The afternoon sun bathed the open concert grounds in hues of rose gold, casting long shadows behind the steel barricades that zigzagged across the entrance. The crowd buzzed like static, excited, chaotic, alive. Fans waved banners and LED signs, laughter bubbling through the air like carbonation. From the distance, the faint thrum of a soundcheck pulsed through the ground.
Hyacinth stood near the barricades, a step back from the current of people flooding in. His pink whiteboard was tucked under one arm, the marker cap clenched between his fingers. Despite the noise and movement, he felt oddly still.
"Hyacinth!"
Gabby's voice pierced through the hum. He approached like a splash of color. Pink bomber jacket, silver-studded belt, glitter-smeared cheeks, and a bag bouncing at his hip. He stopped dramatically in front of Hyacinth, signing with his usual flair. "Ready to scream and cry and possibly ascend?"
Hyacinth chuckled silently, nodding. He answered in sign: "I'm ready."
They made their way to the line. Gabby scanned their tickets with his phone, and security looped neon green wristbands on their wrists. The moment they passed through the final checkpoint, Gabby turned with a mischievous glint.
"I'm buying us snacks. My treat. Don't argue." He leaned in closer, already digging into his bag. "What do you want?"
Hyacinth scribbled quickly: Anything salty.
"Say no more my dear flower." Gabby twirled on his heel. "Stay right here. If a handsome mascot dances near you, record it for me!"
And then he was gone, swallowed by the crowd.
Hyacinth stepped aside, tucking himself into the shade of a pillar. Alone now, the anticipation hit him harder. His eyes scanned the chaos, he saw friends with matching jackets, couples clinging to each other, a woman holding up a hand-drawn sign that said "MARRY ME RYOMA!!!"
Then something—someone—caught his eye.
A figure walking swiftly toward the artist entrance. He was tall, hoodie pulled halfway over his head, a duffel bag slung across his shoulder. His stride was focused, unhurried but not slow. When the sun caught the edge of his jawline and a silver earring glinted against dark hair, Hyacinth's heart skipped.
That profile. That walk. That energy.
Yukimura?
He stared, frozen, eyes tracking the figure until he disappeared behind the security tent. It couldn't be. Or could it?
Before he could spiral, Gabby's voice rang out again. "The snack prince has returned!"
Hyacinth turned just as Gabby shoved a cardboard tray into his hands. "I got chips, pretzels, fries, cheese puffs, takoyaki, and two lemon sodas because hydration is sexy. Also, I forgot napkins. We'll suffer from spills."
Hyacinth nodded slowly, still stuck in his head. Maybe it was Yukimura. Maybe he wasn't just imagining things.
They followed the tide of fans down the glowing tunnel into the venue, where LED strips pulsed faintly along the floor like a heartbeat. The concert hall opened before them like a massive cathedral of sound. Spotlights whirred above. The center screen flashed the Rhapsody logo, all jagged chrome and electric-blue fire.
Gabby pulled Hyacinth to the middle section. "This way! Dead center, optimal view, and we won't get elbowed by the pit monsters."
As they settled into their seats, the electric chatter of the crowd swelled around them, Hyacinth turned to Gabby to sign a quick "Thank you" for the snacks. But something caught him off guard.
Gabby responded—fluidly. His hands moved with clear, practiced precision.
Not mimicking.
Signing. Properly.
Hyacinth blinked. He signed slowly, tentatively: "You... learned?"
Gabby grinned sheepishly and tugged at his collar. "Kinda, yeah. Been practicing for a while."
He glanced at Hyacinth, then shrugged, casual but sincere. "I figured if we're gonna be friends—like, real friends—I should talk to you the way you talk. Not just make you do all the work."
Hyacinth stared at him, heart thudding in a way the music hadn't even touched yet.
Gabby added quickly, "Also, I didn't want you to feel left out when stuff gets loud or chaotic, you know? Like now? The screaming? Literal death."
He made a dramatic face, then smiled softer. "This way, we've got our own channel. Just us."
For a moment, Hyacinth didn't respond. He just reached out and gave Gabby's arm a squeeze.
"Thank you." This time in sign, but slower. More personal.
Gabby nodded, and with a wink, added, "Just don't expect me to be fluent tomorrow. My brain's fried. But I'll get there."
Before Hyacinth could reply, the lights dimmed.
The screams hit instantly—piercing, deafening, like thunder on a clear day.
And then—
A single piano note. Clean. Melancholic.
Then a voice, deep and resolute:
"When the sky is caving in... And your heart's wearing thin... Hold the flame, don't let it go…"
The crowd fell into rhythm, swaying with the verse. The lyrics didn't chase romance—they chased resolve. They were about surviving when no one clapped for you. Standing back up when no one reached out. The song wasn't saying you'll be okay—it was saying you'll fight to be.
Hyacinth's chest tightened. Not with sadness, but familiarity. He clutched his soda like it was something grounding.
And then the bridge came.
The stage plunged into silence. Lights cut—blacked out, like the world held its breath. Then—A single spotlight. Center stage. A shimmer of cymbals. A silhouette behind the drums.
A drum set shimmered.
The drummer stepped into the light.
The crowd screamed again, but for Hyacinth, the world fell quiet.
He saw the way the figure twirled the sticks once before setting them—fluid, natural. Saw the slope of his shoulders. The effortless poise. And then—
The crash.
Not just noise—precision. The solo hit like thunder but moved like a story. Every strike was deliberate. Each snare roll and bass hit told something Hyacinth didn't have words for. And suddenly, it didn't matter that he was cold or aloof or impossible to talk to.
It was him.
Yukimura.
Alive. On stage. Playing like fire trapped in flesh.
Hyacinth didn't breathe.
His fingers twitched.
Melodies sparked in his head. Not words—sounds. Strings, synths, counterpoints. Accompaniment patterns danced just behind the beat. For the first time in weeks, his head wasn't just heavy with noise—it was singing.
He grabbed his phone, not to film—but to open his composition app. His thumbs hovered.
This. This is what I want to write for.
Beside him, Gabby tilted his head. "You good?"
Hyacinth nodded, eyes shining.
He wasn't just watching.
He was hearing his dream come alive.