As always, thank you to KitKat for your editing and additions.
There was music in movement but he could always see it, feel it, in more detail, with more depth, more clarity when she even so much as shifted. It was all-consuming and encompassing; Nino could never get enough. To him, she was a self-contained piece of music that was always changing and composing, almost music personified-but only to him.
Over and over she inspired compositions. At this point, he wasn't sure if there was any other force of inspiration in his life that was as strong as her. He could hear instrumental solos as she moved around, jazz and R&B seeming to be ingrained in her very soul and reflected in her musical movements. Smooth, soft saxophones as she puttered around the kitchen during a study break, when she was relaxed and breathed out, the tension seeping out of her shoulders. Sharp, happy blasts of trumpets as she laughed when she was babysitting and the little ones would get into trouble, when she was weaving a particularly ridiculous story, or as they watched Marinette go into a panicked tailspin. Strong plucked chords of a bass when she had her mind set on something and he could only give way under the strength of her rushing mental currents and just try to keep his head above the water.
There were acoustic chords and melodies in the rustling and shifting of her hair. Though those were prone to change whenever she pulled her hair up and away, and when that happened all Nino could hear was the music of rising action and prepare for the climax and the big bang.
The tapping of her fingers as she wrote a new post evoked the strains of piano keys, moving and shifting with each of her own motions.
She produced irregular beats - ones that he did his best to engrain into his memory to use as possible hooks - whenever she fidgeted while thinking. Tapping her stylus, one of her pens, her fingers, her feet. It was something Nino could listen to all day, their variability was so different that if he incorporated them into pieces they would grab the attention of listeners in his mixes or emphasize transitions and events in his film projects.
He could always read her mood based on the way the music sounded, and he will admit that there were times he purposefully provoked her, prodding her to see how the music would react. The genres and vibes always a reflection of her spirit.
There was rock in the furrowing of her brow and the way she bit her lip, and the way she crossed her arms when she was upset or frustrated. When she would cross into anger the music would change. With the tenseness of her shoulders, the clenched fists, her mouth twisted into a snarl - it became metal. Screaming and snarling in the music lining up with her own.
There was muted electronic and dubstep in the way she paced when trying to figure something out, the bass dropping telling him when she came to a conclusion even before she would utter a sound.
There was spine-tingling mood music whenever she looked at him over her glasses - sometimes the kind that causes all the blood to rush from your face and beads of sweat to spring up as adrenaline starts coursing through your veins, as all the nerves in your body are screaming 'RUN' because all your instincts are telling you to be very, very afraid. Other times it was the type of music that slowed down and swelled with implication and promise because it was that look and a heated flush would start to spread.
The sultry strains of tango filled his ears, his mind, even his soul when she strutted towards him with that gleam in her eye and he was instantly, hopelessly, under her sway.
There was always the varying and lyrical steelpan drums in the way she threw her head back when she laughed. The pull of her lips when she smiled - that one with just a hint of deviousness that promised danger for someone - and the way her head would tilt as she looked at him called to mind the sounds of mayola. He could feel the beats and rhythms of la Réunion. Happiness, home, and memories of family all imbued the music, her.
When she would dance… good God, when he was actually able to pay attention to the music of her movements - rather than just her dancing - it was percussion heavy vaval. It was celebration and effervescent energy. A lively siren call to him, pulling him into the waves. So when she danced, he danced.
The music wasn't why he loved her though. God, no. She learned about his interests, putting her prodigious research skills to use so she could understand him when he would go on technological tangents. She listened to him - his interests, dreams, thoughts - and she cared. She challenged him to try new things or to get out of his safe, comfortable shell. She made him laugh. And she was beautiful, though that was like whipped cream, and the music like sprinkles, it was just extra to everything she was as a person. She was an adventure and bursting with energy. However, she was able to take a step back, to let the adrenaline leave her system, and relax on a couch with him to watch a movie, listen to music, or just quietly coexist. They could critique each other's work, give comments or suggestions, and it was good, no longer loud disagreements. Or at least, not always. He could talk to her and actually be listened to, and be understood. She was smart and witty, and maybe just slightly crazy, but... He loved her because she was Alya. Because she was crazy and witty, a hard-headed and determined spitfire with a need to be bold and no desire to lay down for anyone, no matter what the threat. Which, of course, was more than a little concerning when that threat was a very real, very destructive Akuma. In those moments when she would go tearing off, Nino always felt that the music reflected his own emotions as a cacophony of fear, resignation, concern, terror; rather than her own as they typically did.
And still, even with that bile-raising concoction of emotion… he wouldn't give up a beat.