[Contest: Romantic Concerto] [PG]
Chopin’s Piano Concerto No. 2 was playing in the restaurant on the night of Ryoutarou and Mizue’s second date. The music was soft and unobtrusive, but he heard the romantic melody during a lull in their conversation and he found it fairly hard to concentrate on anything else after that. He kept drumming his fingers on the table, tapping out bits and pieces here and there, itching to play along even though he hadn’t touched a piano in awhile.
“You’re elsewhere,” she said, but not unkindly. “What are you thinking about?”
“Ah, sorry.” He met her gaze and smiled a little. “I was just-trying to place the name of this piece.”
“Oh.” She glanced upward briefly, as if that would help her hear it better. “I’ve heard this before.”
He perked up in his seat, quite suddenly a bit more interested. “You have?” Maybe, then, he could really talk to her. He could tell her about the piano playing, the competition, everything. Maybe…
“I don’t care for that kind of music.”
“Ah.” Maybe not.
Shoulders slumping slightly, he leaned back in his seat and hoped he didn’t look too deflated. If he did, she didn’t mention it. He spent the rest of the evening trying to block out the music, the thoughts and memories of piano keys. He tried to think only of the guy he was now-the basketball and soccer jock, the boyfriend of Mizue Sakimoto (whom he was on his second date with and had yet to kiss).
And he didn’t kiss her that night. He thought it, and he could tell she thought about it, but he didn’t do it. Every time he so much as he glanced at her lips, he heard Chopin, and it was silly, it was so silly, but how could he possibly kiss someone who didn’t like Chopin?
[---]
Ryoutarou looked down at the white and black piano keys, considered them, and cracked his knuckles. Len glanced at him from across the practice room they were somehow managing to share without killing each other.
“Do you have to do that?”
“I’m sorry, little prince,” he said, purposefully cracking them again. “Is it bothering you?”
“Yes. But it doesn’t bother me as much as this other thing you do.”
“And what thing would that be?” he asked, arching an annoyed eyebrow.
“That thing when you inhale and exhale. What’s it called-breathing?”
“Haha,” he deadpanned, facing the piano once again and, coincidentally, the window, through which he could see the soccer field. It was empty at the moment, but there were time when he was playing in the room and he could see Sasaki and the others outside. He missed them, during those times. But not in the same way he’d missed the piano, its keys, its melodies. He closed his eyes for a second, smiled a little. “All right, what are we playing? Berlioz? A little Vivaldi?”
Len chuckled, bringing his violin up to its proper position. “And here I thought your first choice would be Chopin.” He lifted his bow and started playing the romantic melody of Piano Concerto No. 2.
Ryoutarou said nothing, did nothing, for a moment, briefly taken back to that date. He stood, frowning, and walked over to the violinist; the bow screeched unbecomingly against the strings as Ryoutarou grabbed Len’s arm, halting his playing and pulling him close.
“How can you play that by heart,” he demanded to know, voice low and not completely there, “if you don’t even like Chopin?”
Len looked at him with eyes that were mostly calm (because he was far too used to this) and partly confused. “I never said I didn’t like Chopin.”
Idly, Ryoutarou realized this was true. But he wasn’t thinking very clearly at the moment. He was looking at Len’s lips and hearing Chopin, but it felt right this time. So he kissed him, and they hadn’t even been on a date.
“You’re elsewhere,” she said, but not unkindly. “What are you thinking about?”
“Ah, sorry.” He met her gaze and smiled a little. “I was just-trying to place the name of this piece.”
“Oh.” She glanced upward briefly, as if that would help her hear it better. “I’ve heard this before.”
He perked up in his seat, quite suddenly a bit more interested. “You have?” Maybe, then, he could really talk to her. He could tell her about the piano playing, the competition, everything. Maybe…
“I don’t care for that kind of music.”
“Ah.” Maybe not.
Shoulders slumping slightly, he leaned back in his seat and hoped he didn’t look too deflated. If he did, she didn’t mention it. He spent the rest of the evening trying to block out the music, the thoughts and memories of piano keys. He tried to think only of the guy he was now-the basketball and soccer jock, the boyfriend of Mizue Sakimoto (whom he was on his second date with and had yet to kiss).
And he didn’t kiss her that night. He thought it, and he could tell she thought about it, but he didn’t do it. Every time he so much as he glanced at her lips, he heard Chopin, and it was silly, it was so silly, but how could he possibly kiss someone who didn’t like Chopin?
[---]
Ryoutarou looked down at the white and black piano keys, considered them, and cracked his knuckles. Len glanced at him from across the practice room they were somehow managing to share without killing each other.
“Do you have to do that?”
“I’m sorry, little prince,” he said, purposefully cracking them again. “Is it bothering you?”
“Yes. But it doesn’t bother me as much as this other thing you do.”
“And what thing would that be?” he asked, arching an annoyed eyebrow.
“That thing when you inhale and exhale. What’s it called-breathing?”
“Haha,” he deadpanned, facing the piano once again and, coincidentally, the window, through which he could see the soccer field. It was empty at the moment, but there were time when he was playing in the room and he could see Sasaki and the others outside. He missed them, during those times. But not in the same way he’d missed the piano, its keys, its melodies. He closed his eyes for a second, smiled a little. “All right, what are we playing? Berlioz? A little Vivaldi?”
Len chuckled, bringing his violin up to its proper position. “And here I thought your first choice would be Chopin.” He lifted his bow and started playing the romantic melody of Piano Concerto No. 2.
Ryoutarou said nothing, did nothing, for a moment, briefly taken back to that date. He stood, frowning, and walked over to the violinist; the bow screeched unbecomingly against the strings as Ryoutarou grabbed Len’s arm, halting his playing and pulling him close.
“How can you play that by heart,” he demanded to know, voice low and not completely there, “if you don’t even like Chopin?”
Len looked at him with eyes that were mostly calm (because he was far too used to this) and partly confused. “I never said I didn’t like Chopin.”
Idly, Ryoutarou realized this was true. But he wasn’t thinking very clearly at the moment. He was looking at Len’s lips and hearing Chopin, but it felt right this time. So he kissed him, and they hadn’t even been on a date.