A beat, neither slow nor fast, but steady (he knows it's not, knows it can't be, but that's the way it sounds like in his head and he knows, as sure as he knows his heart-rate is picking up, that he'll never even try to put this song down, put it out there for the universe to hear and be touched by, so perhaps, in the end, it doesn't matter what it sounds like).
He's aware of his body as if it belonged to a stranger - allowed to observe, yet not to control. The sensation should disturb him, as should the fact he doesn't feel particularly disturbed. It fails to do so.
Losing control has gotten people hurt, before.
Then again, being in control hasn't always kept people from getting hurt either. It were his hands on the controls to Falconer's guns, the day Laura Brass died. It were his words, carefully chosen and honed to perfection that brought to Lamia Niki Falcon. (For the better, in the end, perhaps, yet who is he, to take credit for miracles to which he was only, has only ever been an observer, an unwilling and ignorant instrument at best?)
He breathes in and out, feels the sound mix with his heartbeat (still seeming-steady), hears the touch of skin touching skin, softly. He sees the warmth of another body approaching his own, although he doesn't recall the room being cold.
One single beat becomes two, not quite in sync, yet hinting, teasing at the possibility of getting there.
(Any listener, he thinks, would find the intro too long, too boring, and have lost interest by now, unless he's been somehow ensnared by the visuals, and it's never been Chrysander's style to rely on those; he's always relied on the words and the sound to give meaning to the song, adding the images as an afterthought, a necessity, a distraction - Chrysander sees his songs as much as he hears them, but it's a visualization in sounds, not in images.)
His breath catches, once, as the intro passes into the opening chords of the actual song. A moment's feeling of giddiness as he pictures needing to perform an actual song in the here and now; a relief to find himself just enough in control to keep the bubbling laughter from spilling over into the world outside of his head.
Very few people remember the words to a song by Chrysander Harris after they've heard it for the first time. Some claim that to know the words means to take away the magic (they use the word easily, unaware of its actual meaning), while others buy the recording just to get the official version of the lyrics, instead of one of the many unofficial ones that pop up everywhere, seemingly only seconds after he's released a new song. Talliver grumbles about them, knowing there's nothing anyone can really do about it, not knowing that Chrysander could, if he chooses to.
Chrysander knows the words are only a little more important to the song than the images that go with the recording are. Words mean something, but to any person, their meaning will be different.
Possibly, that's why there are no words in his head now, just a song he know he'll remember in the morning, imperfectly. It's probably just as well he'll never attempt to record it.
A whisper of a human voice, too low to make out the exact word, dropped in the pause left between one verse and the next, like a leaf dropped in a pond, sending ripples over the surface as it lands without sinking. Its slightly breathless sound contrasts with the smooth wordless verse that's come before, emphasizes the heartbeat of utter silence prior to the next verse.
The beat falls silent, for a moment - perhaps, Chrysander doesn't know, isn't sure, he stops breathing for that moment. Technically, it should be his heart halting for a few seconds, but clichés aside, he doubts if that particular occurrence would leave him well and able to continue; sometimes, with music, one must be a little flexible (as in life, and in love - the metaphor holds that far, at least).
Once it picks up again, back to the steady rhythm of before, it has gained a twin, an echo of sorts. Not quite two beats, not any longer, yet still not united either, instead edging towards that state.
Second verse turns into third - no moment of silence in between, and the beat, unfaltering, seems to come a little faster, its echo just a little bit closer behind it (which makes no sense, surely).
Most of Chyrsander's songs flow, steadily onwards until a point of destination has been reached; this song flies, aiming for something as yet out of reach.
Jhari once told him many of his songs were about things one cannot obtain ('unattainable beauty', she said, and he, chilled and having yet to meet Niki Falcon, thought she understood him better than he'd ever wish to be understood). There's a difference though, between acceptance and mourning, and knowledge and rebelling - a difference, too, between wishing for forgiveness and seeking absolution.
Three verses, Chrysander thinks (with the part of his mind still capable of thought) is quite a stretch - traditionally, there should be a chorus mixed in somewhere, and even if music has changed over time, evolving like any living creature (and the Gestalt?), this much tradition at least has remained.
As the beat fades, slowly, he hears the second voice again, strong enough now to carry his own, just long enough until the song's end. A note of hope, he'd like to think, in that last part; a promise of possibilities.
If he's learned anything from Niki, then surely it must be that far fewer things are impossible than most people (himself included) assume.