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knightshade26 · 28 days ago

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Our teacher gave us an assignment to write a short story and then present it to the class the day after and ofcourse me being a RadioApple writer, wrote a whole lot—

I was hesitant to share this here but anyway, here ya go~

So here's the piece, Titled “Perfect Pitch”

Alastor's life was the piano. Ever since he was a child, the black and white keys had drawn him into a world of symphony. Alastor pursued those evanescent melodies, the perfection of every note and every sound, every nuance—he assumed what was perfection in music, like a perspicacious conductor.

Alastor's debut as a pianist was undoubtedly a resounding success. His fingers wove the grandeloquence of music, leaving the crowd entranced, enchanted, and hanging on every note. He was the rising star. As often said, many considered him a master class in brevity—his few woven tones were always arranged with the utmost precision. Alastor, The Melodic Reaper, The Virtuoso of Moonlit Serenades—these few titles were piled onto the top of his head like a crown.

But all the glory, all of the applause, became a thing of the past. The melodies, the symphonies, the notes he once created became obscure. Fate seemed to be making fun of him, playing a game that seemed to obfuscate his life, veiling the once-shiny stage he had stepped on.

"Your hearing has been affected. I'm afraid your left ear won't be able to hear anything, and your right ear will only be able to hear at most 50%."

The doctor's words echoed clearly. Even with his impaired hearing, they were so distinct that he could almost forget he had essentially become deaf.

After a ceremonious celebration for winning another trophy, he was on his way home—completely sober, as he had not drunk any alcohol—but everything suddenly turned blindingly white as the glaring honk of a truck blared in his ears. Then came a tremendous impact. He lost consciousness.

He woke up two days later, his head still foggy when his assistant told him his ears would never function as they once did. He was sorrowful. He was angry. He screamed and lashed out. He refused help from others, and his willfulness—as if reverting to a stage of juvenile delinquency—only led him further into despair.

His world, since then, was silenced, like a tenebrous alleyway swallowed by shadows. Even in his subconscious mind, the notes seemed to disappear entirely, and Alastor could only eschew the piano. His once most beloved instrument had turned into the most beautiful curse—one he could only gaze upon. The graceful melody that once danced beneath his fingertips now seemed to mock his current self.

Alastor lowered his eyes, a smile hanging upon his lips. A slender hand held an umbrella with a casual grip. He stood in an empty playground, watching the rain subside in silence. The petrichor wafted from the wet earth—a primal scent that seemed to match his once glorious days.

Alastor took a step, intent on leaving. But then he suddenly stopped, an indistinct sound of a violin reaching his ears. It was familiar—so familiar that he violently swiveled, turning to find the melody he had once longed to entwine with. He closed his eyes, furrowed his brows, and concentrated. Slowly, he walked toward the lugubrious melody. His steps were slow at first, but as the sound became clearer, his pace quickened—gradually turning into a sprint.

He stopped.

Not far away, someone sat on the fountain. Skin morbidly pale, platinum blonde hair swaying with the gentle wind, eyes blindfolded with white cloth—holding a violin, playing a lachrymose melody that echoed in Alastor’s ears. It was so clear, so distinct, that Alastor unconsciously stood frozen, unable to tell how much time had passed.

One dared to play.

The other dared to listen.

Both remained in their places until the night sky was dotted with sparkling stars.

Lucifer.

The peak of classical music. The Devil. Heaven’s woe.

These few sobriquet Alastor could recall could never truly describe Lucifer’s pitch. In Alastor’s ears, he was the most perfect melody, the most harmonious symphony, the most flawless note to ever exist. He was the symphony—the quixotic dream Alastor had once desperately chased. He was Alastor's muse.

The melody gradually faded, and Alastor couldn’t help but step closer, subconsciously chasing the intermittent notes until he stood just a few steps away from Lucifer. Lucifer’s hands stilled upon his violin, his head tilting toward Alastor's direction. His lips quirked into a small smile.

"Aren’t you tired? Standing still like a statue for hours like that is bad for your knees, you know."

Licifer's voice flowed into Alastor’s ears. Alastor's eyes followed the orifice that produced such a gentle voice, interwoven with the susurration of the wind. Lucifer’s voice was clear, distinct—laced with amusement.

Alastor's face burned upon registering what Lucifer had said, his ever-present smile almost slipping.

"A silent type, I see. What’s your name, silent guy?" Lucifer asked.

Alastor subconsciously answered, "Alastor."

"The Master of Symphonies?" Lucifer smiled, clearly recognizing him.

But Alastor wasn’t the least bit pleased to hear the familiar nickname. "No. Just a forgotten whisperer." He shook his head with a wry smile.

Lucifer fell silent, as if not expecting his response. In the end, he made Alastor sit beside him, urging him to describe the stars. Neither spoke about music. They simply admired the empty nuances of life.

The two grew close—closer than they had expected. Every once in a while, they would sit in the same spot. One would describe everything he saw, while the other played a melody.

Until one day, Lucifer asked to hear Alastor to play.

Alastor rejected him outright. He imprisoned himself in his home, and the dark, depressing thoughts he thought he had successfully dispelled came rushing back like an untamed tide.

But before he could drown in sorrow, Lucifer appeared at his door, a slight smile on his lips. He dragged his suitcase, his violin case, and his cane with him.

"The pavement was so uneven I nearly tripped. Good thing I have nice reflexes."

As he spoke, he strolled inside Alastor's house, discarding his cane and suitcase outside the door but still dragging his violin case with him. Alastor stood there—messy-haired, disheveled, completely lacking the air of a fastidious person he once was—dumbstruck and speechless.

In the end, with a helpless smile, he couldn't bear to make Lucifer leave.

And so, the two started living together.

Under Lucifer’s relentless nagging, Alastor finally relented.

He re-opened his piano room.

His fingers trembled unconsciously—both nervous and anticipatory.

When he sat down, he could only stare at the familiar black and white keys in silence. At a loss.

Lucifer then chirped at his side, his eyes still blindfolded with white cloth, holding his violin as he took a stance in preparation to play.

“You remember your notes, right? Let's play a duet,” Lucifer said with a smile.

The apricity of the winter sun spilled through the curtains, casting a warm glow on Lucifer, making him look brighter, almost ethereal.

Alastor stared at him in silence as Lucifer began to play Clair de Lune. His fingers hovered over the piano keys, hesitating. Slowly, he pressed down, his touch tentative, as if afraid to shatter something fragile.

The only thing he could clearly hear was Lucifer's melody. The sound of the piano was almost nonexistent to him, yet his fingers moved instinctively, pressing whatever melody he could hear in Lucifer’s violin. The ennui that had plagued him for so long lifted so easily—just like that.

Alastor's smile turned genuine, as if a sudden epiphany had dawned on him. His fingers gradually danced across the keys, seamlessly blending with the violin’s symphony.

The duet piece was often used by pianists and violinists as a way to confess—a dreamy depiction of a lover’s intense longing and yearning. Yet, the two of them tacitly avoided mentioning it afterward. The piece was obviously an attempt to equivocate, hiding their intentions while revealing them at the same time.

Since that day, Alastor and Lucifer were inseparable. They would always be within at least five meters of each other. Their silent companionship and fleeting, undisguised glances couldn’t conceal the things that were meant to be spoken aloud.

Alastor and Lucifer then decided to sign up for an upcoming duet competition. They were more or less in sync in whatever they did. Their musicality had long fused into one, showcasing absolute harmony in their melodies.

That day, Lucifer was stuck at the stairs, his body trembling as he held his violin in a death grip. The scene of the explosion—the concert hall crumbling into a pile of debris, the crimson hell engraved into his vision before he lost his sight—replayed over and over in his mind. Lucifer attempted to breathe, to calm himself, but the familiarity of the concert hall made him remember. Again and again.

A hand suddenly cupped his cheeks, the warmth from it gradually pulling him back to reality. His confused mind and trembling body stilled, like a peaceful lake settling after a storm. He held the hand—it was slender, with distinct joints—and Lucifer subtly caressed Alastor's fingers, smiling faintly as he said, “Thank you, Al.”

Alastor was silent as he stared at Lucifer, though his hand trembled ever so slightly. “I should’ve bought a heating pad,” he muttered.

Lucifer laughed. “You actually learned how to joke?” His voice was tinged with amusement as all the tension left his body.

“I learned from you,” Alastor whispered. His hand slowly let go, hesitating, as if reluctant to part.

That night, without a doubt, they won. Alastor and Lucifer won, with resounding applause and flowers decorating their steps.

That very same night, they sat by the same fountain. Alastor patiently described the stars—their positions, the constellations he could make out—while Lucifer silently listened. The two trophies sat quietly between them, their golden gleam seeming to replicate the sparkle of the stars, as if representing a prelude of another journey.

“Hey…” Lucifer suddenly spoke, his voice lower than usual.

Alastor stopped speaking and turned to him, his brows furrowing slightly in confusion.

“What do you think of me?” Lucifer asked after much deliberation.

Alastor froze at the question, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. His face was tinged with red.

“You’re my perfect pitch,” Alastor whispered, his voice almost blending into the wind. His nervousness was apparent—the way his lips pursed, his brows knitting into a frown—almost looking comical as he tried to fix his expression.

Lucifer smiled and breathed a sigh of relief. His voice was tinged with shyness as he replied, “You better keep it that way.”

Alastor nodded subconsciously but then stared at Lucifer in confusion before gradually realizing what he meant. He brought a hand to cover his lips, unable to suppress the wide smile forming on his face.

They sat there, deep into the night, with nothing but themselves—the echoes of the wind and the twinkling of stars as their only witnesses. No audience bore witness to the veiled confession that Lucifer had, for the first time, ever made.

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Idk about my score on this one but i guess you guys will be my judges now...🤧

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