Background Noise [HS]

TEN

It was only a matter of time before Violet returned to Club 102. The odd atmosphere was different from anything she had ever known, and there was something exciting, about that. Try as she might, her mind refused to let him go. Harry made an effort to vacate her life, after that night. Wanted to test the waters, see if his sudden absence would provoke her to seek him out as she used to, before he scared her off. It worked—for mere days had passed before he finally spotted her lonely figure sat alone in her usual booth, far off from the stage and the lively crowd swarming around it.

Her presence pleased him.

Harry was an enigma. It made little sense to the sensual Violet, how he seemed to spiral in and out of her life. Her perspective of him changed with every meeting. It was not until she left him standing alone that the connection—although invisible and unforeseen—between them seemed to become permanent. The longer Violet went without seeing Harry, the more her curiosity towards him grew.

It was what brought her here.

Harry sat center stage, waves of relief crashing down onto his rigid form. Every ounce of hope diminished with the passing days, but she was here. He was prepared for the worst, had half a plan to stalk up to the front doors of the music store and denounce his desperation in the form of words. This eliminated the need for him to do so, because Violet was here, and he would now try to get to her in the best way he knew how: with words not spoken, but sung.

Violet listened to the last of a song, hands folded delicately beneath her chin. Waiters and waitresses approached her, though her attention was focused solely on him.

Harry sat upon a bar stool, the length of his legs perched atop the horizontal bars that connected the base of it. Signature pair of black skinny jeans clung to his lower half, her eyes slowly traveled up towards his torso, soaking in his image that basked in the spotlight hanging over his head. This was the first time she witnessed the bare skin of his arms. Adorned in a plain black V-neck, the dark ink tainting his tanned skin made a striking appearance. Swirls of it stained his biceps, the flesh of his elbows. Violet admired the way he had not a full sleeve, but various drawings that stood out on their own, yet oddly fit together to create the masterpiece that was his collection of tattoos.

Harry, eyes closed, strummed the beginnings of a song.

"When you were here before, couldn't look you in the eye."

Violet watched in awe at the transformation he took on stage. Before, she took notice of the little mannerisms he possessed whilst playing his guitar and singing into the mic. This time was no different, for his large feet, covered by those very same pair of worn boots, tapped in time with the rhythm of the Radiohead song. Harry dipped his head, the fringe of his hair creating a curtain over his features as he grew ever vulnerable before a crowd of complete strangers.

"You're just like an angel, your skin makes me cry."

His voice nearly brought her to tears. The rasp it possessed was beautiful beyond compare—smooth, yet somehow rough in all the right places. Voice low, it provoked chills to run along her spine. And it was not until his voice rose in volume that Violet felt the true force of it, of the emotion behind the words he sang, and with so much emotion.

"You float like a feather, in a beautiful world."

The rendition of such an angry and gritty song was something to remember. Band instrumentals diminished to only that of his lone acoustic guitar, Harry turned an electric-driven tune into something slow. Simplified it into something just as beautiful, just as equally captivating. He tore down numerous elements, leaving the piece utterly real, utterly raw.