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A Killer Queen

meaningless [C]ode
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ivan vasiliev.





































  • mood



    concentrated.

















C-Minor. C-Minor-Major7. C-Minor7, and C-Minor 6.

The beginning chords of My Funny Valentine. Straight forward and all the notes were relatively near each other. Considering the number of times they played this song, Ivan could play the entire thing without looking down at the plastic keys. Light eyes drifted along the bar, moving from his fellow musicians to the patrons. He noted a few familiar faces that always showed up on Friday night, and of course, a few tourists. It was only natural that those unfamiliar with the city would drop it and enjoy a show along with their three-hundred-dollar dinners.


Ab Major7. F Minor7. D Minor7b5. G7b9.


His fingers strained are they were forced to open further across the keys. Light eyes darted back to the instrument, focusing on keeping his fingers aligned as he winced slightly. The sharp feeling elicited distant memories of physical therapy. How his injured hand was forced to pry itself apart, how the doctors urged him to push past the pain. The only way his hand could regain movement was if he pushed forward.

The pain was agonizing, even if for a short moment. Ivan's fingers clenched as he stared at the folder in front of him. There was no stopping in the middle of a song, he simply had to bite down and keep playing.

Eb Major7. F Minor7. G Minor7. F Minor 7.

Simple enough, only had to bring his hand slightly lower on the keys. Gently, his fingers pressed against the plastic, careful not to let his glove slip on the C#.

Eb Major 7. G7. C Minor. Bb Minor 7. A7.

At the very least the singer made sure he wasn't playing too fast. Normally, his foot kept him in check. The rhythmic bounces would align with his playing, but now it was replaced by the gentleman singing. A new face he didn't recognize, but he was up to par with the rest of the musicians. Everyone was in line with the lyrics, everyone was in line with the tempo, and no one overpowered anyone else. It was the perfect ambiance for the now bustling bar as everyone turned up hoping to unwind. A large majority of the tables were filled, mostly with men who had a glass in one hand and a cigar in the other all captivated by their own conversations.

Ivan wondered what they all spoke about. A few whispers lingered through the air, however, were too quiet for him to overhear. Even the voices of those that sat in the front row were drowned out by his notes and the bass beside him.

The man continued through the song, tearing his attention away from those men, in their dazzling designer suits and eye-catching coats. As the December wind approached, it would become a more common look as those men attempted to show off their wealth.

F minor7. Bb7b9.

Eb Major . . .

His foot pressed against the pedals, stretching the note out as the song finished. He sighed at the pain, rubbing between his knuckles as he rose from his seat. That was the whole set finished for the night, two hours with a short break in between. No wonder his hand was on fire!

Before the double bass player could get a word out, Ivan dismissed himself with a quick, "We will speak later," before glancing around the bar once again. Normally, after a set, the Russian would sit himself down at a table, however, was aware that would take a seat away from a potential customer. He couldn't risk that considering how busy things were. Instead, he took up a seat at the bar, hoping to merely get himself a few drinks to ease the burning pain. Normally, a few painkillers would ease the pain but there were too many eyes on him. Too many whispers that included his name, too many people were aware of his existence and he needed to blend in for a while.

His hand came up, signaling the bartender. "May I get a Martinez?" he asked, "And, on the side, a shot of gin, please."

Maybe an extra shot of gin was a bad idea, but under the heavy light, the rows and rows of liquor looked enticing. He stared at his own warped reflection on the bottles, allowing his body to lean forward. Having been so focused on his now trembling hand, Ivan forgot about the equal pain across his split eyebrow from the previous night. Fingers gingerly traced across the butterfly bandage, wincing slightly at the discoloration of his brow. It seemed every time he came in to play, Ivan was decorated with a new injury.


































my funny valentine



chet baker










โ™กcoded by uxieโ™ก
 

moonrise

โ˜•๏ธ status update: แด…แด‡แด€สŸษชษดษข แดกษชแด›สœ sสœษชแด›; สŸแดแดก แด€แด„แด›ษชแด ษชแด›ส
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My Interest Check
He's a little dead inside . . .
leonard krรผger
Friday evenings were peak business hours here at Raye's Club, your typical โ€“but in truth, not very typicalโ€“ Manhattan bar. Nested on a busy corner of a street that was relatively clean by New York standards, it wasn't surprising that it attracted quite a bit of foot traffic, even during the slower days of the week. Business was bustling as usual for the front and back operations. Nearly every chair, booth, and stool was being occupied as friends, coworkers, and strangers chattered over the classy jazz music being performed by the live band.

My Funny Valentine. A classic. Yet this rendition felt a little different to him somehow and whatever it was seemed to be linked to...the piano accompaniment? Briefly, Leonard's gaze fell on the pianist, the Russian man whose name and reputation often slipped from the tongues of patrons regardless if he was in that day performing or not. His name was Ivan and yet the rumors painted a picture of him living the lives of multiple men. A drug dealer, a runaway, a discarded scion of some rich family, a hitman, an underground fighter...the list went on and on.

Typically, Leonard didn't concern himself with prying into the lives of the bar's patrons. People didn't exactly need to be asked to start divulging secrets and details, not by him anyway. The alcohol usually did it for them both. But he wouldn't be much of a bartender if half his brain didn't also act as a library for containing information both tedious and sensitive while he was working up front. That was the arrangement after all. At the counter he was a bartender tasked with gathering intel and keeping an eye on suspicious individuals. The pianist was one such individual but he wasn't on the high priority list...for now.

"Leo. Raye said he needs ya to cover for Scotty tonight," a coworker whispered into his ear as he worked at polishing a glass. Whenever Raye needed anything from him, it wasn't a question. Leonard bit back a sigh and nodded. It was going to be a long night.

But apparently not a typical one. Because the pianist he'd been watching earlier had made his way to the counter and up close Leonard could discern quite a few details that would've otherwise gone unnoticed from the distance. The bandage on the brow, those stiff, trembling fingers, the stress and exhaustion hiding in the depth of those grey-blue eyes he could stare straight into given their similar heights.

Ivan wanted a Martinez, yet another classic, halfway between the more popular choices of a Manhattan and a Martini these days. He gave a soft hum of acknowledgement in response though it couldn't be heard over the rest of the noise around them. Grabbing the bottle of gin he'd be needing for both requests, Leonard went ahead and filled a shot glass for Ivan to occupy himself with while he worked on the Martinez, sliding it over with the trained grace of a skilled bartender. In all honesty bedrest would've been a better cure for this man's ails but Leonard wasn't wearing his doctor's coat right now. Nor was he even legally a doctor.

"That looks pretty nasty," he loosely referred to the cut on the man's brow as he fetched the glass bottles of sweet Vermouth, Maraschino liqueur, and orange bitters, "did you return the favor?" Was the man even okay to be performing and walking around like this? A part of him wanted to offer to patch it up for the man since he couldn't be sure that it wouldn't get infected without having a proper look. Plus, there was also a potential concussion to be considered from any blow to the head. The bruising was still setting in from what he could tell.

But Raye's policy was that any potential 'patients' needed to go through him first. Leonard wasn't supposed to be making charity cases out of the customers.

Leonard also wasn't the well-trained dog that Raye wanted him to be though. "Ibuprofen or aspirin?," he asked as he stirred the concoction with a long rod, ice clinking lightly in the mixing cup. Maybe he shouldn't be casually offering drugs to a man he just met but it was a decent way to gauge what kind of person this Ivan was. There was a bit more to this bartender than being good for wiping counters, listening to sob stories, and making drinks. He kept a bottle of both painkillers hidden behind the counter for the nights when the migraines kept him company.
  • Outfit


coded by reveriee.
 

A Killer Queen

meaningless [C]ode
Roleplay Availability
Roleplay Type(s)



ivan vasiliev.





































  • mood



    concentrated.

















Raye didn't seem to mind his injuries as long as he diligently played the piano for the duration of happy hour. Ivan could come in, beaten, bloody, coughing up a lung, but as long as he played the notes along with the other musicians, Raye didn't bat an eye. He seemed to be aware of the man's alternative occupation, however, never allowed him to get much closer than an employee.

What did Raye have to hide that not even another criminal could see?

Drugs? Guns? Illegal gambling rings?

Then again, what wasn't there to hide? Everyone in this city had their secrets. Take, for example, the man behind the bar. All Ivan knew was his name -- Leonard Krรผger -- and the slew of rumors that chained him down. Everyone loved making up their own reasons for why people behaved a certain way, or why they looked a certain way. No one could escape those lenses. Not even a simple man trying to serve drinks for a living. Apparently, the man had a past lover that disappeared without a trace and everyone assumed the worst. Murder, however commonplace in the underworld, didn't seem very fitting for the man in white.

"Of course I did," he simply responded, fumbling with the edge of his glove. Although the temptation to take the glove off and allow his muscle to stretch, he couldn't do that in a public place. Too many prying eyes, too many potential questions, too many alarms raised. Ivan simply shook off the feeling, gently clasping his own hand, massaging the bones as he eased down his nerves. "He was asking for it," he continued. Ivan knew better than to parade his own private details about his affairs, but he could at least humor the man.

"Grown men who act like children are the worst to deal with," he sighed, watching the man continue stirring his drink. That's all he wanted at the moment. The smooth Martinez going down his throat, easing the rest of his pains. All the man wanted that night was a gram, but not for three hundred dollars. He wasn't stupid, he knew the prices like the back of his hand, but he was apparently dealing with an idiot.

Admittedly, this wasn't his usual dealer, but it was asking the shady man in the bathroom or dipping into his own supply, and hoping no one would notice. Getting caught taking from his own route was worse than any of the punches that were belted out that night.

"We had a disagreement and he thought the only way to solve that said disagreement was to punch me in the face," he shook his head.

The stranger thought he was a federal agent because of his "suspicious" behavior and nearly escaped his grasp. However, Ivan didn't allow the sucker punch to sway his hunt for the white powder. The temptation to break his nose was strong, but he was aware those rumors would only spread. Reluctantly, the dealer was shown mercy in exchange for 100 dollars knocked off the price.

Although simply tempted to take the bag and run, he knew it would all come back to bite him.

"Are you offering me . . ." he stared at Leonard, prying his gaze off the shining liquor bottles. "Painkillers with my drink?"

A terrible mix in his experience. Although intelligent enough to know never to mix alcohol with any type of medication, a few of his contacts were not so bright. His hand ran along his bandaid once more with a sigh. Did he want to take the medication, or take the alcohol? He took in a sharp sigh, allowing his head to rest in his hand as his body slumped against the bar.

"Leave drink, get me the Ibuprofen."



































my funny valentine



chet baker










โ™กcoded by uxieโ™ก
 

moonrise

โ˜•๏ธ status update: แด…แด‡แด€สŸษชษดษข แดกษชแด›สœ sสœษชแด›; สŸแดแดก แด€แด„แด›ษชแด ษชแด›ส
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He's a little dead inside . . .
leonard krรผger
Leonard listened quietly at the man's vague words concerning the story behind the head injury that at least didn't seem to look too serious. Apparently, the other man had been asking for it. That was usually how it went these days, right? If you were out past a certain hour by yourself then you were asking for trouble. If you were somewhere you had no business being then you were asking for trouble. If you looked at the wrong person a certain way then you were asking for trouble. It almost seemed to Leonard that people were eager to dish out trouble and be asking for it themselves. How could he think otherwise when said troublemakers often found themselves bleeding in his father's clinic pretty much every day?

But he definitely couldn't argue with Ivan's point about immature men. There were a bunch of those out there. And a good number of them among Leonard's more...unsavory coworkers and clientele too. He almost thought to point out that he'd seen many self-proclaimed grown men cry like babies from getting stitches, but ultimately thought against it. Raye didn't exactly want him advertising the 'family business' these days. Leonard's actual clients were always directly referred to him, and apart from the standard medical details regarding allergies and health conditions, it wasn't his place to be asking for anything else. He wasn't even allowed to accept payment from the men or charge them. Raye handled those things, and while Leonard didn't exactly have much reason to complain about the amount of money he was being given to provide treatment and keep his mouth shut, it left him feeling lacking in a number of other ways.

Like many doctors, he was on call. Except he wasn't actually a doctor. He was a man on a leash. Raye may be holding that leash right now but there were many more powerful and dangerous men standing behind Raye.

Leonard hummed at the following statement, loosely painting a mental image of the person Ivan might have come into contact with. Short-tempered, unreasonable, violent...unpleasant. "Well, I can't imagine what issue he had with your face in particular." His words were light, perhaps even a bit flirty if Ivan wanted to take it that way. Bartenders were supposed to butter people up a little to get them drinking but in this case Leonard simply wanted to lighten the air a little. This pianist was radiating all kinds of tension.

He did smile at the next question and nodded approvingly as the man before him chose to forgo the alcohol. A wise decision. "You saved me the trouble of having to ask you to pick one," he explained with a hint of relief, elaborating further, "typically I find that grown men who act like children hate being asked to pick between two things they want." His words were loose, referencing Ivan's own words from earlier. Yet, Leonard had seen men take medicine with alcohol before, and always without his encouragement. It never turned out well for them, but if everyone was good at listening and learning their lessons there wouldn't be as much need for doctors would there?

"But you do have me curious..." Leonard trailed off as he moved to set the glass containing the liquor his coworker would likely be downing later aside before the pianist could change his mind, "have you tried it before? Alcohol with Ibuprofen. Or...are you among a certain, exceptionally rare class of individuals that actually reads labels?" He looked at the man sitting before him with a hint of intrigue, sliding forward a glass of cold water and hiding the tiny bottle of Ibuprofen under his other hand.

"The only other alternative I can think of is that you've got good instincts. Everyone I meet usually falls somewhere between these three categories." Yes, all people could be classified as either crazy, cautious, or lucky. Which one would Ivan be?
  • Outfit


coded by reveriee.
 

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