The Piano Man (Iwaoi)

Chapter 1

        The people who had seen Tooru Oikawa play piano said that he could make you feel emotions you didn't know existed. They said that his clair de lune made you weep, his gymnopedie made you dream, his prelude in c-sharp minor made you tremble, his piano concerto in e-minor made you lose yourself in a world of music that captured your heart and your soul and your very existence. They said that when you're sitting in the back of the concert hall, desperate to rip your heart out and let the music surround it, you're dying to see his face when he plays, because you know that it can't be anything but breathtakingly beautiful. They said that even if you hate classical music, orchestras, concerts, music in general, he could make you love it, want it, need it.

        The people who had seen Tooru Oikawa play piano said that he could take your breath away with a single arpeggio—no, a single chord. Control your emotions, set your heart ablaze with the tip of his fingers as they embedded themselves upon the white and black keys. They said that for the few hours you're there, listening to him play, he makes you believe that you are no longer in control of your body, emotions, not even your own destiny—he's the one who controls all of that. Whether an étude, a nocturne, a rhapsody or an elegy, each piece that he plays becomes your new favorite. Oh, how I want to hear him play for the rest of my life, you think. Just this one. But then you hear the next one and you think the same thing.

        The people who had seen Tooru Oikawa play piano said that they could never listen to anybody else play piano ever again without thinking about how he, young and stupid and talented and not possibly human, would play it smoother, better, infinitely more beautifully.

        "Jeez, Oikawa. Your fingers move so fast."

        "Well, they have to. That's how the piece is meant to be played."

        "But...I mean, how do you do it?"

        "Do what? Play this fast? Just practice."

        "No, not that. I know you practice. That's why I barely see you."

        "Oh. Then how do I do what?"

        "You make my chest hurt when you play. I don't even like Mozart."

        "That wasn't Mozart! How many times do I have to tell you? Beethoven."

        "See? I couldn't give less of a shit. And still, when you play...you make my chest hurt."

        "The way I see it, that's only fair."

        "Oh yeah? How do you figure?"

        "You make my chest hurt all the time. See, like that! Just by looking at me like that."

        "Yeah, well I'm gonna make it hurt more when I kick you."

        "Come on, Iwa-chan, don't be so mean." 

        Music critics didn't like him because he was unfairly good. They searched for ways to criticize his performances. Perhaps a little too fluid? Too sentimental? Not precise enough? But they could never find something legitimate to say about his music other than: perfect. His perfection made them hate him because he took away their ability to do that which they had trained all their lives to do. Other pianists aspired to be him, be better than him, kiss his fingertips and lick away the talent that was there. Or maybe bring their fingertips to his lips, begging that he breathe onto their skin the way that he could play the most difficult piece with incandescent effortlessness.

        Tooru Oikawa was young, deemed perhaps the best pianist to have ever lived by those who 'knew what they were talking about' at the age of twenty. Now, at twenty-four, he was always hearing music. When he woke up in the morning, Mozart. When he brushed his teeth, Beethoven. When he ran his fingers through his hair and put in the expensive gel that he had come to obsess over, Schubert. When he read books, always fiction and never nonfiction, Satie. When he spoke to the people that were close to him, Tchaikovsky. When he went on walks under sunny skies, rainy skies, any skies, Rachmaninoff. And, for some reason, when he showered, Chopin. Always Chopin. Each person he met was accompanied with their own special melody. Sometimes, if they inspired him enough, he wrote the melody down. There was never a moment in his life, from the second he decided that he wanted to play piano and be the very best at it, that he wasn't hearing music. Or, better yet, playing music.