MACHI (rose_wine) wrote in bara_no_seidou,

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Thunderous love

The world can fade away into thunder and passion. The door is there, set on stands and wrapped with silk roses. The dreary rain beats upon the window with a desperate tapping, drumming out an incoherent rhythm while the wind picks up the melody.

He does not want to go to his drums. Even now, Machi stands there, staring at them with blank eyes. They are pulling him, calling him, begging him to release his anger, passion, and tears through their workings. They are storm-sirens, and he the lusty Jove who must make them boom and sound.

The color has drained out of his already lightly-powdered face - powder and only powder today. His long red hair, held back elegantly in a waving ponytail, has let loose the perpetual wide chunk near his right eye. Hands that wipe moisture off on black jeans reach out towards the instrument; steps guide him towards his drumset and command him to sit. He obeys with hesitation.

The storm is picking up and beginning to utter a cadence from far off. At the distant peal of thunder, Machi's eyes gain a sort of distant, hypnotized clarity, as if he saw a glimpse of another world. He lifts his drumsticks.

It is with hope of relief that he begins a simple beat. If he should tire of it, he would be free... and yet... if he lets his fingers dance, he will be alive. He begins to drum somewhat more powerfully to overcome the noise of the rain. As he drums, his thoughts wander again to the worries of his night.

He can feel the end approaching. The Elysium of Lareine cannot last
forever... but the end need not be now. It need not be soon. It can hold together, but he can feel its murderer closing in fast... a murderer he still yet loves as he loves the others...


Machi is unaware of the drums' command. As tears threaten to well in his eyes, he unconsciously picks up the pace of his beat. The thunder rumbles outside as if in competition, but Machi is unrelenting; he lets loose the torrent of his rhythm-song in heart-thumping tribal cadence that is far more its own music than back-up for a song.

His vision flashes and he can see and feel the warmth of fire, the passion of dance, the whirl of skirts, the sweat, the breath, the pain and the delirium. His hands move effortlessly, mindlessly from note to note, and they puppet him far more than he is their master. But the thunder still challenges, and so Machi still strikes with sure and violent strokes.

The flash of fire, the scent of perfume, the beat of drums that echo the heart. A rose's light in ebony hair on a head that whirls in the chaotic wind fueled by the dance.

He can feel the trance becoming more intoxicating. He is lost, completely lost within his own anger and grief, unaware of the few silent tears rolling down his ashen cheeks.


Only the thunder answers his call, a thunder which he beats back with his song.


The rose is falling from the ebony hair and landing on the hot ash. As it smoulders, flickers, and withers, Machi can feel its burning pain throughout his breast.


His final note and the loud crack of thunder overhead simultaneously break him from his spell, his drumsticks slipping from his graceful, trembling fingers and clattering to the floor. He doubles over, gasping, his pale hand held to his chest, the fingers slipping through the red fishnet and almost clawing at the skin beneath as if they could tear out the searing, pounding agony within. His breath is fast, his eyes watering, and his skin moist with cold sweat.

Emiru... don't leave us. Not yet. That will be the end; I can feel it.

There is still time, after all. They have more tours before he could. Machi knows he has been thinking of it.

Calming his breath and his heart, Machi straightens and wipes a hand across his brow and fingers under his eyes. The powder smears off from the tears and light dampness.

He rubs his face again and it loses expression. Bending down to take his sticks, he puts them in their proper place before standing shakily but surely, composed but ruined, and walks as steadily as he can to the bathroom.

He certainly must wash his face. What a sight you are, Machi - not at all gentile.
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