Was feeling suffocated and needed to write something. I'm sorry if it's incredibly lame. The idea seemed good at the time.

i v o r y ;; k e y s

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An overcast sky paints the world with grays and blacks and the slightest hue of blue. He notices the ashen clouds above and feels the beginnings of a storm that is the chill his skin, but he doesn't see the blue.

He steps noiselessly around a stone alleyway, one slow foot in front of the other. He doesn't take the tram or ride his motorbike or flag a taxi. No, he walks almost everywhere these days.

His world is muted—it has been for some time. The only thing he hears is the song that has been echoing in his empty mind. He doesn't know how long the melody has been there, or how many times it has played. But he needs to feel it and he needs to hear it: out loud.

He approaches a flight of shallow, tired-looking steps and stops. He stares at the cracks and chips that spread out from the steps like cobwebs, but he's not really staring at them—he's thinking, and one hand reaches into his pocket as if his thoughts are tangible there. A gentle wind chases leaves across his feet like scattered pieces of crimson and orange with a tinge of blue. He can't see the crimson and orange—only pencil shades of grey.

And blue.

A rustling noise, and his fingers carefully close around the object in his pocket. He pulls it out. It is a square of paper, yellowing and well-creased. The song in his head pulses and amplifies as he begins to unfold the paper—but the music is driving him mad with the ache it brings and so he quickly refolds it and stuffs it in his pocket. A few more minutes, he tells himself, and he will hear the song for the first time in years.

Up the battered steps and to a door he moves in two strides. The door is locked, but it needn't be. There is nothing left in the old building, save cobwebs and dust and rotting floorboards. He happens to have a key, and he lets himself in. He tries to keep his hands still as he fumbles with the lock. Several seconds later he nudges the door with his palm and it opens with a protesting creak. He steps in.

The old bar looks just as he remembered, though without chairs and tables and . . . well, everything. Part of him wants to stop and stare at the past, but another part of him wants to heal the past. And so he turns his gaze from the shadowed corners to the windowed wall that looks out onto the vacant street. Beside one window, a forlorn piano waits for him. For the first time since he can remember, the music in his head vanishes.

Before he realizes what he is doing—though he knows this is what he came here to do—he is standing over the dust-coated keys. Again he withdraws the paper and shakily places it on the music stand, then, drawing a breath as he sinks to the chair . . .

He plays.

Awkwardly, hesitatingly at first. It has been seventeen years and his fingers do not remember their passion, so they stumble and trip across the black and white. Several times he stops completely, frustrated. But he loves the life behind the song; he knows it is there. He just needs to find it. He presses forward resolutely, the longing in his heart to hear the music as he hears it in his head come to life once more. Note by note, phrase by phrase, page by page, he learns how to recreate the song. It is a clumsy ghost of the one in his head, but precious nonetheless—for the one in his head is only a memory.

The ivory keys are learning to obey his fingers, now. The soft melody ripples like a bittersweet tear across the empty room. Every note is perfect, each phrase perfect.

But something is missing.

Though the same, the song in his head is somehow different.

Confused, he plays the song again.

And again.

Again.

But something is missing.

She is missing.

Harmony changes to violent dissonance as he furiously slams the lid down, bruising one thumb in the process but not noticing or caring. He presses his forehead against one fist and leans against the mahogany wood of the piano; blue eyes that match his blue world are closing. Like a fragile sapling, he remains bowed and bent for several long moments.

Familiar fingers lightly touch his arm. Without looking up, he knows who it is—and he breaks, forgetting his self-control and his iron resolve and the strength he pretended he had as he yields to the gentle voice beside him.

"Don't be afraid,"it tells him.

"Afraid of what?" he whispers back.

He feels the warmth of her fingers as they stroke his arm. The strength and confidence they offer makes him feel weak. Helpless. Perhaps he is. "Don't be afraid of letting go."

"I'm not."

Kind laughter. Around his neck slip a pair of slender arms. He doesn't realize he is weeping until he tastes salt in his mouth. Something warm and soft presses against him.

"This is your song," he says.

"Mm-hmm."

". . . I could never play it the way you did. I still can't."

Laughter again, a puff of breath against his ear. "I know you couldn't. I could always hear you practicing next door."

They laughed together this time, and he realizes that, sometimes, smiling hurts as much as sadness. He chokes on a memory and even as he laughs, the mahogany is stained by his tears.

When the silence comes again, it is interrupted only by her heartbeat. "Cloud. You let me in once. And, now, it's time to let me go."

The shattered pieces inside him can only be put together by her—but they both had known this moment would come. It is in this moment that he finds the freedom to put the pieces together . . . without her. It is terrifying. And it is exhilarating.

His weepy blue eyes are drowning in fear and love. He hesitates . . . then nods.

She smiles. "Try it again, Cloud."

He does. And he feels the difference as he plays her song—no, their song—for the very last time. At long last, his emotions are released. Faster and with passion he plays. His spirit soars with the melody as his fingers caress the keys to a song he has known his whole life.

On the old paper, the ebony ink notes are moving. They turn from black to scarlet, and in one smooth motion, they flutter from the page and become thousands of sky-bound butterflies. The last notes fade into silence and he watches as his world is transformed from blue to hues as radiant as the wings of the butterflies.

And they are as free as his heart.

Review&review&review.

=3

Cloud really does read sheet music--it's canon. Though I'm not sure how good he is as it, since he can only play one key at a time (in his flashbacks in the game, anyway).

Inspired by the song "Misty" by some jazz pianist or another.

I've never written in present tense before; a friend of mine inspired me to and this is a first. Tell me what you think.