The Piano Man (Iwaoi)

Chapter 8

       Tooru had never spent this much time roaming through his own home, his thoughts wandering and his imagination conjuring guests. Mostly Hajime. There was Hajime walking through his front door. The heels of Hajime's shoes clicking on the tiles. Hajime walking beneath dramatic arches to sit down on couches where he could listen to the music that Tooru put on the record player. Or composed for him on the piano. Hajime deciding to stay the night, even though Michiko was lonely. Hajime unbuttoning his shirt, Hajime's angry, booming voice bouncing off the walls, Hajime's calloused fingers touching and reclaiming every inch of Tooru's skin. The thoughts made him dizzy with longing and anguish. He thought about setting alight his fireplace and burning the notebook that he'd dedicated to his ghost letters but couldn't bring himself to do it. Issei and Takahiro tried to drag him out a few times, came over and bothered him but, other than that, he was mostly alone. Not something he was accustomed to—it tended to leave him with a gap in his stomach.

        Two days after Tooru's strange, not-very-helpful field trip to the Special Investigations office, he was listening to Feltsman's recordings of Chopin's nocturnes (he never listened to his own recordings) and reading The New Yorker when his phone rang with an unfamiliar number. He had a hard and fast rule to never answer phone calls from unidentified numbers, but as he stared at the screen of his phone, he inexplicably decided to answer anyway.

        "Hello?"

        "Oikawa? It's me."

        It was a voice that, after only meeting once, Tooru could easily recognize.

        "Ushijima-keiji, hello," he replied. "How are you doing?"

        "I'm well, thank you. And yourself?"

        "You know. Busy."

        "Of course. Is this a bad time to call?"

        "No, no, this is fine."

        "I won't take long. I just happened to think of something you could get Iwaizumi for his birthday. It slipped my mind because he rarely talks about it."

        "What is it? Don't say something silly like hair gel again, please."

        "It's not hair gel. I know you're very well-versed in the world of music, so maybe you could get him something music-related."

        "Music-related? Like a mixtape or something?"

        "Juvenile, perhaps, but thoughtful."

        "Hmm. Maybe."

        "You should get him some Billy Joel."

        Tooru had been pacing, pointing his toes as he meandered through his home, but at this he stopped, froze, stared straight forward at the twilight sun behind the window.

        "Wh...why would you say that, Ushijima-keiji?"

        "It's all I've ever heard him listen to."

        "Oh. Interesting."

        "Quite. Well, I've arrived at a crime scene. I have to go—if you need anything, please never hesitate to ask. I'll help in any way that I can."

        "Yeah. Thanks so much."

        "Bye then."

        As he heard the line click, imagined in his head tall and intense Wakatoshi Ushijima shoving his phone into his pocket, walking onto a crime scene, making everyone around him shrivel, joining his partner, less composed and more emotional Hajime Iwaizumi, Tooru couldn't move. He kept the phone pressed to his ear as if waiting for one more word, one more breath. He wished for a moment that he were there with him. He wanted to see them solve crimes and put away bad guys together. Wakatoshi Ushijima must have been very smart—and Hajime was undoubtedly very good at getting criminals to confess. And sometimes, Tooru imagined, Hajime would get too worked up. Would start yelling, would bang his fists against tables and walls, and Wakatoshi would have to calm him down with that low gravelly voice. "It's not worth it, Iwaizumi," Tooru heard him say.