A/N: This is pretty much experimental folly so don't expect much from it.
Disclaimer: I do not own Prince of Tennis or any of its characters.
Paganini
Lady Abbess
He was playing the violin in one of the university's smaller music rooms, standing in the center with the piano in front of him, the blackboard to his right and all the chairs and desks to his left, the lights overheard glaring. The music was unfamiliar and unusual, looping in some parts, absolutely off-tune in a few but damn brilliant in most. It was obvious that the man was improvising and making it up as he went, it was wonderful to listen to.
Choutarou fiddled with the pen tucked in the breast pocket of his shirt, contemplating if he should knock, disturb the man, and get the interview done and over with. He wasn't one to just barge in and be impolite, no, he wouldn't think of it. He glimpsed again through the small window on the door as he shifted his weight to his other foot, feeling rather stupid to be alone in the long corridor, and observed the violinist a bit more.
The violin man was unlike the person whom he imagined to be. He had long dark blue, shoulder-length hair, pale skin, an aristocratic nose and strict lips. Eyeglasses. He was tall and with regal posture, he looked nothing like most music students he had seen.
Humming, he leaned on the wall and lowered his head, mulling over the questions he would ask. How did it feel like, winning a prestigious international music competition?
"May I help you?"
He looked up and realized that the erratic music had stopped. Laughing a bit, he rubbed his neck slightly and introduced himself, "I'm Ohtori Choutarou from the newspaper club. I was the one assigned to write an article about your win in the competition."
"Oshitari Yuushi. You may have knocked instead, Ohtori-san." He coolly said. "Please come in, I have just finished practice."
"Oh, thank you." Choutarou hastened after him and closed the door quickly. He took out his pen and notepad, willing himself not to look too eager, something his friend Shishido scolded him for.
"I was under the impression that the newspaper club makes use of a tape recorder because of its convenience, I must have been mistaken."
Choutarou laughed again and felt his cheeks color slightly in embarrassment. He replied, "Yes, but unfortunately, I never have been able to afford one. I suppose I can start asking you questions now?"
Oshitari settled himself on top of one of the desks and picked at the button on his cuff. He wrinkled his nose, as if displeased, "Yes, I suppose you can."
Consulting his notes for a minute, he stumbled on his pronunciation as he asked, "This Premio Paganini held in Genoa, Italy, Oshitari-san, have you ever wanted to participate in such an internationally known competition?"
"No, I was never interested in joining such contests. But it was stupid not to try."
"Ah, I see." Choutarou absent-mindedly scribbled down most of the answer, the scratching sounds of his writing filling the silence of the room. He frowned afterwards, "So you've never joined any, before Paganini?"
"The last one I've joined wasn't a major competition and that was in junior high school, as far as I can remember. This is the first time I've joined something big, and it might be the last."
"Wait, why?"
"Is knowing the reason important for the article?" Oshitari inquired apathetically, and watched his interviewer – the poor man – get flustered, spouting off apologies. He turned his head to the side to hide his amusement, evident in the smallest twitch of his lips.
Choutarou mumbled a few words and wished that he hadn't spoken without thinking; he had yet to develop the tact. He read some more of his notes to gather his wits. The Premio Paganini had three levels – the preliminaries, semi-finals, and the finals. All of which included a repertoire of only pieces by Niccolo Paganini. Yes, Choutarou, get back on track.
"Um, which of the levels did you like and which of those did you have the hardest time with?"
"The preliminaries and the semi-finals were fairly all right. Without saying so, the finals were difficult because I had to play two pieces with an orchestra – it was hard to be concertmaster."
"So, what was it like?" Choutarou pressed him for more details, writing a few more words in his notepad, resorting to shorthand. "I mean, how did you feel when you were just applying? When you were already competing? And when you won?"
Oshitari pursed his lips, contemplating. He looked more relax than before the start of the interview, thinking. Remembering. It was interesting to watch him, Choutarou decided, mostly because of how guarded his face was. It was as if forbidden to betray even the smallest display of emotion. And he was nonchalant the entire time.
"For one thing, it felt –"
A cell phone started to ring loudly. Choutarou fumbled with his but it was Oshitari's phone that needed to be answered. The violinist stared at it for a few seconds, idly playing with his phone before he turned to look at Choutarou and gestured that he was going to leave the room.
"Ah, no. I should be the one to go out, I was the one intruding! Wait, Oshitari-san…"
"It's fine. This is going to be a long phone call; may we continue this tomorrow since it's late?"
Choutarou hung his head – there was no way to say no to such piercing eyes. It was unnerving how serious a person could look and tucked away his pen and notepad. "Very well, Oshitari-san. But it sounds like you're just trying to escape from my question," He sulked.
"No. Does it?" Oshitari seemed like he didn't particularly care but pretended to anyway. "I shall see you tomorrow."
"Of course."
Standing in the corridor, Choutarou watched him walk down the corridor before turning left at a corner and disappearing from view, headed for the lockers. He noticed that his violin case was of the wooden, what they called the classic kind. It was trivial but it was nice to see, and gave him another point to ponder on regarding the man's still persona.
Shaking his head, he turned around and made for the staircase. By the time he got back to his dorm, there was a brand new tape recorder waiting for him in the mail.
finition.