music masked (blm commission, part i)
Hey all! I’m still working on this fic, but here is the first scene of a commission by @komorebirei for @mlbforblm*. The request was Lukadrien in a 1920s/1930s jazz club! I’m hoping to have the first part of the fic posted sometime in the next several weeks or so.
(Fic title pending–the title you see above is just for this scene. Other scene titles considered were “gay jazz fic” and “fic where they are gay and play jazz and also it’s the 1930s”. Alas, I ultimately rejected those.)
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Patrons stand shoulder-to-shoulder in the small, hot room, but for Luka, it’s just him and his guitar.
He closes his eyes and tilts his head back as his fingers find the strings instinctively, sliding from one chord to the next. He’s following the lead of the trumpet and sax—content to keep rhythm for the combo, the sound of his strings melding with the upright bass wedged behind him.
The stage is small; it’s more of a nook than a proper performance space, with all the musicians squeezed together. Every once in a while, Juleka’s elbow bumps him, though Luka barely registers her touch. What he does notice is the heat: even with the night to chase away some of the sun’s fever, Luka’s hair clings to his forehead, his limbs damp with sweat.
He supposes he could undo a few buttons of his shirt between songs. The Liberty’s dress code is lax—no one would be scandalized if he exposed a bit of skin.
In fact, hardly anyone would see. As always, the lights in the club are dim, with only a few lamps along the wall illuminating the faces in the room.
As their trumpeter, Henri, begins a solo, Luka lets his eyes rove around the room. He recognizes almost every face in the crowd, since most of club’s visitors are regulars. Few find the place by accident—while it’s right in the heart of the city, the entrance is found in an alley off the main street, and the club has a reputation among the upper crust for being seedy.
It’s not, of course. It’s just jazz.
The song moves to a piano interlude, and the space temporarily gets quieter—though really, their pianist knows how to make the keys sing as loud as any brass instrument.
“Wonder how long until we get a noise complaint,” Juleka mumbles.
Luka scoffs. “I’m sure the police are already on their way.”
There’s no law against running a jazz club, per se—but their neighbors aren’t too fond of the loud music and late nights.
“They should just move, if they don’t like the music,” Juleka says, her fingers lazing across the strings. “They can afford it.”
“Maybe they secretly like us,” Luka teases.
That’s doubtful, though. Just this past year, Gabriel Agreste has sent the police to their door fifty-one times.
The song surges again, and it’s too loud for talking. A smile tugs at Luka’s lips as he watches the crowd clap and sway, some of them attempting to dance in the close quarters. Others struggle to hold onto their drinks as they squeeze their way over to the bar, where Anarka happily refills their glasses.
Then Luka spots the stranger.
They’re tucked against the wall by the door, where the light barely reaches. At first, Luka thinks the shadows are making strange patterns on their face—and then he realizes that the person is wearing a mask, pitch black, one that covers the top half of their face. Their outfit is dark, too, making them fade into the wall behind them.
There’s one thing about them that’s light, though: the fair, tousled hair that falls on their forehead and curls over their ears, messy and unstyled.
The stranger’s eyes meet Luka’s, and his fingers lag, fumbling one of the chords. It’s not noticeable to the audience, but when he glances up at Juleka, she’s looking at him strangely.
For the rest of the song, Luka keeps his eyes glued to the frets of his guitar, even though his fingers have known the positions for more than half his life.
When the band goes on break, Luka sets his guitar aside, his eyes drawn to the spot by the door. It’s empty now, and when Luka scans the room, he doesn’t see anyone wearing a mask or a light halo of hair.
“Looking for that masked person?” Juleka asks.
“So you saw them, too,” Luka murmurs. He was starting to wonder if the stranger’s brief appearance was just a trick of the light.
Juleka shrugs. “You could ask around.”
“What if they were a one-time patron?”
“Then they aren’t coming back.”
Luka sighs as Juleka winds her way over to the bar, where their mother is still serving drinks. Usually he appreciates his sister’s bluntness—but not when she steamrolls his daydreaming.
He does ask around. Only a few people saw the stranger before they left; one woman says the person murmured excuse me with a man’s voice, and another patron says that he seemed quiet and polite. No one knows his name or face, though.
Later, when the club has emptied out and Luka is sweeping the floor, he asks his mother if it was someone she knew. (She has strange friends, after all—a mysterious mask-wearer is just the sort of person she might be friends with.)
“Never seen them before,” Anarka grumbles, as she wipes the inside of a glass. “Probably one of Agreste’s goons, looking for a reason to shut us down.”
That feels wrong, but Luka doesn’t push. His mother is right to be paranoid when the man in a mansion is constantly breathing down their necks.
The three of them keep cleaning, and Luka loses himself in his thoughts. He knows it’s not that strange for someone to slip into the club and leave before closing—but someone wearing a mask? What are they trying to hide?
Their face, obviously. And that’s the part Luka can’t stop speculating about.
“You know,” Juleka says, “you don’t have to sleep with every handsome stranger that sets foot in the bar.”
Luka rolls his eyes. “I don’t do that.”
“Only the unmarried ones?”
“Usually,” Luka says drily.
He knows she’s kidding—and she has a point. It doesn’t really matter who the masked stranger is, if Luka doesn’t want anything to do with them.
But Luka craves people’s stories. Because he’s always been more of a listener than a talker, he’s been mistaken for a loner, and that’s stunted his social circle. Learning about people—who they are, where they come from, where they’re going—is his way of feeling less like a recluse.
Almost everyone who’s ever walked through the door of the club, Luka has learned something about them. (Even the policemen, who look increasingly apologetic every time they’re called to investigate a noise complaint.) For this masked person to come and go without telling Luka anything…he can’t help but feel that they’ve slipped through his fingers, like a melody he’s forgotten before he could write it down.
Maybe, though, it’s a tune he’ll hear again.