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Masato feels especially tired that day, not unexpected in any way since he had spent the previous night playing the piano. He doesn’t nearly pay enough attention to class, completely ignores Natsuki when he clings to his arm and gives him a hug afterwards, which does indeed mean a lot, considering Natsuki’s size and the immeasurable, crushing force of his hugs. Such a loving, kind action bringing destruction. Masato thinks it’s ironic.
He quickly makes his way to his room, hopes Ren doesn’t come back until later hours, to have a peace of mind most of all. He doesn’t think he can bear Ren’s teasing and constant rambling at such a time. Not just that, even though he would rather not think of it, Ren kept distracting him in the worst ways possible. His presence was strong, fiery, immediately recognisable, the blue of his eyes was deep and foggy like they were of a distant realm, like Masato was looking at them through smoked glass, lashes fluttering and his smile was challenging, challenging one to look at him and not feel weak at the knees. What flustered the pianist more than any was that Ren knew. He knew so well of the tremble he created in Masato’s otherwise careful hands whenever he flashed him that one smile the younger hated so much only because he felt bewitched at the sight, of how he kept disturbing the Kyotoite’s concentration on his latest work when he threw his head back and ruffled his hair. The locks reminded Masato of fire, of the flavescent reflection the full moon brought on the waves late at night. He wonders if they are, in any way, warm to the touch.
He closes the door behind him, quietly, like he would do back home trying not to wake up his sister. He looks around the room, glances at Ren’s clothing piled on his bed left unmade. Ren had probably slept in. Masato smiles at the thought of the redhead hugging his sheets tightly, whining at Masato when he tries to make him get up. The pianist admired Ren’s ability to absolutely ignore everything. Did he, though, know that he was impossible to ignore?
The blue haired boy quickly walks to the window and lets cold air fill up the room. It was comforting in a strange sense. His gaze falls on the city lights seeming further away than supposed to be. He feels alone, totally, absolutely alone, not accompanied by a single soul, a single thought, a single idea. The loneliness gives him anything but sorrow. Masato is collected, greeting solitude with open arms, eager to isolate himself from anything and everything.
Just as the rustle of the trees outside and the occasional chirp of birds start forming a steady melody in his mind, the door slams open. Masato slips away from his thoughts, instantly turning to see who it is that had just ruined his inner harmony. He isn’t surprised when he sees ginger locks dangling, the tall boy now trying to take off his shoes, too impatient. The pianist isn’t sure how he feels about Ren’s arrival. Some part of him wants to shoo the older away, while the rest is glad he has come.
“What are you doing there,” Ren asks Masato as he strips off his white shirt, the other watching him as he does. He takes a random t-shirt in hand, which happens to be a dark purple one, brings it to his nose and sniffs. His expression is serious, like he’s in the middle of an important exam. Ren deems the clothing clean enough to wear. Masato is disgusted by the action. He doesn’t react, though, and decides to convince his brain that he never witnessed such a thing.
“Where?” Masato asks another question in return.
Ren looks at him again, his brows rise and fall “On the floor?” His tone is starting to regain his usual sarcasm, and Masato is pretty sure he will get angry at the older any time soon now.
“Oh.” Even though the Kyotoite was not really aware, he had been sitting on the floor just beside the window. “Resting.”
The redhead roars with laughter “You will get sore.” Nevertheless, he sits next to Masato, his gaze fixed on the purple eyes. “Why are you here?” Masato squints at him, opens his mouth to reply, yet Ren interrupts him again. “I mean, you like to spend time at the library nowadays.”
Masato closes his eyes, lets out a deep hum “I feel tired. I wanted to stay here and relax. That was, before you came.”
Ren shuffles in place, his body now facing the boy next to him. Masato notices the change of posture, yet keeps his eyes closed, not daring to see the face so near his own.
“Tired? You’re surprising me, Masato.” His voice has a wry sting to it. He laughs, again, this time it’s more earnest.
“Don’t make fun of me. I’ve been working hard on that one song.” Masato frowns. “I want to perfect it.” That particular song had been bothering him way much than it was supposed to. Even though he didn’t seem like it, he was ambitious than most, and it surely had made its way into his interests.
The blue haired idol watches the gleam in Ren’s eyes change shape. “Let me listen,” he begs. “Please, Masato.” Masato isn’t sure why he’s suddenly so enthusiastic. It was rare for Ren to show so much regard towards other people’s business, and Masato prefers not searching for the reason this time, betraying his nature that constantly seeks logic.
“I’d rather not,” Masato replies as he slightly scoots away from the other boy. “I still make many mistakes. It wouldn’t mean a thing.”
Ren pouts, leans his head against Masato’s neck, Masato instantly shivers “Don’t be mean. It’s not important how well you play it. I’m curious.” He was. He definitely was curious.
The redhead swiftly stands up, looking down at Masato still seated on the floor. With the light behind his back, the tips of his hair appearing aflame, Masato is reminded of the golden halos Orthodox artists of the old times adorned religious figures with. Without a word, his bony hands are taken, he has no choice but to stand up. Ren smiles his way, then leads him to the piano, one hand tightly holding the other’s, the free one at his head, fixing his long hair more of reflex than actually intending.
Masato sighs and sits down at the piano, fidgeting with his cuffs. Ren rests his arm on the black surface of the instrument, staring at the boy “I’m ready whenever you are.”
The pianist scoffs at the statement. He stretches his hands, puts them on the ivories, only slightly touching. It’s cool, Masato loves the feel of it under his fingertips, solid and certain with its limits and the strict borders between the notes. Created with the sole purpose of making music, that was worthy of admiration.
“It’s one of Chopin’s,” he clarifies, not bothering with the rest of the details as he doubts Ren really cares. Well groomed brows raise in response, awaiting the start of the composition, cobalt eyes locked on Masato’s violet ones.
He finally starts playing. Ren’s expression changes drastically as soon as the first note is hit and Masato feels the pressure of his stare on his hands so clearly. He feels like it’s diverting his attention away, but he makes no mistakes, to his surprise.
Ren isn’t sure where to look, what to watch. The eyes completely focused, almost burning, the fast and thoughtful motions of hands, the gentle rocking of shoulders, so in place each time. Ren senses something overflowing from his roommate, he can’t figure out if its passion he’s seeing, or devotion, or love, or life itself. But it’s flooding in, it’s filling the spaces about Masato that the boy leaves blank on purpose, the parts he wishes to hide about himself. The ambition residing beneath purple eyes, intense emotions scathing his insides but only letting dull vestiges out, never enough to pronounce the destructive blazes he bestows upon his very own consciousness. Ren feels like he’s under some sort of ancient spell, frozen in place, afraid of moving a single limb in case it ruins the rhythm of not only the music but the whole universe, now made visible to him by the idol. Ren is surprised by the contrast of his aura on the piano, and off it. When his hands roam around the ivories Masato is like thunder, spreading terror and awe above all. As soon as he’s away of the seat, though, the surge settles down, and it seems that the storm slackens.
When Masato stops playing, it is as if music is still present in the room, still altering the redhead’s heart rate. Masato gathers his hands on his lap, his gaze is unwavering.
Ren swallows, he takes a few breaths before speaking “What was that?” He feels dizzy, unable to perceive his surroundings as if he had just come out of a concert.
Masato is confused by the comment “Chopin?” The taller wants to tell him that that wasn’t what he meant, but it occurs to him that it’s better not to. He stays silent, thinking of words to say to the boy in front of him. Wouldn’t it be awkward to tell Masato of all the emotions, thoughts that ran up his body while he played the piano? The wrecking electricity he felt traveling through every single cell? He tries to fancy Masato’s reaction, and it doesn’t seem too pleasant to him. Maybe he’s just making excuses.
Ren settles with a simple compliment “That was beautiful.” He tries his hardest to make a smirk appear on his face, otherwise it would give him away.
Masato finally lifts his head up to take a look at him, his bangs swing back and forth and shine as he does “Thank you.”
“I don’t know how to play the piano,” Ren continues, leaning down to get closer to the pianist. “But I didn’t notice any mistakes. You’re such a twister.” He takes a navy lock in hand, strokes it with his thumb, then tucks it behind Masato’s ear. Masato doesn’t react to the touch except a frown just barely wrinkling his forehead. Ren grins.