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I. D.S. al Coda
Easy, simple, boring—that’s what playing the violin is.
Or so Miyuki thinks.
All you do is place the end part of the bow and drag it down against the string. A slight, sudden touch against the string makes a staccato, pressing down on it faster and with more force gives you a forte, while a light, slow touch against the string, a piano. With properly placed fingers simultaneously pressing different strings at different lengths of the board, you get a series of notes, a rhythm; be it a triplet, a quarter—you name it.
At least that was what Miyuki learnt growing up with the ¾ sized string instrument.
Miyuki was a child prodigy, the son of two talented pair of musicians. He started the violin at the age of 4, and three years later he could play whatever piece you throw at him, La Campanella or Variations on Caprice no. 24 by Paganini, anything on the Four seasons by Vivaldi—whatever piece that is, from whatever era—Baroque, Romantic, or Modern, he can play.
If one were to ask why Miyuki plays the violin, the answer is simple—because it makes his parents happy, because it made his mom happy.
He remembers the very weight of the instrument against his shoulder, with heart palpitating in his chest as the same white uniforms repeatedly paces by the threshold, and the body that hides beneath the pale, faded covers; the body that gets frailer each and every passing second.
Play something for me , she says.
And Miyuki obeys. And Miyuki plays the violin, always the same song, every day. Because it’s mom’s favourite , he says, because it makes her feel better , he says.
And he plays Morning by Grieg on the violin, even though it should have been for the flute. But his mom hums along every time, his mom praises him for it every time because he deserves it, because he plays well, and she knows it.
The song Morning used to sound like a new beginning, a new day. It sounded like the sky opening up into a vast blue stretch of open space, it felt like the gentle whistling of the fresh spring air brushing against his face, the smell of sunflowers and the chirping of the birds.
However, Miyuki thinks it sounds more like the end of another day, the mourning of yesterday. It sounds like the restless whine of the wind; a feeble excuse of a tune. It sounds like the beeping of the computer, the running bumpy lines on the screen, the smell of disinfectant, and the whiteness—like everything was blank.
The day his E string snaps when Miyuki tunes it, he feels pain on the tip of his finger as obnoxious red drip drip drips on his music score, and he hears the shrill of the ambulance siren echoing in piercing tones inside his head, the gravelly noise grating against his ears. The day he replaces it with an aluminium coated E string instead of his usual gold plated, he hears quickening footsteps and wheels rolling against the ceramic tiles beneath, he sees the wave of the doctors and nurses rushing in, and he remembers the very shade of red light blaring into his eyes on top of the doors. The day Miyuki suddenly plays Tristesse by Chopin instead of Morning , his mother passes away at night.
I’ll buy you a new violin , his dad says one day. Probably because Miyuki has outgrown the old one, he thinks, or because his dad never sees him play it anymore, because his dad sees him with red eyes and wet cheeks more often, hears his muffled sobbing more often, with both arms against the black violin case, his head bowed low and hidden against the hard cushions.
They visit the store, and his dad chooses a 4/4 sized handmade violin, carefully carved out of wood older than Miyuki, older than even his dad, alongside a new bow made out of horse mane and a set of new strings including a gold plated E string. And when Miyuki plays Morning on it, he no longer hears the beeping of the computer, the running bumpy lines on the screen, he no longer smells disinfectant, or the whiteness. Instead, he sees a new, blank sheet of music score, the time signature yet to be written, the treble clef yet to be drawn.
And he hears his dad say, let’s make new memories.
Easy, simple, boring, that’s what playing the violin is.
And Miyuki still thinks so.
All you do is use a wrist motion to roll your finger tip up and down on the finger board and you get a vibrato. Quickly tapping your finger against the string of the note a tone higher gives you a trill; a rapid alternation of two notes. Lightly touching the string at the part closer to the bridge gives you artificial harmonics.
If one asks Miyuki why he still plays the violin, he answers them with ‘ because the violin doesn’t lie’ .
The violin tells stories of the victors, the success;
The stories of the depressed, the failure;
The stories of the living and the dead;
Of the beauty and the hatred;
But the violin doesn’t tell lies.
Unlike his dad.
She’ll get better , he said.
lies
She’ll come home , he said.
lies
His mother didn’t die that day because his string snapped, or because he changed into an aluminium E string. She didn’t die that day because he played Tristesse instead of Morning.
She died because dad lied.
She’ll be fine , he said.
Lies, lies, lies, they’re all lies .
( you FUCKING LIAR )
He remembers going for therapy every other week, with scarred feelings and charred hearts, with heavy words and unsung melodies, the negativity rotting and untouched in his mind. He’s heard it too many times; words like ‘I know it’s hard’, words like, ‘You’ll get through it’, words like, ‘I know you can.’
You don’t understand , he thinks.
I can’t do this , he thinks.
I’m not that strong , he thinks.
It has been a year now since Miyuki attended a music school, and as another new semester passes in his second year he sees his name under the list of trés bien students. No surprises there. He often hears his name around the school, sometimes showered with praises, and surrounded in glory and admiration, other times shrouded in jealousy with loathe and hatred dripping from the tip of tongues.
He enters his classroom that day, and his teacher greets him with pride and tells him, “You’ve been chosen to play in the school’s class S orchestra again! And this time as the concert master!”
Miyuki doesn’t think too much of it. He only places his violin on his lap and starts setting up. “I’m not very good with people,” he hears himself say, choking out an excuse. “I don’t play the violin for the same reason other people do.”
“For whatever reason that is, I believe people make music because they find something out of it,” his teacher says, placing a new set of music scores on the music stand in front of Miyuki. “Something like love, perhaps?”
Love?
In fact, Miyuki hates it. He hates the feel of the rosin sticking on his fingers, he hates the ache in his arms after hours of practising, he hates the feel of the shoulder rest against his left shoulder, and he hates the feel of the string pressing against the tip of his fingers, forming indents and callouses.
He hates it when the music score tries to boss him around, telling him what to do. He hates it when his teachers tells him he misses a slur, tells him he can’t hear the difference between his forte and fortissimo, or the difference between his staccato and super staccato.
He hates the ineluctable memories that lodges itself in his mind, accompanying the sound of plastic grating against metal strings. He hates the memories that burns and scorches itself to the back of his head, leaving ashes and dust behind, and the pain that weighs his chest down interminably; the past that’s he’s been trying to bury under the depths of years’ worth of memories—but fails.
So why does Miyuki still play the violin?
Why does he hang to it like a life line?
He still plays it despite callouses on his fingertips. He practises despite the aching of his shoulders. He seeks to improve despite the sticky feel of rosin on his fingers.
( because…)
“I don’t…” Miyuki pauses for a while, thinking. “I don’t know,” he finally says.
“Then find out,” his teacher says, smiling, “Give it a try.”
And Miyuki does. Because maybe, he thinks, just maybe, he’ll find out.
II. Segno
“Kuramochi senpai! Do you have a spare sized 3 reed?” Sawamura asks, running a little towards the said man, both hands clasping in an apologetic manner. “I forgot to buy a new pack.”
Kuramochi pulls out two sized 3 reeds, wrapped in dark blue shiny plastic with the brand smeared on it, and hands it over to Sawamura. “Pay up,” he says.
Sawamura stops on his tracks and blinks at Kuramochi, eyes golden and big. He shoves both hands into his pocket and pulls the insides out then flashes an apologetic smile towards Kuramochi.
A loud DROP KICK! echoes throughout the room, crashing its way in between the jumble of major and minor scales, mixed in with finger practises or off tune notes and who knows what other weird melodies were played at that time. The clarinetists wrestle each other on the carpeted ground behind all the chairs. Sawamura groans in pain, his hands slapping the ground, begging the other to stop before Kuramochi finally releases his grip and stands. He shoves the reeds into Sawamura’s clarinet case anyway.
Miyuki enters the practice room for the class S orchestra later in the day, and a whole blast of notes made its way to Miyuki’s ears—everything was jumbled, in a disarray. He looks around the spacious soundproof music room, not quite eager about finding out who his fellow musicians are.
“AH!”
Miyuki turns towards the sound and sees a boy with a messy mop of dark brown hair, holding a B flat clarinet in one hand and pointing an accusing finger at him. Everyone else in the room then turns toward Miyuki before they start talking amongst each other in hushed tones. Miyuki then blatantly raised an eyebrow at the boy.
“The famous MIYUKI KAZUYA!”
Miyuki quickly averts his gaze and clicks his tongue, proceeding to an empty seat. Sawamura’s hands shot up to cover his mouth, an oops hiding behind two hands and a jab to his ribs from Kuramochi.
The assigned conductor, who later on introduces himself as Takigawa Chris Yuu, arrives right after, and everyone immediately stops playing and stands up to bow. Chris rearranges everyone's seats; the violins on his right, the violas in front of him, the cellos to the left and the contra bass right behind. The woodwinds then sit in a row behind the string instruments, and the brass and the percussion instruments follow right behind. Miyuki ends up sitting next to another fellow violinist, Furuya, who apparently is still a first year.
After the chaotic mess of the noise of chairs and music stands being pulled around, Chris hands out music scores to everyone and immediately cuts to the chase, “This is one of the songs we’ll be playing, Bolero by Maurice Ravel. Please silently read through it once and we will start in around 5 minutes. For the solo parts, I want the lead of each instrument to do it. I believe you already know who you are.”
Miyuki reads his own silently, and others does the same, mutely pressing his fingers on the fingerboard according to the music score without actually playing. Not long after, a rather loud-- not even discreetly-- tapping sound disrupts his concentration, and he turns to his left only to see the brown haired boy intently staring at his music score and furiously tapping on the keys of his clarinet, practising the notes without blowing it. He sees the other clarinetist, the one who was with him earlier, lightly jabbing his elbow against the brown haired boy’s, telling him to tone it down. Miyuki only sighs, returning back to his music score, before a sudden realization strikes him.
That loud boy is the lead of clarinet? Isn’t he still a first year… And what about the second year sitting beside him?
Thinking back, Miyuki realises that he, as well, was chosen as a member of the first violin in the S orchestra last year, though he wasn’t chosen as the concert master. Then there’s this first year violinist beside him as well…
Chris taps on his music stand with his baton several times, signalling the end of 5 minutes.
“Concert master,” Chris says, looking over at Miyuki. “If you will.”
Miyuki stands up and plays an A, tuning his own instrument with practised ears, before the rest of the string instrument plays and tunes accordingly. Miyuki plays another A for the wind instruments, then another for the brass instruments. When everyone is done tuning, Miyuki turns to Chris, shaking his hand and exchanging greetings before he finally settles back to his own seat.
Chris raises both his hands midway and all the musicians immediately readies themselves with their respective instruments, eyes on both the conductor and the music score. Chris signals the start with a 3-2-1, waving his baton just a little in front of him, and the percussion starts by setting the rhythm, followed by the soft chorus of pizzicato by the string instruments as they softly pluck on the string with their fingers. A flutist follows soon after with a solo of the theme; a series of slurs and joined low and long notes in between staccato and short notes. A clarinetist continues the solo, playing a repeat of the main theme. Miyuki shot a quick glance once, and true enough the brown haired boy was the one playing.
The song continues, with who knows how many repeats of the main theme, played by different wind and brass instruments, before Chris finally stops the orchestra by tapping on the music stand with his baton again. Chris then turns to Miyuki and asks, “What do you think, Mr. Concert Master?”
“We could raise the tempo up a bit. It sounds like the notes are dragging and it’s kind of flat,” he says, placing his violin upright on his lap.
Chris smiles and nods at Miyuki before he turns back to the orchestra.
“That was quite a good and consistent start, “ he says, taking a step backwards, scanning through all the faces of the members of the orchestra. “But I want you to imagine this. Ballet performers, dancing on the stage with dim lighting, with strong and solid movements. Not too excited or energetic, but not much of a slow ballet either. And as we go to the last few measures, it’s all about the punch.”
Soft whispers and murmurs starts to spread among the musicians, and Chris says, “I want you to be more expressive, but not too energetic, because this obviously isn’t an upbeat song nor is it a deep and emotionally packed song. It’s a little difficult to understand, but I want you to feel it.”
“And don’t forget to look at me. The baton’s over here,” Chris says, raising his hands and baton again, and the whole orchestra readies themselves. “From the top.”
Practice lasts for about three hours, with occasional breaks, and Chris hands out everyone the rest of the music scores of songs they are going to perform before the whole orchestra starts to disband. Miyuki heaves a sigh of relief; he can finally go home and have dinner in the comfort of his own dining table while leafing through his music scores.
“My mouth feels like jelly,” Sawamura mumbles, pinching his own cheeks as he walks out the music room alongside Kuramochi, who only yawns and says something about being fungry . All the musicians were filing out and across the hallway outside the room like a traffic congestion before Sawamura notices the person walking in front of him-- the easily recognized back, the slight peek of the temples of his black framed spectacles behind his ears, and the famous brand of violin case behind him.
“Oh right! Miyuki… uh, Miyuki senpai!” Sawamura starts, tapping the said person on his shoulder. Miyuki immediately turns, nearly hitting Sawamura’s face with the violin case that was slung on his shoulder. The three of them stops walking, causing the rest of the crowd behind them to stream to their sides. Miyuki blatantly raises an eyebrow at Sawamura.
“Um, sorry… about just now. I didn’t mean to scream out like that,” Sawamura says, scratching the back of his head and flashing an apologetic smile at Miyuki.
Kuramochi ruffles Sawamura’s hair, acting like his older brother. “Yeah, sorry ‘bout that. This guy’s an idiot.”
“By the way I’m Sawamura Eijun.”
“And I’m Kuramochi Youichi. Nice to meet ya!”
“Well, whatever. I didn’t really care.” Miyuki immediately turns back and keeps walking before Sawamura quickly catches up to him and grabs him by the elbow.
“Why don’t we get something to eat?”
The question rolls out of Sawamura’s tongue so easily that Miyuki stops walking and turns on his heels. Kuramochi, who is standing beside Sawamura, gives him a questioning look and jabs him with his elbow for who knows the hundreth time that day.
Miyuki doesn’t really know how to respond. First, he barely knew the boy, heck, he just only recently knew his name. Second, Miyuki prefers cooking for himself at home, he’s been doing it for most of his life anyway. “Why should I?” he retorts, with a smirk and both hands on his waist.
This should do, right? he thinks.
“I just wanted to talk to you. I mean, who doesn’t? You’re the famous young violin prodigy! Everyone knows you!” Sawamura replies like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
Miyuki’s smirk quickly fades away. He clicks his tongue and turns away. “Sorry but I don’t even know you.”
Miyuki half expects the boy to pull him back again, but this time Sawamura doesn’t. He quickly fastens his pace, hoping the boy doesn’t catch up to him. However, he hears muffled whispers behind him and he senses the impending danger.
And then it comes. He hears the thunderous quick leaps of shoes nearing behind him and before he could turn back, both his hands were grabbed by the wrist and he was pulled forward.
“Let’s get ramen, Miyuki senpai!” Sawamura yells, pulling Miyuki and running forward, dragging him along. Miyuki stumbles behind with unprepared and unbalanced steps.
“Hold on! What are you guys-”
“This is punishment for clicking your tongue at my precious little kouhai !” Kuramochi yells, cutting him off with a hyena-like laughter-- a ‘hyaha!’ echoing across hallway as the three of them takes off.
“We should play something like In the Hall of the Mountain King, or Eine Kleine Nachtmusik or like the Nutcracker Suite!” Sawamura exclaims, waving his chopsticks in the air with his mouth full of ramen.
“Nu-uh, we should play movie or game sound tracks once in a while! Like from Pirates of the Caribbean or from Final Fantasy, like Liberi Fatali or One Winged Angel!” Kuramochi retorts.
The three of them go to eat at Sawamura’s and Kuramochi’s favourite ramen place and apparently, Sawamura has made friends with all the workers there-- literally everyone calls out to him the moment they stepped in. Miyuki’s plan for the evening has been totally disrupted, and he hates it when it happens. But somehow, when it comes to these two, he just can’t get angry-- not when he sees those smiles and friendly gestures. Miyuki keeps everyone at an arm’s length, so to be invited for dinner, this was a first.
“By the way, Miyuki senpai, can I ask you something?” Sawamura asks.
“You are already asking.”
Sawamura ignores his comment and continues, “How long do you practise everyday? I mean, for someone to be able to be a concert master at their second year, that’s hella incredible!”
Miyuki flashes him an ‘are-you-seriously-asking-me-that’ deadpanned look. “Same goes to you. You’re still a first year, aren’t you? What are you doing warming the lead clarinet seat?”
“You noticed!” Sawamura exclaims, standing up and bringing his face close to Miyuki’s that he has to raise an arm between them in case Sawamura doesn’t know what the meaning of ‘personal space’ is. Thank god he didn’t choose to sit in between Sawamura and Kuramochi.
“You’re difficult to miss,” Miyuki says, leaning back the other side until Sawamura settles back down. “Not after you shouted my name like that.”
Sawamura claps his hands together, not really saying anything but giving Miyuki another one of his apologetic look.
“I practise one and a half hour everyday,” Miyuki answers.
Both Sawamura and Kuramochi exchanged glances with each other and turns to Miyuki and blinks. “Just… one and a half?” Kuramochi asks in disbelief.
Miyuki only nods.
“You’re crazy,” Sawamura mouths.
“No wonder they call you a genius,” Kuramochi says, staring at his empty ramen bowl like his whole life has been a lie.
“Half an hour for finger practises and an hour for songs,” Miyuki answers.
“What-- How?” Kuramochi stutters, quickly turning to Miyuki.
“If you are practising too much it means you’re doing it wrong. You need to learn to rest your body. Spend more time reviewing your music scores while listening to the music instead.”
The three of them ended up staying in the ramen shop longer than they had intended to. Their conversations were going smoother than Miyuki thought it would, with Miyuki explaining on proper musician habits one is supposed to follow, and Sawamura replying on how he does everything the opposite of that. Miyuki soon finds out that Sawamura is an extremely passionate guy, a guy who practises the clarinet like he breathes, a guys who loves the clarinet like how he loves to eat, a guy who is everything-- everything but Miyuki.
When dusk falls, the three of them part ways, going on their own direction home. Sawamura and Kuramochi waves at Miyuki, and Miyuki waves back a little, unconsciously cracking a smile before Sawamura beams and says, “Sorry about forcing you to eat dinner with us. You must have been expecting your mom’s cooking.”
And Miyuki stops. Averting his gaze, his smile quickly slips away and he slowly lowers his hand, clenching them into fists. There is a long pause; an expanse of silence that neither Kuramochi nor Sawamura expects, an expanse of silence that Miyuki himself unwillingly creates.
“It’s fine.”
And Miyuki walks away.
Kuramochi lets out the breath he was holding and fakes a cough, pulling Sawamura with him.
III. To Coda
After practice was over the next day, Sawamura and Kuramochi approach Miyuki telling him they needed to talk to him. Miyuki had a few minor things to discuss with Chris so he tells them to go ahead first.
Miyuki assumes it’s about dinner, so he says, “If it’s about ramen then you guys can go ahead first, I can join you guys later.”
“It’s not about that--” Sawamura starts.
“Anyways, just meet us by the school gates, yeah?” Kuramochi quickly interrupts and pulls Sawamura out of the room.
Miyuki spends a few minutes discussing about the orchestra with Chris right after the last musician exits the room. When they were done discussing, Miyuki bids goodbye to Chris and gathers his belongings as Chris exits the room ahead of him. By the time Miyuki steps out of the room, he hears laughter right at the turn near the end of the hallway and quickly walks over, thinking it was Sawamura and Kuramochi.
“Hey, sorry to keep you wait--” and Miyuki stops. It was neither Sawamura nor Kuramochi.
“Speak of the devil,” one guy says, a sly grin smeared across his smug face. Miyuki remembers seeing him on the second violin section.
“We should raise the tempo a bit he says.”
And there is a burst of laughter among the two, apparently, third year males.
“It sounds like it’s dragging he says.”
Another burst of laughter cracks through the air. Miyuki’s grip on the strap of his violin case tightens.
“Don’t get too cocky, you second year,” one guy says.
“Freaking coat tail riders. What the heck was that? I bet you just randomly spouted nonsense just to sound cool when you’re actually all shit,” the other guy says, not even trying to stifle his laughter.
“I bet his playing stinks like crap too. I heard from the other guys that he only pretends to play during practice,” the other guy adds. “I should be the concert master instead! All I have to do is play an A in front of everyone after all.”
“Why do you even try so hard? Is it for your dead mommy?”
Miyuki sees it replaying like a broken record before his eyes again.
( and it drip drip drips)
“Come ‘ere, play for mommy.”
(and it echoes in piercing tones)
“Never stop playing the violin, alright darling?” one guy tactlessly mimicked with a nasal voice, batting his eyelashes with fake teary eyes.
(and it burns and scorches )
“Yes, mommy!” His friend jokingly bawled, faking exaggerated sobs and wiping imaginary tears.
(into ashes )
The two guys laugh and wheeze for a good few seconds, pointing fingers at him. Miyuki feels it resurfacing again; he feels it simmering and brimming over the edge. He knows it’d be best if he doesn’t, but he feels the need in his racing heart and the rage boiling inside the darkest, deepest pits of his heart, tugging at the edge of his lips like usual-- like every other time this happens. Maybe he wants this. Maybe he doesn’t want to hold back. Miyuki opens his mouth and thinks, ah, how many times has this been. I never learn.
( STOP )
“Isn’t it obvious?” Miyuki says tartly, glaring. His fists clench by his sides and his knuckles turn white. “You aren’t the concert master nor are you in the first violin simply because you aren’t good enough. Your year or age doesn’t determine the skill you play with on stage.”
The third years stop laughing and Miyuki sees one of them pulling his arm back, clenching his fist. They stop laughing and an enraged punch lands on Miyuki’s face, knocking his glasses over as it skids with a clatter on the ceramic tiled floor. Miyuki stumbles backward and raises a hand, dragging his finger over his cracked lips. He is more than just a little shocked-- or maybe he shouldn’t be so taken aback—this isn’t the first time after all, he definitely sees it coming.
And there it is. The obnoxious red glaring at him. The sound of ambulance sirens. The paleness of the body underneath paler sheets. The—
A violent hand roughly grabs him by the collar of his shirt and jerks him up. Miyuki thinks about fighting back—he thinks about fingers dragging across skin, thinks about swinging his hand hard across the guy’s cheeks, and thinks about how much that would burn.
Miyuki can barely feel the ground ghosting beneath his feet before the hand pushes him back. He feels his body plummeting down before he crashes on the ground. His back strikes on the hard material of the violin casing he always carries on his back and he holds back a cry, gritting his teeth together. He hears the clatter and the scratching of the bow knocking on the wooden surface of his violin inside its case as Miyuki lands on top of it before rolling over to his side.
Miyuki tries to get up on his elbows, his eyes squinting and darting everywhere in search for his glasses. He puts down the violin case from his shoulder, but one of the third years raises his leg before another blow lands on Miyuki’s shoulder. Miyuki groans in pain and falls back, his elbow skids off the ground and he feels his skin burn from the friction.
He hears someone calling his name from a distant-- a rather familiar voice-- and he hears footsteps pacing up the stairs and nearing the turn close to the hall way.
“Miyuki senpai?”
Once again, he tries to get up, supporting himself on his elbows, and raises his head. Through his blurry vision, the two third years seem to reel back to the source of the voice and they immediately run the other direction, leaving Miyuki behind.
Miyuki looks around for his glasses, but his blurry vision wasn’t exactly helping. He dusts off his shirt on the spot where the third year had kicked him and gets up on his knees.
“Miyuki sen--”
Sawamura stops on his tracks, with Kuramochi following closely behind, and sees Miyuki kneeling on the ground. They both notice Miyuki’s bleeding lips and bruised cheek. Miyuki quickly raises a hand over the sting of the bruise on his cheek and turns his face away.
“What happened…” Kuramochi starts. He picks up Miyuki’s glasses from the floor and returns it back to him. Miyuki only silently takes it between his fingers with his head bowed low. He wipes his bleeding lips with the back of his hand and puts his glasses back on.
Miyuki quickly turns to his violin case and hastily unzips the case open. He raises the lid, and takes off the cloth that was covering his violin. Picking up the violin from its case, he checks everything; the bridge, the strings, the tuning pegs, and then heaves a sigh of relief before putting everything back in place and slinging the case on his shoulder.
Miyuki stands in front of Sawamura with his eyes on the ground, a feeble attempt to avoid any eye contact, but Sawamura’s gaze were drilling holes at him.
“Let’s get you to the infirmary,” Sawamura says.
Miyuki winces a little when Kuramochi presses the compression against his cheeks and lets Miyuki hold it himself. The three of them stay silent just like that; Miyuki and Kuramochi sitting on the infirmary bed side by side, keeping a distance between themselves, and Sawamura sitting on the chair beside. Miyuki only keeps holding the compression against his cheek with his other hand tugging at the creases of his uniform, still avoiding eye contact.
Miyuki feels exposed like this, like he’s being read like an open book, and he feels Sawamura and Kuramochi leafing through each and every page. He feels like the thick layers he’s put up between him and the people around him is being peeled open, like a child picking at scabs on his knees.
Sawamura, who has been looking down at the clenched fists on his lap, suddenly raises his head to Miyuki’s direction. “Is it okay,” he starts, and pauses for a bit. “Is it okay if we ask?”
Miyuki flinches a little at the question, and he smells it again; the disinfectants, the pale sheets, the muted beeping. He feels his heart hurrying in his chest, and he takes a deep breath before a shaky exhale escapes his mouth. He then raises his head and flashes a forced smile at Sawamura.
“I was just joking around and things got a bit at of hand,” Miyuki chuckles a little, scratching the back of his head. Sawamura retracts, his back quickly straightens at the retort.
“What do you mean… That’s taking things way too far,” Sawamura says, the creases in between his eyebrows suddenly apparent and his fists tighten. Sawamura looks different like this, Miyuki thinks. No bright smiles or spontaneous actions. The golden shine Miyuki thought he saw in Sawamura’s eyes seem to have fade; they seem to be flickering less.
Kuramochi heaves a sigh and says, “Look here, Miyuki. I get that we’ve only known each other for a while, but look at you--”
“Let’s get out of here and talk outside instead, can we?” Miyuki says, putting the compressor aside and rises to his feet to head for the door. “I don’t like it here.”
“That’s fine, I guess,” Kuramochi says, exchanging looks with Sawamura. Sawamura only nods back at him.
The three of them walk outside, towards the school gates. The sun was peeking just behind the tall skyscrapers and has nearly set, splashing different shades of yellow and oranges on the expanse of the sky. The school grounds are mostly empty, except for a few security guards patrolling and walking back and forth. Sawamura is itching to bring up the conversation, he wanted to apologise to Miyuki for what slipped out of his mouth, for what he didn’t mean to say-- but he just can’t. Instead, he only walks silently beside Kuramochi.
“So what is it you guys wanted to talk to me about earlier?” Miyuki asks.
“Uhh, about that, I think it’s better to put it off to tomorrow--”
“Miyuki senpai,” Sawamura says and stops walking to face Miyuki. Both Kuramochi and Miyuki stops walking as well and faces Sawamura.
“Sawamura, I think it’s better if--” Kuramochi says, but Sawamura ignores him, averting his gaze away.
Without thinking twice, Sawamura places both his arms on his sides and bows down. “I’m sorry about yesterday!”
MIyuki steps backward a little, confusion all over his face. “Eh? What for?”
Sawamura pauses and hesitates for a while, but quickly continues. “I said something I wasn’t supposed to, and I hurt your feelings! I’m really sorry about that!” Sawamura says, still bowing with his eyes closed shut.
“I don’t quite get what you’re trying to say…” Miyuki says, his voice trailing at the end.
“I…” Sawamura hesitates for another time, wondering if he should not have brought up the conversation. “I said something about your mom. I was so stupid. I shouldn’t have brought it up, I wasn’t thinking. I’m really sorry.”
“I’m sorry about that too,” Kuramochi suddenly follows, facing Miyuki and bows a little.
Miyuki incredulously stares at both of them and chuckles a little. “You guys are great,” he says, “It’s fine really, nothing compared to what those guys said.”
Sawamura’s head quickly shot up at the mention of the subject. “What did… those guys say?”
Miyuki turns away from the two of them and places both his hands behind his neck. “They were mocking me and my mother.”
Miyuki hears Kuramochi growl in a deep tone crack his knuckles. He quickly turns to the both of them, swats his hand and says, “It’s fine though, it was me. I got a little worked up. That’s all.”
“Miyuki senpai! Next time this happens, just give us a call and we’ll beat them up for you!” Sawamura exclaims, his glare suddenly all intense and fired up. Kuramochi isn’t losing either.
“Please. I’d rather you not.”
During their next practice session, Chris puts the orchestra practice on hold and lets the solo performers practice with their ensembles. The rest who are not part of the ensemble are told to sit at the back of the room. Miyuki gets called first for the solo performance practice. His ensemble accompaniments, mostly string instruments, position their chairs around him.
“I’m sure you know that I won’t be conducting for the solo performances. So, I expect you to be your own conductor and for your accompaniments as well,” Chris says, sitting down on one of the chairs near the front of the room facing Miyuki and the ensemble group. “Well then, please start.”
Miyuki nods silently at him and turns to his ensemble, nodding at them. They nod back in return and Miyuki positions his violin and looks over at the music score.
Valse Sentimentale , it reads at the very top. Miyuki takes a deep breath and raises his violin a bit to signal the start. He hears a few pizzicato notes and waits for another few measures before he brings his bow down against the string, playing note after note.
Miyuki concentrates on his own playing for most of the time, following the exact beats and rhythms, playing every measure with practiced precision. He plays it with a forte when the music scores tells him to, and counts the rests properly when he is supposed to.
The music continues for a whole 4 minutes, and by the time Miyuki plays the last note, he rolls his wrists a little, making a vibrato and ends it with a decrescendo, the sound fading slowly to silence. The rest of the musicians clap right after, chatters of awe spreading amongst themselves.
Chris ends it with a few words for Miyuki before calling the next solo performer and their ensemble group up. Miyuki walks to the back of the room, where Sawamura and Kuramochi sits, and they give him big smiles and thumbs up.
“Wow, you really are great, especially hearing you from up close like this,” Sawamura says as Miyuki sits down on the chair beside his. “How do I put this… It’s perfect. Your performance is exactly what the composer wants.”
Miyuki only chuckles and says, “I get that a lot”, only to get a jealous glare from Sawamura.
“I meant to say that it’s a really textbook performance. Literally following every single thing on the music score,” Sawamura explains as he observes the next ensemble groups pull chairs around the next solo performer. “It’s like you’re playing alone without an ensemble.”
“And what about it?”
“This is a concert Miyuki! Not a competition! No need to be so uptight!” Sawamura exclaims, bringing his fists to chest level.
“It’s Miyuki senpai to you,” Miyuki retorts and flashes him a confused look. “I don’t get it. Shouldn’t we play like what the composer wants us to? It’s called respect.”
“Miyuki senpai, when you’re on the stage, you’re the one playing, not the composer,” Sawamura replies, chuckling. “In that span of a few minutes, the stage is yours, and the piece is yours. Own that performance, make it your own, not a copy of anyone else's. Or at least that’s what I think it should be like.”
Miyuki only replies with an ‘I see’, and they sit there reviewing their own music scores as the next solo performer, an oboist, perform his solo piece. When it’s over, the musicians sitting at the back claps again and the next solo performer is called up.
“Ah! it’s my turn,” Sawamura exclaims, rising to his feet and grabbing his clarinet and music scores. “It’s kinda nerve wrecking.”
“Break a leg, Sawamura,” Kuramochi says, smirking. “And try not to faint.” Sawamura turns back and flashes an angry look at Kuramochi, who only laughs back at him.
“Good luck,” Miyuki says and watches Sawamura take deep breaths before walking towards Chris with his wind ensemble group.
He watches as Sawamura places his music score on the music stand and begins playing along with the ensemble. His ears recognises the piece, The Clarinet Polka ; the notes skips around with slurs and occasional mordents. As the theme repeats, Miyuki watches in awe. Sawamura isn’t just playing the song-- his eyes aren’t even on the music score-- he is fully immersed into the music he’s playing. Sawamura is a very expressive musician; he isn’t just standing on the same spot, and his fingers are not the only ones moving. His clarinet sways along with his body, in rhythm with the music and the intervals in between breaths where his shoulders rises and falls, which is so unlike Miyuki who keeps his body movements to a minimal. And yet, he is fully in sync with the rest of the ensemble-- or rather-- he leads the ensembles and puts them into his own pace. In the span of the three minutes when Sawamura plays, it’s as if Miyuki could hear him saying ‘ listen to me, this is my performance, this is my piece ’.
Kuramochi looks over at Miyuki, and sees that he is no longer reviewing his music score, but is looking at Sawamura instead; his eyes fixed, unwavering, and his jaw hanging a little open.
“He’s wonderful in his own way, isn’t he?” Kuramochi asks, and Miyuki jolts at the question, realising that he’s been staring at Sawamura the whole time. He blinks several times.
“Uh, yeah, he is.”
Kuramochi turns his gaze back to Sawamura and hums in agreement. “When he is on stage, Sawamura is like a totally different person.”
Miyuki nods and smiles. “Yeah, I can see that.”
And when Sawamura is done, he walks over and stands in front of Miyuki, jabbing his thumb to his chest, beams at Miyuki and says, "How was I, Miyuki senpai?"
Miyuki looks down and feels something tugging at the edge of his lips. "Yeah. You were great."
“I don’t get it,” Miyuki suddenly says, propping his arm on the table and leans his cheeks against his hand. He places his chopsticks on the bowl and pulls out a tissue to wipe his mouth.
“Don’t get what?” Kuramochi asks, pulling the strings of ramen and brings it close to his mouth with his chopsticks. “Oh, you’re done eating. That was quick.”
Sawamura stands up from his seat all of a sudden, and points at Miyuki. “I bet you don’t get why I play the clarinet so beautifully, Miyuki senpai!” Sawamura exclaims jokingly, laughing a hearty, confident laugh while holding his stomach.
“But your tempo isn’t steady and you sometimes start going on your own pace,” Kuramochi interjects.
“Yeah, true. But how do you do it?”
Sawamura stops laughing, retracting the hand that pointed at Miyuki, and Kuramochi tries to stifle his chuckle with his mouth full of ramen.
“Eh? Are you serious?”
Miyuki looks over at Sawamura and says, “Do I look like I’m joking?”
Sawamura quickly brings his hand to the back of head and starts to lightly scratch it while laughing. “O-oh! Of course not! Do you want to know the secret of this Sawamura Eijun’s playing?”
“I guess you were right earlier. Even if I’m playing according to music score, somehow I feel like it’s lacking something.”
“E-eh!? You’re seriously asking me for advice?” Sawamura asks, slowly sitting back down. He then set down his chopsticks on his empty bowl, clears his throat and straightens his tie.
“Miyuki senpai,” Sawamura starts, his face turning all serious, which somehow made Miyuki want to burst out laughing. “Let me tell you a story.”
“Tchaikovsky’s Valse Sentimentale, the last of his six pieces for piano, was composed when Tchaikovsky was going through a very difficult period in his life. Tchaikovsky felt uneasy, anxious, somewhat disoriented, lost and unsure of his own talent. He ended up leading a nomadic life, always traveling places, without a home he could call his own.”
“That was surprisingly short.”
“Did you just read that off wiki?”
Deep red blush crept up Sawamura’s ears and cheeks, and he quickly hid his phone behind his back while waving his other free hand in front of him. “I’m trying,” he says, chuckling.
“Anyways, I might be touching on a sensitive subject but, Miyuki senpai,” Sawamura pauses, and shifts his gaze towards Miyuki. “I’m sure you can relate to that.”
Miyuki thinks for a while, and looks down his hands on his laps. He thinks about the few years he didn’t touch the violin, leaving it to collect dust inside his room. He thinks about the time where he couldn’t find a place to abide in, a place where he can find happiness; a place where there are no pale sheets or the smell of dust and ashes and incense wafting through the air, a place with his dad always beside him, not out of town performing, leaving Miyuki to clean up after his own mess.
He thinks about the endless therapy sessions, the stares of sympathy and pretentious courage; or at least, what it’s supposed to be. He thinks about how many times he’s been pushed to the ground; thinks about how many bruises and cuts he had to treat himself, the packs of band aids he wasted, thinks about how many times his dad had to buy him a new flimsy pair of black framed glasses for him to hide behind, and he thinks,
I’m used to it.
Practice continues as per normal the next day, and after the orchestra practised, the solo performers are up next. Miyuki is called first again, so he props his violin between his shoulder and his chin, raising his bow above the strings, ready to play.
As the ensemble starts with a series of pizzicato, Miyuki waits and starts as he should.
This is good, he thinks. The notes are flowing along the slurs, the ensemble at the back isn’t overpowering him, and he pours all his feelings into the piece, or at least tries to.
What was it again? to be lost?
Miyuki suddenly felt lost in his train of thoughts, and nearly skips a beat or two, his bow slipping through a few notes (which measure are they at again?). When Chris stops them and tells Miyuki to cool his head, he feels himself break into a sweat. The people in his ensemble exchange weird looks and start whispering amongst themselves, but that is the least of Miyuki’s concerns.
Before Miyuki realizes it himself, it becomes a norm. Miyuki has always been alone, has always been lost. He doesn’t know what it feels like not to. But the moment Miyuki stares down at his trembling hands, the only way to describe the anxiety growing inside is…
He feels lost.
He returns to his seat at the back of the room, only pretending to review his music score, pretending that what happened earlier was a technical mistake. But Kuramochi and Sawamura know better. Sawamura decides to confront him about it and stands up from his seat, only to be pulled back down by Kuramochi who shushes him through gritted teeth.
When practice ends, everyone packs their instruments and Miyuki shifts his gaze to the side to find Sawamura skipping over to him, asking him to get dinner together.
“Where’s Kuramochi?” Miyuki asks, carefully placing and then strapping his violin inside its case.
“Had some business to attend to apparently! Come on Miyuki senpai! I’m starved!” Sawamura says, rubbing circles over his stomach with his palm. “Also, what’s wrong with you today--” but Sawamura’s sentence was cut short when Furuya, who he remembered as the first violin who sat beside Miyuki, suddenly comes over and stands beside him, holding up a music score to Miyuki.
“Excuse me, Miyuki senpai, if it’s okay with you, can you help me with something? I can’t seem to get this certain measure right,” Furuya says, pointing at the music score, for his own solo performance.
Miyuki glances over at Sawamura and says, “Can you wait for me outside? It’ll only take a few minutes.”
“I’ll be waiting in the piano room right next to this room,” Sawamura says and turns around, heading towards the door while waving.
“You guys seem close,” Furuya mumbles with half lidded eyes.
“What was that?”
“Never mind that. Help me with this Miyuki senpai. Please guide me through the fingerings and the bowing,” Furuya says, suddenly holding up the music score in front of Miyuki’s face.
“Alright, alright. Chill.”
Furuya seems quite persistent about making Miyuki guide him through, but Miyuki only quickly grabs a pencil and marks Furuya’s music score with the fingerings and bowing while giving him tips and advices (luckily he has played the song before). Miyuki tells him he doesn’t want to keep Sawamura waiting so he walks out the door and bid his goodbye while Furuya stands there dazed, still staring at his music score.
Miyuki steps out of the music room and hears a faint and soft-- rather muted-- piano playing from the next room. His ears recognizes the piece, Liszt’s Liebestraum , The Dream of Love, and when he steps near the door and peeks in through the window, he sees him. Sawamura, of all people, is playing Liebestraum. A boisterous, loud boy, of all people, is playing a song that contradicts his own nature. If Miyuki tries to put it in words, it has to be something like…
the calm in a storm;
order in chaos;
that feeling you get when you’re running your fingers on the page of a book, leafing through it as the flavor of coffee tingles your tongue and the caffeine kicks in, as the calming scent drifts and hangs lightly in the air while the heavy downpour hits and slams on the window that you’re sitting beside.
It was when Sawamura suddenly stops playing and turns his gaze over towards the window that Miyuki comes back to his senses. He quickly steps back when Sawamura suddenly shoots up from his seat and walks briskly to the door, opening it and pulling Miyuki inside.
“Don’t be shy! You wanted to hear me play right? You should’ve just walked in!” Sawamura says excitedly as he releases his grip from Miyuki’s wrist to close the door and walks over to the piano to take his seat.
“Well… you seemed so engrossed in your own playing and I didn’t want to disturb you, Mr. Pianist,” Miyuki starts, an annoyed smirk crunching up the edges of his lips. “Also, I didn’t know you played the piano.”
“I took up the piano first before the clarinet, but I really wanted to play in an orchestra so,” Sawamura says, laughing, then stretches his arms forward before placing fingers on the piano keys. “Any requests, Mr. Concert Master?”
Miyuki thinks for a moment, walks over to the side of the piano and leans against it. He hums and says, “What about your favourite piece?”
“As you wish, sir!”
Sawamura then positions his fingers on the right keys, leans back a little and takes a deep breath. He presses on the first few notes on the keys, so feather light and so gentle, and Miyuki sees Sawamura’s fingers move along with the quarter and eight notes. He sees Sawamura’s wrist dance between slurs and the subtle sway in dynamics, and he sees…
(sanguine?)
He feels the invisible ghosting pain wrenching the tip of his fingers, he feels the hard callouses scratch and break, and he sees the string snap and--
con forza
( with force )
He sees the past images, already burnt and scorched, rekindle-- the treacherous whir-pools of blinding flames, the heat, the smell of incense and ashes. He hears the high pitched ambulance sirens in crescendo , and again, it grates grates grates against his ears, as if the awful booming is right behind him, the awful hoarse shouting.
And it halts into a screeching stop.
It’s gone.
Miyuki realizes it’s gone.
And he realizes he has been clamping his jaw tight, he realizes that his sight is blurred by the emerging wells of tears (it’s already falling), he realizes the wetness on his cheeks, and the face of concern in front of him, with eyebrows furrowed and the creases appearing on his forehead.
(it’s gone)
The song is gone, and the memories are buried back behind coffins that closes shut, never to be reopened.
“Miyuki senpai?”
Miyuki quickly turns around, away from Sawamura, and brings his hand up to wipe his tears as he lightly sniffles.
“What’s wrong?” Sawamura starts, rising from the chair and inches towards Miyuki, but Miyuki only puts a hand up and waves him away. Sawamura sits back, the creak of the piano bench and the light sniffles sounds so loud in his ears, and he waits, silently.
Miyuki raises his head and wills himself to regain his composure. “That song,” he says, taking a deep breath, his heart beat finally slowing, “is the last song my mother heard me play.”
Sawamura feels his own breath hitch. “I’m sorry, I--”
“It’s not your fault. It’s fine.”
“But I--”
“I said it’s fine,” Miyuki nearly shouts, and Sawamura flinches. “It’s fine already,” he says again, this time softer.
A nerve wrecking silence hangs between the two, and Sawamura doesn’t want Miyuki to snap the second time, so he decides to stay quiet. But Miyuki suddenly turns on his heels and faces Sawamura, a small pretentious smile plastered on his face.
“Sorry about that.”
No, don’t be sorry , Sawamura wants to say. It’s your right feel that way.
Miyuki would probably click his tongue, maybe take his violin case with him and walk out, and Sawamura’s going to have to eat dinner alone because Miyuki probably feels the need to shoulder the burden himself, feels like he deserves to take the blame. Sawamura wants to tell him that, but he doesn’t want Miyuki to turn around and pretend that he’s always been on his own in this-- that no one cares.
“Tristesse,” Sawamura says, lifting his gaze to Miyuki’s eyes, “does mean sadness, and was known as ‘The Parting Song’.”
“What a way to say goodbye to her, isn’t it?” Miyuki coughs out a chuckle, and Sawamura doesn’t like it one bit.
You don’t have to pretend like you’re fine with it , Sawamura wants to say, but holds it back.
“Chopin composed this piece in order to burn his home country, Poland, into his heart. He decided to cut all ties and not return there anymore. Nostalgia and love for his own home country was what Chopin was trying to convey through this song. However,” Sawamura pauses for a while, to make sure Miyuki was listening, and to make sure Miyuki isn’t just going to sweep it off his shoulder, and continues, “Chopin himself never gave this piece that name. He never intended for it to be sadness nor did he ever intend for it to be a farewell.”
Sawamura hears Miyuki heaving a shaky sigh, and he quickly says, “I’m trying telling you that you don’t have to try to forget about her. She’s no longer here, but she’s in a better place. The fact that you still hold her dear in the back of your mind doesn’t make you weak. In fact, I think it is what makes your stronger.”
Miyuki doesn’t say anything to Sawamura, but Sawamura doesn’t miss the fleeting hint of surprise and dissonance that crosses his face. “I bet you think that you don’t deserve to be happy playing the violin anymore, because she’s no longer here. And I bet that if she finds out the sorry state you are in right now,” he says, pointing an accusing finger at Miyuki and raising his voice a little, “She won’t let you eat the cake she just made for dessert!”
Miyuki’s eyes widen at the statement then stifles a chuckle, and it makes Sawamura’s breath hitch another time before the relief washes over his face. Everything Sawamura says reminds Miyuki of the words his mom said to him once, that Miyuki is the happiest, and that he shines the brightest when he plays the violin.
“You’re right,” Miyuki finally says, and he heaves out a sigh. “Maybe. I’ll try,” he says, and walks over to one of the desks to take his violin out.
And Miyuki starts playing, the song that was left untouched during the several years of denial, the song that held all things dear to him, all in the hundred measures that span a few minutes. Sawamura realizes Miyuki’s actions, and follows suit, playing the song from where he left off.
con bravura
( boldly )
Despite the low notes that feels heavy in Miyuki’s ears, he feels an enormous weight being lifted off his chest, like the scab on his knee he has been picking on has healed, like finally settling your suitcases in the porch of your home after a long journey out of town; like finally being able to set down the bouquet of flowers he’s been holding on the top of the cemetery, like finally being able to lift his hand off the stone with his mom’s name carved on it, and to finally leave the surface that was cold and bone chilling to his touch.
The song ends in long notes descending into a quietude, in less than a cacophony of multitude emotions. When Miyuki lifts his violin off his shoulder and turns to Sawamura, he finds the other beaming at him with smiles like the sun and eyes like summer.
“Miyuki senpai, do you see it?”
Miyuki only tilts his head and asks, “See what?”
“I feel like I saw Chopin jumping out of his seat and screaming ‘Oh, my hometown!’”
And Miyuki laughs; laughs because Sawamura is right, laughs because he can finally say it from the bottom of his lost heart;
Thank you
Goodbye
IV. Coda
Valse Sentimentale;
His life has been a sad waltz, but maybe he doesn’t feel so lost anymore.
Not when he can see the loud, boisterous clarinetist clapping so hard right after he rehearses his solo performance, not when he can see Sawamura’s self proclaimed older brother giving him two thumbs up from the back of the room.
The weeks continue with the orchestra practising right after their own individual classes. The three of them still eat dinner together as they walk back home from practices, and Miyuki remembers the offended face Sawamura gave him when he told Sawamura that he’s bored of ramen. Furuya still approaches Miyuki sometimes to ask for advices, and both Miyuki and Sawamura still play secret duets in the piano room beside their orchestra practice room, except that maybe it is not so secret anymore, since Kuramochi likes to join in with his clarinet at times.
About three weeks before the real performance, the orchestra starts practising in the concert hall. Miyuki remembers the profound shock that was on Sawamura’s face and Kuramochi’s laugh as he lightly kicks the back of Sawamura’s knees, telling him to keep walking. Miyuki finds out that this will be the first time Sawamura performs on a real stage; a real concert hall, and he finds himself thinking, audience, please be prepared.
A few months passes in a mere blink of an eye, and Miyuki finds himself standing in front of the dressing room mirror, fixing his bow tie. And from the reflection of the mirror, he finds himself smiling at the two clarinetists in one of their many trivial arguments.
“No, wait stop! You’re just messing it up! Here let me fix it for you,” Kuramochi says, hands reaching for Sawamura’s bow tie.
“Nu-uh, Kuramochi senpai! I’m an adult, I can fix it myself!” Sawamura says, backing away from Kuramochi and stretches his palm outwards towards him.
“Says the person who has been trying to fix it for the past fifteen minutes,” Miyuki retorts and smirks, straightening his suit while walking over to the two. Kuramochi snorts, he doesn’t even try to stifle his laughter and Sawamura bursts into incoherent strings of words and a red face.
“Ooohh, look at that hair,” Kuramochi teases with a shit-eating grin when he notices that Miyuki’s fringes are slicked to the sides, a lot neater than usual. He reaches up and tries to touch Miyuki’s hair only to get an iron grip around his wrist from Miyuki and a death glare.
“Don’t you dare.”
The dressing room buzzes as musicians try to get into their suits, some trying to get their hair done, and others reviewing their music scores. Miyuki can’t deny the nervous air that settles in the room but straightens his back. He tries his best to stay confident when the stage crew knocks on the door to tell them that the doors are open and the show will start in less than 30 minutes.
When the stage crew comes back, the musicians immediately file into a line according to their seats and slowly enter the stage. Sawamura and Kuramochi tell him to literally break a leg as they pass him on the way up the stage, and he only laughs lightly in return. He sees a glint of thumbs up from the both of them before they finally disappear into the stage, making him chuckle a little.
Miyuki stands at the very back of the line; he is the concert master after all, he only comes up after his name is called. He remembers Sawamura getting all jealous and riled up about it, saying that he deserves the same treatment. He smiles back at the memory as he adjusts the shoulder rest on his violin and his fixes his bow tie one last time. He finally hears his name amplified in loudspeakers, and he welcomes the blinding stage lights that crashes into his face.
fin.
Check out maodechu's amazing and beautiful art here! xD
A/N
Some music stuff you might be interested in:
- The titles of each parts are signs that you can find in some music pieces. (click here for more info)
- Some songs mentioned in the story (or listen to the play list here):
- Morning by Grieg
- Tristesse by Chopin
- Valse Sentimentale by Tchaikovsky
- The Clarinet Polka by Karol Namyslowski
- Liebestraum by Franz Liszt
- A violin has a lot of sizes, and the most common being, ¼, 2/4, ¾, and 4/4, from the smallest to the largest size respectively.
- There are 5 eras of music, and in the order of the earliest:
- Renaissance (<1500)
- Baroque (<1500-1600) (J.S. Bach, Handel, Vivaldi)
- Classic (1700-1790) (W.A. Mozart, L.V. Beethoven, Haydn, Franz Liszt)
- Romantic (1800-1900) (Bizet, Tchaikovsky, Chopin)
- Modern (1900-Now) (Stravinsky, Debussy)
- Your fingers can get injured by the strings, especially when you’re tuning it. (And by tuning I meant using the tuning pegs, not the fine tuners near the bridge) If you pull the string too hard, it will snap (usually happens when string has been worn out, that’s why you need to change your strings regularly).
- Aluminium plated E strings are non whistling strings while a gold plated E string makes the sound warmer when played. Usually has to be bought separately, and of course, are generally more expensive than the ones bought in one set.
- Rosin is solid form of resin, made from pines and some other plants, which is to be applied on a violin bow right before playing it.
- A clarinet reed is a thin piece of wood that you attach to the mouth piece of a clarinet. It comes in 6 sizes, from the thinnest to the thickest; 1, 1 ½, 2, 2 ½, 3, and 3 ½ (the thicker ones are of course, harder to blow. If you’re not used to it, playing with a 3 or 3 ½ sized reed is like running laps around the school grounds and then being asked to sing). Reeds needs to be changed regularly because it can wear down.