a/n: please listen to the song by Slow Club by the same name as the title ^^ a friend sent me the song as a prompt and this is the result. (i disappointed her so bad guys, you wouldn't believe)
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Tears of Joy
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In that large event hall, air heavy from electric anticipation—curiosity, dread, excitement—a family of three generations and seven branches buzzes around as they continue to mingle, catch up, oh, how is my favorite nephew? Has he been doing well in school?—Their laughs are strained. It's amusing how they've believed that conspiracy, deluding themselves into thinking it's going to be the end of the world in a few minutes come the new year of 2000, the new millennium.
You and I stay on that makeshift stage beside one of the floor-to-ceiling windows of the ballroom, paid to play on our instruments without pause. I've lost count of the times I've stared out the window, distracted by bursts of fireworks splashing across the night sky as midnight comes closer—lost count of the times my eyes gravitated back to you.
You play on that grand piano with a flourish I've never seen on you in a long time. Notes crisper, trills playing on a faster cadence. You smile like you have a secret, those lips upturned on one corner, eyes fixed back at me.
Your lilting accompaniment to my melody urges my left hand to jump across the fingerboard faster, up in first position, going down and down and down to the bridge as we approach the climax of the song, its notes going higher and higher and higher.
Staccato, spicatto—glissando and portamento. My fourth finger falters and I make a mistake—big enough that anyone listening would notice. But at that moment, you take over the melody, crescendo, and let me support you instead. You've matched every stroke on my strings with passionate abandon on your keys, and now it's my turn to reciprocate.
My violin accompanies your piano in perfect harmony, and then we switch back as we return to the refrain of the song. We end in perfect unison—a sudden burst of your last chord to my pizzicato.
Three, four people stop to give us polite applause.
Heaving out a breath I realize I've been holding, I take a glance behind me, to you. Any minute now, if that conspiracy proves true, the world's going to end. It's stupid how we've decided to spend our last breaths performing for an absent audience that doesn't appreciate our music.
I can't imagine any other end more fitting.
(Yet, I'd really love to live another day, another year, another millenium with you.)
We've been playing nothing but contemporary songs the entire night—no, the entire time since that summer we broke away from our chamber music group to carve a career for both of us. Weddings, debuts, funerals, and now the apocalypse—in all these we've been paid to perform to appease the crowd. Our audience tonight, given that they have has the liberty of requesting anything - the pay is good and the tips have been generous—has demanded mostly local pop songs so far, a few ballades here and there.
For the last performance of the night, it takes us only one look into each other's eyes to understand what we both want. You and I decide on playing a classical piece, consequences be damned. Polonaise Brillante in D major, opus 4. It's the piece that brought us together all those years ago.
I place my violin under my chin and I nod to you. You nod back and ghost your right hand over the keys. Inhale—you start playing the opening notes, and in a few measures I join you.
Dust from rosin flying everywhere, bowhairs snapping one by one, the groan of the piano's pedals as you push them hard. My bow feels lighter, my vibrato brings out more color. My heart bursts at every double-stopping passage I play with perfect harmony to your chords, every time your notes answer to mine. There is nothing in this world that matches the ecstacy I experience when performing with you.
Nearing the end of the piece, it barely registers to me how everyone else but us starts counting down. As we dive into the last segment of the piece, I can feel my fingertips burning with how fast the notes are coming, just as I'm sure your wrists must be tiring out.
Ten, nine, eight—still thinking we'll all die, the grim expression on the adults' faces grew darker while the children laughed.
Seven, six, five—I make another mistake and you make one too but we carry on playing anyway.
Four, three, two—we look into each others eyes as we play those last notes.
One—with my bow arm still in the air, instrument still poised over my shoulder, you stand up and pull me into a _ _ _ _
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a/n: hello to y'all who still remember me~~ sorry it's been so long since i last posted... i got eaten by acads + i joined my uni's writers club so i didn't have much time to write gh fics T-T
this oneshot is actually an original... at first i couldn't place which character the perspective is from, but honestly i may or may not have had naru's 23 y.o mellow self in mind when writing the narrative lol what do you think? which character fits best? and who do you think is the pianist? ;) ;)
thanks for reading!