Teshima has a very good aural memory. It’s one of the perks of his particular brand of magic. And so, when he stumbles across this magic, in a festival in a little town in the mountains, it completely freezes him in his tracks.
The magical music hums through the air, richly layered and weaving through wisps of colour that change with the notes. Like watercolour clouds, floating just a few feet above his head. He sees the people near him stop, too, heads tilted back and soft smiles, watching the melting, abstract colours.
Teshima feels the calm focus of the magic, lets it wash cool over him like the ocean, and he dives deeper, pushing, because underneath he knows there are waves, pops of innocent excitement and pride and joy and even deeper, the murky undertow of melancholy and insecurity. The thrumming of a heartbeat like a metronome. Nobody else knows it’s there -- Teshima doesn’t feel anyone else, deep in the symphony, tucked inside the secret, hidden layers. The magician behind it all is powerful, covers his core well. But Teshima knows this magic, almost as well as he does his own. He tucks his physical body into an alcove between two storefronts, and he rides the tide of the music, marvelling at the depth and complexity.
They’ve changed, in their years apart. The music is impossibly stronger. It’s beautiful. Teshima closes off his physical senses and listens.
And he doesn’t know how long he listens -- minutes, maybe, hours -- but then, Teshima gathers his own magic, and he harmonizes.
The music doesn’t break, but it swells, just a little, a crescendo of surprise and disbelief and excitement, and Teshima opens his eyes to see the sky swirling in yellows and pinks. He smiles, layers another rhythm into the symphony, and the music crests around it, pulls it into a standing wave and they resonate together. Teshima feels it pulling him, riptide, and he follows. The streets are bright with magic and his footsteps are light and sure.
“Jun-chan!” he hears, the syllables singing, and he turns and smiles.
There’s discord, in the song. Teshima can feel it. They can both feel it, deep under the melodies, from themselves, and from each other. Still, Teshima smiles.
“You found me,” Ashikiba says, delighted. His magic twists itself into Teshima’s, until they can’t tell where the separation is. There is no separation. The delineation between their fingers is more concrete, and Teshima squeezes back.
“You didn’t make it easy for me,” he says, half-teasing, and Ashikiba shrugs one shoulder, eyes gentle but guarded.
Teshima pokes at the music, popping a discordant note, and it startles Ashikiba into a laugh. “We have a lot to catch up on,” he says, and Ashikiba nods. The music wraps around them like clouds.
idk wtf this is but here have it anyway
The magical music hums through the air, richly layered and weaving through wisps of colour that change with the notes. Like watercolour clouds, floating just a few feet above his head. He sees the people near him stop, too, heads tilted back and soft smiles, watching the melting, abstract colours.
Teshima feels the calm focus of the magic, lets it wash cool over him like the ocean, and he dives deeper, pushing, because underneath he knows there are waves, pops of innocent excitement and pride and joy and even deeper, the murky undertow of melancholy and insecurity. The thrumming of a heartbeat like a metronome. Nobody else knows it’s there -- Teshima doesn’t feel anyone else, deep in the symphony, tucked inside the secret, hidden layers. The magician behind it all is powerful, covers his core well. But Teshima knows this magic, almost as well as he does his own. He tucks his physical body into an alcove between two storefronts, and he rides the tide of the music, marvelling at the depth and complexity.
They’ve changed, in their years apart. The music is impossibly stronger. It’s beautiful. Teshima closes off his physical senses and listens.
And he doesn’t know how long he listens -- minutes, maybe, hours -- but then, Teshima gathers his own magic, and he harmonizes.
The music doesn’t break, but it swells, just a little, a crescendo of surprise and disbelief and excitement, and Teshima opens his eyes to see the sky swirling in yellows and pinks. He smiles, layers another rhythm into the symphony, and the music crests around it, pulls it into a standing wave and they resonate together. Teshima feels it pulling him, riptide, and he follows. The streets are bright with magic and his footsteps are light and sure.
“Jun-chan!” he hears, the syllables singing, and he turns and smiles.
There’s discord, in the song. Teshima can feel it. They can both feel it, deep under the melodies, from themselves, and from each other. Still, Teshima smiles.
“You found me,” Ashikiba says, delighted. His magic twists itself into Teshima’s, until they can’t tell where the separation is. There is no separation. The delineation between their fingers is more concrete, and Teshima squeezes back.
“You didn’t make it easy for me,” he says, half-teasing, and Ashikiba shrugs one shoulder, eyes gentle but guarded.
Teshima pokes at the music, popping a discordant note, and it startles Ashikiba into a laugh. “We have a lot to catch up on,” he says, and Ashikiba nods. The music wraps around them like clouds.