There's a slight quiver rippling through his body, as a ghosting of fingers crinkle his shirt,
(crinkle his perfect composure, slipping off his sanity the longer the fingers knead his shoulders; lower, lower-)…
And then it's gone. A hand of tired anxiety phases through him, going through to ruffle a head of orange peels. The cold that sweeps him is shocking, leaving a quiet remorse. Quite alone - dejected and oh-so-unacknowledged - he steps to the side and looks at the middle aged woman and her child, calling out to that sweet soul that drew him there
(oh! how enticing is the vestal bud, how sating those notes that role from the lips pinked from the child's frozen treat-).
He'll have to settle for getting his fill at looking then, inhaling deeply and getting drunk from the fumes.
Bittersweet tints the sky and softly glides upwards, dots of champagne sprinkled like savoury sugar on the boy's soul. A faint tea rose colour wafts off from where the child is holding the cone, ambers and corals and gamboge syrups licking at the redhead's shocking iceberg eyes, tickling through those thick lashes.
This child, he… surely puts the Carolina skies to shame, puts the best laid plans to rest as one catches glimpses of his enviously citrus hair, those bright twinkles of the pure sunset caught in his being.
A blink and six years have gone by.
He's not quite sure how he's survived them though, as he feels a gust whip through his Shibuya but never touch his hair, never caresses his skin, never gives him the faint reminder that all humans are given when they feel (when they breathe deeply and drink in all they can and justliveanddoandthink). He's he to be sure of something like that when he hadn't even been ready for the dull ache that would seep Shibuya's pores, music drowned by a hacking cough when the boy's joy
(an overwhelming orange, a colour the Composer hates to love but can't get enough of)
had vanished, left him worse for wear - when that friend, that child, that goddamn murder of all things precious to Joshua; the only thing precious to the Composer - had to cross the street without looking both ways on the way to Udagawa. It was then that Shibuya had lost its colour. Become a tenebrous place to live, draining the senses and breeding ground for mass amounts of self-destruction.
His tints and dyes and his infatuation with life- gone. Dashed and left as the orange peels left with the tea rose and the syrups and the icebergs and- He could destroy this place on a single whim. And yet… Locks of argent rumble as his head shakes and his eyes blink (how many years will leave him, left frigid and vapid), as he tears at the rose madder ribbon tangled amongst his chalky digits.
It hurts when his little toy, shinning soul of pumpkin spice and deep flame is shot. From his own hands the bullet left, and from his own hands he knows he may have to repeat the experience. It all depends on how much hate the boy (will he be shot for sin or will he commit another?) can create and hurl at him and stab into his own fibber left and ripped angrily from the life before the music. Wisteria eyes blanch, stomach twisting from keeping it in. He watches as the glow of distinctly orange around the boy of skies and life fades and he places a black – it can be no other colour, no ebony or sable or something slightly pure; just black - pin upon his chest, hand quivering and betraying the mask laid upon his face.
Soft laces of seashell gasp as they move through the Composer's hands, magnolia following close behind, leaving an eggshell colour in their wake as quietus tints splash across features that were ruddy and – gorgeous - lively moments before. He can't leave, and stands there, thinking that the only consolation is that this boy will finally be able to experience his world, see the UG and finally see the guiding hand, the locks of silver and eyes of soft floras and…
He has to turn around at some point, the sheer witness of the soul and cool notes reminding him of himself too much for comfort (it's this time only that he wonders why he jumped, but can forget it as long as he turns around and doesn't look too close and see the rose madder softly woven between the rigid fingers).
There's so much anguish and sorrow and tender feelings. He can't help but blink and blink and blink.
Three years. Three years after the games and the truth and being left. And he is alone with a Shibuya that loves that soul of orange more than it loves its own Composer. He doesn't blame the city though. He had already walked down that road – is still stuck and unlikely to ever stop walking down the path.
He had begun the trek when he first glimpsed at the passion and joy. Spent the last seventeen years just watching and hoping for the best (both for city and himself, heart finally warming after the hundreds of years spent).
The boy's soul – he's a young adult now, a fine thing that turns heads and attracts more attention than he wants – is a bright candy apple colour now. The soft oranges have given way to bright, vibrant, youthful vermilions and carmines. Hints of saffron flick through and a distinct cherry blossom strand extends from his smiles and eyes, soul and being twisting above him in a wonderful cacophony of beauty (a pure red in colour, fully clean and no longer tainted with the Composer, no longer a held-back orange; no longer part of the doomed marriage between red and yellow).
But this clash, remains singular and true, brightening the days of all, never getting close enough to tangle nor tango. The Composer's soul- it's left as a splash of old lace. The orange peels that had wormed their way towards him leave and a dull lemon chiffon swirls by his chest. A lonely, oh-so-unacknowledged colour.
Blinking would be so easy right now. Five, ten, maybe fifteen times. But he keeps his eyes wide-open, orbs of lilac that never leave the dashing figure and daring soul.
It really isn't fair to the Composer, but he takes it all in stride and sits atop the 104 building, feet placed over the edge but body staying on top of the world. His mind is lost down below in the crowds and all the lace threaded round their necks to each other…
And he looks down at his hands, at his broken rose madder ribbon.