#beruel

Term was technically out, but not for Berlioz. Berlioz was trying to actively not fail this term, actually.

See, with all the holiday drama, plus the compulsion night in November, plus Ber’s own sense of identify falling apart or whatever, he’d kind of gotten behind on...everything. He had a music portfolio to turn in in one of his final mixing classes and he’d missed just about every bench mark that he could. A week before the term was out, his instructor sat him down and Berlioz had no choice but to do something kind of shitty, ethically speaking, but nevertheless completely necessary: tell his instructor that he had just discovered he was a bastard child and his maman had fled the country and bla bla bla.

So he embellished, a little. But it had worked and his instructor’s eyes had kind of glazed over and gave him an extension on everything. (Hey, this fucking family drama needed to have some benefits, alright? And it wasn’t a lie, really; Berlioz had been unfocused all semester).

So yeah, he was back here trying to actually finish the portfolio so he would not fail this class. He had a deadline of before the new year so he really needed to bust his arse and make some music that was actually worth listening to.

Creating under pressure had always been Ber’s sweet spot, but he’d hit another wall and couldn’t concentrate because of some frosh down the way, who didn’t sound like he knew what he was doing at all. 

Now, Berlioz could just. Go home. Work in his private studio. But it was full of people still from the holidays. Even if they all left him alone, simply Kiara’s presence was loud. So he grimaced and pushed outta his seat, wandering down to another one of the studio pods where the noise was coming from. 

He knocked on the glass--then knocked harder-- then finally just opened the damn door because the bloke didn’t seem to hear him.

“Hey uh, you okay in here?”