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Zanka’s floating. It’s peaceful here. Dark, and quiet. A big contrast from how it was before. Others may call it depressing or boring, but Zanka found the lack of everything to be calming– a reset to his brain, letting him catch up with how he’s feeling without having to process a shit ton of external stimuli.
He just floats along, light as a feather. Everything in here feels light as a feather. The expectations, and the eyes of everyone around him don’t weigh him down here. Only in the darkness of his own mind is he safe from the world.
He isn’t able to think. He is only able to drift around Aimlessly, waiting for something to drag him back down.
“ –anka?”
The air seems to get thicker. Resistance slows him down. Some of the feeling returns to him, and he reflexes a muscle experimentally. It’s a challenge through the numbness, but he thinks he’s able to twitch a finger. That’s disappointing. He would stay like this just a tad longer if he could.
“Zanka!”
Zanka startles awake so quickly he bashes the back of his head into the scroll of the cello he’s laying on, face propped in the crevice between the neck and the body. The sound reverberates through the instrument, and also through his head. The second thing he feels is a small trail of drool down his chin. Euyck. That’s disgusting. He’s not even that much of a drooler. Of course it manages to happen when he’s propped up against an expensive-ass instrument. The only lucky thing about this is that he manages to scrub it off with his sleeve before it makes it to the wood.
He blinks, assaulted by colors. Shuts his eyes again. Please, god, just let him sleep. Is that too much to ask for? He did this to himself after he decided to stay up until 4 in the morning to catch up on a podcast.
It’s a miracle the cello didn’t fall over when he oh-so-gracefully fell asleep on top of it. Subconsciously, he’s wrapped around it like an octopus. His left leg and arm ‘round the front were enough to keep it from tumbling away despite the rest of his body pushing it from the other side. That’s a relief. He’s not looking to spend $10,000 to replace his lovely musical companion just because he was feeling a bit tired.
Zanka still can’t believe how he managed to conk out in– he looks around– the middle of rehearsal. The entire cello section and then some is staring at him. Ms. Semiu, the director, raises an eyebrow.
His eyes darted to his stand. His music folder isn’t even open, and he can’t even blame it on his stand partner because she’s not here today. She has an audition for something a lot bigger than this. Funny, Zanka thinks bitterly, that he can remember that but not even what he was supposed to be playing right now.
His Lovely Assistbow is laid across the stand. At least she wasn’t damaged, and past Zanka had the foresight to put her down before he dropped her, or something. She was his lucky bow. He could play with others, sure, but he played best with her.
He drags his eyes back up to Ms. Semiu, still groggily blinking the sleep out of his eyes. The expression on her face is one he struggles to figure out in his half-conscious state. A dash of annoyance, a splash of impatience, and dare he say a bit of concern.
She moves slowly from her conductor’s platform.
“Zanka?” she asks. Her voice just makes him sleepy again.
“Sorry,” he slurs. His mouth feels full of cotton. Why is he so tired? Sure, he was up late, but it’s not like that’s a new thing.
“Are you alright?” she asks, waving off his apology. Ms. Semiu was never one to mess around. She was straight to the point and direct, she never liked to beat around the bush with fake smiles and gentle words. Zanka could appreciate that about her.
“‘M fine,” he insists, starting to flip through his binder. Shit. What piece are they running right now? “I just fell asleep for a moment, and that’s on me.”
All of the music looks the same. Classical titles were annoying in that way. He’s too tired to remember which piece is which. He pretends to flip through still, just so Semiu doesn’t think he’s slacking off again.
“Fell asleep?” peeps a voice from Zanka’s right. He looks over, and recognizes a guy named Follo. They’ve never talked, but he recognizes him from some of his classes. Follo’s the first violist, and was passionate about it to a fault. Zanka didn’t pay much attention to the rivalries within the orchestra, but Follo is very vocal about the importance of violas. Zanka agreed. He knew viola slander was a big joke in the music community, but he never understood it. They added an important layer to the sound. If anything, they were overshadowed in writing and had a lot more potential if composers bothered to give them more interesting parts.
Anyway, Follo’s still talking. “It looked more like you fainted, man. Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks. The way he inserts himself into the conversation is annoying, but Zanka can tell he means well. It still doesn’t mean he has to put up with it.
“I’m fine,” he insists again, stronger. He grabs his Lovely Assistbow, bow hold perfect and practiced. It’s not even tightened enough.
Ms. Semiu hums thoughtfully. It’s almost the exact pitch of A440, the pitch standard they used to tune at the beginning of rehearsal. Zanka wonders if that’s on purpose, or if it’s just something she does subconsciously.
“Perhaps you should go and check in with the nurse,” she suggests after a moment. Zanka bristles.
“I apologize for falling asleep, Miss, but I’m ready to play now.”
She sighs, and Zanka holds back a wince. She sounds so… disappointed. “Mr. Nijiku, I’m not asking you. I would like you to get checked in with the nurse. Even if you are just tired, there’s no harm in making sure. Better safe than sorry, yes?”
Zanka breathes out, trying to expel some of the tension from his shoulders without coming off as too upset.
“...Alright.” He agrees, because like he said: Ms. Semiu didn’t like to beat around the bush.
The room is uncharacteristically quiet as he stands up. He holds his cello in one shaky hand, and his binder and bow in the other. He forgot to put the endpin up before he started moving. Shit. Zanka has to hoist the instrument up even higher to avoid scraping it against the floor.
The moment he’s out of sight, people start breathing again. The quiet clacks of wood and people shuffling around. He locates his case and lays the cello down as gently as he can. All of the motions come easily to him. He’s been playing since he was three, after all. Lovely Assistbow fits snuggly in as the final piece, and he zips it up.
Zanka stands and–
Fuck! He stands up way too quickly, and almost immediately falls back over. His head is swimming, and he has to sway in place for a moment to regain his bearings. God, he’s glad no one can see him back here behind the curtains.
Zanka huffs, and slings his cello over one shoulder. He doesn’t bother with the other strap. He needs that arm to hold his bag anyway. It’s a messenger bag, gifted to him by his older sister all those years ago when they were still close. The color was nice, and it held up well. He didn’t see a reason to replace it, so he didn’t. It holds all of his belongings for the day just fine.
He drags his feet out of the music building, and pulls his phone out of his pocket to double check where the nurse was. He hasn’t had to go down there at all yet. Muffled music reaches him in the doorway, and he has to fight not to turn around and go sit back down. If she was here, Hyo would never let him hear the end of this.
Zanka sighs.
Oh well.