Work Text:
This still felt new—sitting elbow-to-elbow with Yuki, guitar in Yuki’s lap and a sheet music demo jotted between celebrity appearances lying on Yuzuru’s side. What they were doing now was working that key melody into a full song with a lot of different instruments involved. Leave the main idea be—at least, that was what they’d intended, but….
“…I think this would sound better in double-time,” Yuzuru ventured.
Yuki furrowed his brow. “But it’s supposed to have this slower, dramatic feeling. Speeding it up would just ruin the impression—and if we do the violin, fast violin is going to take the spotlight.
Yuzuru bit his lip. Obviously, Yuki had more experience than them… Wait, obviously? his inner critic pointed out. You’ve been composing for a long time too, “Koi”. His gut was telling him to push, just a little further; the same feeling he’d had before asking to join the Okazaki agency. “I really think it’s a good idea.”
Yuki sighed, rubbing his temples. “OK, let’s try it out.” He saved a new copy of the file and titled it “unnamed-6-unsped”, then pushed the computer over to Yuzuru.
Before Yuzuru had started working with Yuki, his impression had been a bit like this: “A touchy genius” “Impossible to get along with” “Crazy protective of his music!”. And in fact, Re:vale rarely credited any producers besides Yuki himself on their songs.
Still…saving the file like that could seem touchy, especially because the program had a perfectly functional undo button, but it was actually a natural gesture that you could only get from working with others. Yuzuru had done a little composition teaching along with his usual work, and if they had 5 yen for every time they’d had to suggest something like that to kids fighting over how a song should go, he’d have enough money to buy a bottle of ibuprofen for the headaches he got from their shouting.
(He did miss it.)
Yuzu had been reorganizing the music as they organized their thoughts. He’d opted to just double the speed of everything for now, and…hit play.
…Yuzu: “This doesn’t work.”
Yuki: “…But it could.”
They met eyes in sudden understanding.
“There’s a feeling of desperation and action this way, which works well for the story, right?” Yuzuru said.
“Yes, but this track as it is…”
“Change it to rock?”
Yuki shook his head. “No, I think electronic.”
“Let me try changing the violin to synth.”
There it was again. As they worked side-by-side, Yuki was picky but very used to working with a partner, moving over so Yuzuru could use the keyboard, playing back new sections, asking Yuzu what they thought. This wasn’t his usual kindness—Yuki’s kindness was thoughtful, funny, calming, and right now he was cutting and intense, eyes laser focused on the screen, tapping out tempos with his hand. But it was calming in its own way.
Yuzuru was describing a new choral progression he thought they should try for the altered chorus. Yuki frowned, listening to him, and then said, “Play it, let me hear,” and passed over his guitar.
Yuzuru froze up. “Um…” His hand settled awkwardly on the frets. “I don’t really know how to play guitar.” He glanced up nervously at Yuki.
Yuki had his hand pressed to his mouth. He was staring at Yuzuru, eyes wide and still as a statue.
“Are you okay?” Yuzuru’s tone was a little harsher than he’d intended. He reached out, trying to speak gently. “Hey.” Despite the fact that he’d just been shoulder-to-shoulder with Yuki, casually enjoying each other’s warmth as they worked…his fingertips hovered a few inches from the statue’s sleeve. “What’s wrong?”
The statue jolted, and then it was Yuki the actor. He kept his hand over his mouth but let a shit-eating grin grow behind it. “What? You can’t play guitar? But I thought you were such a genius, you could play any instrument!”
Yuzu blushed up to his forehead. “Um…well…”
“I could play guitar at age six,” Yuki claimed. “And back then I had tiny hands. Let me see yours.”
“I know you’re trying to change the subject!” Yuzuru yelped. “And hey, don’t get all flirty when you’re judging my skills! Can you play violin?”
“I know a little. I could if I wanted. Momo thinks so, anyway.”
“Momo loves you,” Yuzuru groused, letting Yuki inspect his hand, pull each digit apart with nimble callused fingers. This was not helping his face cool down.
“Do you really think so?” Yuki asked.
“I mean, I don’t know—you’ve known him a lot longer than I have.”
“He—people said that I wasn’t good at reading people. Anyways, I don’t think time is the most important part of a relationship. At least, if I thought that way, it wouldn’t be good for me, Momo, or you.” He pressed a finger in the divot on Yuzuru’s wrist. “This is cute. It’s like a heart.”
Yuzuru almost choked on their spit. They pulled their hand away and shook it off to get the tingles out. Wait—Another person might read that as a rejection of touch, which wasn’twhat he wanted Yuki to think he meant. ”Sorry—that totally wasn’t a hand size exam, though!”
“Your hands are bigger than mine were at six,” Yuki deadpanned.
Yuzuru stared resolutely in the opposite direction of Yuki’s beautiful face. There must have been something pursed up about their expression, because Yuki said, “You look like a crab.”
“Homie, what does that even mean.”
“It means what it means,” Yuki said, sounding a little offended that Yuzuru didn’t find him comprehensible. “Should we get back to work? To…to demonstrate, there’s a keyboard in the closet somewhere.” He pointed to the studio’s small adjoining room.
“Un,” Yuzuru affirmed, standing up to go get it. “I know.”
As he hauled the keyboard out, he was reminded that this meeting was just supposed to be about producing what they already had…well, nothing to be done about that, or the clock where the minute hand had just ticked to three after five. When doing something creative like this—especially, he was realizing, with someone smart, skilled, passionate, sharing his tastes—boredom didn’t set in, exhaustion didn’t set in. They became lost in the moments of euphoria when something went right, the feelings of determination when something went wrong. He’d thought for a long time that the solitude was what put him into that trance, holed up in a dark room with a pair of headphones, all unnecessary sound and light filtered. But it was the music, and the act of creating something, that really carried him away. And Yuki made the music stronger.
He told Yuki that, in fewer words, at 10:00 that night, when they had finally decided to stop. (The beat was done; they’d write lyrics with Momo tomorrow, if he was free.)
Yuki looked at him for a long moment, then said, “I realized the exact same thing before.”
“When?” It couldn’t have been tonight—besides the phrasing, Yuki had clearly worked with people in the past.
“When I was sixteen,” Yuki said. “I thought it only worked with one person. I’m glad I tried it again with you.”