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We have so much to talk about.
In the golden morning sunlight, mind still racing from a confrontation with Wei Pang, heart still filled with the warmth, it was easy for Shuuhei to imagine that the world had changed. His piano's sound would be changed—would be beautiful, and his father would understand everything.
Now that he sat across from his father, face to face, a steaming mug of coffee clutched in his hands, and his father's too-familiar face across from him. Yoichiro was smiling benignly, and yet the words stuck in Shuuhei's throat. I've made peace with my piano, he wanted to say. He recoiled at the finality of it. I'm not as good as you want me to be, that lay on the tip of his tongue as well. He couldn't bear to watch his father's face fall.
His father waited while he sipped his coffee and traced the winding thoughts down. The brambles on the surface made an impenetrable tangle: Shuuhei and competition, expectations and disappointment. Pluck one away, and another would settle into its place.
Further down the trunks began to emerge. Wanting and pursuing. Kai and his sparkling sound, far in the distance and impossibly out of reach. They sat at the table in silence, Shuuhei with his eyes closed, breathing evenly while his coffee grew cold. Where are you going? he asked the ethereal Kai in his mind. That Kai laughed over his shoulder, disappearing into the forest while Shuuhei scrambled to follow. He chased after the image and the laughter until he stumbled into the deepest part of his forest, where the roots lay anchored in his heart.
There, he found not an answer, but a question.
"Do you like the piano?"
Yoichiro blinked at that question, nowhere near the ones he'd been expecting. He'd prepared many sincere and meaningful answers: from I'm sorry, to I'm proud of you, to Your Mazurka in a minor was the most beautiful I've heard in all my career.
And because it was so unexpected, the truth came tumbling out. "No."
Yoichiro blanched, but Shuuhei simply nodded thoughtfully. "It's alright, father. I. . . suspected." At his father's questioning look, he continued. "You don't keep recordings of yourself, or compliment your own playing. Not once, in as long as I can remember. It's hard to like something that makes you feel small."
"Is that so?" Yoichiro mused. "Well, you're almost right. I don't often like the piano when I hear it. . . whether it's myself or the greatest stars. But there's an exception."
"Ajino-sensei," Shuuhei guessed.
"Ajino-san," Yoichiro confirmed.
Shuuhei sat silently, mulling it over. "That's not surprising," he said at last, head tilted in confusion. "Ajino-sensei is remarkable even among geniuses. Like Kai-kun," he added fondly.
"Perhaps." Yoichiro muttered, seeming unconvinced. "Certainly he was the first to affect me so profoundly. Did you know, we were only children the first time we met at a competition. Next to him, my playing was like a child's." He shook his head ruefully. "His was an artist's. I thought myself talented until that day."
"Father, you are talented," Shuuhei protested.
"As are you, Shuu-kun. But do you feel talented?"
Shuuhei lowered his head and allowed a small, resigned smile to slip over his face. "No," he admitted.
His father patted his hand. "Son, you've surpassed me," he said firmly. "I could copy Ajino-san's sound, but I never did find my own. You never tried to copy Kai-kun's sound."
"Of course not!" Shuuhei said, remembering their first competition. "That was the first lesson I learned from Kai-kun." The soft smile was stealing over his face once more. "He could copy Ajino-sensei's sound perfectly, but instead he forfeited the competition to play his own Mozart. If I copied his style—if I copied his sound —even if the judges award me the trophy, it wouldn't be my victory."
"You have surpassed me in wisdom as well," Yoichiro said, pride and grief warring in his voice. "For many years, I wished to play like Ajino-san. I studied his recordings and learned to play like him. . . until the accident." He frowned thoughtfully into his coffee, his eyes staring through it. "When Ajino-san stopped playing, I became lost too."
"You didn't have your own sound to anchor you," Shuuhei said slowly.
"Yes." The frown deepened, and his father seemed reluctant to meet his eyes. "I was wrong to criticize your Mazurka," he mumbled down at the table. "I should have been happy for you. I am happy for you."
"No, you weren't wrong," Shuuhei said. "The interpretation was unpolished. I understand the judges' decision. . . during a performance is no time for experiments."
"Paradoxically, it's also when a performer is most often spurred to grow—"
"—by leaps and bounds, yes," Shuuhei finished. "Christina-san told me. And—" he raised his head, meeting his father's eyes proudly and with a touch of defiance. "I'm not sorry," he said in a rush. "It was worth the competition and all the years of preparation to find the sound I could have. I'm not as enchanting as Kai, but it's mine."
"That is what I want you to know, Shuu-kun. I am too absorbed in winning and losing to know what I like anymore. But—Christina-san likes your sound, and Kai-kun. . . he likes your sound too."
"Kai. . . ." Shuuhei smiled down at the table again, his face growing warm. "He has a good heart. He likes everyone's sound."
"He lights up when you play."
"I can't imagine why." It wasn't an angry admission nor a bitter one, each word burning like a coal. No, it was the simple, inarguable truth. Ajino, Pavlas, and judges the world over had all agreed: Shuuhei was no artist.
And Yoichiro knew better than to argue the point. "Then it has to do with who you are," he guessed.
Shuuhei glanced at the window, watching his reflection watch himself. Plain, ordinary hair. Average height. Glasses. He looked back at his father with a raised eyebrow. "A face as forgettable as my playing," he said out loud, and this time the words did come out strained.
"That is a question for Kai-kun," Yoichiro said pointedly.
Shuuhei thought of his bright-eyed, smiling friend with a stab of guilt. His own words rang in his ears: I've always hated you. He released a long sigh. "You're right, father. Keeping quiet has not served me well. I'll ask after the finals."
The finals came and went, and then Kai had his tours. Then came Ajino-sensei’s surgery. Shuuhei returned to his lessons, and Kai resumed his studies. Their journeys took them apart; their hearts brought them close, and through it all, there never seemed to be a good time.
A busy few years passed before Shuuhei worked up the courage to ask. Five years later and finally a Chopin finalist, standing at the awards ceremony with Sophie glittering at his side and Wei Pang towering over him from behind, Shuuhei was abruptly reminded of that long-ago conversation and his own. . . shortcomings.
"What do you see in me?" he asked Kai, after, when he'd returned to his hotel room and tossed aside his jacket and fallen face-first into the bed. His bangs were damp, plastered across his forehead. His half-untucked undershirt was sweaty and rumpled.
"What do you mean?" The bed dipped as Kai sat next to him, his voice radiating innocent confusion. His hand settled on Shuuhei's back, moving up and down in soothing strokes.
Shuuhei sighed, struggling for words. "I don't know. I'm not a grand or powerful pianist. Wei Pang electrifies the audience, while Lech. . . he touches their hearts. Sophie's playing is as uplifting as an anthem—"
"—And your sound is my favorite in the world," Kai finished softly.
"Why?" Shuuhei rolled over and caught Kai's hand, the mixed relief and disappointment of a sixth place finish a sharp, raw ache in his chest. "Why are you here with me?"
"Amamiya," Kai said, his smile warm as the sun. "Their playing takes me on a journey. Yours takes me home."