He laid in bed and stared into the darkness. Around him, it swelled, playing in soft and low tones, like the silence of the night. Lovino rolled over and pressed a pillow over his head, but his efforts were useless. It draped over him like a blanket, mocking his longing for silence by growing into a crescendo with the rising sun. Bright, cheery notes filled his ears, and he groaned quietly. Slowly, Lovino lowered the pillow and glared at the stupid sun. It changed into sullen tones, matching his attitude for the day.

Like every night, Lovino barely managed an hour of sleep, because the constant music surrounding him never stopped. Always playing in his ears. Always changing with each new variable. Always begging for him to record it—write it on paper, on walls, on his skin. Always urging him to play it for the world to hear even if his mind and fingers couldn't keep up with the ever-changing notes.

Lovino threw back the blankets angrily and stormed to the other side of the room. Sunlight was growing brighter, filling his ears with beautiful notes; it only angered him more. He slammed the cover up on his piano and banged out his frustration. It was a loud piece, almost drowning out the music in his ears, but it tired out his fingers quickly. Lovino finished and closed the cover, resting his head on the dark wood. Silent notes edged forward, filling the space his angry musical outburst left. He looked around his dingy attic dully. It wasn't anything special, being hardly big enough to hold his bed, piano, and a small space for a kitchenette and a bathroom; but that suited him just fine. Lovino didn't want the rest of the house, it would just be more silence to fill.

In the back of his mind, he remembered the renter living below him, who probably didn't appreciate the loud playing, but he frankly didn't give a damn. It had been his brother's ridiculous idea to get a renter, not that he cared as long as he was never bothered. Lovino almost never left his cramped attic, and if someone was living below him, it was no business of his; just like it was no business of theirs about someone who lived in the attic. But Feliciano had chosen well, and in however many years he'd put up with the renter, they had yet to have an incident or even meet, which was more than Lovino could ask for.

He stood from the piano. The music rose in volume, adding more instruments until it was an intangible mess. Lovino slammed his hand on his small table, trying to silence the tumultuous noise. The music grew louder and unrecognizable, spinning out of control and spun the room with it. Lovino fought to regulate his breathing. As the music grew out of control, so did he. His breath came in gasps and his vision blurred. Then the quaking started. Lovino held onto the table, desperately trying to calm down and stay standing. The room continued to spin faster, and the floor fell out from under him, leaving him whirling in music with no sign of stopping. Faster and faster, he spun into darkness.

...

Arthur sipped his tea and yawned sleepily. He'd woken to rather angry piano playing, although it wasn't the first time he'd been roused in such a manner. Above him, some recluse lived in relative silence, except for the piano playing at odd hours. Arthur had never met his upstairs neighbor, only Feliciano ever went up the stairs and was the only person he'd ever seen come down, but he enjoyed the music that echoed eerily through the quiet house on dim mornings and hot evenings.

It was part of the agreement he signed before coming to live in the empty house that he never bothered whoever lived above him. His landlord, a happy man named Feliciano Vargas, practically begged him to never climb the stairs to the attic. Of course, that did nothing to deter his curiosity. Arthur allowed himself to fantasize about the person above him. So far, he'd created a wonderful tale of an unfortunate old man who, as a young adult, was a famous pianist and musician. As his career progressed, so did his wealth and fame, and by the time he retired, he'd lost all taste for money. The old man closed himself up in a small attic and used his son, Feliciano, as his only interaction with the outside world.

As attractive as the story was, Arthur didn't believe it was anywhere close to the truth. He'd always had an overactive imagination, it's what made him a good writer...when he could manage to find the words. It was his imagination that had attracted him to the old house in the first place. It was the perfect type of home to stimulate imagination. It had open rooms, secret nooks, and even a mysterious housemate upstairs. Perfect setting for writing a best-selling novel, right? Not even close, as Arthur was unfortunately finding out. Two years and he still had hundreds of blank pages waiting for a story to fill them.

A shout startled him from his daydreaming. "Stop!" The shout was followed by a loud crash and the breaking of glass.

He stared at the ceiling in shock. Two years, and he'd never heard anything more than piano from the attic. The sound of a voice thrilled him as much as it scared him. Arthur rose from his chair and crept through the house. He stopped in front of the narrow staircase leading up to the attic. His mind reasoned that he should turn right back around and call Feliciano, but his curiosity stopped him from turning back. This might be the only time he had a legitimate reason to find out who lived above him. That devious side of his mind whispered that the old man could be hurt and Feliciano wouldn't get there in time if it was serious. It was only human nature to aid someone who might be injured, even if there were alternative reasons.

One step at a time, he climbed the stairs until he reached a landing. A door stood in front of him, small and unimposing. Arthur hesitated. There was still time to turn back and call Feliciano. Arthur pushed away his worries and knocked softly on the door.

There was no answer.

"Hello?" He knocked again. "Are you alright in there?"

...

He looked up at the door. His mind was still recovering from the fit, and his head hurt from where he hit it. Beside him, the table was knocked over and a broken mug made getting to the door a dangerous prospect, though he couldn't see straight.

"Hello? Are you alright in there?"

Lovino picked himself off the ground with some difficulty, staring at the door. Music hummed in his ears suspenseful and made his headache worse. He tried to focus on getting to the door, but the room swayed around him. "Shit..."

The door opened suddenly to reveal a man. Lovino froze, taking in the sight. Blond, shaggy hair. Pale, almost alabaster skin. And striking green eyes, so vivid in color, he wondered if he'd ever seen something so beautiful.

There was barely time to register what he was seeing when the music hit him with full force. It sent him back a few steps, and Lovino clutched his head. The pain was almost unbearable.

"Are you alright?" Pottery crunched under the man's foot as he took a step forward.

"Don't come near me!" Lovino held up a hand and retreated backwards. Shards of pain stabbed his brain and the music grew louder again. His hands shook, spreading to the rest of his body, and forced him to sit down on the bench of the piano. His vision blurred and sharpened, dizzying him.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?" It hurt to talk, and his voice fell strangely on his ears. When was the last time he spoke? It was when Feliciano visited two months ago...or was it four?

"I am Arthur Kirkland. I live below you on the main floor. I came to check if you are alright," the man replied, though Lovino barely heard him.

"I'm fine. Go away," he spat weakly.

"Nonsense. You're hardly fine." Arthur frowned at him, and disappeared into his tiny kitchen.

Lovino didn't care anymore. His head pounded and he wanted to curl in on himself and cry. Something cold pressed against his head, and Lovino jerked back. The shocking cold startled him from his daze and cleared his head slightly.

"I'm sorry. Did that hurt?" Green eyes stared at him, analyzing and calculating his expression, but they were soft with the concern for another human being.

"Give me that." Lovino reached out to take the ice pack, but his hands shoot violently and he drew them back quickly, sticking them under his arms. "Nevermind. Just go away."

The ice pressed again to his head, soothing some of the pain. "Quite a knock on the head you got there."

"Hn." His eyes drooped, it hurt to keep them open. He was aware the man stared at him, but his head hurt so much. Lovino didn't care if Arthur thought him disgusting, because he knew he didn't look by any means attractive and he didn't care.

...

Arthur held the pack in place and used his other hand to keep the man's head still. The brunet refused to look at him, but that was fine. It meant he could look anywhere he wanted without having to worry about appearing rude, and the first thing that drew his attention was the man.

His housemate was pale and not in the healthy way, but his skin looked as if it would tan very nicely if it ever saw the sun. His body was thin to the point of looking sickly, and his clothes hung off his bones, but the worse part of his appearance was his face. The man would have been rather attractive if his cheeks weren't hollow, drawn tightly over the angles of his face, and the skin wasn't so dark under his eyes. The man obviously lacked sleep from the exhaustion that hung on his body, making him sag back against the piano. The only thing about him that stood out were his eyes, although rimmed with bruising. They shone with pain and intelligence, and something else, but whatever it was scared him. The unidentifiable gleam in the depths of those eyes glinted in and out of sight, giving him a wild intensity that bordered on madness.

"Are you sick?"

"Do I look sick?"

"Yes."

"Well, I'm not. If you have a problem with how I look, leave." The man closed his eyes again, as if wearied by keeping them open.

He didn't bother with a reply, and glanced around. The room was small, cramped. The piano nearly touched the bed, and the bench doubled as a second chair for the table. There was hardly enough room to move around in, let alone live in. As annoying as the space issue, the walls disturbed him even more. They were covered in black dots and lines. It took him a moment to realize it was all music on the walls, hastily written with no determinable beginning or end. The notes were everything—on every wall, and even going on to the ceiling in some places.

"What is this music?"

"Something I wrote. Now, get out."

"Fine." Arthur grabbed the man's hand and pressed it to the ice pack to keep it in place. The hand still quaked, but not so visibly as before. He stepped back and looked at the man. "Be more careful next time."

"Don't patronize me." The man gave a hazy glare, barely focused on him. "I didn't ask for your help. Don't come up here ever again."

"I don't plan to," Arthur said harshly. It was one thing to be rude, but this man was completely ungrateful. He turned to walk away, but paused. The table was still turned over and pieces of mug laid on the ground. Arthur quickly picked up the mug pieces and set the table back up. Only then did he finally leave, shutting the door quietly behind him.

So, new story. Just something I started for the summer, along with another story that will hopefully go up soon. If you're a bit confused, just give it a few chapters and you'll eventually figure out what's going on with everything. Don't expect it to update quickly.

-Windy