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It was late when Pianoman arrived at Old World. His home was a mafia-owned billiard bar built out of old, dependable brick, tucked away in the same darkness as its customers.
It was a familiar haven on nights like this. Quiet, melancholic ones where he craved the ghostly memories of old friends over the lively enjoyment that came with being accompanied by present ones. He’d been expecting to have the whole place to himself, looking forward to the bittersweet but comforting ambiance of empty company.
But to his surprise, that wasn’t the scene he was greeted with. The shop was quiet, but not empty.
There was a boy slumped over the counter of the bar, face hidden away in his folded arms.
Chuuya had come here alone as well. Had beaten him to it.
Pianoman frowned slightly at the pitiable sight.
He strode into the bar as normal, yet Chuuya did not stir at the sound of approaching footsteps. He seemed to actually be asleep.
Pianoman assumed Chuuya had come out here to clear his head. Probably had trouble sleeping, if the two of them were in any way alike.
He wondered if someone could still be kept awake at night, even without nightmares.
He was already shifting gears into something more lively as he approached his surprise company, adaptable. He wouldn’t mind some one-on-one time with Chuuya. It was a rare opportunity. They were both usually very busy people, an executive candidate and a new-ish recruit with plans to be one soon. He hadn’t yet gotten the chance to really get close to the target he was supposed to be watching over.
It was when he drew near and reached out to wake him that he spotted it. A book, more specifically a leather-bound journal, lying next to Chuuya’s unfinished drink.
Curiosity got the better of him. He reached past Chuuya’s shoulder and picked it up.
The book was still too new to be considered well loved, but the leather was quality and soft, and the cover was already permanently bent back from use.
He opened it to see writing inside. Lots of it. Most of the entries were broken into single, jotted down lines, or only a few lines. It wasn’t a diary, though perhaps it still functioned as one of sorts. There were observational notes sprawled in the margins, and many symbolic musings about life. One page was just the same line written over and over, reworded until just right, properly captured.
They were drafted poems. And the journal was full of them.
Pianoman flipped to a completed one and began to read.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Chuuya’s voice came to him as a growl, low and dangerous.
Pianoman lifted his eyes, otherwise unmoving from how he’d perched the journal in one hand, the fingers of the other gently holding the pages apart.
Chuuya was wound tight, coiled like a muscled beast. Only his eyes were visible over his hunched shoulder as he glared, gaze brimmed with simmering rage.
The tension between the two would have any bystander holding their breath, for fear that the smallest exhale would be enough to tip the scales into violence.
Pianoman let the book fall shut, and held it out with an easy smile. “You dropped it.”
Chuuya’s narrowed eyes thoroughly searched his expression. Finally, slowly, he unwound himself, sitting up and taking back his property. His pace was not set out of timidness, but in a calculated effort to appear unaffected. To downplay the value of the journal.
Pianoman saw right through that of course.
It was impossible to hide beneath expressions of anger or neutrality, or behind wary distrust.
In Chuuya’s eyes was a burning, fiercely protective fire. He was a dragon guarding its treasure, defensively eyeing both the dangerous sword of the black and white knight, and the handful of precious jewels he’d already managed to steal.
If anyone here could slay a dragon however, it was Chuuya himself.
Those were the eyes of someone who could tear the entire world apart with his bare hands. Overturn heaven and earth using nothing more than his own manipulated weight as leverage. And would, given the proper incentive.
That was what the boss had told Pianoman, and when faced with the full brunt of Chuuya’s intensity he had no choice but to believe in the existence of the beast.
A quiet chuckle escaped him, the heat of Chuuya’s glare effortlessly countered by cool confidence.
Chuuya broke away with a tsk, finally unlocking their horns. He grumbled in irritation, still gripping the journal tightly as he turned to reach for the jacket that had been thrown across the counter.
It was supposed to be Pianoman’s job to keep the dragon chained to the tower.
Before Chuuya could try to leave and cut their time short, he spoke up.
“You’re good.”
“Hah?”
Pianoman didn’t repeat himself, his eyes wandering up as he turned the stolen words over in his head. Their cadence was perfect, lyrical. They had songlike eloquence.
Chuuya Nakahara, a poet. It would be a ridiculous prospect to most.
But not to him. He knew how multifaceted mafiosi could be. He himself was a musician, after all.
Chuuya had paused his movements, caught off guard by the compliment. He seemed to be waiting for the other shoe to drop, to be teased, so Pianoman added, “I play the piano, you know.”
“You’d kind of be a joke if you didn’t, ‘Pianoman’,” replied Chuuya. He’d settled down, but on the edge of his seat.
Pianoman looked at the unfinished drink on the counter, and the bottle of whiskey Chuuya had helped himself to in order to fill it.
“I didn’t invite you into our group so you could drink alone,” he said. His tone was too unaffected to be a scold, almost observational. “That’s what alcoholics do, and you’re just student age.”
Chuuya bristled as he usually did when reminded of his age, his fist balling into the fabric of his jacket.
“You’ve got drinking buddies now,” Pianoman went on before Chuuya could interrupt with a boast about his maturity. “Albatross is always down to—oh.” He grinned amusedly. “Is he the one who chased you out here with his stomping?”
“Bastard never lets me sleep,” Chuuya muttered, taking the proffered excuse.
Pianoman reached inside his coat, coming to a decision. “Well, if you’re not a partier, I know a place we can go.” He pulled out his phone, flipping it open.
He knew where the nearest piano was in town.
“What’s wrong with here?” Chuuya asked.
“I’ll treat you to something. I feel like showing off, and all this place has is a jukebox.” Pianoman shrugged, sending a message for a car. He looked back up at Chuuya as he snapped his phone shut, feeling a familiar spark reappear in the dark of his own eyes. He lifted his voice into an almost playful tone, a knowing provocation. “If you’re up for it?”
The spark was mirrored in the responding flash of Chuuya’s eyes. He hopped down from his stool.
They sat on opposite ends of the backseat, silent for most of the ride to their mystery destination. Chuuya’s nonchalance was belied by the amount of effort he was putting into the front, his crossed arms more of a staunch defense than a relaxed posture. Pianoman allowed the distance, thoughtfully gazing out the window with his chin in his hand.
The wary defensiveness was understandable, considering how exposed Chuuya must have been feeling after Pianoman’s unexpected prying. He may have even been concerned about the words he put on the page coming across as traitorous.
Some of the poems did speak of unhappiness with his life, his predicament. His confessionals were quite candid.
Pianoman was supposed to be keeping tabs on Chuuya’s loyalty, and his level of knowledge about the information that ensured it. Chuuya needn’t be worried, however. Feelings alone weren't something that would ever invite punishment, at least not where Pianoman had a say. As a human being, Chuuya had a right to his own emotions.
Sorrowful lines didn’t speak of rebellion. They spoke of sorrow. And elicited…empathy. As any good poem should.
It was a short ride that saw them crossing over out of Port Mafia territory. The elevator lift almost felt longer, their destination at the very top of a downtown tower.
Nuovi Inizi. A restaurant made of glass.
Upscale and Italian, the establishment was a wide, open space with a clean white color palette. The glass ceiling was high, and by nature gave the illusion that the true ceiling was the higher infinite sky, all while keeping its customers sealed off from the usual pests that accompanied proper outdoor terraces. The chill of air conditioning and tastefully limited number of plants stopped one just short of thinking it a sleek greenhouse.
It was a clear night. If it wasn’t for Yokohama’s light pollution they’d be dining among the stars. They’d have to settle for the burning white of the moon instead.
“So we’re still drinking?” Chuuya asked as they walked in, looking up and around at the place. “Just someplace nicer?”
“They won’t serve you here.” Pianoman didn’t point out the fact that Chuuya looked like a twelve-year-old, not wanting to make a scene. “I can order for us both when I’m done if you want.”
He watched Chuuya’s eyes find the restaurant's centerpiece. A white grand piano showcased on a platform in the middle of the dining area.
Chuuya smirked a bit. “Showy much?”
Pianoman shrugged helplessly with a smirk of his own before he stepped forward to greet the waitress, who smiled at his familiar face. He requested his usual table, knowing it had a good view of the ivories.
He and Chuuya were led to a quiet corner of the dining room and offered a crescent-shaped booth of white leather. They sat facing each other, the backs of the seating tall enough to clear both of their heads behind them.
Pianoman requested two waters to start. He looked over at Chuuya before he’d even glanced at the menu. “Appetizer? It’s on me.”
Chuuya sat back, looking over his own menu. His expression soured a bit. “I don’t know what half this stuff is.”
“Would you like recommendations?” the waitress, Hasegawa, offered.
"Meatballs sound easy enough," Chuuya declined. She and Pianoman chuckled together before she swept away with the order.
Chuuya’s journal was sitting beside him on the table, too big for his pockets but kept close. Pianoman idly wondered if he should recommend long coats such as his own over the leather jackets Chuuya usually donned on his off hours. Then he could tuck his words inside if he wanted.
“Have you ever heard of art song?” Pianoman opened, not letting them linger too long in silence.
Chuuya shook his head.
Pianoman smoothed his hand along the white tablecloth. “It’s one of my favorite classical genres. The songs take two artists to compose. A pianist will set a piece of music to an independent text. A poem, for example. And try to capture the feel of the words.”
Realization dawned on Chuuya’s face as he glanced back at the grand piano.
Pianoman gestured to the journal. “May I?”
Chuuya’s gaze grew from considering to challenging as it wandered back from piano to pianist. “You’ve already seen it, bastard. Don’t act like you care about permission now.”
Pianoman smiled shamelessly as Chuuya handed it over. He opened it, careful of what expression he held as he flipped through the pages quickly but with care. Once he found what he was looking for he handed the open page back to Chuuya.
“Read it to me.”
Chuuya cut his eyes to him, looking uncomfortable for a moment.
Pianoman kept his voice soft, hands open on the table. “I need to know how it sounds.”
Chuuya hesitated again, shifting in his seat as he looked around for eavesdroppers. But the booth they were in was quite safe, this restaurant known for its privacy and quiet ambiance. It would be a good place to broker deals, though Pianoman would never come here for work.
Chuuya began to read without further prompting, tackling the dare with a strong start. His intonation was clear, giving confidence to the words he’d chosen. Or perhaps the reverse was true, and it was the words that were placing confidence in his voice.
Pianoman had selected one of the longer poems. It was a relatively positive piece speaking on perseverance and gratitude. On making the best of one’s circumstances. The topic lent itself to Chuuya’s resolute delivery.
Chuuya couldn’t maintain his usual brusque tone around the careful, even delicate word choice. His voice softened instinctively. Pianoman watched with interest as his eyes grew a bit distant, the signal that a part of him was being taken someplace else, just for a moment. And Pianoman knew that Chuuya was seeing not only the words on the page, but the image they’d painted in his mind as he wrote them. He'd been returned to the moment, the setting of when that symbol had been conjured in his mind.
The way he cherished each turn of phrase was apparent. He was as open as the book in his hands.
It was impossible to remain guarded, like that.
The poem sounded even better when not skimmed, and delivered aloud by someone who knew its intentions. Pianoman’s hunch that it would make a good melody was correct.
Chuuya’s gaze flicked back up to him when he was done, eyes defiant yet insecure.
Pianoman was grinning at him across the table. “You’re really good.”
Chuuya blinked in surprise, his defenses cleared. His face blanked for a moment, into the expression a young child might wear when they weren’t sure of what to do. Though he quickly set his mouth back into a line, he wasn’t able to completely will his faint blush away.
Pianoman chuckled. “I suppose I ought to prepare for my turn.” With Chuuya’s words in his mind, he rose from the table. He headed out of the dining room, over towards the staff area.
“Pianoman.” The manager smiled when he saw him, and Pianoman returned the grin. That nickname meant something else, here. “Come to give us a show?”
He leaned in close as if sharing a juicy secret. “I brought a friend who’s never heard me play. I was hoping to borrow your keys?”
“Of course. We don’t have anyone on them tonight anyway. Play my favorite, will you?”
"Actually I have something new for tonight, but we'll see how I feel after."
Given the go ahead, Pianoman headed for the piano at the restaurant's center.
It felt like ages ago that he first saw it alone on its pedestal in this roofless place, white and shining under the black night stretching out high above it, and found himself sitting at the bench on a whim.
His music had been a welcome surprise that day, and later a treat once he began frequenting the establishment. He was as good if not better than their regular hires, and he’d play free of charge.
He was compensated in other ways. A free drink, an easy chat with a staff member or appreciative diner. A chance to trade jokes and musings of lofty dreams with Hasegawa.
He seated himself, taking a breath as he rested narrow fingers along the keys.
The piano was much like he was. No one could always be sure what to expect from it, as it offered delicate whimsy just as easily as hammering brutality, and was able to flip between the two in only a moment. It was a versatile instrument, perfect for a man with just as wide a range.
He closed his eyes for a moment. The soft bustle of the restaurant faded under the memory of Chuuya’s tenor.
His first, experimental chord. As the feel of the reverberating strings traveled up his arms, he let the smile slip back onto his face. His eyes opened back as his fingers began to move.
The progression was simple to start, but unapologetic even in its bare-bones state. The strong borrowed melody ensured that. It was the rhythm of voice, adapted into the flow of music. The experimental stage always piqued his interest, his creativity called upon as he began to fiddle with the beginnings of a song like a child in a sandbox.
He was nothing if not an artist. Everything else, came after.
And a perfectionist as well. He looped back to play the line from the beginning, intent on building it. Each development would add layers to the scene as he attempted to capture what Chuuya had been trying to show him.
Eventually came the moment where the music finally connected with the voice, and a fully realized song was born.
He hummed along lightly as the lyrics played in his mind, the musical dynamics mimicking the rise and fall of Chuuya’s voice. As the progression and refined melody became more familiar under repetition, his fingers grew as sure as Chuuya’s voice had been.
His eyes grew a bit distant as he lost himself to time. Whenever he played, the rest of the world became too heavy, too physical to retain its hold on him, and slipped from his shoulders like a coat. From this platform, on this stage, he was elevated weightlessly to the moon. The spotlight that could brave any darkness, flying too high in the sky to be reached.
It was impossible to remain guarded, like that.
He continued to float until he was satisfied. Even when he stopped, his fingers lingered as he leaned back in his seat. With a nod to himself and a smile he couldn’t banish if he tried, he stood and took his leave back to his table.
Chuuya had just seen a side of him that very few who knew him from the world of darkness ever had. But he felt it was only fair.
You showed me yours, so I showed you mine.
Chuuya was staring at him with new eyes. Clear and open ones. His expression was willfully honest in his awe.
“You’re good,” he said.
Pianoman smiled as he slipped back into his seat. “I know.”
Chuuya rolled his eyes, huffing at the boast. He turned his attention back to his food, the moment passed in favor of their typical dynamic at Pianoman’s typical response.
Though, that song had been more of a demo. Setup wise it was still an incomplete performance with Pianoman all alone up there. The lyrics and voice had only been in his head, this time. If they were to do a true collaboration…
It would need a voice.
Chuuya Nakahara, a singer?
Chuuya chewed at his appetizer, uncharacteristically quiet. It was a comfortable silence however, with Pianoman still caught up in his own wandering mind. He was reflective in the wake of his performance, one foot lingering in the realm of creation. His fingers drummed on the table, already brimming with new ideas for potential experiments and tweaks. He almost wanted to pull out a journal of his own, take note of which…
“How often do you come out here?” Chuuya asked, pulling him out of his reverie.
“Whenever I need to,” he said, his reply unfiltered as he shifted focus.
“You come and play for them every time?”
“It’s not something I usually plan. It’s just somewhere to escape to whenever Old World is feeling too stuffy.” By now Pianoman was picking up on the way Chuuya was watching him, with eyes he’d never seen from him before. Unsure eyes.
He looked very young and small, across the table.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.” Pianoman spoke softly.
“Why did you join the Port Mafia?”
The mention of work pulled Pianoman further down to earth, away from the moon helping to light their table. He shifted, straightening and pulling his chin from where it had fallen into his hand. Under Chuuya’s asking gaze he was silent for a beat or two, thoughtful.
“There was simply no better place for me,” he finally said.
Normally he would have smiled through the statement. Lifted his shoulder and shrugged it off. But he didn’t intend on wearing a mask. Not now, not in this place.
Chuuya stared right into him, and he let himself be seen.
In all honesty, there was simply no other place for me, would be the more accurate statement.
After seemingly turning the answer over in his head, Chuuya inclined his chin in a silent nod of understanding. He seemed satisfied, but at the same time, almost melancholic.
Something about the quiet thoughtfulness brought Chuuya’s writings back into Pianoman’s mind. He remembered the poem that had most stuck out to him before. The one Chuuya kept closest to his heart.
‘Even if I lament,’ he’d written, ‘I cannot get out of this prison’
Pianoman still remembered who first guided his fingers along the ivories. It had been during a much, much simpler time in his life.
He wondered who led Chuuya to pick up a pen? If it had been anyone at all or if it, like seemingly everything else about him, had been born from independent determination.
Chuuya’s spoken word was gruff and guarded. His written word was sorrowful. Yearning.
Pianoman wondered if he was the first person Chuuya had met who had a chance of understanding.
You write for the same reason I play, don’t you?
Pianoman knew what Chuuya had lost. It couldn’t be easy to go from being the pillar of a community to a lonely child covered in blood.
He knew how multifaceted mafiosi could be. So he knew that Chuuya could be a great beast every bit capable of tearing the organization to shreds, and just as much an abandoned fifteen-year-old boy looking for a home.
He himself was… Well, he understood.
Every family loses members. Sometimes people get left behind. Dwelling on it would do neither of them any good.
‘Even though it feels like I might be trapped, there is no room for sentiment’
He hoped that in the Flags, things would be better. That Chuuya could move forward and find a genuine place with them. They had been founded for that purpose, afterall. Mutual aid, mutual support. A genuine community that always had each others’ backs, even in the face of the wavering principles and disastrous losses suffered under the old boss.
‘I’d rather just fall than go back to being alone’
Chuuya had been taken under his wing now, whether he’d fully realized it yet or not.
This was how one gilded a cage. Made it feel like home.
Always building. No matter what had been lost before.
“You build, Saburo. You build it until you’ve made it beautiful. Something worth smiling about.”
“To the Flags?”
“To the Flags.”
The clink of glasses echoed in his mind.
“Are you fond of wine?” he asked a bit suddenly, plucking the drink menu from the table.
Chuuya shrugged, indifferent. “I thought you were trying to sober me up?” So he’d been found out.
Pianoman waved a dismissive hand. “I said I didn’t want you drinking alone.”
Chuuya smirked, amused. “I’ll drink what you get. But I’m picking my food, so warn me if I’m about to order something nasty, alright?”
Pianoman smiled mischievously. “Well now I’m tempted to have you order the worst dish I can find.”
“Ah,” Chuuya tsked. “And here I was just starting to think I could trust you.”
They spoke easily after that, conversation evolving naturally from the menu and establishment to other mundane topics. This conversation was distinct from any they’d had before. They talked not about their work, but their lives. Themselves. It was the chatter of two ordinary people, airy and indistinguishable from any other exchange going on over the numerous white tablecloths spaced throughout the dining room. They almost sounded like art students, each growing more animated as a matching spark appeared in their eyes at the opportunity to share about their respective crafts, their softer facets.
In Suribachi, Chuuya explained, paper was a commodity rare enough to fight people over. In just the past few weeks he'd already hoarded more journals than he ever imagined he'd be able to fill, and yet he'd surprised himself with just how many pages he could draft through without the worry of preserving page space hanging over his head. And the number of trees who had sacrificed their lives to backdrop the disasters created by his new calligraphy set had to be in the tens.
Pianoman had a piano of his own. A beaten, obnoxious old thing he'd dragged into every place he'd lived. It was a nightmare to tune, and he had to put more effort into repairing and upkeeping it than could possibly be justified, but that made it special. Because he'd first learned to play on it, he claimed, now he was the only person alive who knew the exact level of precision and finesse needed to make it sound beautiful and new. It was his very own magic trick.
Chuuya erupted at the suggestion of a vocal collaboration, in some disruptive combination of shrieked rejection and barked laughter.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me!” He snorted, turning his head aside.
Pianoman’s smug teasing was paradoxically sincere. “I’m sure your voice is beautiful. Your screaming already has such technique to it.”
It wasn’t a suggestion to perform in front of a crowd. Or even to sing. Spoken word was another perfectly suitable approach, and the privacy of Pianoman’s apartment was a perfectly suitable stage.
Really, it was just an offer to create something together.
Chuuya eyed him over his water glass, sizing him up. His words must have had some weight to throw around, because Chuuya partially relented with, “...We’ll see.”
When their food arrived, both dishes looked just as delicious as promised. Pianoman’s two red wines of choice were placed on his side of the table.
Pianoman passed one glass to Chuuya and lifted his own.
“What’s this to?” Chuuya asked curiously, mirroring the gesture.
“Well, do you feel there’s anything from tonight worth toasting? It’s possible I misread.”
Chuuya groused superficially at being put on the spot, even as he leaned over the table to reach out. “Well, since you’re pressing me…”
Pianoman exchanged a glance with the moon, the glass dividing them disappearing for a moment under a trick of the eye.
After this, he and Chuuya would have to return home to their lives. Until then…
‘I have not yet fallen apart’
“To new beginnings,” Chuuya finished with a smile, pushing their glasses together.
...they’d forget about it.