him of the dear friend, now lost.
“Sooooo.” Stream of smoke slowly exhaled in his direction. Man was purposefully aiming up to his face. Little did he know this attempt to insult was less than futile. “Do you play, or not?”
He needed to get a hold of himself. Quick fingers snatched a cigarette before it reached back to the cracked pink lips, Law made a dip inhale, calming down his nerves. He coughed, the habit lost for good, and stared back at the stranger, finally utilizing the leverage of his heights.
“I do.” He said hoarsely. “But it is none of your business.”
“Care to prove?!”
Law stopped mid step. It was not in his habit to back down from the challenge, especially one given so boldly; man’s hand was clutched on his sleeve, not a chance for a quick retreat given.
“Ok,” He said with an icy tone. “But only because I was dying to play. Not because you told me so. No one tells me what to do.”
To push his point further, he pressed the сigarette butt back into blonds’ mouth, nonplussed by sudden contact of skin to lips. It was his own fault to start the game of provocation, Law thought, thoroughly enjoying the sight of blush spreading across the shorter man’s face.
With both his hands free to attend to Kikoku, she quickly emerged in her full glory.
Fuck, he loved this guitar already.
It felt like the mere sight of her grabbed the attention. Passersby were slowing down. Alone or in groups, they whispered something to each other, throwing curious glances to the queen of this moment. When he held her, he felt taller than usual. Stronger. Strong enough to be heard.
He closed his eyes and opened his mouth, not entirely sure he still remembered chords or lyrics.
“Out at the train tracks
I dream of escape”
He felt at ease being able to finally let those words out. They sat Inside of him for many years, heavy as boulders. But they flattered easily into the autumn air once vocalised.
“But a song comes onto my iPod
And I realize it's getting late…. ”
His hand shifted lower to hug the guitar's neck, strong fingers skipping those several extra frets to press the chord, as he would on a regular instrument and started a simple pattern. Her voice was hardly audible amidst the noise of the street.
“And I can't take the staring
And the sympathy…”
He wrote all those words years ago, simple and straight forwards. Cora told him, it was often easier to sing about your pain, rather than talk.
And he intended to do just that.
When he broke free from the orphanage again, he took his notes with him.
“And I don't like the questions "How do you feel?"
"How's it going in school?"
And "Do you wanna talk about it?"
He remembered how he ran to Cora’s house, and shared the idea of simple chords he had in mind. They worked as two madmen overnight, adding melodies and instruments on top, giving it shape. By the time social workers came to retrieve him, the music was complete.
He never got a chance to play it through. Not until now.
Emotions broke free finally, he raised his voice to a near cry, as a dam inside him was crumbling.
“Way out
Way out of here”
His family was dead for many years now and he was done grieving. Letters DEATH he scratched into his own hand with the ball-pen had stopped bleeding - healed, left scars.
But Cora… Cora died a month ago. And he didn’t even have a chance to say his goodbyes.
“Fade out
Fade out, vanish”
He shut his eyes tighter, it would be too embarrassing to shed tears in public, more so, while performing sappy song written by a fucking teenager. Instead he decided to use Kikoku’s voice.
He moved his fingers further along the guitar neck, sound dropping lower with each step his skilled fingers took.
It was his way of mourning, he decided, he can allow himself at least this. Music became nearly chaotic, aggressive, desperate.
To his surprise new words formed on his lips and he gritted his teeth before they jumped out. Enough was enough.
He opened his eyes. Vision blurry of unshed tears. Words He wanted to say, kept running in his mind as some fucking karaoke. Cora’s head bobbing up and down indicating the rhythm.
He had this clownish makeup, similar to one he was wearing on his concert pictures.
Law blinked repeatedly. What kind of a trip was this?
No. There was no mistake, Cora stood in front of him. The man smoked heavily and smiled so wide, it looked almost painful, painted lips stretched from ear to ear.
“Well done, boy. Well done.” He laughed, pulling a cigarette out of his mouth.
Law silenced the string with a flat of his palm. Hastily making a step forward, only to face a blond stranger from before. His eyes wide with awe.
“Maaaaan, you ARE a fucking killer!” He said, puffing on the cigarette. “You need to join our club.”