II . Counterpoint: the art of combining melodies
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She hadn't told anyone.
It was a secret—her secret, even if she wasn't sure if the obscure event was supposed to hold any meaning or simply be written off as a dream. The 'oof' elicited from a solid object she rebounded off of was very much real, however.
"Watch where you're going, girl."
Absently, she murmured, "Sorry."
"Idiot," the man muttered, and she flinched, awakened by a sharp stab of irritation.
The brunette made her way down the bustle of evening street traffic, nodding 'hi's and 'Yes, I'll tell my parents you said hello's as she passed elderly neighbors. Loosening her scarf from its near-choking death grip, she procured a gleaming house key and fit the jagged edge into the lock.
She visited home every once in a while, making sure to take care of her father, and in turn remind him to care for the family cat, who had grown so hungry that Haru's fish tank gradually became a barren graveyard. Humming a tune as she slipped off her peacoat and unwound her scarf, she unzipped her boots and took a deep breath.
The scent of home quelled the butterflies in her stomach, just for a while.
It wasn't that she didn't care for competitions; they were a great deal of fun and pressure. There were some who won for money, some who won for glory, and few who won for contentedness. Their music was subject to judgment. It was a game of impression. Admittedly, the experience did serve to expand the comfort zones of performers. Ironically enough, many students were told to "try and forget the audience".
"Anybody home?" Her voice echoed into the empty silence. "Oto-san?"
Almost guiltily, a sigh of relief left her lips. Her father wasn't home. Perhaps he was out with friends.
Or working overtime. Again.
He had a permanently lonely smile, the kind that crinkled at the eyes but cried in the heart. Seeing him would remind her of her isolation. The atmosphere would be livelier with their talk, but somehow all the more pathetic, like they were trying to deceive the blue mood into being something bright and cheery.
Her fingers met the smooth surface of the note he'd left on the kitchen counter.
"Haru," she began reading aloud. It was strange saying her own name. She recognized it when others called her, but felt foreign naming herself. "There was an emergency at the clinic today, so I won't be able to join you for dinner. There's something for you in the fridge." She glanced at the bulky metal contraption where she used tip-toe up to reach the top shelf where the Kudzu powder sat, waiting to be dissolved in hot water. Her father despised tea, but her mother had drunk it every day, claiming that it tasted better when the powder was refrigerated.
Turning away from the memory, she finished the note. "Love, Dad."
In spite of everything, she smiled when she opened the refrigerator. Cake.
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"Damn it."
The taxi-driver flushed with embarrassment. "I'm—I'm sorry, sir. If you'd like, I can drop you off at the nearest hotel, which is only five minutes from here."
I should've taken Dino up on his offer to give me a ride. At least I wouldn't have wasted a bunch of crappy bills on getting lost in the middle of nowhere. And apparently, the smudged address on the crumpled piece of paper didn't exist. According to Shamal, the competitors are to reside in one hotel. Did he give me the wrong address?
"100-4198—is this address nonexistent?"
The driver blanched. "Four one nine eight? I thought it said four seven nine eight."
A stone lodged itself into the bottom of the pianist's gut. You're kidding me. You've got to be kidding me. "No, sir," he bit out, "It's four one nine eight. I'm positive."
In lieu of a response, the man stepped on the gas and jolted the passenger abruptly into the strangling restraint of his seatbelt.
Maybe it just wasn't his day.
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Collapsing onto the hotel bed, he let out a groan of frustration. His hands were sore from carrying his luggage. He flexed his fingers painfully, hoping that by some twist in logic, the ache in his fingers would diminish if he made them ache more by working them.
A rapid series of knocks on the door followed.
With sluggish movement, he trudged over to the entrance, yanking the door open.
"I'm sorry I'm late, Bian—" The young woman clamped her mouth shut, a simultaneously dumbfounded and sheepish expression winding its way onto her face. The butterflies burst out of their cocoons and raged havoc in her stomach. The brunette gazed limply at the man before her, at a loss for coherence.
She met his glare unflinchingly, a fist tightening in her gut.
He'd appeared otherworldly when she had caught a glimpse of him exiting the piano room. Granted, from her vantage point on the ground, any towering man in the sun's spotlight would have had the same effect. Still, even in his bedraggled appearance, he was clearly no commoner. (At least, not in Japan. She didn't know any man who would dye his hair silvery-white. It had to be a foreigner thing.)
Hi, I think we bonded over Chopin yesterday, but we've never met. Remember me?
Yeah, right.
"Um... You're—you're not Bianchi-san..." She mentally kicked herself. Nice. Very eloquent.
He glanced at her sharply, as if examining a convicted criminal. "No, I'm not," he replied with an acerbic edge. "Who the hell are you?"
His disparaging tone was met by a flicker of vexation in her eyes. "Nevermind. Do you happen to know where Bianchi-san may be? I was told to meet her here for a rehearsal."
He dismissed her worry with a shrug, tactfully easing the door closer to himself. "I was given this room on a short notice; they were running out, so they placed me in a staff room that hadn't been occupied yet."
"Oh, I see. Anyway—"
"Can't help you. Sorry."
The door swung shut.
The gust of the slam's momentum hit her squarely in the face, and she blinked. "Well isn't he pleasant," she muttered under her breath, dazedly making her way down to her own room.
Gokudera lay awake, staring at the ceiling. He'd seen those unnerving eyes before, somewhere.
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x
