before the hall are gathered peaches and plums

[patration]

When Zhuge was a young child, years before he had been carted away to court for higher schooling, he'd often spent his afternoons searching through zhe trees for the small, fat worms which ate away at their leaves, collecting them in boxes to bring back to the house. Zhe trees were common in the northern and eastern parts of the land, if less so the closer one drew to shore, and so silk production was a widely known skill in Yanzhou, albeit one often saved for the upper-middle class, a job which didn't require as many hours tilling the earth as his own family's crops of wheat and maize had needed. His elder sisters, both beautiful and highly sought after as potential brides, often served as a helping hand with such work, feeding thousands of silkworms a day and helping to twist the strands they produced into thread. Curious as he'd always been, Zhuge requested guidance once on how to get such threads started, and his second sister had brought back an intricate carved box in which the worms could be held in and breathe.

As of yet, he's been unsuccessful in finding any silkworms on the island, or trees similar to the zhe he often climbed around in those years, but Zhuge finds himself wondering, regardless, if silken threads from certain types of garments, undyed and untreated, might be able to serve as strings for a guzheng. Sitting just outside the bakery, a hollowed out guzheng body rests by his side, painstakingly crafted over the course of months, and a small, contained fire keeps a pot of glue melted by its side. His brow furrows as he dips the first thread into the glue, not minding its heat as he twists it tight and uses the tip of his finger to brush excess off, a couple of drops landing on the rest of the partially deconstructed robe. Chances are, it won't work, and he'll have to ask for access to the scrapyard in hopes of finding thin metal wiring, but Zhuge has never been one to let odds overwhelm him.

Less so when he looks up to find a familiar face standing just a few paces away.

Comments

[yeah-wow-lovely.livejournal.com]

His fingers fold warm over her own, and Cassie's heart, already full to bursting, aches that much more. "I will be an avid student," she promises. "I did well in school, when I cared enough, and I promise to care very much."

She keeps hold of his sleeve, his arm steadying her when she leans in again. The body of the instrument seems so long, with pegs for so many strings. She only hopes her fingers will be long enough. "Do you sing as well? But perhaps it's best if I not try that."

[patration]

"Everybody sings," Zhuge replies, hand shifting until it clasps hers in full, before reaching out to rest on her shoulder and giving it a reassuring squeeze. She's beautiful when she's like this, bright and excited and full to burst. She's beautiful at other times too, of course, when she falls and winds like a fluttering leaf to the ground, but Zhuge knows that he prefers her like this, standing strong and ready to give life everything that she has within her. As long as he can inspire that in any capacity, Zhuge feels that the day is a fulfilling one. Reaching out to tuck an errant lock of hair behind her ear, Zhuge raises a brow.

"I do not know if I sing well. I do not sing for other people," he adds with a tilt of his head.

[yeah-wow-lovely.livejournal.com]

"Well," says Cassie, grinning, "on your own head be it, Liang. I'm not certain I sing well, either, but if I did I think I'd know. But perhaps it will be awful, and my guzheng playing will sound all the better for it. It will be a scheme, and only you will know the truth."

[patration]

He laughs, a hand raised to carefully pet at his chin in consideration as his gaze skirts up and to the sky overhead, as though it might have the answers to this, might be able to tell him just how decent of a singer he is. It's not a skill he's practiced, nor one that he's really tried for at all. Zhuge finds that there is often too much that can be read in a voice, whether in spoken word or sung, and in a way that isn't completely reflected in the pluck or pull of a string. Voice is something over which a person has nearly complete agency, and the last thing that Zhuge would want to have happen is to let his intentions slip with song.

He remembers being invited to play at Zhou Yu's, remembers all that he heard in the other man's playing. To sing would only magnify that effect several times over. "Next time, I will sing for you," he offers with a tilt of his head. "But Cassie needs to promise: no laugh."