Shuya gnawed the inside of his mouth and scowled at the questions before him as though it would make a difference. For the second time in as many minutes, the fingers on his left hand began to stray, fretting and plucking the strings of an invisible guitar that he regretted was not in his grasp.
Lessons often took a diversion along lines such as this. In that moment, Shuya Nanahara was not stuck in class; he was on stage in Central Park, the headlining act for New Year, and he's crooning into a microphone and strumming his Gibson and he throws a wink out to all the fans screaming his name as he sings his way through all his hits, and at the end of his set, just before the countdown, he ends with the cover that made him famous, and there are girls singing along through their tears, tears of joy at seeing their hero live in New York, and he leads them through the verses and builds the crowd up to a hysterical crescendo for the last chorus, and the atmosphere is heavy, it's exciting, it's tangible and Shuya takes a moment to close his eyes, stop playing, stop singing - a slow smile spreads across his lips at the sound of thousands of fans singing the very words that began his lifelong affair with the beautiful, faithful woman called Music:
...but 'til then, tramps like us, baby we were born to-
'Nanahara Shuya! Am I boring you?'
Mr Hayashida's light voice interrupted him mid-rock. Shuya jolted out of his daydream and back into reality with sinking, bitter disappointment.
"Dragonfly" Hayashida let Shuya make a charming, witty comment about how lessons with Mr Hayashida were the highlight of his otherwise flat, dull existence; he let the wave of sniggers die down; he let the side of his mouth quirk with exasperated amusement; and he assigned Shuya cleaning duty at lunch break.
Shuya's winning smile dropped. He grabbed at his chest, clutching his shirt with a truly pained expression on his slim, attractive face.
'You break my heart, Sir,' he sighed dramatically, eliciting another wave of titters. To his immediate right, Yoshitoki buried his face in the crook of his elbow, his body wracked with peals of laughter. After Mr Hayashida asked him politely if he would like to join Shuya in his lunchtime cleaning excursions, he piped down, shooting his friend an apologetic smirk out of the corner of his eye.
From the other side of the classroom, Kazuo Kiryama watched with indifference at Shuya's failed attempt to charm his way out of trouble. Though - he thought, with an unimpressed snort - it made sense that the only kind of trouble in which the perfect, pretty, ladies' man Shuya Nanahara could find himself was the kind where the repercussions were nothing worse than a sacrificed lunchtime. The corners of Kazyo's lips tightened briefly in an approximation of a wince as he remembered the kind of trouble in which he and his - ah - family would be were it not for his initiative and unscrupulous connections.
He shook away the thoughts with a final, sweeping glance over the humbled, faintly-blushing Shuya, and the two men returned to their work.
Well hello there. Welcome to my ship. The ship to outship all other ships, in my humble opinion. Get ready for a bit of the buttsex. (Eventually.)