Writing music is like creating poetry compressed into invisible waves that sink deep into your skin, sticking like barbs, and implanting the words and feelings into your soul. It doesn't just touch you, or inspire you, it becomes you. It flows from your fingers, filling every cracked piece inside of you that you try to hide until you feel almost whole again and you don't care that your bills aren't being paid as long as that magic sound keeps you warm.

Music is subjective. It cannot be explained from one person to the next in the same way. It has to be experienced and shaped by individual consciousnesses. It's very much like people in that aspect.

Sometimes the chords are perfect, the harmonies are beautiful and others love them but to you it's just noise. Sometimes every tune is just noise, much like every person is just....there. Nothing special. No poetry and no warm embrace. Just an empty feeling in your gut as the notes pass you by like thousands of unfamiliar footsteps on the street.

But sometimes a certain melody grabs you, and it pulls you in so slowly that you don't notice it until the notes are pounding against your skull like an erratic heartbeat. Your loneliness starts to ebb with every gentle press of a key or stroke of a string and you piece together the pictures in your head until they become clear. And you realize that the image you've created isn't new to you. You've seen it every day for the past year.

The melody is bright and tender, like a fire, licking against your skin but never burning. The face in your mind is the small orange haired boy who lives across the hall that you've never spoken to but has somehow wrestled himself into your chest and wrapped his tiny arms around your heart.

And you don't understand it, but it feels right somehow.

And the song is just beginning.

***

I was eight years old when I picked up a guitar for the first time. I was in a music store with my dad who had strictly told me not to touch anything before slinking off to find an employee. I had planned to obey, I really had, but that was before I saw it. A simple mahogany stained acoustic guitar leaning against a metal stand, glinting almost seductively at me in the dimly lit store.

It was huge, much longer than my own scrawny limbs, but I lifted it as best I could and settled the rough strap around my neck, feeling its weight sit comfortably against my narrow shoulders. It felt like the piece to a puzzle I wasn't aware I was putting together clicking into place.

My fingers ran over the strings experimentally, gently strumming against them. The sound was too loud, reverberating in the empty room, and too flat. My fingers moved over the frets with more dexterity than an eight year old should possess, testing different pressures and positions to produce different sounds.

I can't remember how long I sat there or at what point my dad had slipped back into the room, watching me silently. I was consumed by the music.

I was roused by a sparse cough and a stern "Tobio". My blood ran cold as I spun around to see my dad standing in the doorway with his arms folded tightly across his broad chest.

"I-I'm sorry," I muttered, arms dropping to my sides, "it just looked so pretty."

I dropped my gaze to the floor; eyes trained on my Velcro light-up shoes, my face burning with the shame of disobedience.

"Where'd you learn to do that?" He asked gruffly. I listened closely for a hint of anger or pride but I heard neither.

"I didn't. I was just playing around with it," I admitted, glancing up to meet his eyes. I couldn't tell what he was thinking by his face either. The strap suddenly felt hot against my neck.

Dad thought for a moment, considering my words before walking over to me and lifting the guitar from my shoulders. Without a word to me he carried the instrument with him back into the room he'd disappeared into earlier.

I didn't have time to sulk before he reappeared, a slight smile pulling at his lips as he held the guitar out to me.

"Here," he said as I stared at him, wide-eyed and confused, "it's yours now."

No. It couldn't be. I was a having a beautiful, wonderful dream that I would wake from at any moment.

I wrapped my arms protectively around the guitar, hugging it tightly to my chest. When dad's smile didn't turn sour I realized he was sincere and wasn't just playing some awful joke on me.

"Th-thanks, dad!" I called out, still in disbelief, but he was already out of the store making his way towards the car.

By the time I clambered into the passenger seat and laid the guitar gently across my lap the car was already running.

"Practice hard Tobio. Make me proud."

Dad didn't look at me as he said it, but it felt more intimate than anything he'd said to me before.

"I promise," I answered, my feet swinging with excitement as we pulled out of the parking lot in the late afternoon sun.

***

I didn't put that guitar down for 15 years.

If I had to pinpoint the moment my life really began it would have been that day in the music shop.

And it didn't stop there. By the time I was ten I had moved on to the piano, followed closely by the violin and flute. Anything I could get my hands on and form a sound.

My music was my life, the only way I knew how to express myself. When I couldn't form my thoughts into words I would let them pour out of my instruments instead, saying everything I needed with much more eloquence than I could ever achieve through speech.

Turning my feelings into songs was extremely therapeutic but was never a great way to make friends. My junior high and high school years were spent mostly alone, with occasional conversations with classmates but never any lasting friendships. I didn't make a real friend until college, and that was mostly because of the fact we shared a dorm room. Apparently proximity is a huge factor in a person's willingness to put up with me.

But I wouldn't change any of it. Because everything that had happened in my life, every decision I'd ever made, had led me here; twenty three years old, living in a cheap dingy apartment complex in a less than desirable part of town, and neighbors with the sweetest human being I'd ever met.

Except I haven't actually met him.

At least not formally, seeing as I don't go out of my way to speak to people and my face is a resting scowl that keeps them from approaching me.

But despite that he always greets me with a warm smile when we meet in the hallway, sometimes even a quick "hello" or "good morning", and I'd never admit it but I find myself looking forward to his greetings.

I've realized over the course of my life that I tend to fall in love with things that are fleeting and intangible, not that you could ever tell. For all of my ardent inner monologue I remain stubbornly bitter on the outside.

I fall in love with the way the moon washes the color from the landscape on clear nights, or the sound wind makes through the crack of a window. I love the way flowers look when their petals start to dry, or the sound of tires on gravel. One person smiles at me for no reason other than common courtesy, and I'm smitten.

I become so engrossed in these simple occurrences and it takes me forever to get over them. It honestly can't be healthy.

Today is Sunday though, and since I rarely leave my apartment on days I don't have to work I probably won't receive one of those sunshine smiles.

I let out a sigh and slump down in my computer chair until my chin presses uncomfortably into my chest and the phone in my pocket digs into my leg. I've been sitting here for hours, the music sheets I'd been working on strewn about the desk. The papers were littered with scratch marks and crossed out notes, graphite scars on their pure white surface. Nothing I had written today turned out the way I wanted and I was frustrated with everything, mainly myself.

My phone starts to buzz in my pocket, interrupting my staring contest with the ceiling. Shifting in the chair until I can pull the phone from my pocket, I find the face of my aforementioned only friend smiling back at me. I consider ignoring it and returning to my thrilling inspection of the cracks in the ceiling but I know he'll just call again until I answer so I slide my thumb over the green answer button and hold the phone to my ear.

"I hope this is important. I'm a very busy man."

"Oh wow you're alive. I would've thought that ignoring my calls for a week meant you were kidnapped and murdered," his words are patronizing but his voice betrays nothing but concern.

"Suga I'm a grown man. I don't need you calling to check on me all the time," I sigh, sitting up in my chair.

"Well someone has to check on you or you'll probably starve to death at your desk. Speaking of which, when's the last time you ate?"

"Suga please, you're not my mom." That's a lie. Suga is definitely my mom.

"Kageyamaaaa."

"I don't know. Yesterday? Like I said, I've been busy." Yes. Extremely busy writing garbage and then crossing it out. But now that I think about it I am pretty hungry.

"I swear one day you really are going to starve to death. Meet me at the cafe in fifteen." He hangs up before I can refuse.

I believe there are two types of friends in the world. First there are the "mutual understanding" friends, the ones who let you complain about your life and provide insight and advice, and in return you allow them to do the same. This group probably makes up about 70% of friendships.

The second type is the "singular interest" friends. Either they allow you to talk about your life without ever opening up about themselves or they completely dominate all conversations with their own problems without allowing you to vent. Neither of these is a good route and the remaining 30% of friendships that these make up are usually unhappy.

And then there's Suga. Suga knows what's bothering you before you even have a chance to understand it yourself, and he usually already has a plan on how to make it better. And he's also completely open and honest about himself. He'll let you rant for hours and he'll listen, really listen, so that he can provide the best advice possible. I've known him for five years and I've never once been able to lie about being upset without him seeing through me instantly.

Basically, Sugawara Koushi is the greatest friend in the world and I have no idea why he puts up with me.

The cafe we always meet at is about a ten minute walk from my apartment which requires much more energy than I'm willing to exert right now. But, as usual, the guilt of upsetting Suga outweighs my unwillingness to go outside.

After a lot of groaning at nothing in particular I put my shoes on and shrug a hoodie on over my ratty t-shirt before grabbing my keys and slipping into the hallway.

The door across the hallway is open and through it I can see my neighbor's couch. He's curled up on it underneath a thin blanket, hunched over a sketchbook, toes peeking out under the edge of the cloth.

As I pass his open door he looks up, that signature smile on his lips. It's like the sunrise breaking over a mountain ridge. He lifts a small hand covered in charcoal smudges and waves.

"Good evening Kageyama!" He calls. It catches me off guard at first before I remember that our names are printed on the mailboxes on the first floor and I actually know his too.

"G-Good evening Hinata." I call back. I had meant to match his warmth but it comes out awkward and forced.

He smiles again before I turned back to lock my door and head down the stairs. In the silence of the staircase, the thoughts of his smudged fingers and wiggling toes underneath the blanket swirling in my head, I actually feel myself smile too. And that is just ridiculous.

***

I get to the cafe five minutes late but Suga still greets me with a smile when I walk in. He's sitting at our normal table next to the window, a coffee and sandwich already waiting for me.

"Thanks," I mutter gruffly as I slide into the seat across from him.

"So Kageyama, what've you been up to?" He singsongs, genuine interest in his eyes. I have no idea how he manages to care so much all the time.

"Nothing really."

"So, moping?" He teases, smirking over the lip of his mug.

"I don't mope!" I snap, but it's muffled through my mouthful of sandwich. I'm hungrier than I thought.

"I know your moping voice and on the phone you were definitely using your moping voice." There's no arguing with him because then I'll just be lying. Instead I just scowl down at my half eaten sandwich.

On the other side of the cafe one of the baristas starts to set up a microphone next to the bulletin board. Apparently it's open mic night.

"Suga noooooo," I groan, throwing my head back, "you know I hate open mic night. Why'd you drag me here?"

"Because you've been sitting in your apartment alone for a week and that always means you're out of inspiration. So I figured you could listen to some cheesy poetry or seven different renditions of Wonderwall and get some inspiration," he explains, taking another sip of his tea. God damn you Suga you thoughtful bastard.

"I'm not out of inspiration," I mumble, slumping in my seat.

"Oh? Have you been writing again?"

I nod, not meeting his eyes, but I can see the way he straightens up excitedly.

"Really? That's great Kageyama! You haven't written anything new in ages. How's it going?" He reaches across the table and lays his hand gently on my wrist. I meet his eyes and he smiles at me encouragingly. It's not fair for him to be so nice to me. It makes it harder for me to be a grumpy asshole.

"It all sounded the same so I scrapped it." Disappointment flashes across his face but he quickly replaces it with an encouraging smile.

"Well what've you been thinking about lately? If you figure that out you can probably figure out why it all sounds repetitive." In the corner of the cafe someone had started singing some pop song I don't know. I try my best to ignore them.

"I don't know....normal stuff. Work, the weather, when I'm going to go grocery shopping." My neighbor.

"Hmmm. Maybe you need to shift your focus. Get a new perspective," he presses his pointer finger against his chin, thinking. "Why don't you try focusing on a person?"

"A person?"

"Yeah! Pick a person and think about how you feel when you look at them. It doesn't even have to be someone you know. Make up a story about someone you see on the street and then turn their story into a song."

I contemplate it. I've never written music about a particular person before. It couldn't hurt to try.

"That might work. I guess. I'll try it out." Suga beams at me.

"Great! And let me know how it goes. No more ignoring my calls, you hear me?" He tries to look stern but fails miserably.

I wave my hand dismissively. "Yeah yeah, whatever you say."

***

Open mic night lasts until around 9 and is rounded off by a rather odd rendition of Christina Aguilera's "Beautiful" by a six foot guy with the voice of a choir boy. It wasn't bad but it was...strange, for lack of a better word.

I shift in my chair, my back stiff and creaking, and let out a yawn.

"Well I should probably go home. I have work tomorrow," I mumble, pushing my chair away from the table, but Suga is too busy staring off towards the front counter to hear me. "Suga!" I call, snapping my fingers in front of his face.

"Hmmm? Oh! Sorry Kageyama," he rubs nervously at the back of his neck and gives me an apologetic smile. "Are you leaving?"

I nod, turning towards the counter to see what had distracted him but only seeing a bored looking barista leaning against the counter and playing on his phone.

"Well let me walk you home then!" Suga says hurriedly, jumping up to block my view of the barista. I narrow my eyes at him but he just shrugs his shoulders and grabs my arm, leading me towards the door.

Judging by the pink tinge to his cheeks he obviously doesn't want me to know what he was looking at. I make a mental note to bring it up again later.

"You don't have to walk with me. It's out of your way," I shrug as we step out onto the quiet street outside the cafe. The air is brisk and there are no cars anywhere in sight. I love walking alone on nights just like this when I can fill the silence around me with the melody of my own thoughts. It's warm and comforting. It makes me feel free.

"It's alright. I want to," Suga insists, falling into step beside me on the sidewalk. He probably just wants to check if I have any food in my fridge and if I've done my laundry recently. Sometimes it feels like Suga mothers me more than my actual mother.

The walk back to my apartment building is silent but it isn't awkward. Suga is one of the only people with which I don't feel the need to fill every second with forced conversation, he's known me long enough to know that I'm a man of few words and he understands me. We were roommates in college, forced to get along due to proximity, but sometimes I wonder why he'd stuck with me afterwards.

As we near my floor on the staircase I remember seeing Hinata through his open door and my heartbeat picks up its pace a little. My eyes flit immediately to his door when we enter the hallway but it's closed and I can feel disappointment settle in my gut.

Stop being stupid, I tell myself, you don't even know him.

"Hey Kageyama it looks like you have a package," Suga says, breaking my pathetic train of thought. He points towards my door and sure enough there's a plastic bag hanging from the handle.

I slip it off of the knob, unlocking the door for Suga, and carry it into my dark apartment. He flips the light on as we walk in and sure enough he heads straight into the kitchen to check my food stock. He could at least try to be sly about it.

"Kageyama all you have in here is milk!" He calls out exasperatedly as he closes the fridge and moves onto the pantry.

"Milk is good for you," I mutter, setting the bag down on the coffee table and perching myself on the edge of my living room sofa. The plastic handles are tied in a knot and after struggling with it for longer than I care to admit I just rip a hole in the side of the bag, opening it enough that I can see what's inside.

There's a foil wrapped plate and on top is a piece of paper folded into one of those makeshift envelopes that girls used to pass notes around on in middle school. I pick it up, feeling childish just holding such a silly thing in my hands, and pull the triangle tab to unfold it. The handwriting is large and bubbly, the second sign that this is from some silly teenage girl.

"You can't leave your clothes in the washer or they'll mildew. I put them in the dryer for you. And I'm taking you grocery shopping tomorrow whether you like it or not you can't live on milk," Suga rambles, making his way from the kitchen to the living room. "What was in that bag by the way- whoa Kageyama why are you so red?" He stops in front of the coffee table, shooting me a worried look. Shit, not this again.