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“No.”
Yuuko was barely in the door before Kurogane was trying to push her back out again. Not that he’d ever lay a hand on her, but sometimes he wished he could just grab her shoulders and remove her physically from his presence.
“I don’t need another charity case.”
“This one pays! Pays well if you can swing it.” She had that look in her eye. That look that said she was going to get what she wanted. Like she had something he needed.
Whatever it was, it couldn’t be worth it. It never was. And yet the enticing smile she wore…
“How well?” He asked, eyes narrowing at her.
“It’s a big fish and Destiny Records wants him. Wants you if you can get him for us.”
That gave Kurogane pause. It was a lucrative prospect. It would certainly pay better than the consultation contract he had with the company.
“But…?” There was always a ‘but’.
“But he’s a little tied up.” Yuuko sidled up to his desk and ran a manicured fingertip along the hardwood. “The last of the Clovers.”
“No. Not worth it.” He said flatly, disappointed. And here Yuuko had almost convinced him she’d brought him something good.
The company was infamous, its reputation far outlasting its actual existence. Getting involved in a Clover dispute was the fastest way to waste your energy. Contract law was convoluted at the best of times, but the Clover contracts had gone out of their way to be particularly vicious. Kurogane was at an important stage in his career, and he didn’t have the time to waste on another pet project for Yuuko. Not when the chances of success were so slim.
“You wouldn’t think that if you saw him. They’ve got him totally muzzled, Kurogane. Can’t sing. Can’t write. Can’t perform.”
“Look, I’m sorry.” And he was, “But I can’t drop everything to save every idiot kid that signs a bad contract. I’m supposed to be building my practice. I-“
“Just listen to him, ok? One song and then I’ll leave you alone.”
“What are you-?”
Yuuko pulled out a small laptop from the bag on her shoulder. The video had already been cued and she hit play as she placed it on the table.
He sighed, giving her a sharp glare.
Kurogane resented it, but what harm could watching do?
On screen a young blonde man sat at a piano. His hair fell a little messily, ending at the nape of his neck. He looked tired. He hardly reacted as around him, makeup and hair artists adjusted his appearance. They were the only ones on camera, but the low murmuring of more could be heard through the speakers. The film cut suddenly as Fai’s image jumped and his shirt had been traded out for a more formal jacket. His clothing changed no less than six times before he finally put his hands on the keys.
“Quiet on set. And, action!”
The change was immediate. Suddenly the wisp of man was glancing at the camera with a gentle smile, so full of life, promise and excitement.
“If this is what I think it is, you shouldn’t have it, Yuuko.”
“Then you better not ask how I got it.”
Kurogane watched as the man onscreen took a breath, adjusted one last time in his seat, then began to play. They were simple notes, climbing up and down the scale in relaxed arpeggios as the introductory phrases danced under his fingers.
“I heard there was a secret chord that David played and it pleased the lord, but you don’t really care for music, do you?”
The man… It was a sad song. Kurogane had heard it once or twice before. The blonde sang like he had to hold the emotions in a pair of safety gloves at arm’s length. As understated as it was, it was entrancing. There was an authenticity to the pain he sang. An honesty to the heartache.
“His name is Fai.” Yuuko said at his shoulder lowly. When had she come to stand so close?
“Don’t.” Kurogane warned. Don’t give him a name. Don’t humanize him. Don’t make this any harder than it had to be.
On screen the man- Fai- was singing so tenderly. “Your faith was strong, but you needed proof. You saw her bathing on the roof. Her beauty in the moonlight overthrew you.” He could see it as the power behind the next line built, an energy that grew from his diaphragm to the furrow at his brow. “She tied you to a kitchen chair. She broke your throne she-“
He stopped abruptly, a shaky hand going to cover his mouth, eyes hidden behind bangs.
“Fai!” someone, presumably a director, reprimanded him.
The film resumed again after another skip.
He could reach out and close the laptop. He should. It couldn’t be him to the rescue every time Yuuko found some damsel in distress. She needed to learn that. And yet…
Again the arpeggios eased into the song and Fai began to sing.
“Who is he playing for?”
Unseen- Kurogane only had eyes for the screen- Yuuko looked to him shrewdly. “No one. It’s a closed set.” He should know that. They always were.
“No. I mean-“ He frowned, pointing vaguely off to the side of the screen. “He keeps glancing over here.”
“Does he?” Yuuko asked airily.
That, if nothing else, told Kurogane she knew something. But he didn’t feel like her riddles right now, and that wasn’t how she spoke when she was about to give a straight answer.
“She tied you to a kitchen chair.”
Kurogane found himself holding his breath, silently urging the musician to make it through the phrase.
And he did. Did he ever.
“She broke your throne. She cut your hair.” Fierce blue eyes looked to that spot again as his voice rose, that tiniest bit savage in it’s betrayal. Then the anger broke, and it was just love in that expression. Raw, painful love. “And from your lips, she drew the ‘Hallelujah’.”
His eyes fell again, watching his own fingers on the keys, singing the chorus like it was a physical comfort he so desperately needed.
Kurogane knew the feeling.
“They won’t let him play anymore.” Yuuko said softly, just at the edge of Kurogane’s attention. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to look away. “Won’t let him on stage.” For the first time, a hint of anger entered Yuuko’s voice. “It’s not fair.”
“Love is not a victory march. It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah.”
“Life usually isn’t.” Kurogane answered just as quietly.
Yuuko frowned, eyes slipping from Kurogane to the man on screen. They stood together in silence, watching.
“There was a time you let me know what’s real and going on below, but now you never show it to me do you?” He sang like the words like they were fighting to get free. Like it was just a matter of opening the floodgate. “And remember when I moved in you? The holy dark was moving to, and every breath we drew was ‘Hallelujah’!”
The next chorus was hushed. Small. The recovery from some terrible ecstasy.
“If he could write again, he’d at least be able to make ends meet.” Yuuko murmured, the devil on his shoulder.
“He could make ends meet a lot of ways.”
“Hmmm.” She allowed, like she was considering it. “But he isn’t.”
“We don’t all get to live our dream, Yuuko.” He said it a little more sternly this time.
“And it’s not a cry that you hear at night. It’s not somebody who’s seen the light. It’s a cold and it’s a broken ‘Hallelujah’.”
He was glad she hadn’t brought him in person. He imagined trying to say that to his face.
“Well,” Yuuko said, slipping a folder from her bag to his desk. “Just something to think about.”
“I’m not taking the case.” He frowned, her movement finally drawing his gaze away from the screen. “I can’t.”
“Sure.” She said, not meeting his eye, starting to collect her things.
“I’m serious. No one breaks a Clover contract. You know that.” On screen the song ended and he was almost angry he’d missed it. The semi transparent ‘play’ icon appeared as the clip reached it’s end, obscuring the man’s face. He looked back to Yuuko. She wasn’t gloating, but she already looked at him with that quiet satisfaction like she’d won. “I feel bad for him sure, but it’s not my problem.”
“Of course.” Yuuko adjusted the straps to her bag on her shoulder, moving towards the door. “It’s been lovely to see you again, Kurogane.”
“Take your computer at least!” He growled.
She smiled at him from the doorway. “Why don’t you hang on to it for a little bit for me? I think you’ll find it interesting.” And with that she was gone.