Office ambience…

::grins:: Guess what I just found out? Chibi’s birthday is the same as Kosugi’s. JUU-SAN!!! KEKEKEKE. Chibi Chibi Chibi! :D

Eeeeehh… Itouken said he feels doki-doki over a guy when he sees a guy cry… Does that mean Mogi’s bawled in front of him? Somehow I can totally see that. ::thought bubble hovering over her head:: And Itouken thinks Nowaki’s the ideal man! LOVE! AND HE’S REVERSIBLE, C’MON, I LOVE LOVE LOOOOOVE HIM FOR THAT!!!!

Anyway, now I continue from yesterday…

I think I know why, or at least a huge part of it now. The pull and why it’s so strong, I think I have a better idea of it now. o____o Weird how it took Tsukimori and Tsuchiura to reveal it to me, whoa… here goes. I’m going to put my ideas through Tsukimori’s head instead of my own, so bear with me…

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Tempest
Series: La Corda d’Oro
Characters: Tsuchiura Ryoutarou, Tsukimori Len

Tsukimori Len, unlike what most people thought, was always incredibly attentive to the other performers. Some might think he’s on a whole new level of his own, but he only played how he knew and how he felt, just like everybody else, right? Or at least, just like him.

Hamai Misa, his mother, was a famous pianist, and theoretically, nobody could impress him on the piano more than his own mother could. Although Tsukimori appeared so on the surface, there was one other pianist that caught his eyes, his ears, and even his heart. As the belligerent piece unfolded in front of him, he was amazed and entranced at this other pianist whose playing turned his head and kept him rooted to the spot. His mother had told him to bring him over after school, and so he complied and let him play on his mother’s grand piano in the living room.

There was something about Tsuchiura’s playing that was so passionate that, at first, Tsukimori nearly dismissed it as purely emotional and lacking in forethought and skill. Of course he knew that wasn’t true, but he had trained himself to separate his personal feelings with the emotions he tried to express in his music. They were two different matters, never to be mingled, never to be confused. In other words, he studied carefully and then honed his skill to express solely what he wanted to show, nothing more or less. Yet, the Sonata Pathetique, written by one of the most talented composers of all time, was dripping with more emotion than necessary, and Tsukimori thought that Tsuchiura did not know how to control himself or separate his emotions from the piece. It wasn’t being one heart and one mind with the music, he was adding excessive baggage to the piece, cluttering it and making it impure. Decidedly, Tsukimori did not like it. What he didn’t decide to do was remain fixed on the spot, staring at Tsuchiura and still hearing the piece in his head, even long after it was over.

“Oi, are you going to say something or just stand there?”

“It was good,” Tsukimori found himself saying, unsure of himself and why the music kept on going as Tsuchiura’s gaze softened.

“That’s it?” Tsuchiura said, rubbing his head with one hand and resting the other on the black and white keys.

“Play one more,” he said, not aware of his own request.

“Okay, how about a Chopin piece?” the soccer player gave a half grin and stretched his palms outwards. Wriggling his fingers, he began to play again.

This time, it really did drip. It dripped with unspoken words, with feeling, with something. Unlike the fervent sonata before it, the Raindrop Prelude was simplistic and elegant, quiet, and yet loaded with burdens. Tsukimori relaxed and unfolded his arms, and slowly, his feet unrooted themselves. There was plenty of room on the piano bench, and before he knew what he did, he slipped beside Tsuchiura.

There was nothing special about the way Tsuchiura played, aside from the way it was practically oozing with raw emotions. It was crude, brutally honest, just like the man himself. His music was flawed with human emotions, and it distracted the listener from the beauty of the piece’s composition. There was a lack of fine-tuned skill, like that of someone who felt his way through a piece by talent alone. Talent, which Tsukimori had that too, but there was something that Tsuchiura possessed that he didn’t. He accused Tsuchiura of playing solely with passion, and then realized that he, perhaps, was lacking it. He thought he poured what passion he was capable of into his music, channeling it properly, but then maybe his methods were too rigid. Hearing Tsuchiura play and watching his fingers move, something inside him moved as well. The repetitive beat that kept tempo in the piece had a life of its own, not unlike the unpredictability of slight disturbances in a storm. It tapped into his head, sought deeper, until the dripping beat heightened his hearing to detect anything that did not fall precisely in time with the downbeat. The sound of Tsuchiura’s slow inhale and slow exhale, linking the rigid measures into well-formed phrases, the muffled tap of the pedal being depressed and released, and his own heartbeat all came together in some form of an orchestrated symphony with the melodious prelude.

The piece slowly progressed into the next phase, with the crescendo and slow building of the low notes, and the music started to grow. Tsukimori felt the tension grow proportionately and the emotions intensify. With each note, he dreaded the explosion, even though he knew when it was coming without having to peek at the score in his head. He knew the piece very well, but with the momentum Tsuchiura played, he felt his heartstrings being tightened and pulled along. It was like being taken for a fantasical ride, and it was Tsuchiura who was taking him on a journey to the beautiful yet stormy island of Majorca. When it came, it swooped upon him, alerting him, and curiously, interested him more. The range of emotions Tsuchiura was capable of expressing through his music was immense, and Tsukimori stopped to wonder if there was ever an end to it. He watched Tsuchiura’s figure tense slightly, his strong arms moving with purpose, and his fingers arching and hitting home for sure every single time. And then, as if without warning, the tension dropped off and started to build anew. Tsukimori found himself gasping for air after the prolonged development, and readied himself for the next one. It came again, and Tsuchiura expressing more, expressing deeper, and darker. The tempest raged all around and inside of him, and it swept him up and away, making him hold his breath again. He waded through his mind, seeking for something solid, until the storm calmed, only to find himself alone again with Tsuchiura and his mother’s piano under the pianist’s fingertips.

When the piece ended, Tsuchiura looked over at Tsukimori, but the violinist continued to stare at Tsuchiura’s hands. He felt too drained to think, and the sudden silence and lack of emotion hung in the air like a vacuum. It was over, but instead of standing up and walking away, he did a curious thing.

There was something so entirely exhausting about Tsuchiura’s style, both in and outside of his piano playing, that made Tsukimori realize one thing. That he wanted to be like him, that he wanted to get to know him, and that he envied him. It told him what he was missing in his life, and it told him in a language that he understood better than spoken words.

Here was someone who was capable of expressing perfect technique and so much more, and yet, was also solid and real beneath his head. Leaning on Tsuchiura’s shoulder, Tsukimori realized that he had inadvertantly began to understand Tsuchiura, and it took his music to show him that. Through his mother’s piano, Tsukimori suddenly knew what anchor he wanted to help him braving the storms of life.

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How was that? :OOOOO I don’t know how in character I was, I always end up gushing over Chopin. MOUUUU~~~ XD