solivagant
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"Where we love is home — home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts."
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He hasn't felt at home in forever.
Home in his mind lies in the past; when all was good and right in the world; when his mother and father stood beside him, hand-in-hand with their children at their side as they watched the sun set beyond the city skyline, distant and fiery.
So, no. Ikuto hasn't felt at home in a long time.
Because he is a wanderer — a traveller; a drifter; a vagabond, no doubt, and in his chest he feels that insufferable wanderlust grow, for how can he feel at rest when home is not a physical place?
How can he be at peace, he thinks, whilst his heart is a world away with her?
And so everywhere he goes he makes a melody just for her. He stands upon some new city street in some new far-off country and pictures her in his head — plays out on a dazzling stage of his own invention how she would smile; how her eyes would twinkle at these foreign sights; he pictures her laughter, hears the sound of her voice and he dreams of a future in which he might lead her down these very streets himself.
But, for now, she is not here.
Yet every time he pictures her face — every time he imagines her voice; her blush; the sparkle of her golden eyes — he feels that tug at his heart lessen. He feels his chest soothe; feels his body begin to rest…
For now, all Ikuto has is his own imagination — his own dreams — and his father's violin.
So he plays.
Her laughter as they dart between the fountains of Rome flows light and free from the string of his bow.
Her awe as they gaze across the mirror-smooth surface of Lake Geneva, blushed pink in the setting sun, is a slow, silvery sonata.
The tug on his hand as they ascend the Arc de Triomphe is a thrilling, frantic melody which quickens his heart and pulls at his chest just the same.
In his head, she dances as a tiny spirit beneath the light of a thousand constellations on the outskirts of the Black Forest, water flowing crystalline and pure about her as his symphony stretches out into the night, and he lifts his head towards the sky — so starswept and transcendent, alight and sparkling…
And Ikuto whispers;
"Amu…"
His eyes glowing with the light of the heavens, his breath fading into the whistle of the breeze;
"One day…"
For one day, he thinks… One day he won't have to picture it anymore. One day he won't have to search the stars and hope beyond all odds that his voice might reach her.
Because she'll be right here beside him.
And finally he'll feel at home.
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