Sonata: 'Secondhand' in A Minor

by Henrietta 'Scarlet' Saintclair

AU-YxW. "Inspiration comes from the most unexpected." Yuuri couldn't believe he was praying that sentence was true, hard. Because his Muse was surely unexpected, and irreplaceable. No other Muse was his fire tongued, oil stained personification of music.

1. Prelude in C Major

'Secondhand' in A Minor

Author's Notes:

This is a flash of inspiration that was too overwhelming for simply a flash. It all dawned right on me in a single second: plot, characters, positions, etc. A gift from Heaven, LOL. Though I did ponder about switching Yuuri and Wolfram's positions, I finally decided to leave them be. So…here goes my first fic! Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I do not own Kyou Kara Maou!

XXX

-1-

Prelude in C Major

By Shibuya Yuuri

--

I knew I was not supposed to complain, but everybody had some breaking point, where eventually they could not take it anymore and just snap, like a rubber band that had been stretched too far for too long a time.

In my case, the major factor was the press. And hordes of screaming fans. And stupid producers. And music-unappreciative managers. But the press played the main role here. They followed me everywhere, jotting down or snapping pictures of my every move. One mistake and the next day the whole country would find out. It was stressing. It was mind-boggling. It was a hell of a lot of a pressure, one that I could not take out of my back. I had to calculate my every breath, my every twitch. No wonder I went mad, really!

I snapped. It was natural. And I did it just like what I did whenever I was angry or burdened: I stopped creating music.

I did not even notice it happening. The snap came gradually that I did not realize it right away. Stress had been my constant companion for weeks, therefore I did not spot the new intruder in my mind until it spotted my core.

It was nearly summer vacation, but vacation never existed for me, Shibuya Yuuri, a nineteen-year-old boy, the pop star, the country's girls' idol (or at least that was what my manager told me). Summer was at the front door and I was stuck at an orphanage in front of twenty-seven pairs of curious little eyes, waiting for my music to start. So much for a charity visit. My manager never cared for anything but my image and the money I was bringing him.

I picked out my trusted guitar from its black case, sitting it on my lap. The light streaming from the dirty windows were just enough to give me a clear view of everyone's expression. I smiled at them awkwardly, before tapping my foot with the rhythm and began to strum, singing along with the melody.

I sang 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star', in which twenty-seven eager voices immediately joined in. And then I strummed an improvisation of 'Happy Birthday' to impress them. They enthusiastically sang along with the melody, and I could not help but laugh and join them too. It was happy, it was perfect, and my manager was busy telling the pile of press right outside the windows and door to keep taking my pictures.

We sang some more, this time singing my songs. It surprised me how they knew my songs quite well. They followed my vocal without any hesitation, and in some parts I swore they did better than me. I thought that the visit was going to be a clean, spotless one.

But when I began the first notes of one of my pure instrumental pieces, Prelude for the Lady, the trouble started.

My fingers wouldn't move. They stopped right after the fourth note, and I froze on my spot. And because I halted, the music came to an abrupt halt too. The room was silent, and confused stares were all I got from the scene in front of me.

I tried to pluck the strings again, and I knew I had made a sound. I had to, for the strings vibrated. But I could not recognize the notes; they might as well be soundless to me.

More confused glares. The camera flashes from the press stopped, and my manager was glaring at me in annoyance and curiosity from the nearest window. I did not return his look. Instead, I looked at my guitar, my best friend for seven years.

What I saw was a stranger.

That was my breaking point. I quickly inserted the guitar back into its case, shouldered it, and swiftly left before the cameras began clicking, the children began questioning, and the manager began scolding.

By the time they did all of those, I was already in my car. By the time they managed to regain what was left of their mind and tried to chase me, I was pulling out of the parking lot. And by the time they arrived at the parking lot…

I was two miles away from Fowl's Institution for Orphans and Neglected Children.

X

Murata Ken lived in Larkshire, a small, remote village in southern England. By the time I parked in front of his humble-looking house in a humble-looking street in a humble-looking neighbourhood, all I had with me was a cap on my head, a pair of mirrored sunglasses, my wallet (containing two hundred and fifty-two pounds, some pennies, visas, and credit cards), my guitar, and a new backpack containing spare clothes, spare underclothes, a towel, and some toiletries (the backpack and whatever it contained were all bought at whatever supermarket I passed on my way to Larkshire). Not exactly the perfect condition for travelling, but I could not complain.

I walked up to his porch, admiring his small, neatly arranged garden as I did so. The houses along the street were separated from each other by small bits of garden. I could plainly see that Murata had minded his bit very well indeed.

I pressed the bell, taking off the sunglasses and tucking them into my jacket's inside pocket. I didn't dare to take my cap off, however. If I had met a fan there, I would have been doomed.

Murata answered the door twenty seconds after the bell rang. I watched tensely as the white-painted piece of wood swung open, revealing the figure of my best friend during secondary school. My first impression was how the guy had not changed at all, not even after all those years.

His eyes widened behind his spectacles, and said spectacles dropped a few centimetres down his nose. "Shibuya?" he exclaimed, eyes comparable to saucers. "Shibuya Yuuri? For God's sake! Last time I saw you, you were on the telly, singing some strange songs I could not understand and looking as rich as a mint!"

I smiled awkwardly, praying that his reaction would not go further than that. I did not escape a hell of press and fans (and a manager) in London only to meet another in my escape spot. "Hi, Murata," I greeted him softly. "Mind if I come in?"

To my relief, Murata laughed, slapped my back fondly, and opened the door wider, allowing me entrance. "Come on in," he chuckled, shaking his head. "Before one of your fans sees you here. I don't want to be unable to get out of my own house."

I entered into a narrow but snug area of the living room. Murata had the walls painted with soft yellow, barely distinguishable from white. The carpet beneath my Keds was soft and chocolate and warm looking. Several plump couches were arranged in the middle of the room, facing a 61" telly. I whistled. The huge screen looked impressive, despite clashing poorly with the snug-and-small aura the place permeated.

"Nice telly," I commented.

He grinned proudly; walking up to the telly and tapping it like his own son. "This is my darling," he joked. "Took me a long time to save up enough money to buy it. But it was worth the money and effort." He gestured at the couches, before flopping down on one of them. "Take a seat, Shibuya."

Thanking him, I put my backpack on the floor and took the one facing my host. There were not many decorations in the room. A small table stood in one corner, holding two picture frames and a wireless. A huge painting, depicting a landscape of snowy mountains, adorned the wall next to the door. A calendar hung beside the telly. Simple yet comfortable. Just like the Murata I knew.

"You have a nice house," I said, telling the truth. "I wish I had one like yours."

Murata snorted. "You've got your penthouse in the middle of London. What I would not give for a trade."

I shook my head forlornly. "Nah, my house is not even half as nice as yours. I rarely sleep in it, much less live in it. Too…." I struggled to find the right word. "Luxurious. And…cold."

Murata's eyes glinted beneath his spectacles. "You have all the money, why not just buy one that suits you?"

With all honesty, his words surprised me. It was something that I would never expect Murata to say, something that suddenly reminded me those seven years was a long time ago, and that it was impossible to pass so much time without being altered in any way. Murata had to have changed, and the thought made me bitter. My previous thoughts were parts of a daydream, surely. "You've changed a lot," I said quietly, my voice audibly strained. "You…were supposed to know that I would never…oh, throw away money like that. Even though I am a pop star now, I am not that careless, not that stupid, Murata. And…I thought you knew that."

He shrugged the same shrug I used to see everyday in secondary school. "I thought I did," he admitted, his tone serious and unsympathetic. "But you failed me, Shibuya. Failed me when you stopped all contacts between us the day you were appointed for a recording with the famous Dai Shimaron Record. You failed me. You failed your parents too." He chuckled upon the expression on my face, and I could not do anything to stop him. "Oh, don't you dare to try to argue. I know. I watched and looked after them as a son, replacing your previous role, Shibuya. Why should you care about them? You were a new pop star at that time. Busy making money from your debut, as what you said. No wonder Shori decided to severe all connections with you. For God's sake, Shibuya…. You did not even come to your own parents' burial!"

The sudden fortissimo in his voice caused me to quiver. Regret and denial dumped all over me in a single second. "I was at a concert!" I replied hotly. "I could not cancel the concert! I was a newbie, and image is extremely important for a newbie!"

Short, bark-like laughs dropped from between Murata's lips, and I shuddered at how strange, how unfamiliar he sounded. True, I had not contacted him for three years, but I was so busy, and busy people had to be amended, right? My parents would have wanted the same…. They would have not wanted me to miss that concert….

"You don't understand." I was startled by how old Murata suddenly sounded, as if his soul had been worn out by time in the span of our conversation. "You don't understand, Shibuya," he whispered, shaking his head.

"I understand!" I retorted, although my cheeks were flaming red due to the fact that my words were one big lie. Since when did I start sounding like my manager?

"Image, huh?" Murata smirked, and his smile was cold and did not reach his eyes. He stood up with one fluid motion, before taking a ring of keys from his trousers' pocket. "Come on, Shibuya," he said, quietly, calmer than before. "You have to learn from somebody about image. About loyalty, pride, and dignity. Oh, and about family. You can stay in this house as long as you want, but I have to warn you: I do not exactly welcome the Shibuya Yuuri right now. Though I'll be glad to welcome the old one." He let out a wry chuckle, and I could think of nothing to reply him with.

He walked out of the house, and I followed him suit, despite the simmering anger and shame still lurking in my core. "Where are we going?" I questioned suspiciously as Murata hopped into his own car: a Ford Escape.

He did not look at me as he answered, "To Shin Makoku Secondhand Car Garage. Put on your sunglasses and just get inside, Shibuya."

Never before I had seen that resolved look on Murata's face.

XXX

Constructive reviews would be very much appreciated.

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Teaser:

-2-

Crescendo

He was stained with oil and dirt, and he smelled like cars and exhaust fumes. Yuuri would have wrinkled his nose and attempted a polite yet awkward conversation with the boy, except for the fact that the black case the boy was holding piqued Yuuri's interest. The black-haired pop star immediately leaned towards the mysterious object, much to the other boy's apparent annoyance and discomfort.

"A violin…," Yuuri whispered, mostly in awe and some parts of disbelief. "That means…. That means you were the one I heard just now! The one who played Elgar's 'Salute d'Amour'!"

The blonde boy stared at him for several seconds, before turning his nose up into the air with what seemed to be distaste. "So what?" he scoffed, folding his arms across his chest defiantly. "Back off, wimp! You're blocking my way!"

XXX

Scarlet