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Tsukinaga Leo loves Tuesday mornings. It’s weird.
The whole thing is an entirely new development, and completely confusing to anyone who knows him.
Really, he says when asked (instead of properly explaining), it’s a good habit to build. Now he’s out the door before he can get harassed by Izumi to eat a good breakfast, or ask if he slept last night! There’s also probably something about science, too, about your body needing the sunlight or whatnot, so he adds that into the discussion too.
(At least he’s leaving the house, he says when they push, and who can deny that?)
Each time, it’s the same routine.
Sun will rise and glint off the fancy coffee mug gifted to him, nearly spilling over, and Leo will pour an extra big portion. The rest of the routine is mostly a blur - all instinct, but at some point, armed with his bag and a grin, his small form will disappear into the city with a wave and a peace sign to his sleepy roommate and appear back home hours later, arms stuffed full of papers and half-dead tablets with shakily written notes.
He never says any more than that.
And, well, it’s not like that part is unusual. Leo has always followed the pull of his heart wherever it might lead him - often in strange and bizarre ways that even his dearest friends can’t make sense of.
(It’s endearing, he claims.)
Being spontaneous naturally allows him to see the world in new and exciting ways, why wouldn’t he listen to those wishes and see them through?
It’s the beauty of life!
Despite this being Leo’s usual philosophy, Izumi has told him that he’s been able to learn his companion’s new Tuesday routine like clockwork. That is weird, he says, nose crinkled.
(Not that Izumi really minds - more than happy to curl up on the couch with him when he gets back and listen to chatter all about his latest songs, the cool pigeon he saw on the bus back. He would never say this aloud).
Apparently the whole thing is so out of the norm that, very quickly, it becomes too much to allow without questioning. Sena has always been such a worrywort, Leo muses when he heads out, noting the scowl on his face, the “Be safe.” that’s more a demand than a request.
So it shouldn't have been as surprising as it was when, weeks after the start of this new Leo and seemingly at random, the poor ginger finds himself dragged out of the house by his collar and placed into a strange type of intervention, tight grip on his shoulders and drinks shoved into his hand.
Putting him on the same side of the booth as Arashi is cheating, Leo silently laments, because Izumi knows he won’t elbow her or climb over her to make an escape like he might do with him. Bully.
Feet tap against tile, trying very politely to listen as his friends speak.
They’re concerned, want to make sure he’s okay, they love him very much and want what’s best for him , they say. Arashi is the only one who says that last part out loud, but with Izumi, it’s kinda implied. Same thing.
“Well, there's this guy.” Leo starts, when Izumi finally gets around to asking, after he berates him appropriately for making him stressed lately and possibly giving him hives.
("This guy." Izumi mocks as Leo slides some mystery drink down his throat. "Sounds like you're in some two-star romcom. You’d make a shitty lead." Arashi is much more generous in her assessment.)
Honestly, he continues, there isn't much else to call him yet because Leo hasn't asked his name. Or asked anything at all!
Leo isn't really one for visual aesthetics - he doesn't have a ‘type’ or favorite painting or anything so concrete.
The man he watches take his morning walk, however, is beautiful. His type. Objectively, subjectively, with his eyes closed or open - whatever . All of those.
Perfectly placed red hair that frames his face, long trench coats and collars and sweaters that conceal his shape but never hide his hands, which are always busy on a phone or carrying a book. A satchel, most times. The whole look gives Leo the image of someone unbelievably put-together.
It’s not just the way he looks, he makes sure to tell Izumi too, when he looks unconvinced (though it’s certainly a contributing factor).
There's just something about the way this man at the park exists that lights that spark in Leo’s mind, intangible as the red string of fate and far, far stronger. He can't describe the pull of destiny in a simple way, only by his hands that write until they cramp and hurt and it still wouldn't be enough.
When he’s found his muse, his angel of music, names are irrelevant.
And is there nothing more beautiful than that? Inspiration for the sake of inspiration alone?
There’s nothing out of the ordinary about the redhead’s behavior that would draw him to Leo, either. Most times, the composer will watch his new muse go through the same routine.
After a full loop around the park, he’ll find a sunlit bench and read. He’ll drink a coffee, or eat a croissant or something equally sweet. Sometimes, he’ll even feed it to the pigeons, smiling and lips moving in such a way that Leo has begun to believe he’s talking to them.
And then, at some point before or after or between, Leo will get that itch, toppling over himself in his haze, scribbling on paper or tablet or receipt in his pocket and caught up in it - that intangible feeling that inspires the most beautiful creations of his life. His music.
(Most times he’ll look up once the haze passes, and the redhead will be gone. He doesn’t seem to have much free time.)
He’s also not being a stalker, Leo makes sure to clarify. Just admiring.
Izumi begs to differ.
“Poor park boy.” Arashi laments, and Leo takes a liking to the name far too much to tell her off.
In his defense, the whole thing started because he just happened to catch a glimpse of Park Boy a few Tuesday mornings in a row. Which was genuinely by accident because Leo hadn’t kept any sense of routine to his wanderings before now. His red hair is just pretty noticeable!
Truly, the whole thing was just a lucky accident, which only further proves the fact that they’re soulmates and the pretty redhead is destined to be his muse for all of time.
Obviously.
And wouldn't luck just have it, his Tuesday mornings are free now too! (Who cares that Leo decides his own schedule? That part can be a coincidence if he wants it to be.)
None of this has been explained to his manager either, but surely she’s growing suspicious of why Leo is suddenly sending her emails full of sheet music at all hours of the day - pages and pages. He doubts she’ll ask.
Money is money, and Leo’s music has the potential to make it in excess. What smart talent manager would question a good thing?
Why would Leo?
So today, even post-intervention, Leo has no intentions to change his plan.
Splayed out on a park bench, bag on his lap like usual, he decides this could probably work forever. It’s like an infinite music hack! Whatever Izumi and Arashi were looking all concerned about is just them being negative.
He’d even woken up earlier than normal because it’s Tuesday, and he wants to see his business-casually-dressed inspiration properly without Izumi’s influence souring his mood. Yes, Park Boy in good lighting, now that the winter had faded into spring, sun casting early-morning shadow across trees and walkways. That sounds nice. Finally.
Perhaps he’s feeling a little extra antsy because of the distance. Last week, Leo had gotten dragged halfway across the country to some funding banquet on Monday and had missed his muse entirely!
It was a tragedy Leo wouldn't soon forget, and wasn't that kind of poetic? An artist finding their muse, only to be so cruelly ripped from them by fate? A background melody for a drama, or maybe the third-act breakup in a romance movie. Something with strings, of course …
Ah, this is what it’s all about, Leo hums, head tilting back to absorb the morning sun. This feeling.
How nice that his muse doesn't even have to be here to properly inspire him. Just the location is enough!
Pen twirling around in his fingers before pressing it into sheets, Leo considers he could one day perfect the skill that just the thought of him might inspire. Anywhere in the world, he could think of purple eyes and be hit with a verse, a chorus.
Training such a talent would be challenging, but Leo has never given thought to the impossible. Ink splatters a bit with the ferocity of the motion, a beautiful outlet to his humming. Honestly, it could be easy! He’s learning the skill just now.
This one in particular seems like it has potential, too. Leo can feel it, sometimes, that sensation in the back of his mind that tells him such things as his pen works.
When he sits back to admire it, minutes or hours later, back crying out in pain from the angle he’d contorted it in, he decides that yes, he was right.
It’s perfect.
Just the right amount of tension, of time between notes to inspire suspense. Shoving it away into his stuffed-full binder, he even hums the beginning notes of a chorus, just to try it and -
Oh , he notes, letting his gaze slide up up up. His muse is here, too. That’s new!
Leo looks at him fully, and immediately decides he understands why famous artists used to devote themselves to such intangible things.
Sun backlights his inspiration’s figure, sitting perched on the bench across the walk from Leo, paper coffee cup in hand and sipping as he scrolls on his phone. Leo has heard him take calls before - the only bits of voice he’s had the luck of hearing. It’s higher than he thought it would be, more nasal.
Pretty, just like him.
Leo doesn’t realize the certainly strange smile he must have on his face until he’s suddenly overwhelmed by being looked at back . Sharp purple eyes meet his, and upon seeing Leo, gets quickly concealed by squinting.
Pretty, pretty, pretty.
Leo finds his hand starts moving without looking at it, drawing some disjointed notes over his current creation. Leo has just never seen them so direct before, so up close. There’s something about them, Park Boy’s eyes.
A purple that makes him think of dusk. Nothing like the morning light he sees him bathed in, but that time right before sleep where the whole world is still alive, but softer. Gentler. Ah, if he adds some chimes, maybe he can capture that feeling, bottle it up in notes and recreate it just for him.
Still, he can’t find it in him to look away, like capturing the focus of a still life drawing before it disappears. His vision blurs.
And then the man is walking towards him - up to him.
There’s intent to his walk, only a few steps and a coat tugged tight around his form as if concealing himself, his heart. Or something like that. (Leo started blanking the second Park Boy stepped into his bubble, so he can't be too sure.)
"This is highly unprofessional." He says, all soft lips and clipped words, and Leo blinks.
Whatever confrontation he had been anticipating, this is decidedly not that.
Still, it’s only fair to consider the statement.
Taking into account his current career, the only professional he’s really beholden to is his manager. She definitely doesn’t care, so it’s not that. If he’s thinking bigger, the musician board of ethics would certainly not have a problem with Leo staring at a pretty boy while he composes either. Mildly creepy? Sure! But not illegal. Or unprofessional.
Maybe.
Undeterred by Leo’s pondering, his muse continues, arms crossed and nearly spilling his paper coffee cup as he does so. Such a fiery thing - just like his hair.
"If you're hoping to gain some insight into private business matters by continually following me on my morning off -"
Alarm bells ring in the composer's head.
"Woah woah woah!" Leo sputters, hands splaying out in what he hopes is the universal gesture of ‘hold on’. He blinks up at him, curious and indignant in the same breath. “I don't know who would wanna know your 'private business’ here, but it’s not me!”
This is partially untrue. He’s a little curious, especially when he talks like that.
Freezing in motion, the redhead seems to buffer, as this is clearly not the reaction he expected. Now they’re both a little confused. He looks down at Leo’s hands, crumpled around papers and folders tucked in his lap.
He’s assessing something about Leo, and he’s not entirely sure what conclusion he’s coming to, but it makes him shiver.
And well, if he won't speak, Leo certainly will. The nerve of this Park Boy!
“You just have a pretty face, and I like to make songs about it!” He huffs in explanation. Leo is far past the point of embarrassment about his career or strange motivations for creating. His inspiration feels like an extension of himself, and what is there to be ashamed about when such things involve matters of the heart? “Jeez.”
Still looking quite lost, Leo watches his companion furrow his brow, like he’s just met an math equation he can't seem to solve. When Leo peeks closer, he can see the lines forming there, like he makes that expression a lot, enough for his body to commit it to memory.
“Songs about my face?”
What's so hard to understand? He’d been plenty clear. Leo has to constantly remember to do so, so he’s pretty sure of it.
Hands wave about, trying to put the nebulous concept into words. “Your face, how you read a book or eat fruit - whatever! I’m not picky or anything.”
One of his favorite works had come to fruition when the younger boy (and he is younger, Leo can see that now) had accidentally dropped his morning pastry before sitting down. Squirrels and birds had flocked to him the second it fell from his grip, a sudden flood of motion.
His muse had done nothing but watch for a moment, shock-still, before sighing and moving the pieces closer, nudging a foot or hand to push it within reach.
It was so silly and so human and Leo had made no less than five songs about ‘crumbs rolling down the street’ or ‘sleeping beauty awake and talking to animals’ or something equally incoherent.
The memory makes him smile.
Wind picks up, blowing around red strands to flicker in and out of obscuring his muse’s features, ones that have faded into something relatively neutral. Silently, he tucks the longer pieces behind his ear, and Leo quickly observes this new look, what it reveals. His cheeks are pretty cute.
“Well then I apologize for assuming.” It clearly takes a hit to his pride to say so, so Leo doesn't really know why the Park Boy does it. He’s kinda hard to figure out.
“But certainly you can understand how I might come to such a conclusion.”
Naru tells him quite often he can be a little ‘intense’, and ‘hard to understand’ so this is probably fair, even if Leo doesn't get it at all. So he gives a halfhearted nod.
“Yea, yea, ‘s fine.”
With that, the air feels a bit tense, and Leo deflates. Whatever song had gripped him in his chest minutes ago is gone now, torn away by the hands of its creator, who is still looking at Leo with the strangest expression.
His heart pauses and restarts in the seconds of silence, far too captivated to say much else.
Then, bizarrely , his muse reaches a hand out, palm up. Leo stares at it. Does he want Leo to hold it?
"Well?" The pretty boy asks, when he finds no response or action. "Am I allowed to see them?"
His hand still hasn't moved when he says it, which is pretty presumptuous but Leo finds he's kinda into it, the whole bossy thing.
Ugh, Sena has the worst influence on him.
His gut reaction is to say yes. Whenever he writes a song for someone - from someone - he loves to see them read it. It’s like a love letter, displaying his feelings far easier than words.
But this is the first time a stranger has asked. Leo doesn't really care if a million boring businessmen read his stuff and say what they like about it - he doesn't mind at all. Their opinion doesn't really matter! Still, this stranger is different. Sure, Leo doesn't know him, but he kinda knows him, right?
Knows his favorite coffee order, at least. His enjoyment of the ducks that wander the lake's edge. Mostly, Leo knows him by the feeling in his chest when he spots him, which is nothing tangible or evidence enough. Just a feeling.
This thought process makes his brain hurt. He’s tired of thinking. It never goes well.
"For a price!" Leo exclaims before he can think better of it.
Mostly because, if past history proves correct, bossy people are even more cute when they're upset.
(That, and he’s still trying to work out why the idea of his muse seeing makes him a little nervous. He doesn't like it.)
"I feel I have some right to at least view them, if your claims about me being the inspiration are true.” The younger starts, tightening his grip on his bag as if nervous but still trying to come off as firm. “Are you saying you wish to negotiate?"
And, well, that’s not the exact reaction Leo was hoping for, but it’s pretty attractive regardless. And it turns out Tsukinaga Leo is a simple man when it comes to boys with wide eyes and round cheeks so he sighs and speaks.
"Nope!" Leo pops the last syllable, smiling when his companion’s nose crinkles. "It's not like that. It’s like an admission fee."
A small hum leaves his lips, a consideration.
"I'll need to hear the conditions properly before I agree." The redhead says, arms crossed looser now, more open, and Leo can see the way he fights a smile. Or maybe he's projecting, who knows?
"Your name." Leo decides on impulse, because he can't very well ask the important ones (are you single, do you have opinions on cats i want three, will you sit here while i write forever) without something to call him.
‘Park Boy’ is fine, but it doesn't really cut it for the more important things.
His companion seems to take this detail into account, head tilted and fingers tapping a rhythm out on the cover of his novel through leather bag.
"Do I receive one back in return?"
Is that flirting, or just good negotiating practice? Leo sucks at both.
"Maybe!" Leo teases, because wow, flirting is fun! Well, if this pretty boy takes it as such, which Leo sincerely hopes he does.
Maybe this whole stoic thing is actually him flirting back? That's a good idea, one he can feel in the back of his brain, another melody. This might possibly be the greatest day of his artistic career, if this pretty boy stays any longer.
It’s easy to imagine, with him so close. Museums and libraries dedicated to Leo’s creations, saturated in shades of maroon and amethyst, a temple to melodies that were only made because of the man in front of him.
Historians could unearth it, millenia later, or maybe the aliens, and maybe mistake him for a god or goddess. Someone worth devotion.
And this first joint creation, this song, that could exist forever in their memories too.
"Tsukasa Suou." He says, leaning closer as if to watch Leo come back to himself, smiling when he jolts. "My name."
Hearing the tone of his voice, the way he moves unconsciously to press against Leo's bubble, the assurance in his gaze, his name - Leo shoves the sheets in his hand without response.
It’s all too much. He’s getting kind of flushed and turned on in the same breath and that's humiliating.
Leo is nothing like other artists that might believe muses are to be on a separate plane of existence from their beloved, but this is still a bit much. Much more than he thought he would get today at least!
His response comes out quiet. "Tsukinaga Leo. I write stuff."
Why is he acting shy all of a sudden? He is decidedly not shy, despite what Arashi might coo in his ear when she flusters him. Still, he can't make his body respond any other way.
Tsukasa doesn't validate any of this information with a response beyond a hum on acknowledgement, too busy staring at the music in his hands.
Surely the silence doesn't stretch on for longer than a minute, but it feels like a small eternity.
“I admit my sight reading skills are poor.” Tsuaksa begins, flipping a page and clearly squinting at the ink smudge that hides a few notes. “Still, I admit it seems particularly… inspired.”
Sparks dance behind his vision, lighting up his nerves like fireworks.
"You know music?" Leo asks, suddenly alert and steamrolling over what might be a compliment (or Tsukasa's poor attempt at being nice). Hands splay out on the bench, using the momentum to lean forward.
"Tell me tell me tell me!" He pleads - totally not above begging because how lucky is he that his latest muse is hot and smart? Luck doesn't normally work out like that for him. Tsukasa really must be an angel!
Descended from generations of muses, an alien used to being worshiped and fed art like sustenance of course Tsukasa would know how to read music. Silly Leo.
Fingers trace the edges of paper, folding down the creased pieces.
"I'm under no obligation to.” Tsukasa says as he works, and Leo’s heart drops.
He continues in a light tone, lip quirked up as if amused. “You’ve wasted your only leverage on an answer I would have probably provided for free. You would make for a poor businessman, you know."
Scratch all that. Well, Leo was still on board with the alien theory, but this guy is still kinda a brat, huh? That’s fun. Human.
"Well then keep it!" Leo blurts, pressing pages into his soft hold. "It’s yours!"
He’ll go home and write about five more anyways. This is enough material to sustain him for weeks.
And maybe he’s just being a little petulant, fighting back at Tsukasa for teasing about his giving nature, but he seems to have that effect on Leo. Acting all on impulse.
“Bad businessman.” Leo repeats with a huff under his breath, because since when has he ever wanted to be one? That sounds so boring. Too stuffy.
Tsukasa flushes, and he gets bothered kind of easily too, doesn't he?
Leo is learning so much today and he feels lightheaded with the sensation, mind flickering between feelings quicker than he can breathe. This is everything he’s ever wanted.
"I-" Tsukasa pauses. "I don't believe in being indebted to strangers." And Leo really thinks he'll give the papers back and that will be that.
It’s tragic.
He’ll have to find somewhere else to spend his mornings, some new routine far far away from this park to save the shame and very polite dismissal. Sure, Leo is a bit abrasive, but he isn't so rude as to bother Tsukasa if he clearly doesn't want it.
Notes trickle out from the open wound in his heart, and Leo considers that he might never write again.
The temples and museums crumble to dust, never there at all or destroyed in some world-ending catastrophe, sending them both to the murky depths of the unknown, forever.
Fate is too cruel.
A pause. "I'll bring you some next time then." Tsukasa says with a gesture to Leo’s forgotten, near-empty coffee cup. Resolute, like there's no room for question, he tucks the sheets in his coat pocket. "If those terms are agreeable."
Watching it, the gentle way he holds Leo’s creation, the composer can't find his body doing anything else but nod. Words come out like syrup.
“Yea. Yea, ‘s good.”
As if in agreement (or not wanting to stick around much longer for fear of embarrassment), Tsukasa nods back, some polite and slightly awkward thing, and turns. Kinda cute, how he can play both sides like that. Totally unfair.
"Don't be late."
Like he’s genuinely worried he might. As if Leo would be anywhere else.
Walking away, he holds Leo’s gaze for just a second too long before turning fully, immediately unlocking his phone and sending off some texts. Busy guy.
Busy guy that apparently ran late talking to the eccentric composer writing in the park, so clearly this Tsukasa Suou isn’t as stuffy as he’d like others to believe.
The composer taps his pen on his lip, following his retreating figure. If he closes his eyes and thinks, Leo can still recall the warmth of hands through paper, pressed into palms.
Yea, that’s a good start.
Pen slides over sheets, and despite everything, he smiles. It’s okay if he doesn't get it finished today, or find that last drop of inspiration, he decides.
There will definitely be more time to get it right.