Work Text:
fermata /fəːˈmɑːtə/ (noun): 1. a pause of unspecified length on a musical note or rest.
It was not like the announcement was apropos of nothing; marriage is, after all, one natural consequence of dating for a while.
You haven’t been sleepwalking through the events unfolding around you.
This isn't your first rodeo.
Your eyes were wide and clear.
But you liken the moment you are told of the last one with the experience of being on board a plane making its descent:
You hear the first chime, take your seat and belt up.
(“Maaa… it went really well, I guess. Akira was right; she and I did have a lot of things in common.”)
Next, you hear the second chime – the staff take their seat.
(“Ohayou.” “Thanks for the ride, Gakushi-san… Man, I really need to learn to drive.” “Iie, zen zen.” “Hey, I’ve got free time later – wanna do an acoustic arrangement of the new song?”)
Two chimes – the plane has passed below 10,000 feet.
(“Sou sou sou. You know, that’s exactly why Sho-kun and Aiba-kun waited until we announced our hiatus. You can’t have more than half the band have their attention focused elsewhere.”)
You take note of all the signs. You know it’s coming. You've watched them walk away, one by one.
The plane cuts through the cloud cover at some point, and the lay of the land appears before you through the limited square of your window, as the plane banks this way and that.
Yet the sensation of the pressure that builds in your head and dulls your hearing takes you aback all the same.
(“…‘re starting to look gaunt – maybe you should run only every secon-”
("-sed to think my singing… -ppiest, but now with the kids, it t-“)
The feeling is not unbearable but it is still discomfiting. The growing silence cocoons you.
Once, when you were looking up quotes to tattoo on yourself, you came across one that said: We're born alone, we live alone, we die alone. Only through our love and friendship can we create the illusion for the moment that we're not alone.
You watch as the person beside you mouths words to which you absently smile at and nod in acknowledgement of.
You can’t fault them; they don’t know of the pain between your ears, the pressure that bears down too on your chest.
…
Was this what Beethoven went through?
What would it be like, to devote your life to the wondrous arrangement of sound and feeling into music? To write moonlit sonatas that bring others to their knees, off the back of your own unanswered ardour, but then slowly lose your ability to sense that which fueled your raison d'être?
Did Beethoven die in bed surrounded by loved ones?
Or did he die with the jagged, branch-like cracks on the ceiling as sole witness, you wonder?
…
Outside the window, the runway feels like it’s coming up, fast, to meet you.
You brace for the landing: will it be smooth, or a skidding, jolting halt?
We're born alone, we live alone, we die alone.
“Stay tuned for a special ONE OK ROCK announcement: Insta Live 4/13.”
“Finally the new album! Or wahhh… wait, f*$k… wat if it’s smth else?”
You hold your breath for the moment the wheels touch the ground and remind yourself that Beethoven's last finished symphony was written when he was completely deaf.
O Freunde, nicht diese Töne!
Sondern laßt uns angenehmere anstimmen,
und freudenvollere.
Freude!
Freude!
Oh friends, not these sounds!
Let us instead strike up more pleasing
and more joyful ones!
Joy!
Joy!
At least, you mumble underneath your breath, music will never leave you.
Fin.