Chapter Text
Atsumu
The first rule of being a performer of any kind on the internet: don’t read the comments.
“Atsumu,” Osamu groans, his voice both frustrated and weirdly kind, the way it’s been for the last week. “Stop reading the comments.”
Atsumu looks up from the video, squinting at his brother in the dim light shining in through the window. “When did it get dark?” he asks faintly.
Osamu’s nostrils flare. He walks up and rips Atsumu’s phone from his hand.
Atsumu shrieks. “Give that back!”
Osamu stuffs the phone down his shirt, making eye contact the entire time. Atsumu gives a soundless yell, then lunges for him. They land hard in a tangle of limbs. Osamu wriggles and twists away; Atsumu headbutts him in the nose, then runs his fingers down his brother’s shirt to get at his phone.
His fingers touch the screen just as Osamu sinks his teeth into Atsumu’s shoulder.
Atsumu screams bloody murder. Bloodlust sings in his veins, and he loses all track of the fight after that.
By the end of it, Osamu has Atsumu in a headlock, a slightly bloody nose, and seven fewer bruises than his brother.
Atsumu gives up. “Ow,” he whines pathetically, relaxing in Osamu’s hold.
Osamu huffs against his forehead; Atsumu’s hair flutters. “Are you done being an asshole?” he asks, his grip tightening ruthlessly.
Atsumu scowls. “Fine! Let me go, you piece of shit.”
Osamu pushes him away. Atsumu gets to his feet and throws his brother a glare. “Whatever, keep my phone. I can get a new one right now.”
“You can, but you won’t,” Osamu says, rolling his eyes. He grabs Atsumu’s wrist and tugs him to the kitchen table. “Now, sit down. Did you even eat today?”
Atsumu straightens his shirt. Did he? “I’m not sure,” he mutters.
Osamu’s mouth twists. “I’ll make dinner.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Yeah, I do.” The line of his brother’s shoulders is tense. Atsumu looks away, resting his chin on his arms on the table. The sound of rhythmic chopping fills the air as Osamu starts to prepare what Atsumu is pretty sure is onigiri. You can take the person out of the restaurant, but you can’t take the restaurant out of the person, he thinks wryly.
Hmm, that’s kind of poetic, actually. Not the restaurant part, but that sentiment in general. He could make a lyric out of that.
But just as it’s been for the last few months, the second Atsumu thinks about playing or writing, fatigue sinks into his bones. His heart sinks, and his thoughts are pulled to the second half of his tour when everything fell apart—his energy on stage, his enthusiasm for performing.
His relationship.
All culminating in that disastrous last show, which should have been the crowning moment of the tour.
“Stop it,” he mutters to himself, thunking his head on the table repeatedly.
“Stop it,” Osamu echoes absently; Atsumu jumps. “You’ll lose more braincells doing that. You don’t have any to spare.”
Atsumu flips him the bird, even though Osamu’s back is turned. Attuned to him as always, his brother flips it back.
“When’s Sunarin getting home?” Atsumu asks after a while.
“Soon, probably.”
Atsumu picks at a callous on his thumb. “You guys haven’t gotten much time alone since I’ve been here.”
Osamu hums. “We don’t get that much time alone anyway, not between his games and my business. Don’t worry about it, you’re not interrupting anything.”
Guilt twists Atsumu’s insides. “’Samu, that’s not—I don’t want to get in the way of what time you do have. Isn’t it time I get out of your hair?”
Osamu shoots him a smirk. “Wow, that’s so sweet of you,” he drawls. His face softens. “Nah, like I said, don’t worry about it. We’re happy to have you. You’re going through a hard time.”
Oof. The verbal reminder stings, even though he just spent three hours watching video evidence of his “hard time” and absorbing every resulting jibe at him. “Yeah, but I can’t live with you and Sunarin forever.”
“It’s hardly been three weeks. You only just got back from being on tour; relax a little.”
Atsumu frowns at him, surprised by his insistence. “Huh? What’s with you? You’re not usually this intense about getting me to stick around. I mean, you and Suna probably haven’t smushed booties once since I’ve been here.”
“Smushed booties ?” Osamu whips around, incredulous. “Aren’t you a songwriter? How the hell is smushing booties the best euphemism you can come up with?”
Atsumu waves dismissively. “I’m on break from being a songwriter right now. Let me be a plebeian.”
Osamu scoffs. “Unbelievable.”
Atsumu scoffs back. “You’re avoiding the question.”
To his surprise, his brother blushes and looks away, his face screwing up tight. “Maybe I’ve missed you, you dick.”
Atsumu feels his eyes widen. “ Oh.”
“What do you mean, ‘oh,’” Osamu grumbles. He purses his lips, then looks Atsumu in the eyes, the disgruntled look on his face belied by his pink cheeks.
Uh oh. Looks like ‘Samu is going to commit to the sappy moment.
“Look, you’ve been touring across the world for months, okay?” Osamu says. “And we’re on different paths or whatever, and we’re both busy, and it feels like I haven’t gotten to talk to you for a while. And I know Rin misses his best friend, too. So yeah, what happened at your last show was super shitty, and it sucks that you’re all miserable and wallowing while you’re here, but I’m glad you’re back and around.” He coughs. “Or whatever.”
Atsumu’s eyes prick. “I missed you, too,” he admits, too touched to put up a façade.
Osamu looks alarmed, though his eyes are warm. “No! No more crying!” He spins around, dumps a few of his completed yaki onigiri onto a plate, and sets them in front of Atsumu. “Here, eat. We’ll talk about this later. For now, I mean it. You’re welcome to stay for as long as you like. Rin agrees.”
Atsumu nods reluctantly and takes a bite. He groans aloud at the explosion of flavour in his mouth. As he eats, he thinks about what Osamu has just said. “It has been a while since I’ve stuck around, huh,” he muses softly.
Atsumu has an apartment in Osaka that he’s been paying rent on even while he was on his international tour for the last six months. In that time, between road trips and flights and shows, and his brother’s booming restaurant, he hasn’t had any time to spend with him and the rest of his family, or Suna, or Aran, or any of his other friends. What scant time he had was split unevenly between them and—
Atsumu halts that thought there, his heart squeezing. Don’t think about him. He’s not your boyfriend anymore. Don’t think about him.
He takes a breath, continues his original line of thought: Atsumu hasn’t been home properly in a long, long time. His agent had insisted he take a break, and Atsumu has found it sorely needed, especially with the clusterfuck that was his last show and the subsequent burnout and loss of inspiration he’s suffered.
But what if he took a longer break than he’d originally planned?
His lease is ending next month, and he had planned to extend it and return, but…
Atsumu glances at his brother, then looks around the apartment. It’s incredibly spacious for being in Tokyo, and it’s in a great neighbourhood. The bedroom is large, and there’s an office space that Osamu and Suna use as a guest bedroom. Atsumu could convert his into a music room.
He could rest, and recoup, and hide from his fans for a little while, with the bonus of his brother literally next door.
“Hey, ‘Samu?” Atsumu asks. “Are there any apartments being rented out in this building?”
Osamu tilts his head, thinking. “I think so. Why?”
Atsumu shrugs, aims for casual. “Think I might be looking for a place.”
His brother stares at him, and his eyes light up. “No way.”
Atsumu grins. “Yeah.”
Osamu lets out a laugh. “Holy shit. Uh—just so you know, the soundproofing in this building is kinda shit. You can hear people through the walls if you’re both standing close enough. Would that be okay?”
“Shouldn’t be a problem. I can get soundproofing panels if I need them. I can definitely afford it.” Atsumu can’t help the devilish grin that splits across his face. “Besides, anything is worth it to be close to my baby brother who’s missed me so much,” he coos, reaching across and ruffling Osamu’s hair.
“ Fuck you,” Osamu spits, batting his hands away, but he’s smiling too much for any vitriol to land.
Atsumu goes back to eating, satisfaction curling in his chest. For the first time in a long time, things are looking up.
Except for one thing. “’Samu?”
“Mm?”
“Give me back my phone.”
Kiyoomi
The first rule of being a performer of any kind on the internet: don’t read the reviews.
Kiyoomi’s heart sinks in his chest as he reads the third critical article, this one from an up-and-coming music critic from the United States. His eyes skim through the English words rapidly, confirming what he already knows: another description of his lackluster performance and failure to connect with the music. The same as the other two he’s read.
This particular critic wrote that he’s a fan of Kiyoomi’s, too. The shame of disappointing him, of inadequacy, burns Kiyoomi’s throat.
Still, he switches to a new tab, clinging to one last bit of hope. He still has one more critical review to find, the most important one. He clicks on the Japan Times, shoulders tense with anticipation.
Kiyoomi scrolls and scrolls the headlines of the newspaper, ignoring a particularly bold one about some singer who had a breakdown on stage, until his eyes catch on the music reviews. There it is: the review of his concert three days ago from renowned music critic and conductor Ushijima Wakatoshi. He clicks on the link with bated breath.
Ten minutes later, after he’s read it so many times that it’s been burned into his brain, he closes the laptop and slowly folds himself face-down on the ground, pulling down a pillow from the bed and resting his head on it.
The hotel door opens and Motoya comes in, takeout bags rustling in his hands.
“Oh, shit ,” Kiyoomi hears as Motoya lays eyes on him. His cousin rushes to the laptop and opens it, and then lets out a long, heavy breath.
“Well,” Kiyoomi says, flat. “That’s that, then.”
“Kiyoomi,” Motoya sighs, sympathetic. He drops down on the floor and pets Kiyoomi’s hair tentatively. “It’s…it’s not that bad.”
Kiyoomi doesn’t answer. The hotel floor is carpeted and deeply steam-cleaned, a luxury he always insists on before he travels, because if he’s going to be spending his life travelling around the world to perform, he’s damn well going to do it to his comfort. He sinks into it, eyes burning.
Motoya lets out a puff of air. “’Sakusa’s technique was as perfect as ever, and the notorious difficulty of the Third Concerto appeared seamless to him. The cadenza was especially of note here; Sakusa’s skill shone, his hands all but floating over the keys despite the frenzy and energy it calls for.’” He claps his hands. “That’s good , Kiyoomi.”
“’However, as has been the case of late, his performances are lacking the vitality of his earlier career. Other critics have also noted that Sakusa’s expression and interpretation have recently been limited. His rubato is sparing and ineffective when used, creating a mishmashed attempt at emotion that ends up random and out of place. His body language is intent and consistent, but not in tune with the music, which, while certainly important to uphold his technique, prevents the connection and immersion audiences seek from a performer. What should have been an explosive concerto concluded with a whimper,’” Kiyoomi quotes. He barks out a humourless laugh.
Motoya stares at him. “You memorized it?”
Kiyoomi snorts and flips over onto his back. The ceiling swims before his half-lidded eyes. “It’s my first real review from him. I wanted to impress him. You know how much his opinion matters.”
“Kiyoomi,” Motoya murmurs.
Kiyoomi shakes his head. “He’s right.” His heart feels like lead in his chest. “It was a bad show, Motoya. It was really bad. Passion is as important as technique. You know that. Especially for the Rach 3. And…I wasn’t there.”
He watches as Motoya purses his lips. “Where were you, then?” he asks.
Kiyoomi swallows.
When he had stepped onto that stage in Paris, the lights shining down, the audience a sea of black in front of him, he hadn’t felt nervous, not like he used to, not like he’s supposed to. He had been calm. He had been composed.
He had felt nothing.
“I don’t know,” he says, heavy. “Just…not there.”
Motoya is quiet for a long moment. “Just at that last show?” he asks. His voice says he already knows the answer.
Kiyoomi answers him anyway. “No. Not just then. Not…” Not for a long time. The words are hard to get out, like admitting it means he’s a failure. He trails off.
His cousin, his manager and agent, his best friend in the world, gets it and doesn’t push. Kiyoomi thanks every god he doesn’t believe in that he has him.
“So, what do you want to do?” Motoya asks finally. Kiyoomi peeks up at him. His cousin looks thoughtful, his brow furrowed.
“Do?” Kiyoomi echoes.
Motoya nods. “You perform in London tomorrow. And you have two months of the season left. Is that what you want to do?”
“Do I have a choice?”
Motoya eyes him. “What would you say if you did?”
Kiyoomi lets his eyes fall closed. He recalls the hours spent as a teenager learning the Third Concerto in its entirety, the hours and hours he spent preparing it before this season. He thinks of the other repertoire he has to play, the numerous encore pieces he polishes up every spare moment he gets just in case they’re called upon. Giving up any of it, somehow not performing like he thinks Motoya is implying, seems blasphemous. He’s sunk so many hours into them. How could he possibly stop? How could he go without seeing this through to the end, both for himself and for the people who want to see him perform?
But Ushijima’s words weigh heavy on him. The other reviewers’ words weigh heavy on him. His general state weighs heavy on him. He eats and sleeps and does his physiotherapy exercises when his hands and body hurt. He takes care of himself. But Kiyoomi can’t deny that he hasn’t truly felt rested in a long time. He hasn’t felt happy.
The thought of the rest of the season makes him impossibly tired. He just wants to crawl into bed and not look at his piano for a while. Despite the guilt that will eat him alive, he just wants to stop.
He just wants to stop.
His eyes fly open.
“Motoya.”
His cousin is smiling. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.”
Kiyoomi sits up, his heart waging battle with obligation. “I can’t. It’s not professional. It’s not…” He falters. “It’s not right. I should see this through.”
“Hey.” Motoya’s eyes are gentle. “You’re exhausted, Kiyoomi. Look, I know being a completionist is one of your life mottos or whatever, but do you really think it’s right to give people a half-hearted performance? Much less at the expense of your mental health?”
“Objectively, I know that,” Kiyoomi says. “But I can’t...I can’t do it. I can’t.”
Motoya grins. “Lucky for you, you don’t have to. I do.”
“What?”
Motoya turns his attention to his phone, fingers flying. His tongue pokes out of his mouth.
Kiyoomi’s eyes widen. “Motoya. Motoya, what are you doing.”
“You can’t get out of tomorrow,” Motoya says, considering, “Buuut...there. Email sent. Your season has officially been cancelled.’
Kiyoomi wheezes soundlessly.
“I’ll put out a statement saying you’re dealing with personal circumstances,” Motoya continues over him. “It’ll help if you do the same on your social media.” He scrunches up his nose. “It’s going to be a bit of a logistical nightmare, but it should be fine.”
Kiyoomi stares at him, aghast.
Motoya grins, mischief in his eyes. “Lucky for you, you’re the prodigious son of the new classical age! That’ll make things easier for me.”
“Don’t call me that,” Kiyoomi says automatically, rolling his eyes at the name his surprisingly numerous and extremely enthusiastic fans have given him. You do a Tik Tok challenge one time…
And then his brain catches up. Holy shit.
“You asshole,” he breathes. “I hate you. You shouldn’t have done that! What will people think?”
“Is there something else you’d like to say?” Motoya smirks at him, patient. Kiyoomi deflates, a reluctant smile pulling at his lips.
“Thank you,” he breathes, reaching out and squeezing Motoya’s shoulder. For an instant, the guilt and shame and tiredness evaporate from his body. He suddenly feels so free that his breath is almost knocked out of him. “Seriously, Motoya, thank you.”
Motoya laughs. “There we go! And hey, it’s my job! And besides…” He looks sheepish all of a sudden, and Kiyoomi looks at him curiously. “I was going to bring up taking a break next month, anyway. Tatsuki and I are having a bit of a hard time with the distance.”
Kiyoomi frowns. “You haven’t mentioned anything about that.”
Motoya waves a hand. “It never really came up. We’re busy with your season, and consulting for Itachiyama Management takes up a lot of my time, too. Don’t worry about it.”
Kiyoomi worries at his lip. At this stage in his career, he knows it’s not normal for Motoya to be both his booking manager and agent, and also physically come with him on his tour. Most concert pianists have separate people, more people, to take care of his promotional and scheduling needs, especially with Kiyoomi’s level of success. Motoya, being his family and closest friend, having chosen to do it all for him has been a boon to him, a reassurance and companionship he doesn’t usually get because of how busy his career is.
His stomach swoops. He’s been keeping his cousin away from his life. His infinitely fuller life.
“Are you and Washio-kun okay?” Kiyoomi asks quietly.
Motoya’s gaze slides away. “Yeah, fine. I mean, we’re working through some stuff, but any couple does, you know?”
Kiyoomi frowns, noting the slight strain around Motoya’s eyes, but he doesn’t comment further. He gets the feeling it’s not the time. Not yet anyway. “So, you’re going home?”
“Mhmm,” Motoya hums. “Ahhh, I’ve missed it so much. I can’t wait!” He casts Kiyoomi a glance. “What about you?”
Kiyoomi shrugs. God, how long has it been since he’s spent longer than a couple months in Japan? Ages, it feels like. “It’s been a while since I’ve been back and really had enough of a break to enjoy it. I might as well.” He sighs. “I have to find a place, though, huh. And bring my piano.”
Motoya bumps his shoulder. “You know my lease is still being paid in Tokyo, right?”
“Okay? And?”
“So just stay there for the time being. It’ll be good for me to spend time living with Tatsuki.”
Kiyoomi stares at him. “Really?”
“Yeah! It’s a nice place, especially for the price. It’s a top floor apartment and there’s plenty of space. I never got around to decorating the office space, so we can make that your music room, and I can have your piano moved there. Should work out well.”
Kiyoomi huffs at the earnest look on his cousin’s face. “You’re doing so much for me. I feel bad.”
Motoya slants him a look. “Please. Although…if you really want to make up for it.” He shifts closer, stretches out his arms, and waggles his fingers. “Want to give your darling cousin a hug?”
“Ew,” Kiyoomi deadpans, but he leans into it anyway, burying a smile against Motoya’s shoulder.
Things are, he thinks cautiously, maybe starting to look up.
Atsumu
“That should be the last of it,” Osamu grunts, bringing in the last box of clothes. Atsumu looks up from the floor where he’s unpacking the dishes, scissors caught in his teeth. He catches Osamu rolling his eyes, but hey, he thinks he looks pretty cool.
“Thanks for helping,” he says, garbled. His brother gives him an exasperated look.
“Sure. Is there anything you need before I head home to make dinner?”
Atsumu shakes his head. “Nah, go spend some time with Sunarin.” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively.
Osamu wrinkles his nose but ignores him. “Enjoy all...that,” he says, waving at the mess of half-unpacked boxes and newly-made furniture that is Atsumu’s new apartment.
“Mhm,” Atsumu grunts. “See ya.”
His brother pauses by the door just before he leaves, head tilted so that Atsumu can’t see his face. “Hey,” he says quietly. “I really am glad you’re staying.”
Atsumu smiles down at the kitchenware. “Yeah, me too.”
The door shuts, and Atsumu is alone. He’s suddenly aware of the all-consuming silence, so he puts on a peppy J-pop playlist and gets to work.
It takes him the better part of the day to finish, and it’s almost eight by the time everything is done. He finishes up with the music room, setting his three acoustic and two electric guitars against the wall and pushing his piano against the wall adjacent to the window. The room is surprisingly open, airy, the window wide and overlooking the city. Atsumu takes a deep breath, setting his hands on his hips.
This is home, now.
It feels good.
It also feels a little...empty.
The apartment is loud in its silence. On the road, Atsumu was used to noise all the time. Having space to himself now feels...odd. Uncomfortable, like the full-body sensation of having just lost a tooth.
Atsumu slaps his cheeks. It’s fine. He just needs time to get used to it.
“I’m going to get takeout,” he mumbles to himself, trying to fill the quiet. “I deserve it.”
He orders from an Italian place a few blocks down, then sprawls on the couch, about to figure out what to do next, when his phone rings.
Atsumu looks at the screen, then picks up lightning-fast, a smile splitting his face.
“Aran-kun!” he screams.
His best friend laughs loudly. “Shh , Atsumu, you nearly blew my ear off!”
“Sorry! I’m just really happy you called!”
“Well, that’s flattering.” Atsumu can hear him smiling fondly, and suddenly, he wants to see his face.
“Aran-kun, switch to video!”
“Oh, sure. I’m just out walking with Kome-chan right now—”
Atsumu gasps. “My niece! I want to see my niece!”
Aran laughs. “I don’t think she wants to see you,” he teases. Atsumu hears shuffling and pulls his phone away from his ear, setting it on speaker mode as Aran’s face, slightly in profile, pops up on the screen. He looks good, a dark blue scarf wrapped around his neck, beard trimmed, eyes warm as he looks into the camera.
Atsumu wolf-whistles. “Looking good! Kita-san’s a lucky man!”
“Shut up or I won’t let you see Kome-chan.”
“Okay, okay! Let me see her! Pleeease!”
A pause, and then Aran’s camera flips and angles down to show the leash in his hand. Kome pads delicately in front of him on a dirt road, her little, white paws encased in pink boots.
Atsumu squeals. “There she is! There’s my little girl!”
“I swear, you love this cat more than Shinsuke and I do,” Aran laughs. The camera moves closer to Kome as Aran bends and tugs lightly on the leash to stop her. “Kome-chan! Look! It’s Atsumu!”
Kome glances back at the camera, nose tilted up. She gives the camera a lazy blink, then turns away to nose at some grass.
Atsumu sniffs dramatically. “She loves me so much.”
Aran snorts. “Okay, sure.” His face pops into view again. “What are you up to? You finished moving today, right?”
Atsumu settles back. “Yeah, just finished setting everything up. I’m waiting for dinner now.”
“Mhm. And...how are you?”
Atsumu sucks on his teeth. “Fine.”
Even over the shitty camera quality—god, Aran needs to get a better phone, he’s had that piece of junk for almost six years now—Atsumu can feel his disbelief. “Uh huh.”
Atsumu sighs. He can’t lie to Aran, not really. He’s in that same category as Osamu is, having known Atsumu for most of his life, and he’s the friend that Atsumu is closest to, even over Suna. “Lonely,” he admits, trying not to look too pathetic.
Aran frowns sympathetically, and he takes a seat on something. Atsumu sees the vague impression of trees and bushes behind him; it must be a log or rock of some kind. Aran looks off-camera for a second, making smooching noises, and Kome jumps up onto his lap, her head just caught in the camera’s lens.
Atsumu’s heart melts. Suddenly, he misses Aran so much that a sudden surge of emotion overcomes him. HIs eyes burn.
Aran catches it. “Atsumu,” he says softly.
“I’ve missed you,” Atsumu confesses.
“I miss you, too,” Aran replies, achingly sincere. “I’ll be in Tokyo when the season starts up again. I’ll see you soon.”
“I know, but I mean…” Atsumu chews on the inside of his cheek. “I’ve missed you and Osamu and my family and my other friends for years now. I’ve been away for so long, and it feels like everything and everyone has moved on without me.”
“You were busy,” Aran reminds him, fingers trailing through Kome’s fur. “You’re a world-famous artist, Atsumu. We all knew that came with costs. Just like Suna and I are volleyball players and we don’t have as much time to spend with our loved ones as we’d like.” He smiles wryly. “Especially when your partner lives on a farm far away from where you play. Trust me, I get it.”
Atsumu shakes his head. “I shouldn’t have been too busy for you all, though. I just wasted all the time I could have spent with you on—” His throat closes up.
Aran watches him closely. “On him,” he finishes softly.
Atsumu lets out a long breath. “I still miss him,” he confesses.
It feels like he’s admitting something dirty. He hasn’t even told Osamu—he’s pretty sure that his brother, despite his outward calm, hates his ex with the fire of a thousand suns and would curse him out to Atsumu in every way possible to convince him that Atsumu deserves better. While Atsumu appreciates that protectiveness, he needs Aran’s level-headedness and calm sympathy to work through what he’s actually feeling.
Aran hums, expression kind. “I know.”
“I just hate it,” Atsumu whispers vehemently, swiping at his eyes. “I hate feeling so awful and sad and lonely. I just want to get over it and move on!”
“I know,” Aran says again, steady. “It’ll take time. You know that. And in my opinion, I think you’re doing exactly what you need to. You’re staying close to family and friends. You’re taking a break.” He leans closer to the camera, looking straight at Atsumu. “You’re doing good, ‘Tsumu.”
Warmth blooms in Atsumu’s chest, the little part of him that’s seven years old and endlessly vying for Aran’s praise standing at attention. “Thanks,” he murmurs, smiling. “That means a lot.”
Aran beams at him. “You know, when the season is done, you should come up to the farm. Shinsuke and I would love to have you, and it’s been a while since you and I have hung out like we used to.”
“Yeah! Yeah, I’d really like that. I have no idea what the farm even looks like now.” Atsumu had last visited it years ago, he thinks. He remembers the peace and quiet, the rolling fields of golden wheat, the fresh breeze, the companionship and hominess he felt while eating watermelons with Aran, Shinsuke, and Shinsuke’s grandmother.
“Beautiful. It’s beautiful.” Aran’s voice is a murmur, a love-struck look on his face.
A knock on the door draws Atsumu’s attention. “Oh, looks like the food’s here,” he says.
Aran nods, setting Kome down and getting up. “I should be getting back, too. Talk to you later this week? We won’t have much time to, once the season starts.”
“Sounds good. Later, Aran-kun.” Atsumu grins at him. “And thanks.”
Atsumu turns his attention to dinner, feeling a lot better after that conversation. The tiredness of moving sinks into him, and he decides to call it a night early. He can figure out what to do next tomorrow. He washes the dishes and turns off the lights in the living room, then pokes his head into the music room, admiring how nice the space looks.
And then he hears the gentle plink of piano keys.
“What?” he says to himself, confused. He moves to his digital piano. It’s not plugged in, so it can’t have been that.
He hears it again, tentative.
It’s coming through the wall.
Oh, this is what ‘Samu meant about the soundproofing , he thinks.
And then the music begins.
Kiyoomi
Motoya’s apartment is clean and well-kept, minimalist but warm and comfortable. Kiyoomi settles in quickly, unpacking his things into the space that Motoya had cleared his things from to take to Washio-kun’s. Kiyoomi hopes that his cousin and his partner will do well with this stay together; despite Motoya’s reassurances, Kiyoomi can’t help feeling like something is wrong.
He cooks himself a quick, light dinner; he’s still not over the jet lag yet, and he doesn’t want to mess up his system. He does his stretches, making sure to stretch and focus on every part of his body but specifically on his wrists and hands. He has to book an appointment with his physiotherapist soon, he thinks idly; the last one had been months ago, before he started his season.
And then, apprehension bubbling in his chest, Kiyoomi sits down at his piano.
He takes a moment to look outside through the window right beside him. The night is dark, Tokyo’s lights glinting in the distance like stars. It’s been almost a month since he cut his performance season short, and the summer has rolled in hot, barely kept at bay with the air conditioning, but he can feel its heavy hang in the air.
Kiyoomi takes a deep breath and lets the silence settle him.
He sets his hands onto the keys and plays through a few sets of scales from end to end of the piano. He should warm up with something a little more, maybe an etude, but he doesn’t really feel like it.
What does he feel like, he wonders, absent-mindedly playing another scale. He sighs loudly, then abruptly tunes back into what his hands are doing.
D-flat major scale. Hmm.
Liszt’s Three Concert Etudes, Etude No. 3. Alternatively named: Un Sospiro. “A Sigh.”
It feels like the night for it, and he has it memorized. And it is an etude.
He closes his eyes, visualizing the sheet music. Allegro affetuoso, briskly but tenderly; the first he can do, the second...well, he’ll work on it. That’s the whole point of his break.
Kiyoomi takes a deep breath and begins.
Legatissimo, smooth and connected; poco agitato, a little bit agitated and quick, for the arpeggios that make up the flowing background of the piece. He takes it just a bit slower than he usually would, letting each note sink into the air with a little more weight, trying to round out the sound. The notes sing, and Kiyoomi nods, satisfied.
Two bars, and then in comes the main melody; dolce con grazia, soft and graceful. The piece requires the left hand crossing over the right to finish the melody before darting back to complete the arpeggio; Kiyoomi has never found this all that difficult, even when he first began learning it, given his hands’ reach and his far-above-average technique.
The etude gets harder; larger, longer hand crossings; faster and more agitated tempo in the middle; the cadenzas requiring delicate fingerwork; but the hardest part is to get the dynamics right, to keep the melody sounding distinct under the roiling arpeggios, to end the piece with the required somberness after the intense, passionate turmoil of the middle. Kiyoomi closes his eyes and lets himself try to feel the piece, the way he hasn’t done properly in a long time.
He gets to his favourite part of the etude; the main melody sparkles , the tempo changing to be only a little bit faster, un poco piu mosso. He can feel his fingers flying, almost dancing, and as he approaches the end, he forces himself to slow, to feel the gravitas of the last few chords, the gradually decreasing speed and lingering, ringing notes as he hits the ritardando In the back of his mind, he remembers being scolded by his teacher as a teenager for rushing through the rits, and he huffs faintly, lips quirking, letting his fingers sink into the keys for the final few chords. He waits for a few moments before hitting the last chord in the last bar and keeping the keys pressed, noting the fermata.
It shimmers and hangs in the air for a long moment, perfectly lovely against the muted sounds of nightlife beyond the window.
When it dies, Kiyoomi slowly sits back and takes his foot off the sustain pedal.
That felt...good.
It wasn’t perfect, and he still wasn’t in the right frame of mind, exactly, to approach playing, but it was better than the emotionless disaster of his last performance. He got kind of close to the interpretation and expressiveness he’s supposed to, which is better than before. A lot of things have changed since then, Kiyoomi rationalizes. He’s in a new location, he has a different look of the next few months than what he’d been planning, and maybe even he’s different now. He’s certainly felt different since making the impossible choice to actually take care of himself and cancel his performances. He would never have done that before.
A lot of things are different, and this might have been a one-off, but Kiyoomi can’t help grinning.
That was, given everything, good!
Someone claps loudly.
Kiyoomi jerks, almost falling off his bench. He looks around wildly, but of course, there’s no one there.
“Whoa,” they say. “That was beautiful.”
Kiyoomi looks behind him.
The voice is coming from the other side of the wall.