Executor stares at her, curiosity growing. Not in a decade...so this offer is indeed some sort of recompense. A peace offering...? Which of course comes with its own conditions. Well. It's reasonable enough. He doesn't sense any of her tuning efforts in the discordant hum of their halos, so, still a bit hesitant, he obliges, leaning back a little and closing his eyes. Arturia would request similar actions, as she used him as a sort of sounding board for when her compositions stumped her.
He senses nervousness, faint and trembling. Is it that "stage fright" Sunday struggled with...? But then she starts to sing, and those questions, that nervousness, all fade to the background. She requested him to listen, so he shall.
The song...resonates.
It is not the music itself—though her voice is undeniably skilled, clear even beneath its grief. It is the familiarity in that grief within the words. A grief she does not name, but one he recognizes, knows, all the same.
His soror’s music was different. Lively, unrestrained, full of the things she could never say outright, encouraging others to do the same, even before the notes were wrapped in Arts. Federico had never truly understood it, yet he had listened all the same. It was calming...resonating solemnly at his amita's funeral, as Arturia played while they lowered her mother into the ground...
Now, he listens to Robin.
He means to only listen, but his body betrays his intention. His shoulders ease. His hands, still clasped, slowly relax against his lap. The ache behind his eyes dulls—not gone, but distant. His breathing slows, even as he tries to remain alert. Her voice wavers on some notes. He tries to look, to see if something is troubling her, but finds his eyelids are too heavy to open. That should alarm him more than it currently does.
His thoughts drift. He tells himself he is merely resting his eyes, just for a moment. That he is only listening. But inevitably, inescapably—his body knows better than he does.
Federico has spent this entire time fighting his own body. Fighting sleep, fighting weakness, fighting her. But now? She'd be able to see it—his defenses slipping, not by force, but by inevitability. Her voice smooths over the frayed edges of his exhaustion. And slowly, surely, she can see him unravel.
The tension unwinds from his limbs. The weight of exhaustion, of the familiar grief, of everything, wins out at last. His head tilts forward slightly, then to the side, as if he’s resisting the pull of gravity itself. But gravity always wins.
Then—finally, as the song nears its end-
His body lists, shifting until he comes to rest sideways against the couch’s arm, head resting against it. Completely still. Completely silent, his severe expression smoothed out into something peaceful. With the help of Robin's song, his exhaustion finally won out.
oof owch I know this one wah
Well. It's reasonable enough. He doesn't sense any of her tuning efforts in the discordant hum of their halos, so, still a bit hesitant, he obliges, leaning back a little and closing his eyes. Arturia would request similar actions, as she used him as a sort of sounding board for when her compositions stumped her.
He senses nervousness, faint and trembling. Is it that "stage fright" Sunday struggled with...?
But then she starts to sing, and those questions, that nervousness, all fade to the background. She requested him to listen, so he shall.
The song...resonates.
It is not the music itself—though her voice is undeniably skilled, clear even beneath its grief. It is the familiarity in that grief within the words. A grief she does not name, but one he recognizes, knows, all the same.
His soror’s music was different. Lively, unrestrained, full of the things she could never say outright, encouraging others to do the same, even before the notes were wrapped in Arts. Federico had never truly understood it, yet he had listened all the same. It was calming...resonating solemnly at his amita's funeral, as Arturia played while they lowered her mother into the ground...
Now, he listens to Robin.
He means to only listen, but his body betrays his intention. His shoulders ease. His hands, still clasped, slowly relax against his lap. The ache behind his eyes dulls—not gone, but distant. His breathing slows, even as he tries to remain alert.
Her voice wavers on some notes. He tries to look, to see if something is troubling her, but finds his eyelids are too heavy to open. That should alarm him more than it currently does.
His thoughts drift. He tells himself he is merely resting his eyes, just for a moment. That he is only listening. But inevitably, inescapably—his body knows better than he does.
Federico has spent this entire time fighting his own body. Fighting sleep, fighting weakness, fighting her. But now? She'd be able to see it—his defenses slipping, not by force, but by inevitability. Her voice smooths over the frayed edges of his exhaustion. And slowly, surely, she can see him unravel.
The tension unwinds from his limbs. The weight of exhaustion, of the familiar grief, of everything, wins out at last.
His head tilts forward slightly, then to the side, as if he’s resisting the pull of gravity itself. But gravity always wins.
Then—finally, as the song nears its end-
His body lists, shifting until he comes to rest sideways against the couch’s arm, head resting against it. Completely still. Completely silent, his severe expression smoothed out into something peaceful. With the help of Robin's song, his exhaustion finally won out.
Federico is asleep.