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The forest is quiet, but not silent; cicadas buzz out their melodies, accompanied by the whispers of night birds. The underbrush rustles as animals skitter across, synchronizing with the branches high above, swaying along to the breeze’s conducting.
The clearing is empty; faded moonlight bathes the area in silver light, not unlike a spotlight. The moon’s face should be turned away, hidden behind the clouds. The person performing doesn’t deserve an audience.
A bow raises in one pale hand, pale as the full moon watching from the firmament. It presses into the strings, then glides across with ease.
The sound that fills the clearing is harsh and sharp; it’s nothing like the pieces played in pristine concert halls. It’s uncoordinated, messy, rebellious; it goes against everything he’s ever been taught.
It’s an empty satisfaction, to pull such ugly sound from such a beautiful instrument, to go against Father’s teachings. There’s a reason he must play with the feelings of the original composers in mind; his own feelings produce cacophonic results when forced out of a violin. He doesn’t know how else to communicate them; oppressive and traitorous, they try to lure him away from the path he must take. It’s how he finds himself here, night and night again; their whispers dissipate into the clearing, echoing among the trees instead of his mind. It’s a respite; brief and temporary, but he gets a few days of peace before they creep back into his head again, trying to force him away from what’s right.
His arm moves faster, presses harder. The sound grates on his ears. He can’t stop, he needs his feelings out; they’re distractions, interrupting and extending his already lenghty practice sessions. His playing must be perfect, during practice and recitals; it’s shameful, but he lets himself be imperfect here. If he was truly skilled, he wouldn’t need this at all. For now, though, he forces the clearing to listen to his pitiful sound.
By now, he’s well used to this place; it’s not too far into the forest, and he’s spent many nights here. The grass reaches to his knees, with flowers swaying between the blades. Insects and animals pay him no mind as they pass though, never bothering him and his ugly sound. There’s a pair of owls that lives in the trees. For some reason, they enjoy watching him, their soft hooting accompanying his cacophony.
The owls aren’t there tonight. He ceases, briefly, only for silence to greet him. The scent of lilies lingers in the air, an overwhelming novelty. He’s never seen lilies around here.
He places his violin and bow back in their case, unwilling to risk damaging the instrument. Slowly, he moves towards the smell. It only increases in strenght; if he doesn’t find the source soon, he might have to retreat. He’d rather not make himself nauseous with it.
He weaves around the trees, case protectively cradled in his arms, until he finds the source, not too far off from his clearing. Black lilies sprout from a patch of upturned dirt, looming high above the ground. He covers his nose with the collar of his shirt; the scent is near unbearable. He comes closer, to better inspect this new addition to the area. The dirt is dug out in a rough rectangle, about the lenght of himself.
Funeral flowers atop freshly turned soil. He’s looking at a grave.
It’s odd; none of the nearby settlements bury their dead away from specified burial areas. His own town has a fenced off area to lay the dead in, with small memorials dedicated to the deceased. Regardless of the person, everyone gets buried there, even criminals and other evildoers.
He reaches out, dropping his shirt. He should pay respect to whoever it is that had to suffer such a cruel fate.
Something’s watching him.
He stumbles away, barely keeping his footing; when he looks around, he spots a figure among the lilies. They’re not much shorter than him, dressed in blacks and purples; ginger hair peeks out from under their hood, and their confused olive eyes turn to him.
“Are you the one who played music earlier?” The boy tilts his head at him.
“Yes. I apologize if it disturbed you.” He bows low, then takes a step back. Has he upset this spirit? Is he the one buried beneath the lilies?
“I… don’t think it did.” The boy looks down at himself, then moves out of the flowers. “I was nowhere, ‘n then I heard your playin’, and I appeared here.” He looks around the forest, then back at him. “I’m Akito.” Akito reaches out a hand.
“Toya.” He moves to take the offered hand, but his fingers phase through.
“Ah,” Akito doesn’t sound happy, brows furrowing as he looks at his hand. “Nice to meet’cha, anyway.”
“Likewise.” He offers Akito a nod, which he reciprocates. “If you don’t mind, I think I ought to be heading back now.” It’s still early in the night; however, he’d rather not subject Akito to his wallowing sound. He bows, again, then moves back towards his clearing.
“Shame. I was gonna ask you to play again.” Akito follows after him. A single pair of footsteps crunches on the forest floor.
“I could stay for a little while to play an extra song.” He doesn’t want to upset Akito, though he shouldn’t do what he usually does. He could play one of the pieces he begun learning recently, as he needs the practice in order to master it.
“Thanks.”
Soon enough, they’re back at the clearing. The scent of lilies is as strong as it was at the grave. It probably carries with Akito, though he doesn’t want to ask him to back up.
He stands in the middle of the clearing. He hasn’t played any of the pieces he knows here, reserving them to the pristine concert halls, to the confines of his own room. He’s unsure how to feel about this; is this place fit to play such music? It’s not like he has a choice in the matter, not when Akito’s watching him, so he simply unpacks his violin and gets ready.
He makes sure to maintain his rigid posture, to keep his hand steady as he plays. Akito’s watching, and he can’t allow himself any mistake. He closes his eyes, thinking back on Father’s advice. Joy with an underlining melancholy, something coming to an end. He thinks back on the way Father played this piece, as demonstration, to help him adjust his emotions. Gratitude for the time spent, already mourning what will be lost shortly.
His hand stills with the final notes, letting them flit across the clearing. He slowly opens his eyes to gauge Akito’s reaction; an uncertain frown clouds his face.
“Was it not to your liking?” Did Akito not enjoy it? Maybe he’d prefer a different piece. “If you’d rather, I can—”
“That’s not how you played before,” Akito interrupts. “Can you play like that again?”
“I shouldn’t. I can play a different piece for you, though, perhaps of a different mood.” What he did before can’t be considered playing; a more accurate term would be abuse. He’s abusing his violin by forcing such a volatile sound out of it, and he’s making a mockery out of music as a whole.
“Why not?” Akito tilts his head in question.
“It’s…” he trails off, unsure how to phrase it. “It’s not a proper piece, so I’m unable to replicate it.” It’s true, though it’s not the reason for his reluctance. He looks at Akito, who isn’t wholly convinced, but doesn’t say anything else.
“Do you come here every night?” Is what Akito asks instead.
“Every few nights. Should I visit the clearing more often?” He tilts his head at Akito, who shrugs.
“I don’t know. I don’t wanna disrupt your nights or anythin’, but I’m not sure how much I can actually do.” Akito looks down at himself, then back at him.
“We can test it. Can you try coming back to the town with me?” He packs his violin, again.
“Sure.”
They leave the clearing together, heading back into the trees. The forest is still, as if holding its breath. The scent of lilies slowly weakens, until it disappears. He looks around. Akito’s gone.
“Akito?” He starts going back, until the lilies turn overwhelming once more.
“Shit,” Akito curses, “Think I can’t go too far from the lilies.” His face falls, angry and upset.
“Should I come by the clearing more often, then? There’s no settlements within this area, so I can accomany you. I can come every other night, if you’d like,” he offers. He’ll be wearing himself quite thin from the short nights, but he doesn’t want to abandon Akito the same way he seems to have been abandoned.
“Thanks.” Akito rubs his neck, though his hand phases thought it a little. “Shouldn’cha be headin’ home soon?” Akito looks up.
The moon has lowered already. His time is nearing its end.
“I should. I’ll see you in two days, then.” He offers Akito a small smile, glad to see his expression soften in response.
“See ya.” Akito turns around, heading back into the clearing.
He watches Akito’s wavering form for a moment, before turning around himself. He should rest; his nights will only turn shorter.
Two days later, he steps into the clearing, violin case in hand. It’s silent, with only the scent of lilies to notify him that it’s not wholly empty. Akito waves to him once he steps out into the clearing.
“You brought your violin again.” Akito tilts his head in question.
“Yes. I thought I’d use the extra time for practice, if you don’t mind.” He bows his head, then takes a spot closer to the center.
He has a recital coming up in seven days, so he needs to perfect his playing by then. He takes out his violin and bow, positions them properly, then plays.
He feels Akito’s eyes on him, tracking the movement of his hand. He has seven days, and Father is displeased with his progress; hopefully, this extra practice will help him improve enough. It’s an important recital, so his performance has to be perfect.
He winces when he makes a mistake; the sound grates on his ears. He supresses a flinch. It’s unbeckoming to show proof of his weakness in such ways. He closes his eyes, doing his best to focus on the song he’s playing, then the next one, and the one after that. Akito’s gaze is intense throughout every song, until he finally lowers his bow.
“D’ya play a lot?” Akito asks curiously, coming up to inspect the violin.
“Yes.” He presents the instrument better, letting Akito admire it more closely. It’s a beautiful violin, handmade with him in mind. Despite that, he can’t make it sound the way it deserves. His skill is subpar, unfit for such lovely craftsmanship.
Once Akito steps away, he assumes the proper position again. The clearing fills with music once more, and he makes sure to keep his hands sure and steady, to not ruin the sound with his failure. He sounds a bit better, and he doesn’t make such an obvious mistake again; it’s not perfect, though. Perfection is far beyond his reach, but if he plays enough, he should get close to it. He won’t seize it, of course. There’s always room for improvement, Father’s eyes are always cold as they list off his mistakes. He himself is imperfect, so it makes sense his music is imperfect, too. Someday, he might be able to train his mistakes out of himself, become the perfect prodigy.
“Do you always play like this?” Akito asks once the clearing falls silent, once his imperfect hands lower his perfect violin.
“These are pieces written by other composers that I’m learning to replicate,” he answers, hoping it’s what Akito wanted to hear. “There’s a recital in seven days that I will be performing at. I’m hoping to have them polished by then.”
“Have you ever composed a song?” Akito’s closer again, the scent of lilies overwhelming his senses. Akito’s eyes curiously flit between his violin and his face.
“No. I’m taking the time to familiarize myself with different songs,” he explains. He can only play what others compose, nowhere near the level of skill required to compose his own music. Whenever he plays for himself, it’s all cacophonic, nonsensical noise. That alone is proof that he doesn’t have what is necessary to move other’s hearts with his own sound.
Akito doesn’t answer, head tilted curiously. He takes it as a sign to play again.
The intro to the first song wavers, scratching harsh against the strings. He flinches at the awful sound, pausing for a moment, then tries again. He shouldn’t make such mistakes, not with how much he’s practiced; at this rate, he’ll only embarrass himself during the recital. He closes his eyes. He needs to shut off every other sensation, only focus on his violin, on the movement of his hands. That’s all he needs. An empty mind, devoid of any distractions, and a weight his hands are well-acquainted with by now. He doesn’t need anything except the knowledge of how to move his bow across the strings, the visualization of sheet music in his mind’s eye. If he becomes one with his violin, his blemishes and imperfections are sure to disappear.
Something ghosts his hand, soft and featherlight like petals. He freezes. Has he made another mistake? Is Father going to scold him, condemn him for his lack of progress? He’ll play more, try again, he’ll polish himself until he’s perfect. He just needs to try again. He’ll try again. He moves his hand, but finds it swiftly stopped by something infinitely cold.
“You good?” asks a voice. It’s familiar, far too concerned and casual to be Father. He opens his eyes to see worried olive eyes flickering across his face, a ghostly hand covering his own.
“Yes.” He gives Akito a confused look. Why did he stop him? There was no reason to.
“Ya sure? You, uh.” Akito’s palm leaves his hand to rub at his neck instead. “Ya seemed like it hurt. Playing, I mean.”
“I looked like it hurt?” He repeats. If that’s true, then he needs to ensure his composure is unwavering. It’s unbeckoming to show his emotions in such ways, to distract from the music with his imperfections.
“Yeah. Wanna talk ‘bout it?” Akito offers, awkwardly swaying from side to side, before taking half a step back to give him space.
Should he talk with Akito? Will this help in any way, or only make it more difficult to play the way he needs to? Though, if he’s affected enough for it to show, perhaps talking about it will help ease his mind, allow it to focus on things that matter.
“If it won’t bother you.” He looks at Akito, who shakes his head. Then, he carefully hides his violin back in its case. It shouldn’t feel good to hide the instrument from sight.
“It’s… rather complex,” he starts. “I’ve been practicing music since I was young, both violin and piano. It’s a family tradition. Father is teaching me, has taught both my brothers, and he learned from his father,” he pauses, looking around. There’s a tree stump near the edge of the clearing, and he heads over there to sit down. The scent of lilies follows with. “I want to keep playing, to maintain this tradition. Though.” His eyes flicker down, towards his lap where the instrument case rests. “It’s more difficult than it should be.” His hands adjust the edge of his shirt, playing with the hem.
“I need to acquire mastery of the instruments. To do that, I study pieces composed by the masters. I have to learn how they convey their feelings, what sounds represent joy and sadness, how they tell stories with music.
“Unfortunately, my feelings conflict with their music. I don’t understand why, but the longer I play, the more I feel… stifled. The less I want to keep going. I want to run from it all, even though I know I can’t.
“The sound that awoke you was my attempt at expressing those feelings. I’ve found that letting them run rampant, once every few nights, helps my head stay clear for the following days. They don’t invade during practice, and I can make progress.”
He flinches when a cold hand covers his own, glancing up at Akito in surprise.
“I’m sorry.” Akito’s voice is soft, olive eyes warm as they meet his own. “Dunno if it means much, but… I liked it when ya played for yourself.”
“Thank you.” While Akito’s words cannot be true, he can appreciate the attempt at comfort, thank him for the flicker of warmth that appears in his chest. It’s improper, to force such sounds from his violin, but he refuses to upset Akito with a dismissal.
The clearing is silent. The scent of lilies is steady, unchanging, and so is the seeping cold from the hand on top his own.
“Akito, I hadn’t expected you to be able to touch me,” he points out, head tilting.
Akito’s hand phases through his, sending a shiver through his body. Have his bones turned to ice? It’s cold, infinitely so, so much that it burns.
“Shit, sorry.” Akito moves away. “I didn’t know I could? I just, uh, wanted to comfort you, I guess.”
“Could you try again?” He winces at the desperation staining his voice. He hadn’t expected himself to be so craving for Akito’s touch; despite the cold, his hand was a comfort against his own.
Akito’s brows furrow in focus as his hand covers his again; it’s cold, but it rests on top of his own without phasing through. Akito’s face breaks into a smile, shocked and relieved and happy, and he’s surprised to feel something tugging the corners of his own lips up, too.
They spend their remaining time like this, holding each other’s hands. Despite the chil radiating from Akito, Toya’s chest feels unusually warm.
There’s five days left until the recital.
As he approaches the clearing, violin case in hand, unease clouds his mind. His playing isn’t as polished as it should be at this point, and Father seems to suspect something is up.
The smile Akito gives him once he steps into the clearing is worth it, though. Akito waves him over towards that same stump they sat on two nights ago, and he takes his spot in front of it.
“Hello. I need to practice, so I hope you don’t mind if I start with that.” He begins taking his violin out of the case.
“Go for it.” Akito waves, gesturing for him to go ahead.
He readies himself, steadying his posture, then begins.
The still clearing has heard this song many times. Can it tell him if it sounds better? Can the branches rustle in agreement, will thunder strike him for being insufficient? The forest remains still, overpowered by the scent of lilies. The dead don’t move, their flowers cause the whole forest to hold its breath. They’re patterned on his outfit, too. Will the audience hold his breath for him? Will it be in awe, or in disgust?
He feels Akito’s eyes on him, sharp as they take him in, as they track the movement of his hand. He keeps playing, because he has a recital in five days and he doesn’t know anything else.
Time sways away with the melodies drifting around the clearing, his hand moving again and again, one song after another. It’s familiar, it’s the only thing he remembers from his childhood. Pressed close to his violin, repeating whatever piece he’s been studying at any given time, until he was either deemed satisfactory or too exhausted to make progress. This is better, he thinks. His chest feels lighter, the air easier to take in.
He looks at his audience. Akito is pleasant company, surprisingly warm despite the ever-present cold that follows him. Though, he’s also extremely secretive; he hasn’t said anything about what happened to him, nor whether he plans to continue to exist like this or move on. He’s been kind enough to listen to his troubles, and he’d like to repay the favour in kind.
For now, he plays the next song. He’ll ask Akito later, after he’s done with practice. He’s still not as polished as he’d like to be; it feels futile, to keep playing despite his clear lack of on progress, but he has no other choice. The next song could be a breakthrough. If not, it could be the next one. He has to keep playing, for he can’t fail the recital. He’s used to Father’s disappointed frown. He doesn’t want to think what expression will sour Akito’s face when he hears of his failure.
He finishes the final song without a breakthrough.
He puts away his violin, then takes a seat on the tree stump, right beside Akito.
“You sound good,” Akito compliments. He acknowledges it with a nod of his head, even if he doesn’t agree. “Though that’s not exactly somethin’ I know well enough to really judge.” Akito rubs his neck.
“In that case, what’s a topic you’re knowledgeable in?” he asks, thankful for the opportunity to get Akito to open up.
“Uh.” The scent of lilies strenghtens, making Toya want to cover his nose. “Still music, but more singin’ than any instruments,” Akito admits in a quiet voice.
“That’s wonderful. I’m certain you sound amazing.” Would Akito sing for him, if he asked? Based on the way his face momentarily sours, a brief flicker of Akito’s true feelings, he doubts it.
“Eh, I was nothin’ special.” Akito waves him off. It doesn’t seem right, especially when Akito’s dim, pained expression is still at the forefront of his mind.
“I’m not sure if I believe that. What convinced you so?” Looking at the other boy, he doesn’t seem like ‘nothing special’. He’s unsure what causes this perception of the other, though hopefully he’ll be proven correct soon.
Akito responds with a shrug, seemingly uncaring, but the way his head turns away spells out a different story. Silence falls over the clearing, Akito refusing to grant him an answer.
“I don’t want to force you, however, if you think it’d help you, I’d be happy to listen. You showed me plenty of kindness, so if you allow me to, I want to extend the same to you.” He hovers his hand over Akito’s thigh, a laughable attempt at comfort. Akito turns to him regardless, eyes wide in surprise.
“Thanks.” Akito’s voice is still quiet, careful. “Maybe next time? I haven’t really thought about what happened since.” Akito sounds unusually small, compared to the casual tone of voice he’s gotten used to during their meetings.
“Of course. I’ll wait however long is necessary.” He smiles when Akito takes his hand, chill thumb gently caressing his fingers.
“Would you like me to play once more before I have to leave?” he offers, squeezing Akito’s fingers lightly. Akito squeezes back before letting go.
“Yeah. It’d be nice.” Akito looks away, rubbing his neck.
He gets up to go through the songs once more, taking out his violin again. The bow moves easier, he thinks. Maybe he’s finally improving, maybe he’s closer to being perfect. Maybe his performance at the recital will be passable. If he maintains this, he won’t embarrass himself.
He can feel Akito’s eyes on him, the faint smile they carry. He focuses on his violin, on maintaining this streak, until the final notes echo around them. Then, he lowers the instrument and finally smiles back.
Akito brightens a little at that, rising up from the stump.
“Thanks. I’ll see ya in two?” Akito confirms, his lips still curved up into a small smile.
“Yes. Take care, Akito.” He begins packing his violin, looking at Akito when he hears a light scoff.
“‘M dead. Not much ‘taking care’ I can do now.” Akito’s tone is light, yet something echoes hollow. “Take care, too.”
“I will. I’ll see you soon, Akito.” He closes the violin case, and with one last look at Akito, starts heading back home.
There’s three days left until the recital.
The scent of lilies reaches his nostrils while he’s still between the trees, and once he gets to the clearing, it’s near unbearable. Regardless, he still walks up to the stump and sits down next to Akito.
“I used to sing. A lot.” Akito starts in lieu of a greeting. His face is covered by the hood, and it appears he wants it to be over as soon as possible. “There’s a singer I looked up to, wanted to get better than him. I was singin’ day in, day out, from sunrise to sunset.” Akito chuckles airily. “He thought I had a shot. Encouraged me, said I got what it takes.”
Akito pauses, and he uses this chance to reach out his hand. Akito tries to place his palm in his, but ice encases his bones when Akito phases through.
“Our village got a lot of musicians. Most of ‘em didn’t share his opinion. They didn’t want me to keep singin’, so they’d taunt me, insult me, and no matter what I did, they wouldn’t stop.” Akito sounds shaky, like he’s doing his best to maintain his composure. “I couldn’t take it. No matter how much I practiced, they still hated my singin’. One night, I finally had enough.” Akito’s voice is barely above a whisper.
“Y’know, I remember overhearing some people from my village talkin’ bout some girl from the neighbouring place. She wasn’t doin’ the best herself, and they said that she better not kill herself. That those who don’t respect their lives don’t deserve respect in death.” Akito’s head turns away, hiding him further. “That was before everythin’ really amped up for me. Dunno how she ended up, but I guess their words were true.”
He tries to reach out again, but to no avail; Akito’s feelings are too strong for him to focus on stabilizing. He wishes he could comfort him, somehow.
“If my voice really sounded this awful, then I got no need for it. An’ I didn’t see anythin’ for myself besides singing, so if I couldn’t keep singin’, there was no point in livin’, either. Guess they didn’t wanna bury me with everyone else, if at all. I took my own life, so I don’t deserve a proper grave.”
“I’m sorry,” he offers, a measly comfort. What can he do to comfort Akito in this situation? His own throat feels unusually tight, but he can’t offer his warmth as easily as Akito did.
“Think my family buried me, or at the very least my sister did.” Akito’s voice breaks near the end of his sentence.
“They wanted to give you your dignity in death. I’m happy to hear it.” He stands up, an idea in his head. “May I play for you?” He hurries to take out his violin. Maybe he can put this feeling into his playing. Maybe he can fulfill Akito’s request; he doesn’t feel like practicing, not after Akito’s heartbreaking story.
Akito’s head whips towards him, then he nods. Toya quickly takes the bow and begins.
He hears a soft, surprised exhale from Akito once the music starts. The violin cries for Akito; a slower, sorrowful melody, filled with the tears he can’t shed. This has to be enough. He wants to gift back to Akito, return that warmth Akito offered after hearing him out. Akito wanted him to play for himself, and he hopes this is good enough; not exactly for himself, but for Akito, instead. Every pass of his bow over the strings is for Akito, every single pained note is for him. He wants to tell Akito how sorry he is for the cruelty he received, how sorry he is for the way things turned out. Akito says nothing, though he can feel his shocked eyes on his figure, even after he finishes with a final sob pulled from his violin.
He looks at Akito, at his wide eyes, brimming with tears. Once he lowers his violin, Akito wraps his arms around him. The hug is extremely cold, but he does his best to reciprocate.
“Thanks,” Akito whispers, voice unsteady with emotion. “It was beautiful. I… I heard ya loud an’ clear.”
Akito’s face hides in the crook of his neck. He carefully switches to hold his violin and bow with one hand, before raising his now-free hand to slide off the hood and pet through Akito’s hair. Akito clutches him like he’s the only thing tethering him to this world, like he’ll disappear between the lilies if he lets go. He’s unsure how long they stay like this, but Akito eventually pulls away.
“Can ya bring back some paper the next time we meet? You… I think you should be writin’ your music down.” Akito takes his hand, cold against his own, a plea in his voice.
“I will.” What lies inside his heart doesn’t deserve to be immortalized in paper, but if it’s for Akito, then he can do it. He would like to put Akito’s feelings into the paper, if Akito permits him. He could write down what Akito makes him feel, too.
“Thanks. An’ sorry for jus’ droppin allat on ya.” Akito looks away, letting go of his hand.
“Don’t be. I’m glad you trusted me with this.” He takes Akito’s hand again. Akito sighs softly, as if exhausted, and ice briefly traps his hand as Akito phases through it.
“Sorry. I dunno why I’m this tired.” Akito rubs his neck.
“You did tell me about something heavy. Additionally, you clung to me for quite a while. You should rest, Akito.” He lifts his violin once more. “I can play for you again, if that would help.”
“Please.” Akito’s tired as he drops back onto the stump, phasing slightly through it.
He plays for Akito again; this time, he hopes Akito can relax, the tranquil melody much lighter than the previous one. He wants Akito to feel at ease, to recharge his energy, to be able to hold his hand again. The soft, warm notes scatter around the clearing, until he deems the song done.
“Would you like to hug me again before I have to go?” he offers, putting away his violin and opening his arms.
“Geez, you don’t gotta say it like that,” Akito chuckles, but accepts his invitation. He’s enveloped in the scent of lilies, oddly tolerable despite its previous strenght.
He pulls away a moment later with an apologetic smile. “I should go. I don’t want to tire you out again, either, so I’ll see you soon.”
“‘M lookin’ forward to it.” Akito gives him a grin, slightly unsteady, but it makes his shoulders sag with relief regardless. His playing helped Akito, somehow.
“Likewise.” He slowly walks away, oddly happy at the thought that he and his music made Akito feel better.
The recital is tomorrow.
Regardless, he steps into the clearing. He won’t be rested, but he can’t abandon Akito now. He should’ve asked him to meet on another night, so any future fatigue is his own fault.
Akito’s waiting for him, as the scent of lilies signals, and he perks up excitedly once he notices him, as well as the violin case and empty sheet music. He hurries to stand in front of Akito, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
“I brought everything, like you asked.” He places down the papers on their stump.
“Can you compose a song for me?” Akito blurts out, then straightens up a little. “Sorry, um. I felt… peaceful, when ya last played for me. I… if it won’t bother ya, I’d like to feel that peace again.” Akito looks away, briefly, before turning back to him.
Compose a song for Akito?
Can he really do that? His skills aren’t nowhere near the necessary level to accurately express the things he wants to, and he hates the thought of disappointing Akito.
Though, with the look Akito gives him, so cautiously hopeful, it’d be worse if he declided.
“I will. Do you have anything you’d like me to include?” he asks, picking up his violin. He’s not sure how to do this; though if Akito wants him to play freely, surely this has to be the correct route.
“‘M not sure,” Akito murmurs out.
“Don’t worry, then. I’ll figure it out.”
Akito said he felt peaceful the last time Toya played for him. Peace, tranquility, yet that can’t be all; his sorrowful story also speaks of determination, of a fire that went out far too soon. When he presses his bow into the strings, they spring forward into a headstrong melody. He makes sure to memorize the notes he plays, to write them down later. Maybe Akito’s musical expertise will help, too?
He shifts into a sadder chord, an underlying base to go along the fire. Slowly, it crescendos, the pain building up until it overflows. He plays a wailing tone, a funeral march for a spark that deserved to keep burning. He keeps playing, an inkling of light; it feels odd to integrate himself into this song, but Akito won’t mind. His final notes are uncertain but hopeful, because good things have to await Akito. He already suffered enough.
It’s silent as he puts down his instrument, Akito’s eyes wide with shock and unshed tears. He quickly sits down in front of the stump and takes out the pencil he hid in his clothes. He rushes to write it all down, every single note and chord, before they disappear. Akito stays silent, but his cold hand lands on his forearm, seeking comfort and offering encouragement.
The pencil wobbles on the uneven surface, but soon enough, he’s done. He lifts his head to look at Akito, who does look more relaxed now.
“It’s wonderful.” Akito’s voice is heavy with emotion. “I… thank you. I can’t believe you made somethin’ so lovely for me.”
“I’m glad it resonated with you so strongly. May I play it again?” He stands up, already reaching for his violin.
“Please.” Akito looks up at him from his spot, a wobbly smile on his face.
He plays it again, then nearly pauses in surprise once Akito starts humming along. He sounds beautiful, low and warm, and they harmonize together seamlessly. He’s surprised to realize that he’s enjoying himself greatly right now, that he’s having fun despite how much pain his violin usually brings him.
The song ends far too soon; when he meets Akito’s eyes, he sees that Akito feels the same.
“Akito,” he starts. “You sounded beautiful. Your voice holds a pleasant warmth.” Should he suggest they play once more? He opens his mouth to ask, but before he can speak, Akito does so first.
“Toya, I think ‘m runnin’ outta time.” Akito bolts up, moving to take his hands, still holding on to his instruments. “I think… I think I can move on now. Without you and your song, I’d probably be stuck like this for however long.”
Akito’s already leaving him.
It’s for the best; he shouldn’t have to stay trapped like this, stuck between life and death. Though, he’s going to miss him dearly, the warmth and freedom he brough.
“I’m glad.” He quickly puts away his violin, then takes Akito’s hands more properly. “You deserve to rest, Akito.”
“Toya.” Akito’s fingers tighten around his as he moves closer. “Promise me you’ll keep playin’ like this. Don’t lock your heart up. Promise me.” Akito sounds desperate, olive eyes wide. He can’t leave him without a response.
Can he really promise that, though?
He knows playing the way he did is improper. Without proper expertise and understanding, he shouldn’t put his own feelings into his playing, not to mention writing his own pieces.
It was for Akito, though. It was enough to put him at ease, to allow him to move on.
“I promise.” He’ll try, for Akito. He has to.
“Thanks.” Akito suddenly pulls him into a hug. It’s just as cold as before.
Then, his arms are empty. The night air smells fresh, like pine and leaves and damp soil.
Akito is gone.
His arms drop down. Akito moved on, thanks to his song. He gathers the sheet music carefully, then packs his violin.
Akito is gone. He slowly heads back home, as there’s no point in staying out any longer. The recital is tomorrow.
The recital is today.
He goes through the motions, detached from the routine of it all; he doesn’t really process being done, nor heading to the concert hall. His promise hangs heavy on his mind, looms over his person. Playing for Akito was freeing, in a similar way playing for himself always was. There’s lilies decorating the concert hall, elegant vases that hold flowers just as graceful. Their scent is comfortingly familiar, and he can tell himself that Akito is watching over him.
He steps onto the stage, violin in hand. He bows deeply, then begins.
He plays a familiar, headstrong melody; he doesn’t hear the audience’s reaction, doesn’t see Father’s face fall into fury. He thinks about Akito’s teary eyes, about how strongly it moved him. Akito wanted him to play for himself, to keep his heart open; he’s holding true to that promise right now. If Akito knew, he’d smile at him, praise him for his courage. He’ll get through this for Akito, to share his song with everyone gathered.
The final notes ring out with a hopeful comfort, one that promises peace. He bows again, then heads off the stage, uncaring of what will follow.
Once night falls, there’s a grave he has to visit.