A Crescendo of Sorts

*There will be a prompt to start playing a certain composition during this story, if you’d like to listen to it as you read it adds to the experience, enjoy*

All Theseus and Cyrus could hear beyond the rustling of the silk curtains were the rustling of impatient feet. Theseus, always the one readily prepared , sat lounged and waiting on an armchair of the bloodiest red, eyes closed, tapping his feet to the tempo of the music playing in his head. Cyrus, the younger of the twins, was seen dashing along their temporary waiting space with his tie half undone and his hair strewn all over the place like a maniac in a suit.

“I did tell you to get ready half an hour ago.” Theseus says towards the body flailing around the backstage quarters, eyes still closed.

“Well when do I ever listen to the things you tell me?” Cyrus replies, his smile still carrying through his uneven breathes.

Theseus chuckles and stands up to grab the score sheet from a nearby table, flipping through it with a familiar grace. His eyes scanning through the notes dancing along the stark white paper, hearing the way it was going to play out in his head perfectly clear and second nature to the very beat of his heart. A sudden proximity closes the page he had open in his hands and Theseus looks up to see a red-faced Cyrus stand like a proud child in front of him, tie done and hair moderately tamed.

“Is that the piece we’re doing today?” Cyrus asked, leaning over to look at it upside down, making his dark lashes set on full display.

“Yes,” he replies, pushing his head away before shutting the score closed, he knows Cyrus plays better sight-reading.

He becomes freer when he does so, the rush of it making his playing carry over in it’s truest state that he only gets to showcase once, after the score gets read Cyrus’s force and adrenaline stays the same, but it’s always the first initial gush of melodies that flow through like nothing other into the crowd.

Rubbing the spot Theseus pushed him with a mock pout on his face, Cyrus looks around. For he never really pays attention to his surroundings before a performance, afraid he’ll get out of the zone and walk out with lights blaring in his eyes and suddenly foreign to the music. This has never happened of course, but with Cyrus he’d rather not let it happen at all.

“Oh look,” Cyrus tilts his head towards the stash of gifts from their admirers “doesn’t this flower look a little off to you?”

Theseus looks away from the score, taking a sip of his coffee before landing his eyes on the aforementioned flowers resting behind all the lavishly tacky bouquets; squinting his eyes in mild interest he simply shrugs his shoulders before turning his attention back to the life breathing in his hands.

Cyrus walks towards the strange peculiar flower, reaching out his slender fingers ,lined with callouses of endless nights, he softly cups the flower to realize it’s not a flower at all. Though it is shaped to look like one, with further inspection Cyrus recognized this odd texture to be paper.

A paper flower rests in the young hands of a boy with forgotten dreams.

“Interesting” he mutters, pulling it out of the small cerulean vase it resided in.

Inspecting it, he discovers it’s delicate craftsmanship is unparalleled. The folds and creases each presented and formed to look like the many petals adorned on a Hydrangea. It took Cyrus’s breathe away, the very thing made of nothing more than plain paper held in his hands one might think it was spun and forged of gold. Bringing it closer to his face he sniffs the paper flower, smiling to himself knowing full well there’s was no floral scent that’ll greet him. Nonetheless, the phantom aroma clears his mind and what isn’t there exists in the warmth in his chest.

Spinning it between his fingers, Cyrus spots a splash of ink cowering under one of many folds. Taking a closer look, he ever so carefully lifts the petal that rested atop it, finding the splash to resemble more a stroke, and seemingly trailing all the way under the fold.

“Now what are you?” he whispers, a gleam settling in his eyes like stained glass caught in rays of sunlight.

He hesitates for a split second, questioning whether or not the urge to pull apart the flower and find where the ink leads is worth listening to. Pushing the gnaw in the back of his head that’s demanding to leave the precious contraption the way it is he, achingly slow, pulls out the petals and begins to unfold the flower.

Cyrus finds this surprisingly simple, after pulling on one it seemed like the entire flower simply fell apart like clockwork, until a grave of paper petals lay flattened across the wooden table, free of space in the hurry of him pushing off all the other long forgotten gifts, to reveal the ink now grown and bled into sporadic stokes. Taking a step back, Cyrus’ shoulders deflate as all he discovers is nothing more than a set of random lines, spread across the sheet of paper in quick fast motions. It does not take shape of anything recognizable.

Cyrus thinks perhaps its the angle he’s looking at it.

He brings the paper up above his head and against the ambient light of the chandelier looming above him, still no words or images take shape in it’s shadow. Cyrus lets out a heavy sigh before placing the page between his leather-bound journal, the flower now deformed and taken apart between the passages of aged ink.

Walking towards Theseus, Cyrus plucks the empty coffee cup from his hands, Theseus being in a frozen state of concentration he failed to notice that his cup turned cold and empty minutes ago.

“What happened to you?” Theseus says with raised eyebrows, noticing the shadow swirling over his once ablaze chestnut eyes.

“Nothing.” Cyrus says, turning his head away trying to find a place to set the cup down.

Theseus grabs his shoulder, forcing Cyrus to look at him.

“You really are the worst liar.” he says softly.

“Drop it Theseus,” shrugging his hand off, already chastising himself for acting so dramatic over a stupid flower “let’s start heading up front, they’re going to call us out any minute.”

Cyrus grabs the black suit jacket resting over one of the armchairs and the velvet case before walking out not turning back to see if Theseus follows. Theseus tilts his head up and huffs out in frustration, Cyrus was never one to say much about what he was feeling, finding that voice in the half and quarter notes rather than words. He contemplates this before following his twin brother out.

Cyrus can’t push the flower out from his mind, almost as if it’s planted itself there and refuses to leave the edges of his thoughts. He thinks of it as he walks down the lined corridors, as he steps into the elevator with Theseus by his side, as the doors shut and he wonders why he seems to unfulfilled. Crouching in front of this flower, thinking and thinking and thinking about the chance of a story he could’ve lost himself to if he simply looked at those strokes, random as they may be, and find a story lying somewhere waiting to happen.

Or that was always there.

The elevator doors open, the twins step out and begin clearing their mind of the hours before them, placing their sole focus on the performance straight ahead. Closer to the fidgeting sounds emitting from the sea of people, men and women of varying shades of black and white all awaiting their presence on stage murmuring random talk to fill in the gaps of their impatience. Theseus only hears their words in murmurs, like waves washing on shore.

They wait by the left wing of the stage, taking in the brightly illuminated setup with the grand piano glistening in all its dark glory like a presence waiting to be unleashed into the crowd. Cyrus’s hold on his violin case loosens, because minutes away he is to experience a familiarity, one he only ever hears in moments of the day, present itself in front of him in all it’s might. He is coming home.

The curtains pull apart, sending a wave of silence so loud it seemed as if the entire auditorium stood still.

Theseus pulls on his lapels, straightening creases that aren’t there as he looks over his younger brother with a smile reserved just for him.

“Together we breathe,” he says.

“and together we take their breathes away.” Cyrus calls back, completing their words of ritual.

The twins walk on stage, the only thing in their peripherals are one and the other, just two bodies and two souls, now vessels to the growing light in their chest begging to burst out. Like wisps of wind, Theseus settles before the piano, gently brushing his fingers on the cold touch of the white keys. Cyrus pulls out his violin, savoring the feel as he rests it below his chin. They look at one another, and begin to play.

*Start playing*

Theseus fingers glide over the keys, a slow painful awakening as his eyes shut and he lets the warmth in his chest completely overtake him. Cyrus begins to play not a moment later, completing the pull and desire the piano signs and longs for, to complete the second half of the duet as the brothers breathe and breathe their very being and soul to the muse of music.

Cyrus sways to this, looking at the sheet in front of him, watching every note rise and fall to the salvation escaping his fingers leaking out into the space around them. Theseus follows, the black and white of it all singing colors of the deepest blues and oranges that tints the edges of their vision. The composition itself is no rare thing, profusely played by many before them, but not by the twins. The music evolves into something more, something greater, it become the embodiment of that clash, the strength of Theseus and the fragility of Cyrus.

Two bodies, two souls intertwined as the melody takes them away, they merge and reform to become one entity. Ten fingers, two hearts, one sound.

Tears fall down Cyrus’s cheek, a single drop falling ever so slowly as they both play the last note into the void, sucking in back the sound and they let go of that pull, that force that beckons their everything to be present in it’s rawest form.

Naked to the crowd, chest bare and wide for all to listen to, the crowd is too, in tears.

*

Theseus is the first to leave, a trail of smoke lingering behind him and he puffs it out into the cold night air. He waits for his brother to come out, leaving the collection of gifts behind knowing full well he doesn’t relinquish and ounce of interest towards them. A quietness always seemed to follow Theseus, ironic and rather pitying considering it settles the strongest after a performance.

“It’s bloody cold out.” Cyrus appears behind him, now clad in a thick overcoat and a peculiar scarf that seemed to look like rain was embedded in its threads.

“You’re the one with the scarf,” Theseus remarks, stepping on his cigarette “yet you’re still cold?”

“Oh shut up” Cyrus snarks, voice muddled by the redness on his cheeks that blossoms over his olive complexion.

As they begin to walk towards the main road, they do not realize a group of people have followed them ever since they struck their last chord. They both stop in their tracks and place a frigid smile on their face and words of praise and admiration are thrown their way, even one has gotten far enough to break down in tears before them. Theseus stays placid during this, having gotten used to the attention and keep things sweet and short to their appeal. Cyrus smiles too, a small one and only gets smaller as the admirer’s cries bounce around the night around them in fast quick sobs.

His eyes catch onto something. The lady pulls out a handkerchief, and embroidered on it is the outline of a Hydrangea, he is sure of it.

“Excuse me Madam.” he walks up to her, Theseus sending a curious glance his way before talking to the others in the group.

“Oh my yes apologies” she begins to wipe her face with little effort to keep the tears at bay “it’s just you two are something different it brings me to tears every time.”

“Oh you exaggerate,” he lies “this may sound odd, but if you would mind letting me see that handkerchief of yours?”

The lady’s eyebrows rise but she doesn’t hesitate to hand it over.

Cyrus inspects it and traces over the thread.

“Why, would you look at that.” he quietly says.

“I’m sorry?” she questions.

Cyrus snaps his head up, remembering he left the journal with the pile of gift Theseus failed to bring with him, turning away from the perplexed woman and running back into the auditorium, Theseus following suit yelling at his brother in confusion.

But all Cyrus can hear is the rushing in his head, trying to recollect why why why why a hydrangea and where where has he seen it before.

“CYRUS” Theseus yells.

Cyrus halts before the journal, chest heaving. Theseus rushes in and spins him around, gripping hard.

“What the hell has gotten into you!?” Theseus says, eyes searching all over his face.

“It’s her.” Cyrus whispers.

“Her?” Theseus asks incredulous.

Cyrus stays quiet, letting his mind connect the dots. He crouches before the flower again, this time it’s fully bloomed and it’s root stay firm in his mind, he yells at it, wondering how long it’s been there and how long it’s been blooming.

Where where where?

“CYRUS!” Theseus shakes him harder.

Cyrus grabs the journal, pulling out the paper and the handkerchief, now flipping reverently through the old thing of his childhood trying to find it. The other flowers. All he sees are rows and wows of notes, half notes water notes all rushing past his view, Theseus stands there, watching his brother flip through his very work like a madman.

“Cyrus,” he says again, concern etching his features “what could you possibly looking for?”

“It’s her the flower she was there at the start I know it” he rushes, still flipping through to his oldest entry, when he was a mere child.

“Her? Flower? Cyrus you’re not making any sense here” Theseus looks over at the paper, then the handkerchief held tightly between Cyrus’s fist.

The Hydrangea emblem peeking through.

“Wait a minute,” Theseus looks at Cyrus, closely this time, seeing himself in his features and seeing his other half racing to connect things, for things to fall in frame.

Cyrus stops flipping.

“I knew it.” he says silently.

Theseus walks over to his twins side, shoulder touching both hunched over the page spread bare before them. In both their writing, their very fist composition, written together almost in a trance all those years ago that kick-started their sudden thirst and desire for music. The strokes he disregarded as random now resemble the lines he used to draw at the margins of the journal, when his pen began to run dry but he was too hypnotized to get up and grab a new one. So drunken over it they craved the sound like the very air they breathe, until it’s embedded itself into their blood and life.

“It can’t be” Theseus says, his face gone pale.

“It has to be,” Cyrus replies “she was in the crowd, you could feel her too.”

The twins stare at what's before them a second longer before running out and onto the empty stage again.

Abandoning the trigger to their sealed memories of past, the page lay flat open to reveal a page filled with hydrangeas.

Breathless, they scan the audience seats, barren and empty.

“She isn’t here” Theseus shakes his head “she doesn’t exist Cyrus she never did we were just kids.”

“No, we were kids yet we still remember.” Cyrus says, picturing the warmth and freedom the music gave him and brother, the warmth he now knows the source of.

“It’s just a damn flower, just because they exist doesn’t mean they’re relevant to what we thought she was.” Theseus said, his voice laced with shame.

“We need to play something” Cyrus eyes light up with the conclusion.

“Play? Play what?” his brother scoffs.

“The very first song,” Cyrus sates with conviction, the flower now towering over him, he no longer crouches but stares up as if in prayer “the one that started this all.”

Theseus says nothing to this, standing still for a split second before he simply walks over to the piano and waits for Cyrus to pull out his violin. Cyrus goes to unlatch the case, lifting the cover up he notices petals strewn over the rich brown wood of the violin.

He smiles.

Lifting it up, this time looking directly as Theseus, they begin their very first composition. As they play, a scent overpowers them, a scent of wide plains and memories of them under blankets in the middle of night as children resurface. Of earlier years where the music seemed to burst from their little minds out of nowhere.

They play harder now, remembering how every step they took every note they played that led up to this very moment, she was always there. Always guiding their hands.

She is there now, sitting on a single chair in the audience; a muse of white, a hydrangea adorned in her hair she tilts her head as the twins sing her songs.

THE END.