Work Text:
“Talent Show Sign Ups!
Hosted November 24th through 27th from 4pm-8pm in room 241
Performance hosted in the auditorium on October 3rd from 6pm-10pm.
THE STAGE IS WAITING FOR YOU!”
Written on a yellow paper in pink text, a decently designed form was held by a student that no one knew deeper than by his first name, and went under the radar despite looking like he’d fit all the criteria to be popular, if not then at least noticed.
See, Wemmbu had never been good with words.
All his life, he had never really been able to say the right thing. People never seemed to understand what he was trying to say, and no matter how much he tried to talk to them, no one ever heard what he was told them.
He didn’t blame them, because he knew it was his fault for not being able to be clear enough, and he often gave up before really trying to get them to understand him, letting them assume what they wanted to.
It bothered him sometimes, when people would get the wrong idea about who he was, or not know the actual reason of why he was doing something, but he had learned to live with it.
The only time he found he could actually talk was when he didn’t even open his mouth.
He had been twelve when he had first started playing the piano, and it had become his passion. He loved how he could phrase everything he was thinking of into sounds, into emotions, and that it would just make sense. He didn’t even know the names of the chords he played when he’d strike spite, anguish, isolation, distress, sorrow, hatred, animosity, just grief into the achromatically painted ivory.
No one knew about his music, but it was the only time he could truly speak.
Wemmbu walked alone down the halls of his high school, the pavement floor causing his hard soled shoes to click with each step and a poster in his hands that was crumpled by his white knuckled grip, and decided then and there.
He wanted to be heard.
–o–
Flame had been hesitant to go to the talent show, not really that keen on the idea of spending a whole four hours watching low quality covers of songs by tone deaf wanna-be idols and stand up comedy by the popular kids with jokes that wouldn’t even have a point, but would be laughed at anyways because of who said them instead of what was being said, but he decided it was worth at least ten minutes of his time.
He had probably judged his peers too harshly with his expectations for what he’d be watching, he noted after the third performance about 25 minutes into the showcase, where some black haired guy had performed a seemingly impossible magic trick with rubber bands that “phased” through each other.
“Next up, we have Wemmbu Crucible playing a self composed piece called “Eternal” on the piano!” Announced the host through the speakers as a boy with a purple turtleneck and shaggy purple dyed hair, and purple irises, and honestly just a lot of purple everywhere walked out onto the stage and sat down at the black grand piano. The name slipped from his mind quickly, but the title of what the pianist would play did not.
Flame was curious about the piece, since he was a violinist, so seeing another classical musician was already much more personally captivating for him than any of the other performances. He didn’t get his hopes too high, but he paid a little more attention to the pianist than the previous students.
‘Eternal’, he mused over silently, ‘Is this some type of love song?’
It began with the melody, shaping something soft and wintry, and almost… lonely. It was most certainly anything but what he had assumed it would be, which only interested him further. Flame closed his eyes, and listened to the slow repetition of notes that didn’t feel quite like music yet, more like the start of a story.
Something shifts on a timing that makes the piece itself sound caught off guard by the change, suddenly swapping from loneliness to confusion, or to frustration if you listened to the dissonance of the chosen keys.
It may have been the fact that Flame had closed his eyes to really listen to the piece, or it may have been that he was too imaginative of the meanings behind music, but it sounded like there were words hidden in the chords that had been added no longer than a measure before.
“Can you hear me?”
“Am I real to you?”
“Why won’t you listen?”
“I just want to be seen.”
Flame caught himself singing (not really making any noise, more so like when you whisper under your breath, but with the intention of matching the notes he predicted would be played next) along to the words that weren’t there before anyone sitting around him would notice, but by then it had been confirmed for him.
Opening his eyes when he noticed he had been talking, his gaze landed on the pianist, and he saw proof.
Whatever his name had been, the boy was lip syncing to something that no one was hearing.
As the piece continued, and solitude ingrained itself into the very air that the performance surrounded, Flame understood.
“Eternal…” He muttered before he could even realize he spoke.
Forever, even if often seen as a happy thought in the senses of immortality or love for your partner, would almost certainly be a curse no matter what you asked for it to be given to.
It wasn’t just about isolation.
It was about the curse of never being known.
Watching the performance fully now, his hands itched for the familiar strings of his violin. Whoever the musician was, he was good, and Flame almost desperately wanted to play along in some way, just to let him know that he got it. That he understood. He was rarely impressed by someone’s abilities, and had certainly never heard anyone quite as excellent at putting emotions into song as the boy on stage. He needed to know who he was.
The piece began to rise in tension, as isolation was mixed with grief and frustration, something screaming “I’m trying! Why can’t you see that?!”, but right as it was about to reach a breaking point, it stopped.
With one last repetition of the melody that had started the entire piece, The pianist stood, and left without even bowing.
“Thank you for the wonderful performance! Now, next we have…”
Flame didn’t listen for whatever the announcer said next, getting up and leaving immediately.
He had to figure out who that was.
–o–
The talent show had gone okay in Wemmbu’s opinion. He had been a little caught off guard by the sheer number of students in the auditorium, but he hadn’t made any noticeable mistakes, so he didn’t have any real reason to say it went poorly. Eternal was one of his more difficult pieces, being that it had no set notes or anything, just purely improvisation and emotion, so he was proud to have pulled it off.
He hadn’t stayed after his show, heading to the exit as soon as he had let one of the organizers of the event know he was leaving, but when he had only just reached the main hall of the school, Wemmbu noticed someone sprinting straight towards him.
He froze, and soon realized the stranger wasn’t slowing down. Before he had time to react or dodge, they ran into him at full speed and knocked them both onto the floor.
“OW!! What the hell!” He shouted, his elbows stinging from the impact against the ground when he tried to catch himself. The stranger was laying on top of him, catching himself only half way with his left arm, his right one failing to find any proper hold to stop the momentum of the collision.
He had dark brown hair and almost pitch black eyes, and was recognizably fit. Wearing a black T-shirt that had some sort of fire pattern on it and a shiny gold chain necklace, the boy didn’t seem even the least bit apologetic as he pushed himself off of Wemmbu and grabbed some sort of instrument case that had fallen with them and put the strap back over his shoulder.
“What’s your name?” He demanded once he had stood up, and Wemmbu moved to do the same.
“The fuck?” Wemmbu said, disbelief in his voice as the stranger offered him a hand to help him stand.
“I’m Flame,” He continued, not seeming to really care that he had absolutely totalled the person he was now talking to only seconds prior.
“Uhh- Wemmbu?” The pianist found himself saying, not really knowing what was going on.
“Wemmbu,” Flame repeated, looking up in thought.
The silence stretched on for a little too long, and he opened his mouth to tell the guy that he was going home, but Flame was quicker.
“You’re coming with me.” He announced, grabbing Wemmbu by the wrist and dragging him off down the hallway. He tried to pull free, but the shorter boy’s grip was surprisingly strong, and Flame didn’t seem to even really notice his struggle.
What was going on?
–o–
Flame led the pianist towards the music hall, determined to get to play with such an excellent musician. He hadn’t really meant to crash into him like that, but he was almost at the door, and Flame couldn’t miss getting to know the name of who made that piece, much less a whole interaction with him.
Wemmbu. It was an odd name, and it was one he was never going to let himself forget again.
“Where are you taking me?” The purple eyed boy asked him, and damn, if Wemmbu was even a little bit worse of a musician, he would’ve said that his voice was the prettiest thing Flame had ever heard.
“Practice room,” Flame answered, turning one last corner with Wemmbu practically running to keep up with how fast he was dragging him along, not halting as he used the momentum to push the door open to one of the many closet-like spaces in the hall.
He let go of Wemmbu’s wrist and took the instrument case off and unlatched it to grab his violin, unhooking his bow. Turning to Wemmbu, he motioned towards the upright piano that sat in the corner.
“You gonna play or what?”
The pianist looked confused, eventually sitting down on the wooden bench and placing his hands on the keys, but not pressing any of them.
“Why’d you drag me here?” He questioned Flame, “To play? I don’t understand…”
“Yeah, to play,” He confirmed, “Is something wrong?”
Wemmbu’s expression tensed with confusion, disbelief even.
“You run into me at, like, a million miles per hour, and then you drag me by the wrist across basically the whole school without even an apology, because you wanted me to play piano?”
“Yes.”
“What is wrong with you!?”
Flame was starting to feel a little ashamed. He really wanted to hear Wemmbu play more, but with how he was acting now, Flame felt a little worried he’d refuse completely and never want to talk with him again.
“Fuck…” He thought to himself, “How do I always manage to screw up every interaction I have with the people I actually want to know more about?”
Flame shrunk in on himself, anxiety about how badly he’d messed up with Wemmbu quickly corrupting his excitement that had made him so confident.
“I’m sorry,” He mumbled.
Wemmbu seemed to soften at the apology, seeing the self doubt and empathy making the anger he had held visibly lessen, if not vanish entirely.
“Thank you,” He said, turning back to the piano, “I’d be fine with playing something, I just wish you asked instead of pulling me here by the wrist.”
Flame sighed in relief, not as bold as he was previously, but less nervous.
“Can I… um… play along?” He asked hesitantly, “I– nevermind, just play.”
He turned to put his violin away, but before he could even touch his case, Wemmbu had snatched it away from him.
“No! No, please,” He shook his head, “Play along. I’m curious how you play.”
Flame nodded, lifting the violin to rest on his shoulder and waiting for Wemmbu to start playing.
“Ok, I think this one was called… what was it… Starborn? I don’t remember.”
–o–
Wemmbu was surprised how well Flame could play with his works. It had taken him a bit to join in, starting off just listening to him as Wemmbu tried to remember the emotions behind the song. Something about how even though he could be happy or content, he never really felt at home. Never felt like he belonged, and that he wasn’t sure if he ever would. He thought back to when he first had created the piece.
It had been one of those nights where you couldn’t get to sleep, no matter how hard you tried, and he had gone out on a walk to spend the hours it’d take for morning to come. The night sky had always been a comfort to him, and he found himself wondering if where he belonged was out there, in the dark blue expanse that roofed every building.
The piece made him feel lonely again, but it was a good one. He knew it had been the right choice when he had looked over to Flame and had seen him staring at Wemmbu with his full attention, in awe. Flame looked away when their gazes met, but the expression he had got the pianist to feel a lot more confident.
After a little longer of Wemmbu playing on his own, he reached a point which he recognized in the song, where it began to dip into the spiralling feelings of solitude, and that’s when Flame joined in.
Violin was definitely an odd instrument for the song, but it was played in such a way that Wemmbu almost didn’t notice that it was out of place. The strings voiced the questioning grief of where he was meant to be almost perfectly, and it was odd to say, but Wemmbu felt seen.
“Are the stars the only home I own?” He thought, and voiced the emotions behind it to the best of his ability within the piece.
“Is there anywhere else I can go?” He could almost hear Flame say in response, and even though they had only known each other for a few minutes by that point, Wemmbu could tell that Flame understood every emotion he poured into the instrument in his hands.
Wemmbu was almost afraid to let the piece end, worried that if he stopped playing, there wouldn’t be another time anyone played with him like Flame was, but after he extended it for the second time past the usual point he’d end it, he realized it was probably getting suspicious.
It almost hurt to not continue after the last chord, but when he turned to the shorter musician, he knew it was the right call.
Flame looked at him like he could read Wemmbu’s mind, and knew every detail of a past that no one had bothered to ask about. He looked at him like he had never seen anyone else before. He looked at him like he could see him.
They didn’t need to speak, and Wemmbu was glad. He had never been good with words, but at last he had met someone who could talk with a language that no one else bothered to listen for.