The lights are beautiful, beaming and twinkling - they cast a warm glow on the city, bathing it in oranges and yellows and lighting the night. They guide the way for those who are lost, give hope, show the planes high above which way to go.

Schubert wishes he could be like those lights. When his musik really workes it casts light everywhere - he is a conductor of light, spreading it throughout the city and throughout souls - but that's when it works. And does it really have a purpose? Does he really have a purpose?

Standing on top of the Arkhe building, Schubert casts his gaze up at the stars wistfully. What he wouldn't give to be among that bright cluster of shining silver, noticed and loved at least by somebody. Beethoven (Senpai, he reminds himself, only after seeing him stand by while the others jeered at him he isn't sure if he can call the man that without it hurting. Schubert is a forgiving man - but this is something he may find it harder to forget.) is a star - the brightest, in fact. And all Schubert has ever tried to do for him is help him to shine - even if it makes he himself dimmer, the last light burning out, alone in the dark. Liszt is a star too, dazzling all who lay eyes upon her - all of them are, dazzling and burning and blinding and showing the way.

All he wants is to be among them. But, he gives a bitter laugh, even that is denied to him. He isn't important enough, isn't valuable enough, isn't talented enough to deserve it. Schubert isn't sure what is worse, the jeering... Or the fact that they don't even notice him, don't even care. He could die, he could disappear forever, and they probably wouldn't even mourn.

Well, then...

He looks down again, at the lights that are so much more meaningful than he is. Slowly, ever so slowly, he begins to inch one foot forward. He is vaguely aware of a small, protesting voice in his head, and he stops for a moment, hesitating, as though his body is not his own. With hardened eyes he shakes the voice off, and he begins to move his limbs again, when...

He feels a hand slowly fall on his shoulder.

Schubert gasps, a sharp intake of breath, giving a jerk as he does so. That's a big mistake. He teeters forward, arms frantically windmilling as he tries desperately to regain his balance. He feels bile rise up in his throat as slowly, sickeningly, he begins to tip forward. Just as he thinks he's lost it all, that even if he has changed his mind it's too late, an arm shoots out, wrapping firmly around his middle and scooping him back.

Schubert is set back on his feet, legs trembling slightly as his vision swims - with tears or nausea he isn't entirely sure. Hands hover at his shoulders, ready to steady him if need be. He shakes himself slightly, his vision thankfully clearing fairly. He looks up but the face in front of him is blurry, and he realises he isn't wearing his glasses. Blinking owlishly, he glances around half-heartedly, certain he must look even more of a fool than ever. A warm hand presses the slim pair of spectacles into his, and he puts them on, finally managing to regain some of his composure.

The sight of his saviour almost knocks him off his feet again - even without the wig and the dark glasses something tells Schubert that this is him - the great J.S Bach, who managed to overpower Beethoven and Mozart's musik combined. His prescence makes Schubert feel like a miniscule dot before him, the younger composer being able to feel the tingling aura around the great father of music. There seems to be a warmth lingering all around him, a warmth he is allowing Schubert to bask in as he gazes up at the elder, dumbstruck.

The spell is broken as Bach clears his throat, and Schubert realises what just happened. He scrambles backwards, apologies springing onto his tongue, although he isn't entirely sure what it is he's apologising for.

"I - I'm terribly sorry, sir! I didn't mean to - I wasn't -!"

Bach holds a hand up, an almost-smile gracing his features as he steps forward. He carefully places a hand on Schubert's shoulder in a calming gesture, and the younger of the two falls silent, heart still nervously fluttering against his ribcage.

"Don't worry about it. I came up here with only good intentions - I noticed you were in some truble. Would you care to explain why that is?"

Schubert quivers slightly, glancing down at the ground, the ventilation pipes, anything but Bach's face or those mocking, mocking stars in the sky. Bach turns away and begins to walk off, and for a moment Schubert thinks that he merely doesn't care enough to press matters further - until he inclines his head back towards Schubert, an open invitation.

"Coming inside?"

Schubert snaps out of his daze, initally hesitant before he stumbles after Bach, almost marching to keep up with his long stride. He follows him through the door, trying to hang back slightly at a respectful distance to give the older man space. It happens again, that almost-smile tugging at the corners of Bach's mouth.

"Please, Franz. We're equals, do not feel the need to trail behind like a servant."

Schubert's eyes widen in surprise at being considered an equal by this man, whose prescence seems to radiate passion and demand respect. He hurries his pace once more until he falls in line with Bach, surprised at how much taller he feels next to him.

At last they reach a great hall, a long table situated in the centre of it. Bach seats himself in one of the side chairs rather than at the head of the table as Schubert would have expected, and gestures for Schubert to sit opposite him. He takes his seat, fidgeting slightly as he feels slightly overwhelmed by the whole thing.