Tamaki was a piano, an unknown melody. It would start soothing, a gentle flow of notes gracefully hitting the ear. It was pleasing, it felt nice to hear. Then, out of nowhere, the tempo would lash out in a fiery rage, to a point that one would think the keys would break. Calmness would prevail once again almost immediately, morphing into the normal, happy tune.
There were days where he was the introduction and days he was the bridge. Kyouya always knew what section of the song he was. He knew how each worked and knew how to react. Such knowledge came from years of being his shadow; silently watching and taking mental notes, coming in immense handy when the time called for it.
Kyouya would sit on a couch, working on his extra credit physics essay long after the hosts and costumers had left. No one remained beside the peppy blond, more often than not bored out of his wits but knew better than to bother his dear Shadow King. Anyone remotely close to him would understand; no progress would be made on the level of entertainment when extra credit was on the line. So, of course, Tamaki was left to occupy himself.
Emotionless eyes would lift to the randomly placed grand piano, at the young man playing a simple, starter tune. Nothing stirred Kyouya's attention like Tamaki's long fingers dancing along the sterile white keys, occasionally interrupted by the shorter black ones. Soon, music would form; usually a soft, enlightening ditty and the essay would lay, forgotten, in his lap.
No where else would he be as at peace as he was at the piano. The complete control to let his boredom leak through his fingertips to create a new world of anything sent butterflies to his stomach. It was at the keyboard where he could simply close his bright violet eyes, the smallest of smiles settles upon his smooth lips, and would allow his mind to wonder. The piano was not a woman to satisfy, nor a problem to solve, but a blank space to decorate with widely ranged choice of notes. Something entirely his own.
Kyouya would simply watch his friend release himself, so free and beautiful in front of his very presence. He wouldn't scream and he wouldn't attempt to read his notes; merely enchant him with the vivacious nocturne his soul provided. He would set his work on the couch, step toward the expressive blond, and sit next to him. The pianist would reveal small slits of his deep eyes, glancing at the determined analyst, smirking wider. The music would slow and become an effortless doodle—like air.
He would lean closer, eyes closing, their lips nearly touching. He would feel the warm breath brush against his tongue, the notes spacing farther between each. Kyouya would touch his cheek, head tilted slightly, until the gap linking them was nonexistent.
Peaceful silence would inevitably follow.
