Riffs, Ramen and a Jacket of Fury

Posted on Mon Mar 3rd, 2025 @ 13:57 by Liana Zhao & Alastair Temple
Edited on on Mon Mar 3rd, 2025 @ 14:03

Chapter: Besieged
Location: Music Classroom/Liana's Personal Suite
Timeline: Late evening, Sunday, February 7th, 1993
3513 words - 7 OF Standard Post Measure

Oppressive. That was the overall mood in the castle. The blockade, the two sides of public opinion clashing, the G.O.U. trying to make their authority reach, trying to make their tyranny count. That's what it felt like to those cooped up inside the walls, unable to leave when they wanted to. Even to those who could leave, like one Alastair Temple. The whole mood of oppression had been a goldmine for his creativity, with music and lyrics flowing from his pen in a deluge of heavy, depressing music. For that was the character of doom metal, even the melodic kind, like Avalon's music teacher wrote. Slow, plodding, with a crushing weight behind it. Guitar downtuned to drop D, lots of minor chords and keys.

He had never written for violin before, though. But one thing he had realized early on was that violin was not that different in character from lead guitar, and he knew how to write for lead guitar. So he could also write for violin. For part of a song's duration this meant that the violin took one of the notes in whatever chord was appropriate for that particular moment in the song, doubling up the harmony with the keys. At other times it meant an arpeggiated ostinato, a repeated pattern of notes, the same notes in the chord, in a flowing melody that added a slightly dreamy emotion of an everlasting journey to the dispondent, melancholy mood of the song.

It also added a second voice that Al could use, alongside his own lead guitar, while the second guitar continued what rhythm or riff was needed to convey the morose mood. Two voices allowed for discussions. Call and answer. Arguments. And that's what he had written. That's what they were practising. A duet, a duel, between lead guitar and violin. Al would start with a simple melody, ending in a question. Liana would answer in a slightly more intricate melody, ending on a conclusion. Al would reply with an even more elaborate melody, with a mood of denying the answer. To which Liana would play her reply, ever increasing in melodiousness. Finally the two would play at the same time, an argument, though the same melody, one octave apart. Liana's notes serene, soaring. Alastair's layer more harsh, rougher. Melody, countermelody, call, response, expectation, buildup and resolution.

While the music was questioning, desolate, unhappy, the mood was harmonious, two people plying their trade, pouring their heart and soul into working together to create art. To challenge listeners, to ask uncomfortable questions that had no easy answers. Because ... wasn't that what art was?

As much as Alastair hadn't written for her instrument before, it had been a long time since Liana had embarked upon the mastery of an original, contemporary composition. If anything, it had been several months since she'd found herself with the time or energy to tackle any unfamiliar piece, outside the work she had put into their festival performance, an event that felt as if it had taken place an additional lifetime or two ago at this point. She had very nearly balked at setting aside the time now except for the realisation and slow acceptance that Alastair's quiet concern for her stress levels made it abundantly clear she needed to do something. It stretched bedtime out by an extra hour or so but there wasn't anything particularly restful about time spent alone in her own company of late. Stepping into Claire's shoes had never been an easy prospect; under the current conditions, Liana was inclined to consider it nearly impossible.

She had arrived tonight with food in hand, the remains of a half-hearted attempt at dinner now set to the side to go cold and congeal. Anticipating any progress or reworking Alastair had undertaken since the last practise provoked a strong sense of guilt but it was difficult not to get dragged along with his enthusiasm, or if the day had been particularly trying, at least his passion. Having finished her tuning several minutes ago, she waited now, leaning against the piano, for him to present her with whatever version of sheet music was on tonight's menu. It was a brief respite in a day that had refused to slow down, but it permitted the first soft smile of the evening as she watched him deep in throes of decision-making.

"To change key, or not to change key..."

Gently, she reached forward with the tip of her bow and tapped him atop the head.

"You're over-thinking it."

"Isn't that just how creation goes though," Alastair agreed. "You write something down, then the overthinking starts. You're right though, key's probably fine," he smiled, reaching up to fluff his hair where she tapped him. Another moment's contemplation before handing her her part of what he had written down. The conversation, or rather, argument, between his lead guitar and her violin. Call and response. Him first, then her, back to him, another round for her, then the two of them together in ever increasingly elaborate melodies. "Let's just - see how this feels, what the energy is like. Can always rewrite if it doesn't work," a nod as he readied his guitar. The acoustic, for now.

Part of the therapeutic benefit of embracing an evolving piece in the midst of personal turmoil was the sheer amount of concentration that went in to sight-reading and interpreting the music as it played out. The first time they had attempted the initial draft of the composition, Liana had been surprised by the speed at which an hour had passed. She had come to anticipate it now, a welcome void only exacerbated by her inexperience at adapting her execution to not only support an unfamiliar accompaniment but a version of her own instrument she was still coming to terms with. They had switched back and forth between her concert violin and the recently-equipped electric beast more than a handful of times without settling on a preference. For now, the compromise was to rehearse with both and either arrive at a preference once the piece was finished or simply bow to the demand for dual interpretation.

In the end, the first break came at her mistake, a frustration that Alastair was starting to witness as the first legitimate cause of irritation the woman tended to express outwardly. It betrayed an artist's temperament, no matter how many layers of alternative professional composure she had piled onto the top of it over the years. It lasted only a second or two, a twitch as the bow placement wasn't anticipated fast enough, before the loose thread was picked up and the rest of the passage was navigated without loss of tempo. The singular blip was enough to earn the page a deep frown as a scribbled indication in pencil left no room for the same imperfection to occur again.

They had gone through two or three repetitions by the time the frustration became so evident, the veneer of professionalism cracked by irritation, exacerbated only by the deep underlying discontent and vexation caused by the greater situation surrounding them from all sides. Doubly so because all the weight seemed to be on her shoulders. Something that Alastair wasn't blind to. It was a careful line he tried to tread, to take her mood and annoyance into account and try to be there for her without appearing too much like that was he was trying to do, because that might just come across condescending.

So instead of streeEEeetched his arms, rolled his shoulders and set his guitar aside for now. "Let's take a little break, get a bite to eat, something to drink," he offered with a smile. "We can try again later. It's just initial practise anyways, like an editor proofreading a story. There's bound to be things that need tinkering," Plus, it was just for recording a first demo. Not for actual performance. He theorized that she'd never really been part of the creative process like this, that she'd always been handed complete and finished pieces to practise and perform. "Any improvements you think could be made?"

Ordinarily, stepping back from perceived inadequacy would have been difficult. Though a lot had changed since the early days of Liana's aspirations of a professional music career, she had carried the same sense of discipline over to her second passion and continued to cultivate a workaholic's tendency to keep pushing until a job was done. Friction wasn't necessarily a bad thing, not if the frustration could be channelled towards improvement, but the circumstances were extenuating and after the initial pang of reluctance, common-sense kicked in. Wearied by the sense of defeat, Liana surrendered her instrument to its case and tidied her equipment back into its designated corner whilst a response to Alastair's query took a long while to form.

"The bridge is missing something," she eventually confessed, her voice quiet to the point of counting as withdrawn. "But I will have to sleep on it to decide if that's more a matter of interpretation than composition."

"Time enough to worry about that though," he offered, a nonchalant smile playing on metalhead features. "We also have keys and drums that can add texture to a spot with a melody or fill easily enough. We might be the lead instruments but that doesn't mean we have to carry every moment by ourselves," as he held out a hand for hers. He wasn't quite sure what he'd do if she took it, just that it felt right to offer. "I could eat a bite."

If anything was proof that the weight of responsibility was heavy on her shoulders, Liana should have read it in the way such a simple gesture brought to the prick of moisture to her eyes. Gratitude, for the most part, to have someone gracious enough to read her so well and not call her on it. Jess was a dear friend but the age gap fostered a sister dynamic and Liana had been careful not to overwhelm the young psychologist with more than her usual load. Claire's absence was a yawning chasm for many reasons, but Alastair was as much a comfort now as he had been from the start, and she permitted herself a tired smile and the luxury of taking his hand even as she nodded. "Time to raid the noodle stash, I think." In truth, though there would be plenty of time to consider how she felt about inviting a man back to her room, there was no good reason not to reciprocate Alastair's continual patience in her interrupting his solitude.

The hand steady, even though she didn't need it, and now that his hand had been taken he wasn't quite sure what to do with it. So, he simply gave her hand a soft squeeze, as if to say 'it'll be alright', without needing to speak the words. As the two of them left the music classroom Alastair did something he normally never did; he locked the door behind him. While most of the instruments in there were simple, old or cheap - and he figured that if something happened to his acoustic he'd be able to easily replace it - the same could not be said for Liana's electric violin. Perhaps not as valuable in terms of pure monetary value as her concert violin, this electric one held sentimental value, having been given to her by her father - at least, as far as Al could remember. "Well, lead the way," he offered, falling in step with her. Tall legs taking slower steps, as not to hurry her.

As much as she had acclimatised to weather patterns and the Institute's perpetual capacity to foster a cold draught, Liana still had to suppress a shiver as they moved from the heated classroom to the empty hallway. Pulling her long cardigan around to close the gap, she walked with hands tucked beneath her arms at first, which was less of an attempt to withdraw as it was a willingness to be honest about her vulnerability to temperature around the music teacher. So too, her quiet mood didn't seek to over-compensate, content enough that Alastair understood and that she didn't feel the need to brave-face everything around him. The shortest pathway between their bedrooms was a familiar stretch now, navigated without need for much thought, which spared plenty for the slow exhalation of air from her lungs that culminated in an audible sigh. "It doesn't seem reasonable that an estate the size of Avalon could suddenly feel so small." A gentle, rueful smile made no effort to hide her fatigue. "Flying away never felt so tempting."

"Well, you're not wrong," Al replied after a moment's silence. He'd not said anything during the entire walk - not very long though it might have been - from the music classroom to their rooms. She seemed like she needed a break, and between the two of them, she was the one with a lot on her head. Flying away did sound tempting, but neither of them were the kind of people that could realistically do that, and leave all the students and all the other faculty and staff to their own devices. It just wasn't a thing that either of them could do without feeling utterly terrible about it. His thoughts snapped back to the moment when she reached for her own door. He hadn't been to her room very often if at all, though she'd been to his a lot more often.

"We have a long week ahead. Come in."

The invitation was offered without a great deal of overthinking on Liana's part. Whether this was a by-product of stress or simply the natural evolution of comfort levels wasn't something she gave much thought to either, being far more interested in escaping the pervasive chill of the corridor. Her room, one of the guest suites and set slightly apart from the other staff accommodation, was a little larger than other spaces but not by much. Inside, the same precise attention to detail that defined her office was also in play, from the art on display to the rug underfoot and thriving plant-life set about in pots. As was likely predictable, the temperature was considerably warmer than outside and the only indication that this was someone's living space rather than a promotional set-piece was the coat draped across the bed. At first glance, it wasn't much, but if anyone knew the room's inhabitant enough, that kind of hastiness was uncharacteristic.

"Take a seat," Liana offered, immediately setting about rectifying the 'mess' by hanging both the coat and the cardigan she'd been wearing on the back of the door. The slightly larger space had allowed for a small two-person table and chairs, which she gestured to as she moved to the sideboard and drew out the neatly stowed kettle. Next was a basket, neatly arranged by flavour, of her current supply of instant noodles. Fighting off a demure smile at her own expense, she sat the selection in front of Alastair. "Just in case there was any concern that I might be embellishing things."

The difference in decoration between her place and his was striking. Where his was haphazard and cosy-messy, hers was meticulous. Where his had no color coordination whatsoever except overtones of black by virtue of him being a metal musician, hers was a carefully coordinated, easy-going and calming, soothing space. The plants - as carefully arranged as everything else - only added to the purposeful interior, a lovely and easygoing place to be, rather than the disorganised space Al called home.

"Mmmm. Chicken, please," he eventually picked. Not so much because that was the flavor he enjoyed most, but because that was the one there was the most of. That way he wouldn't impose by eating the last of a flavor she might be in the mood for some day before this whole lockdown was lifted. At least, that was what passed for logic in the music teacher's thoughts.

Without questioning the oddness of the inherent presumption, Liana chuckled and tapped the packet of chicken-flavoured noodles she took from the basket gently against his forehead, as she had done earlier with her violin bow. She didn't seek confirmation and would never discover the accuracy of her prediction, but she had expected he would opt for the more plentiful variety. There had been too many incidents of Alastair Temple's silent consideration, and too much incentive for her to notice them, for her to expect anything less, though it also occurred to Liana that it was possibly one of the flavours that was easiest to determine. Several of the packages contained very little English.

"When this is all over, I will have to cook japchae for you." Disappearing for a moment to fill the kettle, Liana continued as she then set it down to turn on. "Something a little more substantial than freeze-dried starch." With the noodles set into bowls to await hot water, she switched her attention to prepared a teapot. "I miss cooking for myself. Valjean does an excellent job but he is so very French at times." Cream, butter, cheese. Oh, the cheese.

"I miss fast food. Trash tier food. Fries with peanut sauce, hamburgers, things like that," Al offered. As Liana busied herself it didn't take long for him to start tapping out a rhythm using his hands. To an outsider this might make him look nervous or restless, but in truth he was comfortable and relaxed. Vibing. The rhythm was to the song they had been working on, though a different part of it - a 7/8 rhythm; like two standard 4/4 segments but the final quarter of the second one skipped, to add a slight feel of uneasiness to it, restlessness of a sort. Humming the melody he had written over the rhythm.

As the kettle's boil reached its apex, and the rustle of packets deposited in the trash added to the calamity of jostled cutlery and cupboards opened in search of tea glasses, Liana didn't react to the muffled sound of a continuous alarm emanating from the pocket of the cardigan now hanging on the back of her door.

A puzzled expression replaced the comfy one as the rhythm Al was tapping out trailed off. "Uh .. " Al leaned closer to the door and the garment upon it. "Li, babe - why is your coat screaming at me?"

It was much the same commotion that had caused Liana to miss the pager's alert that allowed Alastair to get away with babe uncontested. Still somewhat distracted, she cast a glance across at him and then, registering that he'd asked something and following the direction of his gaze, frowned slightly before realisation dawned and concern took confusion's place. "That's my pager," she advised, abandoning the half-prepared bowl of noodles to bloat in a puddle of hot water so that she could push aside the coat on top to fumble for the cardigan she'd been wearing earlier. "Can you check the phone?," she indicated her desk as she switched side to try the correct pocket. "Perhaps the lines are down."

Using his long arms he could barely reach the phone from where he was sitting, precariously leaning over in the chair. The receiver picked up, held to his ear. "Naw, there's dialtone. Phone line's fine," as he put the receiver down again. "Sounds to me like they're not trusting the phone line. Can't say I blame 'em."

Finally pulling out the device, Liana frowned at it. Turning her attention towards the door, she stood a moment in puzzled reverie and then glanced once again at the pager before reaching for the cardigan and pulling it on. "There's no message," she confided, "I'll have to check-in with the others personally." As her mind raced through those likely to still be awake and she hesitated, caught between the sensitivity of a situation that certainly warranted investigating and the unlikelihood that she could convince Alastair to let her go alone. "I need to find William." If nothing else, their self-designated night-guard would be a welcome support.

"Want me to come along?" he asked, standing up. It was probably some administrative thing that he, as music teacher and not really involved in the running of the Institute was not necessarily privy to whatever might be happening, but he still wanted to offer. Plus, he was curious now.

It was too late for even the school's business manager to be seeking input. Besides which, there were only a handful of reasons Liana could think of that would have triggered concern about using a compromised phoneline and none of them inspired her to go wandering around a dark, cold castle by herself at this hour. Not after their recent issues. With a grateful smile that did very little to wipe the concern from her face, she nodded and then lead the way out.

"We may need to check elsewhere, too."