(no subject)

Sin huddles under the shelter of the bus stop, keeping his violin case under his jacket as much as he can as he thumbs through his phone to text Athelstan back.

The piece looks amazing. Thank you for letting me see it before you submit your portfolio. If you're in town, would you like to catch up for coffee? Just leaving uni now

Although Athelstan was technically a client, he was also the nearest thing Sin had to a friend. And he felt rattled enough to need a friend right now.

(no subject)

By the time Sin makes it back to his building, the heavens have opened and he's soaked to the skin. He had shed this jacket and wrapped it around this violin case to protect it. His white buttoned shirt is see-through with rain but fortunately his brocaded waistcoat, fitted and a little hipster, keeps the curves of his chest protected from view.

He fumbles with his keys, water dripping off his long mane. He's in such a hurry to get out of the rain he barrels inside, heedless.

(no subject)

Sin sighed and pushed his hair back from his face. He’d been at this for hours. The very small hours.

Working on his composition had required finding time in the production studio. And the only time available was in the dark watches of the night, between the night owls and the early birds.

He closed his battered, third-hand laptop and packed up his instruments. Dawn was coming and Sin was too tried to keep working till someone came to kick him out. He loved performing, loved playing, loved composing. But he had little love for most of his fellow students.

The majority of the other students came from money, from generations of musicians and native Florentines. To them, he was a gutter rat. A talented gutter rat but trash all the same. No-one said it aloud but the way they looked at him, with either pity or disgust. Or lust. At least the lust he knew how to deal with. Or in this case, avoid.

He packed his gear away, locking the few things he owned that were worth anything in the lockers. At least that one thing he could trust in – musicians don’t mess with other musician’s instruments.

He walked down to the river just as the sun was rising, finding a seat were he could watch the dawn.

He was so tired but he only had a few weeks before his composition was due. And he would need time to practice with the other members of the quartet before he performed it in front of his assessors.

And he really wanted to be able to enjoy the biennale ball without feeling guilty that he should be working. He pulled his knees up under him on the park bench, resting his chin on them and fighting the urge to close his eyes.

He should go find some coffee. In just a moment.

He’s just going to sit here for a couple more minutes...