The Piano Man (Iwaoi)

Chapter 7

        After his first night at the Black Cat, Tooru asked Kuroo, the charming black-haired bartender with the sexy smile and sparkling eyes, if he could come by and play. Kuroo said that he could, of course, whenever he wanted—the piano was there for him to use, and he could keep any tips that he garnered. The only condition Tooru had was that Kuroo not tell the audience who he was. Otherwise he would be flooded with questions, voices of praise, that would serve only to remind him that for the rest of his life he was condemned (though he wasn't sure that was the right word) to play in clubs and bars where nobody recognized him instead of the large, famous concert halls that put his name up in lights. No more concertos, no more sonatas, no more orchestras behind him, playing to the tune of his fingers. Only pianos in bars that sounded like carnivals and microphones that smelled like beer. A voice not trained to sing making tipsy patrons clink their glasses harder, fingers playing a genre he wasn't used to, jazzy tunes that caused toes to tap and tongues to click.

        He convinced himself that he would get used to it one of these days.

        "At least it's piano," he said to himself.

        Even so, he imagined Rachmaninoff frowning a little bit when he played Billy Joel instead of his piano concerto.

      

        It had been two weeks since Tooru and Hajime's serendipitous reunion. He was at his piano again, playing little motifs, scribbling them onto his blank music sheets with a pencil that had grown dull from its uses. The pile of scrap paper in the corner of the grand piano room was steadily growing, and as it did, the emptiness of the rest of the house—meant for people to sit and listen—became more and more pervasive. He was humming to himself, trying to fit the pieces together, and coming up flat because he just wasn't sure what he wanted the story of this piece to look like. Because that's how he saw pieces of truly good music, truly good art. They were stories. Composers were telling stories with the music they wrote, and each note was a significant part of that story. The story would be incomplete without every half-rest, dotted eighth note, crescendo or decrescendo.

        Tooru still wasn't even sure if he wanted it to be major or minor. He had always like minor a little bit more, maybe because it made him feel more emotions, but maybe the story he wanted to tell was major. He just didn't know yet. 

        As he sat at the piano, his head leaning against the shimmering black music stand and his fingers tinkering on the keys, aching, he heard the ding on his phone. His hand reached up for it at the speed of light, and when he saw that the message was from Hajime, he let out the breath he'd been holding. He found that even though Hajime messaged him without fail every single day, Tooru was still deathly afraid that one day he just wouldn't, and they would fall back into the spiral of losing each other to nothing all over again. It was the standard message. How was your day? Sorry, been busy. He smiled at his phone, blushing and horribly sad, in absolute angst, because he could imagine Hajime sending this message while Michiko fed Gemini in the kitchen. It was always the same. His heart soared at the thought of Hajime and, in the same breath, was thrown down to hell at the thought of how much he loved that woman. Enough to marry her come December. A little over six months away.

        He responded to the message.

        No need to apologize, I know you're busy saving the world.

        The next response was one that Tooru had always been hoping for, but hadn't quite been expecting.

        I might have time to come by this weekend. So we can catch up properly. That okay?