Sometimes evenings bled into mornings, with his eyes staying open long past the time he told himself he'd go to bed so that maybe he could get up like other people did in the morning without resembling a demon from a horror film. Sometimes he tried, he really tried to get to bed on time. It was just that inevitably something would keep him up, be it plotting and planning how best to bring in more revenue for the club or thinking about things he had no business thinking about, like the way a certain someone's hair seemed like it held some of that bright light of the sun he so hated after nights like these. Sometimes, thinking about things like that meant he didn't get any sleep at all until morning slowly became day, which would in turn bleed back into evening.
Often during the day mornings bled back into evening, mostly during vacation days when he spent time with his friends, because the saying about time flying when you're having fun is ultimately quite true. For all that he might try to deny that he was having any fun with the other members of the host club, ultimately he enjoyed their antics and enjoyed being responsible for things within the club and enjoyed being as relaxed as he ever was outside of his own private space. Little by little time would pass in strokes and dashes and moments would splatter across the canvas of the day until the picture had been painted and it was time to start anew, with a different set of events and colors and feelings.
Mostly he only wished time would stop bleeding back and forth, ebbing and flowing when he was with that one who made his heart feel lighter than air yet heavier than lead was by his side, suggesting some new folly or other and never mind the consequences, logistics be damned. He almost wanted to leave behind his established rigidity to give that person, his best friend, another reason to smile and color his cheeks a rosy shade of pink. Ultimately it was for the best that he kept to his characterization and put his foot down where it counted, but there were times that it was harder than he'd ever want to admit. It was just as hard to say no to his own capricious internal thoughts, thoughts that at times urged him to lean over and gently sweep a stray strand of that golden hair away from those blue eyes, to kiss those delicate pink lips. Yes, it was for the best that he didn't do that. It only takes one small stroke to ruin a perfect watercolor, and with time and moments and memories bleeding back and forth, that was a chance he didn't want to take.
Mornings were beautiful, bright and joyous. Full of sweet music of the birds and people going by, the sounds of breakfast being prepared and the tinkling of wind chimes outside. Each day was like a symphony, or so it often seemed to him. Each part of the day was its own movement, with a thousand accompanying instruments playing along in wondrous harmony. At times he found himself caught up in a particularly chaotic piece, with constant key changes and jazz rhythms. Other days were more like the classical pieces he knew by heart from the days when he used to play for his mother, to bring a smile into her pain-filled days. Every person had their own sound, their own tone and timbre. He, of course, had his favorites, and his not-so-favorites. Easily the one he liked best was the cello, which he felt best represented his best friend. For all that he himself played the piano dazzlingly well, ultimately he realized that he was more like the violin, in its beauty but also in that the violin is one of the more attention-grabbing and well-loved instruments. He and his best friend went along together like a violin and a cello, communicating back and forth and complementing each other well in the course of the day's music.
If mornings were the first movement of the symphony that is the day, by evenings the symphony was coming to a close, in the fast-paced way typical of a classical symphony. He had so many little things to do at home with which he kept himself busy, kept himself from becoming distracted by thoughts of the one he cared so much about and who he could, in all honesty, never have. For a violin is a violin, and a cello is a cello, and for all that they are similar and go together well, they cannot truly become one unit. He threw himself voraciously into his schoolwork, performing these works of mental dexterity the same as a violinist would play a particularly difficult cadenza. He forces his cheerfulness, floating along on the fast pace dance-rhythms of his evening, controlling his urges to call up his friend, to say something so foolish and ill-thought-out that the music would surely stop, and if it started up again, it would never be the same as he would have lost his cello, his accompaniment, his partner.
And so he would allow his symphonies to continue in the same way they always had, starting off fast, moving into the lull of classes and on into the speedier afternoon rhythms of the host club and his activities, and once again into his frenetic evenings. Each slightly different, but with a same form and variation theme coursing throughout.
Sometimes art and music went beautifully together, one inspiring the other and bringing forth a beauty that could not have existed on its own. A cello and violin duet painting an aural masterpiece mirrored in the physical representation of splattered paint on a canvas, colors bleeding into one another, one movement flowing into the next, one hand sliding into another and morning becoming evening.