Rosy's Song Ch1

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ATasteForVintages
ATasteForVintages 
@atasteforvintages 2 years ago
Chapter 1
The collision came as a surprise to both parties. In a flurry of white and a blossom of pain, brown eyes met hazel, as one of the men stooped quickly to start collecting the scattered pages.
“I am so sorry, “ spoke a blunt, clipped voice, accent strong and heady, “I should look where I am going--”
“Nonsense!” Rosy said with a bit too much force in his exuberance, taking a knee to help the man out, “I’m as much to blame; I daresay, I never look where I’m going!” He met eyes with the man again, letting a small smile play at his lips as he took in the other man’s blush.
He only turned away his gaze, blushing all the more. He gratefully took back the pages Rosy held out to him, tucking them in the disarrayed stack in his arms. “Th-thank you. I appreciate it. Greatly.” The voice rolled over Rosy in waves.
“No trouble.” He stood, holding a hand out for the crouched man. He grabbed it with obvious trepidation, lifting himself with his legs, his arm slack in Rosy’s hold. “Dr. Henry Rose, it’s a pleasure.” His supporting grasp shifted into a handshake, clutching the bony, calloused hand in his.
Rosy’s eyes drifted from the man’s cracked, cold hands up the sleeve of a worn, threadbare jacket, pressed green shirt, a flushed neck with a splattering of stubble, onto a weathered face. Tanned and freckled, a thick beard covering the majority of his features, hints of a dimple where the side of his mouth almost curved into a grin, thin aquiline nose, a grotesque scar against his temple covered haphazardly with unruly, brown curls. But what truly caught Rosy off guard was the underlying tenderness in the hazel eyes that peered into him, dense eyelashes crescenting over cheekbones with every blink.
“I am Shaya.” The tenderness in his eyes was reflected in his voice. “Shaya Savitsky. The pleasure is mine.”
What truly caught Shaya off guard was the smile he received from the doctor.
Though his words and face were kind, his fingers stretched off Rosy’s hand, and he shifted his palm softly and quickly away of the other man’s. He gives a small, half smile before bending to grab a case that was lying on it’s side, having been tossed in the scuffle.
“Oh, I apologize. I hope nothing’s--”
“No, no.” He bangs his cargo lightly against his thigh, “Good case.” He gives another half smile, eyes shifting to the sidewalk beneath them.
“I’m glad.” Rosy said lightly, eyes shifting back to the item in Shaya’s hand. “You play?”
“Yes. But, no.” There was an audible exhale of breath, “I do play violin, but like piano more, I play it more. I needed the violin today.” He chin perked up a little bit from his chest when talking about his instrument, his eyes meeting Rosy’s again, just a small bit. “Do you play?”
“I sing.” There was a brightness to the words, a pureness that comes from love of the art.
“I will hear you sometime. Find me here.” The request was said kindly, if not a bit garbled. He gave an inclination of his head to Rosy, and with that took a step around him, continuing his original fast pace down the street.
Rosy blinked after him, surprised by his speedy departure. He quickly looked around as he wondered at the Shaya’s words. His eyes fell on the building directly in front of him, just up the stairs to his right.
The stairs that led up to The Queen’s Symphony.
Where he was to see Schubert’s 9th.
Of course.
How could it have slipped his mind?
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