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Luca laughed and returned the clink. “You wish, Red Bear.”
The conversation flowed like the mead—sticky and warm and intriguing. Both of them relaxed into the soft sweetness of the liquor. Of the evening.
Tension and worry and any remaining awkwardness drifted away on the caress of the breeze.
Overhead, the stars glowed—a thousand times brighter than in the city, despite the crackling of the campfire, flowing across his skin in warm waves.
Later in the evening, Artair took his guitar out again. The notes he strummed somehow twinkled like the starlight above. Fluttered like the little sparks from the shifting flame. Somehow captured the feel of the fire and the fullness from dinner and the vibe of Bowie, curled up peacefully nearby, his ginger fur dancing with the yellow light.
After a time, Luca came to Artair’s side. His own bottle was empty, and Artair’s had a little left—which the larger man offered freely, making a joke about how thirsty Luca was.
“That song’s really pretty,” said Luca, watching as Artair’s fingers swayed over steel strings. “When did you write it?”
Artair smiled. “Now, I guess?”
“Really? This is just you riffing?”
“Riffing? What am I? A jazz band in the thirties?”
Luca shoved his arm. “You know what I mean. How do you do that? Just pull from the scenery until the music sounds like it was always there?”
“I don’t know? I’ve always done it. It was just a dumb idea I tried once, and I never really stopped.”
“You deliberately make songs that fade into the background?”
“Not fade, exactly. Enhance, maybe? Evoke?” It was a while before Artair spoke again, as if weighing whether to share the information. That hesitation came with glances toward Luca—brief and cautious. “You know the Four Seasons by Vivaldi? Where the music captures the spirit of each season through an orchestra?”
Luca nodded, once again amazed by the man’s subtle depths. Those looking at Artair for the first time probably wouldn’t imagine that he’d heard of the composer, let alone taken inspiration from him.
“When I dropped out of high school and I was busking, I had this idea to play music that did the same thing. That mirrored the mood of the season and the time of day and whatever was happening on the street. Of capturing the spirit of whatever place I was playing. Of having songs that just...” The ginger man came over in the most adorable blush. “Sorry. I bet that sounds really dumb.”
“No,” said Luca placing a hand on Artair’s forearm. His skin was fire warmed. “It’s amazing! People spend months writing songs half as good as that. I’m just surprised.”
“About what?”
Luca gave his own playful smirk, similar to the one that Artair so often gave him. “An anonymous guy in the corner that no one notices? Playing subtle music that passers-by might not even register? I thought all Californians were desperate for attention?”
Artair chuckled. “Yeah. I think I missed that gene.”
Some might say that’s a confidence thing, Luca thought, but didn’t say out loud, opting instead for, “so you really don’t write any of these down?”
“It’s hard to explain, but I don’t think there’s anything to write down. I’m not writing the songs. I’m just... “
“Living them?”
“Yeah. I guess.”
“And every song is different?”
“Yeah. Because every place is different. Every night and every day has its own melody.”
Luca glowed with admiration. He’d never heard of anyone making songs like this. “That’s really fucking incredible, Artair. You know that, right?”
Artair shrugged, blushing red as ketchup now. “It’s nothing, really. Anyone can do it with enough practice.”
And with that, Artair swung out the guitar, like a duelist raising their sword. The instrument hung in an inviting position for Luca to take.
“Oh no. Trust me, you don’t want to hear me play. I’m good with words. Not notes.”
