Archive of Our Own

I know our antebellum innocence was
Never meant to see the light of our armistice day

Vienna Teng and Alex Wong, "Antebellum"

I.

Ugetsu didn't know how exactly he'd gotten home that night. Deduction said he'd located his car, which was back in the garage, and he'd driven it without incident, despite copious use of his sleeves to soak up the tears still flooding his eyes en route. Seared into his body, however, was the pain, like coals that refused to die out. No less the shock, a storm soaring over a chasm of anguish.

So this was how it felt to really break up with someone you loved. You couldn't text them; you couldn't walk away with the faintest of regrets, or even relief. You couldn't stop yourself from looking back.

So this was how it ended. He was alone. And Akihiko was free.

No more speculating about when things between them would actually, truly be over. No more regretting outbursts spiraling into fights; no more cajoling Akihiko into home duets; no more waking up to the smell of Akihiko's preferred blend of drip coffee, no more, no more—

In the morning he found himself slumped on the floor against his bed in the basement, the place littered with the dusty debris of shattered glasses and infiltrated by the odor of overripe trash. Waking up forced him to confront his swollen eyes, pounding headache, and the pillow clutched in his arms like a lifeline. His left hand throbbed, though it might have been his imagination, clinging to the ghostly impression of Akihiko's fingers squeezing his own before they'd let go.

Bye bye, he tried to say again. A whimper escaped his throat, which felt like it was stuffed with cotton wool.

He left the pillow on the bed and staggered to his feet. The drum set standing behind the narrow kitchen range, which Akihiko had saved up for months to buy a few years ago, stood just beyond the sunlight filtering through the small windows beneath the ceiling. He stumbled over and flung his blanket atop it. Then he made his way to his instrument case. His fingers seemed to move of their own accord, making every phrase wail on his behalf, and he played and played, his breaths shallow and ragged, to the end of the piece they'd chosen.

In the sanctuary of the shower, he realized he'd been playing the last movement from Brahms's third violin sonata, one of Akihiko's favorites, and the one Akihiko had performed the very first time he'd laid eyes on him, so tall and beautiful, in that Tokyo hall where the competition had been held. He'd always thought, secretly, that they'd both deserved first place. He'd never said he'd also learned the piece afterwards. And now there wouldn't be a reason, ever, to play it for him.

"Wasn't that take at least as sensitive as yours?" he said aloud, his voice hoarse and further muffled by the water. Fresh tears blurred into the warm streams pounding down around him, and he began laughing, as if in futile attempt to ward off a new round of sobs.

*

In the following weeks, he geared up with feverish resolve. No breakup could be permitted to impact his performances. Professional engagements, moreover, would keep him out of the house that had permanently lost its live-in guest. So he booked himself a slew of gigs large and small, domestic and international, all of which he fulfilled with manic determination while increasing his regular practice hours. Didn't art thrive on pain? He'd show Akihiko; he'd show anyone who happened to be watching.

On the worst nights, he allowed himself additional drinks and cigarettes and the minuscule probability that Akihiko might just call, or text, and say something to the effect that he'd changed his mind, after all, which would be an excuse to turn him down, to be the one to cut him off, this time for real. For real. In the mornings, the chill of sobriety returned, and Akihiko continued being absent from his notifications.

He'd never been good about maintaining everyday routines unrelated to music, especially with the cessation of Akihiko's reminders to eat and sleep. So he did both those things with even less regularity than usual, ignoring concerned questions from collaborators and texts from admirers he'd previously shared stray nights with. Now and again he thought about accepting their invitations, or even issuing his own, in the way he'd been given to indulging himself. But back then he'd always known Akihiko would be in that basement at some point; that even if either of them left for weeks, or gunned up a hailstorm of accusations, or drew blood in a tussle, they would come home, and Akihiko would make the bed, and they would listen to music, or play it together, or grapple each other's bodies, and start pretending all over again— 

He accepted an offer to do a concert series across Europe, whose grueling schedule handily occupied him for days on end. Following the final performance in Budapest, he collapsed right after he'd put his violin back into its case in his dressing room, where the horrified venue staff discovered him sprawled across the floor.

The next day, he woke up in the hospital, and his mother called with an order: cancel his schedule for the rest of the month and return to Tokyo immediately. He gave in, since he could hear how worried she was, and he knew there would be trouble if he didn't comply. She picked him up at the airport and, on seeing his bloodshot eyes and extreme pallor, brooked no resistance to making an appointment with their family doctor.

*

In the clinic he hadn't visited since high school, he was prescribed an iron supplement and a course of sleeping pills. The doctor added, her gaze keen and her voice kind, you know my email address, right? If you're still having trouble after you finish those pills, let me know if you'd like me to write you a referral to a psychotherapist—I can recommend a friend of mine who practices at one of our affiliated institutions in NYC. You're an adult now, so rest assured that this would be entirely confidential, of course; you'd decide whether or not to inform your parents. Just think about it.  

Stunned, he could only gape at her. At length he declined, mumbling something about wanting to try getting better on his own first.

She nodded, turning to her computer to make a note before swiveling back to face him.

Do your best, she said, very gently. In any case, for your own sake, and your parents', please don't force yourself to keep going if you need a break, or some help. In music the rests are as critical as the notes, no? And soloists usually need their orchestras to make a piece work, don't they? 

A huge lump barged into his throat on hearing her say this. He dropped his gaze to her desk, and as if on cue, his eyes fell on the mug full of pens that stood next to a sheaf of patient charts. It looked, even being a different color, unnervingly like the one he'd accidentally made Akihiko break; the one in the pair that Akihiko had brought back as a house gift.

Years had passed, and he could still recall the flare of exasperation, almost contempt, for the optimism of that present, which he'd read as an attempt at a renewed overture: maybe we could still be a real couple. Why had he insisted on seeing a simple gift in that way? A torrent of regret had welled up in him as he'd watched Akihiko sweep away the fragments, the tears seeping out of his eyes with growing pressure as Akihiko had glanced up at him, blinked, and laughed, shaking his head and saying, it's fine, don't worry about it, I know you didn't mean to.

This gentleness had only made things worse. When'd he next returned to the house, in Akihiko's absence, a new mug had appeared beside the survivor of the original pair, shorter and a different color. It had taken every ounce of restraint he possessed not to break that one too. What on earth, he'd wanted to scream at the small, silent vessel, is wrong with you? Do you have to make me feel bad? If you hadn't forced me to choose, if you'd been able to choose differently, if you—how you think of me, or my music, is not my fault!

A blood-red spurt of rage, stabbed through with a black icicle of guilt. The replacement mug stayed, and they moved on to other spats, with other crockery broken. In those days he'd been angry; they'd both been, so often. So much temper, so much pride. Such willingness to twist the knife of provocation. Such unwillingness to let go, too, clinging to every interlude of tranquil camaraderie and lingering desire as an excuse to let things stay the same. And all that remained now, for him, was grief, heavy in its hollowness. He felt like he deserved it. 

His mother drove them back to the house, where he retreated to the basement he was now the sole occupant of. It was far too tidy and sterile-smelling; a housekeeper had recently come in to clean, and the corner that had housed the drum set stood empty. Before leaving for Europe, he'd stuck a note on top of his makeshift shroud for the instruments that said: remove them ASAP, or I'll throw them out. Akihiko had complied at some point, further leaving the blanket folded neatly on a chair and the spare key he'd used in the mailbox.

A flash of white caught his eye: a piece of paper had been placed on the kitchen range. Atop it stood a tiny silver cuff, winking at him like an unwelcome reminder. It wasn't his, and he wasn't going to ask the housekeeper where it had been excavated from.

He took a step towards the cuff, intent on tossing it into the wastepaper basket newly placed in the corner. Yet something stayed his hand, weighing his fingers down; he settled on leaving the object where it was, for now, and threw himself onto the perfectly made bed.   

I'll be leaving soon, he reminded himself. It's all right. It's all right. He'd taken the first dose of sleeping pills in the kitchen upstairs, and he hugged the spare pillow to his chest as he let darkness subsume him.

*

Earlier he'd filed a long-overdue request to his university to complete the remainder of his undergraduate degree remotely. The approval of this application arrived at the same time he was invited to serve as the coming year's artist-in-residence for the ensemble in New York he'd played with in elementary school.

On returning to New York he geared down, mindful of his doctor's counsel. He started setting alarms to remind himself of meals and bedtimes at reasonable hours. His newly lightened performance schedule, aside from letting him catch up on coursework, also enabled him to restart, at a nearby college, the Russian lessons he'd taken on and off in high school. He felt that some grasp of the language, however minimal, gave him better insight into the Romantic and Soviet composers whose works he loved; one of his fantasies involved being able to read the original texts of Tchaikovsky's diaries and letters.

The acquaintance who owned the apartment he was currently renting had thoughtfully ensured it was a property within walking distance of the ensemble's hall. It soothed him to commute to the first place he'd felt at home outside of Tokyo, where some of his old mentors were still employed. After his solo encore during the first show of the season, he'd just walked off backstage, trailed by applause, when he was pulled aside by the concertmaster, a Korean violinist who'd been around his current age when they'd first met, and who he affectionately thought of as his American big sister. She drew him into a firm hug and declared: Amazing as always, but pace yourself, OK? I'm here if you need support.

He'd been horrified to find himself tearing up, his English momentarily failing him, and so he'd only nodded, giving this attentive listener an appreciative squeeze. But he didn't tell her about Akihiko, or his sense of navigating uncharted waters alone.

Instead, he let himself be taken out by a classmate's friend he met at a house party in Brooklyn, a Canadian student in business school who bore a passing similarity to Akihiko—not the first of his flings to do so, and he'd long decided not to torment himself about the fact of his preferences—in his close-cropped hair and solidly-cut body. The sex was good, too, but the likeness ended there: this person didn't tidy up, had no opinions on music not on the Billboard Hot 100, and couldn't sustain a conversation far beyond the average length of a song on that chart. Normally he would never have entertained even a one-night stand with someone who lacked what he considered basic musical ability, but he felt irrationally compelled to veer off-course. Maybe he didn't always need to keep going with classical musicians. Hadn't the problem with Akihiko been precisely that they'd pursued the same thing; hadn't their similarities obstructed them from smoothing out the sharpness of their differences?

A month passed, a long and serious effort by his standards. He texted the boy that his upcoming schedule meant he couldn't meet for some time. Then he ghosted every message he received until they stopped coming, resolving to maintain future acquaintances on a strictly platonic basis.

*

His eventual triumph at the Tchaikovsky competition startled him, despite all the work he'd put into preparing for it. Unlike with previous contests, he hadn't actually given any thought to what the judges' criteria would be. It had been enough to play the Sérénade mélancolique, which he hadn't had the opportunity to practice for performance before, in its creator's homeland. It was one of the first short pieces he'd fallen in love with, and the composer's own arrangement for piano accompaniment was beautifully pared-down, highlighting the melody's delicate plangency. Its seemingly incongruous elements had long intrigued him: it sang of grief, yes, but sensuously, while the lively edge to its lyricism felt to him almost defiant, and now resonant with where he was in his life. Towards the close of his performance, as he bowed the sustained morendo note that faded out the piece, he'd been acutely conscious of the cuff that now adorned his left ear under a screen of hair, its presence on his flesh still tender.     

No less startling was the message from Akihiko that arrived amid a slew of other good wishes. He read and reread and continuously put off replying to it, his fingertips resisting the simplest thanks on his phone keyboard where they'd shot off a sticker in response to Mafuyu's own congratulations. More than once, he replayed the dream he'd had around the time of the competition: larvae dissolving and reconstituting into an adulthood they hadn't chosen. He didn't know if butterflies or moths felt pain, or if they emanated sound. But he imagined them vibrating in silent ecstasy as they fought their ways out of their sheltering prisons, the crumpled wings on their newly solidified backs poised on the brink of expansion.

II.

The Big Apple provided a welter of distractions outside of work. People he knew in the city issued a stream of casual invitations: drinks, brunches, theater, live music, and movie nights, among others. His American big sister occasionally dragged him to her yoga and Pilates classes, insisting that they were good for musicians. Stretching his muscles, physically and socially, did prove analgesic; sleep returned, even if not always of the best quality, and he remained able to converse as if nothing had happened.

At some point he arrived at a provisional equilibrium that was upset only by the triggers that lurked unanticipated. These clustered around the risk of randomly hearing music they'd introduced each other to or played together, whether at performances, in party playlists, or even people mentioning the titles of songs. He'd resorted to carrying a handkerchief on him, which he'd never done before, for security.

Or: there was an autumn day when a light-colored German Shepherd bounded up to him, furiously wagging its tail, as he was eating a takeaway sandwich on a bench in Central Park. He'd petted it in amusement, and he wasn't prepared for his eyes to well up as its embarrassed minder tugged it away. It wasn't just that the dog's pale gold fur vaguely resembled Akihiko's hair. Something in the open joy on its face reminded him of Akihiko excited about a new instrument; Akihiko chortling at a new magazine chapter of a manga, or some silly thing being passed around by the other boys in their high school homeroom. Ugetsu, here, get a load of this. 

Akihiko upbeat, major-chord bright; the way he should always have been. The way he might have stayed, if they'd never met. 

*

He started calling Mafuyu on occasions when, tired of functioning in English, he wanted to speak Japanese to someone not his agent or parent. Mafuyu picked up most times and messaged when he couldn't, sometimes with photos: his fluffball dog, towering parfaits, the sea. Every now and then he sent Mafuyu links to music from artists he'd discovered at events in New York, trusting their recipient to also find them interesting, and smiled at every appreciative sticker he received.

One call briefly turned into a video link where he got formally introduced to Mafuyu's guitarist boyfriend, who'd appeared utterly resigned to having zero say in this impromptu meeting, and who'd only managed to mumble, before fleeing on the pretext of needing the bathroom, uh, hi...thanks for supporting Mafuyu.

You're cute together, he said in all sincerity, and Mafuyu glowed like a small sun.

A few voice messages contained snippets of songs Mafuyu was working on. These pleased him the most to receive, and his prompt replies ranged from suggestions for tweaks to questions about intent. Sometimes he sang into his phone mike to record proposed variations. It was fun to make his body the instrument; it was another thing this boy had helped him remember.

We've kind of gotten close, he thought. He didn't assume Mafuyu felt the same way, but he didn't have the sense of simply being used as a resource. This fondness still surprised him; he'd never taken to anyone else so instinctively, not even Akihiko, and it made him grateful for Akihiko's gift of this acquaintance.

Mafuyu thanked him every time for his feedback, once texting, is there anything I could send you from Japan, since you won't be back for a while? As long as I can afford it.

The only things you should send, he texted back, are more CDs of your songs. Maybe even vinyl, ask your label about that.

The truth is, he never intended to say, I do like you as a friend. As a musician. A lot. But you're also one of the last connections I have to him.

*

Early one Saturday morning, after the whitest of nights, he called Mafuyu. He hadn't expected him to pick up; it was dinnertime in Tokyo, which most likely meant he was with that guitarist of his, a premise he blurted out on hearing the familiar hello on the other end.

"Uenoyama-kun's finishing up a rehearsal with his other group," Mafuyu explained. He paused, concern suffusing his soft tones when he spoke again.

"Um, are you all right, Ugetsu-san?"

He didn't question how Mafuyu knew; what mattered was that Mafuyu, besides being the only person in his life he'd ever told about his history with Akihiko, didn't try to be whatever others thought of as normal.

"I'm OK," he said, and added, as lightly as he could, "how about you? And—and your bandmates?"

Quickly he tacked on, "I had a bunch of bad dreams I don't remember," following up with a self-deprecating laugh.

"This is so uncool, isn't it? Just wanted to hear your voice for a bit, that's all."

"It's not, and I'm sorry you couldn't sleep well," Mafuyu hastily replied. "Please try to rest today. I'm fine, and so is Kaji-san, I think. He seems happy."

"I see," he said, with a calm he didn't feel. "You're enjoying your practices?"

"Yes," Mafuyu affirmed. "I'm always just trying to keep up, but it's fun. Uenoyama-kun says our rhythm section's really locked in these days. Good grooves, he calls it." 

"It's great when your drummer and bassist get along," he said wryly.

"It is," Mafuyu said, hesitating again.

His laugh this time was softer.

"You can talk about those two, you know. I...well, I still wish things could have been different, sometimes, but now I also think it turned out for the best."

"If you really think that," Mafuyu said quietly, "why not talk to Kaji-san yourself? You know it was his birthday recently, don't you?"

"He doesn't want to hear from me," he said, turning on his pillow to avoid the sun streaming in through the window.

"He asked me how you're doing the last time I saw him, though."

A ray of warmth pierced his heart, even as he only made a noncommittal sound.

"Ugetsu-san," Mafuyu patiently persisted. "I also told Kaji-san this, but I'd like it if you didn't use me as your go-between. If you both still want to be friends, wouldn't it be best to talk directly?"

"You're being such an adult about this, aren't you."

"I just want the two of you to figure this out on your own, that's all."

"...What if his boyfriend doesn't like me contacting him?"

"Haruki-san's a lot more of an adult than Kaji-san is," Mafuyu said calmly. "Also, I don't think Kaji-san would want him to be your excuse for not staying in touch."

"So you don't think I might try to take him back?"

Mafuyu let out a small sigh, tinged with a new overtone of disapproval.

"What I think is...you probably don't mean that, and even if you did, it probably wouldn't work. Besides, Kaji-san knows Uenoyama-kun would never forgive him if he hurt Haruki-san like that. I wouldn't, either. Forgive Kaji-san, that is. Or you."

"Fine," he huffed. "Have it your way. I get it, I get it, you all love your Haruki-san."

"He's kind of our band mom," Mafuyu said, his voice lightening. "Maybe if you have the chance to meet him—"

"I wouldn't assume he wants to meet me, either," he said dryly. "It's getting late over there, so I'll let you go now. Say hi to your boy for me."  

"I will. Hope you have a good day too, Ugetsu-san."

"…Mafuyu."

"Yes?"

"Thanks for listening," he mumbled, and hung up before Mafuyu could respond.  

*

He'd followed Given's accounts since they'd released their first single, and he continued to click on the posts he saw in his feeds. Mafuyu kept up with his; friends returned favors. And he couldn't repress a morbid curiosity about the person who'd shifted Akihiko's way of life. Who'd taken Akihiko away, he sometimes thought. With difficulty he hauled himself back to the reality that in the first place, Akihiko hadn't been his anymore by that point, and in the second, he himself had made them break up, a decision tragicomic in how little it had changed apart from the number of people they slept with.

No, there wasn't any denying that Akihiko had left of his own accord. He'd chosen to break out of his cocoon; he'd headed towards his light.

While he didn't think he ever wanted to meet Akihiko's new boyfriend, he had the sense, even just from recordings and social media, that Nakayama Haruki was a light; a lamp whose rays, in basslines or words, worked to illuminate others. When he recalled the way he'd seen Akihiko look at him on stage, his face shining with the high of the rhythms they were weaving together, he couldn't muster any genuine bitterness. What chance had he against someone who made Akihiko smile like that, and who seemed perfectly capable of accepting all Akihiko had to offer?

He even envied Akihiko, fiercely and pointlessly, for having another space to belong outside of the violin. It was life-giving, he guessed, to be with someone who took pleasure in shaping their sound around others; who sought to ground and guide, instead of insisting on dominating alone.

At length he made himself turn off his phone screen. Then he went to his case and retrieved his violin for the day's practice.

III.

In the winter of a new year, a mentor on the board of a Scottish orchestra asked him if he would play at a local festival in Edinburgh. It was a generous offer, since they were only requesting a night's performance, and he tacked on a weekend stay to explore the city, enjoying the picturesqueness of its cobblestone paths and the lush greenery around its eponymous castle.

The day before his scheduled return to the States, Akihiko texted him.

Months had passed since their last exchange. He'd taken up Mafuyu's suggestion and experimented with belated birthday wishes, to which he'd attached an even more belated acknowledgement of Akihiko's earlier attempt at reaching out. This message had been returned with a sticker: a raccoon dog playing a sax beside the word THANKS! in English. He'd puffed with amusement on seeing it; he hadn't known Akihiko used stickers to communicate. Maybe it was a new habit he'd picked up from his boyfriend—and he smiled wryly at the twinge that this thought still brought on.

He'd looked at that raccoon dog sticker from time to time. It seemed like a good sign; an invitation to find a new way of interacting. In the gap that followed, he'd planned to send Akihiko a New Year's e-card, which promised to be a relatively safe form of reaching out.   

So he hadn't expected further contact until then, and the message that buzzed its way onto his phone screen now sent him into a mild panic. He took a deep breath, sat up on the hotel room sofa, and made himself read it. It was over two lines, long by either of their standards. Akihiko, it explained, was in London visiting his father, who had joined an ensemble there. It ended: Heard about your Scotland show, hope it went well.

It went fine, he replied. Enjoy London. I fly back to the US tomorrow.

The response was almost immediate: Woah! I'm actually going back to Japan tomorrow, too. Heathrow? Meet up if possible? No worries if not. Anyway here's my flight details in case.

It hardly seemed possible. But a confirmation of his itinerary proved him wrong, like a conspiracy of fate. Not only had the orchestra admin been unable to book him a direct flight back to New York, requiring him to connect through London Heathrow, but his international departure was also only about an hour or so earlier than Akihiko's and in the same terminal.

Lying was an option, but he felt aggrieved at being denied an easy way out.

If you both still want to be friends, wouldn't it be best to talk directly?

What did "talk" mean, at this point; what did they have left to say to each other?

He went back and forth on what to do as he began to pack, feeling like an overtightened string on his violin. With nothing else left to throw into his suitcase, he let out a loud, undignified grunt and flopped onto the hotel bed, absently studying the wallpaper on the ceiling.

At the end of the day, as much as he wanted to, he didn't think he could avoid Akihiko forever. They were in the same industry, broadly defined. They had too many acquaintances in common. If he ever wanted to see Mafuyu sing again, for starters, Akihiko was going to be there, whether he liked it or not. 

And, beyond all that, it moved him immeasurably to know that Akihiko wasn't trying to stay away. Even if this attempted reunion proved they should never meet again, he wouldn't know that until he tried, would he? 

Reluctantly, he reached for his phone and tapped out a terse reply with a suggested time and place. Barely a minute passed before the notification buzz sounded again: an OK sticker, the raccoon dog on the piano this time.

Talk, he thought. That meant words. Words were hard: more elusive than music, and sometimes more dangerous.

He took another deep breath, closing his eyes. When he opened them again, he lighted upon the stationery set on the bedside table, its blank paper pad an invitation to execute the impulse that had just struck him.      

*

They were meeting at one of the chain cafés in the terminal. He felt himself tense as he walked into the place; Akihiko had texted a while ago to say that he'd arrived early and gotten a table.

The semi-open seating area was large and tolerably crowded. He ordered first and scanned the surroundings while waiting at the pickup counter. Soon he spotted a familiar figure, wearing headphones and a dark green jacket, who was hunched over his phone in one corner with his back against the wall. A frisson ran through him, and he fought the urge to bail.

Enough, he commanded himself. Just go.   

Coffee in hand, with the tiny silver cuff carefully concealed under the tousle of his hair, he strode over to Akihiko's table. Its occupant took a second to register his presence; then he whipped his head up, yanking off his headphones.

"Yo," he said, proud of his voice holding steady, and set his takeaway cup near Akihiko's on the table.

"Yo," Akihiko said, raising his brows. He reached out and pulled another chair over, jerking his chin at the travel case on Ugetsu's shoulder.

He nodded his thanks, unslinging his violin and his tote bag onto the seat. Then he occupied the remaining chair, painfully aware of the pounding in his ears, and made himself look directly at Akihiko. But Akihiko was giving him a once-over, his face unreadable. Suddenly he smiled, quirking the pierced corner of his lips in the way he did when he was satisfied.

His heart twinged again on seeing this, but he recovered himself with a quick, quiet exhale.

"What."

"You look well." 

"No reason I wouldn't," he retorted. "So do you."

"My dad just paid for me to have a holiday, after all. Haven't been to London since I went for the Classic Violin competition in junior high."

"Let's see, now. Brahms?"

"Fauré, actually. The Romance in B-flat."

"Ah…so, the Brahms of France? How very you. Sensitive since young, I see."

"Oh, shut up. How'd you like playing in Edinburgh? Sounded like a good lineup."

"It was nice," he said, sipping his coffee. "I hadn't played those pieces in forever, but the audience responded well. And they let me pick a Stravinsky for the encore, the Capriccio from the Concerto in D. It's been a while since I got a standing ovation."

"You beast. Not that I'm surprised."

He laughed, crossing his legs; he hadn't expected the compliment, more direct than any he could remember Akihiko making, and it made him want to fidget.

"How's your dad?"

"Fine. Sends his regards, says he'll try to make it to your next performance in London."

"That's very kind, but tell him not to feel obliged."

"Well, he did say he's a fan of yours. And he knows we were housemates for a long time."

"Does he know anything about why you got to do that?"

Akihiko scowled, and he laughed again.   

"Honestly, I don't think he or my mom would care even if I ever told them," Akihiko eventually said, fiddling with the paper sleeve around his cup. "Probably?"

"Probably best not to risk it," he said, propping his hand on his chin. "Do they know who you're dating now, then?"

Akihiko returned his raised brow. "Have you started telling your parents about your love life?"

"My mother asks questions I'm very good at not answering," he said sweetly, and Akihiko snorted.

So far, so good. It's not like we didn't also get along, he reminded himself. It's not like we didn't also enjoy hanging out. Right?

But he couldn't refrain from pushing further; he couldn't stop himself from sliding into the familiar frame of mind that aimed to nettle.

"So did you tell your boyfriend that you're meeting me?"

Akihiko paused, stiffening. Aha.

"I understand if you didn't," he added helpfully. "I won't tell Mafuyu, either, if you want to keep this a secret."

He'd bet that this would draw at least a glare, or that Akihiko would grow cool and wary, as he had before. He wanted that to happen. Not to upset Akihiko, precisely; more to see whether he could still get under his skin.

Akihiko leaned back in his chair, staring out at the travelers moving across the terminal. Then he sat up again, sighing as he folded his hands together on the table.

"Ugetsu," he said, so gently it grated. "Don't do that."

"Do what."

"I did, in fact, tell Haruki I was planning to meet you today. Or rather, I asked him if that would be OK. I asked him even being sure he would say yes, because I wanted him to know in advance."

"How considerate," he said, put out, and annoyed with himself for feeling so. "So is he, greenlighting your hanging out with an ex."

"That's the kind of person he is," Akihiko said simply. "He doesn't mind me having a history. He gets that things were complicated."

"What, he also crashed someone's house for years and kept hooking up with them even after they dumped him?"

"You may find this hard to believe, but unlike you, he's not an ass."

"Incredible. Why's he dating you, then?"

"I ask myself that every day," Akihiko said, grinning as he shrugged.

You sound different, he silently said, registering the warmth that cut through the note of self-deprecation in Akihiko's voice.

All at once he felt relieved, yet cold. The cuff on his ear, as if warming to the presence of its previous owner, felt searing. All at once he wanted to be anywhere else but here, where the Akihiko facing him looked exactly the same but felt like a stranger. He thought of a piece abandoning a minor key for its parallel major. He'd known they needed to keep the right distance; he hadn't quite understood how little say he had in how much that distance would be. 

Aki.

Abruptly he shoved his chair back. Its metal feet shrieked across the floor, making the people at a nearby table turn with startled glances.

"Oi, you—"

"I have a deadline for my last seminar," he heard himself say. "Going to work on that in the airline lounge."

"Right," Akihiko said, knitting his brows. "You're still not done with your classes? Which one is this? If I also took it, I could pass you notes—"

He shook his head. Taking his tote bag, he retrieved two slim, oblong tins and a slightly dog-eared envelope that he thrust out to Akihiko, who squinted at the first objects in puzzlement.

"Shortbread?"

"From Scotland," he said tersely. "Give one to Mafuyu and his boy. Keep the other for you and yours. Read the letter whenever you feel like it."

He stood up, slinging his instrument case over his other shoulder, and turned. A hand, large and shockingly warm, grabbed his own.

"Ugetsu!"

"Let go."

"Ugetsu, look at me. Please."

The hand's grip tightened, tugging at him, and he gave in to the plaintive command.

"I play my violin every week," Akihiko said, locking gazes with him, and still speaking with that unsettlingly gentle cadence. "I even entered two competitions in Tokyo last year. It was a lot of stress, but also fun. I just wanted to tell you that. Thanks for coming to see me."

Bit by bit, the ice in his chest started to thaw.

"...Sounds like you should also be practicing your drums."

"Nothing you need to worry about," Akihiko growled.

He smiled, looking down at their hands. When he looked up again at Akihiko's face, it was intent with concern. It was the same face he remembered seeing after he'd broken the mug.

"I'm glad you got in touch," he said, and squeezed the hand holding his. Akihiko started, his eyes widening.

"Bye, Akihiko."

He freed himself and began to walk away.

"Let me know when you're next in Tokyo!"

Briefly, he paused. Then he made a single slight bob of affirmation, which he wasn't sure if Akihiko would see, and set out again with lengthened stride. This time, unlike over a year ago, he didn't turn around, and the tears were a mist he blinked back long enough to locate his handkerchief.

IV.

Months passed, and he received an invitation to the university's upcoming graduation ceremony. Initially he ignored it, but his parents, unusually for them, began hinting strongly that he should go. We don't have any other child, his mother said. It'd be nice to have photos of you in cap and gown. And we should take a new family portrait.

Shortly after he'd registered his attendance, another invitation he wanted to refuse but couldn't arrived: an old professor he liked informed him that the Tokyo orchestra he worked with would be holding a special concert to celebrate his retirement by performing a program of his compositions and favorite works. Would he have time to come, if he was planning to be in town for graduation? You're probably busy as always, the email said. But it would be nice to see you again, since it's been so long. 

He flew into a Tokyo where spring was in full swing, replete with blossom-bedecked cherry trees. He planned to stay put for a few weeks. In due course, he told himself, he would message Mafuyu. Maybe even Akihiko. If he felt like it.

*

An hour or so ahead of the start of the professor's concert, a matinee occurring the week prior to the graduation ceremony, he rolled out of bed and scrambled to wash his face, scraping his damp hands over his hair and throwing on the first clean dress shirt and slacks he could find before hurrying to the garage.

It occurred to him, as he headed up from the venue carpark, that Akihiko might also be in attendance. He should have thought of that sooner; he knew Akihiko got along with the same professor, and that he'd done well in the latter's composition seminar. For an instant he contemplated making up an excuse and leaving, but he bailed on that idea just as swiftly. He'd gone through with that last Heathrow meeting, hadn't he? So what if Akihiko was there? If nothing else, it would save him the trouble of messaging.

The elevator doors slid open. He held himself tall as he stepped out into the lobby, awash with people milling around, and braced himself for the stream of acquaintances he knew he would have to greet.

*

Midway through the ten-minute intermission he slipped into the men's room, which was blessedly empty, and where he'd headed to escape a fellow violinist who'd accosted him while he'd been speaking to the professor being honored. He went into a cubicle to catch his breath: his social engine was starting to run low. And there was no sign of Akihiko. Whether this counted as a disappointment or a relief, he wasn't sure.

When he stepped out to wash his hands, there was a tallish figure bent over at one of the sinks, sporting tawny hair in a short ponytail and a charcoal cardigan over a light denim button-down. Something about him looked incredibly familiar. As the man looked up, he froze.

It was Akihiko's boyfriend.

Nakayama Haruki's face, in the mirror, looked equally taken aback, and he knew he'd also been recognized.

He turned off the tap, his mind a screeching blank, when he realized with horror that the man had turned to him, his mouth opened slightly as if he was about to say something, as ludicrous as that seemed—

"Murata! It's you, isn't it? I was wondering if I'd see you here!"

The voice that boomed out from the man who'd just entered made him sag with relief. It was a senior who'd also studied music at their university, though he couldn't recall his full name, or when they'd last met. This acquaintance approached him, chattering away, and he noted the gratifying sight of Nakayama Haruki departing.

*

He left by a side exit as soon as the encore was done, heaving a sigh of relief as he got into the elevator alone and descended to the parking lot. In the safety of his car he gradually calmed down enough to drive out. But he had no destination in mind, and he aimlessly circled the road around the concert hall, wondering where to go. Besides his usual practice hours, he hadn't made plans for the rest of the day, and he didn't yet feel like returning to the house, despite the iron-grey clouds amassing in the late afternoon sky.

As he passed the same traffic light for the third time in a row, he recalled the old-fashioned café in this neighborhood his father had first taken him to when he'd been in junior high. He hadn't visited in years, and the memory sparked a craving for the place's coffee jelly, which he'd always loved.

Why not, he decided, stepping on the gas. Didn't he deserve a treat? He'd fulfilled an obligation to a former teacher and avoided the world's most awkward conversation with his ex's new squeeze.

He located a street parking spot and went into the café, which had just one other patron, an elderly man dozing off at a table in the back. Sliding into a window booth, he ordered from the easygoing middle-aged waiter who brought the courtesy glass of water. The interior, with its quaint wooden furnishings and permanent smell of cigarettes, looked and felt exactly the same. It came back to him, as he looked around, that he'd brought Akihiko here on a date some time in their last year of high school, a while after they'd both started smoking illicitly, and a while before he'd decided that they needed to break up. The date had ended acrimoniously: he'd said something too cutting, choosing words for their sting, or Akihiko had done the same first. Whatever it had been, he'd stormed out, saddling Akihiko with the bill. When he'd tried to return the money that night, Akihiko had refused, saying it wasn't a big deal compared to living rent-free, and that particular spat had fizzled out into another contingent truce.

His coffee arrived, and he leaned back into the faux-leather of the seat as he sipped it, smiling ruefully. He couldn't help feeling old; maybe that was a sign of progress.

The store bell jangled, and the waiter issued a greeting in response. He glanced up on reflex, and he almost dropped his cup as he met Nakayama Haruki's petrified stare, mirroring the disbelief on his own face. It took all he had not to voice his shock, which this unwelcome arrival did for both of them.

"AH!"

"Aha," the waiter said cheerfully. "A friend? Would you like to sit together?"

Of course he'll say no, he thought frantically. What other response was possible? As of now they still had the option to act like they didn't know each other—so sorry, thought you were someone else; they could pretend this had never happened, and in a week or so he would fly back to New York, and—

"Er...may I?"

He blinked. Nakayama Haruki was gazing down at him, trepidation warring with a mystifying resolve in his expression.

"I know this is sudden—actually, um, ah, don't worry if it would be too much of an imposition—"

"Go ahead," he heard himself say, weakly, and against all reason.

The clashing emotions on Nakayama Haruki's face switched to relief and regret, but he nodded his thanks and slid into the seat opposite him, requesting, as he'd also done earlier, a black house blend from the hovering waiter. As he left, a silence settled over them, so ambiguous that seconds of it made him want to scream. His unasked-for companion, who appeared equally ill at ease, cleared his throat.

"So...do you come here often?"

Small talk, he grimly thought. Fine, if that's how you want to play it.

Aloud he said, with all the politeness he could muster, "It's been quite a long while since my last visit. How about yourself?"

"I haven't been here for some time too, actually," Nakayama Haruki said, radiating cautiousness. "We both just happened to be in the neighborhood, huh?"

"Looks like it," he said, bringing out his official-business smile. "This place is a bit of a hole-in-the-wall, though."

"It is! I wouldn't have known, except for Take-chan—er, a friend of mine who used to work in the area introduced it to me. How did you find it?"

"My father's a long-time customer," he said, letting out the breath he'd been holding. "I've been coming here since I was a student."

"That's nice," Nakayama Haruki said tentatively.

He'd been bracing himself, he realized, to hear that Akihiko had been the one who'd told this man about this place; that he'd taken a memory they'd shared and given it to this new lover, whose sleek hair was irking him into the self-consciousness that a month ago he'd broken the last comb he'd owned, a flimsy plastic thing taken from a hotel, while trying to use it, and he hadn't bothered to get a new one, which Akihiko would almost certainly have supplied—

Perhaps the man opposite him had merely lied to avoid further awkwardness, though that was unlikely given his behavior so far; someone that calculated would never have risked approaching him in the first place.

"So, um, you're probably wondering why I was at that concert instead of Akihiko…"

He tried to speak, but Nakayama Haruki was pressing on.

"I don't think he knew you'd be there too, but anyway, he couldn't make it because of work. Ah, that's, you probably know already, but we're bandmates...anyway, he got scheduled to do a photo shoot and an interview for a magazine with Uenoyama—that's our guitarist—at the same time today, and the appointment couldn't be changed because of Uenoyama's schedule for his other band, so he asked me, since I was free, if I'd go in his place to say hello to the professor. I've met him once, too—he was kind enough to come to a show of ours. And it would have been a shame for the ticket to go to waste, regardless..."

"Is that so," he said, smiling blandly. "I suppose it's not Akihiko's fault, in any case. I didn't tell him I was going to be in town."

Nakayama Haruki looked startled. "You didn't? Why not?"

He raised a frosty brow. "Am I obligated to?"

"N-no, obviously...just, Akihiko would be happy if you did?"

The laugh broke out of his mouth, short and razor-sharp.

"Forgive me for being rude, but I have absolutely no idea why you sound so sure about that. Is this some kind of prank? You do know I'm his ex? If not, maybe you should ask him what else he hasn't told you?"

Silence unfurled again with stifling weight. A long, loud roll of thunder sounded outside, and, after some beats, the hard pattering of rain. Rain was part of his name; rain fell everywhere he went.

If this man didn't have the grace to leave right now, why not do just that? Unfortunately he'd left his umbrella in the car, but it would make an appropriately melodramatic exit if he stalked off into the storm outdoors, abandoning this interloper to squirm in his own indelicacy. He could practically hear bits of Haydn's Sturm und Drang symphonies crashing in his head. Against this, a small, mulish voice insisted: not till you've had your coffee jelly.

Everything about this situation was absurd. And still he found something appealing about its gratuitousness, and its potential to draw blood, his or the other's. Even when Akihiko wasn't here, he remained capable of calling forth this kind of response in him.

And still Nakayama Haruki refused to can it.

"Murata-san," he said, his voice low and thrumming with uncertainty. "I should apologize. Of course you're upset. I have no business trying to talk to you like this. The thing is, I, I want to say...thank you?"

"Whatever for."

"The cookies."

"The...what?"

"The ones from Scotland you passed to Akihiko last time you met him. They were delicious. Er, Akihiko said you said they were for both of us, so I'm assuming it really was fine for me to also eat them—"

The waiter reappeared, placing the jelly glass, a small spoon, and a second cup of the house blend on the table.

"Oh," the man muttered, eyeing the dessert. "I should also have ordered that just now..."

"Would you like me to bring you one?" the waiter offered, and went off beaming when answered in the affirmative. Nakayama Haruki, apparently realizing he'd just prolonged the ordeal of their interaction even further, turned a gaze onto him so apologetic even he had to concede it was funny.

Ignoring him, he focused his attention on the dainty glass, which was filled with a heap of wobbly, espresso-dark cubes underneath a neat mound of snowy cream, and polished off its perfectly bittersweet contents in a few bites. He washed this down with the lukewarm remainder of his coffee and tucked the hair on the left side of his face behind his ear, slowly and deliberately. Nakayama Haruki didn't notice, and he hadn't expected that much; even so, he felt a petty satisfaction at putting Akihiko's old cuff on display. 

He'd gotten here first, after all. He hadn't initiated this excruciating tête-à-tête, and he would go whenever he was ready to, ideally ruffling this uninvited seatmate enough to make him leave. 

His mind made up, he extracted a cigarette and his lighter from his tote, dispensing with the check-in about whether it was all right to smoke. The lighter, as if mocking him, sparked once and clicked in a hollow ostinato, refusing to ignite the cigarette clenched between his lips.

"Um...here, if you'd like."

He looked up to see Nakayama Haruki holding out another lighter to him. It was a gesture made too naturally to refuse, and he gave in, leaning forward. A solid click, this time, followed by a tiny hiss and a flare of yellow-blue heat that surrounded his cigarette end, giving it a reassuring vermilion glow amid a curl of smoke. He took the cigarette between his fingers and closed his eyes as he inhaled deeply. Across him, another click-hiss sounded as his companion lit up for himself.

A nicotine-laden haze filled the space between them, seeming to remove some of the tension as it dissipated. He was grateful that Nakayama Haruki didn't smoke the same brand that Akihiko liked.

"Never mind the cookies," he said at last, waving his cigarette at him. "Consider this thanks enough."

"Murata-san—"

"Ugetsu is fine. Why not drop the honorifics? You're older than me, Haruki-san."

He'd deliberately invoked the man's first name, stressing it like a challenge. This, he thought, along with the faintly sardonic drawl he'd adopted, might draw a rise, or some form of displeasure at his presumptuousness.

All he got was a surprised look.

"You know my name?"

He could feel his brows crease.

"You know mine, don't you?"

"But you're famous!" Nakayama Haruki countered, no detectable trace of irony in his voice or expression. "Everyone at the university knows who you are! You're like a rock star of the classical world, aren't you?"

"Your band member profiles are on the Given website," he said, letting brusqueness mask the tiny jolt of pride the last remark sent through him. "Mafuyu sent me the link."

"I almost forgot, you know Mafuyu too," the man said, blowing out another stream of smoke, and smiling for the first time since he'd entered the café. "Akihiko mentioned you're fond of him."

He'd parted his lips to issue some snark, but Mafuyu's boyish face, bright with the thrill of finding a perfect new chord on his guitar, flashed into his mind's eye. So he merely sipped his coffee. Nakayama Haruki's smile widened, which irritated him, but he kept his demeanor impassive.

The waiter returned, bearing the second jelly, and departed after popping the bill into the plastic holder next to the napkin stand. Nakayama Haruki stubbed out his half-finished cigarette into the porcelain ashtray on the table and dug into his dessert, humming with pleasure. 

"Do they have coffee jelly in New York?" he eventually asked around a mouthful of cream, some of which had migrated to his upper lip.

"No idea," he said curtly, effortfully remaining expressionless. "Maybe. The city has a lot of Japanese food these days."

"I see."

Nakayama Haruki spooned up the last of the jelly, thankfully wiped a napkin over his mouth, and chased it with a mouthful of coffee. Then he set his cup down on its porcelain saucer with a clink.

"Ugetsu-kun," he said quietly. "You probably think I'm being a jerk, or at best a total nuisance, but I really felt, just now, like I should try meeting you in person. I promise I won't ever do this again, so please bear with me for a bit more."

The man's face was serious but kind, and the uncertainty in his voice had settled into a discomfiting gentleness. He tried to shrug this off with another laugh.

"It's fine if we talk, since you're so set on that, but what does it achieve? If Akihiko's involved in this, tell him I'm considering it grounds for harassment—"

"He's not. I've been thinking about talking to you someday, ever since Akihiko told me about your meeting up in England. But I haven't said anything to him yet."

"You two are really something," he said caustically, crushing his butt into the ashtray. "Have you ever thought about asking me whether I want to talk?"

"You clearly don't, or not with me, at least," the man meekly replied. "I'm sorry. The truth is, I couldn't decide if I actually wanted to meet you, either. Until today. Somehow seeing you made me think, maybe it's now or never."

"Why, though?" This time, he couldn't suppress the frustration in his voice.

"For my own sake. Akihiko's, too. And, just maybe...I know this sounds incredibly presumptuous, but maybe also yours?"

A strangled sound gathered at the back of his throat; anger bubbled up inside him, shot through with incredulity, and it teetered on the verge of explosion until Nakayama Haruki, looking like someone who'd decided to jump off a cliff, held out his lighter to him again.

"I'd like another smoke," he said, his voice steady despite its heightened pitch. "How about you?"

The offer iced his rage into an arctic calm. No, he thought. No. He doesn't get to see me lose it.

"One more," he said tonelessly, fishing out another cigarette. "And I'm leaving when it's done."

Nakayama Haruki nodded, lighting up for him and doing the same for himself. Having accomplished this, he drew a long breath, exhaled a trail of smoke, and lowered his cigarette.

"What I actually want to say is…I hope you'll stay friends with Akihiko. He doesn't say so, but I know he still cares about you. As a person and as a musician. Plus, I don't want him to feel like he always has to be careful around me where you're concerned."

"It's true Akihiko and I broke up a long time ago," he said at last, arching a brow. "You sound extremely confident about him, though. I hope you won't regret it."

"Don't worry, I've got lots of practice managing my insecurities regarding him, usually whenever women are around," Nakayama Haruki said, with unexpected dryness. "I'm not encouraging you to hang out with him all the time, OK? I'd probably feel iffy about that. But—I couldn't stop Akihiko if he ever wanted someone else. I've never gotten to decide how he feels. So I just have to trust him. The way I trust him when we play together. I mean, he trusts me too. He's never tried to stop me from playing with my former girlfriend, for instance."

He doesn't mind me having a history.

He sat amid a sea of consternation, ash from the cigarette between his fingers dropping to the table. Nakayama Haruki took in another lungful of smoke before continuing, words tumbling out of his mouth with increasing speed and fluster.

"Also…I won't pretend I understand what things were like between the two of you, but I just think, since you've known each other for so long, it would be a shame if you didn't stay connected in some way. Sorry, is that too simplistic? But you're also connected to Given, aren't you? Mafuyu loves your music, and you help him with his songwriting. That means you're an influence on what he brings to our band. I even wonder if maybe someday we could explore making a track together, though I don't know if you'd have any interest in that, or if our label can afford whatever your collaboration fees are, just a thought. Huh, I guess that also means I'm approaching you in my capacity as band leader, aren't I? Anyway, er, so…the point is, I'd really like it if all of us could be happy. Be happier, rather. It's not like we aren't already fine. Just…we don't need to feel bad about any of the experiences we've had? In the end, um, it all becomes part of our music? Something like that? Haha. Sorry, I know, I've been going on and on, and—"     

"How is it possible for you to think like this?" he cut in, unable to quash the tremor in his voice. "Aren't you upset about anything? Akihiko's not all fun and games, is he? Why is it so easy for you to, to…forgive? It's you, isn't it? You're the one who changed him."

Nakayama Haruki lowered his cigarette again, the agitated earnestness on his face softening.

"I'd say he changed himself, actually…maybe it's related to him accepting who he really is. You're a soloist—you hold your own voice no matter what, you can make someone else's composition your own. How awesome is that? But people like me need others to make our music. My band members shape how I play. And, on the whole, I think Akihiko's not so different, although he's a lot more of a soloist than me. He just needed time to figure himself out…"

He held up his phone like a shield between them and hit the camera button. A flash went off, making Nakayama Haruki blink.

"Wha—"

"For proof I ran into you."

He extinguished his cigarette and got to his feet, taking his bag and the bill with him.

"Er, Ugetsu-kun?"

"I'm going home."

"Sure, but the bill—let me get this, all right? As an apology for bothering you today."

"No thanks. I don't want to owe you anything. Besides, the thought of Akihiko's face when he finds out I treated his boyfriend is priceless."

"Hey!"

"I'll message him about meeting up while I'm in town," he said shortly, ignoring Haruki's protests. "If it works out, feel free to join. I'm good either way."

He paid at the counter, pocketed his change, and nodded to the waiter as the latter made him a parting bow.  

"Ugetsu-kun, wait—"

This time, too, he didn't look back. But his eyes remained clear, and as he stepped out into the street under a sky turned crisp and cloudless, he felt, almost vexingly, as if he'd grown lighter.

V.

Akihiko:

I'm sorry.

Thank you.

I hope you'll always love your music. And be happy with the person who helped you do that. 

U

"Why are you crying," Akihiko said, looking over at Haruki with a crooked smile.

"Why aren't you crying," Haruki sniffled. He put the paper down, attempting to sound severe while accepting the handkerchief held out to him. "Nobody I used to date would ever write me anything like this! It's so…sweet!"

"I already did all my crying on the flight back after getting this, that's why," Akihiko said matter-of-factly, folding up the paper and returning it to the envelope that lay on the living room table in their apartment.

"You what? No way."

"I didn't even know that guy was capable of saying sorry or thank you, let alone writing letters, OK? Frankly, I'm still shocked."

"People can change, you know," Haruki said, crinkling his eyes. "I don't think you need to be so shocked."

Akihiko turned an ominous face onto him. "Have you become a fan of his? With just one meetup?"

"As you already know," Haruki said patiently, "we ran into each other at your professor's concert, and then again at that café near the hall. The coffee jelly place. That's all."

"He said it was your idea to sit together!"

"Yes, but—"

"That ass better not take any more weird photos of you next time. I almost had a heart attack on the way home when he sent it to me and said he had a 'date' with you, the little—"

"Is there going to be a next time?" Haruki said, chuckling. "I'm not crashing your hangout with him. Unless you want me to, that is."

Akihiko sighed loudly, running a hand over his head.

"Part of me doesn't want the two of you to get any closer. Another part is amazed you're being so generous about everything to do with him, so..."

"In any case, you didn't need to show me this," Haruki tapped the envelope, emblazoned with the logo of an Edinburgh hotel. "I'm glad you did, though."

"Why?"

"I think you know why." Haruki deflected, smiling at Akihiko's pout. "Anyway, I feel like I understand a bit more about you. And him, too."

Akihiko gazed over at him as he leaned back against the sofa.

"Are you really OK with this?"

"With what?"

"Well...you already know, but his music still matters to me," Akihiko said, glancing at him again. "Maybe it always will. But you don't need to worry—"

"Do you think I'm so petty I'd try to stop you from loving someone else's music? Even if I was, how would that ever work?"

"Haru—"

"Look, I'm the one you play with, right? Aki. We've got our own music—that's what matters to me."

Akihiko shut his eyes, as if listening intently to a silent song. On opening them, he took Haruki's hand in his own, caressing it with his lips. Pulling Haruki close, he murmured into his ear, sending a streak of pink into the cheek below his own as he brought their mouths together.

I've been right, mostly wrong
Wrong about you, right about me

Dolly Parton, Emmylou Harris, Linda Ronstadt, "High Sierra"