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Getting his violin out again had been Akito’s idea. “You’re getting closer to piano again,” he’d said, “so why not give it a shot?” The conversation had been easy, not an ounce of pressure from a single one of his teammates; this was his decision, and Toya knew that. He chose this.
Carrying the violin into Weekend Garage feels… odd. It’s so clearly out of place somewhere like this with all the tattered posters and beautiful graffiti; the violin case is sleek and smooth in comparison, dust embedded into the claspings but clean nonetheless. It doesn’t really feel… good.
But he said he would go through with this, so he will.
Akito, An and Kohane are already there when he walks in. Ken is washing up behind the counter, but the cafe is void of customers; they’d requested to use the space in the off hour preceding the evening menu, providing Toya with a familiar and comfortable space to play. He isn’t sure if it’ll be easy. Muscle memory for the piano had been one thing; the violin might be more difficult, having to split his focus between the movements of his bow and shifting correctly across the fingerboard.
His teammates smile at him, ushering him up to sit on the stage with them. The violin case clacks against the wood as he sets it down. An whistles, commenting on the quality; even to someone with no knowledge of classical, it’s obvious how expensive it is, sleek leather with bronze trimmings and a bespoke logo pressed into the edge.
It makes Toya feel a little sick. That he’d practically thrown away all this money, all this effort, all this love. Love for things that will never love him back, and love from things he will never love back.
But they want him to play, so he will.
His fingers are deft over the locks; the clicking sound as he pulls them open should be satisfying, but it mostly just fills him with dread. Akito’s hand is steady on his back as he pulls the case open.
Red almost burns against his eyes as soon as the top is pulled back. The stage lights shine harshly onto the velvet, causing it to sparkle a little. Toya had never liked the colour of his case’s lining; it’s too bright, too aggressive where he was told over and over again that the music stored in here was sweet. The bow is still tucked neatly into the lid of the case, clearly neglected. The phantom sensation of it digging into his hand appears as soon as Toya lays eyes on it. It’s painful, despite not being real in the first place.
His gaze drags down to the velvet covering the violin. Sucking in a hesitant breath, he reaches for it– the sensation is horribly familiar– and pulls it away.
It’s a beautiful violin. His father had truly spared no expense, buying an instrument that would probably last Toya the rest of his life with proper care. The chinrest is the perfect size and shape to slot under his neck, the scroll and f-holes are precisely hand-carved into high quality maroon-red wood. Although the polish has yellowed a little with years hidden away, it still shines under the lights. It’s sleek, gorgeous.
Toya’s eyes drag up the violin; the tailpiece, up the sharp angle of the bridge and the soft curves of the wood, dragging along the strings and fingerboard, and—
Oh.
Toya had slacked on the upkeep of his violin towards the end of his time in classical. In some ways, that had been the beginning of his rebellion; knowingly neglecting a task a musician would be expected to take responsibility for, allowing something so precious to fall into disrepair, even in a minor way.
That decision comes back to bite him as his eyes linger on the fingerboard. Dark reddish-brown is smudged along the strings and the wood underneath, out of place and harsh, a dark reminder of what this violin has endured, what Toya has endured.
The bloodstains are old and aged, but they look perfectly fresh to him.
Bile rises in his throat as soon as he sees it. Uncaring of the fragility of the instrument, he shoves it away, scraping against the wood. It clatters against the floor as it falls off the stage; he prays, prays, prays that it was properly strapped in, that the case will protect it from damage. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if it’s broken.
Toya throws himself from the stage next, legs only barely holding up as he hits the floor. He needs to leave, he needs to leave now.
His fingertips are burning. If he looks at them, he’s sure they’ll be bleeding, red beading along the scrapes and cuts that would form over a day of practice, the same colour as the case lining. The blood loss is making him dizzy as he stumbles across the cafe, barely hearing his friends calling out behind him.
God, he’d always hated having catgut strings. His father had held it as a point of pride when he gave Toya the violin– a mark of authenticity, a clear sign of devotion to the craft because of their higher upkeep requirements. To Toya, though– the mental image of how they’re produced always makes him feel sick, if he has to play anyway he could at least play using something clean and unblemished—
They aren’t unblemished, though. The sheep’s blood may be gone, but his will always be there, staining it.
Nausea overtakes him. He’s going to get in trouble for this, he’s running away, he’s leaving the violin unprotected, he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe—
He presses his hands to his mouth. He should be used to this, it’s just blood, but everything feels wrong and painful and all he can hear is screeching dissonant chords and all he can see is a poor animal being torn open for the beauty of music—
All the air is forced out of him, replaced by bile as he hits the floor.
A hand lands on his shoulder, and it’s dangerous and he scrambles away, gagging as he tries he tries he tries to hold it back—
It isn’t enough, though. It’s never enough.
He feels himself black out as bitterness floods up his throat and out of his mouth. It’s disgusting. He knows that he’s just throwing a tantrum, that he’ll be punished for this later. It’s only blood. A mark of his dedication to his love.
This doesn’t feel like love, though.
He passes out.