A/N: Oh nyo I had so much fun writing this that I thought I'd just upload the first half first because it might get a little long eep. My apologies for not being quite up to speed recently. I usually spend my entire Sunday writing now and stopping occasionally for a break. I take my time now with writing as I start to realize that it is near impossible to produce something good after a long day of work, unlike how it was when I was still in school.
Nevertheless, it's been a good ten years and of course, I daresay... to many more! ^0^/
Enjoy omg but all this tension... next week is going to be good. Uh oh. Also I'd unintentionally gotten far too invested in this Hitman!AU haha goodness me.
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To think the case of a violin would contain the rifle of a professional sniper—a grand trick of the mind.
Ponder this, a claim: suspicion is derived from the unknown. The premise; should you notice a man dressed plainly in dark clothes and a cap worn low, complete with a face mask and a large, rectangular case of hard black plastic in one hand and a duffel bag in the other, you would think. What goes inside the case? Where is he going? Who is this man?
Nothing is telling from a single glance of such a character and therefore the mind is forced into a state of question and questions are derived from the lack of information presented beforehand and the lack of information, in the minds of professionals conditioned to be cautious and wary, often do not end well.
Premise two. Should you notice a man dressed smartly in pressed clothes and polished shoes, his hair carefully styled and glasses accentuating the sharp features of his face, carrying a case made of Tuscan leather the shade of cognac brown—lined in dark suede velvet and with every metallic element accented in gold worth more than a thousand pounds including his initials engraved on the right side of the leather strap over his shoulder—and nothing else, you know he plays the violin.
The mind does not think. It knows the man is on his way to a grand music hall somewhere expensive; it knows he is carrying an instrument, violin or not, equally expensive as its case which therefore warranted the high security dual-mechanism lock and welded buckles to protect such an instrument from unwanted, grabby hands.
To avoid suspicion, one has to play a character. That character has to give answers as to who they are, what they are doing, and where they are headed in a single glance. There cannot be factors unknown, prone to thinking; to an uncertainty that would invite others to fill in the blanks with thoughts of their own.
A character played well must tell others what to think and Julian White was one such character.
His proper name was a number; a barcode etched onto his lower back since birth but out of sight, he was everything else untouched and beautiful. A character known only among the crème de la crème of musicians, and seen only at the most private, most exclusive of stages.
No virtuoso would be in their right mind to be famous. Fame was almost a sin; an attribute befitting of mere proficient musicians seeking the approval of numbers and riches in the form of videos and recordings, uploaded onto the internet for the eyes, the attention. Adoration.
True masters, or so the appreciators of high art would like to think, hoarded their gifts like a well-kept secret—revealed only to ears worthy of their class. The rule was to attend a maximum of once performance a year and spend the rest of it in hiding, perfecting their craft in a cage that housed the most prized creature.
YOU ARE READING
Wax
Romance[Sequel to Vanilla] Seven years later, childhood sweethearts Vanilla Julian White and Leroy Cox reunite in the City of London for an unlikely reason. The latter-once a burning flame unfazed by the wind-had, since a couple of years ago, left the heat...
