Chapter Text
Nakayama Haruki never intended to become a teacher.
Taking a job at one of the most prestigious academies in Tokyo has never been part of his plan until Yatake practically shoved him into it.
“You need to stop moping around, Haru. This is your chance,” he said one night when Haruki intended to drink himself into unconsciousness. Alcohol always seems like the best choice to heal a broken heart. ‘Get back into music. Teach. I know the right guy who can get you the job.’
And so, here he is, twenty-five, freshly hired as a teaching assistant, feeling completely out of place despite it already being two months since he first stepped through the glass doors of the music conservatory.
The reality of it all still feels surreal, like a role he isn’t ready for or isn’t qualified enough to play.
His heart is not feeling any better, even when his mind is constantly filled with grading papers and preparing class materials. One doesn’t simply get over a one-and-a-half-year-long relationship just because their life gets busy again.
Sometimes, he still finds himself thinking about his ex-girlfriend, about the words she said when she broke up with him: “I’m sorry, I don’t feel anything for you anymore,” as if love were something that could vanish overnight, replaced by detached indifference. As if it had never mattered in the first place. So long, and thanks for nothing, I guess.
Haruki is sick of it. Sick of deluding himself into thinking love will find him someday. He must accept the simple, cruel truth: love is not meant for everybody, and certainly not for him. The sooner he accepts reality, the sooner his life will start to feel less miserable. He still has his music and his love for movies; he doesn’t need someone to share his life with.
He’s not sure yet whether teaching could be the solution, but Yatake’s friend owed him a favor, and how could he say no when Yatake decided this was the change Haruki needed? Something to give him purpose, a new meaning to his days.
His first day was a blur of introductions and memorizing schedules, too much bowing of his head and too little time to match all those new faces to names. Standing in front of his first classroom, inviting students to casually refer to him by his first name (‘You can all call me Haruki, by the way. No need for the formal stuff.’), he felt his heart thud in his chest, palms slick with sweat.
Despite the polite, welcoming atmosphere, he can’t help feeling like an outsider, an intruder who got his job through connections, with no merits whatsoever. Even if he’s nothing more than an assistant, he still carries around a certain guilt that does little to ease the tight knot in his stomach.
His days consist of a comforting routine: he spends the morning assisting a professor, Yatake’s friend, in a composition theory class, mostly observing as students grapple with complex exercises. He moves quietly among them, offering guidance when asked, careful not to overstep. Despite his own insecurities, he finds a small comfort in noticing how students relax when he patiently explains a difficult concept with a smile. The afternoons are usually spent preparing materials for the following day’s classes or marking assignments.
It’s a far cry from the spotlight he once chased as a musician, but it’s a start. He may find this is what he wants from life, this job growing on him and giving him the push he needs to finally feel in control.
He walks through the hallways with a slim folder containing his notes and schedule, all organized with coloured post-its. He clutches it a little too tightly as he moves around the school, like a protective shield.
The job even comes with a small, functional office tucked away at the end of a hallway on the second floor, near the practice rooms. From there, he can hear the constant hum of tuning instruments and notes filling the air. It’s a pleasant background as he marks assignments or staples documents for the following day’s lessons.
During a late-morning break, Haruki wanders into the main rehearsal hall. It’s alive with sounds in preparation for the end-semester concert organized by the students. Violins and pianos, violas and clarinets. The room vibrates with life, and he smiles to himself: seeing people only a few years younger than him so passionate about their instruments reminds him of the soothing power of music, the reason why he started playing before he was even a teenager.
Amid the crowd, his eyes are drawn to two students who stand apart from the rest. Truth be told, they caught his attention right away, shortly after he took his place next to the professor he assists and surveyed the classroom. Ever since he stood by the classroom doorframe for the first time and felt their curious eyes on him.
It’s impossible not to notice them immediately, even when surrounded by other people. Their beauty is striking: one tall, with dyed blond hair and pierced ears. Even from a distance, the green hues of his eyes are evident. With his intense focus and precise movements, he commands attention even without trying. The other, with unruly black hair falling over his eyes, is elegant and gracious. He moves through the world as if he didn’t fully belong to it. But there’s more to them, or so Haruki would say if asked.
He has watched them play together more than once, in impromptu rehearsals or on stage. It seems they get each other without speaking, music flowing between them as naturally as breathing.
He can’t help but keep observing, intrigued despite himself. There’s something about their connection that goes beyond mere technical skill, something about their playing that goes beyond the notes on a page. They understand music, like they can feel it coursing through their veins. A wordless way to communicate with each other.
In the eight weeks he has spent there, he has had many occasions to witness their unmatched chemistry onstage. Their violin duets are widely appreciated and applauded at the academy, always stealing the spotlight. Their flawless performances make them stand out to everybody’s eyes. They have an intensity that makes Haruki feel like an outsider, an amateur. Many are intimidated by the powerful chemistry of this golden duo.
Actually, their chemistry isn’t confined to the performing moment. Haruki has noticed they are inseparable, not just during rehearsal.
Whether it’s in the hallways with their shoulders brushing, or sitting side by side on a bench in the small courtyard, sipping coffee, they seem to share every moment. Like a pair that can’t be separated. After classes are over, one hangs back just a little longer, waiting for the other to finish packing. And the other would smile to himself, like he knew something the rest of the world didn’t, pleased by the attention. Haruki often sees them walk away in each other’s company, their paths aligned as if they shared the same destination.
Noting how natural they seem around each other, Haruki’s curiosity is piqued.
He remains seated at the back of the hall, near the door, careful not to disturb any of the students there. He listens to them rehearse over and over again, striving for perfection.
Yet, no matter how much he tries to resist, his eyes are inevitably captured by the two main violinists: Kaji Akihiko and Murata Ugetsu. Two names he’s certain will be talked about in the future. Talent like that isn’t born to be wasted.
He remains long enough for the students to start leaving, the late afternoon sun casting a warm glow through the windows. He remains long enough to watch Akihiko and Ugetsu leave, obviously together, obviously a bit too close to each other.
He has noticed the glances they’ve been sharing, the subtle touches when they thought nobody was looking between breaks during rehearsal. Just like he has noticed Akihiko adjusting the collar of Ugetsu’s shirt, the gesture so intimate that it made Haruki blush. He quickly looked away, heart pounding, taken aback by the unexpected warmth stirring inside him. And yet, it didn’t seem new to them: Ugetsu didn’t flinch, didn’t react with surprise. As if he were used to it, as if it were part of a daily routine.
They both greet him with a wave and a smile as they walk past, Haruki reciprocating with a polite “See you tomorrow,” that leaves an odd taste on his tongue. There’s curiosity, for sure, but also an unusual feeling of... loneliness.
As he walks back to his office, on polished floors gleaming beneath bright fluorescent lights, Haruki is certain his heartbreak still lingers beneath the surface, ready to remind him of what he lost. It makes him want to distance himself from love. He doesn’t want anything to do with it anymore. This academy will be his second chance in life, his way to reconnect with music.
He has to admit, though, that it feels a little strange to be teaching people who seem more accomplished than he is. At twenty-five, he’s still figuring himself out, trying to rebuild his life after every path he’s taken has been shattered by landslides. He graduated from this same academy just a couple of years ago, his bass guitar always slung low over his shoulders. Once a bassist in a local band, his career as a performer never fully took off, but his passion for music has remained.
He’s still lost when it comes to who he is.
Akihiko and Ugetsu, on the other hand, are clearly on another level. Ugetsu is already an internationally acclaimed violinist, having performed at some of the most prestigious venues around the globe. Even though he sees him play several times a week, Haruki has never attended one of his concerts. They must feel magical. Accompanied by a live orchestra, standing alone at center stage, the audience hanging on his every note.
Akihiko possesses a raw intensity that captivates everyone around him. Even if his sound is not as polished as Ugetsu’s, the future shines brightly ahead of him. There’s no doubt that he, too, is destined for greatness in the most renowned orchestras in the world.
Haruki can’t help but feel unsure whether he truly belongs here. He’s just an average person teaching at an elite academy, surrounded by post-grad students and established professionals. More often than not, he feels like he's merely pretending to be a teacher.
There’s a knock on the door that pulls him from his thoughts — a student visiting during office hours, seeking help. Haruki is thankful for the distraction, answering questions about counterpoint and offering words of encouragement in his calm, soothing voice. Sometimes, people just need a reminder to believe in themselves, and Haruki is good at that. Less good at practicing what he preaches.
Appointments are few that afternoon, and Haruki leaves earlier than usual. Walking across campus, he spots Akihiko and Ugetsu sitting together at a corner table in the academy’s cafeteria, their chairs pulled close. Even from a distance, he can see their legs brushing against each other. They must have stayed behind to practice some more. Their violin cases are resting on the empty chairs in front of them.
The glass wall prevents him from hearing their voices, but their focused, yet relaxed expressions tell him they’re talking about music. He can’t see much from afar, not without his glasses, but it seems there are music scores scattered across the table.
Ugetsu is speaking, presumably explaining the emotional layers of a composition. He’s like that, Haruki has noticed during class. He has a talent for getting into touch with the emotional depth of music, for connecting with it and making it his own.
Haruki smiles, imagining his soft voice as he explains to Akihiko how a certain passage is supposed to make him feel and how to convey that with their instrument. Nodding along every few words, Akihiko is listening with attention, offering his opinion too, but mostly just gazing at Ugetsu with an intensity in his eyes that, even from afar, is affecting Haruki too.
How would it feel to be looked at like that?
They’re laughing now, and Akihiko brushes his hand against Ugetsu’s as he reaches for his drink. He takes a short sip before offering him the same straw. Ugetsu accepts without hesitation.
More often than he cares to admit, Haruki wonders if it’s just friendship or something more. Not that it should matter, not that he should care. He’s just an assistant, and those are his students. He can already think of three different reasons why that line shouldn’t be crossed. Yet, the more he watches these moments, the more his fascination grows.
He shakes the thought away.
Feeling like he’s intruding, Haruki leaves.