Title: Chasing Music
Author: Stars in Brilliance
Summary: Sometimes the allure of the music is too strong. You can play to it, sing to it, dance to it, and yet the most you can ever do is chase it for more.
Disclaimer #1: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Disclaimer #2: Should there be any discrepancies, all authors are aware of this as they have studied music in one form or another. Certain liberties were taken for the sake of the story.
Note: This chapter was written by Rinail, with the aid of Topaz Tsubasa.
Chapter 1: Beginnings
Mikan is the thirty-seventh candidate to walk into the halls of the esteemed Alice Academy of Music, three hours before the last day of auditions end. As the heads of musicians, singers, and dancers alike swivel around to stare at her, she wonders if the previous thirty-six are so desperate to get past the auditions that they're willing to get a murder charge for it.
That's what their stares tell her, at least, but Mikan, ever the optimist, hopes that isn't the case.
With cautious steps, she maneuvers her way around the other candidates. The hall is large, with marble floor encompassing yards of space, and the stark white walls curve around a staircase in a gentle slope. A section of the wall is lined with delicate glass. Glancing through it, Mikan can make out a second floor below with another set of stairs leading up.
Above the low steps reads the sign "Auditorium", and Mikan peers over the metal rail to find a heavy wooden door at the end of the stairs. Pressing her lips together, she pulls herself back from the glass to stare at the other staircase beside her.
It can't be, she thinks and begins walking, her steps fueled by a mix of incredulity and disbelief.
But sure enough, at the top of the staircase, a gold-plated sign reads, "Auditorium".
It seems like the school is much bigger than she originally thought, and considering the size of the school was already magnified with her countryside imagination, it's impressive indeed.
Floor-to-ceiling windows span the entire opposite wall, showing a view of the frosty snowfield outside. Sunlight filters in through the glass in a halo of golden light. Combined with the white walls, blue sky, and glittering snow, it makes for one heck of a view.
Inside, the halls are a complete contrast. It's full of a warm and stuffy air created from a tension fueled by hundreds of nervous candidates, causing anxiety to hang heavy on her shoulders, ever so present in her throat when she tries to swallow.
Man, does Mikan wish there was a water fountain handy. She takes a sweeping glance at the hall, but she can't spot a single source of drinkable water, and she doesn't quite trust herself to find the hall again, either. With a heavy sigh, she settles for dealing with a parched throat until water presents itself to her.
As the minutes pass by agonizingly slow, Mikan paces amongst her fellow candidates, who all mill around like they're chickens lined up for slaughter. Their limbs are taut with a nervous energy, tension winding them up like a tight wire, and the lines of their body are hard and unwelcoming. Absently, Mikan notices that the hall is loud, but almost nobody is found conversing with another person. Rather, it's the noise of feet tapping, dancers stretching, singers humming, and sounds of various instruments warming up.
It's the noise of some of the most promising music students in the world gathered in one hall, waiting to audition for the Alice Academy of Music.
Mikan sort of wishes she came in wearing something more presentable. Nearly everybody here has shown up with their flowing dresses and sleek suits; they, unlike her, look as if they belong in the most renowned music school in the country.
Mikan, with her brown pigtails and sweatshirt from a remote community college, looks as if she should be at the local food market.
But Mikan already knows there's no time to go back home on a four-hour train ride and change. They're already on Candidate #28 and she's Candidate #37.
Blowing out a slow breath, Mikan's pacing comes to a stop when she leans on a smooth beige wall, her hands seeking out the sticker plastered on the edges of her shirt. Her fingers toy with it absently.
Mikan has practically memorized every wrinkle, every fold on the thing after she's fawned over it so many times, but it somehow manages to surprise her every time she sees it.
Candidate #37, Alice Academy of Music.
A smile twitches at her lips.
Mikan still remembers her elation when she first saw the letter in the mail, remembers how hard her hands were shaking as she tore it open, and she remembers how joy had fluttered in her throat like a scream waiting to break out.
Mikan regrets not bringing the letter along with her, just for something to read to calm her down. As it is, she only has her phone and a folded lyrics sheet in her pocket. But even without the actual thing here with her, it's almost too easy to see the words printed on the crinkled letter when she closes her eyes.
Ms. Mikan Sakura,
Your audition form for the Alice Academy of Music has been received. Enclosed is a sticker that will allow entry into the school on whichever day you decide to audition; your audition number will be stamped on your sticker on the day of.
Dates for audition are from January 16th to January 23rd, 10 AM-2 PM. If by circumstance you are unable to come on these days, make-up dates are on January 25th and the 26th, 12-4 PM.
We look forward to seeing what talents you have to offer.
Regards,
Kazumi Yukihara, Principal of Alice Academy of Music.
Even now, Mikan suppresses the urge to grin. We look forward to seeing what talents you have to offer.
Talents, it had said.
Reading it was like the very first time she had sung her heart out and felt the freedom of music on her tongue, heart swelling at the word and thumping a frenzied beat deep in her chest. In the letter, her singing was something to be recognized, something special; it was a talent she could offer for the whole world to see one day.
At that moment, it was as if she could see the stage opening up before her, the glare of the spotlight hot on her cheeks, the thrill of performing rushing through her blood.
Talents, it had said. But to her, it read—
Opportunity.
Looking around at the other candidates, Mikan realizes that this is what is at stake for them. Their gifts, their talents, their hours thrown into painstakingly honing their ability—it's everything that is at stake for this one audition, for this one chance to get into the school.
It's the one opportunity to see the stage, feel the spotlight, hear the thrill of performing rushing through their blood—and that is something that they all share.
She wonders how many miles were traveled to get to this audition, wonders how many, like her, had to endure long train rides and countless buses just to make it to the school. She thinks about how much money was spent for private lessons and recitals and competitions, thinks—
How much would they be willing to sacrifice?
The facts are hard to forget. Even Mikan, who has had a constant off-and-on relationship with numbers—mostly off—knows the acceptance rate of the school like the back of her hand. There's two thousand people who audition, and only three hundred who get in. The rest—seventeen hundred—are dropped.
All those people, with their time, money, effort—all rejected in favor of the chosen three hundred.
It's a much bigger number than Mikan would like it to be, and she can't stop the thought from coming to her mind.
What would it take for me to be one of those three hundred?
No matter how much or how hard she thinks, Mikan can't come up with a reasonable reply. She can sing and practice all she wants, but too much practice amounts to vocal suicide, and too little of it is like throwing her chance away into the gutter.
Talk of natural talent and the like is a load of bull. Mikan knows that.
But if it's not practice and natural talent that'll get her in, then what is?
Mikan takes one more sweeping glance at the candidates around her, at all their humming, stretching, and foot tapping, and she wonders if they know the answer to her question.
But she already knows that there's no answer.
That's the most terrifying part of it all.
Mikan's been wandering around the campus for maybe ten minutes—she needed a drink of water, screw her worry about getting lost—when she encounters a pale blond boy with glasses.
Not only that, but he's rocking on the floor with his hands clamped against his ears. He looks as if he's about to puke, or keel over, or faint. Possibly all three.
Out of sheer concern, she stops before she passes him and kneels down beside him. Do you need a bucket, she almost asks, but she thankfully has more tact than that. So instead, Mikan asks, "Are you okay?"
The boy doesn't take his hands off his ears, but he does look up. There's fear and panic shining in his glassy eyes, sweat gleaming on his forehead. His white shirt is looking a bit damp, and he has an overall rumpled appearance about him, like he's run through the entire campus twice.
He's also trembling.
Okay, Mikan thinks, maybe that was a stupid question.
She's thinking about what to say that will calm him down and not give him a coronary right then and there, but then the boy opens his mouth, making a noise that sounds eerily like a drowning cat. He closes his mouth, and opens it again. Closes and opens. He closes and opens his mouth once more, but this time, he manages a strangled, "I'm fine. I just—"
He stops.
The blood drains out of his face in a single instant, and if he was looking a little sick before, he's most definitely sick now. His hands come down from his ears to cover his mouth, and Mikan watches in frozen horror as he chokes out, "Move—"
And that's all the warning she gets before he pushes past her and half-stumbles, half-sprints towards the boys' bathroom.
Mikan stares at the crowd he has shoved aside in his wake, and unease starts to churn at the pit of her stomach once more. She's just cleared her bad thoughts, dammit, she can't get anxious again.
Don't get nervous now, she thinks. Mikan bites at her lip so hard that she can taste the blood. Don't get nervous, don't get nervous, don't get nervous.
Reflexively, she starts humming the song that her best friend Hotaru created to settle her nerves. It's been her go to song for years now, even back when she was eight and the song was a simple lullaby instead of a famous piece.
And as always, it manages to calm her, but it takes a few seconds of the song, the anxious bouncing of her leg, and the constant repetition of calm down calm down before the lump in her throat begins to disappear.
Mikan continues singing it long after her nerves have settled, not just to distract her and keep them settled, but also to warm-up her voice. Luckily enough, it has a large range of notes and a varying rhythm that makes it perfect to use.
Mikan's just reaching the chorus when someone bumps past her shoulder roughly. An apology starts forming on her lips—she was standing around rather uselessly, after all—but then she hears them mutter, "Have fun getting in with your lousy singing."
What.
It takes a moment for Mikan to process what has been said and another moment to think, This freakin' jerk—before she whirls around, blinking incredulously. "Excuse me?"
But the tall, dark-haired male who had just passed her keeps walking without even acknowledging her presence. For a second, Mikan is torn between marching up to him or fuming in silence, but the remark about her singing is too much to settle for remaining quiet.
She's put too much work into her singing to allow it to be mocked like that, dammit. Mikan's not gonna let him get away with this so easily.
Inhaling, Mikan thinks, Screw it, throwing all caution and reservation to the wind. She strides forward, catches his shoulder, and demands, "What did you say to me, you jerk?"
That at least gets him to turn around, giving her a full view of his high cheekbones, sharp crimson eyes, and the most infuriating, deriding smirk she's ever seen.
"I said," the jerk begins slowly, "that you'll never be able to make it past the first minute of auditions." The smirk spreads on his lips. "Not if you keep shrieking away like that, anyway."
Mikan stiffens. Her mouth opens and closes like she's turned into a gaping fish, but she can't find her voice or the words to retaliate. She's stuck for a few seconds on what to say and how to say it.
Then, the jerk leans back on his leg with a satisfied smirk on his face.
Mikan stares at him in wordless shock.
This guy—
How can he be satisfied when all he's done is mess with her? He's just insulted someone without a reason, and he's satisfied by it?
Does he think that it's okay to do that? Does he think it's acceptable?
The question's so terrible to think about—all of them are already nervous, how could he do think about doing even more to them—that Mikan gets her voice back in a heartbeat and blurts out the first thing that comes to her mind. He needs a lesson, damn him; there's no way in hell that she's going to let him get away with this.
At least, that's the intention, but what really ends up coming out is:
"You—you useless little paperclip!"
She ends up turning more heads than she wants to—and it's not in a good way, either. The jerk himself swivels around to face her, his eyebrows furrowed. "What the fuck?"
Mikan wants to slap herself for not coming up with a better insult. Useless little paperclip, the hell was that—but instead, she juts out her chin defiantly and steps forward.
"Yeah, that's right, I called you a useless little paperclip." What am I doing, what the hell am I doing— "I'll call you a useless paperclip all I want, because you can't just say things to people and walk away like that. Not only is that extremely rude, but you're also acting like an immature first-grader!"
He seems at a loss for words. It's like he's never received a stern talking to, and that just fuels her rage and keeps her going.
But no, Mikan needs to stop, she's already receiving so much attention, what is she doing—
"At least first-graders know about respect," Mikan continues, ignoring her inner protests, "but it's like you don't even know that. If you want to go insult me, that's fine, I don't care"—WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING—"but don't you dare go screwing with people right before they audition. That's a jerk move, you absolute, freaking pancake!"
There's a stunned silence in the hall as Mikan catches her breath. She feels a bit of satisfaction at having torn him and his stupid opinions up, but Mikan doesn't bask in her joy. Instead, she stares at him determinedly, and he returns it with a somewhat shocked gaze. She's not exactly willing to break eye contact; it'd be like backing down, and Mikan refuses to lose no matter what.
But then, he breaks the stalemate by stepping forward. "So," he begins. "You don't care if I insult you."
Mikan blinks, her jaw falling open. How was that the only thing he heard—
"That means I can insult you all I want?"
He takes another step, and it instantly closes the gap between them to mere inches. It's only when he goes to loom over her that she notices how tall he is.
Mikan falters back, and then curses in her mind. Damn these stupidly tall guys and their stupid height, damn it all—
"Let me tell you something, sweetheart."
Mikan's lips part to say something. It might be a retort, like "don't call me sweetheart," or "quit acting so tall and mighty," but the words are lodged in her throat.
He's staring right into her, and she's caught in his gaze. Damn, damn, damn.
She can't say anything.
She can feel his breath tickling her chin. "Maybe you're right," he says, voice low. "Maybe I am more immature than a first-grader. But even if I am, that still doesn't make you any better of a person. You called someone names, offended them when they were only stating their opinion, and took up half the hallway like you ownit—I'd like to ask you, sweetheart, who's the more immature one here?"
And dammit, Mikan knows he isn't lying. She knew it well before he even pointed it out. But still, still—wasn't what she had done still better than his actions?
Mikan scowls in protest. "I might have done that, but—"
"You called me a jerk, a useless paperclip, and an absolute pancake."
Mikan flushes hotly. She has stupid insults, sure, but he didn't have to point it out—
"I could get back at you for every single one of those names," he says with a shrug. "I could tell you about how you can't reach high notes, how your voice cracks on low notes, and how you have no power in your singing whatsoever."
Mikan's mouth drops open. Did he just—
"I could tell you all of those things," he says, "but I won't."
A smirk curls at the corner of his lips.
"Because I'm the bigger person, after all."
Mikan doesn't know when or how it happens. All she knows is that she raises her hand, and—
The hall resounds with a loud smack.
When Mikan releases her next breath, her palm is stinging by her sides. Her heart is thrumming with how much it burns from her anger.
The jerk's cheek is on its way to turning a bright red, but Mikan can't find it in herself to care. She clenches her jaw, chest tightening with all the white-hot fury and pure loathing building up inside her. How dare he—he has no idea how much I've worked for this—
"You have no right," Mikan spits out. Her words are clipped. "Call me whatever bullshit you want, because I don't care about any of it, but—my singing? Don'tinsult that ever again. You can't possibly know how much time I've spent on it, how much effort I put into it. Don't think for a second that you can go belittling my singing for your stupid satisfaction, you asshole."
And before she knows it, her feet are spinning her around, turning Mikan away from the jerk with the reddened cheek.
She keeps walking for a long while, needing to walk off all the anger that's simmering under her skin. God, Mikan's never wanted to punch anyone or even bodily maim someone before, but it seems like the jerk has broken her record and managed to do it—all in two minutes.
Her hands don't stop trembling for a long minute, and the pounding in her head doesn't quiet down either. Mikan starts humming Hotaru's song again, but this time it comes out a bit more vicious with the thoughts spinning around in her mind. Stupid jerks and their annoying arrogance, stupid, stupid, stupid—
Mikan collapses on the floor and leans her back against the wall. She counts the seconds that pass by in her head until her hands become still in her lap, heartbeat finally calming down to a decent rhythm.
Sighing, Mikan closes her eyes. Everything feels quiet; the ever-present sounds of the other candidates have eased into indistinct murmurs. It's tranquil and peaceful, and this is what she needs. Just a single moment for herself.
And then all of it is interrupted by a single—
"Candidate #37 to the auditorium, please. I repeat, Candidate #37, to the auditorium."
Mikan's eyes fly open.
Shoot.
When Mikan pushes open the door of the auditorium, it's not to the nervous chatter of the halls, but rather to a tense silence that hangs heavy in the air.
Swallowing, she nudges open the door a bit more and slides past the crack, easing the door shut behind her. The lighting in the auditorium is much brighter than in the hall, forcing Mikan to blink multiple times. Once her eyes adjust though, her mouth goes slack.
The room is huge.
There are rows upon rows of seats, separated in easy visible groups. A few steps forward shows her that there are even more seats tucked into little groups against the walls. There are multiple levels of balconies, and what blows her away is that they're not just a few solid levels. The balconies break into half-circles at the sides of the room, artfully weaved into the walls and around each other. And all of it descends and folds into one focal point: the stage.
That, combined with the natural feel of the wooden borders and green walls, makes Mikan feel like she's just stepped into Narnia.
As she treads gingerly on the carpet—all the while hoping she doesn't have mud on her shoes—the view of the stage opens up before her. Mikan's been to maybe three stages before: one from her old elementary school, middle school, and high school—but none of those stages compare to the one right in front of her.
Apparently the auditorium itself wasn't good enough, because the stage is the biggest thing she's ever seen. Sweeping navy curtains lay folded to the sides, and she counts maybe six spotlights focused on one point in the stage.
And for heaven's sake, the floor is black. The lights only accentuate how sleek and smooth it is, and Mikan can't even see so much as a blemish on the pristine stage. She feels an urge to be up there, with the numerous spotlights trained on her as she sings her heart away.
What a view it must be, Mikan thinks.
As she nears the stage, Mikan can make out the clear sound of a string instrument trilling away. Her eyes spot a blond boy in the spotlight playing what looks to be a violin. He's dressed in a sleek black suit with his sleeves rolled up, but his jacket, she sees, is tossed carelessly on the ground.
Even still, he practically radiates elegance, what with the neat blond hair and the suit and the violin, but the rough movements of his bow contrasts that image. Mikan is just barely able to discern a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead as he sways on stage, so caught up in the heat of the music.
She can't help but stare as his left hand flies up and down the strings almost effortlessly, his other arm moving like it's possessed with a mind of its own.
Mikan stumbles her way to the nearest seat, unable to tear her eyes away. Maybe it's the way his hands hold the instrument with such familiarity, or the way he seems completely at peace even in the heat of the spotlight—but either way, the air is stifling with the amount of stage presence he exudes.
Mikan can tell the piece is coming to a close when he crescendos, his movements remaining smooth despite the increasing speed. There's a pause for a short second, the trill echoing loudly in the auditorium, before he resumes with a sudden series of fast notes. He keeps it up for what feels like ages, his fingers dancing up and down the strings like a madman, and Mikan thinks her jaw may have dropped at least twice by the time he slows down into an extended note.
He ends the piece with five quick sweeps of the bow, and his last note rings out like a clear bell, finality hanging still in the air.
Only after he lowers his instrument does Mikan start to clap.
She's the only one.
Her applause is abruptly cut off when realization of this isn't an actual concert oh no strikes her. Mikan's cheeks are hot as she slides low into her chair, flushed with embarrassment, and behind her, someone mutters, "Idiot."
She whirls around in her seat to tell the jerk that it was a great performance. If not for the fact that applause might have gotten her kicked out, she would've clapped even if there were three laws forbidding it.
Then her eyes start to adjust to the dim lighting. She makes out a mess of dark hair, finely arched eyebrows, and—
A flash of anger sparks in her chest.
"You!" Mikan hisses. "What the hell are you doing here?"
The jerk from earlier takes a second to roll his eyes. "Killing three candidates," he answers sarcastically. "What do you think, fuckwit?"
Mikan scowls. "Don't call me that!"
Not bothering to reply, the jerk just rolls his eyes again and places his headphones over his ears.
She huffs and turns back to the front. Her eyes fall on the blond candidate onstage.
She doesn't know how she's missed it before, but he's shaking. Strands of blond hair stick to his face, and the hand holding his instrument trembles; he looks about ready to crash. And at one point, he even lurches forward before stumbling to catch himself.
But in the next split second, the exhaustion is wiped clear from his face, and his back snaps upright as he stammers something Mikan can't hear. There's more bits of quiet conversation, and before she can blink, he's bowing quickly and walking offstage like demons are chasing his heels.
Mikan wonders what the judges had said to him, but her question is answered in the next instant when an announcement goes up overhead.
"Attention all candidates: please ensure that your audition pieces do not exceed three and a half minutes. Thank you."
Oh, Mikan thinks faintly. So that's what it was.
As the announcement fades out, dead silence weighs in the air. Mikan counts a second, two, then three, before a flurry of panicked whispers erupts in the auditorium.
Mikan is fairly sure that her own piece doesn't exceed the time limit, but she doesn't exactly recall seeing one in the first place. Heck, she doesn't even remembering seeing it on the school website.
Mikan shrugs to herself. Better safe than sorry.
She flickers back and forth between searching the song on Youtube or humming her song straight through to check for the time. Instead, she ends up drumming her fingers anxiously on the screen as she waits for her phone to turn on.
A shadow passes over her.
"Are you good for your piece, newbie, or do you think you need to cut it?"
Mikan's not ashamed to admit that she almost bursts into tears at the thought of cutting her song—she's mastered it the way it is, dammit, there is no way she's cutting it. Mikan restrains herself though, and instead looks up to find two students peering over at her phone.
One of them is a thin guy wearing striped hoodie and a green beanie, and—is that a tattoo of a star on his cheek? He looks at her with a huge, playful grin that carries undertones of all sorts of mischief, and she thinks that it wouldn't be far-fetched to say that he lost a bet with that tattoo.
The girl next to him has a vibe to her that Mikan can only describe as "cool," with a hand on her hip and her head held high with confidence. She isn't even offset by the fact that her hair is pink, a fact that has Mikan envious.
The only way Mikan knows they're students is the fact that even in the suffocating air of the auditorium, they seem completely at ease.
Lucky them.
The guy with the beanie breaks Mikan out of her reverie when he glances at her phone, clucking his tongue. "You've got an ancient phone, newbie," he says. "I don't think you'll be able to turn it on before it's your turn to go up." A grimace twists his lips. "Plus, I think you forgot to charge it."
What?
Mikan looks down at her phone just in time to see it flicker uncertainly before blinking out. A wave of horror and dread washes over her.
No.
No, no, no!
This can't be happening—
Her teeth sink down on her lip hard as she taps rapidly at her phone. Her fingers press down on the power button again and again, willing the screen to turn on once more. Come on, she urges it desperately, work, you stupid thing!
Nothing happens.
All the tension drains out of her shoulders. Mikan collapses into her chair, blood pounding loud in her head. She can't even check the time limit because she forgot to charge it? Of all things, how could this happen now—
And to her utter mortification, Mikan can feel a prickling in her eyes, tears soon clouding her vision.
Not only does her phone refuse to work because she forgot to charge it like the idiot she is, but the two seniors in front of her are going to see her cry because she's so goddamn stupid.
Mikan presses the palm of her hands to her eyes, trying to hold back her tears. She's not a baby, dammit. She refuses to act like one. Mikan has to take responsibility for the fact that she's such an idiot and find some way to—to—
The students.
She doesn't even know their names, but at this point, they're her last hope. Mikan turns towards them pleadingly. "Do you have something that I can use to search my song up?" she asks, desperation lining her voice. "Anything will do, just—I just need to search my song up real quick, it'll only be a couple seconds, I swear—"
She stops when the girl shushes her, making a calming motion with her hands. "It's okay, it's okay. You can use my phone." She fishes her phone out of her blazer pocket, unlocks it, and passes it over to her with an easy grin. "Take as long as you need. Don't worry about us."
Mikan releases her breath and almost goes boneless with relief as she takes the phone with trembling hands. "Thank you, thank you, thank you so much," she whispers. "It'll only be like twenty seconds, I promise."
The girl leans back in her chair. "Sure thing."
Only a few seconds pass as Mikan searches the length of her song, but it's enough for her to hear the hisses coming from her side.
"—think you're doing, terrifying the kid like that, we weren't supposed to make them cry—"
"I was just screwing around! I didn't think she'd take it so seriousl—ack—"
The screen freezes. Sighing, Mikan lays the phone on her lap, and she turns to glance at the two students, just to make sure they're okay.
The girl is still smiling at her, so that's good. Mikan returns the smile before her gaze drifts.
The male student, on the other hand…
He's locked in a chokehold. Not so good.
"Um," Mikan starts tentatively, "are you alright?"
"Just dandy," the male student gasps out, tapping weakly at the offending arm. "I'm fine, thank y—Misaki, let go—Misakithat'smywindpipe—"
Mikan presses her lips together, debating whether or not to press the issue because damn, what a dangerous shade of blue that is, and—wait. Didn't he just mention something about his windpipe? Startled, Mikan moves to help him, but the student grins feebly at her and waves it off. He even gives her a thumb-up.
Mikan's utterly unconvinced, but it seems like he has it under control—sort of?—so nodding uncertainly, she turns back to the phone the moment the page finishes loading.
The page is all about her audition song. Christina Perri, yup, A Thousand Years, yup, et cetera, et cetera. All of this she knows, so where's the information she's looking for, dammit—
Mikan scrolls hastily through the page before coming to a sudden stop.
Time—3:12.
Ah.
There it is.
Mikan feels a victorious shout building in her throat—it's not over three and a half minutes, thank god, she doesn't have to cut it after all—and just in time, she restrains it and replaces it with a quiet squeal.
"What's up?"
Mikan looks up. Thankfully, the girl—Misaki has released the boy for the time being, but Mikan peers behind her to see him almost dry heaving on the floor, all the while slapping weakly at a chair.
"Um, are you—"
"Fine," he chokes out, giving her another thumbs-up. "I'm okay—ack—thanks."
"Right," Mikan says, still unconvinced, but she turns back to Misaki regardless and hands her the phone. "So my song's not over the time limit."
Misaki grins. "Well, that's good. You don't have to cut it, then."
Mikan nods, beaming. "Yeah, it's a huge relief. The part I was worried about was the cutting. I don't even have the slightest clue on how to do that."
Misaki raises an eyebrow. "You do realize that we're students of this school?" She jerks a thumb at the hacking-a-lung-out guy. "The idiot over there, Tsubasa, he's useless on most days, but anything involving mixing, rearranging, and cutting music—he's your man."
Mikan blinks. "Oh," she says. "Well, that's good to know."
Tsubasa pops behind Misaki's shoulder, looking somewhat better without the shade of asphyxiation in his cheeks. He squints at Mikan. "What's your name, newbie?"
"Mikan," she says. "Nice to meet you."
Tsubasa pokes at Misaki's arm and grins. "Look, Misaki. This one's polite."
Misaki slams an elbow into his gut without looking. Ignoring his cry of pain, she asks, "What are you auditioning for, anyway?"
Mikan casts a worried glance at Tsubasa, but again he gives her a thumbs-up. It seems he'll recover.
Shrugging, Mikan turns back to Misaki. "I'm planning on going into the vocal program," she answers with an embarrassed smile.
"Really?" Misaki asks. She and Tsubasa exchange knowing glances before Misaki turns back to her. "Damn newbie, that's a tough program to get into."
Mikan's face colors. She knows. "The thing is…I have family that works here, and they used to take me here to see performances when I was little. And they—the performers—they were magical. I'd never heard anything like them. I used to think they were angels."
She laughs to herself quietly at the memory. A part of Mikan even thinks her uncle took her to those performances on purpose, just so she'd try to go to his school. Mikan shrugs. "I've wanted to be one of them ever since, so here I am, I guess."
Misaki and Tsubasa blink at her in unison. "That's…" Tsubasa begins.
A huge grin spreads on Misaki's face. "That's pretty cool, newbie. Gotta respect that."
Tsubasa starts to nod in agreement, but then his eyebrows furrow. "Wait, did you say that you have family that—"
He's suddenly cut off by the sound of music blaring, and all of them turn to see the next audition already being performed on stage.
Out of some unspoken respect, they stop talking and sit down, keeping their eyes on the audition instead of each other. After about thirty seconds, Mikan's eyes narrow. She can't exactly call herself an accurate judge for dancing; all she has to go on are lessons that she took when she was much younger and stopped after one too many falls on her face. But…the best dancers she's seen move as if they're weightless, as if they have perfect command over their bodies and how it moves.
This dancer is leagues ahead of Mikan as it is, but he definitely doesn't move the way Mikan expects great dancers to.
And then, one of the judges raises their hands. The music stops.
Alarmed, she turns to Misaki and Tsubasa behind her. "What's going on?" she hisses.
The both of them have grim looks on their faces, and Misaki's lips have even gone white at the edges.
"Take a look," Tsubasa says, voice flat.
She does, and she's treated to a sight that makes her stomach curl. The person who had just auditioned is shaking, holding his arms at his elbows as if he's trying to hold himself together even though he's falling apart. She watches, paralyzed, as tears begin to streak his cheeks. She wishes she was closer to the stage so that she could know why; she can't hear a thing so far back in the auditorium.
Mikan stares as the dancer slowly breaks down further. He nods at a question Mikan can't quite make out, and then a male judge speaks out. Even though she can't tell what he's saying, she can tell that his tone is harsh, and Mikan's eyes go wide. The judge is barely finished before the dancer turns away and runs backstage, sobbing so loudly that it reverberates through the whole room.
A silent heavy silence hangs in the air.
"What just happened?" Mikan asks, bringing a shaky hand to the armrest. She twists around back to Misaki and Tsubasa; neither of them look very happy.
"That's what happens when the judges are assholes," Tsubasa answers darkly. "Some of them don't know the difference between criticism and verbal assault."
Mikan's mouth opens and closes, but she has nothing to say to that. Only sheer panic starts to form in her throat. What if she ends up being as bad as that dancer? What if the judges decide to kick her out too?
An image comes to Mikan's mind: her going home on the train tonight, crying her eyes out and wondering what she's going to tell her parents because the judges hated her performance. Suddenly, Mikan feels sick.
In front of her, Misaki grimaces. Her eyes are still on the dark sliver between the curtain and the back of the stage, but then they turn back to Mikan and whatever she sees makes them soften in sympathy.
"Mikan, I'm sure you'll be fine—"
All of them hear a snort, making Misaki stop abruptly. Tsubasa whirls around to see the source, and Misaki follows suit with a dark scowl forming on her face.
The jerk from earlier hasn't moved from his spot. His red eyes cut into Mikan with so much indifference that she's taken aback for a moment. He rests his chin on his hand, and says in a bored drawl, "If your singing is anything like what I heard earlier, sweetheart, you're fucking screwed."
Before Mikan can even say anything—tear into him like a tiger on a piece of bloody meat—Misaki literally growls. "Who the fuck are you?"
Natsume raises his eyebrow at her, and his mouth opens as if he's about to say something, but then he's interrupted by an announcement.
"Candidates #33 to #40, please report backstage. I repeat, Candidates #33 to #40, please report backstage."
"Leaving, apparently." With a smirk on his face, he flashes them the number on his chest—he's #34, a couple numbers before Mikan.
Damn.
He gets up and walks away before any of them can get a word in edgewise. Mikan inwardly seethes, resisting the urge to flip the bird at his back. Outwardly, she sighs and stands up tall, doing her best to put on a brave face in front of Misaki and Tsubasa.
"Well, that's my cue," Mikan says, gesturing to the #37 on her chest.
The two upperclassmen are clearly still bothered by that jerk—Misaki has even muttered a few expletives under her breath—but that doesn't stop them from sending her encouraging smiles.
"Break a leg, newbie," Tsubasa says with a wink.
Misaki adds, "Here's some advice, Mikan." She leans forward conspiratorially. "Keep practicing how you're going to perform in your head. It gives you a map to follow when you're actually up there. You'd be surprised how well it works."
Mikan blinks. Raises an eyebrow and cocks her head to the side. It sounds strange, but she guesses she's heard stranger things. Shrugging, Mikan says, "Thanks!"
She turns to leave, but then Misaki stops her when she says, "Wait!"
Confused, Mikan faces them again.
"Give that jerk a good punch in the face for me, would you?" Behind her, Tsubasa nods in agreement.
It's Mikan's turn to smile conspiratorially. "No worries about that," she says. "I already slapped him."
Okay, practice in your head, practice in your head.
Mikan takes a deep breath and goes over her lyrics for what must be the thirtieth time.
She's standing amongst a group of people, waiting for her turn to audition. Each second that passes by turns her stomach to stone; there's a pit in her stomach twists and turns and burrows into her bones with desperate fervor, growing more intense by the second.
'You're done for,' her mind supplies helpfully.
Panic starts rising in her chest, and Mikan folds her hands over it. For security? Maybe she's trying to keep herself from falling apart, just like that dancer, and thinking about that moment only makes things worse. Her mind feels like it's turning into a bumbling mess. With a flood of horror, she realizes that she can't even remember the words to her song anymore.
The world shakes. Or maybe it's just her.
Mikan shuts her eyes hard and searches deep for something, anything to calm her down—
And finds it in a place that comes as no surprise to her.
Hotaru's song starts flitting past her lips.
The effect is immediate: her lungs no longer feel like collapsing, and her feet feel steady under her, so that the 'earthquake' effect is gone.
Once Mikan feels strong enough to open her eyes, she does—to the least welcoming sight of all time.
That stupid, stupid jerk is—is laughing at her! Actually, he's just looking her up and down with an amused smirk on his face, but the effect is somehow still the same. Perhaps if she was in a slightly better mood, Mikan wouldn't feel such anger coursing through her, but as it is, the smirk only serves to ignite a raging fire.
"What's so funny?!" Mikan spits venomously.
"You look like you'd fall over if I so much as poked you." He shrugs. "It's almost hilarious. Pathetic, but hilarious all the same."
Mikan takes a page out of Misaki's book and growls at him. "Are you even a good singer or dancer, or whatever you are?"
"Dancer, actually," he says. "And yes. I'm better than what you'll ever be, if that answers your question."
Mikan's fists clench at her sides, itching to sail through the air to reacquaint themselves with his face. "I hope you break a leg for real."
"If it's anything like your singing, I'm sure I will."
"You jerk—" Mikan begins, but she's yet again interrupted by another announcement.
"Candidate #34 onstage, I repeat, Candidate #34 onstage."
There's a short pause as he stops to take this in, and then he turns to smirk at her. "Well," he says, "wish me luck, sweetheart."
And before she can say anything, he's gone.
His footsteps echo as he makes his way across the stage with slow, confident steps. The glare of the spotlight follows him until he reaches the center of the stage, shoulders relaxed and arms hanging freely by his sides. He looks completely at ease, that jerk—there's not even a trace of fear or anxiety in him that she can detect.
Tearing her gaze away with an exasperated huff, Mikan cranes her head around to look at the judges. There are five judges as far as she can see. The first one, the closest to her and on the far right end of the table, wears their blond hair in a loose ponytail, clad in a silky white button-down. With their slim shoulders, she guesses the judge is a girl, right up until he lifts his head to reveal angular features and a sharp jawline.
Oh.
The second judge beside him could be his twin sister. They have the same blond hair, the same pale skin, and the same feeling of fragility in their appearance. But unlike the first judge, she moves with a grace and elegance that he doesn't quite match up to.
A dancer, Mikan thinks.
It seems fitting.
Her gaze moves to the third judge. With all the beauty and charm from the first two, Mikan's grown to expect something similar of the rest. Instead, the third judge is nothing fragile or delicate.
He's refined, sure—she'd even go as far as to say sophisticated, but he's not alluring like they are. He's a got a pair of glasses perched on a thin, straight nose, and his dark hair is arranged in neatly around his face. His fingers are spinning a pen impatiently, a set scowl twisting his lips.
Mikan has a feeling that that's the judge she'll dread talking to the most.
The remaining judges she can't see too well, much to her frustration, but she's barely able to make out a loose blue shirt and a mop of hair that's either brown or gray for the fourth judge. The last judge she can't see at all.
Mikan slides back in the shadow of the curtain again as the third judge starts to speak.
"Natsume Hyuuga. Age sixteen, specializes in hip-hop."
"Yes, sir," the jerk—Natsume says, with a voice just as clipped as the judge's.
It's too easy to imagine the judge's scowl becoming more pronounced; and as if the image comes true, Mikan can sense a note of hostility in his voice when he asks,"Why do you want to enter this school, Mr. Hyuuga?"
To his credit, Natsume doesn't even hesitate a beat. "It's a prestigious academy," he says. "Anyone who graduates here ends up as a skilled dancer who's able to do things that most dancers can only imagine." He shrugs. "I want to be one of those skilled dancers—and Alice Academy's the easiest way to help me get there."
There's a quiet moment as the judges takes in his answer.
"Then," a different, smoother voice says after a beat, "what exactly do you like about dance?"
This time, Natsume pauses in thought before a smirk tilts his lips. "I could show you better than I could tell you."
Mikan peeks through the curtain just in time to see a slow grin spread on the first judge's lips. "Fair enough. Show us what you've got."
It feels like there's a second where everything is still; she sees Natsume's shoulders rise and fall in a steady breath, his eyes fluttering closed, and his body settles into the first position of his choreography as he takes a step back. A beat of silence passes before his audition song filters through the speakers. There's maybe a split second gap before Mikan recognizes it as Hotaru's song, the one she was humming earlier.
Mikan's struck speechless with the sheer amount of incredulity she feels. He chose this song, she thinks, torn between disbelief and wonder. Then the moment ceases, and she's back to incredulity with a scoff. No matter how good his answers were, he won't be able to pull this off.
Mikan knows the fast beats of the song like the back of her hand. The quick rhythm alone is a clear indication that the song isn't easy to dance to, and Mikan, who has watched countless videos of people attempting to cover it, knows it better than anyone. It's a song full of opportunity and golden chance, but that's exactly why it's so difficult.
She senses the second phrase of the song coming up in only a couple more moments, and she knows when the repeating beginning will end—she knows when to expect the start of his dance.
And as soon as the music slows down to a low buzz, it starts rising in volume just as fast, a steady beat beginning to form behind the lone guitar. The moment the first real beat hits, he starts moving.
Mikan can't stop her jaw from falling.
It's like one moment he's standing still, foot tapping languidly at the floor in perfect time with the beat, but in the next, he's flying into motion. He starts off with two body rolls that seems slow and sensual even with the fast rhythm, like he's warping the very song itself with his moves. The first one flows down the length of his body in a way that makes Mikan's cheeks heat, while the second practically ripples from his shoulders to his hips and all the way down to his legs.
His dance is crisp and clean, without any extra motions that get in the way. Mikan doesn't know what he does to pull it off, but somehow he manages to time everything so that every move he takes, it falls perfectly on time with the beat.
It's clear to Mikan that Natsume aces footwork. When he jumps, he lands right on the staccato rhythm of the drums before transitioning into quick, distinct motions of his feet. Mikan can't help but envy how effortless dance seems to him. He changes his point of balance like snap of the fingers, walking confidently across the stage before coming to a sudden stop, whirling around as if his body weighs nothing.
God knows she hates the jerk and his terrible personality, but he's such a damn good dancer that she can't help but lean forward to watch.
But then, but then—
His gaze flicks up to meet her eyes. As if in slow motion, the corner of his lips tilt up into a smirk.
"Having fun?" His eyes seem to be saying, smirk reeking of arrogance.
Mikan's struck so speechless that she can't do anything but splutter wordlessly as he turns away. The moment he faces the audience, the rhythm begins to slow; attuned to the song and its beat, Natsume slows as well. While seconds earlier he was doing things that she's only seen famous dancers do, he abruptly pulls himself to a robotic stop, torso jerking once before stilling.
A beat passes, and then another.
And without warning, the music comes back in a sudden rush, volume reaching its peak. Unfreezing himself, Natsume wrenches himself back just as the beat returns with a crash. His steps are wide and purposeful as he moves forward, matching the song's crescendo with movements that only increase with speed; and with one last spin, Natsume's audition—performance—is over.
Mikan hates how her hand twitches as if it's about to clap, but she hates how she's utterly breathless even more.
The tension bleeds out of Natsume's body, and everything is still during that time. Then the blond judge from earlier breaks the silence by saying, "Well." He stops himself with a blissful sigh. "I think you showed us why you love dance, alright."
Natsume's expression doesn't change, but his lips twitch as if he's repressing a smile. "Thank you."
The judge huffs indignantly. "All of these short answers!" he cries. "You're such an expressive dancer—but where did it all go?!"
Mikan chokes in her attempt to stifle her laughter.
A snort. "For god's sakes, Narumi," a different voice says dryly. "Just go back to the questions."
"Then ask the questions yourself, if you dislike my dramatics that much!"
"Fine, maybe I will. You suck at this anyway."The voice sighs, and ignoring Narumi's cries of protest, he continues on with the interview. "Mr. Hyuuga, it's clear that you like to dance, but just to clarify, do you think you could tell us why it's your passion?"
Natsume releases a slow breath. A flicker of hesitation crosses his face. "Honestly," he says, "I think my dancing has told you more than I ever could."
I think my dancing has told you more than I ever could.
And dammit, Mikan knows he's being truthful because she can recognize his way of dancing—she sees it in herself when she sings.
It's that unrestrained way of performing, the freedom of it so sweet when she feels the music in her heart, and that's something they both share. She can give everything she has into her singing, throw herself into it when words aren't enough to express what she's feeling, and it's—
It's exactly as Natsume had said.
"I think my dancing has told you more than I ever could."
Mikan loathes to admit it, but somewhere inside her—a very, very small part—is impressed with his answers, and even more with the way he performs.
Mikan snaps out of her thoughts as the judges wrap up his audition. "—ank you," Natsume is saying, giving the judges a short nod, and then he starts making his way back to the curtains.
A smattering of applause greets him the moment he crosses the threshold of the room. She can't bring herself to clap, but she watches quietly as he's patted on the back and congratulated.
She notices the fact that he's staring at her moments before he actually passes her, and that's when she begins to hold her breath once more. Mikan remembers how she had slapped him earlier—which she really shouldn't have done, no matter how angry she was—and she cringes to herself.
Natsume's steps halt to a stop beside her. Mikan turns her gaze up, and his crimson eyes are boring into her own as a lazy smirk curls his lips. "Good enough for you, sweetheart?"
Irritation flares in her heart at his condescending tone, but she squashes it down ruthlessly and forces herself to keep her voice level. "I never said that you were a bad dancer, you know."
"Oh, I know."
Mikan feels a frown forming on her face. "Then, why'd you say—"
He stops her with a simple shrug. "Because I wanted to let you know that I was better than you'd ever be." He smirks. "I think you got the message."
Mikan feels a scowl surfacing on her lips. "I can do just as well as you can," she says heatedly.
She slaps herself a second later in her mind. Stupid, stupid, you stupid idiot—
God, what is with her mouth whenever he's around? It's like all the filter she has between her mind and her mouth has disappeared, and now she's blurting out whatever thought comes to her head. He gets her angry enough to murder a man, sure, but that doesn't mean she has to do it.
This is a disaster, Mikan thinks, just as Natsume arches an eyebrow.
"Are you sure about that?"
And dammit, it's like everything he does while existing pisses her off. The smirk, the "sweetheart," the eyebrow raise—all of it irritates her to no end, and she can't control her words anymore. "Positive," Mikan grits out with a glower. "You can even watch, if you want to."
"And I'm sure I don't want to," Natsume says and shoulders past her. "Good luck, sweetheart. Try not to trip and fall on your way to the stage."
Inhaling sharply, she turns away from him to face the stage, muttering, "I won't."
The auditions after Natsume's performance go by surprisingly fast, but every once in a while, Mikan will look up from her lyrics sheet to watch people audition for a few seconds.
There's a bass-and-drum duo that do a wonderful job in making her bob her head to the addicting beat, but the audition afterwards isn't so stellar. Mikan winces as the girl trills again, this time going sharp, and she can't help but think that the girl would be lucky to get in after her mishap.
Mikan stops listening to the girl mid-chorus. It'll just make her anxious, and that's never a good thing. While her intonation doesn't change too much with nerves, she does end up lacking the power in her voice. She's heard recordings of herself singing; if she isn't tense or strung-up, her voice sounds amazing.
But looking at the stage with the girl who looks like she's about to burst into tears, Mikan's not sure that she'll manage to summon that power. With it, she's sure to get into the school. But without it—
"Candidate #37 on standby. I repeat, Candidate #37 on standby."
Mikan stiffens, and her trembling begins again as she rises from her seat.
Without it, she's not sure that she'll get in at all.
And Mikan knows that she shouldn't allow herself in that mindset right before she goes onstage, but letting herself slip into the bad thoughts is easier than blocking them out. She remembers the glasses-wearing boy from earlier who had puked from the stress and anxiety, the first girl who crumpled onstage and ran off sobbing, and the other candidates waiting in the hall wondering if they'll get in.
It's them—all two thousand performers in that hall—against her.
It's the years worth of private lessons and tutoring and competitions pit against her, all their efforts and desperation and the chances they've grasped by the skin of their teeth.
Mikan started singing officially when she was eleven. What's that to three hundred, seven hundred, a thousandpeople who've done it years before she did? How can she become one of the selected three hundred when the odds are against her, when they're looking beautiful and classy and she looks inadequate and lacking and wrong, what is she compared to everyone else—
Stop, Mikan thinks, I need to stop.
But no matter how hard she tries, she can't stop her thoughts. They just keep running on, creating chaos in her frantic heart, forcing her gaze down, and—
You started too late. You're not good enough.
You'll never be good enough.
And just like that, she's able to imagine herself a month or two later with a letter clutched in her hands.
Stop.
The gold seal will no longer as promising as it used to be when she tears open the letter. This time it won't be open to the word opportunity, but rather to regret, apologies, we're sorry. She'll throw herself into her mother's arms, the almosts and maybes and should haves bitter on her tongue as a wail tears itself out of her throat. It's easy to see all of that, because Mikan knows by the fear thick in her throat that it'll happen.
Why couldn't I make it? Mikan hears her future self cry, and the letter will crumple in her fist. Why wasn't I accepted? Why wasn't I good enough—
A shudder rips through Mikan as the image turns to stare at her, glassy-eyed and gaze dark with despair.
Why weren't you good enough?
Mikan's hands are shaking when she crosses the stage to stand in front of the judges, smack dab in the middle of the spotlight. The light is heated on her cheeks, but for once, she doesn't feel at ease in it. She can't see the view she longed to see before; all she sees in front of her is the blinding light and the darkness up ahead. She swallows. Her grip on the microphone is not secure in her sweaty hands.
She's a wreck, and oh god, how is she even going to get past this audition—
Stop, Mikan tells herself again. I need to stop. I'm going to get through this, I'm going to calm down, and all I need is to just take a deep breath.
She does so shakily, but nothing really happens. She tries it again. And again. And again. And again. By the time she works her way through her fifth inhale-exhale routine, her heart has settled down somewhat, but the thoughts are still circulating in her mind.
Gold seal, regrets, don't let this happen—
I'll be good enough, Mikan thinks firmly, and her grip on the mic feels a bit steadier now. I will be good enough.
It seems as if the judges can sense her nervousness, because they don't press her with questions like they had for the other candidates. It's amazing that they allowed this much time for her to gather her wits in the first place, but she's grateful for it nonetheless. All they do is confirm her name, age, and then she's off with a passing remark of, "Good luck" from one of the judges.
Mikan inhales as much as her lungs allow before releasing it again in one huge breath. The tension still hasn't left her shoulders, never mind her lungs—oh god, how is she going to breathe—but at least it doesn't feel like her heart is about to explode right then and there.
I can do this, she thinks, repeating the words to herself between the silence. I can do this.
There's a few seconds where everything goes still, and then she hears the background track for her song going through the speakers.
Most of the song goes okay. She hits the notes and trills her voice when necessary, but to her dismay, she's so nervous that she can't muster up the power she normally has in her voice when she's at home. She knows her breathing is off, and she almost goes nasal while resisting the urge to close her eyes. Somehow she still makes it to the end without going flat or sharp, thank goodness, but she's so disappointed in herself for not sounding her best that she blanks out for the first few minutes after her performance.
She sees the judge's lips moving. Mikan can tell that he's asking her something important, but it's like her ears are blocked. The words just fly right past, and she ends up missing the first question that the judges ask her.
Mikan blinks, forcing herself to snap out of her daze. "Sorry, what? I didn't hear that."
Judging by the way his face immediately darkens, it's the wrong way to answer. Mikan's not sure what terrible thing she's done, but he looks ready to murder as he asks, "Why did you decide to audition?"
At least that's easy enough to answer. "I love music," Mikan says. "I can't dance or play an instrument to save my life, but I love everything about it. It's like a way for me to express myself when I'm not able to, and that's one of the perks. Not to mention, my friends and family always love it when I sing. Heck, I love it more than anything else, so… So I guess I decided to audition."
Mikan scans the judges' faces for any sign of approval, but all she gets is a nod and some scribbling from the first two judges. And the third judge—
The third judge twitches. "You guess?"
Mikan nods uncertainly. "I guess, yeah."
If his expression was borderline murderous before, it's for sure murderous now. "Young lady," he begins, "the Alice Academy of Music is not for people who come in with uncertainties like 'I guess'. It's not for people who sing to impress others, and it's certainly not for people who give half-hearted performances."
Mikan winces. She's not going to pretend that his comment didn't hurt, but it's not like everything he said was true. She knows she isn't half-hearted about anything involving this audition—she's traveled nearly a hundred miles to get here, spent hundreds, if not thousands, on training her voice, and she's had to battle anxiety and nerves for the entire day just for this one moment.
But despite all of that, she performed anyway. Even if it wasn't her best, it was still something, and the fact that he can think less of her for using 'I guess'...
Well. Mikan can't help the little splutter of indignation that sparks in her heart.
"I know all of that without you having to tell me," she says, forcing herself to keep her voice calm and steady. "This place practically breeds fame and success in music—I know the students here can't achieve that by being half-hearted about anything. They spend a ton of money for lessons and tutoring, and give up their lives to studying and practicing music. Students here sacrifice so much just for a chance—I'd be stupid not to know that."
The judge raises his eyebrow, leaning forward. "Oh? So let's suppose for a second here, Ms. Mikan Sakura, that you do understand all of these sacrifices. If you understand, then tell me: what was with that terrible singing from earlier?"
"It wasn't terrible—"
"But you're speaking from a biased perspective," he interrupts. He looks down at his desk, a scowl forming on his face. "From what I wrote here, your voice had no power, no volume variation, and no sense of emotion whatsoever. However terrible your choice for an audition song was, the lyrics are supposed to convey yearning and love. You, on the other hand, conveyed your desire to get the audition over with."
Mikan's mouth opens, closes, and opens again. "I—I didn't—"
The judge cuts her off with a sneer. "Your performance," he says, "was no better than a preschooler's with how far it fell from my expectations."
A preschooler's?
Mikan flushes. "I know it was a bad performance!" Her heart begins to hammer painfully in her ribs. "I was just nervous because it was my first time performing in such a big auditorium, but—"
"First time, you say." He scoffs derisively. "Did you know that most singers have to adapt to new stages almost every day? But regardless of nerves or 'first times', they're expected to pull off perfect shows."
"I—"
"In the music industry, you adapt or you die; to them, nerves do not matter. The second you go flat, you'll be kicked out without any pay."
"That's—"
"There are no second tries. There are no excuses." He pins her with a cold gaze. "And your determination, Ms. Mikan Sakura, is weak if you think you should be an exception to that."
Mikan's mouth drops open, and she stares at the judge in wordless shock.
He leans back, satisfied.
A few seconds pass in silence. But when Mikan finally manages to get her voice back, the first thing she blurts out is an incredulous, "Are you kidding me?"
The judge leans forward again and narrows his eyes. "I beg your pardon?"
She has to muster every last ounce of restraint she has to keep from shouting; her voice ends up sounding carefully controlled. "I'm sorry for being rude," Mikan starts, the faintest of tremors lining her words, "but I am fully aware of the consequences in not performing up to your standard. You're completely right—there are no excuses, no second chances, and nobody knows that better than I do. It was stupid of me to call on nerves as an excuse.
"But," she continues, "that's still no reason to compare my performance to a preschooler's when it didn't warrant the insult, or to make false assumptions about me and call my determination weak. You've known me for three minutes; you haven't seen the most of my determination or even my personality to make conclusions. You call my tell me that my performance was like a preschooler's, but—"
And with a start, Mikan can't help but remember Natsume's words from earlier.
"I'd like to ask you, sweetheart—"
"Who's the more immature one here?" Mikan asks.
The judge's pen hits the table with a loud crack. Mikan doesn't flinch. Her heart is thudding loud in her throat, but she manages to keep a level gaze as his lips curl into an expression of pure contempt.
"Young lady," he snarls. "You dare—"
"Enough, Jinno." Mikan whips her head to the side to see the blond man from earlier speaking, a small frown on his face. "We're testing them on their determination. We are not judging them on their attitude. She's under my program—you don't have the rights to accurately judge on her singing."
"Narumi, you—"
"You judge only her resolve, and you saw it for yourself. She has the resolve to speak her mind and defend her singing even against an authority figure."
"Narumi—"
Narumi's frown disappears without a trace, and a gentle smile appears in its stead. "Jinno," he says, "let me handle this."
And to Mikan's amazement, Jinno nods and sits back in his chair.
Mikan doesn't notice Narumi's gaze shifting to her until he calls her name. "Ms. Mikan Sakura."
As if on instinct, Mikan's back straightens. "Y-yes sir," she stammers.
She doesn't think it's possible, but Narumi's smile turns a touch kinder. "Your singing was remarkable, Ms. Mikan Sakura."
Her heart skips a beat.
"Although it lacked the power that could've been added to enhance the emotion of the song, you still delivered in a way that was enjoyable and pleasant. You have no problems reaching high or low notes, but I suggest that you try controlling your breathing next time, so you can keep those notes flowing."
Through the loud rush of blood pounding in her head, Mikan manages to grasp only a few of his words—breathing, power, got it—but on his last sentence, Mikan's breath catches.
Next time?
Mikan thinks back to a couple hours earlier when she was wandering around campus, wondering about what could get her in. Natural talent or hard work—that was all a load of bull, and she knew that. And even now, she can't say for sure what will get her in, but hearing the words next time coming from the judge, it erases the maybes and could've beens that have been lingering in her mind.
Instead, next time sounds like opportunity.
We look forward to seeing what talents you have to offer—
Narumi's gaze softens. "You'll be getting your results by mail in two months. Thank you for your time, Ms. Mikan Sakura."
Mikan stumbles onto the train with what seems like tremendous effort to her lethargic limbs. She somehow manages to find an empty seat and stagger her way over, going boneless once she hits the seat.
People are sending her looks. Some are sympathetic, some are not, but at this point, Mikan's so tired that she can't even muster up the energy to care.
Her shoulders sag against her the walls of the train, her head bobbing down to her chin. And amidst the cloud of exhaustion fogging her mind, she manages to think, I wonder if I'll get in.
Mikan prays to eight gods and then some, but that's all she can manage before her eyes fall closed to blissful sleep.
March 7th
Ms. Mikan Sakura,
Upon much consideration of your audition on January 26th, we are pleased to inform you that you have been selected for admission to the VocalMusicProgram at Alice Academy of Music.
Enrollment at Alice Academy is a chance to join a community of globally respected performers and artists in an education that will both excite and challenge you. Your admission is based on the strongest recommendations of the five judges present at your audition, and they would like to extend to you their greatest encouragement of joining us in the fall.
If you have any questions regarding the school or this offer of admission, do not hesitate to contact Principal Yukihara. Mr. Narumi, head of the VocalMusicProgram, would be happy as well to answer any questions concerning the program.
A response from you regarding your acceptance of this offer of admissions is required on or before May 16. Contact for registration can be done by email or mail, using the enclosed letter.
We congratulate you on your acceptance, and look forward to welcoming you to Alice Academy of Music in the fall.
Sincerly,
Kazumi Yukihara,
Principal of Alice Academy of Arts.
A/N: Hello, readers! I'm Rinail of Stars in Brilliance, and I'm here with our first story, Chasing Music! I do hope you've enjoyed the first chapter as tears of blood were cried out and three limbs were broken (not really) in the making of it.
We'll be try to update on a weekly basis, so expect to see us in the archive often! Please note that this was written rather hastily, so I haven't gotten a chance to revise as extensively as I would've liked. There might be some revisions going on after the chapter is posted, just as a warning.
For those of you who don't know, Stars in Brilliance is a joint collab project with three authors: Topaz Tsubasa, Unknown Pain, and me (Rinail). The writing order for the chapters will rotate with me, Unknown Pain, and Topaz Tsubasa, so the writing styles may change on a chapter-to-chapter basis, but we'll try our hardest to make the flow of the story as smooth as we can. That's it for this chapter, and I hope you'll stick around for the next one!
-Stars in Brilliance