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Agatha Harkness was three measures into breaking down the structure of Toccata and Fugue in D Minor when it happened.
A thump.
Then a crash.
Then bass, vibrating, unapologetic, rolling through the walls like thunder in a cathedral.
Her chalk halted mid-air. The room vibrated faintly.
She turned, slowly, as if sheer will might make the intrusion stop.
It didn’t.
The bass surged. Her jaw locked.
The students stared at her, then toward the wall. Someone stifled a laugh.
Agatha set the chalk down with all the restraint of a woman resisting arson. Then, she walked out.
Across the hallway, the doors to Studio 4 were flung wide open, because of course they were. She stepped inside to find chaos.
Students circled in loose formation, a tangle of guitars, drums, and keyboards. A haze of sound and adrenaline. And at the center, naturally: Rio Vidal.
Perched on an amp, boots kicked out in front of her, guitar slung low across her lap. She looked like she’d rolled out of bed and into a battle of the bands, and won.
“STOP,” Agatha snapped.
The music died instantly.
Students froze like they'd just been caught committing an academic crime.
Rio turned, slowly, blinking at her like she’d just noticed weather.
“Well, if it isn’t the Grand Inquisitor,” she drawled.
Agatha didn’t blink. “Some of us are attempting to teach. If it’s not too much trouble, could you and your band of delinquents kindly keep the hellish vibrations to a minimum?”
One of the bassists giggled. Rio smirked.
“Maestra,” she said mockingly, placing a hand over her chest. “You wound me. Music is meant to travel.”
Agatha folded her arms. “Yes, but ideally not through reinforced walls.”
Rio stood, slow and easy, like the confrontation was just another part of rehearsal. Her guitar remained slung at her side like a weapon she hadn’t decided to use yet.
“You know, I read somewhere Bach was considered radical in his time,” Rio mused. “You might be confusing structure with stagnation.”
Agatha arched one eyebrow with surgical precision. “And you might be confusing volume with emotion.”
A few students whispered behind their hands. Someone mouthed, “Are they gonna kiss or kill each other?”
Rio grinned. “Can’t wait for the fan edits.”
“Back to class,” Agatha said sharply, pivoting.
As she turned, her eyes flicked upward, just long enough to catch Lilia Calderu, standing behind her office window like a specter of war, at witness to their constant battles.
Mug in hand.
Perfectly still.
Watching.
And sipping tea.
Their cold war had only escalated from that moment onward.
Once, Agatha had pushed open the conservatory’s reserved practice room door and immediately froze.
Rio was already inside.
Agatha’s jaw clenched. She lifted a neatly folded slip of paper between two fingers.
“I reserved this room,” she said crisply.
Rio didn’t look up. She was tuning her guitar, calm as a monk, smug as the devil.
“And I got here first. That’s called initiative.”
“This is a professional institution, not the Hellfest.”
Rio finally glanced up, expression angelic. “You say that like they’re different.”
Agatha’s nostrils flared. She stepped inside anyway, boots clicking in protest against the tile.
“You left sheets on a radiator.”
“I call it ambient storage.”
“Your amp is literally humming in B minor.”
“It’s called a mood.” Rio grinned. “Maybe you should try it sometime.”
Agatha opened her mouth, probably to deliver a lecture sharp enough to re-tune the entire orchestra, when a quiet voice drifted in from the cracked doorway.
Lilia Calderu.
She was holding her tea like it was sacred. Watching like it was sport.
“You two should really try couples counseling,” she said lightly, and vanished down the hallway without waiting for a response.
Rio raised a brow. “She ships it.”
Agatha’s fingers twitched. “She’s delusional.”
Rio tilted her head. “So are you, if you think I’m moving.”
Agatha crossed to the piano, slid a stack of Rio’s haphazard notes off the bench, and sat down with surgical precision.
She cracked her knuckles. “Fine. We’ll both play. I’ll correct you as we go.”
Rio grinned wider. “Aggressive duet. Hot.”
Agatha didn’t respond. But the way her fingers hit the keys, sharp, flawless, merciless, was answer enough.
Another time, Agatha stood at the department’s espresso machine, jabbing the button with increasing fury.
The machine let out a long, pitiful groan and did absolutely nothing.
“Unbelievable,” she muttered.
Behind her, a familiar clack of boots approached, followed by the unmistakable slosh of ice in a plastic cup.
Rio.
Of course.
She sidled up next to Agatha with all the self-satisfaction of someone who’d never had to wait for caffeine a day in her life. Her iced coffee was already half-drained and offensively loud, every sip punctuated by a clatter of cubes.
“She’s temperamental,” Rio said, gesturing at the machine like it was a misunderstood artist. “You’ve gotta sweet-talk her.”
Agatha didn’t look at her. “It’s a machine.”
Rio leaned in just slightly, voice lower now. “So are you. Sometimes.”
Agatha turned to her slowly. “I’m sorry—what did you just say?”
“I said,” Rio replied innocently, “ you need caffeine . Don’t bite me.”
Agatha’s eyes narrowed to slits. “You are so—”
“Charming? Irresistible?” Rio sipped her iced coffee with a wink. The straw made a rude little squeak.
“I was going to say unbearable.”
At that moment, Lilia appeared behind them like a ghost conjured by sarcasm and suffering. She didn’t stop walking. Just grabbed her teacup from the shelf, gave them both a once-over, and said mildly:
“Tension’s thicker than a V chord.”
And then she was gone again.
Rio leaned her elbows on the counter, smug. “Told you she ships it.”
Agatha finally gave up on the espresso machine and walked off, muttering something in what sounded suspiciously like Latin.
Rio grinned at her retreating back. “I’ll translate that as a maybe.”
The last push to Agatha’s nerves happened at the school board.
The school board was supposed to be neutral ground.
Agatha stood in front of it, arms crossed, jaw tight, staring at the two syllabi side by side like they were dueling manifestos.
Hers: crisp serif font, color-coded weeks, clearly defined objectives. Twelve-point spacing. Even the staples looked ironed.
Next to it: chaos in Sharpie.
Rio’s was scrawled on recycled paper, complete with doodles of violins wearing sunglasses, several rogue exclamation marks, and a barely legible promise of a “skatepark soundscape immersion, week 7 — helmets optional, emotional vulnerability required.”
Agatha squinted. “What is this.”
Rio appeared behind her like a summoned spell, coffee in one hand, the other casually braced against the board.
“Art,” she said.
Agatha didn’t blink. “You listed ‘jam therapy’ next to ‘historical improvisation theory.’”
Rio took a slow sip. “Balance.”
“There’s a hand-drawn trumpet giving a thumbs up.”
“He has a name,” Rio said solemnly. “Sir Doots-a-Lot.”
Agatha exhaled sharply through her nose. “This isn’t a workshop for musical camp counselors.”
“It’s a classroom,” Rio said lightly. “Where people are supposed to learn and feel, Aggie. You remember feeling, right? Vaguely? In the late nineties?”
Agatha’s head turned slowly. “If you call me Aggie again, I will file a formal complaint.”
“To who? Lilia?” Rio grinned. “She’s already printing the wedding invitations.”
As if summoned, Lilia approached from the hallway, balancing her tea and a stack of annotated librettos. She took one glance at the board, then calmly peeled the back off a bright pink sticky note and slapped it between the syllabi.
In neat cursive, it read:
“Enemies to lovers arc progressing. Pace: delightful.”
Agatha yanked it down without hesitation. “Unbelievable.”
“You’re welcome,” Lilia said, utterly unbothered. She walked off humming something suspiciously romantic.
Rio leaned closer, peering at Agatha’s syllabus. “Wait—do you have a whole section on counterpoint analysis in 17th-century—oh my god.”
Agatha lifted her chin. “It’s called rigor.”
Rio nodded solemnly. “It’s called a nap.”
Agatha narrowed her eyes. “You are the reason I drink.”
Rio grinned. “And yet I’m still not listed in your acknowledgments. Tragic.”
A first-year walked by, glanced at the board, and whispered, “They’re totally in love.”
Agatha turned and hissed. “We’re not.”
Rio, without looking away from her, smirked. “Yet.”
The meeting wasn’t on anyone’s calendar.
That was the first warning.
The second was the summoning itself, delivered via faculty email, subject line: “Come. Now. ”
Agatha arrived first, because of course she did. She sat rigid in one of the oversized velvet chairs in Wanda’s office, arms folded, heels crossed neatly, already regretting everything.
Rio showed up two minutes late, iced coffee in hand, combat boots tracking in something that may have been glitter.
“Wow,” she said, eyeing the decor. “Is this an office or a haunted parlor?”
Wanda didn’t look up from her desk. “Sit.”
Agatha didn’t glance at her. “You’re late.”
Rio plopped into the seat beside her with all the grace of a dropped guitar case. “You’re early. Again. We all have flaws.”
“Mine is professionalism.”
“Mine is charm.”
Wanda closed her folder with the kind of finality that could end worlds.
“Enough,” she said, calmly. “You two are opening the end of the year concerto.”
A beat of silence.
Agatha blinked. “Excuse me?”
Rio choked on her coffee. “Come again?”
Wanda leveled them both with the look of a woman who’d watched planets die and come back bitterer. “The board wants buzz. The donors want novelty. The students want chaos. Congratulations, you’re all three.”
Agatha leaned forward. “Surely someone else could—”
“No,” Wanda said flatly.
Rio raised a hand. “Hypothetically, if we refused—”
“You won’t,” Wanda said, voice like velvet over steel. “Because I’ve seen what happens when you’re forced to share a stage, and it’s the only time this school has ever gone viral for something other than a budget scandal or a cello on fire.”
Agatha muttered, “That cello was an accident.”
Rio added, “And a metaphor.”
Wanda continued. “You will collaborate. You will open the concerto. And you will not make me regret this.”
Agatha sighed. “Fine. We do Bach.”
“Vivaldi,” she corrected.
“Metallica,” Rio said at the same time.
They turned to glare at each other like dueling conductors about to start a fistfight.
“I’m not opening with Metallica,” Agatha snapped. “This is a concerto, not a midlife crisis in leather.”
Rio leaned forward, resting her chin in her hand. “And I’m not playing Vivaldi like we’re in a perfume commercial.”
“Vivaldi is a master of seasonal narrative.”
“Metallica is a master of existential dread. It’s a tie.”
Agatha narrowed her eyes. “Your students don’t even read music.”
“Yours don’t know how to breathe unless it’s in 4/4 time.”
“Structure is not the enemy.”
“Neither is rhythm, Grandma.”
Agatha scoffed. “Says the woman who submitted a syllabus written in Sharpie and snack crumbs.”
Rio grinned. “And still had a waitlist.”
Agatha turned to Wanda. “You want drama, fine. But I’m not shredding through ‘Enter Sandman’ or ‘Master of Puppets’ with a straight face.”
“Then we pick something both haunting and layered,” Rio countered. “You love dead composers. I love distorted guitars. Meet me halfway.”
“I’d rather meet a firing squad.”
Rio’s brows lifted. “There’s that charm again.”
Agatha muttered under her breath, “It’s like arguing with a dead corpse.”
Rio didn’t miss a beat. “How about Chopin’s Funeral March , then?”
Wanda clapped once. Sharp. Decisive.
“Brilliant. Do that. Modernize it.”
Agatha’s head snapped toward her. “You’re not serious.”
Rio blinked. “Wait—no, I was joking.”
“Too late,” Wanda said, already scribbling something on her notepad. “It’s poetic. It’s dramatic. It’s you.”
Agatha stood. “You can’t open a student concerto with that.”
“You can if you rework it,” Wanda replied. “Give it tension. Give it texture. Give it you two.”
Rio pointed at Agatha. “She’s going to try and make it baroque.”
Agatha pointed back. “She’s going to try and add drums.”
“Absolutely I am,” Rio grinned.
Wanda didn’t look up. “You’ll figure it out. Or you’ll implode. Either way, it’ll be unforgettable.”
“We’re not doing this,” Agatha said firmly.
Wanda opened the door.
“You are.”
They both just stared at her.
“Go on,” she said sweetly. “Bond. Arrange. Practice. Bicker in harmony.”
“No escape?” Rio asked, hopeful.
“None,” Wanda said, smiling. “And don’t forget: this is for the children.”
Agatha exhaled through her teeth. Rio saluted.
As they walked out, Agatha muttered, “You’re not laying one finger on the strings.”
Rio winked. “I’ll bring my distortion pedal.”
Wanda closed the door behind them, leaned back in her chair, and smirked like the witch she was.
Then, to no one in particular, “They’re going to fight all the way to the downbeat.”
And maybe, just maybe, that’s exactly what she was counting on.
The rehearsal studio looked like a battlefield: cello cases open like fallen shields, amps buzzing faintly in the background, sheet music strewn across the piano like the aftermath of a paper blizzard.
Agatha stood hands clenched at her sides.
Rio, naturally, was perched on an amp with a pair of drumsticks twirling between her fingers and the devil’s own grin.
Agatha’s voice was dangerously level. “You came in five beats early.”
Rio tapped her sticks together. “You dragged the tempo like it was a coffin.”
“It’s a funeral march, Rio. The mood is deliberate.”
“And funereal. You’re turning it into a requiem.”
“It is a requiem.”
“Exactly. Which is why it needs guts. Kick drum. Maybe some reverb. A little chaos.”
Agatha rubbed her temples like she was trying to massage out a migraine, and possibly her entire soul.
“We’re meant to honor the original composition, not commit sonic homicide.”
Rio pushed off the amp and strolled to the piano, leaning across it just enough to be annoying. “You keep saying honor. What you mean is obey. You want the music to kneel and behave.”
“And you want it to scream and bleed.”
Rio flashed a grin. “Now that’s music.”
They tried again, Agatha on piano, Rio on drums.
The result sounded like Beethoven’s ghost being exorcised through a dishwasher.
A long, painful chord clanged into an accidental cymbal crash, followed by a grim silence.
Agatha lifted her hands slowly off the keys. “Well,” she said tightly, “that was an act of violence.”
Rio dropped her sticks. “I’ll admit… that was not my finest blend.”
“Your finest blend,” Agatha echoed, “shouldn’t feel like an audio crime scene.”
Rio tossed her drumsticks onto the stool with a clatter. “At least I’m trying something new. You’re just embalming the past and calling it integrity.”
Agatha stood, slow and precise, like she was resisting the urge to throw something, possibly the piano. “I’m respecting a composition that has survived centuries for a reason. You want to stitch an 808 track under it like it’s a TikTok remix.”
Rio threw up her hands. “God forbid we make something people actually feel.”
“Oh, they’ll feel it,” Agatha snapped. “Right before they file a noise complaint.”
Rio blinked. Once. Then grabbed her leather jacket off the back of a chair.
“Okay. I’m done.”
Agatha folded her arms. “Oh, how mature. Storming off because someone finally said no to one of your terrible ideas.”
Rio paused at the door, jaw tight. “You don’t want a collaboration, Agatha. You want a solo with backup.”
“Better than turning Chopin into a garage band fever dream.”
Rio opened the door. “Enjoy your funeral, maestra.”
And then she was gone, boots echoing down the hall.
Agatha let out a sharp breath through her nose and turned back to the piano like she could wring logic from the keys.
Behind the glass window of the control booth, Lilia sipped her tea and didn’t bother hiding her smirk.
“Progress,” she said aloud to no one. “Emotional carnage is still a form of collaboration.”
It was past midnight when Agatha's phone lit up on her nightstand.
New voice message – Rio Vidal (0:48)
She stared at it for a full minute, debating. Then again. Then, tap.
A low hum of static. Then: guitar strings, soft at first, then unfurling into a riff that traced the opening bars of Chopin’s Funeral March. Slowed down. Twisted slightly. Still mournful, but electric now, haunted in a way that felt intentional.
A breath. Not part of the music, just Rio exhaling at the end. Like she’d held it in the whole time.
No words. Just music.
Agatha lay back on her pillows, phone still in hand, the screen dimming slowly.
She didn’t reply.
But she listened to it again.
And again.
By the fourth time, her hand had drifted to the sheet music stacked beside her bed.
By the seventh, she was marking something on the margin.
By the tenth, she still hadn’t texted back.
But when she finally fell asleep, the riff was still looping behind her eyes.
They traded ideas like chess moves. Agatha’s violin threading a melancholic melody over Rio’s bass. Cello syncing up with a synth pad Rio had layered through her laptop.
The air in the rehearsal studio was full with sound and tentative hope.
Agatha played an hesitant rhythm on the piano keys, testing the waters. Rio followed on the drums, grounding the melody in something fierce yet familiar.
They exchanged a few quick glances, an unspoken question hanging between them.
“You think it needs more tension here?” Rio asked, nodding toward Agatha.
Agatha frowned, then nodded slowly. “Yes, but not too much. It has to hold its sorrow, not drown in chaos.”
Rio grinned. “I’ll keep it brooding, then. No mosh pit.”
Agatha rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the smile creeping up. “Good. Because I’m not ready to be a headbanger just yet.”
They tried layering the cello again, this time with the synth pulsing softly beneath it. The notes hesitated, clashing briefly, then found a fragile harmony.
Rio leaned back, exhaling. “Okay, that… that actually works.”
Agatha relaxed against the piano, fingers lingering. “I’m surprised.”
Rio shrugged. “Don’t get used to it.”
For a moment, the music filled the space between them, weaving something new out of old differences. The bickering had softened into something that felt like collaboration, like maybe, just maybe, they were building something neither could do alone.
A few days later, Agatha stood by the grand piano, her fingers just above the keys.
She took a deep breath and began to sing, a haunting, clear melody that wound through the room like a delicate thread.
Her voice carried the weight of years of disciplined training, each note precise and soulful.
She didn’t even realize Rio had slipped into the studio until the very last note hung in the air.
Rio was perched against the far wall, arms crossed, eyes closed, letting the music wash over her like a secret only she was privy to.
The space between them crackled with energy, Agatha’s voice trembled, revealing a rare vulnerability she rarely let surface, Rio silent but utterly captivated.
The silence stretched before Rio finally opened her eyes, a slow smile creeping on her face. “That was… unexpected.”
Agatha’s fingers froze on the piano keys, her heart skipping a beat. “You’re here?”
Rio shrugged, casual but her gaze was anything but. “I could say the same. You’ve got layers, Harkness.”
Agatha’s lips twitched, a mixture of surprise and something warmer that she didn’t quite want to name. “I didn’t think you’d sit still long enough to listen.”
“Maybe I’m learning,” Rio said, voice low. “Or maybe I’m just waiting for my turn.”
Agatha raised an eyebrow, wary but intrigued.
Rio stood, stepping closer, the air between them charged. “Ever tried something a little less… refined? Something raw.”
Agatha’s curiosity flickered beneath her usual control. “Like what?”
Rio grinned, pulling out her phone. “Fry scream. Just once. I’ll teach you.”
Agatha hesitated, then nodded, surprising herself.
As Rio demonstrated the guttural sound, a controlled growl that seemed to release everything held tight, Agatha took a breath, ready to try.
The first attempt was a wheezy squeak, wildly off-key and entirely ungraceful.
Instead of scorn, Rio laughed, warm, genuine, and something inside Agatha cracked, laughing with her, free and easy.
“Okay,” Rio teased, “maybe not opera, but you’re definitely not dead yet.”
Agatha wiped a tear from the corner of her eye, still chuckling. “I’m going to have to practice that a lot.”
Rio leaned closer, eyes sparkling with mischief. “You’ll get it. But only if you stop taking yourself so seriously.”
Agatha shot her a sideways glance. “And what would you know about that?”
“Plenty,” Rio said with a smirk. “Like how sometimes the best music comes from breaking all the rules.”
Agatha felt a flutter she didn’t want to name but couldn’t ignore. “Maybe you’re not entirely hopeless as a teacher.”
Rio’s grin softened. “High praise coming from you.”
They stood there for a moment, the space between them warmer now, less guarded.
Finally, Rio tapped her phone again. “Think you can keep up?”
Agatha squared her shoulders, a spark lighting in her eyes. “Try me.”
The challenge hung between them, but for once, it wasn’t about who won or lost. It was about the music, and maybe something else, quietly beginning to grow.
That night, the practice room felt different.
The usually harsh lights were dimmed, replaced by the soft glow of a single desk lamp in the corner of the room.
The scent of the Thai food they had ordered and shared lingering between them like a small, unexpected, oasis in the middle of their cold war of wills.
Agatha sat cross-legged on the floor, carefully picking at a piece of sticky rice, her usual rigid posture eased just enough to hint at relaxation.
Rio leaned back against the wall opposite her, a half-empty beer resting loosely in her hand, eyes reflecting the faint flicker of the lamp.
For a moment, neither spoke. The room was filled only with the gentle scraping of chopsticks and the quiet city hum filtering through the cracked window.
Then, Rio broke the silence.
“So,” she said softly, voice rough like gravel, “tell me, why all the rules? Your syllabus, your lectures... everything’s so damn precise. Like you’re scared the music’s gonna fall apart if it’s not perfect.”
Agatha’s eyes flicked up, surprised by the question, and then she sighed. She set down her chopsticks and stared at the floor, collecting her thoughts.
“It’s… complicated. I didn’t grow up in a calm place. My home was loud, unpredictable. Arguments, chaos everywhere. Music was the only thing I could control, an anchor. If I kept the rhythm steady, kept the notes in line, it felt like I could hold everything else together.”
Rio’s gaze softened. “Sounds like you built a fortress out of your music.”
Agatha smiled faintly, a shadow crossing her face. “Yeah. A pretty damn tall fortress.”
Rio shifted, taking a slow sip of her beer before speaking again.
“I wasn’t that lucky. My world was spinning so fast, I had no choice but to scream if I didn’t wanted to it break down.”
Her eyes met Agatha’s then, steady and open, like she was laying down a piece of herself for the first time.
“Music saved me too. But for me, it was the noise, the chaos, the screaming, it wasn’t about control. It was about escape. About letting all that mess out.”
Agatha’s expression softened, and she nodded slowly. “I guess we’re just opposite sides of the same coin. You let it all out, I keep it all in.”
“Maybe that’s why this is such a mess,” Rio said, a slow grin tugging at her lips. “You build your walls, I try to tear them down.”
For a moment, they were quiet again, eyes locked. The air between them thickened, charged with something unspoken but undeniable. The bickering, the sarcasm, the sharp edges, they all softened in this shared silence.
Agatha looked down at her hands, then back up at Rio, voice barely above a whisper. “You think there’s a middle ground? Somewhere between screaming and silence?”
Rio’s grin faded into something quieter, almost vulnerable. “Yeah. Maybe we find it together.”
Agatha’s breath caught. They stared at each other too long, her heart beating faster than it should. The tension simmered between them, electric and dangerous.
Rio reached out slowly, brushing a stray lock of hair from Agatha’s face. The touch was light, tentative, but it sent a shock through them both.
Agatha’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment. When she opened them again, there was something different, something softer.
Neither spoke. Neither moved.
In that suspended moment, the fragile line between rivalry and something more blurred completely.
The clock above the practice room door ticked past midnight, unnoticed. Sheet music littered the floor like fallen leaves, empty coffee cups balanced precariously on amps and music stands.
Agatha’s fingers danced across the piano, precise, deliberate, yet tinged with something raw. Across from her, Rio sat on her stool, sticks in hand, coaxing a heartbeat out of the drums. Strings swelled from the speakers, a ghostly echo of Chopin threading through the storm.
It shouldn’t have worked. But it did.
The funeral march had become something else, bolder, sharper, alive. Classical bones wrapped in modern muscle. Agatha struck the final key just as Rio let her last cymbal crash fade into the silence.
They didn’t speak.
Just breathed.
Their eyes met over the distance between piano bench and drum kit, both a little stunned.
Rio exhaled first, half a grin on her lips. “Well, damn.”
Agatha didn’t smile, not quite, but her mouth softened. “That… wasn’t terrible.”
Rio stood, slow, rolling her shoulders. “High praise.”
Agatha stepped closer. “Your tempo still slips on the third phrase.”
“And your left-hand is overcompensating.”
But it was teasing now, not war.
Agatha stood, hands on the edge of the piano, chest rising and falling with the echo of their final note still clinging to the walls.
The room had gone still again, not the kind of stillness that followed failure, but the kind that came with something finished. Something real.
Across from her, Rio wiped her palms on the thighs of her jeans, gaze flicking from the drum kit to Agatha like she didn’t quite trust that it was over. Or maybe she didn’t want it to be.
The tension between them had changed shape. Not gone, just… refracted. Softer at the edges. Sharper in the middle.
Agatha stepped forward without thinking, her fingers reaching instinctively toward the rumpled collar of Rio’s shirt. It had twisted sideways, half from motion, half from the gravity-defying way Rio always seemed to exist like she didn’t care what shape the world expected her to take.
She smoothed the fabric with the kind of care she usually reserved for ancient manuscripts or concert programs. Her hand brushed Rio’s neck, warm skin, damp with effort, heartbeat steady beneath it.
A slight shiver ran through Rio, almost imperceptible, like her body registered the contact before she had the words for it.
Agatha felt it.
So did Rio.
Neither said a thing.
For a moment, they stood too close for plausible deniability. The lamp threw a golden line across Rio’s jaw and lit up the flecks in her eyes; hazel, Agatha realized. Not brown. Not really. Something wilder.
The air between them thickened, like it had decided breathing was optional.
Agatha could feel her pulse behind her ribs, loud and distracting. Her fingers hovered just a second too long before she caught herself.
She dropped her hand. Stepped back. Let the moment fall with her.
But not entirely.
Her voice, when it came, was softer than she meant it to be. “We should… go over the ending again.”
Rio tilted her head. Studied her. Not with smugness. Not with triumph.
Just that same unreadable quiet she’d had since the first rehearsal. Like she was waiting for Agatha to decide something for herself.
“Yeah,” Rio said, nodding once. “Sure.”
But she didn’t turn away.
And Agatha, exhausted, disarmed, high on harmony and something she wouldn’t name, didn’t ask her to.
She stood there, looking at the woman she’d once called chaos in leather, and realized, undeniably, that maybe chaos had a rhythm.
And maybe, just maybe, she’d stopped minding it.
The grand auditorium thrummed with anticipation, velvet seats filled with parents, faculty, press, and curious onlookers. Whispers stilled as the lights dimmed, casting the audience in shadow and bathing the stage in a soft, anticipatory glow.
At the grand piano sat Agatha, composed as a sculpture, draped in deep plum silk that caught the light like dusk. Her spine was a perfect line of discipline, fingers already resting on the keys like they belonged there.
Across from her, Rio settled at the drum kit, black blazer shrugged on over a vintage band tee, sleeves rolled up, ripped jeans a casual defiance. Her fingers spun a drumstick absentmindedly, but her eyes were laser-sharp, locked in.
Behind them, the fusion ensemble stood ready, violins beside electric guitars, cello players seated next to synth rigs and in the back a MacBook running orchestral patches. An improbable orchestra of classical precision and modern chaos. Somehow, united.
After a breath the stage lights went dark.
Then: one piano note.
Clear, resonant. The opening toll of Chopin’s Funeral March, familiar and weighted. Each note after it fell like a bell through fog. The hall held its breath.
Then, a deep, unexpected bassline dropped beneath it.
The air shifted.
Rio’s drums entered like a war cry, not loud, but pulsing, steady, alive.
The piano theme twisted, unraveled, then reformed as something new, still mournful, but now defiant.
The strings rose. The synths shimmered. A cello slid into dissonance before finding harmony with a wailing electric guitar.
Tension and release. Classical merged with metal, grief turned anthem.
The march breathed. Lived.
Agatha’s hands danced across the keys, precise and fluid. Rio played like the kit was part of herself, expression and rhythm the same thing. They glanced at each other once, just once.
And locked in.
They weren’t fighting anymore.
They were playing .
The final note held, suspended in silence, like a heartbeat that didn’t want to stop.
And then, applause.
An eruption.
The room came alive, rising to its feet, cheers echoing off marble and velvet.
The students onstage glowed with relief and pride, some even tearing up, bows raised in the air. Rio stood and gave a mock bow, flashing a crooked grin. Agatha stayed seated a beat longer, then stood slowly. Her smile was small, almost reluctant.
But her fingers trembled.
Not from nerves.
From feeling.
She glanced once toward Rio.
Rio was already looking back.
They exited the stage as the students stepped forward, now carrying the next piece in the concerto with bright eyes and elevated energy. The spotlight shifted, but Agatha and Rio lingered just offstage, bathed in the golden spill of sidelights, hearts still pounding from the performance.
The applause faded behind them, replaced by the softer swell of strings beginning the next movement. It was quiet. Cool. The rush of the stage gave way to stillness.
Agatha stopped first, turning halfway to glance back toward the stage. Her hand brushed the velvet curtain as if reluctant to let go of the moment.
“That actually worked,” she murmured, voice softer than she'd meant.
Rio chuckled low in her throat. “Worked? We just resurrected Chopin and gave him a distortion pedal.”
Agatha shot her a look, but it didn’t carry its usual edge. Her posture was looser now, silk falling gently around her frame, breath still a little uneven.
Rio leaned against the backstage wall, gaze never leaving Agatha. “You were incredible.”
Agatha didn’t respond right away. Instead, she looked at her, really looked. The sweat-darkened curls at Rio’s temple, the slight rasp in her voice from the performance, the fire in her eyes that hadn’t quite faded.
She meant to say something measured. Professional.
What came out was: “So were you.”
They stood there in the hush, the distant music continuing, softer now, background to the silence swelling between them. The charged kind. The kind that says more than dialogue ever could.
Agatha’s fingers twitched at her side. Rio’s hands were in her pockets, but her body leaned slightly forward, just enough to close part of the space between them.
Neither moved. Neither looked away.
The air had changed. Again. Heavier now. Warmer.
And still, they just stood.
One step closer, and it would be something else. Something irreversible.
Agatha drew in a breath, quiet but sharp. Her voice, when it came, was low. Almost a warning.
“We should… let them finish their set.”
Rio nodded, a hint of a smile tugging at her mouth. “Sure.”
But she didn’t step away.
And Agatha didn’t either.
The orchestra played on.
And the silence between them began to hum.
The music behind them swelled again, bright, bold, jubilant. It filled the auditorium, poured through the cracks in the backstage walls. But back here, time had thinned to a breath.
They stood in the corridor behind the curtains, inches apart. Neither had said a word since agreeing to "let the students finish." And yet, neither of them moved.
Agatha’s eyes were dark and unreadable, but softer than Rio had ever seen them. Her posture had dropped its rigid lines. The silk of her dress shifted with her shallow breaths, and for once, she wasn’t hiding behind precision.
Just standing there. Real.
Rio, hands still shoved in her pockets, tried to keep it casual. Failed miserably.
“You’re trembling,” she said, voice just above a whisper.
Agatha looked down at her fingers like she hadn’t noticed. “Adrenaline.”
“Or something else,” Rio offered.
The air between them went still again.
Agatha lifted her eyes to meet hers, steady this time, but something in them flickered. Something cautious. Something searching.
Rio took a breath. “Say something insulting. Tell me I’m a disaster. That I embarrassed Chopin’s ghost.”
Agatha didn’t smirk. Didn’t bite back.
Instead, she said, softly, “You were the best thing on that stage.”
Rio blinked. “Careful. That sounded dangerously close to a compliment.”
“It was,” Agatha said, almost surprised to admit it. “Don’t make me regret it.”
They both laughed, quiet, breathy, but the space between them was thinner now. Barely a sliver.
Rio leaned in, just slightly. “If I kissed you right now, would you hex me?”
Agatha’s lips twitched. “Probably.”
“Still worth it.”
She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.
Because Rio stepped forward, slow, deliberate, giving Agatha every second to move.
She didn’t.
The air between them buzzed with something volatile, unspoken and overdue.
The kind of tension that had built quietly, stubbornly, across late-night rehearsals and half-finished sentences. Across shared takeout containers and mismatched playlists. Across every too-long glance and near-touch and retreat.
Rio’s hand hovered, just barely, at Agatha’s waist. Not touching.
Just there. Present. Waiting.
And Agatha… didn't step back.
She should have. It would’ve been safer. Easier. The version of herself she used to be would’ve turned, deflected, shut it down with a sharp word and a colder stare.
But that version was fraying.
This Agatha stood still. Unsteady. But still.
Rio’s eyes flicked to hers once, as if asking. And Agatha, without a word, gave her answer in silence.
Their lips met, tentative at first. Then real.
It wasn’t dramatic. No sweeping soundtrack. No crashing crescendo. Just the hush of two people finally, finally closing the distance.
It was soft.
It was honest, like a confession said too quietly to take back.
And it was a release, of every argument that had hidden affection, every glare that masked curiosity, every long night that ended too soon.
This wasn’t for faculty gossip or student theories.
Not for appearances. Not for power plays.
Just them.
Soft. Honest. Delayed far too long.
Agatha’s fingers curled into Rio’s jacket. Rio’s hand found the small of her back.
And for a moment, time let them stay there, undisturbed, suspended.
When they finally pulled back, barely an inch between them, Agatha’s breath hitched.
“That was—” she started.
Rio grinned. “Don’t ruin it with a footnote.”
Agatha rolled her eyes. But she was smiling, too.
A slow clap echoed from the hallway.
They broke apart instantly, Agatha nearly stumbled, Rio stepped back like she’d been caught stealing.
Lilia leaned against the doorway, a paper cup of tea in one hand, utterly unbothered.
“Well,” she said, taking a sip. “Took you long enough.”
She turned on her heel and walked off, calling over her shoulder:
“Now kiss again, but with lighting this time, I have a camera crew on standby.”
Agatha buried her face in her hands. Rio just grinned.