"Yu-kun!"
An older man's voice drifts up the stairs of the house, where it collides with a door. The voice slips through the cracks between the door and the walls, floor, and ceiling, before crawling into the bedroom of an 18-year-old male.
No response.
"Yu-kun!"
The voice grows in volume and persuasion, finally provoking a response from inside the bedroom. A head pokes out, long black hair framing a Japanese face whose delicate angles were marred by a definitely pissed off expression.
"Stop it with the nicknames, Tiedoll," the face growls. "And don't give me all that 'helping you embrace your heritage' crap about the honorifics."
"You're my son," the man's voice replies, and there is a hint of a command within the relatively fond tone. "Please treat me like your father."
"Tch."
Yu, who much prefers to be called Kanda-his last name-scowls. He isn't that man's son. It's just been his bad luck to have been adopted when he was nine by a man who felt it was his duty to "save the unfortunate"-the unfortunate being Kanda and three other boys-now-men, all older than Kanda and since moved out.
"Anyway, Yu-kun, I'm going to leave for work now. Please be careful while you're at home," Tiedoll, the owner of the old man's voice, continues as if Kanda actually cares. Yeah, right.
Another "tch" from Kanda is the only sound that makes its way back down the stairs to Tiedoll, who sighs and shakes his head. "I really wish you could learn to treat me as a true father, Yu-kun."
Kanda waits silently, listening to Tiedoll's receding footsteps, until the teenager hears the door close behind his adoptive father.
Finally.
Kanda can't move fast enough as he runs to his bed and drops to his knees, fumbling underneath for it.
His hands brush the plastic cover of the box, and he sighs softly and contentedly.
Nine years ago, when Kanda had first been adopted by Tiedoll, the boy was sitting in his room being miserable.
Then he felt something.
It was a strange, urgent feeling that Kanda attempted to ignore, if only because it was just so foreign he couldn't imagine indulging it. But it was powerful, pushing him outside the house with only a hastily-worded excuse to Tiedoll.
Kanda followed the push wherever it was taking him, until he felt it stop. The boy found himself standing outside a neighboring house. There was a large sign outside made out of a flattened cardboard box, reading "Garage Sale" in hasty Sharpie markings, accompanied by the predictable assortment of leftover goods on plastic fold-out tables.
Kanda found himself being dragged to one of the tables by the feeling in his chest. At that table was sitting a massive amount of junk-along with a small, rectangular, black plastic box with a handle.
Although he was only nine years old and an orphan, newly uprooted from a Chinese foster home to Europe and feeling as if he had nothing in life to live for, Kanda Yu knew that the box was made for him.
Kanda opens the lid of the box and draws out the three slim metal pipes within. He fastens them together, quick from years of practice. Runs his hands briefly over the cold, shiny surface.
He brings the flute to his lips and tentatively breathes out a B flat.
It's been too long since he played. Not through any desire of his own. Tiedoll's been around a lot lately, and Kandas doesn't practice when anyone else is home. They would all just make a fuss about it. So he waits until he's alone to create music.
Kanda begins the warm up he's fashioned after years of playing. It starts with long tones which crescendo and diminuendo dramatically and last as long as his lungs do. The notes won't keep in tune as well as they do most of the time. Kanda credits his lack of practice. He'll have to concentrate harder tonight.
His fingers begin to move faster as he starts his scales. They're basic and repetitive, clearing his mind from everything that's happened that day, and the days before. The scales get faster and faster, and Kanda's mind gets calmer and calmer, until he's playing close to prestissimo and can't think of anything except the flute in his hands and the air he breathes in and out and the sounds that distill into the room.
The patterns of his fingers change, and Kanda subtly transitions from his scales. It's just improvisation, but to call it "just" anything would be a misnomer. The tone of the flute is clear and deadly, cutting through the air like the blade of a sword. The melody is simply something that could never be captured on paper, an elegant dance of fingers-and the whole body, really-which has been built upon for years until it's as much a part of Kanda as his own name.
He plays, and it seems like hours and minutes and days and seconds at the same time.
But he can hear Tiedoll's car pull up into the driveway outside, and he knows his practice has ended.
He moves hastily, not daring for his secret to be uncovered.
Hides away a part of himself once more.
A/N: This little drabble was conceived during my symphony rehearsal today (no, I'm not a flutist-I'm a clarinetist), when I realized playing a musical instrument (at least a wind instrument) is very much like meditation. I've obviously spent too much time in my Kanda cosplay costume.
If you're wondering, in music:
crescendo-get louder
diminuendo-get softer
prestissimo-basically the fastest speed you can play