Chapter 26: Briar

brIAR

Glancing at the clock on Malachi's nightstand, I see it's two in the morning, and I'm still awake. Unlike last night, I didn't fall asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. I probably won't get any sleep tonight.

Awesome.

I love being sleep deprived, said no one ever.

Letting out a quiet breath, I know I need to get up or my fidgeting will wake one of the Wyldhart brothers. No one else needs to suffer for my insomnia.

I slowly shimmy out from between Malachi and Xander. With pausing every few inches to make sure I don't wake anyone, it takes a while to free myself.

Once I get up from the bed, I smooth Malachi's black T-shirt down. Why yes, yes, I did conveniently forget PJs. Malachi's shirts are way better than mine for sleeping, and they smell good. It's totally normal to smell your professor's clothes. It doesn't make me a creeper at all. Really.

I debate hunting around for some pants to wear under his shirt, but there's a high chance I'll wake one of them up. It's long enough to be a dress, so it should be fine.

Quietly padding over to the door, I slowly ease it open. Once I gently close it behind me, I sigh in relief. Mission Don't Wake the Wyldharts accomplished. I'm practically a super spy with how well I snuck out of Malachi's room. I resist the urge to fist pump at my victory.

Heading toward the stairs, I try to remember where the ballroom with the piano is. I have no clue. All the fancy rooms in this mansion blurred together during Bastian's tour. I guess I'll wander aimlessly. It's not like I have anything better to do.

When I reach the bottom of the stairs, I turn right because that's where at least one of the dining rooms is. Dining rooms and ballrooms are basically the same, right?

I find the right room on my third try. Pushing open one of the gilded doors, I step into the surprisingly bright space. Moonlight filters into the ballroom from the bank of windows to my right. That's also where the piano is.

The mural on the wall opposite the door snags my attention. It's a neoclassical piece divided up into seven panels.

The first shows a woman with dark hair and eyes standing on a balcony over a cheering crowd. They're in the middle of a bustling coastal city.

The second shows a ship with a grand sail and a bunch of oars docking on a sandy beach outside the walls of the city.

The third shows the same dark-haired woman seated in the middle of a banquet table. Half the table is filled with people dressed the same as her. Seated at the other half is a group of men who look like foreigners.

The fourth shows the men from the ship attacking the city shown in the first panel.

The fifth shows the dark-haired woman and her people defeating the attacking mariners.

The sixth shows the leader of the travelers giving the woman a bottle of something. Possibly as thanks for not killing him and his people.

The seventh shows the dark-haired woman burning on a funeral pyre with the ship sailing in the distance.

I'd think it was a mural of the Aeneid if not for the fourth through the sixth panels. I wish Dido had whooped Aeneas's ass. But, alas, Virgil was a misogynistic jerkoff. He couldn't stand a strong woman. In the Aeneid, Dido died without getting revenge on the gods or Aeneas.

What a strange painting.

Shrugging off my curiosity over the captivating mural, I walk over to the piano. I'm hesitant to touch it because it's the nicest piano I've ever encountered. I don't want to mess it up. It's not like I can replace it if I do break it.

But what good is an instrument if no one plays it?

I sit on the padded bench facing the wall of windows and gently depress the keys. Gaining confidence, I play a couple chords. I can't contain my grin at playing this beautiful piano.

When the piano doesn't spontaneously burst into flames at my touch, I start playing it in earnest. The first song that comes to mind is a piano version of "The Best Day."

After the opening notes, I start singing the lyrics, thinking of my mom the whole time. That's what I love about music. It expresses all the things I struggle to find the words to say. The only safe time to let my emotions out is when I play music.

I'm horrible at singing, so I refuse to sing around other people. But no one's here now. I don't have to worry about rupturing anyone's eardrums. It doesn't matter if I wail along to the music like an angry cat.

"I don't know who I'm going to talk to now," I sing, voice breaking on the last word. When I open my mouth to finish the line, a sob comes out instead. I clamp my lips together to keep any sound from coming out as my shoulders shake from how hard I'm crying. In defeat, I rest my head on the music stand.

I'm powerless to stop the flow of tears. It's like a dam burst, and I'm just watching the destruction happening from afar.

Eventually the shudders subside, and I can get a full breath in. Wiping my eyes with the back of my hands, I focus back on the keys. I want to play something happy, but the only song coming to mind is "In the Stars."

Needing to do something with these emotions, I start the song. Tears land on my hands as I play and sing, but I'm not full-on sobbing. It's an improvement.

Clapping sounds from behind me as I play the last notes. I almost fall off the bench in surprise. "Jesus fucking Christ on a bike with Mary on the goddamn handlebars and Moses in the handbasket!" I whisper shout.

Hopping up and spinning around, I see that it's just Bastian. And he's laughing at me. "Anyone ever tell you that you swear like a drunk Irish grandma?"

"Can't say anyone has, but I'll take it as a compliment." I subtly try to wipe the tears from my eyes before he notices.

"Good. It was meant as one."

Bastian ambles toward me, and I take in his shirtless chest and gray sweatpants slung low on his hips. My eyes linger on the tantalizing V that dips below his waistband until he stops in front of me. I snap my gaze to his and see his self-satisfied smile. He definitely caught me checking him out. I mean, anyone would when he's dressed like that.

"How long have you been playing?"

There goes my horniness. Thoughts of my mom instantly extinguish any attraction I was feeling.

"Since high school." My mom loved to play piano. She wanted to teach me, but I was always too busy. I thought I'd have so many more years with her to learn.

It's funny how you always think you'll have more time. Then, one day, without warning, your time's suddenly up. I wish with everything I am that I could go back and take my mom up on her offer to teach me.

But I can't.

I learned piano on my own as an escape. Patrick started beating me as soon as my mom was in the ground. To avoid spending time with him and feel closer to my mom, I learned how to play from internet tutorials. The school let me use the music room until they had to close for the night.

I'll never be as good as she was, but I'm decent at playing contemporary pieces.

"You're really good at it."

I snort because that's a lie. I'm okay but not great. "Sure," I say, drawing the word out in disbelief.

"You are," Bastian insists. "Will you play me something else?"

I open my mouth to refuse, but Bastian gives me puppy dog eyes. I can't say no. I glare at him for playing dirty. He just grins in return.

Wracking my brain, I try to think of upbeat songs I can play. It feels too personal to play him my sad songs. Surely, I have something happy in my repertoire. I can't think of anything other than "Trauma," which isn't exactly an uplifting song.

After thinking on it and coming up with nothing, I start playing it.

"Will you sing, too?" Bastian asks after I play for a bit without singing. "I really like your singing."

My brows rise at his request. He's already heard me sing and wants to subject himself to more of it? Whatever floats his boat, I guess. "It's your eardrums on the line but sure."

Bastian chuckles like I'm joking.

I'm not.

Closing my eyes, I pretend I don't have an audience and start over. It's nerve-racking playing in front of anyone, not to mention singing. Blocking him out, I lose myself to the music. Swaying from side to side, I let the song flow out of me.

When I finish, I slowly open my eyes. I see Bastian with a death grip on the piano. His head is bowed, and his knuckles are white from how hard he's gripping the instrument. The muscles in his shoulders strain from his hold.

He eventually looks up at me with raw pain etched into every line of his face. It's the type of pain that tries it's hardest to swallow you whole. The type of pain that you have to fight against every day to keep going. The type of pain that never gives you a moment's peace.

His pain calls to mine. I desperately want to soothe his anguish. How can I when I barely keep my head above water most days?

I can't.

But I won't turn away because it's hard to see. I'll look at him, all of him. I can also be here to hold him together if he shatters.

He doesn't break. Instead, he croaks, "What's the name of that song?"

"‘Trauma' by NF," I breathe, my voice scarcely audible. Talking loudly feels like it would break whatever moment we're having.

I don't want Bastian to retreat again. I know what it does to a person to hold all their pain inside. It twists you up and steals the color from the world until everything is bleak and gray. I don't want that for Bastian.

He nods and swallows convulsively. After glancing back down at the piano, he fixes his forest green eyes back on me. "I like it."

"I thought you might."

"Is any of their other stuff good?" Bastian asks after a pause.

"Yeah, I like a lot of his songs. They're really relatable. His work captures a lot of difficult emotions," I tell him, shrugging.

He nods and stares at the piano a moment longer. When he looks up, a bright, fake smile is pasted on his face.

I hate it.

"Don't," I whisper.

Bastian tilts his head in confusion. "What?"

"Don't hide behind a fake smile. Not around me. If there's anyone you can just be you with, it's me. I won't run away from the messy, broken, and chaotic parts. I have them too."

Bastian's mask cracks as I talk. I hold my breath as I wait for him to decide whether he can trust me.

"I don't know how. I don't know who I am anymore," Bastian admits after a moment. My heart hurts for him. He grips the piano tightly, causing his biceps to flex. My eyes momentarily dip down to them while he talks. His lips twitch up into the ghost of a real smile. "Like what you see?"

"Yeah, I do," I answer honestly. I can't expect him to be truthful with me while hiding my feelings.

He breaks out in a genuine crooked smile. My heart skips a beat seeing his grin. I'd do almost anything to keep him smiling like that forever.

Scrubbing a hand across his face, Bastian tilts his head back and stares at the ceiling for a moment. Blowing out a harsh breath, his turns his gaze to me. "Dance with me?" he asks. His eyes shine with vulnerability.

"Always," I reply quickly. I want him to know I'm here for him, whatever he needs.

"C'mere." He holds his arms out for me. I get up from the bench and step into them. Wrapping one arm around me, Bastian messes with his phone for a second before music starts playing through a hidden sound system.

"Rich people, man." I smile and shake my head.

Bastian barks out a laugh. "You realize you're a rich person, too, right?" Bastian lifts my hands so that they're wrapped around his neck. He winds both of his arms around my waist, resting his hands ever so slightly higher than my ass.

"I guess I forget that I am. It's just so different than how I grew up." My mind drifts to my childhood home. It was a little Victorian with three bedrooms and a wraparound porch. My mom loved to spend the summers on that porch listening to her windchimes.

"Ah, so your mom wasn't well-off like Patrick?" Bastian guesses.

"No, she was actually richer than Patrick. She liked living simply and having enough without excess. Pretty sure she hated how wasteful and gaudy Patrick was." Needing to change the subject before I start crying over my mom again, I ask, "What's this song? I like it."

"‘Perfectly Broken,' the Banners."

We sway in comfortable silence for the rest of the song. Even when the song ends, Bastian keeps me in his arms. I rest my head against his chest, enjoying the steady beat of his heart. I could stay like this forever.

Bastian eventually breaks away from me, and I see the mural behind him. "What's with the mural?" I ask, nodding toward the painting dominating the back wall.

Spinning around, Bastian looks at where I tipped my head. "Oh, that. It's the story of Aeneas and Dido."

"No, it's not." I shake my head. "Aeneas and Dido never fought. Dido totally would have won if they did, though." The Queen of the Phoenicians was pretty spectacular until Venus made her fall in love with Aeneas.

He chuckles. "You're spot-on about Virgil's version of the Aeneid. Just because his is the most popular doesn't mean it's the only or right interpretation of what happened."

"There's more than one version?" I ask incredulously. My mom was low-key obsessed with the Aeneid. She only ever read me the one Virgil wrote. I would think if anyone knew of an alternative version, it'd be her.

"You betcha."

"Huh, what's different about it? The beginning and end look the same from the mural," I note.

"Yep. The story starts out with Dido, Queen of the Phoenicians, building Carthage. When her city is almost finished, Aeneas and his merry band of rejects rolls up. Dido allows the visitors to rest in her city and throws a banquet for them. Everyone has a grand time, gets shitfaced, and goes to bed.

"Except Aeneas and his bros don't actually get wasted. They're not in Carthage to visit. Instead, they want to take over the city and make it the new Troy. They launch a sneak attack in the wee hours of the morning, hoping to take Dido and her people by surprise.

"Dido, being the badass she is, easily repels the attack, even hungover. She rallies her people, and they successfully drive Aeneas and co. from Carthage. Aeneas begs for mercy when Dido is about to execute him. She grants him a stay of execution but only on the condition that they never set foot in her city again.

"Aeneas gives Dido a potion to bring good fortune as thanks for sparing his life. In a gesture of good faith, Dido consumes the potion. Everything seems fine, and Aeneas sails away.

"However, the next morning, Dido wakes up sick with love for Aeneas. She can't bear the thought of having sent her one true love away. So, she kills herself on a funeral pyre instead of living another moment without him.

"As she's dying, the potion maker rushes to Dido's side. It turns out Aeneas tricked both of them. He asked the potion maker for a love spell to help his love with amnesia remember him. Cliché, I know. But the potion maker bought it. She warned Aeneas that it would drive the recipient mad if she doesn't already love him. He promised that he'd use it carefully.

"But Aeneas didn't have a love because he's a shithead who left his wife to die in the siege of Troy. Aeneas had this potion made out of spite in case he lost. When he did, in fact, lose, he gave the potion to Dido. The potion maker's unable to save Dido but does comfort her in her last agonizing moments while burning alive."

I stare at him speechless for a moment. "Wow, that's somehow even sadder than the original." The potion making would seem like a reach if the Aeneid weren't already steeped in gods, magic, and pettiness.

"Yep. Aeneas sucks ass. Dido is awesome. The whole story is all kinds of fucked-up. Wanna watch the sunrise with me?"

I laugh at his summation of the Aeneid and his abrupt subject change. "I'd love to watch the sunrise with you, Bastian."

He grabs my hand and leads me to the glass wall. There's a door hidden amongst the windows, which Bastian pulls open for me.

We step out onto a patio lit with string lights. It overlooks a pine forest behind the Wyldhart keep. The gray cobblestones have moss creeping between them. Patio furniture is dotted through the space, providing multiple seating areas.

Bastian tugs me to the far end of the patio. There's a wall and a set of stairs separating the lower grassy area from the patio. He hops up to sit on the wall with his legs dangling off the other side. "Need help up?"

Shaking my head, I plant my hands on the top of the wall and jump. I haul myself over the wall easily enough and sit next to Bastian. The wall scrapes my bare thighs, but it doesn't bother me.

Bastian tucks me under his arm, and we watch the sky bleed purple, orange, and pink in companionable silence.

I wish I could end every sleepless night like this.