Because there just aren't enough stories about Viola and Jazz. That and that I've always found them to be perfect for each other. That Tri-Crescendo just happened to agree with me and throw in that whole charm thing just made it all the sweeter!
First, There Were Kisses
First, there were kisses in a wintry night. Secretive, voracious, famished kisses which left her heart beat so quickly she could swear it was trying to leave her chest.
The first one of those kisses came unexpectedly to both of them.
After returning to Baroque, there wasn't much left for her to do. She wasn't a rebel leader like him, so she was playing cards with Beat and Salsa and, like always, she was losing. Oddly, it did not affect her anymore. After all, losing is only bad when you know what victory tastes like.
Deep into the night, she decided to go outside. The chilly air of Baroque whispered against her skin, but once again, she had forgotten to bring a cloak. After all the travelling, she still wasn't used to walking around with things which hampered her movement.
So, she sat there, in a lonely corner of the city, hugging herself, not sure why she'd come outside in the first place. She hadn't even taken Arco with her, which showed how troubled she had been as of late.
"You do like the cold, don't you?" His voice came from behind. Surprised, she turned around to face him.
"I'm just cooling my head; playing cards with those two leaves my patience burning."
He had always found it amusing that she couldn't play a decent hand. "Still cannot win?" As he had said that, his lips had curved in a lopsided smile. Before, only her head had been on fire; now her whole body was as well.
"I'm the eternal third place," she said with a hopefully convincing smile.
He was grave. "Why would you even think that?"
She looked down. "Because I always end up coming in third," she whispered.
He approached her. She tried not to show how much his proximity affected her, but her hands fell to her sides and her head tilted upwards to better see him. She couldn't help herself - she just had to see him.
Staring into her eyes, his voice was gentle, "I still don't know why you'd say that. It's just a game of cards."
"It is," she slowly agreed. But she did not move. She kept staring at him as though mesmerized - and he stared back in the same way. She wasn't sure who made the first move afterwards; one moment they had been apart, the next, they had been entangled, their lips locked together. Her body had sung, her heart drumming with its own rhythm.
That was the first one of their kisses. Then came the second, hand in hand with the third and the fourth and soon, she couldn't count them anymore.
When the kisses abruptly ended, she felt a gaping emptiness. Neither of them said a word; all they could do was stare at each other as though they both weren't able to believe what had just transpired. His hands were still snaked around her back, hers still on his arms.
Eventually, they released each other; but by the time they reached the Palace, neither of them had spoken a word to each other. In fact, it would be a full year before they would speak to each other again.
During that year, the taste in her mouth had been bitter. After all, she had taken a bite out of victory; she didn't want to come up in third anymore.
She returned to Baroque at the request of the now King Crescendo. It was a party to celebrate a year after the countries of Baroque and Forte had been united in a much-needed peace. Salsa and March were there; so were Beat and, hand-in-hand, Polka and Allegretto. She had to smile at them – it was impossible not to. If there was something she knew would last forever, it would be the love between those two.
Then, she saw him.
Falsetto was by his side, as she had always been, and it caused her heart to ache and her breathing to stop. She told herself it was fine, that Falsetto was the right person… but it did not ease her mind. She still couldn't forget those kisses in that wintry night that made her unable to accept coming in third was great.
It wasn't. But she could not do anything.
So, when she thought no one would notice, she slipped outside into one of the deserted corridors. She should never have come here, but she couldn't possibly have known how seeing him again would hurt so much either!
She needed to leave. She needed to—
She stopped dead on her tracks when she noticed he was there, in front of her, leaning heavily against the stone wall. His lips moved, and her name was soft upon them.
As swiftly as she could, she pivoted on her heels and tried to run. But he was quick and soon she found herself pushed against his chest, just as his arms came about her. He was apologizing, but she wasn't really listening. Against him, she was warm. Against him, she felt good. That was all that mattered.
"I should have said something," he was saying. She silenced him with a finger on his lips and, against the corner of his mouth, she whispered, "I couldn't find the courage to speak either."
A wave of emotion passed through his features and his gaze became tender. His hand gingerly grasped her chin and, just with a small movement, they were kissing again. Their bodies sung in unison, united by the melody of passion.
Somewhere along the way, they found their way into a small room. She did not know where; she was too lost in him to pay any attention. His kisses consumed her wholly, along with that unfamiliar surge of pure desire. She didn't want him to stop. Not now. Not ever.
His lips descended to her neck before they fell on her pronounced cleavage. Her fingers were entangled in his hair, tugging at it with each ripple of pleasure.
First, there had been kisses. Then had come desire.
She stayed in Baroque for a little while after that, and they would meet, and they would release each other from the world for a little while. Eventually, she had to return to her home, and, for quite some time, they did not see each other again.
In fact, they did not see each other again for two years.
It was once more, in the anniversary of the union of the countries, that they reencountered each other and she realized how much she had missed him. She must've missed him very much because, suddenly, in front of her eyes, was Polka's small hand, closed but for the little finger in the fake charm she'd taught the girl over three years ago.
"If you love him, you should do it," Polka said. "Then maybe he'll fall in love with you too."
She did not even try denying it. "How do you know?"
"Because you keep on looking at him. You shouldn't live on fearing risking anything… Or do you want to regret the things you didn't do?"
She looked away and said nothing.
In fact, she didn't say anything for the rest of the night.
The next day, the group reunited over lunch. She learned that Beat had grown to be an excellent photographer; that Salsa now owned a small fortune worth of hats and that March, somehow, still put up with her; that Falsetto and the people of Andantino were building a small city over their old one; that Polka and Allegretto had been seeing more of the world… and that he was now the King's main adviser. And all the while, she felt Polka's eyes on her, urging her to do something.
So, she did what she always did: she went outside.
And of course, as always, he was there.
Fortunately, he had not seen her yet. She stared at him, at his strong profile and rigid posture and felt herself weakening. She had missed him these past two years, but he hadn't come and she had been afraid of going after him. After all, a tryst was a tryst, wasn't it?
Then, unbidden, her hand rose, forming the so-called "charm" she had invented to give Polka courage. She wished it worked. She wished…
He turned and his gaze fell immediately on her hand.
Petrified by shame, she couldn't move. Each step that he took towards her made her heart beat quicker and quicker and her eyes to widen. But, as embarrassed as she was, she couldn't lower her hand. She was scared, too scared…
His came up, forming the same shape as hers and just like that, his little finger bent around hers.
She felt tears flooding her eyes. His free hand cupped the side of her face and, with a shaky voice, he said, "We should have known better than to keep avoiding each other."
She gulped down the newly formed lump on her throat and nodded. "I was…" she sniffed. "I was afraid you'd have chosen someone else."
"But I only want you," said he. "Don't leave again, Viola."
"I won't, Jazz," she replied.
And, in broad daylight, with their little fingers still wrapped around each other, Viola and Jazz fell into a kiss which was not rushed or evasive, but calm and comforting and sweet. For a moment, Viola forgot where she was and she didn't really care because so as long as she was with Jazz, there was no other place she'd rather be.
First, there had been hidden kisses. In second had been selfish desire. Now, in third, there was love.