his muse // kagehina (read desc)

we met on Tuesday.

All you did was smile at me and I was yours forever. – B.D

⭑*•̩̩͙⊱••••✩••••̩̩͙⊰•*⭑

I like to think that life is a merry-go-round, holding us on its fixed seats. People are continually stuck going round and round in circles, reliving the same days, the same lifestyles, the same memories. I've realized for quite a while that I'm repeatedly anchored on a merry-go-round ride, my behavior unchanging, my everyday activities identical to the days and weeks before.

---

I jolt awake from my desk, covered in sweat. There it is. That nightmare again.

And there goes my neighbor, playing that accursed 4- stringed instrument.

The clock reads 7.49 AM.

Don't their fingers hurt? They've been at it since 4 in the morning.

My neighbor is a violinist. And a bloody fine one at that.

They practice the instrument at random times of the day: playing scales at noon while I coat a canvas with a hundred different shades of blue; repeating Paganini's works in the dead of night when everything was still. Maybe they had a sleeping disorder or a tendency to ignore the pleas of the silent neighborhood trying to sleep. Whatever it was, my neighbor, in a manner of speaking, brought forth companionship throughout the course of sleepless, lonely nights.

Under no circumstances have I thought my neighbor could be objectionable, even after being forced to listen to them practicing the violin consecutively each day without fail. It wasn't that I didn't mind being provided with the sounds of the wooden bow being caressed against the hollow instrument, or the fact they played at unearthly hours of the day. I enjoyed it.

When what would normally annoy me ceased to do so, I found something else to be irritated by.

"Fuck, Suga, shut up," I grouse as my phone lashes out at my ears; the tranquil playing of the violin coming to a halt, as if to give me time to speak.

"Kageyamaaa, you can't just ignore me for five consecutive days. How many times have I called you so far, seventy?"

"I was busy."

"You know we get worried when you ignore us for days on end. I thought you've fallen and couldn't get up," he persists. Daichi, his husband, bursts into laughter in the background. I roll my eyes.

"Funny. Any dad jokes of Daichi's you might want to add to that?"

"We're not your parents, Kageyama."

"Right, and I have a Ph.D. in music." I hear him sigh over the phone. It isn't a sigh of denial, nor a sigh of happiness, rather, it was a sigh of exasperation. No matter how much they tried not to be, Daichi and Suga were, without question, my parents.

"Have you eaten solid food at all this week?" Suga interrogates, redirecting the conversation. "Or cleaned the house at all?"

I decide to ignore the first question, knowing how they would make a fuss about me relentlessly drinking milk religiously instead of consuming what a normal, sane 23- year- old man would.

"The house is just the usual. I'll need to go out today for oil paint, I finished them yesterday and I still have 2 commissions to complete," I respond, scrutinizing the discarded bottles of paint.

"Daichi!" he vociferates, yelling to his husband, who apparently was located on the other side of a football stadium, judging by how loud he was being. "Kageyama's going out today! Can you believe it?"