This is a rather old piece — from 2010, to be exact — that I recently rescued from the internet abyss and touched up a little. We don't have enough Edo and Saiou fics on here anyway, for such a cavity-inducingly sweet ship. :(
Edo closed the door silently behind him. The man at the piano did nothing to acknowledge the new presence. Instead, he continued playing the doleful melody that seemed to still even time.
The boy's steps took him to the seat before the large white instrument where, after a second or two of contemplation, he occupied the space beside its sole occupant. There he sat, watching surprisingly deft hands move gracefully over the keys and skillful fingers press them down to produce melancholy harmonies. They barely seemed to apply pressure to the keys, yet still the instrument gave up its precious notes to the air at his command. The vague air of sanctity the room seemed to possess bade Edo Phoenix not to speak whenever he attempted to do so, and there were many times he opened and closed his mouth without uttering a sound. But knowing he must speak now, now or never, he inhaled to calm himself — for the music had touched his soul and caused it to stir.
"Saiou..." His voice was soft but clear, in respect for the surrounding atmosphere.
Edo observed his best friend, searching for a reaction. There appeared to have been none. Saiou continued to play his gripping, mournful song as if the other weren't even there. Another silence dominated — a silence only in the sense of the absence of words. Edo couldn't bear it.
"That's beautiful," he said, glancing at the piano and then at the man. "It almost sounds like you wrote it on the spot."
The music ceased. After the fade of the final notes followed a complete silence. The men faced each other; neither gaze was harsh. Rather, Saiou's expression made him look resigned, and Edo's made him look somber. It felt wrong, like there was a sentiment going unheard between the two of them, and Edo feared it may have been solely on his end.
"I am not a composer," Saiou said. He lowered his head a little and looked at the piano's keys without turning as he placed one hand upon them soundlessly. He could find no good conversation starter there, nor in the air, nor in himself. The only further response he had was a shaky sigh.
"...Are things now really how you want them to be?"
"Yes," Saiou replied without skipping a beat.
"You wanted be my manager? That's what I meant." He paused, not wanting to seem stern, though his tone was no longer soft. "Is that really what you want?"
Saiou turned his face away. His hair fell like a curtain, obstructing Edo's view of him. Edo reached out and combed the loose strands of navy blue behind Saiou's ear, following the shorter tresses to their ends and leaving his hand supportively on his friend's back.
The younger pursued gently, "Was it what you wanted?"
"It doesn't matter anymore."
"It does to me," Edo pressed. He withdrew his hand and placed his other one against a strangely hollowed cheek. Their eyes met. "It matters to me because I don't want either of us to have a guilty conscience anymore."
Saiou moved the boy's hand away, placed his own on the keys, and resumed his playing. Edo sighed, but listened attentively. Quite some time elapsed before a voice was heard.
"I'm happy with the way things are." The older man spared a glance in Edo's direction. "That's what matters. I can't change the way you think, Edo. Even so, I've told you the truth."
The music had come to Saiou again as his fingers first made contact with the keys. Had Edo not already known it was a classical work — I am not a composer — he might have said it was truly Saiou's own. He felt the rise and fall of the notes as if they were his very breaths. The harmonies and lone notes were the voice of his mind and soul. His hand movements were natural, like dances. It was a powerful way to communicate.
While the melody issued from the grand piano, once more Edo found that every note touched him in a way nothing ever had before. He did not recall having heard a piece such as the one being played. It must not have been the song, he pondered with a furrowed brow. No, not the music, but the musician. It sounded far sadder than if it were being played by someone else, someone who didn't really feel what the music conveyed anymore.
...It was that, then. It was that the man playing the piece felt every sorrowful turn taken by the music. He followed the notes and the notes followed him. And what hurt Edo even more was that it was he who had brought forth the feeling in Saiou. It had been difficult to find real trust from the teenaged boy he'd first met in the beginning, even after that candid plea to salvage his fate. It could only be harder now.
But the music! He could feel only guilt and pain while it went on. Even though he could process thoughts, they were vague and veiled by the pathos of the tune. The music clouded his mind. The music, the music—
Discord, sudden and loud, rose from the instrument, silencing the piercing melody. Saiou's eyes traveled from his hands to Edo's, which firmly covered his own; up and up his gaze went, to Edo's face, to his eyes.
Edo looked guiltily fierce.
"I'm getting tired of your obstinacy," he growled, frustrated at no one in particular — least of all Saiou himself. "Stop it. Stop being like me."
Saiou looked away, sliding his hands back from under Edo's. "I'll never be like you," he said. "I can't be. You're perfect."
"I'm not perfect," was the quick response. He put his hands together, on his lap, and looked down. "Saiou, you know that better than anyone..."
Saiou exhaled and looked away, gaze cast down. Edo squinted at him. The words he exchanged with others like this were his cover, his white veil, and it hurt Edo deeply to distrust the boy-now-man who had always been his confidante. He wanted their relationship to be as before, but the truth of the matter was that Saiou was still suffering, was always suffering; Edo, on the other hand, had always wished it would go away with the simple naivete of a child. He wanted his best friend back, not the best friend who had grown increasingly distant and imperturbable lately.
As he stared at Saiou's profile, he was reminded of the mysterious twelve-year-old boy who had once sat and looked at him and away from him the very same way the nineteen-year-old beside him did now. The same downcast gaze, the same renounced expression. Edo realized that this was the same as it had been then. It was still the same boy, and he was still the same naive child.