coun·ter·point
/ˈkoun(t)ərˌpoint/
noun
1. the relationship between two or more musical lines which are harmonically interdependent yet independent in rhythm and melodic contour.
verb
2. to emphasize by contrast.

      Halfway through his first glass, Ventus decides he really hates beer.

      He makes a face as he forces another sip down just to spite Ephemer and Brain for dragging him here and foisting the noxious drink on him. Not that either of them are there to appreciate his defiant display – both have disappeared somewhere into the crowded tangle of bodies dancing in time to the thumping, artless noise of the band on stage. The music is just as bad as the beer, accompanied by a pervasive stench of sweat that hangs heavily in the cloistered air of the small club, and yet he can’t keep the look of wide-eyed wonder off his face as he takes it all in. Everything about this place is new to him, a sharp and startling contrast to the familiar, pristine halls of the music conservatory, a farther distance still from the orderly cleanliness of his father’s house.

      Oh, if his father knew where he was…he’d probably have a heart attack. After he murdered Ventus for being somewhere like this in the first place. At the very least he’d set Aqua and Terra after him – Ventus can imagine all too well Aqua storming in and physically dragging him back home, lecturing him all the way. Maybe that was why he came with Ephemer and Brain in the first place though, when they’d declared he needed to ‘broaden his horizons;’ maybe that was why he stayed despite the bad beer and worse music. There’s a certain thrill in this small, private rebellion, at being here when he knows he shouldn’t be. He thinks that he should probably feel a little guilty about that, but it’s the first time in twenty-one years that he’s ever taken even a tiny step out of line – what could it possibly hurt?

      The band continues, a cacophony of electric guitars and a wailing melody. Ventus closes his eyes for a moment, seeing the sounds transform into colors and shapes before him – indistinct forms pulsing in unappealing shades of dusty brown. He’s never been able to really explain how he sees music this way, in series of lights and color; even the simplest melodies have their own unique hues, though his favorites are the ones that accompany Terra and Aqua’s music. Their sounds pair in beautiful, vibrant colors, clear blue graceful lines that swirl and dive against warm, earthy tones that shimmer like jewels. Only his own music remains colorless to him, despite his years of study and practice. Ventus would take even the bland noise here over the pure, empty white he sees whenever he plays.

      The thought sours his mood about as much as the flat, lukewarm glass of beer does. The band finally wraps their set, and Ventus decides to take the opportunity to find his wayward friends. He pushes his way into the crowd, but a sudden wild cheer goes up around him as another band makes their entrance, and he finds himself carried forward in a surging crush of people. There isn’t much to do but simply let himself be carried along, and somehow, he winds up all the way at the front of the crowd, right in front of the stage.

      “Excuse me, um, excuse me…”

      Ventus makes a vain effort to push his way back, though the energy of the crowd is focused so solely on the new band that no one pays him any heed. He looks around desperately, hoping to place Ephemer and Brain somewhere; when he doesn’t see them, he doubles his resolve to push his way back out, only to freeze in place when a sudden chord rings out from the stage. The sheer force of it overwhelms him, but it isn’t until the next chord sounds that he really listens. Then the drums kick in, followed by the bass, and…

      Music dances in front of him, a field of bright, violent color. There’s something complex here, melody hidden in the dissonance – the singer joins in, his voice a sharp rasp that acts in perfect counterpoint to the bass and guitar. This isn’t just noise – this is something crafted by a skillful hand. Even the most rudimentary ear could hear that, and Ventus has years of music theory under his belt by now.

      Why would someone that can write so well be playing in a place like this?

      Ventus turns back towards the stage, immediately meets the gaze of the singer on stage, and he knows.

    No – the moment passes, fleeting, carrying the strange sensation away with it. What had he thought he’d seen there, hidden in the singer’s bright, golden eyes? Still, Ventus can’t look away, transfixed, standing so still that he thinks he might not even be breathing. He doesn’t notice much about the rest of the band, but the singer he wants to commit completely to his memory: his lean, toned frame, emphasized by the slim fit of his black clothes; the unruly, spiked mess of his dark hair; the sheen of sweat on his skin from the bright stage lights. It’s ridiculous to think that the singer would actually be looking at him, and yet those golden eyes seem to pierce straight to his heart, drawing him in with magnetic force, drowning him in the brilliant red and gold hues of the music. Even when the song comes to a crashing close and the band launches into another one, just as hard and fast-paced, Ventus can’t tear himself away. All he can think is that he wants to hear more – but the band only plays for a short while longer before wrapping their set and leaving the stage. Slowly the crowd starts to thin, and Ventus breathes a long, unwinding sigh that brings him back to reality.

      Disappointment barely has time to set in before he feels someone watching him, turning to see none other than the singer leaning against the bar, watching him with a look of casual intent. Ventus swallows hard – could he be imagining things? But already the other man is sauntering towards him, like a predator stalking toward unwitting prey.

      Ventus can’t decide if he wants to run or not.

    “It really is you,” the man says, in a way that Ventus thinks wasn’t entirely intended to be heard.

      “I’m…sorry?” Ventus blinks, looking around as if he could possibly mean anyone else. “Um, do I know you?”

      “Heh.” There’s a bitterness to his smile, a sharp edge that seems to point inward. “No, I guess not.”

      “Oh.” Ventus fidgets, feeling suddenly awkward and completely out of his element. That piercing, gold gaze never wavers from him – it feels like he’s searching for something, though for the life of him Ventus couldn’t imagine what. “You, um. You were really good up there. I’d never really heard music like that.”

      “Yeah, this doesn’t exactly look like your scene.” The smile sharpens into a sneer. “Shouldn’t you have a chaperone with you or something?”

      Ventus frowns. The dig hits a little too close to home to be coming from a stranger.

      “I don’t need a chaperone. I can take care of myself.”

      “Is that right?” He steps closer to Ventus; the scent of sweat and cigarette smoke hangs heavy on him, what should be a repulsive combination but here, amidst the crowd and the pulsing, thrumming beat of a new song, does nothing but pull Ventus in. “Well now, aren’t you a big boy?”

      The comment grates on Ventus’s nerves, enough that his expression darkens as he takes a pointed step back.

      “What’s your deal? I complimented you and you’re just mocking me. I don’t even know who you are.”

      For a moment a flicker of something flashes on the other man’s face, a shadow of pain – but it’s brief, and vanishes so quickly that Ventus can’t be entirely sure it was ever there to start with.

      “Vanitas,” he says, after a brief pause. “My name is Vanitas.”

      “Vanitas.” Ventus repeats the name slowly, as if trying out the taste of it on his tongue. He relaxes a little, and smiles. “Well, my name’s Ventus, but you can call me ‘Ven.’”

      “Alright then, Ven.” Vanitas holds a hand out to him in invitation. It’s a thin hand, scarred with cuts and calluses and chipped nails.

      “Are you gonna dance with me, or not?”

      “Dance?” Ventus hesitates. “But I…don’t know how.”

      “You know how to move your feet, don’t you?” Vanitas scoffs. “It’s not like we’re ballroom dancing here. Come on.”

      Ventus stares at Vanitas’ outstretched hand for a beat longer, until Vanitas takes a step forward, leaning in so close that he whispers in Ventus’ ear. The sound is rough, grating – a threat or a promise, Ventus isn’t sure which.

      “What are you so scared of?”

      Everything, Ventus thinks. Because he doesn’t know what will happen to him if he actually takes Vanitas’ hand; because he thinks if he does, Vanitas might pull him right out of his orderly, proper life.

      Because he thinks he wouldn’t mind, if he did.

      “Ven! Hey, Ven!”

      Ventus turns at the sound of his name being called over the din, seeing Ephemer waving at him from a short distance away. He waves back at him, and when he turns again Vanitas is already gone, a dark blur disappearing into the crowd. For a while Ventus thinks about going after him, but then Ephemer is there, and it’s easy enough to get carried away in his distracting cheer.

      “Ven! There you are. We were looking everywhere for you,” Ephemer says, “Uh…hey, Ven? You okay?”

      “H-Huh?” Ventus blinks, looking back at Ephemer as if only just now realizing that he’s standing there. “Oh, sorry. Yeah, I’m fine. I just…”

      Ventus stops before mentioning the strange encounter. What could he say to explain it, anyway? The truth is that he’s unlikely to ever see Vanitas again given the fact that the entirety of their interaction lasted less than a few minutes, that shouldn’t bother him.

      So why did his heart still race so fast, as if recalling the crashing sound of Vanitas’ song?

      In the end he says nothing, and lets the conversation turn over to Ephemer – but even hours later, back in the quiet of his room, Ventus’ heart still pounds in his chest, racing in what must be the memory of that melody’s rhythm. For hours he tries to remember the exact shape of the sound, tracing the vibrant pattern of the notes in his mind.