Glitterwings: like bell chimes

i saw the greatest showman yesterday, mostly just for Jenny Lind. i rly like the vibes i got for it and ended up writing smth glitterwings related. very, very loosely based off the movie.

like bell chimes
The Lexwingtons pick their guests like berries. With scrutiny and dignity and proper inspection. They choose the list for dinner parties and gatherings like a game, like a pastime.

In 19th century Europe, the company you keep is indicative of your worth. They are the finest models in Britain, after all.

She hears him before she sees him - Swedish and tenor, like honey, and gold and summer.

Charmaine Lexwington is not one to praise art lightly. She’s heard it all, seen it all - choreography and lighting and music - grander than life, grander than the world.

(This young man is the world.)

There is no shyness when she waltzes up to him, no modesty when she strikes out a hand and asks for his name and gives her introduction.

There is, however, curiosity in her eyes and wonder in her words.

“Charmaine Lexwington. The Swedish Nightingale, right? It's a pleasure to run into you at this party.”

She hears his speaking voice for the first time.

“The pleasure is mine.”

It's like bell chimes.

She wonders if she would like him half as much if it wasn't his voice that was her first impression. If it were his face or his smile or his poetry or an off-handed joke he penned himself.

He confesses, more shyly than he should, that he's not much to look at.

But when a boy can sing like that, he doesn't have to be.

They become partners, in more ways than one, and draw up plans to bring music to the world. You can't confine a songbird, after all.

“I just think we can do better than England,” Min explains, as her cousin questions these plans.

“I've got a friend in Montreal,” Lenin says. “You could take the act there?”

“Canada? Lenny, please, we could take on America.”

“Canada is in North America,” he deadpanned.

“Please, it's the 19th century. The States are revolutionary in more ways than one,” Charmaine Lexwington tilts her chin up, as if addressing the stars themselves. “Think modern.”

America is young. It is new, with dashing railroads and trains and miles and miles of corn. With flimsy bronze statues and straight roads and an uncrushable spirit and a penchant for being romanticised.

And Min? Well. She's clever. Success in the performing arts can be business more than skill, and dear Author, she is both.

“''Voice of a nightingale. Heart of an angel.''” She moves her hand across and above as she speaks, as if lighting stars. “How about that?”

“I like it,” he grins. “But, what about you?”

“The name of Charmaine Lexwington will attract crowds alone,” her smile is cocky.

Daulis Song laughs and it's bell chimes once more.

At after-parties, his eyes are sparkling. He always salutes her with a raised glass.

Sparkles in his eyes. Sparkles in the wine.

And in her stomach, too.

Daulis Song is not one for photos. Still, he smiles besides her and welcomes the camera flash. The lens seems much less intimidating when one is beside Charmaine Lexwington.

These photos make their way into newspapers, accompanied with praise.

Hand in hand, they run through the streets of New York City. They take walks along the waterfront, and they sit in coffeeshops for hours.

And they talk. Of parties and plans.

“There's nothing in Connecticut,” Daulis insists, as Min stabs each state on a borrowed map with a pin.

“There's nothing yet,” she bops him on the nose. “But with us, there'll be more to that place than suburbs and Mark Twain.”

“What do you think the future will be like?” Min asks, propping her face up with both hands.

(Conversations like these always seem to take place on trains.)

“Well, music will always be there. Poetry will always be there. Where ever we are, whenever we are, people will still love art.”

“And will they love us?”

He’s smiling, and his voice is still like summer. “Depends on what they call art.”

But it's winter now, and bells are tolling.