Chereads / My Querencia / Chapter 4 - First Flower of Spring

Chapter 4 - First Flower of Spring

...Obey's POV...

My neighbor is horrible.

I haven't even met them yet, but I think they are an abysmal, atrocious, deplorably annoying substance that should be banned from existence.

And I am reasonably convinced.

It's not like I expected much from a cheap apartment that's in the middle of nowhere.

But seriously, this dude doesn't even know how to hold a violin properly.

....

I moved in the very next day I got the paperwork settled. Levi wanted me to stay at least a day, but I found a way to respectfully decline. He gave me a pasta salad as a gift that saved me from getting starved to death for a few days.

I should probably go grocery shopping.

The new roof under my head is not that big, but compared to the apartment I dragged myself onto every day back in the city, I should consider myself lucky.

I told Elias to hunt for the cheapest thing he could find, and apparently, he did. The apartment has fourteen floors but doesn't even have an elevator. I shouldn't have minded it if my room wasn't located in the corner of the freaking 13th floor, for God's sake. Not only do I have to climb a god-knows-what number of stairs to get into my house, but I also have to walk 15 extra footsteps to get to the door (yeah, I counted).

But at the end, it was worth it for the comfortable bed and furniture that it has offered me, or so I thought.

My house number was 1316 (13 for the floor, 16 for the number), and it was just a sweet house with two bedrooms, a bathroom, and an open kitchen with a small living room, plus a balcony with a nice view.

The spaces were limited but organized in a well-mannered way. The bedrooms had pillowless beds and cupboards for clothes. The kitchen has a nice microwave, an oven, and an electrical stove (though the stove is the only thing that's working properly), and I was lucky to have a bathtub instead of a tiny shower enclosure that was barely large enough to even lift my arm.

Everything was going so well until I realized why the rent is cheap and this place is not quite popular with people.

The walls.

The walls are so thin that if you accidentally bumped into them, they would collapse to lead you into your neighbor's dining table (or bedroom in the worst-case scenario). They are so thin that you could practically hear everything the person living next door is doing, and to make it worse, the houses are located so close together that it feels like your walls are literally hugging your neighbor's house. It's like you two are living together but not really living together (if you get what I mean).

I mean, I wouldn't have minded it if I had a peaceful neighbor, or maybe I would've been able to handle something like loud music (I listened to a lot of heavy metal in high school), or even louder arguments, or babies.

But I draw the line at bad violin chords.

The whole morning went so peacefully until I heard the sound of a door opening, and after a while, I heard a slight sound of a violin, so I leaned closer into the wall to listen.

First, the sound that came out of the violin was unsettling and eerie—sharp, discordant notes that grated against my ears—and then high-pitched screeches literally pierced through the silence of the room. It sounded like a series of jarring, disjointed sounds with no harmony or rhythm at all, giving a sense of unease and discomfort. The normally smooth and melodious tones of a violin seemed distorted, unpleasant, and far from reach. It's the kind of sound that makes you want to jump off a building.

As a student who adored my violin, putting devotion and passion into learning it, I couldn't stand the catastrophe this dude was causing (I had all right to be mad!).

It didn't take much time for me to find myself stomping out of my room to greet my Karkadann of a neighbor to smack some sense into their head about proper violin playing.

.....

It takes a few knockings until they finally open the door. Standing there, I thought I was angry, like the anger I was trying to oppress since the day I arrived here was suddenly spilling out. I wanted a reason to let it out, and now that I've been given a chance, I felt scared, thinking that I wouldn't be able to control myself.

And the last thing I want to do is lose my control.

I promise myself that it wouldn't happen again.

I can't let it happen again.

...

I didn't know what I expected to see, but I was sure what I ended up stumbling across was completely contrasted to that.

His youth was bewitching.

Bronze curls that reminded me of churlish earth poured over his shoulders, freckles sprinkled across his rosy cheeks, almond eyes like rich, warm caramel, and skin painted with sun.

He wasn't a Karkadann; in fact, he was like a glorifying portrayal of Adonis.

I can't understand why I can't get my gaze off him, and it just makes me more angry.

He glares at me, leaning onto the doorframe. Slender hands trace over the wood. He has long eyelashes that brush against his skin, plump lips drowned from crushed cherry.

I had a thousand things stored on my mind to scold at him, but I feel stuck at a loss for words.

_______

... Desy's POV...

I totally expected this to happen, but I can't help but feel irritated when I heard the knocking on the door.

I thought it was Margeret, the old lady that lived in the house before mine. I was sure it was her because nobody lives in the other house that's next to me.

I wanted her to stand in front of the door, holding one of her cats while the other rested purring under her feet. I can't believe that the landlord doesn't prohibit animals in this apartment because that lady had more than five. She said she didn't have a favorite, but I'm sure it's Honey, an orange cat that reminds me of Garfield.

But it wasn't her; it wasn't anyone I would have expected.

He looks a bit older than me.

Messy dark hair like the night sky with siren eyes that held the bright blue ocean, soft snow skin with narrow shoulders. His top lip reminded me of the bow of Artemis.

I waited for him to yell at me, but he's just standing there with his wine lips hanging open, his gaze sparkling on mine.

When I looked at him, I thought of Eros.

"Listen, if you got nothing to say... can I close the door?" I try to sound respectful as I see him steadying his composure; the ocean in his eyes seems tempestuous.

"Do you even know how to hold a violin properly?" His voice is firm, but alluring.

I sighed; I know I shouldn't be annoyed, but I can't help it.

I'm mad; I'm angry, and I want to scream at him... I'm bad, and I know that you don't have to rub it in my face.

I don't... I'm trying my best to appear calm.

I'm angry because I cut my fingers again, because I know I'm not making any progress, that I'm doing worse than before.

"I'm sorry." I don't want to say it, but I mumbled.

...Obey's POV...

His voice is soft, like honey. He tried to close the door, but I wouldn't let him. It hasn't been that long since I noticed the cuts on his fingertips.

He doesn't know how to play the violin at all.

"Hold on." The words slip out of my mouth.

I was pretty sure I was boiling with anger a minute ago, but it all seems to disappear when he appeared. I know he wants to look calm, hide the fact that he's irritated by my presence.

His sharp gaze falls on me when I practically push myself forward, stepping inside his house.

"My ears gave up on living, you know." My tone was unintentionally growing low. "Do you think I would let you play that horrible screeching again?"

I don't need words to realize that he snapped, that he wants to throw me off the balcony if he could. It should be the other way around... I thought.

He doesn't say anything; instead, he steps forward, pushing me out of the door indirectly.

"Sorry," he mumbles because that's his only safe option.

"You should." I take my foot forward, refusing to get pushed back. "Do you realize how bad you are?"

"Yes," he's clinging to his door.

"Why'd you bring a one in the first place, if you don't even know how to play? I'm wasting my words at the same time fueling his anger. Even a cat could play better than you."

He stops his attempts and stands straight in front of me, his hand blocking the entrance.

"What's your problem?" He groans, and I know that I should come up with a good response.

"My problem?" I repeat with a slight laugh. "My problem is that everything about your playing is wrong. Your spiccato, rapid détaché and sustained legato are awful; did you even practice them a little bit before trying to put them together? Your string crossings are like a five-year-old's, and your intonation sucks, not to mention the double stops. Your shifts are as smooth as sandpaper, and your every single bow stroke is utter garbage." I kept on saying as he stood there, completely flabbergasted.

"But that isn't even the thing that makes me mad... what annoys me the most is the fact that you were idiotic enough to try and play Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto in D major, knowing how much of a trashcan you are when it comes to violins. Do you know how rude and arrogant that is? There is no feeling or emotional depth conveyed, no rhythmic accuracy, completely ruining such

 a masterpiece—"

I would have gone on, telling more reasons if I didn't notice the way his head dropped, clouded with darkened emotions.

Did I go overboard? Was it too much to say?

Of course, it was; I'm just a random guy who showed up on his doorstep out of the blue... he doesn't even know me... and I don't even know him... was I always a hopeless idiot when it comes to people?

He looked like he was about to cry if I continued, so I stopped.

...Desy's POV...

He's right.

And I hate the fact that he's right.

I know I should've given up.

But I wanted to try... I wanted to try.

For him...

"Hey," the firmness in his tone seemed to be gone, but I don't look up.

I'm too embarrassed to look up. I feel like I'm holding back tears, and that's the last thing I wanted him to see.

"Um—I—I know I kinda—" He struggles, trying to find the perfect words.

"I'm sorry, okay..." He nearly shouts. "I—that—that didn't come out the way I wanted to." His hands find their way to my shoulders, and I don't know why I let him.

"I get it." My voice came out barely above a whisper. "I get what you're trying to say."

Maybe this is my cue to stop.

I should stop...

Stop trying and give up...

What's the point of trying anyway?