The Piano Man (Iwaoi)

Chapter 4

        Tooru's plane ticket was for seven o'clock in the morning. A layover in Shanghai, and then to New York City. Where he imagined there would be a crowd of people waiting for him to move their souls with his music, with the way he swayed on the piano bench and destroyed Rachmaninoff's third concerto at only eighteen years old. Because he could play it better than Horowitz or Ashkenazy ever had. Rachmaninoff's second concerto better than Zimerman, better than Lang Lang.

        "Just be careful over there in America, all right?"

        "Yes, Mother."

        "I swear to god—"

        "Hey, can I kiss you goodbye?"

        He was in Hajime Iwaizumi's bedroom, next to him on the bed, to say goodbye before his long journey to the States. No, it wasn't the first time he'd travelled to perform, but Tooru and Hajime had made a habit of this. A tradition. Tooru felt that his late-night conversations with Hajime, the ones he would remember before he walked onto a stage, infused his fingers with the passion and grace they needed to bring the audience to tears. He had never told Hajime that he attributed at least some of his success to the way Hajime teased him, nudged him, called him nicknames like 'Shittykawa.' He would have to, one of these days, when he'd built enough courage.

        "You...what?"

        "Kiss you. Can I kiss you? I've been dying to."

        "Oh. Really?"

        "Yes, really!"

        "Why?"

        "Why do you think? I love you."

        "You keep saying that."

        "I say it because I mean it."

        "I..."

        "How many times do I have to tell you that I love you before you believe it?"

        It definitely wasn't the first time Tooru had told Hajime that he loved him. He wasn't sure how many times he'd said it—the same number of times Hajime had treated it as a twisted joke and ignored it. Maybe this time, Tooru mused. Maybe this time would be different and Hajime would believe him.

        "I love you, Hajime."

        "H-hey."

        "What?"

        "Just kiss me already, would you?"

        Hajime didn't close his eyes. He stared, unflinchingly, ferociously with those eyes that cut Tooru's very soul into little bite-sized pieces. Tooru blinked, wondered if Hajime could see how thick and black and curled his eyelashes were from this close. He leaned forward, nervous, afraid that Hajime would pull back with a laugh. But he didn't. He stood his ground. So Tooru inched closer on the bed, until their fingertips just barely brushed. Closer. His heart hammered. Still closer, still nervous. What would he taste on Hajime's lips? Tofu, probably. Iron. Vaseline that he always pressed onto his lips to keep them from getting chapped. (They were always chapped anyway.) Tooru licked his own lips. Whether it was in anticipation or anxiety he wasn't sure. He inched just a little bit closer.

        Their lips touched and it hit Tooru that he was kissing Hajime Iwaizumi for the first time. He'd been desperate to do it, longing to do it, since he could remember. It didn't feel the way he'd been expecting. It felt better. With just the simple kiss—they weren't even holding hands—Tooru felt a key change, minor to major, and heard a thousand symphonies resounding together in the space, the width of a hair, between their tight lips. He kissed Hajime for as long as he could manage, digging his fingers into the sheets of the bed, squeezing his eyes shut. Until he thought he was going to start crying and he pulled away. Opened his eyes.