The Drowning Fiddler

[golden_lyre]

The Drowning Fiddler is a little pub in Earl's Court that Orpheus has been visiting, on and off, for about two hundred years now. In more recent decades, the basement has been remodeled to double as a concert venue, and a number of bands who went on to be famous got their start on its cramped stage. Having spent a good deal of time and a good deal of coin at the bar, Orpheus has come to know the owner, Martin, well enough that he's occasionally asked to fill in for any musicians who back out at the last minute or on any nights when the stage isn't booked.

(Orpheus suspects that Martin keeps nights open when business isn't going well, so Orpheus can help him pick up the slack. Orpheus doesn't mind. He always puts a little encouragement to drink in his music when he plays. Martin deserves it.)

It's a Wednesday night, and though that's the Fiddler's least busy night in general, the room is packed. There wasn't a lot of time for advertising, but since the advent of social media (something Orpheus still can't quite get his head around), a few hours is all the notice needed to fill a room when he plays.

There's no amplification system because Orpheus never needs one, and there's no one to introduce him. He just sidles onto the stage, whiskey in one hand, cigarette in the other, and takes a seat on a wooden stool. As he settles himself (whiskey on an unused amplifier, guitar in his lap, still lit cigarette tucked between two strings), the room gradually quiets, but anyone still speaking comes to a hush when Orpheus starts to play.

He starts off with something quiet, something that feels like a Wednesday night, a needed breath of fresh air and freedom in the middle of the week. The room relaxes in the wake of it, as if communally exhaling in relief, and Orpheus smiles, loving the moment he knows he has the audience in the palm of his hand.

A quick sip of whiskey, a couple of drags on his cigarette as he retunes his guitar, and then he plays what they all came here to hear.

Something to dance to.

Comments

[choreftria]

"Will we use our powers for good?" she asks, "or for evil?"

There's a smile in the question, disappearing around a mouthful of curry, and it bursts forth again at the kiss he drops on the sensitive skin of her wrist. Her vein is greenish beneath the skin, and his lips leave a lingering warmth there along with a slight stain from spices.

"They'll demand it, to be honest. You'll have compromised my virtue or something equally old-fashioned, and modern Greeks don't really pray to our gods anymore so they don't know any better," she tells him. "Why, are you proposing a renewal of vows-- wait. Orpheus, we're married and I don't even know the last name you use."

[golden_lyre]

"Good." He answers without hesitation. "Always good. They're such…fragile things, mortals. They all need a little more goodness in their lives." He tries not to get attached to individual mortals, but as a collective, they appeal to his empathy.

He would kiss her a thousand times a day if it made her smile like that each time, and he hums softly against her skin before pulling away, a sound of utter delight and contentment.

"It's Tragoudistís, currently." Surnames have changed so much and are different in every culture. He's had quite a few.

Vow renewals are such a strange concept. You make a vow. You keep it or you don't. All the same, he ducks his head. "It might be nice to have a second chance at that day." The day the gods stole her from his side.

[choreftria]

"Like flowers, blooming only for a season," she murmurs, then offers him a forkful of curry and rice. She fancies feeding him. He should let her.

Tragoudistís. Apt.

"Of course it is, I should've guessed," she laughs, then clambers into his lap, her knees either side of his hips. A kiss is dropped onto the tip of his nose. "And it's a name I'd be most pleased to take, and have the day end happily. If you want to do it all again, that is."

[golden_lyre]

He leans forward to take the offered bite, then steals a kiss before straightening. Any time she wishes to feed him, bathe him, clothe him, or otherwise look after him, he will happily let her, so long as she returns the favor.

Sliding an arm around her, he smiles at the kiss, his eyes closing. "It would make your family happy," he says as he blinks them open again. "And it would make me happy as well."

[choreftria]

So... all the time? She has literal lifetimes of catching up to do, so it’s good he’s happy to let her take care of him. And she’s happy to return the favour.

“All I ever want is for your happiness,” she tells him, the simple honesty hanging like a vow between them. “So, Orpheus Tragoudistís, be it known to you that Eurydice Floros of Kallithea Elassonos accepts your offer of marriage.”

She offers him another bite of curry.

“I will feed you. I will clothe you. I will care for you, body, mind, and soul, and I will love you.”

And she will raise their children. She hopes. Eventually.

[golden_lyre]

The simplicity of her love for him robs him of both breath and words, and before he can accept her bite, he has to kiss her. It's as honest as her vow, and as he pulls back, he touches his forehead to hers.

He can think of nothing better to return than, "I will feed you. I will clothe you. I will care for you, body, mind, and soul, and I will love you.” It's not a renewal, exactly, but in a way it's a reformation of the household that had been broken by her death. Not marriage but family.

And now he'll take that bite.

[choreftria]

The kiss seals more than any modern cleric or celebrant ever could, and Eurydice feels a literal blessing of their union settle warmly around them as her husband returns her vow.

Then eats.

She laughs in quiet delight.

"I don't think modern weddings are quite this casual," she tells him, offering a piece of fish to Seph, who takes it delicately from her fingers before trotting off with it to the balcony, her tail high. "And my mother will insist on something more... structured. But I say we're married, and married again, and anything else is just a fancy party."

She has a mouthful of curry, herself, then pushes her fingers through his hair. He's a perfect blend of the beautiful youth she married so long ago, and what she's fairly sure is either a hipster or a hippy. The terms sound too similar.

"I'll let you choose my dress."

[golden_lyre]

There is a warmth to the space that wasn't there before, as though Apollo has smiled on their union, and he smiles as he eats.

"As long as it isn't overseen by a Christian priest, we may have all the structure your mother could wish." He laughs to think of her mother, of her family, of meeting her family. All such strange, modern things to consider.

He leans into her touch, luxuriating in the simplicity of her affection. Such a small thing, and it brings him back to his youth, as if each stroke of her fingers rubs away the centuries. "What are your mother's thoughts on wedding dresses?"

His peripheral experience tells him there's a whole thing with brides and their mothers and dresses.

[choreftria]

She hopes he has. He did the first time, after all.

"They're Orthodox," she tells him, somewhat distracted by his hair and his smile and a forkful of curry. "But I think they won't care, so long as I'm happy."

She kisses his temple, then his forehead.

"She's traditional. Shoulders covered, knees covered. White." A beat. "I would like green, somehow."

[golden_lyre]

"Not in a church, then," Orpheus says. He thinks he could handle a priest if it was the right priest. "Out under the sky for the gods to see." He takes a bit of fish and dips it into the curry thoughtfully.

"Shoulders and knees? Hm." He's teasing, and he tilts his head to smile at her. "I think we can find something to keep us both happy in the end."

[choreftria]

"Definitely outside," she agrees, taking another happy bite of their shared meal. Such a simple thing, to be in his lap, to be eating together... but the simple things in life are the best, as the saying goes, and it's one she wholeheartedly agrees with.

"And she's sure I'm a virgin," she adds with a grin, leaning in to kiss his smile. "Innocent and pure and probably angelic. No man has lain eyes nor hands, much less anything else, on this body."

Her mum is the cutest, though.

[golden_lyre]

Orpheus is going to have to make a point to bring home more finger foods. He would feed her every meal from his hand if they could manage it. He picks up a bit of fish between his fingers to offer it to her. "Under a laurel tree."

He laughs softly and rests his chin on her shoulder. "I'll do my best to behave, then." They may have to wait some time to meet her family. He's not sure he'll be able to keep his hands off her any time soon.

[choreftria]

That's an excellent idea. She wholeheartedly approves. Maybe not with other people present, because the way she takes the fish from his fingers and lets her tongue dart out to make sure she got every last bit from his fingertips is, perhaps, invitational.

"A laurel tree would be perfect," she breathes, and nuzzles his hair as he rests against her. "And you only have to behave for a short while. The rest of the time is ripe for ravishment."

[golden_lyre]

As is the way he slides his thumb across her bottom lip, leaving a trail of spice. It's only incentive to do it more, wherever they may be. As he leans against her, he trails his fingers up her leg, smiling in contentment. "I suppose I can be patient, then. If there's to be ravishment after."

[choreftria]

Leaving a trail of fire, she thinks he means. She licks her lips regardless, and abandons her meal to just hold him, nestled in his lap.

"We can practice all we like before we get there," she points out, "and I suspect that having to stop for a short while will only make that ravishment far more intense."

A beat.

"And there'll be wine."

[golden_lyre]

Orpheus sets aside whatever of their meal is closest and curls himself around her, tucking his head against her shoulder. "Like coming back to a drug after sobriety? If I have learned anything in my life it is how to wait for something worth the patience."

He laughs and presses a kiss to her throat. "If there'll be wine, I'll be satisfied."

[choreftria]

“Something like that,” she agrees.

A hard lesson, she thinks. Not that experiencing it from the other side was much better; she didn’t leave, but he didn’t die. She’d waited and waited. And now she thanks the goddess of spring in her morning prayers every day for the chance to live again.

As his lips meet her throat, she offers it to him fully, amid low laughter that echoes his.

“I’m sure I’ll find other ways to satisfy you, my love.”

[golden_lyre]

His lips move up her throat, tongue teasing out over her skin. His movements are slow, lazy, and he hums against her skin, affectionate and pleased. "Of that I have no doubt." He kisses just behind her ear.

"You have a particular gift for it." Like no one else he's been with. Even Apollo.

[choreftria]

A delicious shiver rolls through her as his mouth tastes her skin, followed by a pleasured shudder when he hums. His voice never fails to move her.

Her smile doesn’t leave her face, her fingers sliding through his hair and over his shoulders as she tightens her thighs a little around his waist.

“I do,” she agrees. Then, unable to resist the joke, she adds, “Though I like to think I’m a good dancer, too.”

[golden_lyre]

"You," Orpheus whispers into her skin, "are not a good dancer." He drags his lips down her throat and along her shoulder. "You are a superlative dancer." He lifts his head to look at her, his gaze fond, adoring, worshipful. "Your body moves as if it were made of music itself, and I have never seen anything so beautiful."

His hands slid to her hips, then along her thighs. "Nor has anything ever made me so hard as seeing you dance for me."

[choreftria]

"Oh..." Oh, that's really nice. Really nice.

"You woo me so easily, my love." Her smile could light the darkest night. "Shall I tell you that each time I dance, it is only ever for you?"

Her hips tilt in the wake of his hands, nestling closer to him.

Seph filches a last piece of fish and trots into another room.

[golden_lyre]

That smile lit many of his darkest nights in the millennia they were apart. Seeing it in the flesh sends his heart soaring, losing its rhythm for a breath before coming back to itself. When her hips tilt, his arch up with her, and he tugs up her shirt, splaying his hand across her back, palm pressed to warm skin.

"Each time I play it is for you," he answers, breathless from her smile. "When we perform together, it creates such a marvelous feedback." His other hand slides up her stomach, under her shirt, to the swell of her breast.

[choreftria]

It’s how he can know it’s true love. She’s heard his music in her mind for every minute she was without him, after all. Only time and style blurred her recollection that first night; that, and the sheer impossibility of what turned out to be glorious truth.

Her breath hitches as his hips cant after hers, the firm pressure of his cock against her with just the tiniest hint of friction sends warmth right through her.

“You honour me,” she sighs in delight. It’s followed by a slightly more vocal sigh as his hand cups her breast, and her nipple hardens before he even reaches it. “Though I’m consistently surprised we haven’t started an orgy...”

She’s willing to bet a lot of people go home and duck their brains out, though.

[golden_lyre]

Since the first moment he saw her, Orpheus has never doubted this was true love, that for the rest of his life, he would never love another woman, never love another soul as he loved her.

She moves over him, and her sigh is echoed by his, satisfaction--that touch of relief he feels any time he's assured, yet again, that this is real, that she's with him in this life.

"It's consistently a struggle for me not to, when I'm watching you dance. I think, however, that we may be responsible for many children being born in the next year." He smiles up at her, his thumb finding her nipple, teasing over it. "It's consistently a struggle for me not to start an orgy every time I see you."

Love how my phone is fine with cock, but not fuck

[choreftria]

Destiny, she thinks that’s called. The gods (and her fellow nymphs) knew her heart was for no one else once she’d met him. A tragedy had befallen them, but they’ve paid their dues.

“Some venues are probably inappropriate for orgies,” she agrees, thinking of Covent Garden, among other places. Though the dressing rooms are often hotbeds of hookups. His thumb finds her nipple and she makes a quiet sound of need, pushing her breast into his hand, which also pushes their hips more firmly together. That induces a gasp at the increased pressure. “Your restraint is admirable. I’m ok with being responsible for all the babies, though.”

Not theirs just yet. One day.

She pulls her top off, leaving her in only pink boy shorts that say “I believe in unicorns” on the front.