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“I think you’ve had enough, Sanzu.”
“No.” Haruchiyo disagrees. “I can keep going.”
“You’ve messed up three times in a row in the same spot.” Mucho presses the point to his partner. “And that was after you told me to just ‘move on’ from another measure you were struggling with.”
The cellist wishes his glare was sharp enough to cut down his accompanist. Mucho is unmoving in his stance.
“I wasn’t struggling.”
“I beg to differ when you were off by two whole beats.”
It’s a losing battle, but Haruchiyo is too proud to concede. He can keep arguing on why he’s the best, the best, the best. Because he has to be.
“Well — “ Before Haruchiyo can fire back why it wasn’t his fault their practice wasn’t going well, Mucho stops him.
“We’re going in circles. Let’s both just stop here.” He begins to shuffle his sheet music. Each page is put back in order and neatly straightened out before they’re tucked into their respective pockets of his folder.
“Just…” He pauses to glance at Sanzu who still hasn’t moved. “Think of it as taking a break.”
A break. Haruchiyo wants to scoff. He didn’t have time for breaks.
As he eyes Mucho, the cellist wonders if he should just continue to practice on his own without the piano accompaniment. Based on the stare from the pianist though, it didn’t seem like he was willing to leave until he saw Haruchiyo pack away the cello on his own. Haruchiyo frowns, eyebrows furrowing together, and sighs. Alright.
The tension seeps out of him as he unwinds his bow. Unscrewing the bow’s knob to loosen the hairs unfurls the stress he didn’t know he had. He rolls his stiff shoulders and finds that even his usually impeccable posture is slightly hunched over. He hates to say Mucho was right. He did need a break.
Haruchiyo’s cello carefully stowed away in its case and sheet music thrown into the pocket in the front, he’s ready to leave. Go home. Stew in his thoughts.
Mucho has turned back to the piano, fingers gliding along the keys to play a lulling melody, different from their rehearsal piece. Notes drift through the air as he plays, pushing down the ivory. Haruchiyo isn’t sure why he stays to watch. The piece is unfamiliar to him.
“What are you playing?” It’s another uncertainty why he bothers asking the pianist. Small talk isn’t his thing.
Neither is messing up. Today was full of unusual events.
Mucho continues to play on. A soothing legato washes over the two of them, each note following the next without pause. Yet the overall melody wasn’t allegro at all, more andante — not too fast, not too slow. Fingers dance across the keys, pulling out a series of quarter and eighth notes while the left hand holds a steady bass line.
The last bits of melody feels incomplete and leaves Haruchiyo yearning for more.
“It’s something I’ve been working on.” Mucho says quietly, hands still resting on the white spruce. The tips of his fingers bounce the keys up and down lightly, with just enough pressure to avoid creating sound.
“You wrote this?” Haruchiyo asks.
The pianist nods.
An awkward silence falls upon them again, Haruchiyo not knowing how to continue the conversation. He’s not quite used to actually talking to people, too used to letting his childhood friend do the talking or simply freezing people out unless absolutely necessary.
Before he can exit the room and actually go home,
“Here,” Mucho pats the open seat next to him. “Do you know how to play?”
“Piano? Not really.” Haruchiyo stares down at the keyboard. “I know what note each key is and some basic finger placement, but I don’t actually play.”
“Have you ever thought about learning?”
Haruchiyo considers the question for a moment before shrugging. He’d always had his cello. Ever since he started taking lessons, he didn’t see the need to expand his musical repertoire that much. Besides, it worked out perfectly for him because he got to play with Mikey.
The split second thought of the singer has him frowning again. He needs to put Mikey out of his mind.
“Do you want to learn?”
Haruchiyo turns to look up at Mucho curiously. “What?”
“I’ll teach you.” Mucho says evenly. “If you want.”
“I don’t play piano.” That should be the end of the conversation. He should pick himself up and leave. Yet, he stays rooted where he’s tucked into the larger man.
“That’s not what I asked though.”
They have a level staring contest for a moment. Haruchiyo should just go home. Go home and wallow.
“Sure.” Haruchiyo ends up deciding. He swallows back any biting remarks he means to make. The thought of the thoughts that threaten to consume him are sobering. Any distraction is a welcome one, so that he’s not working himself into oblivion.
“Yeah.” He sounds more certain this time. He hopes.
Mucho slides off the piano bench, suddenly crowding behind Haruchiyo’s space and gently pushing him to take his spot in front of the piano. He’s much smaller than Mucho’s large frame. It’s strange to say he feels a warm comfort emanating from where he’s pressed into Mucho’s chest.
Haruchiyo isn’t sure where to put his focus — the piano, Mucho, his hands. God, where should his hands go?
Hesitantly, he lifts his stiff fingers from where they grip the edge of his seat to rest on the black and white board.
“Like this?”
It feels almost foreign to him. There’s no thickly coiled steel wire under his calloused fingers to push down on, only smooth keys. Curled? Straightened? In theory, he knew how and where his fingers should rest comfortably, but he was distracted by a rumbling chuckle from the pianist. Haruchiyo felt himself flush slightly with embarrassment.
“Don’t be so tense.” Mucho tells him. “Just play anything you want. Don’t worry about where your fingers need to go.”
He doesn’t like that.
“Just let go.”
Just let go. Haruchiyo mocks Mucho in his head.
Easier said than done.
“I thought you were supposed to be teaching me how to play, teacher.”
“Push a key then.”
The cellist frowns but hesitantly complies.
A resounding C note rings out and soothes Haruchiyo. He pokes at another key.
D. E. F. G. A.
The scale continues upwards in little broken eighths as his fingers follow each other up the ivories. Nothing unfamiliar yet.
“Play something. Anything you want.”
Haruchiyo rolls his eyes before considering.
One key with his index finger. Then another. Feeling bold, he spreads out his hand and pushes down a couple more. Was that good enough?
He stiffens when Mucho leans in closer and a hand stretches towards the lower toned notes. The accompanying bass line pairs well with his own choppy melody. Their eyes meet and Haruchiyo feels the soft fondness from Mucho despite his neutral expression.
Haruchiyo is not unaware of the pianist’s affections towards him, but he couldn’t return the feelings while he was chasing after another. His thoughts also flicker to the annoying DJ at the club he frequents more than he’d like to admit. He didn't understand what was worth liking about him when the one he wanted didn’t…
The sound of a discordant note jerks Haruchiyo back to the present and he scowls when he realizes his finger had missed the key he wanted.
Mucho’s chuckle makes him blush furiously. He tilts his head down and hopes his long hair hides his face.
“I don't make mistakes.” Haruchiyo grits out. The beginning of their duet practice had been miserable. It was true. He had miscounted. Multiple times.
“It’s fine if you do.” Mucho soothes him. “But that’s not what we’re here for right now. I’m teaching you piano.”
“What a shitty teacher.”
But they’re both smiling now and yeah it’s okay. Haruchiyo idly pushes at keys again and to his surprise, Mucho accompanies him.
Mucho’s right hand cages him into the piano, but it feels nice. They’re playing piano together.
He’s having fun. Haruchiyo can’t remember the last time he wasn’t striving for perfection in his music.
As the final notes fade into the air, Haruchiyo becomes too aware of how close Mucho is to him. His body tenses slightly when he notices the encompassing warmth on his back. The exhilaration of playing together is replaced by a hammering sense of dread. He feels unwell. Nauseous.
“Sanzu?” Mucho’s breath tickles his ear. His face is burning. He can’t turn around now.
Everything snaps into focus. Larger hands engulf Haruchiyo’s — fingers in between the space his own leave behind. The gentleness they contain make Haruchiyo jealous of whoever was lucky enough to be held in them.
But it couldn’t be him.
“That was … fun.” Sanzu needs to keep it professional between them. He needs the neutrality he could trust. It’s impossible to be completely oblivious to Mucho’s soft affections towards him. But he doesn’t deserve it.
As if sensing his nervousness, Mucho backs away. And it’s all too cold where it was once warm. Although it’s what Haruchiyo is used to, he can’t help but crave what he can’t have. The wooden bench squeaks across the floor and grates on his ear when he stands up, resolutely not looking up.
“Thanks for the lesson.” Haruchiyo grabs his cello again, preparing to leave. For real this time. “I’m going home now.”
“Haru…”
“Don’t call me that!” Haruchiyo snaps out immediately. He didn’t have a right to that tenderness Mucho weaves into his interactions with the cellist. As if he loved him.
It was too much.
Haruchiyo clears his choked up throat. “I’ll see you next week. For practice.”
Mucho is silent.
Please.
“Next week then. Same time.”
Haruchiyo lets out a small sigh he didn’t realize he was holding in and nods. He pushes the door out and starts his way home.
He needs to leave all this behind him. He didn't deserve it.