aubade no.3 in Bb major: perihelion
woe. some of my fav fic snippets be upon ye (ft. Jin POV)
(Because that Tohmaāno matter how much he silently bitches to himself over breakfast,Ā that lazy, loafing bastardĀ āisĀ yours.Ā
You remember. The day heād knelt in front of you, the sole devotee of a dying god: pledging fealty like a murmured prayer. Youād told himāwhatās that? Say it again for me.Ā Just to fuck with him, youād say, keeping the real reason under wraps.Ā
ā¦ If a man cradles your heart in his hands, wellāyou better be pretty damn sure he wonāt take off at the first opportunity.Ā
This, too, youāll remember: how heād knelt for you. Pressed a kiss to your hand in a tender promise, intertwined your fingers in an ironclad oath. Not because you commanded itāno, heād kissed your hand and crept into your heart, just for one simple reason. Desire damns him; hell, maybe one day itāll be the death of you both. Your ever-loyal lapdog, your loving hound. Heāll shadow your footsteps, even if it drags him down to the depths of hell.)
Itās late enough that the moonās deigned to grace its grand audience of two, painting the room in shades of silver. Youād sometimes complain that your momās favorite child was actually good olā Yamaha-kun; hell, youād joked that you were starting to get a little jealous of those glossy keys, for all the attention she paid themābut there was no swaying her. The piano bench was her second home.Ā Ā
She kept calling her compositions lackluster, but that couldnāt have been farther from the truth. Sheād make a song for anything, everything. Nocturne No.3 āMy Sonās Sleepy Smileā (sweet as hell, but so damn embarrassingā¦) rings out softly into the silence. Hazily, you watch the world outside being slowly blanketed with endless whiteāmaybe thatās why the sound of her voice sounds muffled; maybe thatās why her laughter sounds like the faint crackle of static, instead of the sweet, gentle notes of sepia-toned song.Ā
You dream, and you dream, and you dream. You want to go back. You want to wrench the goddamn grandfather clock from where it hangs. You want to say:Ā Ā
Hey, Mom. You can tease me all you wantāas a kid, for being too tiny to reach Yamaha-kunās pedals. As a teenager, for my long-held vendetta against Liszt. Even now, you can drag my sleepy ass from my comforters all you want. Iām so damn sick of waking up nauseous from nostalgiaāI feel your absence cut through me as keenly as a wound.Ā
Somethingās fucking breaking, and it isnāt anything physical.Ā
(For fuckās sake, Jin Kamurai, keep it together. Thereās a thousand reasons why you canāt go falling apart now, even if your heart shudders and shrieks like a wounded animal at each heartrending note of grief. And yetāyou canāt help but wonder. Is that the face you made at your motherās funeral?Ā
Your mother, whoād danced with you across the kitchen tiles, stepping on your toes no less than sixteen times. Your mother, whose face always lit up when her hands were gliding across the keys. Your mother, whoād clapped with heartfelt joy at your mediocre performances, even if you fucked up the key change and were fighting a losing battle against the sudden onslaught of sharps. Your mother, singing to her favorite flowers perched on the windowsill; you never had the heart to tell her she was off key.Ā
But her songs slowly began to desert her. Her beloved flowers on the windowsill began to wither, and the sweetly chirpingĀ shimaĀ enagaĀ on the eaves, one by one, fled for the winter. Thatās why you took it up in her stead. She couldnāt muster the energy to make it to the piano bench, much less make it out of her roomāso youād run through Ravelās La Valse every morning because sheād always been a hopeless romantic: you could give her a glimpse into the glittering world of waltzing couples; the great blaze of a golden chandelier; the mad joy of being alive.Ā
āIch grolle nichtā from Schumannās Dichterliebe. Mahler 5 Adagietto. Tchaikovskyās Pas de Deux. You knewāof course you fuckingĀ knewĀ that no matter how much you tried to fill the endless, aching emptiness that howled within her heart and threatened to swallow her whole, it would never be enough.Ā
But if it made her smileāhell, if it made the light in her eyes return for even a momentāthen maybe you could coax it to linger just a little longer and stay the night.)
ā¦ Sometimes, when you look in the mirror; it pisses you off. All you can see are your fatherās featuresābut then you remember. At least you have your motherās eyes, your motherās smile, your motherās laugh, your motherās music. ā¦ Do they see their sister, reflected back? Does it haunt them, the same way your mother haunts you every time you rest your fingers against those gleaming keys? Do they braid their hair in memory of a ghost looking back?Ā
ā¦ Thatās right. You donāt play piano anymore for such a simple reason as āliking itā. Some habits are engraved so deeply within your bodyāblood and bone, mind and marrowāthat they're as easy as breathing. Just as birds take to the sky, and fish swim through the sea. Whenever the weight of missing her becomes too hard to bear, you keep good olā Yamaha-kun company, filling the room with the racing notes of Ravelās La Valse.
Whenever you rest your hands on these gleaming keys, you feel young again. You hear the echo of a laughing kid who danced across the kitchen tiles without a care in the world. ā¦ The warmth of someone else beside you on the piano bench chases away the trembling in your handsābecause Frostheimās winters are relentless, thatās all. All those years spent trembling in the cold slowly melt away; some frigid, frozen thing within you begins to thaw.
Liebestraum No.3 fills the room. Itās not like you can recite those sappy-ass stanzas by heart, but you get the gist of it. ā¦ Because Mom told you, all those years ago.
ā¦Truth is, youāre so damn scared.Ā
Because youāre starting to grow fond of the noise. Yapping brats. Tohmaās taunts. Hinaās laughter. Stolen cigarettes and stolen monocles. Two certain someones nagging you to eat. The taste of home. The sun at your window, banging at your door. Chiikawa-themed bentos. Your hound: calling your name, calling you home. Your jester, giggling into your shoulder like a fool. You close your eyes and think: I could listen to this song forever.Ā
germansingergirl
2087
pixelskylines
jacobvanloon
prguitarman
