take a moment, remind yourself
—Qualified for the Grand Prix Final for the fourth time, Mai Taniyama—ISU certified figure skater and one of Japan's best athletes for Ladies' Singles—is at the peak of her career. Yet it takes only one accident, one hit to her knee to take all that away. The accident has put her life in danger—but it takes another. Overcome by grief and guilt, Mai takes the rest of the season off as her injury recovers and finds unexpected camaraderie with a superbly talented pianist, who insists he's just a piano tuner.
1: a thought that might alarm you
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With skates in her bag and hair still up in a tight bun, Mai stares at the hole-in-a-wall piano academy, fully intending to spill her guts to the person inside. She pretends not to notice how her breaths come in shorter puffs, how her stomach threatens to drop, how the urge to scratch her scarred knee grows by the second. Squeezing her eyes shut, she shakes her head and her hands, too, letting out a sigh far larger than the colorful sign that decorated the glass door: Piano lessons offered! All students welcome!
"Come on, Mai," she says to herself. "You've rehearsed your lines a million times. The worst thing that'll happen is that he'll slap you and curse your entire existence and wish you were dead. Nothing you can't handle."
Nodding to herself, she tries her damnedest to calm her nerves as she marches straight to the door, but fails as her hand touches the knob. She can't bring herself to push it down. Sighing deeply, her forehead meets the glass door in a loud thunk. She stares at the ground beneath her feet, vision hazy, regulating her breathing as she counts in threes to keep herself calm. She tries desperately to steady her heartbeat, to keep tears at bay, and she debates whether to go in or . . . to give up this time again, just as she's given up yesterday. And the day before that, and the day before that. Taking in a deep breath and letting it go in a hurried exhale, she turns around and starts to walk away. She isn't ready.
With thunder rumbling in the background, a sweet melody dances in the moonlight, barely a whisper as raindrops drum down the pavement. Stopping in her tracks, she turns around and stands in front of the door once more. The introduction quiet and serene, like someone caressing the cheek of their lover, the piano piece starts out innocently. Mai's eyes flutters closed as she leans in to rest her ear upon the barrier that separates her and the melody.
As if possessed, she pushes the door open without a moment's hesitation and tiptoes into the studio. The piano continues to play, another theme replacing the first, notes that are once sweet turn reminiscent. It reminds Mai of a quiet summer, of a family outing to the beach —even though she's never once seen a grain of sand in her life. The overall tune is already quiet, yet it decrescendos to a pianissimo, then starts anew. A sudden retelling of the melody bangs out fortissimo —louder, darker. Haunting yet beautiful, the phantom hand that once caressed her cheek lovingly glides south, passing by her chin, down her jaw. It enfolds her neck in a vice grip, this melody.
But it suddenly disappears. The overflowing sadness that nearly chokes her vanishes in the air. And although the piano continues to play, the notes come out robotic, lifeless. It continues for a few endless seconds, then . . . nothing. Mai hears a screech, then the sound of wood striking the floor —and the boom of all the keys of a piano.
The harsh sound slaps her back into reality. Blinking rapidly as she hastens to collect her bearings, she finds herself in an unfamiliar room, realizing she has wandered further into the studio than she thought. The first thing that takes her notice are the awards lining the walls. So many awards. From certificates to trophies, prizes of different shapes and sizes decorates all four corners. Hypnotized, she takes a framed photo from its perch —it shows an ecstatic young man, smile reaching his ears as he shook hands with a middle-aged woman, a huge trophy looming behind them.
So this is Eugene Davis . . .
From the other side of the studio, footsteps echoes as they come closer and closer to where she was. Panicking, she backed away and willed her legs to get her out of there. She isn't ready. She isn't ready.
She isn't ready to tell Eugene Davis's family the truth about his death.
"Who's there?" asks a man out of her sight, his voice echoing throughout the room. "We're closed."
Mai accidentally drops the picture frame, belatedly noticing how severely her hands are shaking. The frame landed facing up, it's glass vibrates at the force but does not shatter. She crouches down to pick it up, but because her hands still shook she fails a few times before she actually picks it up.
"What are you doing?"
Black leather shoes stops in front of her, and Mai gulps, mind racing a mile a minute thinking of what her next move should be. Escape? No, he'd think she's stolen something and might report her to the police. Pretend to be a roaming merchant? Ah, but she has nothing but bandages and her ice skates in her bag. Should she sell him some bandages, then?
"You'd look like an idiot," Mai mutters to herself, wishing she could have the power to teleport.
"Excuse me? What did you say?" he says rather than asks, anger carefully hidden behind his voice's controlled volume.
"No, no it's nothing!" Mai shoots up from her crouching position and bows three times. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I didn't know the studio's closed! It's just that I —"
This man in front of her . . . isn't he —
"A-aren't you Eugene Davis?" Mai stutters, eyes wide open. But that's impossible. In her surprise, she drops the frame again. This time the glass breaks, but no one notices.
"No, I am not," the man hisses, ice lacing his tone. His dark blue eyes glares at her with an undeniable anger. "Why are you here? We're closed. Come back another time."
"Someone told me this was Eugene Davis's piano academy but . . . but why are you—" Mai's throat closes up, words failing her. Instead, she gestures at the walls, at the pictures of the man standing in front of her lining the walls.
"Yes that's him. Now what do you want?"
"It's just — I'm . . . I'm here to see him but—"
"He's dead. He's at a cemetery in Kyushu. Go look for him there."
His bluntness strikes through her as if a blade has punctured her chest. "I . . . I'm sorry," she stammers. Moisture fills her eyes, threatening to blow over as she desperately tries to control her breathing. She knows. She knows he's dead. "I'm here to—"
"If that is all," he her said, icy hardness lacing his voice. It's so distracting —how much he looks like the Eugene Davis in the photos, the Eugene Davis she doesn't even remember. They're carbon copies and —belatedly, stupidly —Mai realizes only now that they are twins. "Leave," he commands with finality.
"N-no! I —" Mai racks her brain, trying to thing of something, anything, to make their conversation longer. Guilt will kill her if she leaves now with only Eugene Davis's brother telling her to get lost. "I'm —I'm here to, uh, learn piano!"
No response. He simply stares at her like her coach would whenever she flubs a measly double, his jaw set in an unimpressed line.
"I've wanted to learn ever since I was a kid, you know? But we weren't exactly rich so I couldn't afford lessons, though my elementary teacher started to teach me some notes when I told her about this and I kinda learned stuff —only nursery rhymes—but what I really want to play are the greats like Liszt and Chopin and Beethoven and —"
Mai halts her rambling, cheeks reddening as she realizes what she's doing. Even so, it doesn't look like he's listening to her anyway. He's scrolling through his phone instead.
"So, um," she continues. Why is she continuing though? She should really just shut her mouth and crawl under a rock and live there for the rest of her life.
"Lessons for beginners are twice a week. Tell me your prefered schedule," he states robotically, mouth set in a grim line. His slanted brows tells Mai how much he doesn't want to do this despite what he's saying. "It'll cost this much for twelve lessons. Can you afford it?"
He shows her his phone, opened on its calculator app. Mai can only do so much not to let her jaw drop. She runs the numbers in her head. It probably won't make a dent on her savings account, but still. She never expected piano lessons are that expensive.
"Um. Yeah, sure. Should I—should I deposit it to your bank?"
"I prefer cash or check, thank you." He doesn't look too enthusiastic to have a new student, really. "Do you need installments?"
"No it's fine! I, uh, can give you the whole amount on the first lesson."
He regards her doubtfully, his stare dubious. "We can start as soon as you wish. Lessons are either Monday and Thursday, Tuesday and Friday or Wednesday and Saturday."
"Oh but on weekdays I—" Mai starts, but clamps her lips back together. Her schedule's free—absolutely free for the next three months, she reminds herself. No morning practices at the rink, or afternoon and evening either. She's been limited to doing only non-strenuous ballet. "Um. Never mind. I'm fine with the Tuesday-Friday schedule."
"See you tomorrow, then."
Mai starts to open her mouth to say thanks, she looks forward to tomorrow, she'll be his best student ever. But she sees the exasperation in his set of shoulders, the way his eyes slanted, how stiff his posture is. She's being told to get lost. Again.
"Yeah, see you tomorrow."
She leaves as quietly as she could, steps muted as she walks on the hardwood floor. The bell that chimes as she opens the door startles her—she hadn't noticed it the first time she came in. And finally, she goes out the door, a heavy weight still consuming her chest. She turns around to see if he's still there, standing motionless, alone in the middle of the room. But the lights have already been turned off and she could distantly hear the sound of footsteps disappearing further into the building.
Straining her ears, she irrationally hopes he would start playing the piano again. A few minutes or a few hours—she doesn't know how long she waited.
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A/N: Um.