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[/b][/h3][/sup][/color][/row][row][cell][sup][h2][color=black]MARCO VALENSI[/color][/h2][/sup]
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[sup][color=black][b]█  [sup]   [/sup]act one: way down we go;
        marco - "storm warning"  [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P1nCVWBTays][color=black][u]♫[/u][/color][/url] [/b][/color][/sup][indent][sup][color=a9a9a9] valensi household [color=black]▸[/color] ritman high [football field]
Interacting with [@Prisk],[@Gisk], [color=d5a210]the gang[/color]
[/color][/sup][/indent][center][img]https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/824488408562794527/970459343667494932/unknown.png[/img][/center][sub][color=#2e2c2c]▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔[/color][/sub][/cell][cell][center][img]https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/824488408562794527/967592442486460476/unknown.png[/img][/center][indent][color=dcdcdc][sub] With a hearty sigh, Marco looped his leg around the stool and pulled it beneath him. MS tended to wake him earlier than planned, and this morning was no exception. The last dregs of twilight before dawn slithered through the gap in his thin blue curtains, shining down on his bed behind him. No sense in trying to go back to bed—not like he'd get much sleep, anyways. He just had to find something else to occupy his time. 
Marco reached for his keyboard's music stand, taking the headphones dangling from its corner and pulling them over his head. He went next for the volume knob, praying he didn't erupt into tremors as he deftly adjusted it back and forth. He locked his fingers together and bent them back, stretching his palms outward. He felt the burning in his finger muscles as he worked them, pulling them back as far as they'd go without any further pain. He slipped his hands apart and let them fall to the ivories, fingers parting to spread out from middle C. His eyes drifted up from his hands and towards the sheet music laid out in front of him. 
At least one song a day. That's what he'd sworn when the tremors started—he couldn't let his coordination atrophy any further. He had to beat it back. 
He sighed again, a deep inhale, and an exhale, and [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4FY-57Gt1TM]his fingers set to work.[/url] 

His left hand kept time with a steady bass track, while his right danced up and down the scale. That scale was one originally meant for cello, but with a deft enough hand, a pianist could manage by themselves just fine. Marco's hands moved neatly, skillfully, as his eyes scanned along the sheet music he had set out. He stared straight ahead at the notes, eyes following in time with his movements so that each beat was perfectly on time. The metronome ticked away in his head, his focus on that imaginary rhythm and the movement of the notes on the page drowning out the thoughts burrowing into his subconscious. 
The back of his mind was a war ground of emotion and rumination: His thoughts could go nowhere else but to the meeting today. The reunion, as he returned from New Orleans to the home of the worst years of his life. To his grandparents, who'd taken him in without knowing the burden his undiscovered condition would soon bring. The peers, whom he'd shut out so callously, and who'd most certainly forgotten the name Marco Valensi. And the school, the terrible catch-22; should he attend, and suffer through his lessons, or stay at home and stew in the misery of incapability? 

His thoughts whirred louder than a jet engine in his ears, but Marco didn't flinch. His fingers danced along the ivory keys without missing one single note, hitting each mark with unrelenting precision. As the music slowed and picked up again, he effortlessly followed its pace. His mind screamed out to him, demanding his attention, and he indeed noticed it. But he paid it no heed, staring straight on ahead, stony faced, eyes wide and focused on their task. His hands never faltered, never hesitated, never tired. They brought themselves down onto the last keys with the same righteous passion that he'd kicked off the song with. Not once did his playing sound heartless, or lacking in joy and feeling. Every single note he played was given the same attention as the rest. Even as his thoughts spiraled into darkness, Marco saw ahead of him the black and white keys, and played on. 
Those last few notes rang out in his ears, and he leaned back, finally quietened. 

His stomach rumbled. His grandparents would be up soon. He wanted coffee. He got up, taking of his headphones and standing up from his stool. He pushed it under the piano, turned, left the room, and his phone buzzed. 

[color=black][center]✱ ✱ ✱ ✱ ✱[/center][/color]
Marco had missed the opening party. Of course he had; why wouldn’t he? He’d come to lay his past to rest, not stew in the misery of it. Conversations there would inevitably lead to that—the others testing the waters for what they can discuss of Ritman before someone gets wistful, or morose, or god forbid, nostalgic. The topics of discussion hopefully, by now, will have matured beyond that, his peers becoming acutely aware that dwelling on the past would only make them feel shit. Or shittier. He wasn’t a psychic. For all he knew they felt the exact same he did. 
Which was shit. 

At least, it wasn’t physically shit: He could walk today, which was a marked improvement from a week ago. Still, his stride towards the old field was supported by a cane—more so out of pragmatism than necessity. He didn’t want to have to lean on someone in case his legs tired too quickly. For that same reason, he’d taken a taxi: Driving was risky, and he avoided it whenever possible. On the journey over, he’d avoided looking out the window, and even now he stared straight ahead at the school. He didn’t want to reminisce on the town. He didn’t particularly want to reminisce on his past in general. He’d come here to lay it to rest, put it down. He’d attend school for the last time, when he couldn’t before, and see it off. And then he could finally move on, and forget what had happened to him here. 
Marco’s eyes narrowed as he spotted the figures gathering. His stomach turned and he grimaced, anxiety rumbling through him. It didn’t stop him from walking on—so long as his legs still worked, he’d still moved. But good lord, if he wasn’t dreading this. It would be fine once he got it over with, but re-introductions were always…what had he said earlier?
Right. Shit. 

Marco stepped up towards the group, leaning on his cane. His mouth opened, and hung there for a while, silent. In those few instants, his eyes darted between each member. Most he could remember, but good [i]grief,[/i] a lot could change in seven years, couldn’t it? Still, he could recognise two. 
[color=black]“A—Uh, Nat,”[/color] he nodded. She still followed him on Instagram—one of few he’d still maintained some level of contact with. [color=black]“Billy,”[/color] he turned his head, his stiff smile warming. He couldn’t forget Billy, right? 
[color=black]“Everyone,”[/color] he nodded to the group as a whole. Then, he stopped, paused, as if waiting for something to fall out of the sky so they could talk about that instead. But it didn’t come, and he was forced to make do. 
[color=black]
“It’s, uh, Valensi, by the way. Is this everyone? I’m freezing my balls off here.”[/color]
Rather unwisely, he’d decided to attend in a tank shirt and jeans. 
His glance wandered across the field and towards the mascot, staring up at him with those baleful eyes. He grimaced. [color=black][i]“Jesus,[/i] that’s still there?”[/color] 

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