When the sun found the moon

She was drinking tea in a garden

Under the green umbrella trees

In the middle of summer

When the moon found the sun

He looked like he was barely hanging on

But her eyes saved his life

In the middle of summer

- Panic! at the Disco

Sometimes when I write a song the notes flow out of me like water pouring smoothly over the rocks at the top of a waterfall, cascading down the way nature designed it without rhyme or reason but knowing that the bottom of that fall is where it belongs. That's when it's the easiest.

Sometimes I have to force it, like squeezing the last few stubborn drops of water from a washcloth. I twist and turn, tugging at my chest until something, anything, comes out, as rough and bloody as it may be.

But then there are times like right now, when my hand can't move nearly fast enough while jotting down the sounds that build inside me and burst through like a supernova. It's uncontrollable. Uncontainable. Like a natural disaster tearing its way through whatever it can reach. The music is in charge and I am merely the vessel through which it achieves its goals. This is when it's the toughest.

Nothing else matters until all of the notes are expended, my thoughts completely focused while the melodies roll out like loaded words off the quicksilver tongue of a seasoned liar. Yet they aren't lies, they're so far from it. The things produced in times like this are the truest form of raw honesty that I've ever experienced. I can't lie to myself when my feelings are tearing their way out of me, making themselves heard.

When I finally got home from the trip, Daichi dropping a drowsy Hinata and I off in front of our apartment building, I wanted to sleep for the next decade. I was exhausted, physically and emotionally, but my mind and body were on two different wavelengths. My skull was pounding with inspiration that needed to come out, either calmly or by ripping me apart it didn't care.

Hinata retired to his apartment, barely coherent enough to wave goodbye and lock the door behind him, and I pretended to do the same. My bag hit the floor and I had a pencil in my hand before I knew what was happening.

And then I was writing.

I wrote everything. The train ride, the sunflowers, the hotel room, the ducks, the tree. Everything. I've never written a song with so much fluctuation in mood yet such an overall positive tone. It's odd but it's fitting. It's truthful.

As my hand flies across the paper, burning graphite trails of flame across the stark white pages, I think I finally understand the colors of Hinata's painting. The beauty in the swirls and shapes finally make sense and for the first time I see them too.

Is this why Suga always loved to watch as I wrote? Is this why my mother would buy me empty music sheets and have me hide them high up on the shelves in my room? But why did my father tear them down from their safe place and tear apart the foundation I had created, scattering it to the wind like the many pages sprawled across my bedroom carpet?

There are some things that have no answer, and some answers you never want to hear because even the mention of them will disintegrate the fragile hold you have on the life you built to escape.

Before I know it writing turns to thinking, thinking becomes remembering, remembering brings nothing but hurt, and the sun is rising.

The song sits finished on my desk, so far away from the spot I occupy on the carpet that I have no recollection of migrating to. My head pounds, sleep deprivation and writing taking its toll, and I figure this spot on the carpet wouldn't be too bad of a place to sleep.

Sleeping on the floor turns out to be a great idea, my head feels wonderful against the short fibers of the carpet and my eyes sing like a church choir as they close over my strained eyes. The dull throb in my skull replaced by a soft knocking against my door.

I don't know how exactly, but I stand to answer it, turning the knob and looking out as best I can muster through blurry eyes. Bright ginger hair catches my attention and I'm suddenly awake, the fatigue draining from my bones and leaving behind an ice water chill in my veins.

"Good morning," he signs, chipper as ever. "Did you sleep at all? You look exhausted." His bright expression turns to one of concern in a matter of seconds.

"Oh, uh, not really," I admit, rubbing the back of my neck. Why am I nervous? It's just Hinata. "I was just heading to bed actually."

"I texted you a few times but you didn't answer so I figured I'd come check on you," he tells me, eyebrows still knit together too similarly to Suga's when he's worried.

"My phone was on the table so I didn't hear it. I was working at my desk."

"No problem," he smiles, and it's blinding. Parents know what they're talking about when they warn kids not to look directly at the sun. I never was one to listen to warnings though. "Do you have a minute before you lie down?"

"Yeah, sure," I answer, following behind him as he turns around and heads back through his open apartment door. He heads to the back corner towards the easel, and I feel a pool of dread building in the pit of my stomach.

"I wanted to wait until we got home to give you your real birthday present. I was too tired last night and forgot though, so I'm really sorry it's a day late," he shrugs, his hands falling to his side after finishing the sentence, looking at me sheepishly as if he expects me to be upset or angry, as if he doesn't know that I can't even imagine him ever upsetting me.

"You didn't have to get me anything." I try my best to sign, and I'm getting pretty good at it, because I know if I speak out loud I'll just mumble and that's counterproductive for the both of us.

"I didn't. I made it."

This is not going to end well. My chest is constricting again even though I can hear Natsu's words echoing in my mind; no more running away okay?

I said I wouldn't. I promised, but here I am poised on my back haunches and ready to flee like a cornered animal. I'm a coward. I'm worse than a coward; I'm a liar.

Hinata turns the easel around, so similarly to the way he did the day everything went to shit. My breath is made of broken glass, rattling around in my lungs and tearing a trail of anxiety in its wake.

And there it is, the canvas stares me in the face but Hinata does not, his eyes downcast, probably expecting a repeat of my last reaction. But it doesn't come. I don't react at all, because confusion clouds what should have been nervousness.

The painting is black and white. There's a man sitting in the corner of a room, knees pulled to his chest and head down as shadows creep above him along the somber gray walls, claws out and reaching toward him with insidious prowess.

In the corner, the furthest away from the man, there's a light. It's small, completely white, but it seems to have warmth of its own. As I stare at it it seems to grow, no matter how ridiculous that sounds, as if it's going to spread and protect the man from the clawed demons lurking over his head.

It's not a dark scene, even though it appears so at first. It's warm and inviting, despite the center image. And I love it.

"How did you know?" I ask, a loaded question if I've ever heard one. How did he know about the demons that lurk around me? How did he know that they're inches away from sinking their claws in my flesh at any moment? How did he know that the sources of light in my life keep them at bay? But most of all, how did he know that grayscale is easier for me to distinguish than color?

As always, he understands, looking fondly between me and the painting. He lets out a small sigh before lifting his hands to answer; "I kind of guessed."

"How?" I'm pretty sure Hinata isn't a psychic but you can never be too sure.

"Just little things," he starts, rolling his big eyes around as he recalls the clues I've apparently been dropping. "You kept mixing up the blue and green Monopoly money when we played, you once called Natsu's school tie red but it's green, and at Disneyland you kept calling Genie 'that big magic purple guy'," he chuckles at the last part, finishing his sentence before raising his hand higher to hide his smile.

"Genie isn't purple?"

"Nope. He's blue," he explains, and his expression drops back to solemn seriousness. "After last time," he gestures vaguely towards the easel, "I thought I'd done something to upset you, but then I started to think about it a bit and it made sense. That last painting must have looked awful to you."

"Yeah," I admit, looking anywhere but his face because mine is currently burning and for the moment I'm subscribing to the theory that if I can't see him then he can't see me. "I know it was good though."

"It was all right," he says, some sort of quiet emotion that I can't quite pinpoint swimming across his eyes. Regret? Guilt? Disappointment? I'm not as good at reading people as he is. "I like this one a lot better."

"Me too," I tell him, his eyes brightening immediately. I mentally pat myself on the back because, hey, I said something not overwhelmingly stupid for once.

"I'm glad," he smiles, warm and genuine. "By the way I'm really sorry but I'm gonna have to kick you out now. I'm spending Christmas with Natsu and our uncle so I have to head to the train station."

I try to ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach. Why am I upset? He's spending Christmas with his family like a normal human being, and it's not as if he won't be back. A few days. I'll be fine. "Oh okay," I croak, "I'll get out of your way then."

He grabs my arm as I turn to leave, signing "don't forget the painting!" at me with a humored chuckle.

I thank him for reminding me before carefully picking up the canvas and heading toward the door.

"Kageyama!" He calls, the sound of his voice catching me off guard. My name rolls like honey off of his tongue. Thick and smooth and sweet. I start to turn around again just as he wraps his little arms around me, burying his face in my chest and squeezing. All too soon he lets go, looking up at me with a fond gleam in his eyes. "Get some sleep okay? And have a Merry Christmas," he signs, taking a step back.

"Uh, okay. You too. M-merry Christmas," I stutter, earning a playful smirk as I back out the apartment, the heavy canvas tucked protectively underneath my arm.

I set the painting against the wall by my guitar in the back corner of the living room and it seems to fit there like a puzzle piece. The last ten minutes and the roller coaster of emotions that accompanied it have left me even more exhausted than my all nighter. I don't know how I make it to my bed but finally my face hits the blankets as I fall forward, welcoming the feel of my own bed after multiple nights away.

My mind buzzes on, so many thoughts whirring around and making noise, but somehow sleep finds me. In my dreams the light from the corner of the painting spreads, bleeding over the rough canvas corners and across my dingy carpet, making its way to where I sleep heavily under my covers.

The light stretches its fingers, reaching out as far as it can and touching my skin with its warm tendrils. The contact explodes, lights like fireworks shooting out where the stark white beam meets my skin, and there are so many colors; bright and beautiful and as clear as day. Pure colors swirling around my room and enveloping me in their beauty.

And I can see every one.

***

Christmas isn't anything special. There's no ringing of sleigh bells in the morning air or glittering snowflakes coating everything with a dust of merriment and joy. It's just another day. One in which I'm forced to socialize by some sort of holiday construct.

I don't mind the forced interactions as much as the phone calls. Every year, without fail, my phone rings just after 9am bringing the only thing with the ability to turn my blood to ice with just one word. My parents.

I let it ring a few times before sliding my finger across the screen to answer. The freezing metal bites into my skin as I press the phone against my ear and breathe, "Hello?".

"Merry Christmas Tobi!" My mother's voice is so loud through the tinny phone speakers I cringe, pulling it a few centimeters away from my ear.

"Merry Christmas mom," I return, my stomach turning over and my lungs tightening with every inhale. This isn't normal, right? This isn't how normal people feel when speaking to their parents.

"Oh Tobi you should see the neighborhood, everything is so snowy and the houses are decorated so nicely, it's like a perfect winter wonderland. You'd love it," she gushes, images of the small country town I grew up in passing through my mind. She right, I would love it. Or at least a younger me would have. Years of hiding things that I loved have left me jaded, cold as stone in the eyes of anyone who takes a passing glance.

"Sounds great," I mumble, shifting the phone to my other hand and rubbing my eyes. I want to avoid as many unpleasantries as I can but they're always brimming just below the surface, dark words and stinging memories ready to erupt at a moment's notice and ruin the false calm we've built.

"Your aunts are coming over for dinner today; they always say how much they miss you and how great it would be to see you. Won't you consider coming home for the day? I'm sure you can make it just in time if you get on the earliest train out." I can feel her hot breath slipping between the teeth of her saccharine smile on the back of my neck, poisoned honey practically dripping though the phone speaker. It'll burn if I let it touch me.

"No, I have plans." It isn't a lie. I'm heading over to Suga's in a while. He spends every Christmas sewing together the burned and broken pieces left after my annual phone call.

"Oh really? Did you meet someone new? A girl maybe?"

"No, mom. Just dinner with some friends." I can hear disappointment hiss in her voice but she doesn't push it. She isn't great, but she isn't dad.

Speak of the devil. "Oh honey your dad wanted to say hello. Hold on just a moment I'll go get him." I highly doubt that. Mom is so desperate for Dad and I to have any semblance of a relationship that even the awful tense conversations we always have are good enough for her. You can't blame her for trying.

There's a ton of rustling on the other side of the line and some mumbling that I can't tell the origin or mood of. No warning of how Dad is feeling today. The phone makes a crinkling sound as it's picked up from its resting place.

"So plans with your friends are more important than visiting your family?" No hello, no how are you, just straight to the point. Not that I expected anything else. The last time we spoke I was less than respectful, and he was less than thrilled.

"I don't really want to spend all of Christmas Day on a train," I tell him, which is completely true. "I was just invited five minutes ago."

"You know you don't need an invitation to come back home. Don't use your mother as an excuse. You just don't want to come." His voice is so deep, reminding me of times when I was younger and he would only use this voice when I was in trouble. Now it's the only voice I hear from him.

He's right, I really don't. I'll have a much better time with my friends. At least they support me. At least they care. That's what I want to say. Those are the words fighting to slip between my tightly drawn lips, beating their lettered fists against the walls stretching out in front of them, but the key to open locks crafted from cowardice is not easily found. "I really do have plans."

He lets out a sigh, heavy and through his nose, and I can imagine him pinching the bridge of his nose the same way I do when I'm tired and frustrated. Maybe we aren't too different after all. "How long are you going to keep up this charade, Tobio?" Except that we are.

"Charade?"

"This...life you're living," he sneers, the word "life" sounding like acid on his tongue, or venom being spit from the mouth of a cobra. "When are you going to grow up and be a man? Get a real job and get some new friends that aren't useless lowlifes? It's time to stop chasing your idle dreams like a little boy and do something with your life."

My limbs are cold and my blood is hot, boiling beneath the icy skin surrounding it. My body can't tell if I'm angry or hurt, maybe an even less productive version of both. My jaw snaps shut, I can't speak, and so he continues.

"You spend so much time and effort on something that will never pay off. I told you this years ago, Tobio. Years. And look at you now; no more successful than you were before you started college. You're doing nothing but stagnating." His words sound as if they're meant to be soft and encouraging but every syllable sends shards of glass through my heart, tearing and ripping me apart until I feel as if real glass would be more merciful.

"But...you did this," I choke, trying as hard as I can the push the words out around the gurgling pain in my throat. "You bought me that guitar, you told me to work hard. You said you wanted me to make you proud." Whose voice is this? Is it mine? It's hardly recognizable.

"But you didn't."

Another shard, the biggest yet, straight to my core. I'm more wounds than man by now.

"You put your music ahead of everything else and you still haven't shown any results. You're 24, son, not some grade school prodigy. You missed the mark. It's time to put your dreams away and build a life."

"There is nothing else," the gravel is gone from the base of my throat but I still sound torn and battered. "This is all I have."

"Son, listen-"

"No, Dad. You listen." I have no idea where my sudden bravery comes from but I don't question it long enough to lose steam. "I've let you tell me these things before and it ruined me. I let you tear apart everything about the world, everything about myself, that I loved. And I won't do it again. I don't want to be famous or successful. I couldn't give two shits if people know my name twenty years after I die. I just want to be happy, and I'm finally starting to be. And I won't let you take it away from me. Merry Christmas Dad."

I hang up without awaiting his response, letting out a slow exhale as I set the phone down, my breathe shaky and wavering as it passes between my lips. I feel put together right now, but I could fall apart at the slightest provocation.

Leaving my phone on the table where it rests I grab my coat and head outside, the confines of my apartment feeling too much like the squeezing walls around my lungs, forcing me to breathe in and out but threatening to squeeze too hard.

The snowy wind blows across my face and bites at my unprotected fingers but the cold does nothing to penetrate the numbness set deep in my bones.

***

Sugawara Koushi is a rock amidst the tumultuous sea of anxious waves and deep blue unknowns that makes up my life. The one thing that has always kept me steady when the waters threaten to swallow me whole and fill my lungs with choking fluids. Whenever I am upset I find myself on his doorstep, just as I am now, pulled to him like the tides are pulled to the shore.