Silences
Yuuta/Mizuki. PG.
My love, she speaks like silences.
2004 | 940 words
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Yuuta only ever needs to follow the music to know where Mizuki is. The clean melody travels through the school halls, filling the empty silences of Sunday mornings, calling out to nothing in particular - a siren without sea.
Most times, when he hears the call, Yuuta follows not in admiration or annoyance, but in something he will not acknowledge as curiosity. He strides through the halls of the dorm, passing by empty bedrooms of all the people who, unlike himself, admit to give a damn - and if only for a second, the thought of cacti and tarot and clean sheets and green tea and fresh raspberry pie crosses his mind, leaving a warm trail behind. But it’s only for a second, and then the catch in his throat that he will not acknowledge as guilt is gone, and he is still striding, still following the music.
Mizuki plays jazz on Sundays. Yuuta doesn’t understand the logic of that, but then he hardly ever understands anything Mizuki does. Still, out of everything he could chose to play, Mizuki plays jazz. And sings jazz. Every day of the week Mizuki sings soli with all his voice and plays the piano with all his passion in the school choir; sings with pride, with that touch of arrogance that makes him Mizuki, unique -the only Mizuki Yuuta thinks he needs to know. And every day of the week Mizuki sings not to be merely heard, but to be listened to, demanding the attention he knows he deserves.
But on Sundays, lonely and empty Sundays, Mizuki plays jazz. Calm, smooth, quiet music that his fingers caress out of the piano, soothing with tender touches the exhausted keys. His voice is low, barely a hum under the melody. Yuuta can never hear that voice from distance, he can barely hear it at all even as he is standing by the door, staring at a Mizuki who is no longer himself, ice and fire - he is staring at a boy, a boy who is nothing but plain, simple Mizuki Hajime.
“Would you stop?” Yuuta asks for the who knows which time. He has been asking this ever since his first Sunday spent in the dormitories of St. Rudolph Jr. High, and Mizuki has never, ever complied. Mizuki simply smiles at him and shakes his head, leaving him frustrated and annoyed, and maybe a little confused too. But as the weekends pass and turn into months that will eventually turn into years, Yuuta finds out that he doesn’t quite remember why he keeps asking Mizuki to stop, and starts to think that maybe he doesn’t really want him to.
Until, one day, Mizuki stops. It’s an awkward day, the one after a day of defeat, and Yuuta doesn’t know if he should feel angry or guilty, or if he should be feeling anything in the first place. It’s a day when Mizuki is not singing low to himself - he’s not singing at all- and he stops playing just as Yuuta reaches the door, not giving him the chance to say a word. Yuuta glares at him, and he doesn’t know why, but he does it anyway. His hand grabs the door frame, and his wrist screams in pain, but Yuuta pretends not to hear it.
Mizuki has never stopped before.
The boy doesn’t look at him. He stares down at the piano, his hands folded above his lap, and Yuuta can’t see his face well under the locks that cover it. This is not Mizuki.
Yuuta watches this alien person, this boy he doesn’t know and is not sure he wants to. His grip on the frame tightens, and this time the scream is too loud to play deaf. Yuuta hisses, bringing his left hand to his chest to nurse it with the right one. It’s only at this display that the stranger looks up at him, but in the raised eyebrow and the superior stare Yuuta recognizes something familiar.
“How is your wrist?” the other asks, and in the only half-caring tone Yuuta hears the Mizuki he knows again.
Yuuta snorts, dropping his hand. It hurts like hell, he wants to say, but he’s not a whinny girl. It’s nothing, he wants to say, but he’s never been good at lying to Mizuki - at lying at all. He shrugs instead, and leans back on the door, crossing his arms. He glances at his injured wrist, and the brief memory of a worried smile crosses his mind again. He swallows, and thinks to himself that his saliva didn’t use to be this bitter. The wrist hurts, but it’s his own fault for never knowing when to stop.
“You stopped,” Yuuta says, and although his request has finally been fulfilled, his voice sounds more accusatory than satisfied.
Mizuki’s eyes glint with what Yuuta knows is amusement, and the small familiar smirk spreads over his friend’s lips as Mizuki’s shoulder give a small shrug. “You came.”
Before Yuuta can think twice about it, Mizuki unfolds his hands and lays them over the keys, rebuilding the melody from where it was broken, smiling at him and shaking his head. But this time, as Yuuta snorts and glares at him, Mizuki sings. His voice is soft and low, his teasing jazz voice Yuuta only ever hears on silent Sunday mornings.
Yuuta thinks for a moment that maybe he doesn’t understand Mizuki because he doesn’t understand himself. But as his glares dissolves into a smile he fights back with only half a heart, Yuuta knows he doesn’t need to understand Mizuki, because whatever Mizuki is doing, he’s fairly sure now he doesn’t really want the music to ever stop again.
Filed under Tennis no Ohjisama |