The music room was quieter than usual. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, casting long shadows over the grand piano where Hyacinth and Yukimura had played just the day before. Their performance had ended, but the echoes of it still lingered in Hyacinth's mind.
Their professor stood at the front, arms crossed, a thoughtful expression on his face.
"Your piece was powerful," he finally said, his voice carrying the weight of experience. "Not just in technique, but in emotion. It told a story, and that is something not many musicians can do so seamlessly."
Hyacinth straightened, pride flickering in his chest.
But then—
"You still have a long way to go."
Hyacinth felt his shoulders stiffen.
The professor's gaze flickered toward him. "Your expressiveness is undeniable, but you rely too much on emotion. Music requires control, not just feeling. Your transitions were rough at times—especially when the music shifted dynamics. You need to refine your technique."
Hyacinth nodded, pressing his lips together.
The professor then turned to Yukimura. "And you," he said, his tone shifting slightly. "You understood the conflict in the piece well, but at moments, you resisted too much. Sometimes, music isn't just about fighting—it's about listening."
Yukimura's jaw tightened, but he only gave a short nod.
"Regardless, it was one of the most compelling performances I've seen in a long time," the professor concluded. "Well done, both of you."
Hyacinth felt a swell of accomplishment—until he glanced at Yukimura.
Yukimura was already standing, grabbing his bag without a word. No acknowledgment. No reaction. As if the performance had meant nothing.
Hyacinth hesitated before quickly pulling out his whiteboard and scrawling, "You played well."
Yukimura barely looked at him. "You need to work on your control," he said instead, echoing the professor's words. Then, without waiting for a response, he walked out.
The coldness of it struck Hyacinth like a sudden gust of wind.
For the first time, he wondered—had Yukimura already moved on from the music they created?
The days passed, and the excitement of their performance slowly faded into the background.
Schoolwork, however, did not. Shimakaze Academy was demanding. Assignments piled up. Music rehearsals continued. Tests loomed.
Hyacinth found himself staying up later and later, practicing his piano pieces, refining the weaknesses the professor had pointed out. But at some point, it wasn't just about fixing mistakes.
It was about keeping up. Keeping up with Yukimura.
The lack of sleep caught up to him. During morning classes, his head would dip slightly before he forced himself awake. His notes became messier. Even his usually steady hands felt sluggish against the piano keys.
The exhaustion was becoming unbearable.
He missed homework deadlines. He barely registered the words coming out of his teachers' mouths. He skipped meals—not because he wanted to, but because there simply wasn't enough time.
It became routine to look at the time and panic.
To feel like no matter how hard he worked, he was always two steps behind.
Lunchtime. The cafeteria was packed, filled with the chatter of students and the clatter of trays.
Hyacinth walked in, carrying his tray, scanning for a quiet spot. But as he moved through the crowd, he could feel it.
Stares. Whispers.
His fingers lightly brushed against his hair clip—the small hyacinth-shaped ornament pinned to his black hair. A silent signature of his identity.
At his old school, such things had been met with worse than whispers. Shimakaze was different, but still…
LGBTQ+ wasn't the norm here.
It wasn't outright hostility. Just curiosity. Some students eyed him with mild interest. Others with confusion. A few with quiet judgment.
Hyacinth kept his head high, as he always did. He had learned long ago that responding to whispers only fed them.
But as he sat at an empty table, his appetite was already gone.
Then—
"Hey, Maestro," a familiar voice called.
Gabby slid into the seat across from him, completely unbothered by the tension in the air. He grinned, plucking a grape from Hyacinth's tray and popping it into his mouth. "So, do I even need to ask how badly school's been draining you?"
Hyacinth sighed and pulled out his whiteboard, writing: "I might die if I see another assignment."
Gabby chuckled. "Dramatic as always my dear Hyacinth, and that's why I got you something."
He pulled something out of his pocket—a concert ticket.
Hyacinth blinked.
Gabby wiggled the ticket teasingly. "You, my dear overworked flower, are in desperate need of a distraction. And what better way to escape the soul-crushing grip of academia than by watching a concert?"
Hyacinth hesitated, gripping his marker tighter.
He slowly wrote on his board: "I don't know. I'm busy."
Gabby gave him a look. "Liar liar, hair on fire. You're drowning to your academics, not busy."
Hyacinth pursed his lips.
Gabby sighed, sliding the ticket across the table. "Take it anyway. If you change your mind, just let me know. I'm only one message away."
Hyacinth hesitated before tucking the ticket into his pocket.
Gabby leaned back with a smirk. "Think about it. And try not to die under your schoolwork, okay?"
Hyacinth rolled his eyes but smiled faintly as Gabby waved and left.
That night, Hyacinth lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.
The exhaustion from school weighed heavily on him. His eyes burned from overwork. His fingers ached from playing.
And yet, his mind drifted to the concert.
To the ticket in his pocket.
He still didn't know who was playing. Gabby hadn't said.
Would it be worth it?
Would a night out really help ease the pressure clawing at his chest?
He turned over with a sigh, unsure.
But as the silence stretched on, the thought of getting away—even just for a little while—began to feel like something he desperately needed.
Hyacinth turned over, sighing.
Then, grabbing his phone, he opened his messages and typed:
[Hyacinth: I'll go.]
Gabby's reply came almost instantly.
[Gabby: I was waiting ages for your reply! See you on Saturday then! I'll fetch you, just send me your live location, mmkay?]
Hyacinth exhaled, staring at the message.
For the first time in days, a small part of him felt lighter.