There was something about it, Chara decided. There was something about the music that made her blood rush properly—not like lethargic fluid simply going about its job, no, it rushed through her veins as if exhilaration lay within its core. She’d never been to a concert before—she never had reason to—but now, standing as a speck in the sea of the small crowd, she saw its appeal.
Individual human beings tightened to form a single collective, moving to a beat that was not their own, moving in sync though actual movements vary. It was not like a club where Chara feared being pressed too firmly against some stranger’s chest. It was not like that at all.
She had space enough to breathe, but she couldn’t—she didn’t feel claustrophobic, mind you, the breathlessness was a proper sensation. It was as if every drum beat sucked the air right from her lungs, and the rests in between were permissions to suck air back in. Chara was not particularly fond of having her breath knocked out of her, but this was ecstasy.
It was at that moment she practically ignored her companions and threw herself into the waves of music. The entire set was ironic: the rhythm was lively yet left her tranquil, the singer’s mangled voice sounded incredibly whole, the instruments distinct but blended congruently, the crowd moved harmonically yet each swayed to an internal tune.
When she ran her eyes lazily across the stage, Chara knew she was screwed.
Her fiery soul was ignited by dark orbs that went on and on and on until forever. They seemed to stare straight at her from the stage—the eyes’ keeper was casually beating the drum set before him, smirking, twirling his sticks in his hands. Chara felt like an ocean had erupted from the dam of her chest. With every beat, the drummer dictated the ebb and flow of her heart. The pounding infiltrated her system, found its way into her bones, poked around, and decided it was a neat place to stay.
All the while, the drummer continued to smirk, thumping with his feet, controlling Chara’s heartbeat.
It was the kind of smirk that hid a sharp tongue behind its lips. The kind of smirk that told Chara how this man would have said her name. It wouldn’t have rolled off his lips like honey, no. The drummer would have said it like a flint scraped against a rock. He would have ignited sparks of ember in the soul Chara had kept bundled under blankets. He was the type of man who would have promulgated his admiration, or his revulsion. He was not the type of person Chara fancied latching herself onto.
Yet, his eyes pierced her with a perverse yet pure intensity. It went against all her logic; she knew it was rude to stare; but Chara found she could hardly turn away.
It was a terrifying sensation mixed with thrill and confusion. She knew for a fact that the drummer was not smirking at her—the spotlight was just aimed towards the singer right smack in front of him, and he, the bludger he was, was avoiding the glare.
Yet he, the bludger that he was, was avoiding it by looking in her direction. Coupled with her rapid heartbeat controlled by his bloody drumming, Chara felt her sensibility being pushed aside.
At this moment, all that mattered was the ecstasy (not that she would do anything rash after the music stopped, that is)—and so, she threw her head back once again, allowing sighs of euphoria to escape her lips. She lost herself in the blaring music, lost herself in the pounding of her own heart.