Tyson honestly couldn't remember the last fight he and Hilary had that was this bad. He also couldn't remember what started it, but for once, it hadn't been him. He had stormed out on her, leaving the team befuddled.
He ran back to the dojo; lucky for him Gramps wasn't back from his errands yet. Tyson could be completely alone... He hated it. He hated when people left or made him leave. He still hated the fact that his mom had left. He blinked back tears, staring at the family sword. He turned on his heels and headed for the storage room.
It was a dark and dry room, made to keep objects from deteriorating from sunlight or humidity. Tyson and Gramps had put all of his mother's things in here, along with some of his father's and brother's because he just hated most of the memories that came with the memorabilia. People always seemed to leave him, despite his best efforts to bring everybody together. He tore through the old memories in search of something he hadn't touched, or even thought of in years. They still had it though, he was sure of that, Grangers might hide their memories, but they were always kept safe and secure; first lesson from Gramps.
He didn't spare a look at the old photographs or the toy boxes covered in dust. He breezed through letters, notes and other papers, not sparing a glance at his mother's writings. He remembered her poems and stories well enough to recite them at the drop of a hat; that was one of Tyson's secrets. He wasn't as illiterate as people thought, and poetry was a guilty pleasure of his. Apparently, it ran in the family as Gramps had a love for the rhythmic and aesthetic language, but preferred the "modernized" version found in rap. His mother had a lot of soul that was for sure. Tyson might look like his father (except for his mane of hair, and his smile), but his spirit and soul was all his mother's.
Tyson moved a couple of boxes filled and marked with "miscellaneous" and finally found what he was looking for. It was covered with a thick tarp; high end to protect it from whatever. Tyson wasn't sure when it was he had last touched the thing. Was his mom still alive? Or was it right after she died? He remembered the golden glow of the sun, basking in the dreamy light as if nothing was real. He remembered how small he felt, but nothing else, except maybe for a few sounds; chords of badly played music.
Tyson sighed, on the brink of tears. He sniffed away the wetness and approached the tarped and hidden object.
He pulled a small in front of it and removed the tarp, revealing an upright mahogany piano. Not a scratch was on it, except for the darker area where sheet music had always lain. He lifted the heavy wooden cover to see the keys, which hadn't yet yellowed with age. It even smelled like his mother's perfume.
Hesitantly, Tyson set his hands upon some of the keys in an attempt to form a chord. The piano would need to be tuned correctly, but it still sounded fair. He blew onto the keys and a cloud of dust flew from it, filtering through a ray of sunlight from the cracked ceiling. He closed his eyes, remembering the familiar song. He didn't know why his mother had loved that song so much. Unlike her, it wasn't noisy, wasn't exciting, and definitely wasn't upbeat. Yet there was something, Tyson wasn't sure what, that reminded him of his mother. Maybe it was the soulful nature of the song, or the message it portrayed? Whatever it was, Tyson found it oddly comforting, if saddening.
He started playing it, still remembering the progression, which keys to hit and when. This was the one song Tyson would always know by heart, willingly or not.
"She waits for me at night..." he sang quietly, humming the lyrics after that.
He didn't even have to concentrate to both play and hum (or sing at times), it was in his blood.
"It's all about soul, it's all about faith and a deeper devotion... "
"It's all about soul..."
He knew his voice barely fit the song, especially since his throat was hoarse and his voice raspy from barely held back tears, but he didn't care, especially since now the tears were streaming down his face freely.
"It's all about soul, it's all about knowing what someone is feeling..."
"The woman's got soul! The power of love and the power of healing!" He kept singing, louder now, following Joel's pattern of the song, hearing his mother's voice through his own.
He played harder, letting out his frustration and sorrow. Not just from fighting with Hilary, but from over the years of holding back the overwhelming, heart wrenching grief of the losses he suffered; over and over again.
"...and she gives me all the love I need, to keep my faith alive...
It's all about soul, it's all about joy that comes out of sorrow, it's all about soul!
Who's standing now, who's standing tomorrow?
You've got to be hard, as hard as the rock in that ol' rock n' roll..."
He probably sounded like a drunk singing this in his hoarse voice, but he didn't care. Tyson was borderline sobbing when he finished singing, still slowly playing the song on the old out-of-tune piano keys.
"I didn't know you could play the piano, and so well too," Hilary whispered as she approached.
Sniffing, Tyson replied, "Yeah, well you never asked. Waddya want," he asked harshly, not turning to look at her
"Tyson," she sighed, "look, I didn't know about... I didn't mean to say, umm..." Her words trailed off uncertainly
This pause in speech caught his attention. Hilary was having difficulties with her words? he thought to himself. Tyson never thought he'd see the day when she'd be near speechless. He'd have smirked if he wasn't still crying silently.
"Alright," she cleared her throat, "I'm sorry. I didn't think about what I was saying-"
"Kinda like me," he piped up, interrupting her, proving his comment.
She chuckled lightly, "Yeah Tyson. Mind if I sit down with you?"
He motioned towards a chair, and she pulled it right next to him, in front of the piano. She inspected it, notice how well kept it was, except for the area where one would keep sheet music. That area had been heavily used and not maintained, a tell-tale sign of frequent usage. She lightly fingered one of the keys, and she noticed Tyson stiffen up when her hand approached the keyboard.
She bit her lip, a habit she picked up after hanging around the guys; she needed to sometimes keep her words to herself. Biting her lip prevented her from saying brash things at times, at others, it signified she was nervous. Tyson noticed that.
"Was it your mother's," she asked quietly
Tyson nodded, "Yeah, she played so many songs on this thing," he mumbled, his voice still hoarse.
Hilary had only seen Tyson cry once, and the tears hadn't been accompanied by his hurt voice. She felt wrong listening to Tyson being sad. To her, it seemed Tyson had to be happy. He and Max had always been the people to bring others together; the soul of the team (Tyson more than Max in her opinion). What was a team if its soul wasn't in it?
"That song," he told her, "was the first - and only - song my mother taught me."
"Billy Joel's All About Soul," she replied. She knew the song, she hadn't heard it many times, but she remembered how it went, the feeling of the song. But from what she'd heard from Tyson and Gramps about Tyson's mother's attitude, it was exactly like Tyson's. Why would a woman like Tyson's mother teach her son that song alone?
"She loved that song," he spoke, as if reading her thoughts. "I dunno why, but I think it's because of how the song feels, dont'cha think?" He turned to look at her.
She saw his tear-stained cheeks, how his face, even though illuminated by a golden ray of sunlight, seemed pale and how his eyes were red rimmed. He had a sad smile on his face, not a boisterous grin like he usually did. This Tyson felt fragile, like a small child, like someone who had lost too much. He had, his mother was gone forever; his father was never home and his brother had only been here for a small glimpse. She hadn't understood when it had happened. Why he was so angry that the Bladebreakers broke up, but now the reason was plain as day. Tyson wasn't afraid of losing, or disappointing his grandfather (if he was even able to). No, Tyson had always fear loneliness, to be abandoned.
"I think it suits you perfectly," she finally replied, wiping away the remaining tears from his cheeks with her fingers.
He bowed his head, in an attempt to hide his face. He wasn't supposed to cry; Tyson was supposed to be the hotheaded guy, not somebody who cries like a frightened child. He felt Hilary's fingers lift his chin up, making him look at her in the eyes. The tears had slowed to a stop by now, and he could see Hilary had that smile on her face.
It was a smile he rarely saw. When he did it was either because he'd nearly landed in the hospital (or worse), when they guys did something they previously couldn't, or at times like these. It was a motherly kind of smile, but tainted with friendship and something else that made it so much more special to see.
"I'm sorry," she apologized.
"Me too," he replied, leaning in for a hug, which she returned happily.