Chapter Text
It started as all good love stories should, with a tepid cup of coffee and a ham and cheese bagel.
Takashi Shirogane was the sort of man who enjoyed the simple things in life. He liked the sound of rain on his window at night, pattering rhythmically as it soothed him off to sleep. He welcomed the jasmine-tinted smell of fresh bed linen, the way his sheets rustled as he slipped under them, the fabric delicately cool against warm skin and refreshingly comfortable as he settled. He adored the crunch of his breakfast toast, just brown enough to be crispy, with butter dribbling between the cracks and coating his tongue as he wolfed it down on his way to rehearsals.
Wednesday was also the one day of the week where he treated himself to a bento box from the sushi bar down the road. It was his reward to himself for getting through half of the week, a little pricier than his usual sandwiches filled with the night before's leftovers, and since it was his longest lunch break of the week he liked to amble down the high street while snacking on it, window shopping to his heart's content. The charity shop on the corner changed its displays every other week, and sometimes they sold small ornaments that he was more than happy to pick up. The money all went to good causes, after all, and he could always find space in his apartment for another porcelain dog. He was currently on the hunt for a Red Setter to join the current entourage on his mantelpiece, but he was in no real hurry. Life was too short to be impatient.
Sometimes he'd stop outside the library to peruse the shelves stacked full of recent arrivals, though he rarely strayed from his old, light-hearted fantasy favourites. He didn't read as much as he used to when he was a child, and he was often concerned that whatever new story he picked up would be a disappointment compared to his expectations and only put him off further. It didn't bother him that much that he tended to read the same things time and again. Each setting was like a second home to him, the words on the page painting as familiar a picture as the pale wallpaper surrounding him in his front room where he curled up.
Routine was just another of the simple things he came to love. The predictability of it all, of knowing exactly what to expect out of his day. Morning group work with his quartet from 8 til 12, lunch until 1:30, then free practice time in the allocated room until 4 before one-to-one sessions either with his own tutor (a much less frequent occurrence now that he had graduated) or with some of the first year students he had offered to mentor. Of course, these tutoring sessions could change times a lot, but he normally had a few days' advanced notice at the very least.
There had been no pre-emptive warning of the “Shop Closed” sign stuck to the inside of the door window of the sleek, black-rimmed door that stood between him and succulent heaven.
No explanation, nothing, just that for the first time in the three and a half years of living in this city, his favourite lunchtime shop was closed. On a Wednesday. It felt like betrayal. 52 weeks a year, three years and four months. That was 172 visits, minus a few for universal holidays and that one time he'd been down with the flu and unable to visit. It left him at a loss, really.
It wasn't like there were any other food shops in this part of town, either. It was situated on the outskirts of the town centre which suited him just fine, being between the Galaxy Conservatoire and his preferred haunts, but it did mean he was spoiled for choice when it came to settling on his replacement meal. He had no lunch with him since, well, it was a Wednesday, and he wasn't particularly inclined to return back to his flat. (Wednesday may well have been sushi day, but it was also the day the cleaners attacked the communal stairway with a rather intimidating and single-minded determination back in the apartment. They didn't like being disturbed, as he found out in his first month of living there, and boy was that a mistake he wouldn't be making twice). The city centre itself was packed full of eateries, and he didn't much fancy the busier streets or anywhere that required him sitting down at a table. He knew that there was nothing wrong with being sat at a table for one but the waiting on being served just felt awkward to him, especially if he had nothing to do.
Which, well, today he didn't.
He'd left all his books and sheet music back in his practice room along with his cello. His phone was on the blink too so he couldn't exactly sit there and while away the time with whatever atrocious game he could convince it to play. He would really have to get around to ordering a new one at some point, but he'd just splashed out on some new sheet music for their quartet and that would always take priority for him. Personal affects took the back burner where music was involved.
Knowing he couldn't wait all lunchtime outside the store in the vain hope that it might magically open for him, he wasn't long turning on his heel and making his way along to the main streets where the masses would no doubt be gathering, hurrying about in a rush to do lunchtime chores or meet with friends the other side of town, inwardly (and outwardly) cursing those who got in their way a split second too long or cut them up in their predetermined paths.
Smiling to himself at the thought, Shiro wasn't long slowing his own, long pace down a fraction, digging hands into the pockets of his felt coat, the material just enough to keep the bite of the January air from nipping at his fingers. It was deathly cold come evening but in the short few hours where the sun was out he found it to be more of a pleasant chill, his breath barely visible with every step. Of course there were those who believed themselves to be trapped in a modern ice age, scurrying about under layers and layers of coats and scarves and over-large bobble hats, but all he needed was a popped up collar to keep the breeze from tickling at his nape.
Looking around he noticed that the Christmas decorations had only recently been taken down and it was clear the city was still struggling to fill the gaps left in their wake. He couldn't help but feel a strange emptiness in him when he thought that he might not see another such season here.
Joining the prestigious Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra had been his dream since he first picked up an instrument, sat on his father's lap and plonking away at the piano before him, chubby little fingers barely able to comprehend pressing more than one note at a time. Both his parents were musicians by trade, playing in the same localised amateur orchestra in the evenings and teaching young children their passions by day. His father was one of the greatest pianists he had ever had the fortune to meet, although the man had never really wanted to go into the performance side full time. He'd been pulled in to the amateur orchestra back at Tokyo whenever pieces were played that required a pianist since some of the members knew him from their children's lessons, and that was where, Shiro had been informed, his parents had first met.
Perhaps he romanticised music a little too much, but growing up in such a warm family where there was never a silent moment, seeing how deeply they loved each other and wished only to share their joys with those around them, how could he help it? Sure, it had taken him a little time to find the instrument which truly resonated with his soul, but by the time he'd picked up a cello at the age of nine, he knew it was where he belonged.
He could almost hear his father's playing in his head as he walked, nimbly sidestepping a handful of eager children chasing a ball down the street, the way he danced over the keys as he teased note after note from that good old upright they had in the back room. He'd loved sitting there and watching him play, the agility and finesse the man possessed while he'd play anything at Shiro's request.
He found himself humming along as he came to some sandwich bar, seemingly nothing special, but his stomach was rumbling and he'd already resigned himself to having to make do with second best after the disappointment of before.
The bell above the door rang once as he stepped in, with only one other person in the queue before him. It was a narrow and dimly lit shop, a counter along the left side crammed with a selection of fillings and cakes for whatever bread based meal he could desire. He noticed with a defeated sigh that the baguettes, the only thing that could have salvaged his rather unfortunate lunch break, looked to be too stale to be of any interest to him. If he were any other man he might have turned and walked out to continue his search elsewhere, but Shiro felt ridiculously rude doing so. His split second of opportunity passed him by as the serving girl turned to him with a bright smile, and he returned it with one of his own as he turned his gaze back to the fillings.
No wonder this place is so empty.. Most of this doesn't look edible, let alone appetising.
In the end he settled for what should be a safe enough option of ham and cheese, sandwiched between a bagel because what the hell, he was feeling adventurous. It had nothing to do with the fact that the sliced bread made the baguettes look like an exquisite delicacy, he assured himself, it was just that he fancied a change. Coupled with a paper coffee cup full of what he hoped would make up for the unimpressive meal he was about to consume, he handed over his money and was soon back on his way outside, finding it curious that the piano in his head hadn't stopped.
Or rather, it had, just as he thought it, and then it started up another tune. It was quiet, barely audible over the sounds of daily lives, but it was there. Curious.
Since the day was already shaping up to be as far from the ordinary as possible, he took a swig of the sadly-expected, less than stellar coffee that tasted more like dirt than beans, and took a left turn down the alley that lead to the quarter of town that he very rarely explored. It was just as quiet as the outskirts that he preferred to roam, but with fewer shops in his line of interest. There were a couple of benches there, at least, so if nothing else he could sit down to avoid spilling coffee down himself while swallowing the crumbs of broken dreams.
Maybe it was just him, or maybe his brain was using the music as a means to distract him from his soon-to-be lunch, but he could have sworn that the piano music was getting louder. Stepping out from the mouth of the alley into the small square, he could soon see the reason why.
He'd heard about the city's recent initiative to install free-to-use public pianos out and about, but he'd not really paid it much thought. It wasn't his main instrument to play, and if he did want to patter about on the keys, well, he had a whole corridor of practice rooms to choose from where he could hide his face away in embarrassment at the inevitable dodgy notes.
This culprit was nothing special, just a dark brown upright positioned out of the way of passers-by that appeared to have been lovingly attacked by the local graffiti artists. Shiro wryly had to note that he'd never before seen such a stylistic interpretation of that part of the male anatomy before, and in electric blue no less, but then again this was most certainly a day for firsts. From where he was slowly ambling away from the enclosed alleyway he was unable to see the person playing, but every now and then a mop of dark hair was visible moving above the top of the lid, some unruly tuft sticking out at a complete right angle compared to the rest and flopping about comically in the breeze.
The square itself seemed quiet enough, the pavement a mesh of cracked grey slabs with a couple of benches and an arrangement of pots that would no doubt look better when the spring flowers poked their heads out to brighten up the dreary surroundings. The bench closest to him was taken up by a pair of elderly ladies engaged in a rather animated conversation, but there was one further down that would give him the perfect view of the mysterious pianist. At this point the notes were skittering through the air, the right hand prancing about on the very upper register of the instrument, and Shiro felt pained at the tinny quality this poor instrument was emitting. It would sound so much better on a grand, or one of the concert pianos the conservatoire had locked away, but any one of those were worth far too much money to risk to the elements, both of the natural and social variety.
He kept the corner of his eye on the piano as he settled down in the bench, listening now as the left hand lead into a heavy waltz, notes weighted yet light at the same time, a proper staccato between them. The light and teasing tone of the piece gave way suddenly to a desperate few bars, a stark contrast to the delicate nature of the previous few minutes, and Shiro smiled slightly as he noticed the ending to Liszt's La Campanella, something he knew one of his pupils was having to learn for some piano recital or another. Not a favourite tune of his, but he had to admit that this musician seemed talented enough to not stumble over the rather demanding fingerwork.
Raising the cardboard cup to his lips he took a slow drain, studying the male in question as he stretched his back out, not seeming to be in a hurry to leave. He had wondered if perhaps this was a first year from the conservatoire, out to get some practice while the other rooms were fully booked, but it didn't seem to be anyone he recognised from the hallways. A mullet like that wasn't easy to forget, after all, definitely not being a style many people could wear.
He certainly seems to pull it off well, though, he mused as he lowered his drink once more. Perhaps a touch slight in stature, his pale skin carried a rosy hue to the stranger's cheeks that most probably came from the winter air, and was certainly offset by the jet black of his thick hair. Shiro vaguely wondered how it was that he could see the keys through such a mane, his fringe coming well down to his nose, but he seemed to have been playing well enough even without the full use of his sight. His attire definitely wasn't what he would have associated with what seemed to be a classically trained musician, though it was eye-catching enough. Black skinny jeans hugged slender legs with black boots that tapped lightly on the pedals, a thick red and white leather jacket slung over his shoulders, resting loose and undone around his waist. Much like Shiro's own coat the collar was popped up to keep the wind out, and from his prime vantage position the cellist was pretty sure he could make out fingerless leather gloves that were mostly hidden beneath the wide cuffs of the jacket, digits flexing before diving in to play his next piece.
80's biker and Chopin are two things I never imagined I'd associate together, came the helpful thought as the rapid paced dancing of Opus. 66, Fantaisie Impromptu, soon rang through the square. This boy, teen, whatever he was, enjoyed the more fleet-fingered pieces it seemed, although he was pleasantly surprised by the honey-soft tone of the second section, keys murmuring so delicately that he had to strain to hear them. The boy's head was bowed, body swaying slightly to the music, the long phrases that rose and fell without building, reminding Shiro of the trickling of a stream.
It was soothing, and achingly familiar.
His father always loved playing this piece for the challenging cross-rhythms, the sixteenths in the right hand contra-posing over the triplets in the left, calling it a test in mastery of technique and a joy to perfect. It gave him a pang of homesickness, a longing for the warmth of a fire as he and his mother curled up on the sofa together, listening to the notes seeping out from under the back room door.
He closed his eyes and leaned back against the bench, lunch momentarily forgotten, finding his fingers lazily tapping against his thighs in a mimicry of the melody he could hear. Playing the piano had never been a strong suit of his, especially not after a rather horrific traffic accident in his early youth left him with a need for a prosthetic joined to his right elbow. It wasn't too much of a hindrance, the technology having increased so much that it was almost fully functional, but he did find his fingers to be slower to respond than he would have liked, something that would have caused him some grief and inconvenience where the piano was involved. It was why he enjoyed the cello, or any other string instrument really. Although some expression was carried through the hand and wrist, the full arm was just as important, leaving the more nimble and challenging work to his fully functioning left side. He also preferred the versatile potential of his major, the idea that it worked equally well as a solo instrument or in a group, with different people working together to create something beautiful with intrinsically weaving parts. He wouldn't trade his little quartet group for the world, and sometimes the piano seemed.. Well, lonely, in a way. It played everyone's parts by itself. When involved with an orchestra it was usually the centrepiece, never a cog doing its part in the greater machine.
The piece had finished, and he hadn't even realised. Opening his eyes he flicked his gaze quickly towards the piano, a movement to his right catching his attention as the boy from before slipped silently away into the crowd, black satchel bag thrown lazily over one shoulder. Shiro remained where he sat a moment, curious to know what academy he attended, before turning his focus back to the untouched bagel in his lap. He barely hesitated before wrapping it back up in the paper bag it had come in and stuffed it in his pocket for later, downing the rest of the coffee and chucking the cup in the bin beside him before getting to his feet, unable to resist the pull as he made to follow the direction this stranger had gone in although, since today was turning out to really not be his day, he'd lost sight of him almost immediately.
Steps slowed to a halt and hands moved back to their previous position resting in his pockets, a slight smile playing on his face as he watched the people carry on about their day, completely oblivious to the events that had just transpired in that dingy little square behind him.
But wasn't that the joy in music?
It was everywhere, in the places you least expected to find it, and it meant something different to every person it touched, even if they weren't aware of it.