Tsuchimori/ Tsuchiura
What they are is an ambiguity; the lines blurred in the way ink-scored quavers would tremble and scatter when met with moisture.
They are mysteries to each other. Tsukimori was a puzzle, bold knowingness in fingers which bend violin strings to his will, aloof subtlety in his insults-sometimes-compliments, amber eyes shielded by dark lashes, and unreadable. Tsuchiura is a disguise, skilled in blending into the ordinary, slipping in between soccer jerseys, laughter and silent contemplation in unobtrusive music shops, transposing the speed in matches on the earthen field unto the crisp expanse of ivory and black mounted on sleek wood.
They are an imperfect cadence, an encounter between a primary and secondary note.
Tsuchiura remembers with confused clarity time spent in the summer residence of Fuuyumi-san, remembers the sun succumbing to the pull of crimson clouds and a blue-haired boy holding his violin bathed in the fading light of dusk. He remembers taking himself by surprise as he moved towards Tsukimori, and asked laughingly if he could be taught the violin. He remembers surprise and sunset vividly reflected in the other boy's eyes, then the sleekness of wood and the smoothness of Tsukimori's long-fingered hands, so like his own, reluctantly guiding. He is not entirely sure why he remembers this with such acuteness, nor the way his heart clenches when he does.
Tsukimori recalls the second concourse, time first matching his pulse in a rapid six-eight beat, then forced into stasis. He remembers sitting and waiting in darkness, helplessness so complete that the stale air in the locked cupboard thickens and presses harshly against his suddenly-burning eyelids. Then there is noise, and light; Hino's frantic voice, and a calmer one- Tsuchiura- resolutely calling out to him. He remembers the pressure on his eyes lessening; finds himself pulled out of the confining darkness and pressed against the wooden wall. He hardly registers queries of concern; he finds himself hopelessly distracted by Tsuchiura's hands, warm and firm on his shoulders. Tsukimori remembers this, and a strange frustration steals over him each time he does.
They are a complement of sorts, but dissonance catches each by the heart, and twists.