"Sweet Marcella...
I hope your suffering was brief
I pray that all the little angels
That watch over all the little
Boys and girls came
And said sweet things to you..."
Unlike many of his songs, his voice had taken on a whisper quality, haunted, afraid and the odd twilight-eyes rimmed with kohl were downcast. His red and black hair, that almost looked natural, fell against his pale ivory cheeks as he sang, bent over his guitar. The collar of his black vinyl coat was somewhere around his mid-back, sliding down to reveal the Japanese kanji on his right shoulder. 'Willow', as was his stage name.
"Sweet Marcella...
I hope your parents will
Forgive me and you will
Smile down on me
Sweet Marcella..."
He picked notes out on the strings, in harmony to his soft voice. The listeners stopped their idle chatter, many to watch the sorrowful musician. He was feminine, lips smeared with dark red, almost black, lipstick and fingernails painted with the same shade polish. On his back were two tattoos, a stylized feather between his shoulder blades and, hidden by his coat, the curves of a snake that wound around his right hip.
The people moved to the music, sometimes hips swaying, other times just the subtle rocking. Few knew the tale behind the words, the sadness in the musician's heart, or where the melancholy child's melody came from. A pair of violet eyes with angular kohl markings watched from behind the bar, his lips pulled in an indecipherable smile, eyes veiled with 'madness'. He knew. He knew of the child, 'Marcella' which was not as it seemed. He knew the burning that drove the musician to change his hair color, and the reason behind the third, hidden tattoo, retribution, a winged serpent on the bottom of his right foot.
"A beer." Crimson eyes framed by dark lines commanded him. Malik Ishtal, bartender, crowd pleaser and any damn thing he wanted to be, gave the smile he was known for. Insanity.
"Coming up..." Malik grabbed one of the nondescript gray nozzles and filled a tall glass, placing it before the spiky haired underage drinker. Large violet eyes attracted his attention then.
"Juice?" A question.
"Spiked?” Malik asked, teasing and leaning forward, pouty lips making him look like some sort of porn star. The violet-eyed boy blushed, making him a miniature blushing copy of the crimson-eyed teen.
"Back off." The taller one said, obviously a player of such games.
"Don't want to play?" Ishtal asked, grinning wickedly, but handing over a can of orange juice and the beer.
"Oi! Yuugi-kun! Yami-kun!" Three teens came up behind the twins. Malik's eyes narrowed, all three teens were wearing red stud earrings.
"Persians..." Malik hissed, under his breath. The taller one, the one he guessed was named ‘Yami’, looked over at him.
"Did you say something?"
"Maybe. That will be 3.50," Malik informed him coolly, and then to the smaller one, 'Yuugi', "and 1.75,"
Yami stared at the tan bartender. 3.50? 1.75? It clearly said that the beer was 3.00 and the juice 1.25... Was he jacking up the prices?
"You seem to be confused..." Yami started.
"Oh no, we charge extra for Persians." Malik taunted, and then slid down the bar to do a little dance and pour more beer to a longhaired boy with sharp eyes. It was then that Yami noticed the Egyptian boasted a silver ear cuff, the sign of the 'Tragediennes', another gang. The sharp-eyed boy didn't wear a gang earring, but it was highly unlikely that he was not a gang member around these parts, either you were part, or you were an enemy.
"Tragedienne." Yami snarled. Yuugi looked up at his big brother with those wide eyes of his, sipping his juice.
"Calm down, aniki..." Yuugi smiled, he seemed like such a little angel. In reality, Yuugi was faster with a bit of chain that anyone Yami knew, and twice as deadly.
"He's right, Yami, this is Tragedienne territory..." Anzu Mazaki, a thin, almost anorexic looking, girl commented lazily. Her blue eyes were also innocent looking and she seemed ditzy when at school, but like Yuugi she was handy with a weapon.
"He has no right." Yami snarled.
"I'm with Yami on this one." Katsuya Jounouchi said, slamming his fist into his palm. He was the goofy blond one, but as 'talented' with a piece of lead pipe as Anzu was with her small revolver.
"Calm down, this place is crawling with Tragediennes..." Hiroto Honda, the last of their little leader-group of Persians intervened the two 'hotter' of the group.
"Fine, I came to hear Yanagi." Yami snarled, and turned to look at the musician. Yanagi, Willow, Seto, Allecto, Seth... he had many names. And many connections. Yami was a big fan of the melancholy musician, loving the style and guitar that often haunted his dreams.
"He is quite a player, eh?" Jou asked, slinging his arm casually around Yami's shoulders.
"Far more than you'll ever be." Honda joked.
"...I'll visit you there, someday
Hell be willing and Heaven is gone
Sweet Marcella..." The song ended and the lanky youth stood up from the stage and walked off into what the crowd assumed was a changing room, but in truth was a large closet. Seto, or Willow as he was now, put the guitar in the case lovingly and walked out the other side. His plan was to slip into the crowd and get a free beer off of Malik. Funny, how life never went according to plan, never for Willow anyways.

aniki big brother