Valya leaned against the back wall of the small cafe, his glasses covering bloodshot eyes, and beanie pulled so low over his head that the only thing that could really be seen were the sharp cuts of his cheekbones and jaw, and his slightly abused lips. Yesterday, he’d been drunk as a skunk. He didn’t remember what he’d done, all that he knew was that he woke up in his bed alone, and Sima was nowhere to be found, so all was as it should be. He’d been getting restless the last few months, and it’d been his mother’s suggestion that he’d take a week off from solely catering to Serafima’s needs, and focus a bit on himself. He’d done so grudgingly, but as the week went on, he’d found himself relaxing.
It’d been five whole years of constant focused work and fatherhood, and to a social butterfly as himself, it was a strain not being able to flit around as often as he’d used to. He didn’t regret anything about his life, other than not being able to take some time to do what he wanted to do. He’d written at least 25 songs, and it was amazing. He wanted to be in the studio recording, but he also wanted to just continue writing. Thats why he was here. At Pendulum.
Pendulum was a little hole in the wall Wizarding joint with four things going for it. A small stage, great acoustics, endless booze, and a great crowd. This was the place that a younger Valentin used to go to when he was just starting off, and tried to get his muse started. He’d gone there to have his music critiqued as harsh as possibly, and it’d been how he’d gotten to be such a perfectionist. He hadn’t been here in years, and so far no one had noticed him. His long fingers wrapped around the cup holding the cheap booze, and he downed it. Grimacing, he was about to go to the bar to grab another when over the microphone, he heard the dj of the open mic night call out for ‘V’. Valya felt this surge of anticipation and grabbed the handle of his guitar case before making his way to the stage.
It took him a few minutes to get seated, but soon he was draped across the stool, the midnight blue guitar resting on his thigh. His voice was low and raspy, his accent light and almost indiscernible. He introduced himself by his little nickname that he’d dropped, and began to sing. His focus narrowed to the music, and so when a waitress came over with a drink at the end of his set, and gestured him over to the table in the corner. He grabbed his guitar and drink, and walked over, a cheery smile on his face.
“Thanks, stranger…” He rumbled thankfully, raising his glass up.
