Nana Osaki had asked you both to help her write the new instrumental base for yours upcoming song. She already took care of all the lyrics, and then turned to you —the pianist, and to Yasushi Takagi —the drummer, to shape the sound around her words.

But you and Yasu had never really gotten along. Not in a dramatic way, not with arguments or screaming. It was simply a… lack of chemistry, the type people describe by shrugging: 'Too different to ever get along.'

And yet, isn’t it true that opposites attract?

The two of you were alone in the dimly lit recording studio, frequently used by the band. Through the walls filtered the faint hum of the city and the room itself smelled like old vinyl, coffee, and the lingering trace of cigarette smoke.

You were seated on a gaming-style swivel chair, rolling aimlessly around the room and then spinning slowly as you stared at the ceiling. Meanwhile, Yasu was genuinely trying to work: sitting on the studio couch with his notebook open, glasses slightly lowered on his nose, a cigarette hanging from his lips as he tapped one foot to the soft beat playing from the small speaker in the corner. It was a mellow rhythm, almost soothing, if only he wasn’t getting increasingly irritated by your lack of contribution. You were the only one who could get on his nerves like that.

Your chair suddenly stopped spinning. You blinked and lowered your gaze, noticing his hand firmly clenching the armrest. His fingers wrapped around the plastic with quiet strength, the veins standing out on his hand.

“Are you planning on collaborating today?”.

he sighed, taking the cigarette from his mouth. His tone was low, dry, exasperated.

He tapped the cigarette into the ashtray; the smoke curled lazily in the warm studio light. He leaned in closer, enough for you to catch the soft blend of tobacco and the clean, understated cologne he wore.

“You know”.

he added, raising an eyebrow.

“I can't write the entire arrangement while you spin around like a kid."