soul eater -- listen
title: listen
wordcount: 496
rating: G
summary: He was born with the gift of perfect pitch.
Listen, he whispers. Learn to listen to the sound of your own soul.
It’s difficult; she is a creature of practicality and logic, and whilst he possesses the mind, the outlook, the idle daydreams of an artist, she is quite the opposite. He is ruled by the subtle chords of music which ripple through the hidden depths of his soul, whilst she is commandeered by the solidarity of the spoken and written word. He embraces the abstract, the unknown, welcomes it like an old friend, whilst she stays within her boundaries and never dares to over-step them.
Listen, he says, to the music of your heart.
But what is there to listen to? During lazy afternoons, she turns her gaze inwards, searches long and hard for that backbeat pulse she should be able to hear. Afternoon-gold bleeds into indigo-dusk, and her answer does not strike her like a bolt from the blue; when he returns from his errands, he finds her in the same place as before, a loose comma against the faded vintage-print couch, dreaming dreams of laughing moons and bleeding colours.
Maka Albarn is stubborn. Adamant. Vehement. Obstinate. Unmovable.
She refuses to believe even for a fleeting instant, an ephemeral moment, that somewhere inside her, a secret refrain plays, a song of instinct and spontaneity which beckons her to grasp it.
But he’s different. He has the ear of a musician, born with the gift of perfect pitch which stirs like a sleeper in the dark whenever the faintest hint of a rhythm drifts through the air. He hears everything, and the way things seem to merge to form some aria at the back of his mind. He watches and listens, tunes himself to the flutter of her heart, the whisper of her breath, until he can pick out the near-imperceptible tempos without having to think.
She may not be able to hear the muted song of her heart, but during the instances when their souls are in tune, he most definitely can.
He hears it in the way they fall in step like a synchronised metronome when they walk. It’s the way their footsteps echo against one another, the sharp clomp clomp clomp of her boots and the more subdued snagging of his loose sneakers against weatherworn cobblestones. It’s self-evident in the lilt of her voice, the cadence of her laugh, the dancer’s grace with which she carries herself, as though unconsciously reacting to some mysterious song.
Listen.
In the red-black-chequered-striped room, he places a finger to her lips, silencing her reproachful protests before they come.
Don’t talk.
His hand rests over hers - simultaneously rough and calloused, yet small and delicate - guiding uncertain digits over silent ivory teeth.
Everyone can make beautiful music.
His fingers ghost over hers; she presses down on a single key.
It’s just a matter of practise.
For an instant, their souls - so different, yet somehow alike - reverberate in time to that tremulous note.
You just need to listen
back to index.
wordcount: 496
rating: G
summary: He was born with the gift of perfect pitch.
Listen, he whispers. Learn to listen to the sound of your own soul.
It’s difficult; she is a creature of practicality and logic, and whilst he possesses the mind, the outlook, the idle daydreams of an artist, she is quite the opposite. He is ruled by the subtle chords of music which ripple through the hidden depths of his soul, whilst she is commandeered by the solidarity of the spoken and written word. He embraces the abstract, the unknown, welcomes it like an old friend, whilst she stays within her boundaries and never dares to over-step them.
Listen, he says, to the music of your heart.
But what is there to listen to? During lazy afternoons, she turns her gaze inwards, searches long and hard for that backbeat pulse she should be able to hear. Afternoon-gold bleeds into indigo-dusk, and her answer does not strike her like a bolt from the blue; when he returns from his errands, he finds her in the same place as before, a loose comma against the faded vintage-print couch, dreaming dreams of laughing moons and bleeding colours.
Maka Albarn is stubborn. Adamant. Vehement. Obstinate. Unmovable.
She refuses to believe even for a fleeting instant, an ephemeral moment, that somewhere inside her, a secret refrain plays, a song of instinct and spontaneity which beckons her to grasp it.
But he’s different. He has the ear of a musician, born with the gift of perfect pitch which stirs like a sleeper in the dark whenever the faintest hint of a rhythm drifts through the air. He hears everything, and the way things seem to merge to form some aria at the back of his mind. He watches and listens, tunes himself to the flutter of her heart, the whisper of her breath, until he can pick out the near-imperceptible tempos without having to think.
She may not be able to hear the muted song of her heart, but during the instances when their souls are in tune, he most definitely can.
He hears it in the way they fall in step like a synchronised metronome when they walk. It’s the way their footsteps echo against one another, the sharp clomp clomp clomp of her boots and the more subdued snagging of his loose sneakers against weatherworn cobblestones. It’s self-evident in the lilt of her voice, the cadence of her laugh, the dancer’s grace with which she carries herself, as though unconsciously reacting to some mysterious song.
Listen.
In the red-black-chequered-striped room, he places a finger to her lips, silencing her reproachful protests before they come.
Don’t talk.
His hand rests over hers - simultaneously rough and calloused, yet small and delicate - guiding uncertain digits over silent ivory teeth.
Everyone can make beautiful music.
His fingers ghost over hers; she presses down on a single key.
It’s just a matter of practise.
For an instant, their souls - so different, yet somehow alike - reverberate in time to that tremulous note.
You just need to listen
back to index.