generations of expectations

Who: Ian and Bright
Where: Lobby of The Drake
When: late

Ian rarely found took part in the night life his hotel offered. Most of the patrons were either rich folks looking to make themselves seem important or lower level mobbers killing time while their bosses did the important work in suites upstairs. They were all useful or entertaining marks, but the draw wasn’t usually enough to pull Ian away from his work unless he wanted something in particular or was exceedingly bored. After his run in with Becky at lunch he’d alleviated most of his boredom, at least enough to get him through the rest of the day and thus had no need to actually wander into the bar. Instead he opted for working late.

Shutting the door to his office, he turned towards the front desk taking another stack of books to the counter. He set a few things down at Amelia’s station, nodding to a few patrons as they made their way from the bar across the lobby. Moving farther down the counter he spotted a box with a ribbon sitting on the front desk. Curious he picked it up, examining the note on it which was addressed to a “Bright.” Ian considered that for a moment and then looked over towards the bar where the last few bars of the piano were wafting through into the lobby. Bright was the name of the piano play he hired wasn’t it?

Bright had a long day. Playing at the Drake wasn’t a bad end to it. While the atmosphere stank of blood and money, there was an unabashed decadence to the lounge where he played that was rather charming. People didn’t get up and dance here like they did at some of the livelier (and sometimes less safe) bars he played at, but there were occasionally those who appreciated it when he played Chopin. He played for the love of it, of course, but it didn’t hurt for those rare times when he was something other than just background music.

Tonight hadn’t been one of those times. Which was fine, since Bright had just about his fill of talking to strangers. Veronica and Zhen had been perfectly pleasant ladies to have a chat with, but Bright wasn’t exactly known for his tendency to seek out company. Or at least, he refused to acknowledge that “seeking out company” was exactly what his desire to play music in public actually was.

His set finished for the evening, Bright brushed his fingers lovingly over the keys once more before closing the lid. Great piano. He was going to have to offer to buy it one of these days. He’d just have to figure out who he had to ask that would be the most likely to say yes. He’d also have to wait until he was slightly less tipsy--one too many drinks in between songs tonight. Thankfully, he had a cane to keep him steady. Theoretically, anyway.

Bright shrugged on his coat and hat and made his way towards the front desk--slowly, since the cane tended to work best when he didn’t already have whiskey legs. He went to the desk to collect his pay every night he worked and to ask when they might want him back. The routine was usual; seeing the owner of the place standing there, however, was not. He’d met the man when he’d been hired, but hadn’t seen much of him since then.

“Evening, Mr. Sullivan,” Bright said, tipping his hat.

“Bright,” Ian greeted, nodding in response, picking up the envelope with the man’s check in it and handing it over. “Sounded lovely tonight,” he commented, even though he hadn’t really been listening. “Also,” he said reaching for the box that was set on the counter. “I believe this is yours as well. Apparently you have a fan.” Ian’s smile was pleasant and bordering on teasing.

“Thank you, sir,” Bright said. He bet that he was a good deal older than Ian Sullivan and he didn’t necessarily need the checks he got from playing here, but Bright sure as hell didn’t own a hotel--a shady hotel, at that--so he was fairly sure that warranted a “sir” now and then. He accepted the envelope and then, with his brow furrowed in confusion, the box. He opened it first, letting out a low whistle at what was inside. All handmade, he noticed right way, running his fingers lightly over the groves in the pages from the pen. From a Bright mind? Then he read the note and laughed outright. Zhen hadn’t been kidding when she said she was going to get him a notebook.

“Not a fan,” Bright said, closing the box back up and tucking it underneath his arm. “Just a crazy kid I ran into this morning.” He was just drunk enough to consider relating the story, but he managed to resist. Ian certainly had more important things to do than listen to what Bright did with his day.

The smile he gave Bright hinted that the ‘sir’ might not be necessary but Ian didn’t say anything to confirm what his smile hinted at. Younger or not, he felt he deserved the respect ad he wasn’t about to turn it away.

Ian wasn’t exactly nosy, but he sure as hell didn’t miss what was in the box, nor the way that Bright seemed to genuinely appreciate the gift. “You often run into crazy kids who send you handmade gifts?” he asked with a raised eyebrow. “Seems like a gift from a fan if you ask me.”

“Not often,” Bright said, shaking his head. “Just today.” And twice today, at that. Ronnie had certainly seemed saner than Zhen, if being sane meant being affected by the city, by hard living. Ronnie didn’t look hard, not like the women he passed at night in Fontaine Park, or the ones he saw putting themselves on display at some of the clubs he worked out, but Bright guessed that was only because she was covering it up. In any case, neither of them had been fans.

One corner of Bright’s mouth lifted, a half-smirk. “Piano players don’t get fans, Mr. Sullivan. We’re just part of the scenery.”

“Lucky day then. Typically when people run into crazy people it doesn’t come with gifts,” Ian commented, voice still light and conversational. “And I’m sure they do garner a fan or two. Any performer manages to accumulate at least one or two fans. Now, hotel managers on the other hand? They are part of the scenery.” Ian hardly believed a word he said, but he continued with the compliments anyway.

“Not anything anybody else would think is a gift,” Bright said, chuckling. He’d thought Zhen was completely nuts at first, but it turned out she was a pretty decent person. More than decent, and that the notebook was hand-decorated for a man she’d met hours before definitely showed that. He hoped he’d see her again, if only to thank her for the time she’d taken to make it.

“You might be behind the scenery, but you sure as hell aren’t just part of it. Place wouldn’t be here without somebody to run it, and I wouldn’t have a job, so you’ll pardon my self-interest.”

“Aren’t those the best gifts after all?” Ian asked innocently enough. He wasn’t sure what about his conversation had caught his interest, but something had and thus Ian found himself continuing it, leaving bait for actually comments from Bright’s end. “Seen but not heard unless it’s to tell someone they’re right and they can have whatever they want,” he said with a bitter smile. “Though I’m glad someone appreciates it.”

“Oh, you don’t give yourself enough credit, sir,” Bright said, smiling. “Who else could possibly be responsible for having such a fantastic bar? Best top shelf in the whole damn city.” He was kidding, except for where he wasn’t. The Drake didn’t get to be the most high class hotel in Eidolon without having some kind of business genius behind all of the inner machinations. Things that Bright, honestly, didn’t want a thing to do with. He’d never been involved in any of it, but he was observant, and he could see when things didn’t look right. And when he did, he just turned his eyes forward and kept on playing the keys.

Ian’s smile was genuine this time, his ego enjoying the stroking it was getting from Bright. He rested his forearms on the counter, leaning forward a little so his weight was centered on them. “I do what I can to provide. Though really I think for some of them, you could put the bottles on the top shelf and serve the well drinks and they wouldn’t notice.” Ian smirked a little, proof that he wasn’t one of them, just worked for them. Whatever role fit his current situation.

“You’re probably right,” Bright said, smirking back. The man reminded him a bit of Ronnie--flattery got you everywhere with some people. Not that Bright was trying to be manipulative; he just noticed some things. “Water it down a bit, even, make even more of a profit. Not that I’m insinuating that you’re a man of shady character, Mr. Sullivan, you understand.” He chuckled and tipped his hat--see, totally non-threatening.

“Of course not,” Ian commented, that same understanding smirk in place. “I’ve found that most people, especially the new rich, they don’t care how it got to be expensive or why it’s a luxury. All you have to do is slap a fancy label on something and they take that as proof. It’s merely the appearance of quality that matters. Few actually care about quality.” Perhaps that’s what Ian was enjoying about the conversation, the freedom to speak how he felt in most situations without it coming across as inappropriate. For once there was an actual tinge of truth to his words, though they were delivered as flawlessly believable as any other lie he’d ever fed someone.

“Especially when someone else is watching.” Bright was old money himself, not as old as most of the families in Eidolon, but up there. That he and his brother were the last of a dying breed put a slightly different spin on Bright’s interpretation of the culture of wealth--there probably weren’t going to be a next generation of Brights to be part of it. That Bright worked in a position where he got to see it hadn’t done much to make him terribly sad that he wouldn’t be procreating any time soon. If Barty wanted to, he was welcome to it.

“Always when someone else is watching,” Ian pointed out. Though how he fit in was still in question, Ian was a DiGiovanni, even without the name, and the DiGiovanni’s were old money. They had their hand in the new money sure, but as a family they were living on a stock pile that had been put together long before even the oldest members had been born. “The class and charm seems to be gone these days. It’s a shame really. Used to be, a piano player would be the life of the party.” Or used to be a Bright would be the life of the party, but Ian guessed that wasn’t the case of the family anymore or else Bright certainly wouldn’t be playing sets for meager kickback.

Bright laughed. “Exactly.” His mother still floated around in those circles, as far as he knew, but she was looked at as something of a ghost. Her eldest was off the map, a lost cause, and who knew what Bartholomew was up to. Unless one of them had children had some point, her money--and she still had quite a bit of it--was going to die with her. Maybe she’d find some benefactor at some point, but they wouldn’t be a Bright. “It’s fine by me, honestly. I don’t play to be in the spotlight. That somebody’s listening, even a little, is good enough.”

Ian couldn’t help but wonder if there was a time when Bright was another rich playboy, garnering the spotlight where he went and generally living as all the young rich bachelors seemed to. It would have been well before Ian’s own official foray into high society, having spent most of his youth finding his way into the family’s higher circles. Though it was obvious the man might not own a razor, Bright still looked the part of someone with money, the right clothes, the right shoes. His only real fault was the cane and limp, but from what Ian heard it was from an accident, not a malady at birth. Occasionally bad luck can’t be avoided, he supposed. “So no aspirations to be a modern day Beethoven then?”

The question caught Bright slightly off guard and it showed for a moment. Once he’d caught himself, he smiled and shrugged. “No, not anymore. Anyway, I’m sure there’s some new prodigy that’s got a handle on that by now.” Ian’s assessment, though Bright was ignorant of it, was accurate. Had Bright not woken up in that alley a decade ago, he’d probably be that modern day Beethoven, in addition to being exactly the type of person Ian couldn’t stand. The type that neither of them could stand.

“I can’t imagine anyone younger than us having the patience to be a musical prodigy. They all seem eager for that instant gratification.” As frustrating as it was to see youth wasted on squandering money and living in the so called ‘fast lane’ it hardly bothered Ian. He’d made his way up through the ranks in a family that typically cared more about your last name than what you did by stepping on the heads of those insolent youths. Now, here he was, not even 35 and he had his finger on the pulse of the largest crime family in the city and their prized possession? Their landmark of rich and prosperous to the rest of the city? It belonged to him.

Bright laughed. “And that’s exactly what our fathers said about us.” In truth, Bright’s father hadn’t said much to him at all. It was his mother that was doting--smothering, actually--but his father had loomed on high, staring down, demanding to not be disappointed . He’d never said as much, but he’d certainly made it known. When the man had died, it was like the thumb he’d been pressed under (that his mother had sworn was never there) had suddenly been lifted. And now, he’d never been more disappointing in his life.

Ian nodded, though that was hardly the case with him. He never had a father of sorts in his life, and when he was younger his father figures regularly commented on how unlike the other youths he was. How he cared about family, and honor and the business. Not that he really cared, but at the time it was what he wanted them to see. “And I imagine they will say the same thing about the next generation.”

“And on and on until we all fall into the sun or whatever it is they’re saying these days.” Bright waved a hand dismissively and laughed, half at himself. He wasn’t anywhere near as drunk as he was going to be before the night was up, but he did feel a little looser. His father was no doubt at glaring at him from his grave, his mother weeping in her sitting around, and his brother wishing he would just drown himself in alcohol already. It wasn’t a great place to be, but it was his place, and he didn’t exactly want Ian’s either.

“I believe the last I heard had something to do with dinosaurs roaming the earth again. Or whatever killed the dinosaurs.” Ian shrugged, pushing up from the counter again. “Hardly matters though. ‘Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice,’” he mused, quoting Frost with a playful smile.

“Either way,” Bright said, returning Ian’s smile, “I’m just glad I won’t be around for it.” He had missed the significance of the quote; Bright had never been much of a reader, unless it was a book of music. Pianos had always consumed his life, had monopolized every ounce of his creative energy and he’d never had any to spare on anything else. He didn’t even bother to read the paper, perhaps always slightly paranoid that he might read about another little girl’s murder in an alley somewhere.

That Bright missed the quote failed to impress Ian. His life had hardly been on of idle time spent reading and studying poetry but that was hardly an excuse for not being educated. From what he heard though Bright spent too much time in the bottle to make any difference in that regard. “As am I, as am I.”

Bright was educated--just musically educated. As soon as his parents saw the potential he’d had for the piano, that’s where they’d focused him. He’d gone to school, sure, but his academic studies had always come second to his musical ones. When he’d been old enough, he’d gone to a music academy instead of a standard college, and all of that was almost twenty years ago now. He’d had a long time and a lot of drinking to forget anything he’d ever learned about Robert Frost. “Hopefully it just won’t come any sooner than we expect.” Bright shrugged, smiling with some self-depreciation. “Well, this conversation certainly took a lovely, sunny turn.”

“I believe we have some time,” Ian commented, smiling despite the topic. “It has, it seems, taken a less than pleasant turn.” Though he hardly took the blame for the turn in topic. He wasn’t the drunk after all. “I should probably let you on your way. I imagine there’s symphonies and concertos that are eagerly awaiting to be penned in your new gift.“

“Something like that,” Bright chuckled, lifting the box again to take a look at it. He could hardly believe that she’d done something like that--must’ve taken her all day to do every page. He didn’t even want to use it, didn’t want to ruin it. Bright didn’t have a lot of cherished possessions received from others; this was something he wanted to hold on to. “I’ll let you get back to your business of being the scenery.” He tipped his hat, smirked. “Have a good night, Mr. Sullivan.”