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There are a lot of things he could blame, Ugetsu thinks: the delayed flight back to Japan, the boredom of being between performances, maybe even his own neglect at regular maintenance. But it’s Akihiko that comes to mind as he walks into the violin shop, the hard, distant set of his shoulders that bears the brunt of his irritation as he sets his case on the counter. The shopkeeper blinks as he accepts his case—first at the name tag hanging from the handle, and then at him, his face—and a barely-stifled look of disbelief leaks out before he remembers his place and quickly pulls out an invoice form.
“It’ll be about two weeks for the rehairing, Murata-san.” He extends the form to him on the counter, and Ugetsu barely spares it a glance as his eyes look past the shopkeeper to the wall of drawers behind him.
“I’ll need a replacement in the meantime,” he nods at the wall, and the shopkeeper’s eyes follow his gaze.
“O-of course!” He practically jumps to the drawers, and pulls over a nearby stool to reach for one a little higher than the rest. As he makes a show of examining the bows inside Ugetsu rests his chin against his hand on the counter, idly looking around to ignore the shopkeeper polishing the bow he meant to show all along. “Here’s one that should do nicely. It’s one of those modern carbon-fiber types, but it is a good, steady one—not too light, not too heavy.” He holds it out, and Ugetsu takes it and bounces the weight of it in his hand, pretending to examine the balance of it.
“Hm.” In the end, it’s all the same to him. Wood or carbon, traditional or modern, he can play with anything—so what does it matter? All that matters is if it can keep up.
“It can withstand quite a bit,” the shopkeeper says, and Ugetsu unconsciously leans back from the enthusiasm. His smile is too wide, too eager, too bright in the wake of the storm clouds he left back home—but maybe they’re still hanging over Akihiko, he suddenly imagines, and that eases his shoulders and brings him back. It even makes him smile in turn.
Ugetsu sets the bow down on the counter. “I’ll think about it. Can you point me to the strings?”
“Along that wall,” the shopkeeper gestures, and Ugetsu’s feet already start to turn. “We just got in a shipment of excellent Dominants from Vienna, and…”
He tunes out the rest to browse; halfway down the wall he hears the tinkle of the bell above the door, and the shopkeeper’s usual greeting following on cue. Probably a clueless student, from the sound of it: the kid moves along the wall according to the shopkeeper’s directions, voice guiding him until he eventually picks up a pack from the other side of the wall display. He takes it back and Ugetsu starts tuning it all out again, the background noise of restringing and peg turning like white noise as he browses.
He picks a pack of his own and heads back to the counter as the shopkeeper finishes with the student’s violin.
“...You’re all set,” he says as he hands the violin back. “Why don’t you give it a try?”
“Um...” The kid looks down at the instrument—he holds it like he doesn’t know what to do with it.
The shopkeeper chuckles. “It’s okay, don’t be shy. We should make sure everything’s okay after a complete restringing like that, right?”
The kid hesitates again, but eventually he folds to the well-meaning encouragement and takes up the violin. Ugetsu’s eyes can’t help but notice every error as he does: it’s an awkward, stilted imitation of someone else’s playing posture, the shoulder rest set far too high for his neck and the grip of his fingers rigid and locked at the bow. When he finally raises his bowing hand, tip wavering as if he’s unused to the weight balance, Ugetsu’s attention has already wandered off.
That is, until he plays.
It’s not the expected open-string tuning chords, or one of the many etudes kids his age play. Instead it’s a simple melody, clearly unpolished, maybe even a little predictable at first—until suddenly it isn’t, when it suddenly wrenches Ugetsu’s attention with its unexpected, unrefined progression. By then it’s slipped past his ears and transformed into something memorable; when he hears the recurring theme again it’s now a familiar visitor wandering in, freely making himself at home in Ugetsu’s mind. And to the biggest surprise of all—
“—It’s actually not bad,” Ugetsu finds himself muttering out loud. His feet have made their way to the counter by now, and he faces the kid. “What piece was that?”
The kid shrugs. “...I don’t know.”
His tone really isn’t bad at all, considering his clear lack of experience. “You could stand to be more flexible with your bowing hand, though.” Ugetsu picks up the bow on the counter, conveniently still where he left it, and demonstrates a basic detaché. “Your teacher never pointed that out?” What a waste.
“I don’t have a teacher,” the kid replies after the barest pause, and Ugetsu has to pause in turn.
“No teacher,” he repeats to confirm.
The kid just shakes his head.
“Any lessons?”
Another shake. “Not really.”
He settles in against the counter and taps his chin, not realizing the beginnings of a smile on his own face. “Where’d you hear that? The piece you just played now.”
“I dunno,” the kid shakes his head again. “It’s just always… been there.”
Hm. Ugetsu picks up his own violin, giving it a quick tune before raising the bow. “This is how it went, right?” He plays the measures he heard—but takes the time to make it his own, add his own flair, clothe the visitor to his tastes. He spares the kid a glance out of the corner of his eye as he plays, and doesn’t think he imagines the light dawning on his face.
“Can you teach me?”
He’s scarcely put his bow down when the kid’s hand reaches out, clutching tightly at his sleeve; to the side, the shopkeeper visibly balks at the physical contact. The kid looks up at him with awe in his eyes, which frankly, he’s used to getting—but somehow, it’s different this time. New, even. He’s gotten respect, sure; but always with a caveat, always accompanied by the shadow of jealousy, defeat, despair. Like the shopkeeper, who looks at the kid with a mixture of disbelief and undeniable envy for having the audacity to ask that of him.
“D-do you know who you’re asking?” The shopkeeper shakes his head. “I mean, you can’t just—”
“—Sure, why not?”
Ugetsu tucks his violin away in its case, humming under his breath. He’s not sure why he agrees; maybe it’s the sudden abundance of free time, maybe it’s the shopkeeper’s assumptions, maybe it’s his own response to the drawn, distant set of Akihiko’s shoulders. But he turns to the kid, all bright eyes and earnestness tinged with a curious hint of desperation, and something about him chases away the boredom.
His memories of Yuki are usually with the violin.
Hiiragi and Shizusumi are there, too, of course—and so are the memories of school, of playtime, of shared dinners and childhood sleepovers. But first and foremost is the violin, the long hours of practice undeniably intertwined into the years of his life with Mafuyu as his most frequent listener, his constant audience of one.
If he closes his eyes he can smell the scent of his room, paper and wood and Yuki’s shampoo tickling his nose along with the dust in the air. If he keeps going, sinking deeper into the past, he can almost hear Yuki playing again: the countless hours of repetition and focused practice, interspersed with his voice muttering, humming along, groaning in frustration.
“You should try,” Yuki would say on occasion, holding out his bow with a childish gleam in his eyes. He’d wrap himself around Mafuyu to settle the weight of his violin along his shoulder, pressing his chest against his back entirely on purpose; his right hand rests on Mafuyu’s, to help him grip the bow just right.
“You’re procrastinating,” Mafuyu nudges back softly, more than once. It’s an act, he can see through it—but despite it all he lets the hand wrap around his own, and simply observes as Yuki moves his arms like a puppet.
“Yeah, maybe,” Yuki’s laugh tickles Mafuyu’s ear. “Anyways,” he’d persist, adjusting Mafuyu’s posture with a hand along his lower back. “Play for me, so I can catch a break. I’m sick of audition pieces.”
“I can’t play like you do,” he counters, matter-of-fact.
“I think you can,” Yuki grins his crooked little grin at him and nudges him to the music stand.
“I can’t even read it.”
“You don’t need to,” he says, tapping the side of his own head. “You’ve heard me play it all this time, right?”
* * *
“So you’ve got your basic Bach and Mozart, hmm.”
Mafuyu resurfaces from his memories to see his new teacher through the hazy smoke of his cigarette, casually sprawled out on the floor by his bed. He lowers his violin and bow arm, letting his shoulders rest as he patiently waits for Ugetsu to continue.
“...Not that they don’t need work, though. But you—” he waves his hand in Mafuyu’s direction. “—need work in general.”
Mafuyu nods in silence, processing and accepting the observations.
“Partita No. 2, and Concerto No. 3…” He exhales, and the smoke wafts up thicker between the two of them. “Typical standards for your age group—but that’s fine, I can work with that. They’re good audition pieces to have on hand, anyway.” He taps his cigarette against a tray. “Didn’t expect that Bruch Concerto out of you, though… a Romantic piece, and pretty flashy, to boot. Especially considering how quiet you are. But it should make for a good show-off piece in your repertoire, especially compared to the very basic Bach and Mozart set you’ve already got.” He waves the hand with the cigarette in the air, and Mafuyu’s eyes follow the swirls of smoke. “It helps that you can get away with less technique on that one thanks to your expressiveness, but it’s still classic enough to be acceptable.”
Mafuyu just keeps nodding, words flying over his head as his new teacher speaks over Yuki’s old repertoire.
Ugetsu gets up and ambles over to browse through his bookshelf. “Not to say I’m letting you completely give up on developing technique, though—I’ll have you practice some of these exercises to develop that side, and eventually you can try expanding your repertoire with something more than those skate-by pieces.” He pulls a few books from his shelf and rests it near Mafuyu’s case.
“Okay,” Mafuyu replies, remembering to make the effort to respond. Though, Ugetsu never seems to mind his silence—he usually just barrels on, never stopping to ask why he doesn’t have anything to say. Mafuyu is grateful for it.
“Well, books and lessons aside,” Ugetsu sinks onto the floor and faces him across the small table. “I guess I should at least ask you this: do you have a goal in mind?”
“Goal?”
“The reason you asked me for lessons.” He rests his chin in his hand. “Is it to get into an ensemble? Place in a competition? Or are you looking at entrance exam auditions?”
No, Mafuyu thinks. None of those. He shakes his head.
“Huh. Then what? There must be something.” Ugetsu watches him through half-lidded eyes, looking as if he’ll drift away any second now—and Mafuyu’s response is the only thing that’ll keep him anchored.
There must be something, his voice loops in his head as Mafuyu lets the silence stretch. Thing is, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what that something is, or should be, or if he even has it. He remembers that day in the violin shop when Ugetsu’s playing sparked something inside him—but how to put that into words, when he can’t even figure out what exactly he’d felt back then? Meanwhile his new teacher eyes him expectantly from where he sits, and Mafuyu thinks he sees an all-too-familiar tinge to his gaze: it’s the way others look at him when he takes too long to respond, when he can’t express himself like everyone else can. It’s the look the rest of the world gives him as they outpace him, constantly moving on, and he’s left stranded in his silence.
“I don’t know,” is all he can offer, and he braces for Ugetsu to drift away and leave him behind.
“Well,” Ugetsu crushes his cigarette and gets up. “That’s fine—it’s not important.” Mafuyu’s head snaps up, and he realizes Ugetsu isn’t even looking at him. It’s hard to tell with the smoke. “So long as you can keep up with what I give you, I don’t care.” He picks up his own violin and walks over to the music stand, shuffling the sheets until he pulls up the now-familiar handwritten score. “I’m more interested in this little song of yours, anyway.” He waves him over. “I had an idea for this part, come and play with me while I try it out.”
“Oh,” Mafuyu breathes. “Okay,” he responds; he picks up his violin to answer a request he finally knows how to answer.
[EXCLUSIVE] An Interview with Murata Ugetsu, Virtuoso Violinist: on touring and his upcoming projects
Murata Ugetsu, at just 21 years old, has already conquered Japan’s classical music scene and is well on his way to sweeping the rest of the world off their feet. The world-renowned violinist, having recently returned from a European tour, sits down with us between rehearsals for his next projects—Murata keeps himself busy, accepting various invitations from organizations as well as pursuing his own projects.
On the topic of his European tour, Murata is happy to share. “The response was wonderful,” he reflects. “We received such a warm response, and the audiences seemed very receptive—for which I’m grateful.” “Receptive” is putting it lightly: the reviews are glowing, and Europe seems eager to have him back in their halls soon. “I did receive offers of performing in their next season—maybe I’ll do Tchaiko there, too.”
To “Tchaiko”, he must be referring to his upcoming concert, Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto in D major, Op. 35. It’s between rehearsals for this and preparations for his own solo recital that he meets us for this interview, coming fresh off the heels of immersing himself in this piece. Being such a well-known, established concerto means many other skilled virtuosi have performed and recorded their take on it—naturally, this has led to much anticipation on how Murata will interpret the famous piece. He is already hailed for his impeccable technique, but continues to further surprise audiences with a sensual expressiveness and colorful musicality that belies his flawless precision.
“I’ve enjoyed delving into the piece,” Murata says when asked about his preparation. “I’ve always liked starting something new—it’s like a blank canvas, and I have the freedom to color it to my liking.” He smiles, nodding to the score: there are countless annotations already filling its pages, clear signs of him crafting his own mark on the piece. It’s hard to imagine he’s also busy preparing for a solo recital, where he plans to unveil new repertoire.
“I hope people enjoy it,” he says when asked about it. “I like to stay busy. I’m always challenging myself with new pieces, and seeing how far I can go with music. I’ve even considered creating something new!” When pressed about what he means by that, he simply gives a smile. “It’ll be a surprise,” he laughs, and rises as he prepares to leave for his next rehearsal. “There might even be a special appearance.”
For the famously solo Murata, who prefers to play on his own or as a temporary guest in other ensembles, it’s curious as to who the “guest appearance” could be. As someone who has yet to accept any offer of residency from ensembles and companies alike, there will be curious eyes following Murata’s moves in the classical world as many start to speculate—
Akihiko rolls his eyes as he drops his phone onto the bed, letting loose a giant yawn as he stretches—until Ugetsu’s foot connects with his side in a weak nudge, and he blinks up at the shadow hovering over him.
“I’ve got someone coming over in an hour,” is all he says before he walks off, and Akihiko finally bothers to get up from bed.
“The kid?”
“The kid,” Ugetsu confirms, shuffling through a nearby pile of sheet music.
He lumbers to the bathroom, passing by Ugetsu preparing his violin and music. The sounds of tuning and warmup exercises drift over the fog of sleep still wrapped around him, and by the time he’s finished showering the sound has changed into something fast and terribly difficult—for normal people, anyway. But this is Ugetsu, he thinks, not entirely without bitterness.
Wieniawski, he blearily recognizes as he starts making coffee. He must be in a good mood. The rapid, flashy notes of the Scherzo-Tarantelle flare up bright in their dark underground room, taunting and teasing at Akihiko in the bright jumps and precise intervals borne of Ugetsu’s flawless technique. It then licks at him, almost mocking in the unfairly sweet and lyrical midsection of his reckless, colorful interpretation: the more he listens the more he feels heavy, gnawing nausea mixing inside him with something else. Yearning, maybe, if he were honest. He sips at the scalding coffee to drown it out.
He pours a second mug to set beside Ugetsu as he cuts through the chords fearlessly, bound by neither hesitation nor gravity, and Akihiko can’t help but stay and watch through the rest of the piece. He finishes his mug before Ugetsu finishes playing, and it’s the doorbell that saves him in the end.
“Ah,” Ugetsu casually stops and turns to answer the door, as if he hadn’t just dropped out during a performance that Akihiko could never pull off so casually. Regardless, his eyes follow him as he lets the kid in, still looking a little lost despite it being a few weeks since Ugetsu started this strange teacher act. “Come on in, you can get set up—” Ugetsu waves vaguely in the direction of his music stand. “—over there.” Akihiko stays silent as the kid passes by with a small polite nod; he gives him one back and heads to the closet to get dressed.
Akihiko pulls on a shirt as the sounds drift in, and he still doesn’t know what stuns him more: the fact that Ugetsu of all people is teaching, or the fact that the kid’s noises are improving in each lesson with terrifying speed. That’s probably why Ugetsu picked him up, he realizes as the kid’s impossible growth stretches across the house to prick at his ears.
He finishes getting dressed and, after a brief internal debate, packs a bag. He walks out and shuts the door without so much as a goodbye; Ugetsu would mind the interruption anyway, and why put himself in the crossfire between two geniuses?
Music can sound like a lot of things—he learned this from Yuki.
Yuki made it sound terrible, for his first few years. But Mafuyu stayed and listened as terrible made its way into passable, passable formed itself into good, and good blossomed into the promise of so much more. But more than that, and more often than not, Yuki made it sound fun.
His new teacher, he thinks—as he hears him play, as he watches the cold retreat of his roommate’s back—he makes it sound like a weapon.
“Don’t mind him,” Ugetsu finally tells him about a couple months in, as they hear his roommate leave yet again without a word. “He does that.”
Mafuyu nods and turns back to his teacher, not voicing his observations. The door closes solid and heavy behind them, and when Ugetsu plays again it’s not so sharp anymore, no longer a blade reaching out to sink into its victim. It’s not much of anything anymore, if he has to say. Weapon or not it seems to reach its best, convey its utmost when his roommate is around. Ugetsu’s best music drives him away, and Mafuyu isn’t sure what to make of that.
“Did you two fight?” he asks off-hand during one of their breaks.
“Do we ever not,” Ugetsu laughs.
It’s not his place to ask, and it’s not his type of thing to pry. But the way music can sound like this, the way it can hurt the people listening—it’s unfamiliar, to say the least. He briefly considers asking Ugetsu how his playing can sound like that, but before he can decide on his words Ugetsu speaks up first.
“We’re awful for each other,” he starts, completely unprompted as he pulls a cigarette from his pack. “Awful to each other, really.” He flicks his lighter and inhales deeply, sending up a plume of smoke. “My music causes him pain: I know this, but I can’t stop. And I won’t, it’s too important to me. He knows that, too, yet—” he waves his hand around their room. “—here we are, still circling each other.” He lets out a weak chuckle, short and low. “Well, maybe it’s because I’m the biggest son of a bitch in this world, and I just can’t let him go myself. I mean, I hate this; I hate what we are, but still...” He rakes a hand through his messy hair. “He’s been with me all this time. I can’t imagine him not here. I’m never gonna be able to break it off, not fully—so I have to make him let go of me.”
Mafuyu remembers the music from earlier, brandished like a weapon, and it strikes him then that maybe that was his way of connecting—or expressing a wish. Maybe both. Every connection can bring some sort of pain, a feeling he’s unfortunately familiar with.
“That’s quite the face you’re making,” Ugetsu remarks, breaking his thoughts. When he looks up he realizes he’s being watched; Ugetsu gazes over at him, an unnatural picture of ease with his little smirk half-smothered by his hand where he leans. He looks unbothered by his own confessions, as if baring himself—his issues and wounds and all—to his student of a scant few months isn’t a terrible effort to make at all. His words are personal and raw, visceral but unstoppable in its outpouring. Mafuyu can’t relate.
“Sorry,” Mafuyu shakes his head; he’s pretty sure he wasn’t making a face. “I just… is it okay? To tell me all this.”
“Well!” Ugetsu finally laughs out loud, his short bark breaking apart the heavy air. “I don’t know what to tell you, other than I don’t have any friends.” Ugetsu shrugs and gets up as the clock ticks the end of their lesson time. “But let’s start thinking about that next part of the piece. If my little story just now gave you any good ideas, let’s hear them in our next lesson, okay?”
He walks Mafuyu out, giving him a quick wave from his doorway before retreating back inside. Mafuyu shoulders his case and as he walks to the station, he hears it again: the sharp, biting tone of Ugetsu’s violin rings at odds with his old memories, and he wonders if Yuki ever sounded like this.
Ugetsu realizes one day, and it’s really quite the surprise: he might be having fun.
The kid he picked up—Mafuyu, that’s his name. His family name is... something common and entirely forgettable. But what isn’t forgettable is his song, and the thrilling pace at which he grows. He wonders, as he watches the kid improve in leaps and bounds, if he might even catch up to him some day. Far in the future, maybe, but some day.
Sometimes he fantasizes about a future: one where the kid can keep up with all he throws at him, pursuing music all the while and never, ever, giving up. It’d be nice to have someone stick around like that. To not give up on music, he thinks, pushing Akihiko’s dusty violin case out of his memory.
He plays though his part, taking notes, marking the score in progress. As he plays he hears the second violin’s part flow beside him, and he relishes the way their parts build together into something more. There’s a certain joy he discovers, as they write their parts together, in not having to hold back. A certain peace, that comes with having someone who isn’t hurt by the way he plays.
He adds a few notations—bowing, dynamics, some rhythm changes—to a stretch of developing measures and smiles at the challenge he writes. He hopes the kid responds to it.
Murata Ugetsu
14:41
[ meet me here for our lesson today ]
[ attachment: https://qoo.ql/maps/b5UEQuY ]
[ go around to the back of OO Hall, and through the backstage door ]
[ and then head to the stage ]
Mafuyu looks up from his phone to compare the location photo on his screen to the bright sign in front of him. He watches as a few people exit from the doors, the last few stragglers a telltale sign of a finished performance, and he’s briefly—just briefly—taken back in time. Posters of a soloist line the glass walls that Mafuyu passes by as he quickly finds the rear path.
The backstage door, he thinks as he walks. Backstage… He sees a set of doors left propped open, and thinks that must be it.
“...Mafuyu?”
Someone behind him calls out his name suddenly, and Mafuyu almost drops the case in hand. It can’t be—
“—Mafuyu, it’s you, isn’t it?”
The voice behind him is annoyingly, miserably, achingly familiar. He doesn’t turn around; he just grips his case tighter, wonders to himself if he’s started to hallucinate. His feet won’t move closer to the doors, after all.
A hand tugs at his shoulder, forcing him to turn around and face the voice. “It is you,” Hiiragi says; face pale as a sheet, voice barely above a choked whisper. Mafuyu’s own words fail to form, let alone rise to leave his mouth, and they’re left staring at each other as the silence freezes the air around them.
“Hiiragi,” Shizusumi breaks the standoff—his hands catch the slipping strap of Hiiragi’s cello case from his shoulder, and Hiiragi snaps out of his shock as he tugs it back into place.
“That’s Yuki’s violin,” he blurts out immediately, and Mafuyu flinches. “It is, isn’t it?”
Mafuyu grips the case tighter, suddenly feeling a chill run down his back.
“Did you… did you start playing?” Hiiragi makes a strange noise Mafuyu can’t identify: it’s somewhere near a choked laugh, but too wet to be laughter. “Why didn’t you say anything?” His hand tightens its grip around the strap. “We haven’t heard from you since the funeral, and suddenly this…”
Mafuyu catches Shizusumi bracing a protective hand on Hiiragi’s shoulder—or perhaps it’s restraint, considering how much better he knows him. Hiiragi himself notices nothing in his outburst.
“What the hell, Mafuyu?” He looks at him with all the weight of someone demanding answers, the visible need for a reply digging into Mafuyu’s skin.
Mafuyu has never been good at expressing himself—not like Hiiragi, not like everyone else, not like Yuki. He can never seem to come up with answers good enough for people, can never offer the right words, and now is no exception.
He turns and runs into the doors instead, letting the dim hallways swallow him up.
“Thought I told you to meet me at the stage,” Ugetsu hums softly—he finds the kid sitting on a lone bench on his way back from the bathroom. “Did you get lost?”
“I—” The kid’s head snaps up with an expression that raises Ugetsu’s eyebrows; his mouth hangs open, but instead of continuing he simply freezes again.
“You see a ghost or something?” Ugetsu shrugs and turns back towards the stage area. “Well, come on. This way.”
He leads them to the wings of the stage—the concert is over, with the rest of the orchestra long since packed up and gone. It’s noticeably colder than during the performance, that golden time under the lights with the orchestra around him and the audience hanging onto every note. Nothing can stop him when he’s on stage; there’s no one he can’t reach when he stands there, playing under the weight of a thousand gazes.
“Where is this?” The kid finally speaks up, and Ugetsu turns to him with a smile.
“I just had a performance here,” he says as he picks up his violin again from his case. “But I asked the staff to let me use the space a little longer. To practice for my upcoming recital,” he explains, as the kid just nods like he always does.
“Recital?”
“Ah, did I not mention?” He tightens his bow and adjusts his shoulder rest. “I’m having a solo recital here soon—it’s basically my solo concert. I thought I’d rehearse here while I had the chance, and thought I’d also have our lesson while at it.” He nods at the kid’s violin case. “Go ahead and get tuned.”
The kid jumps a little, then puts his case down and gets out his violin—Ugetsu doesn’t notice as he looks through his own bag for a specific set of sheet music.
“So I had a few thoughts on how to finish your part in this piece,” he says as he starts spreading out the sheet music in front of them. “But it’s pretty close to being finished. Think about how you want to play that call-and-response part at the end, and once we hammer that out you’ll play it with me at my recital.”
“...Play?” The kid blinks at him. “Me?”
“Yeah,” Ugetsu finds the last sheet and places it between them, smoothing out the wrinkles. “I want to play it, and I think you’ll be up to scratch by then.”
“I can’t.”
The first thing that catches Ugetsu’s attention about the reply is the pace of it. The quick, immediate reply is off-beat for the kid’s usual silence—so different from his trademark slow, thoughtful tempo. Ugetsu’s eyes snap up just as fast, his own pace swept along by the surprising reply.
“What?”
“I can’t,” he says again, hands clutched tight around his violin.
“What do you mean?” Ugetsu stares at him. When he doesn’t offer an answer, simply hanging his head where he stands, Ugetsu puts his violin down and walks over to him. “What is it? The audience? You have stage fright or something?” Mafuyu shakes his head. “Then what? You don’t think we’ll finish in time?”
He shakes his head again, fingers still curled tight around the neck of the violin. “It’s not that…”
“Then what,” Ugetsu snaps, and doesn’t notice the flinch in Mafuyu’s shoulders.
“I…” he starts, hesitant in the face of Ugetsu’s point-blank questioning. “I’m not cut out for this.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Ugetsu scoffs, ignoring the familiar dread curling in his guts. “I’m your teacher.”
Mafuyu keeps his eyes down, searching for answers in the floorboards. “I’m… I’m not good at expressing things,” he finally offers up, a clumsy confession finally extracted under the weight of Ugetsu’s stare. “So I can’t perform.”
“...What the fuck,” Ugetsu breathes out in confusion as the kid stays frozen, curled into himself. “‘Not good at expressing things…’ what does that even mean?” He blinks, cocks his head, crosses his arms; he’s still struggling to wrap his head around Mafuyu’s words as his own replies start to pour out. “‘Can’t perform’... ‘Not cut out for this’... what? Then why’d you ask me for lessons?” He waves an arm at the spread of sheet music between them. “Why did I spend all this time with you on writing this song?” He watches Mafuyu for an answer, unable to comprehend it all. He can’t connect the Mafuyu in front of him with the kid he spent the past few months with—immersed in music, building something together, showing so much promise with every lesson. “Why’d you even start music?”
“I—”
He doesn’t get to answer, as one of the strings finally gives out under his grip—it snaps and flies wildly, sending both of them flinching away from each other.
The snap is a wake-up call. This is ridiculous, he realizes; writing a song, playing together, his whole idea was ridiculous. “Forget it,” he says. “I don’t care.” He gathers up the sheets, turning his back to the kid as he rearranges the sheets. “Go home—I’ll just play it by myself.” I always do, he thinks as he hears the kid leave, soft steps barely audible before they fade away entirely.
Something’s up with Kaji-san lately, Ritsuka thinks as school finally ends for the day. He reads over the text in the group chat again.
Kaji Akihiko
12:38
[ gonna be a little late today ]
[ get started without me ]
12:39
[ i’ll still pay the studio fee, no worries ]
He shoulders his guitar case and remembers to grab his backpack as he heads outside to the gates. Maybe he could stop by a convenience store on the way and get some drinks for practice—
“—Kaji-san?” Ritsuka blinks. It’s him, it’s definitely him at the school gate. No one who looks like that is normally around a high school, and he absolutely notices the people all staring at him and his bike and his face and his drum kit, slung over his shoulder.
“Ah,” Akihiko blinks, looking vaguely guilty in the presence of youth; he eventually lifts a hesitant hand to wave at Ritsuka.
Ritsuka jogs over. “What’s up? I thought you said you were gonna be late to practice.”
“Ah, yeah…” he rubs the back of his neck. “I still am. I’m uh, I’m actually looking for someone else. Didn’t realize he went to your school, Ue...”
“Huh?” Someone else, and at his school? Ritsuka has a million questions. “Who? More like, how do you even know high schoolers? Other than me, that is?”
He gets a well-aimed flick to his forehead for that. “Don’t ask, Ue. I don’t even know why I’m doing this.”
“Kaji-san,” Ritsuka says, completely serious as he clutches his forehead. “I know that despite your face, you’re a really nice guy. But if you did anything illegal, or are about to... do you know what it’d do to our band?”
“Goddammit,” Akihiko rubs the bridge of his nose. “I’m not doing anything wrong. If anything, I’m trying to do something right for once—ah.”
“Ah.”
A kid—carrying some sort of case, Ritsuka thinks it might be a violin—stops as he and Akihiko spot each other. A kind of sleepy-looking, quiet kid, whose face he vaguely recalls seeing on the same floor as him. He can’t remember his name, though; but then again, he might not have ever heard it. He doesn’t really hang with kids from other classes.
The quiet kid ducks his head in a small nod. “Kaji-san,” he says politely, and Ritsuka watches Akihiko out of the corner of his eye.
“Hey,” Akihiko reprises his awkward wave. “Sorry for ambushing you here like this, but I needed to talk to you.” The kid just stands there in silence, and Akihiko breathes a deep sigh as he finally explains. “I want you to come see Ugetsu.”
The kid flinches a little at the name. “I… I don’t think he wants to see me.”
“Maybe,” Akihiko admits. “But I still think you should go talk to him. It’s all I can think of.” He rakes a hand through his hair and looks down, addressing a pebble near his foot. “I can’t reach him,” he admits, giving the pebble a small nudge and watching it roll. “Haven’t been able to for a while now, to be honest.”
“I…” His hand tightens its grip around the strap of his case. “I’m not good at talking, you know.”
“Neither is he,” Akihiko scoffs. “But you connected to him better than most.” He finally looks up again to face the kid, and the expression on his face is probably the closest thing to humility Ritsuka has ever seen on him—he blatantly stares in surprise. Not that either of them notice, though. “That song you guys played… there was something there.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Yeah.” He hands him a helmet. “So, what do you say?”
The kid stares at him, then at the helmet, then at his violin case. Ritsuka counts the beats, the slow, plodding stretch of silence between them—and doesn’t know why he holds his breath as the kid slowly looks up.
“Okay,” he finally says. He shoulders his case and accepts the helmet. “I’ll try.”
“Great,” Akihiko hands him a jacket as the kid adjusts the helmet on his head. “Ue,” he turns to Ritsuka.
“Ah—yeah, Kaji-san?”
“I’m just gonna drop him off, and then I’ll be at practice right away.” With a wave he starts his bike and rides off, and Ritsuka is left watching them until they turn out of sight.
Huh, Ritsuka thinks, turning away to head to his own practice. Wonder what that was all about? But his thoughts soon turn to his upcoming session—there’s some new stuff he wants to try out, vague phrases of what might be a new song floating around in his head. Soon enough he’s forgotten all about that mysterious kid, fleeting impressions of fluffy hair and thin shoulders fading away as chords and progressions replace them in his head. He just hopes that Akihiko doesn’t come too late—it’s hard to get into a groove without a good drumbeat, and the bass and drums have been syncing so well lately. It’d be a shame not to do more with that.
Ugetsu loses count eventually—the empty cans roll around him, mixing with the broken shards of a mug. Or was it a plate? It doesn’t really matter, he was never paying attention anyway. He’s lost sight of the ashtray under the overflowing cigarette butts, and the rest have carelessly fallen away in the thick smoke blanketing him. He lights up another to distract him from the disappointment of it all, and kicks a nearby can when it doesn’t work.
He’d tried playing it again when he got back that evening. He played his part, remembering his identity as a soloist, modifying it to claim the song for himself. But no matter what he did, no matter what technique or skill he threw at it, the notes rang weak. Incomplete. Boring, to his infinite horror.
Not good at expressing myself, his words echo, and Ugetsu throws the cigarette down in irritation. What the fuck does that even mean? He leans back, staring up at the dark ceiling. Looks like in the end, you couldn’t keep up with me, either. The realization makes something well up in him, and he sweeps the nearby table—there go the cans, the ashtray, the sheet music heavy with angry scrawls and cross-outs. His body slouches where he leans until eventually he’s sprawled on the ground.
Will I ever, he starts to wonder as his body curls up on the cold floor. Will I ever not be disappointed?
* * *
variation no. 1
In another life, he and Mafuyu grow up together.
It’s blurry how they first meet. Maybe it was at a random park, or under a tree somewhere. Maybe it was in the waiting room of his first lessons: where he’d play the fast songs for adults and walk out to see the grimace on the other kids’ faces, always dreading their turn after him.
Those details don’t matter: what does, is that Mafuyu never looks at him like that. Ugetsu will remember his steadfast presence as the students dwindle away one by one, and he’ll remember how Mafuyu follows him as they leave behind that waiting room, outgrowing their respective age groups. He’ll remember teaching Mafuyu the piece for his audition to Ugetsu’s alma mater. He’ll remember the new sight of him in his old high school uniform.
The blazer lies crumpled off to the side as Ugetsu leans in, tipping Mafuyu’s mouth towards his with a finger along his chin. Mafuyu’s lips look soft as they hang slightly parted in surprise—or simple indifference, it’s hard to tell with him sometimes—but they’re pliant and forgiving as Ugetsu lets himself in. It’s almost too easy to let himself get lost; he loses track of who they are, forgets the boundaries between teacher and student as his tongue slips in past lips readily opening up to his advances. To a soft, quiet mouth and skinny arms that accept him, music and all.
* * *
variation no. 2
In another life, or maybe a dream: Mafuyu is a noticeable stand-in for a certain presence in his life. Here, Ugetsu is granted another chance at making a friend.
It’s Mafuyu he meets in that practice room on his return from abroad, Mafuyu who plays the delicate Brahms and places second in the competition. There’s something delicate about the both of them, now that he thinks about it; he can’t help but laugh as Mafuyu mirrors him in uncanny parallel. Ugetsu likes how he sounds, though. And even better, he likes that he can keep up.
“What are you going to play for your next competition?” Ugetsu asks in the future, calling from somewhere in Europe.
“I was thinking of the Sibelius concerto,” Mafuyu replies, also somewhere in Europe—but another country, a different hotel room.
“Huh,” Ugetsu blinks in the dim lamplight. “I was gonna pick that.”
“Really?” Mafuyu blinks back, mirroring him. “I guess we just work similarly.”
Ugetsu laughs it away. “Don’t steal my homework, okay? Do your own.”
“It’s only fair,” Mafuyu chuckles back softly. “You picked the same Paganini as me during evals last year.” He still smiles, hair falling into his eyes, and Ugetsu starts wondering who’s mirroring who.
* * *
variation no. 3
In another life, they’re normal people. They’re—
“—playing video games?” Ugetsu blinks where he sits, and a bright monitor with too much color assaults his eyes in the dim room. “This is definitely a dream.”
Mafuyu is there, of course. He nudges his side and says something that must be an entirely different language, all while dealing blows to an impressively large and muscular boss with piercings.
“Is this what normal people do? Play games?” Ugetsu looks at the Mafuyu sitting next to him this time around, surrounded by wires and controllers and drink cans. Mafuyu’s hands dance across the keyboard with a pianist’s finesse, and he clears away the enemies in an impressive orchestration of color as a side window displays lightning-fast streams of comments and applause.
“Huh,” Ugetsu raises an eyebrow. “So you’re a genius in every universe?”
“Gotta find the other character,” this version of Mafuyu responds, completely ignoring his question. “To unlock the power-ups.”
“Unlock? Power-ups?”
Mafuyu navigates his character to another, and as they talk a soft aura builds around them. “This character you recruit unlocks new skills for both characters,” he explains as he clicks through the dialogue. “You just have to find them down here... and talk to them.” Suddenly the light shatters and the character leaves; Mafuyu deftly moves to catch up. “Sometimes it takes a few tries,” he says, restarting the dialogue. “It’s hard to know the right responses. But it’s worth it.”
Ugetsu never gets a chance to process those words—in the next few seconds the screen explodes in triumphant fanfare, and at long last Ugetsu’s mind falls into a deep, dark sleep.
“...What the fuck, Akihiko.”
Ugetsu’s voice comes from somewhere within the messy nest of blankets in front of Mafuyu. It’s all a bit sudden—his roommate just left him here, giving him one last clap on the shoulder before driving away as his phone hurled notifications at him.
“I’m not Akihiko,” Mafuyu finally replies to the nest, and Ugetsu’s head peeks out at the unexpected voice. The rest of him soon snaps up once his eyes focus on Mafuyu, standing there in front of him for some reason.
“What are you doing here?”
“Kaji-san brought me.”
“What the fuck, Akihiko.” Ugetsu sinks back into the nest of blankets and sticks a hand out to wave him off. “Ugh. Go away.”
Mafuyu doesn’t—instead he settles on the floor, laying his violin case down next to him, and thinks back to the pained look on Akihiko’s face from barely a few moments ago.
* * *
“I can’t help him,” he says to Mafuyu, brows knit together as he helps him off the bike. “Haven’t been able to for a while, frankly. And I’m pretty sure he and I both know that.”
“But you brought me here,” Mafuyu replies back, accepting his hand. “To help him. Right?”
“Yeah, well.” He jerks his head towards the house. “If I walk in through that door, he’ll just cling to me again. And I’ll latch onto him right back.” His phone sends him another notification then—whoever it is, it makes his brows scrunch together and he looks softer, happier, and very very sorry. “I have to be honest. I’m also doing this for myself.”
Mafuyu has nothing to respond with, and simply waits for him to continue.
“We’ve done this little dance over and over again, so much that I’ve lost count.” Akihiko glances at the closed door. “We both wake up one day and realize we’re terrible to each other, and we try to leave. But inevitably, we end up coming right back here—right back to each other, because it’s just so damn familiar. It’s a shitty habit, and neither of us can seem to break it.” He looks at Mafuyu then, guilt plain as day on his face. “But then you showed up. You could keep up with him. It’s the farthest we’ve managed to come apart, and.” He sighs, clutching his hands together in front of him. “I think if I go back in there now, we’ll never be able to again. He’ll never learn to live without me.”
“How do you know all this?” Mafuyu’s hand tightens around his case. “How do you know, for sure?” He shakes his head. Someone so bad at expressing himself could never be the solution here. “Why me?” he finally asks, the question inside him long building up to this moment.
Akihiko gives him a strange smile, and Mafuyu thinks he sees an apology in it. “That song of yours,” he admits. “I’ve never heard Ugetsu like that before.”
* * *
“Why are you still here?” Ugetsu’s hand waves again from the covers, and Mafuyu looks up from the floor.
“Kaji-san asked me to talk to you,” he replies obediently. “I’m not really sure how to, though.”
Ugetsu finally raises his head from the blankets—his eyes are still puffy and bloodshot, his hair a rumpled mess. “I’ll make this easy for you: no thanks. Go away.” His head thumps back down. “I don’t know why you even bothered to let stupid Akihiko bring you all this way, when you wouldn’t even bother to play with me.”
“Is that really what you wanted?” Mafuyu tentatively asks; he vaguely feels like he’s poking at a wild animal with a stick. He doesn’t get an immediate response, but he sits and waits patiently.
“...Whatever,” comes the grumpy answer. “I’ll play the piece myself. I’ll figure out a way to turn it into a solo.”
“No.” To Mafuyu’s own surprise, that’s what catches at him the most.
“Huh?” Ugetsu replies. “What do you mean, ‘no’?”
“I don’t want you to play that song alone,” Mafuyu says, suddenly possessive of Yuki’s song. “It isn’t meant to sound like that.”
Ugetsu emerges again, this time propping his chin up with a hand. “And who are you,” he says, frowning down at him from his bed. “To say what it should or shouldn’t sound like? You,” he jabs a finger at him. “You’re the one who turned and ran away. I asked you to play it with me,” he spits out, accusation in every jab. “And you said no.”
“Sorry,” he offers, laying a hand on his violin case—the broken string rests just underneath it. They lapse back into uncomfortable silence, clock ticking audibly in the space between them.
“Why,” comes Ugetsu’s voice eventually; it could mean a lot of different things, and Mafuyu can only guess at what it is he wants to hear. He takes a breath and hopes he’s right.
“I’m not good at expressing myself,” Mafuyu submits as his answer, reprising his reply from that day under the heavy stage curtains.
“Think we’ve been over this,” Ugetsu rolls his eyes. “And I still have no idea what the fuck you mean by that.”
“When you perform, you’re expressing things in front of other people, right?” It’s an effort to string the words together, to connect them in a way he hopes makes sense. “I’m not good at that. People say they can’t tell what I’m thinking, or how I’m feeling…” He twists his fingers in his lap. “And I think so, too. I can’t always tell how I’m feeling, or what I should say. So,” he concludes, staring at his hands. “I’m not cut out for performing.”
“What the fuck.” The sudden loud rustle of blankets and bare feet on the floor snap him out of it, and he finds himself suddenly being stared down by a rumpled, wild-eyed Ugetsu. “What the fuck do you mean, ‘not cut out for performing’? What do you mean, ‘not good at expressing’?” Ugetsu sinks down to the floor in front of him, shaking him by the shoulders. “Are you an idiot? Or worse, are you deaf?” Ugetsu just keeps shaking him, blinking in obvious confusion. “Haven’t you heard the way you play?”
“Huh?”
“Your song, that day in the shop! Obviously you’re capable of expression, otherwise how could that song—in that shitty incomplete state, no less—have caught my attention? Do you even know who I am?” The responses keep coming, one after the other, Ugetsu’s sudden outpour washing Mafuyu along. “Also. How long have we had lessons, now? I literally told you your expressiveness is your strength. Partly due to your lack of technique, but.” He gives him one final shake. “Clearly it’s because I thought you had something, and it was strong enough to overcome that!”
Mafuyu blinks as Ugetsu finally stops shaking him, panting slightly from the effort.
“Christ,” Ugetsu drops Mafuyu’s shoulders and slaps a hand to his forehead. “Was that really it?”
Mafuyu nods back.
A strangled laugh escapes from Ugetsu’s mouth. “Well, here I am, telling you you’re wrong. You can perform.” He crouches back down and reaches out with a heavy, clumsy hand on Mafuyu’s shoulder. “So play it with me,” he demands, the petulant, unabashed childishness in Ugetsu’s eyes familiar in a way he can’t refuse.
“...My string’s still broken,” Mafuyu remembers, not necessarily resisting.
“A string?” Ugetsu scoffs. “Big deal. I’ll fix it. You should always carry around a set of spares, anyway.”
“I don’t have spares.”
“I do,” Ugetsu immediately turns to dig through his own case.
“Is this really okay—”
“—Ugh,” Ugetsu shoves the pack of strings into Mafuyu’s chest. “I’m telling you it’s fine, strings are replaceable. It’s not the end of the world to replace them—hell, I go through strings like nothing.” Mafuyu’s hands close over the pack of strings as Ugetsu turns to open his violin case. “I’ll change them for you, hold tight.”
“Right now?”
“Of course right now.” Ugetsu busies himself with unwinding a peg and removing the broken leftovers. “You kept me waiting this long, we have a lot of lost time to make up for.”
[REVIEW] Murata Ugetsu’s first solo recital: first foray into original work, and the possibilities of a career change?
It goes without saying that Murata Ugetsu, having taken his place in the upper echelons of Japan’s classical music scene at the young age of 21, had no shortage of expectations to answer to. At his long-anticipated first solo recital the virtuoso rose to the occasion, proving again just why he continues to receive so many love calls from abroad with his impeccable technique, flawless musicality, and creative interpretations. Fans and critics alike came to watch as he unveiled the long-awaited new repertoire he hinted at, blowing people away with his creative takes on a wide range of eras interspersed with familiar crowd-pleasing favorites. He is an excellent showman as well as a performer, knowing far too well how to impress the audience.
Which made his final piece of the night all the more mysterious and unexpected, a sharp departure from the usual virtuoso Murata is hailed as. Not only did he unveil an original composition, he introduced to the classical world his first—and perhaps only—student.
“No one expected him to teach, especially considering he himself is still so young,” notable critic T. Yatake mentioned in his own thoughts of the performance. The sentiment is shared by many who were there that night, with several questions as to who he might be. “He’s no Murata Ugetsu, for sure,” Yatake goes on in his criticism of the student. Despite his moving expressiveness and haunting tone, his performance shows clear signs of inexperience with a level of technique nowhere near his teacher—but perhaps that goes without saying, as Murata remains peerless in his generation.
Another oddity is that no one from the classical world recognizes him, leading to theories that he may be a complete outsider. If so, that would be all the more surprising; most classical music training starts from early childhood, and it is considered especially difficult to start teaching an older student. Regardless of who he may be, most, if not all listeners from that night agree: Variations on a theme of Winter was a fascinating, complex duet, and many left the night wanting to hear more.
To these questions, Murata has yet to issue a statement.
“So,” Hiiragi holds out his phone to Mafuyu, who shifts slightly from the sudden proximity. “This is what you were up to.”
“It is,” Mafuyu nods, expression as blank as always.
Hiiragi takes his phone back. “You could have just, like… told us.”
“Mm,” Mafuyu nods. “I guess.”
“Ugh, you’re always like that.” Hiiragi sighs into the air. “But y’know,” he starts, still staring up. He addresses the clouds so he doesn’t have to look at his face. “Yuki’s mom was happy. I told her you started playing his violin, and she… I dunno.” He scratches his head. “She seemed happy about it. Relieved, maybe.”
“Really?” There’s a sudden rustle from his side that he turns to see, and he’s caught by Mafuyu finally looking at him—really looking at him this time, meeting him eye to eye for the first time in too long. Hiiragi has to keep himself from falling off the bench.
“Y-yeah,” he manages to reply before turning away again; his fingers fidget in his lap as they both lapse into awkward silence. Eventually he breaks it, unable to sit still. “Can I ask you something?”
“Mhm.”
“Why’d you start playing? And how? ...I’m not even going to get into how you met the Murata Ugetsu, because I have a feeling you’re not gonna tell me jack shit.” He plays with his phone, turning it over in his hands. “...Though, if you do feel like talking about it, I’m. I’m all ears, I guess.”
Mafuyu just shrugs. “I ran into him one day and asked for lessons, and he said yes.”
“Shut up.” Hiiragi almost drops his phone. “You’re shitting me. You’re absolutely shitting me.”
Mafuyu shrugs again and stares off into the sky. “Believe what you want.”
“Ugh, fine, whatever. That aside, at least answer my first thing seriously.” Hiiragi turns to him on the bench. “Why’d you start? I mean, was it like a way for you to move forward? Or…” Hiiragi hesitates briefly. “...are you still stuck on him? On the past?” Mafuyu doesn’t answer immediately, of course, and Hiiragi recognizes the uncomfortable tension of a boundary crossed. He turns back to his side of the bench. “Never mind. Forget I asked.”
The silence stretches again, but this time it’s Mafuyu that breaks it. “I think… I think there was something I wanted to see.” He shakes his head. “That, and… I think there’s something I want to confirm.”
“...Confirm?”
“Mhm.”
“Huh,” Hiiragi watches his profile from the side—and of course, Mafuyu doesn’t elaborate. “But that sounds like you’re gonna keep playing… right?”
Mafuyu nods. “I think it’ll take a while.” His phone buzzes then, and Mafuyu gets up as he reads the screen. “I have to get going now.”
Hiiragi follows him up. “See you around… I guess?” He gives an awkward wave. “Or at least text us once in a while. You have our info.”
“Yeah,” he says, nodding in a noncommittal way with a strange, distant look in his eyes; Hiiragi is momentarily taken aback by this unfamiliar Mafuyu. “See you around,” he says as he walks, and Hiiragi finds himself left behind again.