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On the shortest night make music
On the longest day rejoice
The world is changed by wonder
And love gives spirit voice

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He's not religious, but he's always known there are things beyond himself: things like music and love and beauty and the joy that bursts forth like trumpets and stars when everything comes together and _fits_. It's midsummer's eve and tomorrow is a birthday and the tour starts in two weeks. It's already tomorrow (sunset, midnight, both past) or not quite but almost (it's not tomorrow until you've slept, or the sun comes up again: the first isn't happening any time soon, and the second is immanent but not yet actual) and there's a moment of stillness now, a timeless and numinous instant where been and being and becoming all intertwine. He breathes it in: smog and stardust, wonder and weeping, the murmur of the party close by, the siren-wail in the middle distance, the invisible, inaudible whisper-crash of waves on the far away beach. The painted iron railing is cool under his fingers; the glittering carpet of lights spills down the hillside and out into the distance, sparks reflected bright in the blue-black shine of the polish on his nails.

A gust of laughter, voices, music washes over him, a splash of sound, and a shape materializes at his side, tucks itself comfortably, effortlessly, utterly unselfconsciously beside him, fitting like a puzzle-piece into his space, his life, his heart. The arm at his waist is sturdy, the hand on his back warm through the layers of his clothes; the strong curve of Kris' shoulder settles into the curve of his hand. He can feel the grin on the other man's face, and he cannot help but smile. Together they watch as the lights below them glimmer and the earth wheels onward, spinning toward sunrise.

The shortest night, the longest day, and all the world before them.