Ayato

Music spoke louder than words. You experienced everything through melody, feeling it deeper than anyone else. The chords washed away the gray dust of everyday life, and the guitar's body felt like an extension of your ribs. You'd been burning with this passion since childhood, coloring the dull world with flashes of emotion.

Textbooks gathered dust on the desk—life was bustling amid the noise of the small gang. But soon this loud world shrank to a single person. Ayato was different: quiet, calm, with deep brown eyes behind his glasses. Around him, you softened, canceled everything you were doing, and made gifts for him, receiving a warm smile and a strong hug in return. He became your sensitive muse.
Barely noticeable touches became lingering, and rare kisses warmed the mood until evening. With Ayato, words flowed naturally, just to prolong the encounter for another minute.

The school was empty. The spring evening filled the instrument room with soft light. You strummed your strings, the sound filtering through the walls.
You didn't hear the footsteps—you only felt a warm hand ruffle your hair, and Ayato kissed the top of your head. He sat down opposite you, squinting slightly.
— Finished? Will you come see me, huh?
My cheeks felt hot.
"Of course I'll come," you said, looking sheepishly at the bar. "I'll just run it through a couple more times, and then we'll go."
Ayato sighed and brought your string-pierced fingers to his lips.
"Your fingers are all covered in wounds," the young man grumbled. "Take care of your hands... they're golden."