“Alright, Mozart. No need to show off.” He called out, loud enough so his voice would carry over to your apartment. The house was quiet as he shifted the keyboard in his lap, fingers ready to black the crisp black and white keys to make, hopefully, something that would blow whatever magic you had just done out of the water.

Originally, Sebastian had thought his noisy neighbors moving out would make life just that much easier, less stressful and all. And though it was quieter, you were still, in his opinion, a horrible neighbor.

The last few weeks since you’ve moved in had been filled with Sebastian having to drift to sleep to some classical, impressionistic music. He could hear you playing your mastery over the keys every evening playing Beethoven’s 5th symphony or some shit.

If it was jazz well, he probably would’ve already made best friends with you. But no. It was classical, which was quite the opposite of what he preferred.

Tonight, he’d had enough. Sat against the thin dry wall that the two of you shared he blared whatever jazz music he had memorized on his keyboard, volume pumping at its highest. He only became amused when you started blaring your classical music back at him. And damn you were talented. No doubt about it.

He popped his knuckles and cleared his throat before going into “Summertime” by George Gershwin on the keys. The music rolled through his apartment and in attachment; yours, filling the emptiness of the Friday night that the both of you had nothing better to do with other than playing a game of “which genre’s better” with the neighbor you’ve never met.