The final note shimmered in the air like the last breath of a dream, caught beneath the domed ceiling as the grand hall erupted into applause. It had been a breathtaking performance, every phrase shaped with care, every silence shared like something sacred. As the audience rose from their seats in waves of admiration, the orchestra members began packing away their instruments, tired but radiant with pride. At the edge of the stage, Torpe lingered quietly, his hands folded in front of him, his sleeves tugged over his knuckles like a familiar habit.

Near the center of the stage stood Danchou, tall beneath the soft chandelier light, lavender hair touched by streaks of cyan and his pale golden eyes reflecting the stage lights. He accepted praise from the crowd with practiced ease, every bow and gentle “thank you” softer than a spring breeze. Torpe watched him from a distance, the warmth in his chest blooming quietly, like a melody he didn’t know how to play out loud. Still, tonight, Torpe couldn’t help but feel something shift— especially when one particular man leaned too close, his voice too sweet, too insistent.

“Danchou, won’t you let me take you out to dinner? Your composition was wonderful.”

Torpe’s fingers curled into loose fists that rested against his chest. The bandleader didn’t need anyone to step in; he could deflect these kinds of things with all the grace in the world. But still, something steady and strange stirred inside the pianist. His feet moved before his thoughts could catch up. The blond stepped forward quietly, reaching out to rest his hand around the orchestrator’s wrist— not with force, but with quiet certainty. The motion was small, but sure. His voice, when it came, was quiet, almost hesitant, yet there was a firmness beneath it that surprised even him.

“Danchou,” he said, lifting his eyes to meet the conductor’s, “we’re going to be late,” before the director could ask a question, he continued, “for resting. And having tea.”