Take Me in Your Arms - K.H x F!Y/N x I.U

3. Ephemeral Encounters

Age: 10

Your face burned red hot as you squeaked on the trumpet. Reaching a triple C, you tore the brass away from your mouth and gasped for air.

"Fucking right!"

"Let it rip!"

Haruki's steady beat from the snare kept the jam alive while your two clones, respectively playing an alto and a tenor saxophone, hopped back onto the rhythm. You nodded with your third clone on the double bass, moving your feet to keep the time.

"Use the mute!" Haruki yelled over the band.

With a deep breath, you picked up the metal mute from the stool beside you and slotted it into the bell of your trumpet. Another breath, and you drew the mouthpiece to your embouchure again. You riffed against the tinny sound, trying to get used to what sounds good and what doesn't, while your clones and teacher responded accordingly.

Your fourth clone on the piano lazily tapped, her attention squarely on your timing. Once she got the feel, she supported your muted, short-lived riff, before you tore the trumpet away with another gasp.

Face flushed, lips vibrating, and feeling your heart pounding so hard that your head thumped with it, threatening to burst, you raised your hand.

In a fair to middling finale, Haruki led your clones into a sweet little ending harmony with a content expression on his face. At least your riff impressed him at some point. Once the music fully cut, you watched your clones rest their instruments before you recalled the four shadow clones. In a way you'd consistently found relaxing, they disappeared in scattered poofs.

Then the exhaustion really seeped into your bones.

"I have to say, Ashi," your teacher began, standing up from his stool, as you hunkered down to the stage. "A fifteen minute session with four clones is pretty impressive."

"I'm shit with the bass," you sighed, placing your bare legs and hands on the cold wood. "All I can play is support, and hardly, even then."

"You're shit with strings," Haruki teased as he jumped off of the stage, moving to walk through the empty izakaya.

"Well, then, you're a shit teacher," you defended, glaring at the man though he wasn't looking back. "You know how badly I want to learn the mandolin."

"I also know how badly you want to learn to play the violin, and the tuba, and the flute."

Haruki stood behind the bar and took out two glasses. Your mouth started to water at the prospect of a drink.

As he combed through the bottles behind the counter, he said, "You're doing well enough with a myriad instruments, as is. Let's pick our battles, and pace ourselves."

Gathering enough strength to stand, invigoured by the bottle of gin that now rested in Haruki's hand, you drew yourself up with the stool your silver trumpet rested on. You touched the cold metal absentmindedly, then hopped off the stage and walked over to the bar shakily. As you sat in front of the only teacher you ever valued, he poured two jiggers of gin into each glass.

The glass was extremely cold against your hand, your blood still rushing from exertion. Still, you took it and raised it with your teacher.

"To madness," he said.

"To sorrow," you replied.

"May they not come tomorrow," you said in unison, letting the bottoms of your glasses hit the bar before you took your drinks.

It burned, but you loved gin.

You loved the coldness, the bitterness, the way it would crawl up your spine and warm you from the inside out.