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Semi Eita can’t play any instruments after lights-out, but on nights like these, he needs to expel his energy somehow. He brings a pair of earphones, his guitar, and his MP3 player to a solitary corner near Shiratorizawa’s dorms and hopes nothing follows.
Though he’s right up against one of the dorm buildings, not many know this corner’s lacked residents in all three years he’s been here. Roaches, ghosts, whatever—he doesn’t care about the rumors that have made it the way it is. He sits by the wall and gives his routine thanks to whatever’s allowed him this momentary peace. To the roaches or to the ghosts. If he never finds out, it means the rumors have been put to sleep by his skilled playing. You’re welcome, abandoned Shiratorizawa dorm rooms, and whichever RA’s been assigned to this building. (Clearly, not a good one.)
The song he chooses off his MP3 is louder, just enough to drown out his thoughts as he usually does these nights. But Eita always picks something for the mood, something that clears his mind but melds with the midnight sky. It’s an oldie, but a goodie, he hums to himself. Eita places the guitar on his lap, resting his fingers on steel after hours of his palms running red against synthetic leather.
Eita closes his eyes, and he doesn’t think of Coach Washijo, wrinkles written in his face of fury that Semi dared talk back. As if he didn’t know what he was getting into by letting him on the team. He doesn’t think about Shirabu. Wakatoshi does enter his mind, only for a second, like the rare softness he saw earlier that washed over his usually dull, stoic demeanor. Then gone, as the notes pass through his ears, and the melody lifts the weights off his shoulders.
He doesn’t know how he found out about his hobbies; he didn’t think the old man paid enough attention to care, but Washijo scolded him earlier, saying if he wanted to show off, he’d join the music club with his racket.
Eita considered that a while ago, but he’s already come to his own terms. His callouses aren’t soft enough for volleyball, and his skin is too bruised for the spotlight. So, he chose the team, but he plays here. For himself. For the wind. For the ghosts and the rumors.
A rustle comes forth from the wind. He opens his eyes and stops playing. A figure emerges from the dark. You.
He recognizes you, and you seem to do the same, staring and blinking. He’s seen the back of your head a couple of desks across. Your interactions have never gone much further than that.
Eita looks around, as if to ask the cicadas and flickering lights why another soul would be here.
Silently, you read his mind and answer his question before he says it aloud.
You hold up a black bag, tilt your head to the dumpster lying farther into the alleyway, and shrug. Eita’s face feels warm, and he hopes the light from your face is your own radiance, for if it were the stars, it’d mean you’d see his embarrassed expression clear as glass.
He stops his playing to watch you tread further into the night. Safety, of course, especially at this hour. When you return, no trash bag in tow, you don’t turn back to the building; instead, you sit across from him, hands on your knees and looking expectantly.
Eita adjusts his guitar right back up on his lap. “Any requests?”
“You came out here for yourself.” That’s the first thing you say tonight, and you seem so sure, even though Eita can’t recall any other time you two have spoken.
“Play what you want.” You say, simply. Maybe that’s all it is.
He picks up the player, skips a couple of songs until he reaches something he loves and hopes is your taste as well. You seem pleased. However, he thinks of your words as well. He came here for himself. So, he plays for himself first, and just lets you listen.