Music has always been a hobby for Dan. And since his primary school days of letting his stubby fingers drum against the keys of piano under instruction from a teacher, it's been an untouched one. He sings along to the sharps and naturals that paint the air around him, he taps along to quavers and crotchets that quiver and ricochet off each other. His ears tune in to the curve of the clef and the timbre of instruments flush against each other, lyrics and chords that coax smiles or tears. Sometimes his fantasies reach out for the ability, for some familiarity, but they pull away soon enough. Music is an intangible force of which Dan is tottering on the edge of understanding, and for the most part he is happy for it to remain that way.

"But I don't want to." Dan repeats, irritable words crawling round his dry toast as he glares at his mother.

"It's not a case of whether or not you want to, Dan." She replies, eyes rarely straying from the pots she's scrubbing. "You're having those lessons, and that's that."

"Why, though?" Dan persists glumly, picking at the crust and watching as the crumbs scatter onto the floor. They stick in the creases of his school trousers and he brushes them away half-heartedly.

"Don't be so pessimistic about it! You used to love playing when you were younger."

"Don't anymore." He mutters, and she raises one perfectly plucked eyebrow.

"Don't be so sure." She sighs, setting the pot to rinse on the side as she turns and locks gazes with him. "I think you'll really enjoy it once you're back into it."

"I'm surprised you even think I have the ability to play. Have you seen how apt I am with my hands?" He ignores the innuendo for the cause of his argument. "And I'll have to cope with some cranky teacher."

"Actually, you won't. The teacher doesn't have any places left, but luckily for you, he's got a student who can do it. Very talented, apparently; Mr whatever-his-name-is will pass on pieces for you to play."

"Luckily!? That's even worse!"

"Really? I thought it would be a good thing." She shrugs, returning to her washing up. Dan slumps in his chair, arms crossed, lips puckered as his finger taps against his arm.

"It's really not. They'll probably be in my class as well." He spits out, words growing sharper as the idea squirms in his mind, taking the form of virulent dread and a plethora of embarrassment.

"Too late now. I've already paid."

Pausing, Dan lets his arm drop to the table as he twists to look at his mum, mouth agape. "Wait, what? Well fucking done; do I not even get a say in this?"

"Language." She reprimands, though it's completely pointless, and they both know it. "It's only for a term, if you don't like it then you can stop. Deal?" Dan holds an icy gaze with her as he thinks, before sighing and throwing his arms up in the air.

"Right, fine. Whatever." He hauls himself up to standing, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "When do they start?"

"Today, lunch, room 210, for twenty minutes." She ticks off the information, pausing as she recalls the conversation. Her hair is pulled into a loose ponytail and it swings as she spins to face him.

"Wow, don't even give me time to adjust why don't you." Her eyebrow raises again, hand rested on her cocked hip. Dan blinks blankly at her. "What?"

"We all know that given any minutes notice, you would find some way to persuade me out of it. Knowing you, a tenner would be a likely method."

"Whatever you say." Dan replies. In any other situation she would be completely and utterly correct in the fact that he'd find a way to persuade her out of something - though right now, if he's honest, he's not all too keen to argue. Complaining and excuses aside, the idea of the pads of his fingers sliding across black and white keys to ignite tunes appeals to him, he just won't admit it.

"Have a good day." Smiling, she waves a hand in a dismissing gesture.

"Will do." Dan grimaces sweetly as his sarcasm is used as final ammunition, turning his back on his placid mother as she rolls her eyes, and facing the walk to school.

"Sup." A figure plonks down beside Dan, and he knows without looking up from his lap that it's Chris. Only Chris would use terms like that. Dan rolls his eyes and takes out one headphone.

"Hey."

"And how is this fine Thursday treating you?"

"Rubbishly. You'd think I'd killed a puppy, or something."

Chris offers a wince. "What's happened?"

"I've got piano lessons, starting today."

"Nice. Well good luck, as far as I know the teacher's an arse."

"I'm not even having a proper teacher; they ran out of places so now I've got to cope with one of these 'so talented' twats." Dan informs bitterly, mild anger writhing as the situation runs through his mind again.

"Ouch. Anyone who can play piano must be one of those stuck up kids, you're going to have so much fun."

"You know, I thought you were meant to be helping me feel better about this whole thing." Dan replies dryly. Chris just pats his shoulder in caricatural sympathy, turning away as the teacher enters. She's wearing the same tight bun and painful, shrewd expression, complete with floral blouse that carries a sickeningly strong consanguinity with his gran's curtains. Him and Chris have, in the far and near past, made bets about how old she is and how many cassette tapes she owns; though, Dan's pretty sure she's only in her late thirties. Not that that makes any of it more bearable.

Minutes later Chris taps Dan's shoulder, swinging on his worn out chair to allow himself to lean closer. Dan looks across with eyes that are barely alert, face supported by his hand.

"What?" Dan whispers groggily through the drone of Ms Wilkinson.

"I thought you liked music?" Chris asks. His eyes travel up the room to check on their teacher, who is currently talking half the class through the rules of quadratic equations (the other half, at least, are half asleep and not bothered). They flick back to Dan again, searching for an answer.

"I do." Dan replies, voice becoming more alert. "I just don't want to have to have lessons with a complete stranger." He hisses. Chris shrugs, leaning back and not daring to continue the conversation whilst under the 'wrath of Ms Wilkinson', as he has so often announced in the past.

Lessons are spent, as normal, with students slumped in their seats and teachers flicking through badly written powerpoints ridden with typos. Chris spends his time craning his neck and rolling his eyes at Dan; Dan spends his trying not to watch the clock as it crawls ever closer to lunch. Outside, clouds tumble across an aqua sky that is becoming ever more grey and threatening. The breeze that spurs them on also washes over the buds in the trees. Dan tries to focus on those, but soon enough he's seen all the clouds blow across the sky and he's back to apprehension again.

"Two hours." is the first thing Chris says to Dan as he reaches the table, a smirk on his lips as Dan rolls his eyes.

"Til what?" asks PJ as Dan flings his bag down and sits.

"Until my piano 'lesson'" Dan replies, adding quotations around lesson with his hands. He slumps, groaning.

"What's bad about that?"

"Peej, you like music and people and you practically attract talent. I don't. Tell me what's wrong now."

"Right."

"One hour fifty-seven minutes." Chris pipes up.

"Chris!" Dan exclaims, exasperated. "Look, I don't want to talk about this, ok?" He continues in a more subdued tone, looking across at them. Dan regrets even thinking he wouldn't mind these lessons. He may like the idea of playing the piano, but now he's just asking why he didn't try and sway his mother.

"Okay. So, PJ, how was your art lesson?" The question causes PJ to smile broadly and begin an answer embellished with sparkling eyes and gestures, and, having coped with the passion PJ has for art for several years, they know it won't end for several minutes. Chris looks pointedly at Dan, a 'you're welcome' loose on his lips. Dan nods gratefully, smiling as Chris turns to listen, a fond grin remaining. The canteen is clamorous, with loud conversations taking place on each table that sits, askew, in the room, and soon enough PJ's ramble fades into the rest as Dan zones out.

"Dan Howell, are you ready to face your doom?" Chris says dramatically as they exit the classroom.

"If I say no, do I not have to go?" Dan asks as they squeeze through the students and exit one of the many buildings that make up the school. The storm Dan tried to watch earlier has crept closer; the sky is made up exclusively from hues of grey, the air filled with the acrid scent of propylene. Dan kicks stones as they trek along.

"Afraid not, mate. But I'll walk with you, if you want?"

"You're only saying that because there's food there."

"Maybe. Doesn't take away from the fact you'll have company, though."

"Okay. But don't let me take you away from your darling PJ." Dan teases gently, receiving a nudge in the ribs for his efforts.

"Shut it, Howell." There's no heat behind Chris' threat as he glares at Dan in some attempt to be intimidating - it sends them both into peals of laughter.

"Awww." Dan cooes. "You're so cute together!" Chris rolls his eyes, shakes his head, and mutters under his breath, "Maybe one day." Dan leaves it, then. Partly because he's given his friend enough hardship for a while, secondly because of the performing arts building that now looms over them, windows smattered with muck and timid rain drops.

"Right, well I'll be going. Go while the queue is short, or so they say." Chris says.

"They don't say that." Dan objects, lips twitched up into a smile.

"Details. Good luck, mate." Chris departs with a pat on Dan's shoulder and a last offer at a rueful glance. "May the odds be ever in your favour!"

"That was several years ago, keep up." Dan says despite the fact that Chris has disappeared into the queue that winds round the foyer of the building.

With a sigh, Dan makes his way to the back of the building, where the various music rooms - which he had managed to avoid until now, thank you very much - sat. He starts to hear piano music as he approaches; repeating notes that sway and rock together. The practice rooms are tucked away down a short corridor, lined with the glass windows of each door. Dan comes to a stop at the beginning of the corridor, trying to calm his breaths to the rhythm. At least he knows what room he's going to be in. Dan takes several deep breaths before advancing again, and through the glass of the door he can make out hands that fly over the keys. Dan can't make out who it is, at first - their back is to him. But the figure shifts as the tune settles further down the piano, and - oh.

An elegant "Fuck." falls from Dan's lips as the player moves into view.

It's Phil Lester. It's Phil Lester, with his leering blue eyes squinting slightly as he focuses on the keys, crisp collar framing his cold face.

There are worse people, Dan tries to convince himself. Like the kid who decided early on in the year that shoving Dan when they pass in the corridors was a hilarious pastime, who likes to mutter words under his breath when he sees Dan - words that, Dan always points out, are unproven as far as the guy is concerned. Dan could never be bothered to learn his name. Similarly, it could have been Lucy Jenkins, who's perfectly manicured hands were only ever clasped on her lap or pushing up her glasses. Her high pitched, snobbish tone would always be unwanted as far as Dan was concerned. But it's not him or her: it's Phil. Phil's in some of his lessons, Dan remembers as his eyes bore into the glass; he's the one who answers all the hard questions, but with a tone that makes it clear that he can think of many other, better things he could be doing. He's the one with the ironed uniform and tie that sits exactly and precisely. He's the one who Dan and Chris roll their eyes at when he's answering. Dan's never exactly decided that he hates Phil, but right now there's either good or bad and Phil is definitely under 'bad'. One of the many thoughts that fly through his head is that he didn't even know Phil was musical, and-

He doesn't know what to do.

He's lost at what option to take and he's three minutes late for his lesson, and he's hanging around awkwardly outside a room that no one goes to unless they've got tuition, and he's been hooked into these lessons so now he has to. He coughs awkwardly before remembering that Phil can't hear him through the glass and bombardment of notes, and now he's embarrassed as well as pissed off.

He's a lot of things, Dan thinks bitterly as he wraps his knuckles against the door, but happy is definitely not one of them.