What if he messed up and embarrassed himself in front of everyone?
What if it made its way into the news and his mother found out?
What if it somehow ruined her reputation?
What if she decided to hurt him for it?
She’d told him in no uncertain terms on many occasions that he was nothing more than an extension of her, and therefore everything he did had to be carefully controlled and considered. He couldn’t afford to act rashly, not when she’d worked so hard to get herself to the place in her career that she had.
Maybe once upon a time, she’d been an attentive mother, but if that were so, he couldn’t remember it very well, just snippets here and there. It’d taken December over a decade to master three colors on the beiska. Rabbit had done it by age seven.
It’d pretty much been downhill for him from there. Everything became about the instrument and music. She’d enrolled him in more programs than he could count, with a revolving door of tutors. If he didn’t perform up to her standards, she’d punish him—sometimes with something minor, like withholding food or locking him in the dark. Other times refusing to allow him to sleep until he got something right. She very rarely hit him, but she was a pro at finding the heaviest object around and flinging it so it would do the most damage without leaving marks on his arms or face, where they might have been seen.
On some level, he was able to acknowledge this was abuse. But her methods had gained her the results she’d wanted, so there was no chance of convincing her she was in the wrong.
Rabbit was only two colors away from being able to claim the universal record.
Not that he’d ever actually accomplish that. It’d been almost two years since he’d last made any progress, and with the way things were going, it seemed unlikely that would change any time soon, if ever. The only reason she hadn’t done something about it already was because she’d been off-planet for most of that time.
The beiska was a rare instrument crafted from a special gemstone found only on Vitality. The stone, though not sentient in any sense of the word, was believed to be made from a special component that allowed for the energy exchange. When turned into an instrument, that exchange of energy was able to turn soundwaves into vivid colors. The catch was, most people’s energy wasn’t compatible, and even if it was, that didn’t mean they’d be able to unlock the stone and play the beiska the way it was meant to be played. His family had originated on planet, and there’d been several beiska players in their history.
Rabbit stopped at the foot of the stairs at the side of the stage and waited for the announcer to present him to the crowd, his hand tightening on his instrument. Since the connection made to the stone had nothing to do with an individual hunk of rock, he could smash his instrument to bits right now and go out and get a new one—for a hefty sum, but the point was he’d be able to play it just the same.
It’d been studied thoroughly, but there was still so much they didn’t understand about how and why some people were able to tap into that connection and exchange energy when others weren’t. It didn’t help research any that the sensation was often described differently by different users.
For December Trace, when she opened herself up to the beiska and played, there was apparently a warmth that wrapped itself around her. She’d described it as the feeling of coming home, whatever the hell that meant.
For Rabbit, it felt more literal. The exchange was just that, an exchange. When he strummed his fingers across those strings and orchestrated them to his bidding, he felt them tug back at him. There was an invisible pull there, between them, a siphoning sensation that always tangled him up in his own emotions and spat him back out at the end. More often than not, the crowd and the stage and the lights, all of it, disappeared when he was playing. It was just him and the music and the colors and the feelings gripped him and charged through him like bright, shocking electricity.
By the end of it, he’d be exhausted, both mentally and physically drained, but even that felt amazing.
Sometimes, when he was particularly upset at his mother, he liked to convince himself that feeling was the only reason he was still doing this. That he was staying for him and not for her. Not because she’d set this path in stone for him before he’d even been old enough to crawl, let alone walk.
He was good at pretending.
Even with himself.
His name was announced and he found his feet taking him forward, climbing up to the stage only to come to a stop once he’d reached the center where a glass chair had been set out for him that he had no intention of using. He always stood when he performed; most beiska players did.
The lights were bright enough to blind, turning the faces of the crowd into a blurry dark mass. Vaguely, he wondered if Bin Zimir was among them, watching and waiting to be wowed so he could either tell his daughter to forget all about Rabbit or convince her to give him another chance.
He wondered if a man like Bin Zimir had time like that to waste, and thought probably not.
Then the lights dimmed some, signaling it was time for him to begin, and he wiped all thoughts from his mind except one.
If his secret admirer were here tonight, he deserved a show.
Rabbit inhaled through his nose and let the air settle in his lungs for half a beat, then he exhaled as his fingers found the strings and he drew out his first note. The sound was sharp, a wisp of golden yellow shooting from it into the air, followed by another and another as he strummed until it would appear as though sparks were flickering off the instrument.
The gasps from the audience faded into the background as he focused on it, on that tugging that had already begun from his core, urging him to give more to the music. To give it all.
He picked up the pace, hitting a different combo that had yellows and reds springing into the air and mixing to create a smoke cloud of orange. He’d chosen a more upbeat song, wanting to end the night on a high note for the audience and the colors reflected that. Like with all of the songs he played, there was a story to the tune even if it lacked words, and he pictured it in his mind, the raucous laughter and the feeling of being free that the sound elicited.
He thought of the good times and recalled what they’d felt like. When he’d unlocked his first color and how proud he’d felt when his mother had caught him up in her arms and spun him in circles, elated at his progress. When she’d called him her perfect little musician and put him to sleep with whispered stories about how when he was older he’d take the world by storm with his genius.
A thread of anger managed to escape then, and he changed trajectory before it could affect the colors, shifting his thoughts back to his secret admirer instead and how excited he was to go back to his dressing room and look at the new flowers he’d no doubt receive. How confident, and therefore cocky, that probably made him, to think without a shadow of a doubt that there was a person out there who was still impressed by him enough to continue sending anonymous, and expensive bouquets.
The corner of his mouth tipped up because he was that sure, and being that certain about anything when everything else in his life had been shrouded in the murky unknown brought a sense of relief and excitement.
