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When Saimon told him that Tsubaki had died, Yohei couldn't believe his ears.
This must've been some sort of nightmare, he thought—but he couldn't seem to wake from this hellish nightmare.
"I'm sorry," Saimon had said, affirming that this is, indeed, the reality. Sending his world crashing down with those words.
Her smile, her voice, her song, everything was gone and they would never see it again.
From that moment, the world felt so cold as if she took all the warmth with her.
"Why are you apologizing?" He asked, "it wasn't your fault,"
Because it wasn't, right? How could it possibly be his fault? Saimon would be the last person who would want it to happen.
And yet, "I'm sorry..." Saimon said, over and over like a broken record.
He couldn't understand, at the time—he still doesn't understand even now. Why was Saimon apologizing over and over? How could this happen? His mind was swirling with a lot of questions, and yet when he looked at Saimon, he couldn't voice any of that.
Saimon, who, at the funeral, didn't shed a single drop of tears.
His vacant stare that couldn't seem to meet his gaze looked even more lifeless than Tsubaki, who lay on the casket as if in slumber—as if she'd wake up anytime and scold them for making a fuss and worrying too much, as she always did.
That time, Yohei knew that Saimon Naoakira had died along with his beloved wife.
So he didn't say anything when Saimon told him that he wanted to break off their partnership.
"I'm sorry," he told him, "I can't do it anymore."
That moment, Yohei realized that he had lost the two people he loved the most.
———
"You're staring too much," Saimon's voice snapped him out of his reminiscence, "if you have something to say to me, just say it."
Rather than angry, his voice sounded weary—as if he'd been carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.
Here they are—after two years of not seeing each other—at Bar 4/7 on a rainy day. Back where it all started.
There was no other customer around—thanks to the heavy rain—and Yohei had flipped the store sign to 'closed' as they both sat on the counter, doing their best to catch up after all these years.
But after a long moment, none of them had said anything—stumbling on too many things to say and not enough words to convey them—until Saimon broke his silence.
"...you look like shit," was probably not the wisest thing to say—especially to a man who was clearly still in mourning—and yet, he couldn't help it, seeing how Saimon looked several shades worse than the last time they saw each other.
"As usual, you never hold your punches," Saimon lets out an empty chuckle, still unable to meet his gaze, "but I figured as much."
His eyes were bloodshot and sunken behind his foggy glasses, with dark circles surrounding them. His cheeks were sunken, and he looked a lot thinner than Yohei remembered. His hair was disheveled and drenched from the rain—as was his clothes—obscuring his thin and unshaven face.
It's only been two years since the last time they saw each other, but Saimon looked like he'd lost several decades of his life to grief.
And looking at him like that makes Yohei's heart ache beyond belief.
And yet, even after all this time, he still doesn't have the courage to reach out to him—to reassure him and say that they still have each other, to tell him that they could get through this, together—as he feared that Saimon would crumble and fall apart the moment he touches him or even says anything.
"You're doing it again," Saimon's voice brought him back to reality before he got completely lost in his thoughts, "it isn't like you to hold back anything you want to say."
"Nothing, it's just..." he stammered, "I'm sorry..."
"For what?"
There seems to be a lot of things to apologize for, but the one thing he regrets the most was "I shouldn't have left you alone."
"Don't be," Saimon mustered a weak smile, "I was the one who ended things one-sidedly—if anything, I'm the one who should apologize to you."
For a moment, both of them sat in silence—letting the sound of rain enveloping the night as they dwell in their own thoughts and regrets.
"I'm sorry..." Saimon finally said.
"For what?"
"For everything—for throwing our dreams away, for pushing you away, for...for—"
There were a lot of things Saimon wanted to say—to apologize for—a lot of things he couldn't voice, but, "it's okay," Yohei cut him short, "I understand."
"...thank you."
"The hell are you thanking me for?" Yohei scoffed, "I didn't do anything."
That's right, he didn't do anything. He never did anything. He didn't do anything when Tsubaki collapsed right before his eyes, he didn't do anything when they eventually lost her, he didn't do anything when Saimon was hurting the most. He couldn't. He didn't have the courage to. Two years had passed and he's still a useless brat who couldn't do anything for someone he loved—someone who had given him life, dreams, and a place to belong. He couldn't do anything for him then and he couldn't do anything for him now that he needs it most.
"But you did," Saimon gave him a weak smile, "you've saved me."
"Ha?" Yohei raised his brow, "what are you talking about?"
Saimon was silent for a while, tracing his finger on the rim of the glass of bourbon in front of him. A sad smile formed on his visage.
"You know..." he began, eyes still fixated on his glass of bourbon, unable to meet Yohei's gaze even after all these years.
"When I lost her, I thought I had lost everything."
Yohei held his silence. He understood that—he understood that more than anyone. Hell, if anyone knows what Saimon is going through, that would be him—and yet he understood that even though they share the same pain, his feelings, his grief was like a drop of water compared to the vast deep ocean that is Saimon's grief. So he kept his silence as Saimon spilled his heart out—something that the latter had never done for the past two years.
"Our dreams—her dreams, none of it matters to me—not if she's not here." He lets out an empty chuckle, "none of that could save her, and no song could've brought her back to me."
"Saimon..."
"I thought I couldn't do it anymore, you know?" He laughed bitterly, "Making music, pursuing our dreams—everything reminds me of her, and the fact that I had lost her… forever."
Yohei kept his silence.
"I'm sorry... for selfishly deciding to end things on my own, for putting an end to our dreams halfway through."
"There's nothing for you to apologize for," Yohei put his hand on Saimon's shoulder, "I understand."
"I couldn't answer your feelings—your passion, your dreams—because I've lost mine," He continued, "I couldn't face you—I couldn't face my own sorrow. That's why I ran away."
That's right, he's been running away—from his dreams, from Yohei, from music, from his grief, from everything. But no matter how much he ran away, he couldn't escape the sadness and pain from the empty space that she left behind—and nothing could ever change that.
"Pathetic, isn't it?" He laughed bitterly, "I ran and ran away but no matter where I went, I couldn't get away from the fact that I had lost her."
Yohei kept his silence. He knew—he knew it all too well; it made his heart ache.
"At some point, I began to think there's no point in anything, you know?" He continued, "no point in holding on to dreams, music, even this life—not when she's not here anymore."
"Saimon... you..."
"After all, our dreams, her dreams, our music—none of that could save her. I couldn't save her." He lets out a bitter chuckle, "what's the point of any of that… if I couldn't do what really matters? If I couldn't even protect the one person I loved the most? Such questions kept ringing in my mind. Before I knew it, I—"
"You better not be thinking of anything stupid," Yohei cut him off before he could go any further, "Tsubaki-san won't be happy if you do that."
He couldn't believe what he just heard. The Saimon Naoakira he knew was always logical and level-headed. There's no way he would think of anything stupid such as throwing away his own life.
"You're right... she wouldn't," Saimon smiled sadly, "but... she's not here anymore, and all that's left for me is pain from her absence."
"Saimon... you..."
There were a lot of things Yohei wanted to say to him. 'You still have me'. "You're not alone—you don't have to be'. But even after all this—after everything, he still couldn't say it. Not when he was the one who left Saimon alone when he needed him most. Not when he never reached out to him for all these years. Not when he's one of the reasons Saimon felt alone in his pain.
"I thought about it from time to time," Saimon continued, "'how much longer should I feel this way?' 'How much longer should I live this way?' 'What should I do to stop hurting?'"
"Don't say anything stupid!" Yohei snapped, slamming his fist on the countertop. He couldn't bear to hear it anymore. He couldn't bear to imagine being left behind by Saimon as well.
"Yohei..." Saimon was stunned, finally looking up to Yohei who now couldn't look at him.
"If you do it I—" I don't know how I'd go on living, "—I won't ever forgive you."
Saimon smiled softly and gently put his hand on Yohei's shoulder, "you don't have to cry about it."
"Shut up!" Yohei hissed, wiping the tears from the corner of his eyes that he didn't realize was flowing, "whose fault do you think it is?"
"I'm sorry..." Saimon said as he ruffled Yohei's hair gently, "and thank you..."
"Is that all you can say after all these years?"
Saimon just laughed softly at that.
"You don't owe me any apology, you know?" He said, "and I never did anything for you anyway."
Maybe, maybe if he had done something, Saimon wouldn't have felt that way. Maybe Saimon wouldn't have suffered so much. If only he had done something, if only he hadn't left Saimon alone. Maybe… maybe...
"But you did," Saimon smiled softly, cutting off his train of thought, "you gave me a reason to keep on going—to keep on living."
"What are you talking about?"
"All this time, I was too caught up in my own grief," he said, "I couldn't see anything beyond my own sorrow, I didn't realize that you're in pain as well—and that I've hurt you on top of that."
Yohei was silent.
"I've broken our promise, I selfishly decided to throw away our dreams. Even though you're already hurting as much as I am."
"Saimon..."
"And yet you're here. Waiting for me—even after everything. Even after all this time."
"I just... I don't have any other place to go to anyway." Yohei scratched his nape.
It's true that he's been waiting for Saimon for all these years, but it wasn't like he was doing it deliberately. Besides, he never had the guts to reach out to Saimon for all these years anyway. All he did was wait passively. Hoping that one day Saimon would walk through that door again. Hoping with each chime of the bell that maybe—just maybe, his dear partner would be the one who walked through that door this time.
Maybe… just maybe.
And today, his silent prayers have been answered as Saimon walked through that door in the pouring rain, calling out the name of the woman they both loved so dearly—the one they've lost—as if in a daze.
But that's enough, that's more than enough for Yohei.
That's why he didn't ask anything, only welcomed him back as Saimon sobbed in his embrace.
"Still, thank you for waiting for me," Saimon smiled, breaking off his reminiscence "and thank you for playing the piano today."
"It's not a big deal."
"But it saved me," Saimon smiled, "and it made me realize something important—something that I have missed for all these years."
Yohei didn't say anything, only looking at Saimon as he waited for the latter to continue.
"You know," he began, "ever since she was gone, I thought I couldn't love music the way I used to… ever again."
"..."
"All these years, it has become nothing but a painful reminder that she's no longer here with us," Saimon smiled weakly. His eyes were as vacant and lifeless as the last time Yohei saw him two years ago—at Tsubaki's funeral.
"Before I knew it, I began to hate it," he let out a bitter chuckle, "isn't it ironic? How things that once were so beautiful lost all their meanings and became so wretched when you lost someone?"
"Saimon…"
"Pathetic, isn't it?" He smiled bitterly, "if she could see me now, she would no doubt be very disappointed."
Yohei didn't say anything—he couldn't find the right words to say, so he just put her hand on Saimon's shoulder, as a little comforting gesture.
And for Saimon, that little gesture was more than enough.
"I thought nothing matters if she's no longer here anymore," he continued, "but I was wrong—no, you proved me wrong."
Yohei raised his brow, unsure what Saimon meant by that.
"I thought I'd lost her forever, but when I heard the piano you played, I thought she had come back to us," Saimon smiled as tears began to fall from the corner of his eyes, "of course she hadn't, but I could feel her presence… in your music."
"Saimon…"
"I realize that now… Tsubaki may no longer be here anymore, but she's not gone," Saimon smiled, looking at Yohei tenderly with his teary eyes. There's still a deep grief in that gaze, but there's also a glimmer of hope in there. "Her memory, her legacy, her dreams live on... in you."
For a moment they just sat in silence—dwelling in their own thoughts as they let their conversation sink in.
"...I thought I'd given it up as well, you know?" Yohei said after a while.
"Yohei…"
"Honestly, when you said you couldn't do it anymore, I didn't know what to do," he sighed, "I was lost… and I didn't know how I'm going to move forward."
"...I'm sorry…"
"Well, what's done is done," he patted Saimon's back, "I've got nothing else but this, so might as well keep doing it."
After losing Tsubaki and being left behind by Saimon, there was nothing left for him—only music, and the memories of the two people he loved the most. That's why he kept playing the piano—holding onto the memories of a better time that they've lost and would never get back.
"Besides, whenever I thought about quitting, I remember what that person had told me,'' Yohei said, a smile forming on his visage as he echoed the words of the woman he held dear, "that my song is special—that it would help you and I someday. When I remembered those words, I couldn't just throw it all away."
'...your sound is wonderful', the last words of the woman he loved echoed in Yohei's mind. Those words kept ringing in his mind whenever he thought of giving up—echoing like a song as familiar as his own heartbeat.
"'Music connects people'," Saimon muttered, echoing the words of the woman he loved. There was a time when he loathed those words, but now it brings him a sort of comfort he had long forgotten.
"Thank you... for not giving up on music, even though I did," he said, "for carrying her legacy, her dreams, even when I couldn't. For playing her song even after all these years."
"It was the least I could do," Yohei said, "but I'm glad that it reached you, at last," he said, patting his old partner on the back.
There's another thing that kept echoing in Yohei's mind—the last request she had ever asked him.
'Please take care of Naoakira-san for me.'
That time, Yohei didn't understand what she meant, and after she was gone, he didn't have the courage to fulfill that request. But now, perhaps…
No, now he would definitely fulfill that request for sure—he should. No matter what it takes.
"Really," Saimon smiled, "what did I do to deserve you?"
"I could say the same to you," Yohei grinned, "but it took you long enough to realize that."
Saimon only laughed softly at that.
They both sat in silence for a while. Letting their conversations sink in as the rain washes over the night.
"I'm sorry," Yohei finally broke his silence after a while.
"For what?" Saimon asked, "there's nothing for you to apologize for."
"I shouldn't have left you alone,"
"It wasn't your fault," Saimon said, gently putting his hand on Yohei's shoulder, "I was the one who—"
"Still, I shouldn't have left you alone," Yohei cut him short.
"Yohei..."
"I knew you were hurting—I knew you were hurting the most. I knew you were hurting so much more than I do. I knew that, and yet I couldn't do anything about it."
"It wasn't your fault,"
"Still, I shouldn't have left you alone!" He snapped, "I should've reached out to you—I shouldn't have let you go through all this alone. I shouldn't have let you be in pain on your own."
"Yohei..."
"I thought you needed some space to grieve and mourn her—but that's just my excuse," he scoffed, "the truth is; I was just too scared to face your grief and pain."
When he saw Saimon at her funeral two years ago, he was shaken—terrified at how lifeless he looked. How empty and fragile he was—as if he would crumble and fall apart or scatter into the wind at the slightest touch, and Yohei feared that he would be swallowed whole by the weight of his grief.
He was afraid—afraid of losing Saimon as well. Afraid of breaking him even more than he already had been. That's why he stayed away—that's why he ran away.
But looking at Saimon now made him realize how wrong he was—that his cowardice led Saimon to suffer alone for these past two years, and no words could convey his regret for that.
"It's okay," Saimon said, "you have your own pain, you don't have to carry mine as well."
"But it's not!" He snapped, "even though I couldn't carry your pain, I should've stayed with you through it. I should've reached out to you—I shouldn't have run away and left you all alone carrying it all on your own."
"Well..." Saimon sighed, "we were both running away, weren't we?"
"Pathetic, isn't it?" He lets out a bitter laugh, "I call myself your 'friend' but I left you alone when you needed one most."
"Yohei..."
"But I won't run away anymore," he said, putting his hands on Saimon's shoulders, forcing the other to look at him, "I won't run away from you ever again, and I won't let you run away from me again."
Saimon was silent, unsure what to say to Yohei's intense declaration.
"You're not alone, Saimon—not anymore, and I won't let you suffer alone anymore," he said, looking intently at Saimon's golden irises,"Your pain, your grief—let me share everything. Even if I can't share it all, let me be by your side through it all."
Saimon was stunned, but then a soft chuckle spilled out of his mouth.
"What's so funny??" Yohei hissed, suddenly flustered at the unexpected reaction, "what are you laughing at??"
"Ah, it's nothing," Saimon said amidst his laughter, "still as intense as ever, you really didn't change at all, Yohei."
"You were thinking that I'm dumb just now, didn't you?" Yohei growled. Even after all these years, Saimon still treats him like a child.
"No, not at all," Saimon smiled, "if anything, I admire your honesty."
After all, that pure, intense, and honest passion was what started it all: when Yohei proposed to reach their dream together as partners after Buraikan's live stage. That moment, Yohei turned his admiration into a dream, and a dream into a goal. And that's what kept them both going—that's what kept him going.
"Thank you... Yohei," Saimon gave him a sincere smile, and even for a moment, Yohei thought that the cloud of grief faded a little from his gaze, even if only for a split second, "really, thank you for everything."
"The hell are you talking about?" He scoffed, "I'm your partner, after all. I should be able to do that much."
"That's right," Saimon smiled, "but it goes both ways; you have me as well. And from now on, I will never leave you behind ever again."
"No more disappearing without a word for two years, then," Yohei scoffed.
"Right..." Saimon lets out a soft chuckle, "from now on, I'll be in your care, partner"
"Yeah," he smirked as he patted Saimon's back, "likewise, from now on, I'll be in your care, partner."
And for the first time after two years, they shared a comfortable silence in their newfound mutual understanding—after going through their own hell, and realizing that they both share the same kind of pain, they finally realize that they've found solace in each other's company.
———
"Yohei—"
"Hm?"
"Can I ask for a favor?"
"What is it?"
"The song you played earlier, can you play it for me once again?"
"Ah, of course."
"Thank you," Saimon smiled, "it's been a while, I feel like hearing it again."
"I'll play it for you as many times as you want," Yohei smiled as he sat in front of the grand piano and began playing, "that song, or any song, I'll play it as many times as you want."
"Thank you, Yohei," Saimon smiled as he watched Yohei's fingers dance on the keyboard, creating a long-forgotten melody that soothes his broken heart for the first time in what seemed like an eternity. And for the first time after two years of grieving, he finally began to love the sound of piano again.
Somewhere inside him, the words of the woman he loved echoes in his heart.
'I will play the piano again.'
"Thank you for fulfilling your promise, Tsubaki." He whispered as tears began to flow from his eyes.
Maybe not now, but someday, maybe he could begin to love music again. Someday, maybe he could carry her dreams as well, and she will live on inside him as well—someday.
But today, he'd just let himself be embraced by her melody brought to him by Yohei's delicate fingers as the memory of their time together filled him with warmth on the rainy day.