#liederkrisis

Who was on his mind, was the real question? It had to be someone like Mozart–the thought made his stomach lurch, but who else could it be? It had to be a man, and Chopin barely interacted with anyone. But those two were joined at the hip, it seemed.

Immediately, he deflated. It was either Mozart, or he was going to mock Schubert for thinking about it.

“Yes–I…I was wondering about that. What of it?” He asked softly, shyly. There was still something kind of embarrassing about that, not that he could tell what.

He felt his blush getting hotter, as he absently looked to his coffee cup, stirring slowly.

“Has something been on your mind, Herr Beethoven?”

@liederkrisis

May the heavens damn this man and his unwillingness to just speak and let him listen! Although he would rather have him stay silent if that meant that Beethes’s heart would leap whenever he spoke, the same way it did when he heard him say “Herr Beethoven”. His cheeks felt hot, and he was sure they were as bright as his scarf. He tried hard not to stare at Schubert as he stirred his coffee cup, but the slow, circular motions of his wrist seemed to hypnotise him. “I’ve been... wondering about something like that as well, and thought that maybe you could give me some insight on the matter.”

liederkrisis replied to your post: How many miles per hour is that?

He’s still not used to that whole “Oh, hey, the Greek Pantheon is a thing” deal. “I suppose not, but I’d assume it’s quite fast. Yes?”

--he fell. He fell to one knee, and then one hand, and threw up--no, not blood, he realized, as he looked at the bright red substance--it was energy, raw energy, in his mujik energy's natural color--rasping through his throat, burning his tongue, sizzling on the charred wooden floor of his room. panting, coughing, he rose to his feet, head still pounding with the memories of those he had just ruined. all hammatsu's happy memories that last week's ode to joy had given him; memories that had prompted him unwittingly to give his happy memories in return.

                a smile. a kiss.

        tea scent musking up the stairs.

    someone reads off a change in the program: and now, for our soloist.

faces melt, strings sing from the dark;

          footfalls fade from the stairs, unpracticed.

              so many people! so many people!

so many people. so many dead.

he stumbled out into the city, or what used to be the city: RAZED like sodom and gomorrah, erased--erazed. was there ever a hammatsu, one could wonder, and then look out at the labyrinth of ruptured land and say: there was never a hammatsu. never a community eight hundred thousand strong, never all those snuffed-out lives.

            Did I…

he made it to what he thought used to be downtown. his shoes hit dirt. the ground was grey and brown, a mix of mulch and concrete dust. pulverized--he’d done that. he’d DONE that. grains of concrete in the soil, and the shards of how many bones?

ash turned the corner where the corners of apartments once stood. ash lined the lanes where the sidewalks once sat.

and the wounds--the gaping wounds--the earth opened ‘fore him with a thousand jagged mouths. his hands shook--his legs shook--how could he--there was no city. all those people who, a week before, received his joy, now lay indistinguishable from the dust, not even leaving bodies for him to mourn. he could have stood where kanae might have walked, or where sousuke could have rode his bike blasting musak down the street--thank GOD they were both inside the mansion, which seemed to have remained untouched…! or he could have stood where the guitarist who’d inspired him once played, where she took his prize guitar out and set it on her lap, where her fingers curled so lovingly around the pick and strings--where she sang the song that now came back into his head, a song of a brighter day in a brighter world--now a world laid waste--

           I did.

           I killed a city.

he sank to the ground and wept. 

above him, arkhe stood untouched.

he almost didn’t go back. he really couldn’t go back. they would all know it was him, and what would they say? he’d killed kanae’s friends, he’d killed sousuke’s parents, he’d killed everyone and everything--not even the birds were left to sing his grief to the skies. the trees that ringed the suburbs, gone. the distant hill with the tea plantation where he’d worked, and the nice old couple that ran it--where were they now?

he could fix it. he should. if he had the power to take he also had the power to give. he reached out to grab his baton from the air, but nothing came. no mujik leapt to his fingers--his hands shook too hard; his steps shuddered as he walked. he could fix it, and he should, once he himself recovered from the fallout.

he all but limped back home, like an injured soldier, one who’d seen too much and killed too many. so weak was he at the sight of his works that he thought of their anger, and couldn’t even bear to feel indignant. it was his fault. let them do with him what they would.

he was not surprised to see schubert standing at otowakan’s gates, mouth agape, glasses almost hanging off his face; even his fluffy orange hair seemed flattened by his shock. such fragility, thought beethoven, not daring to raise a hand of comfort to put on his kouhai’s shoulder. with one touch, it seemed, schubert could melt into the ground. 

         ❝i’m sorry,❞ he murmured, not meeting schubert’s eyes. 

beethes and schubert sitting in a tree

now, the last thing he wanted was to cause too much of a scene; the performers who had witnessed the disaster caused by beethoven & mozart were well aware of the truth of arkhe, the people who had dealt with mitsuru’s failed android were not ( he still thought about the children who cowered when that damned thing continued to scream. he still remembered the confused & frightened expressions of civilians ), starting any sort of conflict would be unwise & he knew it ( conflict was never his style, instead, he sought to calm the chaos around him ). 

   ❛ schubert. ❜ the name is spoken as one would speak a commandment ( perhaps it is, for he was still the SERAPH, made to serve GOD above, made to once again arrange the choirs of heaven ), the kingdom of god was calling & soon, JUDGEMENT DAY would come, the songs of heaven would fill the air–– but for all of that, he would need the choirs. as it was, he had no need to say anything else, blue gaze remained upon the other ( as if he would come so easily, they would not have to cause such chaos ), a silent command evident in them–– you must return.