This is a gift fic for my friend tomyo-chan on tumblr. :)
And it's inspired by this post: cherrycapturedwolf (on tumblr dot com) post/153930586398/hkvoyage-belovedmuerto-wearitcounts
Sunday afternoon: the prime piano playing time. If there's one constant in Eriol's life, it's this. Fingers gliding across the keys, he closes his eyes, taking in the magic of wood hitting string. The calming melody of Chopin's Etude Op 25 in A Major soothes him every time. In fluid motion, he moves with the ripples of notes gathering speed, ebbing and flowing, ebbing and flowing.
The piano sits at a comfortable distance from the sunlight streaming in from outside. Not for the first time, Eriol imagines his perfect grand piano set up in a large living room — high ceilings and spacious walls. But until he has enough money, an upright piano in his humble apartment will have to do.
Every Sunday is the same. A two hour piano session right before lunch. It's one routine he'll never tire of. Despite having moved in only two weeks ago, he set aside the task of unpacking more boxes that morning simply because habit called. While new experiences were always fun and exciting, Eriol could never bring himself to drop the one single constant in his life that is the piano.
Some routines should never be disrupted.
So when he grabs his jacket after his practice session and begins to head out, he's surprised to find a piece of paper lying at his doorstep.
"Oh, Spinel, don't eat that," he says, watching his black cat gently nibble at the corner of the sheet. Bending over, he rescues the paper from Spinel's claws and straightens back up.
There's handwriting there—neat, cursive, written in gel pen. The sight of it elicits mild concern in him, forcibly reminding him of the last apartment he recently moved out from: an angry knock on the door and a fussy old neighbor complaining that his musical enjoyment was too loud and had disturbed her greatly. He sighs. It's only week two and he's already receiving noise complaints.
Bracing himself for the worst, he lifts the piece of paper to his face, adjusts his glasses, and reads.
"A humble request to the amazingly talented pianist:
Arabesque - Debussy"
Eriol raises his eyebrows, feeling the knots in his chest loosen in mild surprise. An admirer, eh? He'd take it.
Setting aside the feeling of his empty stomach, he hangs his coat back on the rack and walks back to the piano. Before he sits down, he pulls open the window. Setting his fingers back on the keys, he begins the first note of Arabesque. It rings like a bell in the air before flowing into the piece and he smiles, thinking back to the days when he learned this in his piano lessons. It had taken him less than a week to master the song, as he had taken to the melody immediately. Arabesque had always lifted his spirits with its cascading notes, reminding him simultaneously of a quiet stream of water and the smooth movements of a ballerina.
Albeit a little rusty, he's surprised he still remembers how to play it. The tune carries itself in gentle waves and for the rest of the song, he forgets how hungry he is.
Finally, his fingers slow to a stop and softly lift off while his foot on the pedal holds the last notes, allowing it to fade naturally into silence.
Before he can wonder whether his neighbor had been able to listen to the whole rendition or not, he hears a faint clap coming from the open window; most likely from the neighbor above. Resisting the urge to bow, he smiles instead and closes the window back shut.
Although he's behind on schedule, Eriol walks out the door with a small smile on his face. Passing the floral shop outside his apartment as he heads off to lunch, he realizes he wouldn't mind if this casual note exchange became a regular occurrence.
Sunday mornings are for tea and relaxation. It's the one day of the weekend she has off from her flower shop and sleeping in until eleven has been established as a sacred ritual. It's the days she gets to wake up and lie around for an hour before getting up to grab an early lunch. Afterwards, she'd light incense and change the flowers around her father's butsudan.
In a few weeks, it will be sixteen years since he passed away.
Mother kept insisting that she move back home, but Tomoyo loves the independence of living out on her own. She knows Mother means well, but she needs the flexibility and freedom that living by herself offers. And though Mother denies that she is overbearing and controlling, Tomoyo can't help but feel completely smothered whenever she visits or speaks on the phone.
"Are you eating well? All three meals? Does Sakura-chan visit often? If not, you need to go see her sometimes so you're not always alone!"
A sinking feeling weighs down on her heart as she thinks about it all. She forces herself to push the thought away. It's Sunday. Sundays are for tea and relaxation.
Stretching her arms all over the bed, she basks in the sunlight streaming in from her window. With a contented yawn, she pulls the blankets back over her and snuggles in deeper.
It's in this state of being that she finally registers it: a muffled tinkering melody drifting over from afar and alighting upon her ears. She doesn't know how, but for the first time in months, she feels a sense of amity and companionship fill her heart, as though whatever she's feeling or has felt in the past is being shared and understood. It's something that she hadn't known for ages ever since her best friend got married and moved out—or even ever since her father was still alive. Perhaps it's the light spring in each note as they follow one after another, or just the simple flowing melody itself, but Tomoyo's chest seems to loosen from a knot she didn't even know had existed in the last few weeks.
As though in a trance, she sits up slowly in bed, closes her eyes, and listens.
Tomoyo had taken piano lessons when she was a young child, but her passion had always lain more with singing. Although she's heard piano playing nearly everywhere throughout her life—mainly at cafes and hotels or even just the radio—something about the nature of this pianist really stands out to her. It goes beyond skill and mastery of the piece. It has the same familiarity and wit and… charm that her father had displayed. And as Tomoyo takes the music in, she closes her eyes and allows the sense of peace to settle upon her.
Just as she begins to wonder what they might play next, the last song ends. Eager for more, she waits in anticipation, counting down the seconds on her clock. She listens as the person moves on to the next piece, and then the next, each one just as beautiful as the last. Captivated and unmoving, she loses track of how long she's been sitting in bed, drinking in the music like air.
Remembering the moving trucks from two weeks ago, she can't believe her luck that she'd ended up with a pianist for a neighbor. Perhaps she ought to say hello and welcome them to the apartment complex, see if they're open to doing requests.
And then, the inspiration hits her.
Grabbing a piece of paper and an ink pen, she makes a brief scribble on the page, grabs a coat, and heads for the front door.
When she reaches the first floor, Tomoyo strains her ears, trying to make out which apartment her talented neighbor might be in. She walks on her toes as if carrying a secret, and approaches the source of the music. After confirming the correct door, she slips the piece of paper beneath it and tiptoes back upstairs.
They play the song. She claps harder than she has in a long time.
Without being aware of it, Eriol begins to look forward to every Sunday. His favorite is when he finds the slip before he even starts his practice sessions. He's always called himself the performer type, thriving off of applause and attention—not that he needs it to survive necessarily, but it's always been the sunlight he's enjoyed in order to fully bloom.
So when he sees a new request every week and hears the light clapping of hands after each song, he can't help but wonder who his secret admirer is. Definitely a girl though, by his impeccable deductive reasoning. The handwriting, the type of ink pen, neatly ripped paper, her taste based on requested music, the sound of her clapping—hands that sounded soft and small but full of life—the clues all pointed toward a neat, delicate young woman who probably reads a lot. He can almost picture her: petite, shy, perhaps with glasses, unpainted nails, no taller than 154 centimeters. She probably enjoys visiting museums, frequenting cafes (where she orders flat whites or chai lattes), and watching artsy films. Her drink of choice is white wine and she loves dessert more than actual food.
He wonders how many of his speculations are correct. The mystery of it is enticing, alluring. There are so many possibilities and his brain is constantly entertained by trying to imagine what this secret admirer might be like.
He walks up to his front door and picks up the piece of paper. This time, there's only one single phrase on the page:
Surprise me.
Smirking, he hurries over to his piano and seats himself. Adding her sense of humor to another new thing he's learned about her, he goes through the repertoire of all the most difficult pieces he knows in his head. To reward her for being so mysterious, clever, and sassy, he intends to repay her the only way he knows how. Finally, after much contemplation, he settles on a piece that he's sure will blow her expectations out of the water.
Taking a deep breath, he sets his hands on the keys and dives right into one of his favorite but intense songs: Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto.
The standing ovation he receives at the end of the song makes it all worth it.
On one Sunday, he leaves a note outside his door for her.
Give me a hint?
When he returns home from dinner that night, he finds a single Magnolia flower sitting at his doorstep with a new note along with it.
May your music never stop blooming.
For the last few weeks, they've been doing this, yet Tomoyo still doesn't even know what her musician neighbor looks like. It isn't as though she can't easily find out, given she knows which door they reside behind. But there's something about keeping it secret from herself that she can't quite seem to get over.
From the very first moment she heard this person play, she's been afraid of knowing. The way her heart responded to the possibility of meeting a kindred spirit alarmed her. She still couldn't quite pinpoint what it was about the way they performed but listening to them play piece after piece has been as comforting as finding someone who speaks the same language as her when she's gone far too long being misunderstood by the people around her.
Logically, there should be joy about this discovery, rather than fear. But based on her family history and her track record, her heart is not something that keeps her safe. And after falling in love with her best friend and watching her get married, on top of the argument she had with her mother when she decided to move out, Tomoyo isn't exactly ready to let herself feel anything new just yet, not when her heart has already been damaged multiple times.
So she continues watering the plants at her shop and thinking up more songs to request, but other than that, she'd stay far away from her neighbor's door.
For her, loving is always done better at a distance.
It really is such a shame that this is the only hint you're willing to give me. Perhaps magnolias are your favorite? An interesting choice. Beautiful and fascinating. So pure, so gentle. I wonder if there's more to it. I suppose it would be foolish to expect a second hint?
Very foolish. What you make up for in your musical skills, you lack in your modern day sensibilities.
Ouch. You wound me, my dear. But in all seriousness, how else can I thank my most faithful and loyal admirer?
Thank yourself — for the gift of music.
Give yourself more credit. It's people like you who make it all the more enjoyable.
She's got personality, he thinks after their most recent exchange. Strangely enough, instead of narrowing down his idea of her, more possibilities are opening up about what kind of person she might be.
Of course, he'd expected her to be witty, no doubt about that. But the style of her humor and the specific things she's been saying, has more often than not surprised him completely. Maybe she's actually a full on nerd who plays video games. Maybe she has a secret vacation home in France. Maybe she's really poor and lives paycheck to paycheck paying rent in this apartment complex. Maybe she's actually from America but knows how to read and write Japanese and is afraid to meet him for fear of revealing what a terrible speaker she is. Maybe after all this time, Eriol had been wrong, and she's actually a man. The possibilities were endless.
Despite all this, with every note he receives, every musical note he gives back in return, and every soft applause he hears from above, he can't help but fall for her a little bit more each time.
Tell me, love, are we going to continue this way forever? Just two ships passing in the (long, extended) night?
Until one of us moves out.
Have I ever told you that stubbornness is an attractive character trait?
You need to refine your tastes if you ask me.
Where do you think my music skills come from, if not a refined taste?
Not everyone can be perfect. :)
Says the lady who lives the most secret life.
You're right — I'm the epitome of perfect. If you can't see my flaws, they aren't there.
Ah, so you are a girl, then? No denial there?
I never said that. Silence is not always confirmation of the truth.
Dearest, if we're never going to meet in person, then what's the harm in giving more hints?
What's the point of it in general?
To quench my burning curiosity, at the very least. Aren't you the least bit curious?
You're free to tell me more about yourself if you'd like.
Now that's not fair. There's no reciprocation involved, love.
By the way, I must know. When do you even collect and pass these notes anyways? I never see you, and believe me, I spend more time than I'd like to admit spying out of the peephole.
That's a secret. :) On another note—ha, see what I did there?—another humble request:
Claire de Lune.
It's harmless, she thinks, exchanging notes. They're just little tiny meaningless fun sprinkled all throughout her week, right?
She doesn't know what she's thinking, though, asking for Claire de Lune. She had gone back upstairs the moment she dropped off the last note because she knew if she thought too much about it, she'd second guess herself and rip it up into pieces. It had been such a long time since she's heard Claire de Lune played in a way that she loves. And although it felt dangerous to her heart to hear someone like her neighbor play it, it was worth the risk just to be able to feel even an inkling of her father's presence again.
For the rest of the afternoon, however, he continued to play. (He? He? Since when did her neighbor become a 'he'?) Beautiful as usual, the music was wonderful—but he (or her) never played Claire de Lune. (Their handwriting is certainly pretty enough to belong to any gender, for that matter.)
Perhaps after all the challenging pieces she'd requested over the last few weeks, Claire de Lune was too basic, too simple. Or perhaps she annoyed the pianist with her refusal to see each other in person. Either way, meeting up is out of the question. So as much as she wanted to hear her neighbor play Claire de Lune, maybe it's actually better this way.
Picking up her purse and keys, she decides to shrug it off and head out for dinner. When she reaches the first floor, however, she feels an incessant tugging inside and, turning her head, she glances down the hallway at the pianists' door. There at the welcome mat, is a sheet of paper.
Her heart starts racing before she registers what she's doing and within seconds, she finds herself at their door, out of sight from the peephole. Bending over to keep from being seen, she grabs the slip, straightens up, and hurries away from the scene.
Once Tomoyo hails a cab and gets in the car, she opens the note and reads.
Claire de Lune? Once again, you never fail to surprise me, love. I'll play it next week. For now, I have a concert coming up that I must fully practice for. You are free to come. It's this Friday, 7:30, at the Shibuya Public Hall.
For the rest of the evening, her smile never fades from her face.
It's Friday afternoon and Eriol is pacing around the living room while Spinel dozes idly atop the grand piano. The clock ticks; it's almost three thirty in the afternoon and the sun is starting its descent. The mysterious neighbor's last note lays on coffee table.
She never responded with whether she'd come to the concert or not, and Eriol suspects that even if she did, she might not make herself known. Still, he's always considered himself an opportunistic guy and if there were the faintest possibility that she might be there—he'd take it.
Making up his mind, he grabs his keys and heads out the door.
Every day, he passes the floral shop right outside his apartment. Every day, he walks right by it without ever stopping by to take a look until now.
The tinkling of a bell rings as he pushes the door open and the smell of gardenias is the first thing to hit. Refreshing and intoxicating, they remind him of summer days spent walking along the park outside his flat in London; a light breeze grazing his cheeks and the warm sun caressing his skin. The room is small and humble, with an air of daintiness. Rows of different flowers fill the space against the backdrop of white brick walls while several of the sensitive types reside inside refrigerated floral casings.
"Hello, may I help you?" a light, delicate voice says from the counter.
Turning to face the speaker, he smiles. With long dark curls and deep violet eyes, the petite young woman smiles kindly back at him.
"Hi," he greets in return. "I was looking to buy a bouquet of flowers. Preferably made up mostly of magnolias."
"Great choice," she says, walking around the cashier stand and over to leftmost corner of the room. "What's the occasion?"
"Occasion?" he asks, unsure of how to answer. Technically, it's for his own piano concert, except it's not for him. Furthermore, it's for someone he's never met, and she might not even show up.
Deciding it'd be more trouble to explain than what it's worth, he shrugs and simply throws out: "A date."
"Oh," she says. For a split second, Eriol could've sworn he saw the briefest flicker of disappointment on her face before she beams up at him. "That sounds nice."
Stopping in front of a whole row of different colored magnolias, she gestures to the entire set.
"Do you have a preference for the type of magnolias you'd want to include in your bouquet?" she asks.
"Hmm," Eriol hums, considering the matter. He didn't know enough about flowers to really judge. "What are your favorites?"
"Well," she says, turning to face the flowers. "I'd have to say I love the classic Chinese magnolias in pink, and the white Yulan magnolias the best."
She points at each type as she names them. By sight, Eriol has to agree they're definitely the prettiest ones in the collection. The white ones look closest to the ones his mystery song requester left at his door a few weeks ago.
"I'll just have an assortment with both then," he grins as she nods and starts to pick the magnolias out. She really is pretty, Eriol thinks as he watches her.
"That'll be 4,000 yen," she announces, after wrapping the stems up and heading back towards the counter.
"Thank you for helping me out," he says kindly as he swipes his credit card.
"Good luck on your date," she says brightly.
"Much thanks to you," he replies with a small salute and a full on wink.
And with one last look at her smile, he takes his purchase and bows out the door.
Eriol finds himself at the concert, holding the arrangement of magnolias he had just bought. It's unusual for performers to be the one carrying bouquets but he could care less as he walked into the green room despite a few of the confused looks he receives. Shrugging it off, he puts it away for safekeeping as he prepares for the night.
Before the concert begins, he walks around in the foyer, keeping his eyes peeled for anyone that might potentially be his mystery neighbor. Possible candidates continue to stand out to him left and right—a girl in glasses, a girl with small hands, a girl with a pale face, a girl with high cheekbones—all strangers, all equally likely to be the one. He had even purposely played one of his songs as often as he possibly could this past week, hoping she'll hear and recognize it if she came to the concert.
The guessing game is the most fun. While other musicians perform, he peeks out from backstage in between songs whenever the spotlights shift across the audience, lighting up the sea of faces in a brief flash. The idea that she could be in the midst of it all is thrilling, to say the least.
Eventually, it's his turn. As he plays, he plays hard. All the dedication and time spent on this piece, he channels into reaching her. His only hope is that she can feel even a small inkling of it all: of his hard work, of his burning curiosity, of his longing to find her. Somewhere, somehow in the audience, she'll hear it and she'll know. And as his hands glide across the keys, he imagines his thoughts channeling through his fingers and hopes in the magic of music.
He sits in the foyer with the magnolias after the concert, watching people go by. Nobody comes to find him.
He is the last to leave the venue.
The disappointment settles in. This can't last forever.
He decides to play Claire de Lune this week, but it will be his final shot.
It's Sunday morning. The magnolias sit in a flower vase next to the piano and Eriol stares at them as he places his hands on the keys.
He doesn't know what she wants from his rendition of Claire de Lune but he knows if nothing beyond the ordinary happens after this, this will be his final time playing for her. His final chance to send his final message through these final notes.
With a deep sigh, his left hand sinks into the first key.
Tomoyo lies awake in bed on Sunday morning, staring up at the ceiling. For the entirety of Saturday, she's been wrestling with herself over whether she did the right thing or not. And all the while, she can't get her mind off of him.
Yes, him, she'd discovered. After all this time of clinging hard and fast to her own rules, she broke them in a burning curiosity that surprised even herself. The moment she heard the familiar song he'd been playing for all of the last two weeks, she knew. And when she squinted, she recognized him as the man who came into the flower shop hours earlier.
She's not entirely surprised—of course a talented pianist with neat handwriting and classy wit would look that handsome. But what had surprised her the most was the way her heart couldn't seem to decide whether to beat faster or stop beating at all.
So she had fled. After catching a brief glimpse of him sitting on a bench in the large hallway afterwards, the magnolias by his side, she had fled. Coward, she thinks. She's always been a coward. The hard truth is that she doesn't know how to love if it isn't from afar.
(And besides, didn't he say in the flower shop that he had a date? Perhaps the flirting was all just a game for all she knew.)
There she goes again, rushing to the end conclusion before any factual evidence is brought to light. It's what Sakura-chan has always called out in her, with concern in her emerald eyes as her hand reaches out to grab Tomoyo's. And even then, the end conclusion of their relationship only proves Tomoyo right again and again.
She's accepted long ago that she'd be pierced by her own blade.
Her mother falls for the same flaws; she is the one who made her this way. And so in times of deep despair and feeling stuck in this cursed cycle, it's her father she misses most.
Getting out of bed, she gets dressed and walks over to her father's butsudan. She lights incense and kneels down before it. With her head bowed low in prayer, she sighs.
Father… please guide me. I'm just … so lost and paralyzed by too many fears. I don't want to become like Mother. Please…
As though in response, Tomoyo's ears suddenly pick up a familiar sound. The light tinkling of piano notes once again punctuate the air, like they so often do these days, and she's gasps because of the timing of it. Straightening up, her mouth falls open as she stares into space and listens.
Claire de Lune. Just like she asked.
And it isn't just Claire de Lune played like any other old way. There's longing and joy mixed with melancholic nostalgia. There's innocence and wisdom beyond years and years. As she listens, she feels a deep well rising in her heart, threatening to burst and spill over. Her eyes begin to water with the emotions choking her throat and all she can see is her father, alive and well, smiling and laughing at something she said; her father, deep in concentration as his fingers press down on each key with the utmost care and intention; her father, with a crinkle in his eyes, holding her tightly in his arms…
And before she knows it, she's gotten up and starts walking out her door. As if in a trance, she floats down the hallway and down the stairs. Stopping in front of the door she now knows so well, she smooths out her pink dress and waits for the song to finish.
She closes her eyes and lets the music consume her. Soft, calm, and soothing, the melody flows on. She knows it by heart so she counts out each measure in her head, reaching its peak and ebbing away.
Finally, she hears him slowly come to the end on the last note, letting the echo reverberate in the quiet between them.
When there's nothing left but silence, she opens her eyes and stares at the black door before her. And then, taking a deep breath, she raises her knuckle and knocks three times.
As the sound of footsteps shuffling across hardwood floors grow closer and closer, her heart seems to pound faster and faster. This is it. No backing out now.
The doorknob rattles and twists; she feels a mild scuffle as it opens before her. Looking up, her breath hitches in her throat as deep blue eyes stare down at her behind glasses. It's his look of surprise that makes her realize that she's still crying.
"Hm," he says with an air of polite interest. She sees the recognition flicker in his eyes. "I can't believe I didn't guess that it was you all along."
"T-the last thing you played," she stammers, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. "It's unlike any other Claire de Lune I've heard in my life, I—"
He leans against the doorframe and crosses his arms, waiting patiently, eyes dancing with delight and amusement.
"I'm sorry it took me so long. I was afraid," she admits, biting her lip. "T-there's only so much heartache one can take… before losing the will to try and love up close."
More tears come. She takes a shuddering breath and looks down at the floor.
"I'm Daidouji—Daidouji Tomoyo," she says.
"I'm—"
"Hiiragizawa Eriol," she finishes for him. "I know. I went to your concert."
He straightens up and raises an eyebrow, looking impressed. "You did? Why you clever little tease."
She bites back a laugh and looks away again. "I'm just the world's biggest coward."
"Hey, now," he says, reaching out a hand to cup her chin. Lifting her head up to his, his eyes bore into her dark violet ones as his thumb wipes away a straying tear. As fast as her heart is pounding, she can't look away. "I'm sure that whatever it took for you to get here to this moment today took a lot of courage."
"It would never have happened without your music," Tomoyo says. She finds herself drawing closer and closer to his face.
Chuckling, he shakes his head.
"False. Who's the one who sent the first note?" he counters. "You did. And you are capable of so much more."
"Well, either way," she says, feeling him lean down towards her. "Your music is the most beautiful thing I've ever heard."
And feeling emboldened, she grabs his collar and drags him down to meet her lips. The kiss is sweet and tender, his calloused fingers grazing her jaw in a slow line down to her neck. It's exhilarating and audacious, and when she pulls away and rests her forehead against his, Tomoyo feels like a new person.
"So… do you want to grab coffee sometime?" he asks, eyes full of mirth.
Deciding to set aside her fears for once, she nods.
"Yeah, I'd like that."