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Swordsmen don’t make good musicians.
Back when Leonardo still went to sword practice, before he’d come to earn the knights’ scorn, he’d attempted to give lessons to the squires he’d been closest to. Defensive posture doesn’t lend itself to the openness required for performance, as if one could squeeze out midnight sonatas or airy bagatelles whilst impersonating a rock. They’d get too caught up in the visuals of a performance rather than the sound. An instrument cannot be learned in the same manner that one approaches swinging a sword. Brute force cannot coax a melody to life any more than one could squeeze blood from a stone. To say nothing of the ambyssmal state of the squires’ hands.
A musician’s hands are their livelihood. Of course, one could argue they are also of great importance to a swordsman; however, the average squire failed to realise that. Sprained wrists, cracked nails, and broken fingers aren’t uncommon among the trainees. Several even saw them as a point of pride, proof of dedication to their training. Such declarations never failed to fill Leonardo with dismay.
Eventually, the lessons stopped. Leonardo still threw himself into music with fervor, but he gave up on trying to share his passion with the others. It was an isolation that began before his self-imposed solitude, before he bore witness to his mother’s slaying. A sour note that forever changed his life’s symphony.
Leonardo, a mere spectator in his own body, watches the great Leovald haul water like an ox. Training, the brute calls it, desperate to whip his borrowed body into the shape of his (frankly ridiculous) standards. Not being able to feel the aching muscles or rope-burned palms is a small mercy, not enough to forgive the rough treatment of his hands, but it is not as though Leonardo has any way to voice his complaints. He is nothing more than an unseen observer, whose commentary never reaches anyone else.
How do you manage to inhale all that? We have the same-sized stomach, you know. Of course, the lack of an audience never dissuaded him from performing.
“Is it the food costs that worry you? I’m inexperienced, but I’ll work harder. Or maybe, I should cut down on what I eat…”
It’s the same curve of his lips and honeyed tenor, but the lyrics are all wrong. Words are spoken with a cadence that isn’t his; there’s none of his sweeping hand gestures nor cutting wit, only aching earnestness and, at times, startling intensity.
The innkeeper clicks his tongue. “Am I so stingy a boss? Stop being ridiculous and eat up.”
Leovald doesn’t need to be told twice; he tucks into the remainder of his food with gusto. It must taste good for you to eat so much. Then again, Leovald didn’t seem like the picky type; Leonardo supposed few in the king’s army could afford to be. He watches as the sandwich is brought to his lips. Another bite is taken. As with the previous ones, Leonardo is unable to taste it.
The innkeeper’s theatrics make Leonardo think perhaps the man has entered the wrong profession; he would not be out of place on the stage. Still, it makes for great entertainment, watching him monologue in his ridiculous garb. For all his quips, the innkeeper’s plan works beautifully. Viscount Lopez is a blubbering wreck, desperation making him malleable, helpless to do nothing but dance to the innkeeper’s tune. Briefly, Leonardo wonders if, in his drunken stupor, he looked similarly pathetic in the innkeeper’s eyes, then immediately dismisses the thought as foolish. When it came to buffoonery, Viscount Lopez was truly unrivaled.
“Excellent work~” The innkeeper praises, still nestled in his arms. Leovald marches through the forest, giving no indication of slowing or setting the innkeeper down.
“Um…Leonardo?” The innkeeper squirms. Leovald does not loosen his hold. “You don’t have to carry me the whole way, you know…”
“You’re tired. Rest.” Leovald states, ignoring any further protest. Leonardo can’t do anything but watch as the innkeeper’s eyes flutter shut, his head resting on Leonardo’s shoulder. It’s…an unexpectedly tender scene. Dare he say…romantic? Using a bridal carry of all things…wouldn’t it be easier to sling him over our shoulder?
Returning to the inn is something of a relief, until it very suddenly isn’t. Leovald carries the innkeeper to his room; nothing strange about that. Neither is Leovald removing the innkeeper’s mask, cloak, and shoes. It is only when his hands hover over the innkeeper’s pants that Leonardo takes issue.
Whoa, hold on a moment! Isn’t this a bit much!? Is the great hero Leovald secretly some kind of pervert??? And with Leonardo’s own two hands!
But no, the hands pull themselves back, and Leovald, talking to himself in Leonardo’s voice (a sound he’s not sure he’ll ever get used to), simply mutters. “No, that should be enough.”
Thank heavens.
Leonardo’s awareness comes and goes. He doesn’t know how long it's been since he was last roused, but what he does know is that the innkeeper is suffering from a nightmare. His face is pinched, body tense as a harsh sound escapes through gritted teeth. Leovald gathers the innkeeper into his arms.
“It’s okay,” He soothes, voice rough from sleep.
The innkeeper wakes with a jolt, crying out. Leovald continues to soothe him, not reacting even when the innkeeper’s nails dig into his skin.
“...Leo?”
“You were having a nightmare,” Leovald explains gently, pulling him close.
Leovald rubs the trembling innkeeper’s back. The rhythmic circles spiralling hymns of affection are almost too gruesome to bear witness to. It’s a moment between lovers, or there enough about; an intimate scene solely for them. Leonardo has never felt so much a voyuer. He’s grateful when his consciousness ebbs, delivering him from this painfully tender scene.
Leovald is always watching Issac. Leonardo has long since memorised the curve of his jaw, the color of his hair, and the mischievous twinkle in his eye. He’s certain Leovald has, yet he continues to chase after that visage, getting closer and closer. Fingers smooth chestnut strands with a devotion befitting a saint. The same hands that have stained themselves crimson with violence are so gentle with Issac.
My apostle, Leovald had called him. Leonardo finds it fitting. Even before this revelation, Leovald would stare at Issac like a dying man finally being granted salvation.
Leonardo had thought he’d grown accustomed to being the third wheel. Then Issac is pressing feather-light kisses to his nose, eyelids, and even the corner of his mouth. It’s about time, Leonardo would say if not for the fact that this was his body and that Issac was pulling this stunt in front of everyone in the Ertinez household.
From his periphery, he can see his sister squealing in delight. Worse still, his father watches misty-eyed while the surrounding knights shift uncomfortably. Raul screeches, covering Vittorio’s eyes, an action Leonardo wishes he could mimic. But no, Leovald returns the gesture, lips lingering a touch longer than Issac’s had.
God or whoever else is listening, please let Leovald regain his original body soon.
Leonardo was happy they were finally progressing past the stage of tedious pining, truly he was, but the thought of them taking things further while he was an unwilling spectator was too much.
It’s a relief to have his body back, until it isn’t.
“Why are you letting him slip away!?” Celestina demands.
“Slip away from what? The imaginary scenario in your head?”
Celestina stomps on his foot for that one.
“Ow!” Biting back a curse, he glares at her. Celestina is unmoved.
“You’re a terrible liar. So what if Leovald is a hero? So are you! I’ve seen the two of you together; you’re the perfect pair!” Celestina despairs.
No, she’s seen Leovald in his body, but he doesn’t correct this misunderstanding. It would only raise more questions and worsen his steadily growing headache.
“You like Issac, don’t you?” Leonardo prompts. “Don’t you want him to be happy? There’s no one else who could make him happier.”
“No one except the idiot brother right in front of me!” Celestina snaps. “Don’t fool yourself with that martyr drivel; you’ve sacrificed yourself enough. It’s admirable to put your beloved’s happiness first, but it shouldn’t come at the cost of your own.”
Celestina’s sorrow is worse than her wrath. Leonardo makes his excuses and takes his leave. As he marches away, soldiers look at him with undisguised pity. Leonardo vastly prefers their old tune of disdain.
Still, he’s happy for them.