Another year, another place to corral stray fic and fragments. Some of them may make it to AO3 eventually, some of them may not. Series, pairing, rating, and any relevant warnings in the subject of each comment.
When Reiji wakes, it's still the middle of the night. There's no fire alarm, no earthquake, no one screaming—nothing that would explain why he woke so suddenly with his heart pounding in his chest. He would write it off as a bad dream, except he doesn't remember any dream, and the feeling isn't fading with distance from sleep. If anything, it's growing stronger—a deep-seated anxiety that won't be ignored.
He's felt this feeling before. Only once. On a day he doesn't like to remember.
He climbs out of bed, already thinking about what to say to Ai. This isn't a rational feeling. It's not anything he can explain to his painfully rational roommate, but that doesn't make it any less real, or any less all-consuming. He doesn't have time to try to explain it right now; he needs to find whatever is wrong and fix it before it's too late.
Somehow, he makes it to the doorway without bothering Ai. He's halfway out the door before the relief turns into a new spike of worry. Ai is the lightest sleeper he's ever known, if he even sleeps at all. He's never so much as stirred at night without Ai noticing.
He turns around and pulls back the curtain on Ai's bed.
It's empty.
His world narrows as he bolts for the door. He has to find Ai. He has to find Ai now.
Ai could be anywhere, but his feet pull him down the hall to the practice rooms.
It must be nearly three, but the lights are on in the basement corridor. He follows them down the hall and around the corner to the one lone practice room in use. He doesn't even stop to read the sign-up sheet before he throws open the door.
Ai is at the piano playing the new song they've been working on.
"What are you doing!?" Reiji asks, snatching the music away.
"Practicing?" Ai replies, as if there isn't anything at all unusual about practicing a duet alone at three in the goddamn morning.
"It's the middle of the night! You need rest!"
"But it's not right," Ai says. "I can't pinpoint what's wrong with it, but something is off. I was collecting more data in hopes I could fix it."
"Leave it," Reiji orders. "We'll look at it tomorrow. Together."
"The evaluation is at the end of the week. If we don't pass, then you could lose your place in Shining Productions."
"We'll do fine," Reiji promises. "We'll make it work. You can't do a duet alone; you need both people for it to fit."
"Is it the way the sound resonates?" Ai asks. "I tried to take that into consideration with the piano. According to my analysis, the accompaniment I provided fills the same musical position as you would."
"It's not the sound," Reiji replies. How can he explain this? How can he explain it without saying the one thing he promised himself he'd never say to Ai. "It's the connection two singers make with each other in a duet. I feel what you're singing and respond to it; you feel what I'm singing and respond to it. A duet isn't a duet if there's no feeling shared between the two people."
"I think I will need to study this further. I do not understand the feelings you speak of. How is the connection I have to your voice any different than the connection I feel toward a piano or any other object that generates a sound. When I sing, am I not interacting with whatever may be in my environment?"
Reiji lets the sheet music drop the floor and grabs Ai in a tight hug. "It's different," he whispers. "I can't have a conversation with a piano. It doesn't disagree with me. I don't see it anywhere outside of the room that it's in. We don't have the same sort of shared memories and experiences. You're special, Ai; there's nothing I could replace you with that would be the same."
"I'm...still not sure I understand entirely, Reiji."
Reiji flushes. Here he is doing the one thing he said he'd never do again, not after Aine. "Forget it," he says. "Just, come back to bed? You need rest."
"I'm fine."
But I'm not, Reiji thinks. "Give it a break for awhile at least. You'll probably have better luck coming back to it in the morning with a fresh set of eyes."
"I don't understand," Ai says softly. "What does luck have to do with my ability to analyze music and develop an appropriate progression of notes, and what do you mean by fresh eyes? My eyes will be exactly the same tomorrow."
Reiji chuckles around the tears threatening to spill from his eyes. "Never change," he whispers, "but please, come back to bed. The room feels wrong without you."
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Reheasal: Utapri, Ai/Reiji, T
He's felt this feeling before. Only once. On a day he doesn't like to remember.
He climbs out of bed, already thinking about what to say to Ai. This isn't a rational feeling. It's not anything he can explain to his painfully rational roommate, but that doesn't make it any less real, or any less all-consuming. He doesn't have time to try to explain it right now; he needs to find whatever is wrong and fix it before it's too late.
Somehow, he makes it to the doorway without bothering Ai. He's halfway out the door before the relief turns into a new spike of worry. Ai is the lightest sleeper he's ever known, if he even sleeps at all. He's never so much as stirred at night without Ai noticing.
He turns around and pulls back the curtain on Ai's bed.
It's empty.
His world narrows as he bolts for the door. He has to find Ai. He has to find Ai now.
Ai could be anywhere, but his feet pull him down the hall to the practice rooms.
It must be nearly three, but the lights are on in the basement corridor. He follows them down the hall and around the corner to the one lone practice room in use. He doesn't even stop to read the sign-up sheet before he throws open the door.
Ai is at the piano playing the new song they've been working on.
"What are you doing!?" Reiji asks, snatching the music away.
"Practicing?" Ai replies, as if there isn't anything at all unusual about practicing a duet alone at three in the goddamn morning.
"It's the middle of the night! You need rest!"
"But it's not right," Ai says. "I can't pinpoint what's wrong with it, but something is off. I was collecting more data in hopes I could fix it."
"Leave it," Reiji orders. "We'll look at it tomorrow. Together."
"The evaluation is at the end of the week. If we don't pass, then you could lose your place in Shining Productions."
"We'll do fine," Reiji promises. "We'll make it work. You can't do a duet alone; you need both people for it to fit."
"Is it the way the sound resonates?" Ai asks. "I tried to take that into consideration with the piano. According to my analysis, the accompaniment I provided fills the same musical position as you would."
"It's not the sound," Reiji replies. How can he explain this? How can he explain it without saying the one thing he promised himself he'd never say to Ai. "It's the connection two singers make with each other in a duet. I feel what you're singing and respond to it; you feel what I'm singing and respond to it. A duet isn't a duet if there's no feeling shared between the two people."
"I think I will need to study this further. I do not understand the feelings you speak of. How is the connection I have to your voice any different than the connection I feel toward a piano or any other object that generates a sound. When I sing, am I not interacting with whatever may be in my environment?"
Reiji lets the sheet music drop the floor and grabs Ai in a tight hug. "It's different," he whispers. "I can't have a conversation with a piano. It doesn't disagree with me. I don't see it anywhere outside of the room that it's in. We don't have the same sort of shared memories and experiences. You're special, Ai; there's nothing I could replace you with that would be the same."
"I'm...still not sure I understand entirely, Reiji."
Reiji flushes. Here he is doing the one thing he said he'd never do again, not after Aine. "Forget it," he says. "Just, come back to bed? You need rest."
"I'm fine."
But I'm not, Reiji thinks. "Give it a break for awhile at least. You'll probably have better luck coming back to it in the morning with a fresh set of eyes."
"I don't understand," Ai says softly. "What does luck have to do with my ability to analyze music and develop an appropriate progression of notes, and what do you mean by fresh eyes? My eyes will be exactly the same tomorrow."
Reiji chuckles around the tears threatening to spill from his eyes. "Never change," he whispers, "but please, come back to bed. The room feels wrong without you."