Kousei Arima knew, at that moment, that he was done.
Saint-Saëns was a Romantic-era composer and pianist, of that there was no doubt. Though he lived well into the twentieth century, his mind and heart and the structured rigidity of his pieces lay in the almost distant past of the twilight of the penultimate century of the millennium.
In that moment, Kousei Arima committed sacrilege.
The word of the composer is law – that is how it is done. The minutiae of the dynamics, the articulation engrained into every flex of the wrist, every release of the note, every legato and staccato and slur and break and rest; their statement was absolute. Certainly, a degree of flexibility was allowed for creative and artistic purposes, as was wont in the interpretation of any masterpiece in the liberal arts, but what Kousei Arima was contemplating was definitely exempt from those constraints.
No, what Kousei Arima was contemplating was a murder of the musical senses, a contradiction of his presence on that stage, a fallacious and hypocritical statement which would negate all the years of musical education he had so painstakingly pursued.
Nothing ever sounded so attractive.
Kousei Arima broke free from bondage in the moment that he threw Saint-Saëns' careful, measured, conservative romanticism to the wolves, and stepped away from being an accompanist.
How could he possibly stay in the shadow of the brightest person he had ever met?
In that moment that Kaori began her unrelenting aggression, in that moment that her bow suddenly sang with more weight than just rosin and finger pressure, in that moment that her violin became a conduit for more than just the harmonising standing waves that comprise music and sound, Kousei Arima understood exactly what music meant for her – and what it meant for him.
Perhaps he would not know consciously that Kaori's music was her rebellion against the world, her steadfast bulwark against lost opportunity and endings, but when he fought back against her attack, threw off the shackles both of accompanism and of the years of trauma he had so long forgotten how to ignore, Kousei Arima understood that music was perhaps his, and her, most transient and sincere expression of the soul.
In that sense, the classicism of Saint-Saëns no longer sufficed. The Introduction and Rondo Capriccioso is, as the name suggests, by no means a sedated or emotionless piece – its very nature is one of playfulness and energy. Its thrilling demi-semiquavers and rapid shifts bely its powerful, emotional nature – but even so, it was not enough. Not for him, and not for her. The double and triple and quadruple crosses were too cautious, the two-octave jumps too measured, the harmonics too dainty. Perhaps to another accompanist, in another venue, with another soloist leading them on, it was more than enough, and even the most exhilarating nine minutes of their musical career. However, to him, this was not simply a culmination of his musical journey, not simply the denouement of his trauma, but rather it was a new beginning.
Kaori was his guide, his map, his star, his sun, and as she glanced back in that combative, mischievous, challenging, enthralling, grin of hers, he knew that he would all too easily fall into the supernova.
As her trills wound not down but up, Kousei Arima knew that he had no choice but to throw his everything into the piece, both literally and figuratively. To hear the music he missed so dearly, to craft perfection into every note, to shape emotion into the very hearts of him, and her, and everyone else, to bring his sorrow and joy and disgust and delight and exhilaration and trepidation, he would levy the full mass of his hand and arm and body, body bent over the keyboard in order to impress upon the two or three strings of every note not simply the hammer but also the intensity of his emotions.
Perhaps the name Introduction and Rondo Capriccioso was a misnomer for their rendition, for there was nothing facetious about their performance. There was not a single note that lacked substance, not a single semiquaver that was irrelevant. Even the most light-hearted and capricious of the passages were marked by a sombreness as he heaved the anchor off his chest.
Finally, after so many years, he could feel his self start to breathe, to listen, to hear, to understand, and to play music.
Kousei Arima would spend the rest of his years chasing that feeling. He would chase to the ends of the world to find it. He would play Bach like Bartok, Brahms like Wagner, Corelli like Paganini, trying to locate that moment of liberation, of relief. He was internationally recognised as one of the greatest pianists, perhaps of all time, being capable of performing gut-wrenching concerto after soul-shattering sonatas in the most emotional concerts of all time. He was known as the 'accompanist' who challenged and broke and then improved and inspired up-and-coming violin superstars, forcing them beyond their comfort and their practiced and indulgent melodies and instead musically blackmailing themselves to reflect upon their very artistic identity in every performance. Kousei Arima was never unsatisfied. He loved music and its ability to move people unlike any other art form. He loved the universality of its language. He loved the way people were so willing to invest passion and care into every touch of the keyboard, every pluck of the string, every breath of the winds and brass, every caress of percussion.
However, Kousei Arima was never satisfied either. He knew that he had left that feeling buried, deep within the ground of his rebirth. He knew that he had only one regret in his life, one thing he so desperately yearned for, and that thing was what was denying him his greatest dream and wish.
He knew that Kaori was the pounding of his heart, the one that moved him, and his regret was that he was only ever able to perform with her once – and that one time, performing the Introduction and Rondo Capriccioso, would remain the most meaningful performance of his life forever.