Chapter Text
Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky felt sick.
Wrapped in a blanket in the centre of an unfamiliar room, he shivered as tall figures around him walked around with labcoats and notepads, looking down at his tiny frame and nodding their heads.
The floor was a dark-blue marble, creviced with tiles with a surface so shiny he could even use it as a mirror. And he did- shivering, he peered over to look at his reflection, only to see the opposite instead.
A little girl looked back at him with slightly damp blonde hair puffed up to her jaw. His eyes were blue and doll-like, gazing down at himself and framed by blonde eyelashes falling perfectly, almost artificially.
He raised a shaky hand to his cheek, only to see that his previous complexion was completely gone. His cheeks were now completely pale like porcelain, dusted with a pink blush that sat across his cheeks and nosebridge unnaturally. His knees were the same- simply kneeling on the floor caused his skin to heat up and redden to the contact.
"Subject 7," a voice stated from above him, "do you feel awake?"
He shook his head repeatedly, his lower lip trembling as he cradled himself in terror at what he had become. A little girl. His knees shakily came together as he put himself into a reclusive position, his head hung low. Suddenly, he felt a notebook being placed under his chin, lifting his face to look up at a bespectacled woman, clearly the one who had spoken moments ago.
"D-did you do this to me..?" Tchaikovsky whispered, before clamping his hand over his mouth. He had found himself speaking two octaves higher in a completely foreign tongue, his usual relaxed tone replaced with that of a teenage girl. The woman jotted some notes down on the back of her hand, smirking. Welling up his strength, Tchaikovsky brought himself up slightly, enough to tug on her labcoat in anger.
"D- Did you not hear me? Did you do this to me? Answer me, now! Is this some kind of sick fucking joke? Answer me, answer me..." he screamed, before fading out into sobs as he collapsed shakily, his hand over his mouth as he cried to himself. The woman above, clearly a scientist, knitted her eyebrows, before another pair of heavy steps approached her. A strong, firm grip placed itself on Tchaikovsky's shoulder, gently bringing him to face upwards. A pair of dark eyes met his, belonging to a tall, well-built man with dark, rich skin and pale hair spilling down onto his shoulders, nearly reaching Tchaikovsky as he crouched before him.
"Do not be afraid," he whispered calmly, seeing past Tchaikovsky's tears and simply talking into his eyes with a deep, angelic tone. "My name is Johann Sebastian Bach. Welcome to the new world, my friend."
Bach.
The father of Music.
Tchaikovsky couldn't have felt so lonely, and so at home.