Diverging Sounds

After school, Hyacinth returned home with frustration weighing heavily on his shoulders. He barely had time to set his bag down before his mother noticed his mood. She stepped away from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel, and gave him a gentle look. "Long day?"

Hyacinth exhaled and nodded. His hands moved swiftly as he signed back, They paired me with that Yukimura guy for a music project.

His mother tilted her head. "And?"

He refuses to work with me. He's dismissive and thinks he can do everything alone.

She sighed, sitting down on the couch and motioning for him to join her. "There will always be people like that, sweetheart. Some people don't realize they need others until they've already pushed them away."

Hyacinth hesitated before continuing. We have to recompose a song. The original is... cliché—a man romancing a woman. But Yukimura completely changed the meaning. His version rejects romance entirely. He turned it into a song about how a man is fine on his own. He paused before adding, It's cold.

His mother watched him carefully. "And how do you feel about that?"

Hyacinth frowned, unsure how to express it. His hands hesitated before finally forming, I don't know. It's not wrong, but something about it feels... off. I tried playing along today, but I couldn't keep up. I felt disconnected.

His mother placed a warm hand on his shoulder. "Then maybe you're meant to find your own approach. Music isn't just about technique, Hya. It's about emotion. If his version doesn't feel right to you, maybe it's because it's not telling your story."

Hyacinth stared at her, letting her words settle. His story.

After a moment, he signed, Thanks, Mom.

The next day, Hyacinth stepped into the music room, his resolve steady but cautious. He had spent the night replaying his mother's words in his mind, turning them over like a puzzle he had yet to solve. Until now, he hadn't fully known what Yukimura's version of the piece sounded like. That was about to change.

As he moved closer, the faint sound of polished keystrokes filled the air—deliberate, precise. Yukimura sat at the grand piano, back straight, fingers poised like a master sculptor carving each note with intention. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were sharp, focused entirely on the music in front of him.

Hyacinth lingered by the door, hesitant yet entranced. Then, as if sensing his presence, Yukimura pressed down on the keys with newfound force, launching into his arrangement without a single glance his way.

The melody struck Hyacinth immediately—bold, relentless. It was unlike anything he had expected. Gone was the warmth of the original piece, stripped away like autumn leaves in the wind. There was no lingering softness, no quiet longing. Instead, the music was a declaration—unyielding, self-assured.

Each note rang with a sharp clarity, powerful and untouchable, like a lone figure standing atop a mountain, untouched by the world below. It rejected intimacy, cast away connection, leaving only the weight of solitary strength.

Hyacinth's fingers twitched at his sides, itching to press against the keys, to feel the music firsthand. But something about it unsettled him. The song wasn't just resisting emotion—it was actively pushing it away, leaving nothing but the echo of cold determination.

This... was Yukimura's story.

And Hyacinth wasn't sure he could play along with it

Hyacinth's brows furrowed as he watched. This was his partner's interpretation?

Feeling the need to understand, he moved to the second piano and placed his hands on the keys. When there was a brief pause in Yukimura's playing, Hyacinth signed, "Let me try."

Yukimura didn't respond right away. His eyes flickered toward Hyacinth, assessing him for a moment, before he simply nodded and started playing again.

Hyacinth began to follow, his fingers gliding over the keys, but almost immediately, something felt wrong. The rhythm was rigid, the melody distant—like an empty house with locked doors. He tried to keep up, but the music resisted him at every turn.

His fingers faltered. The notes didn't flow. No matter how much he adjusted, it felt like forcing a puzzle piece into the wrong space. His hands hesitated, then came to a complete stop.

Yukimura's playing ceased as well. He let out a sharp breath and turned to Hyacinth, expression unreadable. "If you can't keep up, don't force it."

Hyacinth straightened, hands moving with frustration. I want to understand it. But something's missing.

Yukimura frowned, his fingers tightening slightly against the edge of the piano. His jaw tensed, and for a brief moment, his eyes flickered with something unreadable—annoyance, maybe, or reluctance. "There's nothing missing. The composition is fine." His voice was clipped, firm, as if shutting down any room for argument.

Hyacinth shook his head, signing firmly, It has no heart. His movements were sharp, deliberate, as if trying to carve meaning into the air itself. His brows knit together, frustration evident in the way his fingers lingered mid-motion, waiting for Yukimura to understand. The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken tension. Hyacinth's chest tightened—how could someone so skilled create something so... empty? He searched Yukimura's expression, hoping for even a flicker of acknowledgment, but all he was met with was that same unreadable stare.

Yukimura's jaw tightened. His eyes flickered with something unreadable—an emotion buried too deep to surface. But in the next moment, it was gone, replaced by cold detachment. "Emotion is overrated. Technique is what matters."

Hyacinth clenched his fists. He tried again to follow the piece, determined to bridge the gap between them, but the more he played, the clearer it became—this wasn't a song he could connect with. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't make himself resonate with its message.

They continued practicing into the evening, repeating sections over and over, but the distance between them remained. The melody was brilliant in its execution, yet Hyacinth couldn't shake the feeling that something vital had been stripped away.

Finally, when Yukimura packed up his things and left, Hyacinth remained seated at the piano. The silence of the empty music room settled around him.

His mother's words echoed in his mind.

Music isn't just about technique. It's about telling your story.

Hyacinth took a deep breath and placed his hands on the keys. This time, he didn't follow Yukimura's arrangement, nor did he return to the original version. Instead, he let his fingers move instinctively, seeking out a melody that felt true to him.

The notes that emerged weren't about rejection or solitude. They carried something different—something softer.

Hope.

Hyacinth continued playing, his heart guiding the music, even as the final minutes before closing time ticked away. He vowed to practice harder, not just for technique, but to find his own voice in the composition.

If Yukimura wanted to erase emotion, then Hyacinth would become its counterbalance.

Even if their melodies clashed, he would not let his story be lost.