Performance

His face shows only an expression of deep concentration. His stance, while impeccable, is tightly controlled. Only his fingers are passionate. They dance across the strings, soaring through the larghetto, darting through the pizzicato. The violin smirks with wry pleasure and keens in long-suppressed sorrow at his touch. It cringes and raves, whispering in desperate fear and muttering in bitter resentment. His fingers snicker and wail, tremble and shriek along, fueled by his terrible hope of perfection.

Music pours from the instrument, and slowly his eyes loose their aspect of glacial control. His posture remains erect, but is softened. The notes roll in waves and underneath each is an undercurrent of deep loneliness, tender and painful. And although the music surges on, the loneliness remains, and it is unclear who it belongs to--song or boy.

But then the fingers stop with a quivering vibrato note soft as snow, and as cold. And the cold seeps upwards, straitening his back, tightening his mouth. The loneliness is snatched up, hidden like a guilty secret. The ice reclaims his eyes, and once more they are veiled and frigid. His hands hang dormant, devoid of their former gaiety, yet they still clutch the instrument.

His eyes, piercing and arrogant, scan the dark mass of humanity beyond the stage. Those cool, confident eyes do not know he is lonely. Their calm, collected gaze meanders through the crowd, seemingly at random. They do not understand who they are searching for, and they do not want to. But his hands know. And as the eyes fail to find the twin smudges of blue in the audience, as they have the concert before and the one before that, his fingers tighten infinitesimally on the neck of the violin. They have their reasons for being absent. Their lives are very busy. The eyes understood this. The hands never could.

But when the eyes snag upon a flash of crimson in the audience, they widen ever so slightly. She is there again. His hands slacken their grip in astonishment. Her hands are still, and her eyes are closed, as if she were still drinking in that last rippling note. The hands around her burst into flurried motion, clapping and clapping. His eyes refocus and his grip retightens and his disciplined back bows correctly to the clapping hands. His feet stride in precise, measured steps offstage.

Once in the preparation room, he tends to his instrument. When he finally places the violin in its case, his hands are gentler than they ever are towards flesh and blood, and his gaze lingers upon it with a quiet kindness. His outlet, his solace, his companion, his heart. And then the pressure is upon him again, and he has no more time to spend. His hands work quickly and efficiently, closing the lid and fastening the catches with brusque finality. He hefts his heart-in-a-box and walks out the door, his eyes focused strait ahead.

His feet take him out the back entrance of the building. He does not wish to be with others. His eyes narrow when he realizes he is not alone. His right hand clenches the handle of his violin case a little tighter as light from a nearby street lamp shines upon a head of vibrant red hair.

And then his feet do something unexpected. He finds himself walking towards the light, towards her bright hair, his steps bewildered, determined and afraid. She turns, and her dark eyes widen in surprise. His cold eyes meet her warm ones, and the corners of her mouth turn up.

"Your performance was beautiful, Tsukimori-kun."

In that moment, his eyes understand what his hands already knew. His gaze lingers on her as on his violin, and his voice is quiet and ragged in the sharp night air.

"Arigatou, Hino-san."