(Original prompt from this AU seed by @moonraccoon-exe and reblog-tags by @asoeiki // musical inspiration is Bryson Andres covering “Secrets” by One Republic HERE)
Quick Fic Pick 36: till all my sleeves are stained red
The wind tastes and feels different, here: and no sooner does he have the thought than he has to swallow, hard, because he’s suddenly remembering the scents of sylleblossoms, of dog-roses, of larkspur and lavender, and -- those flowers grow in so many places but they’ve always been the wildflowers and the tamed and cultivated garden-blooms of his childhood, their bright colors the background to the days and the long moon-kissed nights, the clear skies that allowed him to see so far.
The flowers that clung to the mountain-tops, that carpeted the valleys, and he’d had his share of glorious sun-warmed days, climbing those steep slopes and throwing his voice and the notes of his violin to the skies, to the distant snows on the horizon, to the flowers that danced in the cool breezes and now he won’t be smelling those mountain-scents thick and heavy in the back of his throat, not for a while, not when he’s cast here and adrift, and the breezes here smell of sea-salt and different flowers. Of aconite and petunia and moonflowers. Different gardens. Different winds.
He grits his teeth. He forces himself to breathe. He is here, in a different place, and it is a different day, a different time. He is starting, here. He is starting over with his life. No one knows Ignis Scientia, on these clogged roads, on these stone-dust sidewalks, and that’s the whole point. That’s the very reason he’s here.
Rush of voices and warmth behind him: the swinging doors of a coffee shop. Familiar idioms, familiar accents, on the other side of those lace curtains, those sturdy grass-green cups and saucers. He’s grateful to have found his friends, his fellow exiles, people who understand what it means to have sky and rock and soaring slopes overhead, and he’ll play for them, too, for Ravus and Lunafreya and the people crowding into their coffee shop.
But this is his first day on these streets of Insomnia and -- he has to play for himself. He needs to play for himself: to fix in his mind who he is in the here and now, and who he was on the day he left Altissia for good. He needs to play and remember; he needs to face this new city, this new sky, this new him, with the salt already catching on his boots and his collars and the battered case that contains his violin.
Crimson-stained wood, and the smell of the rosin that lingers on his skin, and the graceful length of the bow: and he plucks out a quick sprightly run of notes. In the air of this place the timbre is far brighter, far louder, and that’s an unexpected blessing, an unexpected encouragement, and maybe he smiles, as he senses a tall and interested presence behind him and he catches a glimpse of hopeful white, hopeful blue, hopeful purple.
He looks over his shoulder and they smile, and Luna throws him a thumbs-up, where she’s standing outside the coffee shop and Ravus is cradling a large steel mug in his hand: they’re his audience no matter what he does today, whether he does well or does poorly.
So he takes a deep breath. Violin pinned between his chin and his shoulder, and fingers on the strings, shaping the chords, shaping the harmonies -- he pulls the bow across, smoothly, and the notes fly away from him, flow away from him, as he begins to play --
The words of the folk song unspool in his mind and there are faces peering at him. Two boys in school uniforms, holding hands: raven hair and blond, gelled spikes falling and tossed on the salt-breeze, and they’re actually singing softly -- he can hear their voices over the melody he’s playing, and he smiles and flourishes the bow for them and keeps playing.
Teeth and ears and tails stopping just across the street: two huskies on the leash, flanking the tall woman in heels, who produces a phone from her purse and raises it in his direction. He hopes he doesn’t look odd, if she’s taking photos or video of him -- he’s inspired, instead, to tinker with the melody and he throws in a skirling waltzing interpolation, playful, and the schoolboys laugh and nod their heads --
Money, flash of coins, flash of bills, falling into his violin case -- he launches into a new tune. His own composition, sweet mournful tuneful air, and he hears something like surprise from behind him -- sees the boys’ faces go blank with interest -- and there’s movement, approaching, slowing and coming to a stop.
Gray sweatshirt, gray sweatpants, and the breeze that catches at the backwards-facing sports cap, that lifts it clear off and spins it away, revealing shock and surprise and brown eyes, and Ignis has never been the focus of such keen expressions, such rapt attention -- this boy who has just stopped and is still actually jogging in place, who is frowning to follow him and his music, that he plays and plays and so he loops around again to the beginning of the piece, repeats in a different key -- half a step higher, half a step darker --
Ignis blanks Luna and Ravus and the boys and the dogs and the woman and the jogger out, in favor of playing all the way through to the actual end of the piece, the notes released like a flock of surprised birds, and he catches his breath because he’s never played this part in public before -- the complicated arpeggios and crescendoes of the finale, crashing onto him in its abrupt glory, and he ends with the final pull of the bow across the strings, ends with all the notes smashed together, and he flings his arm up and away and he’s pointing at this different sky, with the different wind and the salt and the flower-scents swirling around him.
And the eyes of the boy who’d been running, fastened on him where he’s finally come to a stop, too, feet planted on the sidewalk, mouth hanging open and eyes wide, wide, wide.
Ignis smiles at him.