If I hadn't met Kai, I'm sure I would have let go of my precious piano. If he hadn't taken center stage, I wouldn't have been pulled along this far.
Yet I told him that I hated him. In my moment of shame and self-loathing, there he was, earnest as ever, overflowing with talent and overflowing with care, and there was I, defeated and brim-filled with rage. Another aspiring pianist of mediocre talent, to be pitied and consoled with platitudes: "I love you and your piano"; another bullied child for him to save. Venom poured from my mouth wearing my voice: I've hated you this whole time. I wish I had never met you.
I have to apologize. I have to find him and fix this. I have to help him be his best when he takes the stage in the finals.
My heart tumbles, restless and fretful. I know, clear as day, clear as his tears, that my cruel words sit heavily upon his focus and his sound. He has always been unfazed by anything: Morinohata, bullies, judges and critics alike. Yet I glimpsed his tears just before he turned and ducked his head, closing me out of his face and his heart.
His first tears since the night he lost his piano to the flames.
- O -
I reserve the practice room next to his. I stand outside his room, listening to the silence within and the pounding of my own heart. What could I say? "Sorry, I don't really hate you"? "I want to be friends"? He'd think me a liar, secreting the truth away behind my usual facade of the mild, studious competitor. After what I said in the forest, he'd never believe me.
My thoughts are interrupted by footsteps. I duck into my room, and Ajino passes by. I hear their muffled voices interspersed with dull notes. Kai, your piano has never sounded so listless. What have I done?
They talk a long time, and then Ajino's footsteps fade away. Alone in my practice room, I am no closer to figuring out what to say. We sit in silence, side by side but oceans apart. My head is filled with a thick fog of regret.
- O -
Suddenly, a few clear notes float through the wall. Concerto no. 1, third movement. Determined and resolute. A lively passage just a few bars past the soloist's entrance. Numbly, automatically, I join in playing the orchestral accompaniment, a few slow, sustained chords drawn softly from my fingertips. His melody dances above my harmony, clear and shining. I listen for his rhythm and his expression, matching my tempo to his.
Our strands of sound lock onto each other, winding into a single thread. I'm struck by how much of him I can sense. I see him in sharp, perfect clarity in my mind's vision, his strength emerging from the muscles in his back, traveling down his arm, rustling his elbow, and driving through his fingers into the keys. I feel the inhale of his breath at the turn of a phrase, and I breathe with him. He settles into a gentle ritenuto, and I follow him down, perfectly attuned and perfectly in time.
His piano flares, then concludes in a sparkling flourish, handing the melodic line over to me as the orchestra, playing a dramatic interlude. My accompaniment surges and builds. I'm swept up in sound, in the music entrusted by the soloist to the orchestra, to carry the theme through crests and valleys, and deliver it, transformed, back to the soloist's waiting hands. I realize what a hollow victory I had sought, to defeat him on the big stage. When after all, I had given my best performance, simply by playing for him, alone out of all the audience. I think that all I will ever want from him is to twine our notes together, to lose myself in his sound, with his breath in my ear and our hearts beating as one.
Lost in the orchestral interlude, I pour my gratitude, and something else, into my music, willing it to reach him and say what I haven't the courage to put in words.
The door slams open.
My hands falter, then fall silent.
- O -
He's gaping at me, frozen in place. His face is open as he's always been: eyes glistening wet, warmth and something else breaking through the shock. I couldn't begin to guess what's written on my own face. Probably something sentimental and foolish. I stand.
"I..." my voice comes out a croak. I was wrong. I don't hate you. The words are stuck in my throat.
"I'm sorry I'm late." I try again. I want to be your friend. I want to stay by your side and play piano with you.
I swallow. "I'm here to help." I love you.
The tears spill out of his eyes and he crumples to his knees. His shoulders shake. After a beat, I step forward and drop to my knees before him. My hands reach out and grip his shoulders, too tightly. Another beat, then he falls forward and throws his arms around me, sobbing into my shoulder, and I'm trembling too, my tears running into his hair. I wrap my arm around his back and press my other hand against the back of his head.
After a long moment, he straightens just a little, his hands still gripping my arms. He's smiling broadly, and I think he understood what I tried to say. "I'm so glad," he whispers. He leans back in and gives me a gentle squeeze, his head grazing my shoulder and neck, hair brushing against my cheek, and his breath a happy sigh. Then he pulls back and stands. I stand too.
He swipes at his eyes, and I sniffle.
He smiles bravely, and I smile back.
- O -
Some time later, I follow him onto the practice stage. Silently, he sits at the Steinway, and I sit next to him.
He glances over, and his eyes meet mine.
We breathe together, and begin.
- O -
Notes: The title Romance sans Paroles is a type of short composition that's sweet, gentle, and sentimental. I believe it was used during the Romantic era of classical music. I've only seen a couple, and I don't believe they are very common. It literally translates to "song without words". It's a bit silly to describe a written fanfiction as being "without words", isn't it? But it seems to fit. I like the idea that Amamiya communicates his feelings with music instead of words. (And I admit I like the word "Romance" in the title, hinting at romance, even if a Romance sans Paroles is not necessarily a love song.)