setting
- mizuki's home, with a piano
pairings
- none
warnings
- disjointed abstraction
format
- drabble
update
rate - n/a
rating
- K
disclaimer
- TNO belongs to someone who is
not me.
He was an impeccable risk.
Like the flair of his sister's jeans – the ones whose cuffs bloated around her own snow boots – Mizuki was lying breathlessly still. He had passed out over his piano four hours ago. No one was home to notice. His fingers, still stuck in awkward combinations, remained that way until it was almost noontime. The steam, which swirled past his coffee mug, had long since died away: reminding him once more that he was losing his interest in life. Without plans, it was meaningless. Plans were the only way he felt thrilled by his own deceit.
No one understood his ambition to play well, even those who happened to be in the same room as he was when he went off on a classical tirade. Because he was the manager of St. Rudolph's tennis team, they assumed he had no other interests, and that his talent in recreating sonatas were merely passing infatuations. Mizuki, seizing this chance to grow unsupervised, smirked each time he perfected a new musical piece. It was violent. It was destructive. It was unbounded, exhausting, it was a secret love affair that no one could ever understand.
Still, no one understood.
The intensity he put in to mastering this art rivals those of tennis practices.
How could anyone...?
Mizuki's eyes snapped open, and he glanced at the reflection of the sun on the piano. Twenty-one degrees. It must be slightly after eleven.
Arguing against the lyrics of the song with the text he was reading, mouthing words contradicting to what was heard.
Tickling
ears with alternating beats and short quips,
Skipping
words on accident, like hearts skipping beats.