A/N: I initially sat down to force myself to write this, but once I picked a prompt and started writing, it just ... flowed. Maybe I'm finally getting some inspiration back. Lar may seem a little weird in this one, but I kind of wanted to write from the angle that she is a woman, and like most women, even she gets swept off her feet.
Also, I apologize if anything is wrong about this. I was in choir when I was younger, but I'm not ... exactly ... well, I'm kind of instrumentally challenged. The idea is that I sound smart, right? XD
Disclaim: Nomura and Squeenixney.
He always did have unique actions. Things left over from his past life that managed to filter into his existence of everyday.
He would write constantly, and it wasn't always the stipple point of designing plans of rebellion, either. Surely the man wrote in a journal where she could only admire the rare slouch of his shoulders and the tendon atop his knuckles relaxed.
She noticed often he had beautiful hands. Not effeminate, not masculine, but ... primed.
There were other nuances that made her laugh internally--if not sometimes cruelly. And they were all simple things, delicate things, degrees of oddness that she noticed in none of her other ... "comrades".
He liked sweets. But never too much to be overpowering. He'd steal the occasional chip of chocolate to melt on his tongue, or a small spoonful of cumquat crème pie, a bitterness just enough to be delectable.
And when he was feeling particularly generous, he'd offer her a finger full of the whipped cream, and though she hated to submit to him, the saccharine call was simply too overpowering.
He would play music. Something orchestral and grand, but eloquent and … still so delicate. He would simply sit in his own silence, eyes open and reading the invisible notes before him, perusing through the sixty-fourth beats like they were second nature. His brow would twitch on the one-hundred twenty-eighth beats, but that ripple would smooth out after a moment of thought.
Only half as vividly did she remember the facts on music he told her--how Mannheim made possible the impossible of not switching back and forth between piano and forte and constant--as when he swept her up one crescendo and twirled her about the room on her heels.
She had strangled movements and awkward steps as he attempted to ease her into the affluent cleanliness of motion.
He told her, "You were born with a silver spoon on your tongue. One would assume you would put it to good use."
Cellos roared and she was pulled close. Violins screamed and excitement wound around her. Saxophones were accompanied with the sensual whisper of newlyweds. Trumpets and tubes and horns clashed and grated like lightning friction against her body. Cymbals clashed with deafening tones and she was lost in the bliss of being in his arms.
A celesta and he released her. A flute and she twirled.
Down to chimes and a light piano and those quiet little chimes of the xylophone to cover the triangle's herald ... and she was left in rapture and breathlessness.
The decrescendo was enough to blow the dust out of the hollow in her chest, stir it up for maybe just the quietest of throbs in her ear, if there was a God.
He kissed her, knowing there was another crescendo soon.
It was only the beginning.
