Dragonfly's Nest -Pilot

Chapter 1

Morning rain showers the roof as the clock hits 6, officially marking it as his fifth consecutive sleepless night. He grunts, getting out of bed tiredly, his limbs loose and his head empty. October fifth. His first official day at the boarding school. Truth be told, he's quite nervous. Going to school, that is. It's not like he has any previous experience to base on and the thought of being pitched in a den full of faces he probably won't even remember is, frankly, scary. Especially considering how he didn't actually start the school year at the same time as the rest of the student body.

He stretches his arms above his head, cracking his joints. His body burns in mild soreness. It was just yesterday when he'd spent almost a full day in a small train, traveling what felt like halfway across the world. He takes his notebook out and goes to the page where October fourth is marked neatly atop the page.

Since a young age, he's always had memory troubles. It was never anything too serious, light even. At first, he would forget what he ate at lunch or even not remember what he did the previous day, until it got worse to the point of, at times, not being able to recall his own name, where he was, who he was, who his parents were, whether he even did have parents. For that, he always carries a notebook with him, a diary of sorts. One where he writes down everything he judges important or worth remembering or else risks forgetting most if not all of it in the span of a day at best and a few hours at worst. It's not that he can't remember anything per se, it's more so that most of his memories are always in a jumbled mess that he knows not to discern, while some, on the other hand, just disappears completely and permanently.

He supposes that's the main reason behind being sent to this boarding school. As a whole, the school was gigantic, castle-like even. The structure had that vintage feel, complimented by their uniforms seemingly taken right out of an 18th hundred boarding school movies. Ponds, rivers, and forests surround the building, further giving in further the feeling of being separated from the modern era. At times, it was possible for Léo to forget where he was, thinking he had just been transported in time. The boarding school was also located far away on a cliff, separated from the rest of the population and far, far away from the main city. It was supposed to have a 'richer' air and the seclusion was supposed to help him nurse his mind, not to mention the school's focus on creative expression is, what everyone hopes, to be beneficial in his treatment plan.

The school is one specialized in all forms of arts, their most popular departments being their music department, their visual arts, their theater department, and finally their dance department, he reads. It's not hard guessing which department he ended up in, he thinks as he eyes the bass clarinet sitting snugly on a cushion, right next to his bed. It's a three-year program. Students get to spend the whole year at the school, with exceptions being the holidays where they're allowed to travel back home to spend it with their family. He closes the diary, sighing. He doesn't remember much, if anything at all of the years leading up to his sixteenth birthday, the previous notebooks all burned or lost. Suddenly, he gets a brilliant idea.

He quickly picks up his bass clarinet, pushes his glasses up his nose, and rushes out the door. Class doesn't start for at least another hour but right now's the perfect time to watch the sunrise. The one thing he does remember without fault is playing his clarinet for the first time, the feel of the instrument beneath his fingers, how easy it was to carry a tune, and how natural it all felt. It was like he was born to do it, as if he exists purely to play his instrument. It was simply incredible, really. It's no wonder how it's the only memory he ever remembers perfectly without needing to write it down.

Léo makes his way across the campus, across the many gardens belonging to the school, and across the water fountains by the dozens until he finally reaches a small pond, directly below the rising Sun. It was beautiful, breathtaking even. The water was colored with the soft light rose of the morning sun, complemented by the natural blue of the pond as well as the swirl of yellow and orange and the majestic green of the surrounding woodland. The rain stopped not long ago, casting a mist to surround the place. It only added to the beauty of the pond, giving it a mysterious and eerie air. He sits on a bench, wet from the rain, gaze fixed on the view and his instrument case between his legs, too absorbed by the sight to sense the presence of another boy on the bench beside him until the said boy suddenly lets out a grunt of frustration.

Léo's head snaps to his right where, indeed, sits a dark-haired boy, notebook in one hand, the other tangled in his long strands. Above his head was a strange-looking umbrella, successful in its job of keeping the boy dry. Suddenly, he rips a page out, folding it into a neat paper dragonfly before carelessly throwing it aside without looking twice. He repeats the motion a couple of times more in the span of the next few minutes, loitering the scenery Léo has already called his. His fingers twitch, urging him to pick up the discarded pieces of paper and dispose of them correctly. Finally, he goes to pick one up, twirling it around in strange fascination now that it's in his hands. It's skillfully crafted, with neat edges and smooth lines, with not a single messy handwork in sight. Though, his bubble of fascination is soon popped when the boy turns to snap his head around, all but glaring at Léo. There goes the small ounce of respect he had for him.

"What are you doing?" He asks, tones hard and eyes narrowing.

"Uh. Picking up the paper. What else?" He shoots back, taken aback by the harsh tone.

The boy slaps the dragonfly out of his hands rather aggressively, picking it up again, coddling the paper closely afterward before returning his glare back to Léo. What a bloody weirdo. Slowly, Léo backs away, hands in the air as if the other boy was a wild animal ready to pounce at any given moment. He might as well be with how he's been acting. He sinks back in his own bench, still eying the other without breaking eye contact before his gaze starts to wander down, towards the folded paper once again. The grip on the notebook tightened and Léo shoots his gaze back up where fury seems to swim in the sky-blue eyes. Taking it as his cue to leave, Léo picks up his instrument case and tries his hardest to trace back his steps towards the main music campus.