Care is the biggest four letter word lie you told me
I don't know what I am doing awake either.
anothermiyaw | KHR | 2759
Tread softly, for you tread on my dreams.
He is a mess of perpendicular lines, sitting with his back to the door. The room is airy but badly lit with waning sunlight from a discrete shaft. The rosewood panelled walls and unnaturally high ceiling are marks of distinction. There is no other room in the underground base like it.
The Piano Room, the brunette calls it.
It is Gokudera’s, so no one comes close. The room is the farthest away from escape but he cannot stop returning. It is not reprieve he seeks, nor the company of ghosts.
There is deliberation in the music’s every pause, silent intention and feelings with names he dare not give voice to. Black, white, black, one after another they sound, tinkling like glass breaking. His hands dance a curved flight of frenzy, weaving an invisible string round fragmented memories that were meant to be forever. Each desperate chord brings him deceptively close to the displaced feeling he seeks and just as he thinks he is near, his fingers slip and the clash is reminiscent of a gunshot.
Gokudera curses in Italian so fluid, it is melodious. The room is sacred but there is nobody to hear him, stop him, like there is nobody to make him start over again. But he does, from the top, eyes wide shut, all ready to plunge into his worst nightmares.
His fingers remember like he will never forget, the longest discussions of futile resistance in darkest nights where everything is said and done but even more left unsaid as they wait for dawn without a sun. Gokudera should have known better because paper strategies never worked in reality but even in the dimmest light, he can still see golden eyes and warmest smile.
Fingers tread softly (sing a heart song), choppy and unrequited but it is the closest to being whole.
*
It reminds the half Italian of something else, something not so pleasant.
He is seven when it happens. Gokudera never sees her again but the sad excuse of a doctor is never far.
He starts out haltingly, afraid to get burnt. The embers hiss angrily and smoke gets in his eyes. Then it fills up an idle mind, the widest expanse of bluest sky and a hole in his chest. Every turn of his hand is a fascinating new experience and he engraves it in the quietest part of his mind.
Fingertips and ivory keys, gunpowder and projected flames. They flow seamlessly into a breathless wonder and wonder, like music, needs no translation.
In the end, they are not very different, in theory.
The art of explosives and music (in his hands and a flick of the wrist, everything changes).
Or devotion from love (between the measured spaces of fingers and cheap imitations of rings that break faster than dreams, lies an untapped power, a reason to live).
So when he goes to that coffin above the ground, like he always does after playing that melody, Gokudera finds that his hands still remember the waning heat of a dying body.
Except this time it is different.
Sawada Tsunayoshi is alive.
*
Or perhaps it is not so different after all.
Because the hands that create art and destroy flesh, are the same hands that grip smaller shoulders so tight, knuckles turn white.
Gokudera cannot speak, so the brunette does and it is what he wants to hear the most.
"G-gokudera-kun?"
And his world is right again.
anothermiyaw | KHR | 2759
Tread softly, for you tread on my dreams.
He is a mess of perpendicular lines, sitting with his back to the door. The room is airy but badly lit with waning sunlight from a discrete shaft. The rosewood panelled walls and unnaturally high ceiling are marks of distinction. There is no other room in the underground base like it.
The Piano Room, the brunette calls it.
It is Gokudera’s, so no one comes close. The room is the farthest away from escape but he cannot stop returning. It is not reprieve he seeks, nor the company of ghosts.
There is deliberation in the music’s every pause, silent intention and feelings with names he dare not give voice to. Black, white, black, one after another they sound, tinkling like glass breaking. His hands dance a curved flight of frenzy, weaving an invisible string round fragmented memories that were meant to be forever. Each desperate chord brings him deceptively close to the displaced feeling he seeks and just as he thinks he is near, his fingers slip and the clash is reminiscent of a gunshot.
Gokudera curses in Italian so fluid, it is melodious. The room is sacred but there is nobody to hear him, stop him, like there is nobody to make him start over again. But he does, from the top, eyes wide shut, all ready to plunge into his worst nightmares.
His fingers remember like he will never forget, the longest discussions of futile resistance in darkest nights where everything is said and done but even more left unsaid as they wait for dawn without a sun. Gokudera should have known better because paper strategies never worked in reality but even in the dimmest light, he can still see golden eyes and warmest smile.
Fingers tread softly (sing a heart song), choppy and unrequited but it is the closest to being whole.
*
It reminds the half Italian of something else, something not so pleasant.
He is seven when it happens. Gokudera never sees her again but the sad excuse of a doctor is never far.
He starts out haltingly, afraid to get burnt. The embers hiss angrily and smoke gets in his eyes. Then it fills up an idle mind, the widest expanse of bluest sky and a hole in his chest. Every turn of his hand is a fascinating new experience and he engraves it in the quietest part of his mind.
Fingertips and ivory keys, gunpowder and projected flames. They flow seamlessly into a breathless wonder and wonder, like music, needs no translation.
In the end, they are not very different, in theory.
The art of explosives and music (in his hands and a flick of the wrist, everything changes).
Or devotion from love (between the measured spaces of fingers and cheap imitations of rings that break faster than dreams, lies an untapped power, a reason to live).
So when he goes to that coffin above the ground, like he always does after playing that melody, Gokudera finds that his hands still remember the waning heat of a dying body.
Except this time it is different.
Sawada Tsunayoshi is alive.
*
Or perhaps it is not so different after all.
Because the hands that create art and destroy flesh, are the same hands that grip smaller shoulders so tight, knuckles turn white.
Gokudera cannot speak, so the brunette does and it is what he wants to hear the most.
"G-gokudera-kun?"
And his world is right again.