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The thing about playing the piano in a train station is you’re practically doomed to end up a light novel or a romantic comedy. Shuu knows this. He thought it would be funny. If girls want to come up and drop a few sounddollars in his hat and tell him it must be destiny that brought them together here today, they are more than welcome. If they drop in a decently sized banknote he might not even tell them to go fuck themselves until he finishes his song. Nobody can say he doesn’t believe in customer service.
Later, of course, he’ll look back on this and laugh. Much later. Much too late.
The truth is, even he feels the gutpunch of something in the moment the tall leopard with his prim fucking bowtie and his arms full of fucking bread stops in his tracks and stares at him. The passion in his eyes, watching Shuu’s fingers instead of just focusing appreciatively on his face like most people. The rhythm he taps out against the crusty bread perfectly in time with the song Shuu just wrote this morning, the glow radiating from his chest after just a verse. The sheer unselfconscious conviction with which he asks Shuu to start a band with him, as if they knew each other.
“Fuck off and die,” Shuu tells the man between verses, and turns back to his piano.
Just because destiny wants you to do something doesn’t mean you owe it shit.
What’s the point of a band, anyway? People to argue with, people to drag you down. People to try to force their stupid priorities over yours. More people to try to tell him where he should go, what he should do with his music. Trying to reduce his calling to a pile of sounddollars or the prospect of his name in lights when there’s so much more he can do.
He does need the sounddollars though, regrettably. He can’t pay the rent with a song. And there are so many people passing through S-river station with a heart full of dreams and a pocket full of sounddollars for a handsome young man with a beautiful voice. So he keeps it in his busking rotation, even if he’d rather fistfight a whole gang than feel what he felt in that leopard’s eyes again.
*
Unfortunately, it turns out the leopard works in a cafe inside the S-river Midite. The one right next to where the public piano is. And he works irregular shifts, so it’s not like Shuu can just pick other times to play.
He learns all this because the other man tells him over their next few meetings, whether or not Shuu replies to him. It’s gotten so he can pick him out of a crowd out of the corner of his eyes. It’s not that hard, admittedly; he’s tall and broad-shouldered and his leopard ears tend to perk up when he hears Shuu’s piano. It’d probably be harder to miss him.
“I’m a drummer, myself,” he says one day, on what must be his lunch break. Rom, that’s his name, or the name on his nametag anyway. He still hasn’t actually introduced himself. Neither has Shuu, admittedly. But he’s not the one trying to start some kind of thing here. “When I’m not working. I’d show you, but it’s not like I can just keep it at work.”
“If you bring your drumset, I will break it,” Shuu responds conversationally, executing a perfect glissando.
“You’re real passionate, huh?” He’s still smiling. Shuu wonders if Rom has ever been successfully put off of anything. Probably not. That smile could melt anybody.
He doesn’t go back to S-river for a few weeks, just in case.
*
“You ever see the Grateful King perform?” Rom asks him another day. He’s taken to leaning casually against the piano no matter how many times Shuu threatens him. Not that Shuu is entirely certain that he could do better than avoid getting clobbered if he actually did start a fight with Rom. He’s never seen Rom’s muscles directly, since he’s always in that stiff-ass waiter getup, but Shuu’s had enough fistfights and disappointing makeouts to know a strong arm when he sees one.
Of course Shuu’s seen the Grateful King. Of course that’s what made him realize he was meant to be a musician. Him and every other myumon their age. The only difference between him and anyone else is he’s got talent and puts in the time. It doesn’t mean anything that Rom could guess that. “So what,” he says instead, and Rom laughs.
“So I think you’ve got what he’s got,” Rom says, without any of the sleazy or fawning undertones Shuu is used to when people say this kind of thing to him. He’s just … enthusiastic. Genuine. It’s disgusting. “And I want to be there with you when you reach the top.”
Shuu finishes his last song of the afternoon, eyes closed, revelling in the feel of the last note reverberating in his throat and his chest. There’s enough money in his hat for a meal and sufficient progress towards the rent.
“Fuck off and die,” he tells Rom again, but it doesn’t feel as good in his mouth as it used to.
*
Shuu’s seen the whole afternoon shift’s worth of bowties and aprons walk past the piano into the mall, so he knows today must be Rom’s day off. Which he’s glad about, of course. Rom seems to intimidate the girls that would otherwise crowd around the piano making eyes at Shuu and clinking their coins into his hat to try to catch his attention. Not that he’s in any hurry to talk to them either, but they’re a lot easier to blow off, even if they don’t tip as well as Rom does.
It’s an unusually warm day, which isn’t helped by the sunny design of S-river station. Shuu should have picked one of the other, gloomier pianos, or maybe taken his guitar to a park. The station is better money, not least because his guitar is a piece of shit he bought at least third hand, but at least he wouldn’t have as much sweat prickling down the back of his neck as he tries to hold himself to proper posture while he plays. People tip better when he looks like he belongs among the stiff-backed and image-obsessed business travelers, even though if he ever got stuck in a boardroom for more than five minutes he’d throw a chair and its occupant through a window to escape.
“That’s a new song, isn’t it?”
Shuu looks up in surprise at Rom’s voice and fumbles so bad he almost ties his own hands together. He was right, it’s definitely Rom’s day off. He would never be allowed into the cafe with his shirt entirely open like that. There are health codes. What he’s doing with that shirt can barely be considered “wearing”. Someone could put their eye out.
“Y-yeah,” Shuu stumbles, his tongue betraying him for the first time in his life. “I wrote it last night.”
“I knew it. You’re incredible.” God, he’s glistening. How is anybody paying attention to Shuu like this? He keeps playing, because he’s a professional - well, technically not because nobody’s ever hired him, nor has he ever tried to get hired, but he can be a professional in spirit - but he’s forgotten all the lyrics he scribbled on the back of a receipt last night. “Start a band with me.”
Shuu squeezes his eyes shut. There’s two more verses to the end of the song, or what would be verses if he remembered them. If he still feels this at the end of that, he’ll say it. Until then, he’ll put his heart into his fingers and play. The music comes first, way before any sweaty pecs or insistent pounding of destiny.
His hands are still shaking when the last chord’s echoes die away.
“My name’s Shuu. Buy me lunch and we’ll talk.”
The leopard breaks into a toothy grin. “You’re on. I’m Rom.”
“I know. It’s on your fucking nametag.”
“Not today it’s not. You remembered.”
Fuck.
*
Rom buys them sandwiches at the cafe with his employee discount and they sit and eat them on a ledge outside the station where there’s enough of a breeze that Shuu almost feels like he can breathe again. Rom says he takes his breaks out here on days when Shuu’s not playing, like that’s a normal thing to tell someone whose name you’ve only just learned.
“What do you want me for?” Shuu interrupts. “There’s plenty of assholes that can play music. Some of them might even take you up within the first dozen times you ask.”
Rom frowns around a mouthful of katsu. “Because when I heard you, I knew I could make it to the top if I was with you. I’m not settling for less than that just because they might be nicer.”
“The top.” Shuu scoffs. “What’s at the top? What do you want your name in lights on the side of a building so badly for?”
“It’s not about that!” Rom’s eyes crackle like the amps Shuu can’t afford. “It’s knowing that when you make music, you’re being heard. That you’re connected with everyone’s soul. That you’re holding nothing back, that you’re going all out. Doesn’t that sound incredible?”
“Hmph.” But Shuu closes his eyes for a second and imagines it. Thousands and thousands of people hearing his voice. The music only he can make. His dreams and desires, resonating together with everyone else’s. It’s not so bad.
Rom's smiling at him when he opens his eyes again. Ugh. At least he picks up on Shuu's desire not to talk about it. "What other hobbies do you have besides music?"
"... Fashion."
"Huh, that's cool. You know, if we had a band you could coordinate our outfits and stuff. I'm not really into clothes."
Shuu looks at Rom’s chest again. "Yes, I can see that."
“I may not have a voice like yours or anything, but I’m pretty good at logistics. And if nothing else, I can carry lots of equipment.”
“I’ll bet you can,” Shuu murmurs into the last of his egg sandwich. “So where’s your band?”
Rom scratches his head. “You’re it, so far.”
“Presumptuous of you. Suppose I do say yes. For now. What if I get bored and quit in a month and all your hard work goes to waste?”
“Then I guess I’ll have been a fool,” Rom says. “But I don’t think you will.”
*
It’s almost impossible not to like Rom. Shuu’s very good at disliking people and he can’t seem to manage it. It turns out to be a pretty useful skill to have, because it means before too long they pick up two other bandmates from new coworkers of Rom’s. Shuu’s pretty sure his face was at least part of the bait to get them in the door, but he has to concede it’s Rom’s enthusiasm that has them coming back to practice.
Shuu does almost walk out after Rom says he should play guitar instead of piano. ("They're both string instruments, technically, right?" "I suppose, in the same way that a drum and your skull are both percussion instruments.") Even though he’s right that the piano doesn’t fit the visual kei sound they’re coalescing around, and even though it would be a pain to get a real piano and haul it to shows, and even though it’s not like he doesn’t like playing guitar. He’s just gotten fond of the piano lately.
“You found me because of the piano. Why isn’t it good enough now?”
“I found you because of your voice and your talent. Not because of the instrument you were playing. I hear people playing that thing all day.” Rom scratches his head. “Anyway. When you’re on the piano, you don’t need anyone else. At least when you play guitar, there’s room for me to support you.”
He still plays the piano in the train station when he has time. Just a few songs. Just to remember that power. Most of the time he’s busy learning for the first time how to play alongside a drummer.
*
He doesn't quit after a month. He doesn't even quit after a year.
“Shuu. You ever wonder what if I hadn’t been running late? If I hadn’t stopped to talk to you that day?”
“Then I guess I would still be playing piano in a train station. Instead I’m making coffee in a cafe in a train station. You want me to be grateful about that?”
“You’re making coffee with me. Before band practice.”
“Mm.”
“And we’re playing shows together.”
“In a cafe. In a train station.”
“I got us that opening act gig, too. I can do it again. That’s how people find out about new bands. We’re making connections, despite your personality. We’re putting in the work and we’re gradually making our way up. What, did you expect a miracle overnight?”
“It’d be a lot less boring that way.”
“I think I used up my miracle quota already. The rest of it’s just going to have to be hard work.”
*
Shuu develops a taste for it. For the shows themselves at first, for having an audience that stays and listens to the whole arc of a setlist and blossoms for him, but over time for all the work that goes before. For trudging through alleys in makeup looking for a stage in need of a filler act.
(Rom still does most of the actual talking to people. Shuu has never developed the patience for that.)
For writing basslines and guitar parts that let Adam and Eve play off of each other. For standing just close enough to Adam to make the audience (and Adam) swoon. For late nights fighting with Rom over the flow of a line and how to shift to the bridge and which song he gets his drum solo in.
It wouldn’t work with anyone else. Even Shuu knows that. Anyone else would have gotten fed up with him, or him with them. He doesn’t know why it hasn’t happened with Rom, really. They just … click. They hear each other, the things neither of them will say. And the things they shout at each other sometimes need to be said, too, if maybe not the way they say them.
It’s fine. The fights always work themselves out in the end as new songs or marathon sessions in bed or unholy combinations of the two. It’s not the kind of relationship you’d put up as a romantic ideal, but it suits the people they’ve become. Neither of them knows how to hold back with the other anymore.
Shuu moves into Rom’s cramped apartment. So they can save up for better instruments, they tell each other. So they can work on songs whenever inspiration strikes. So they can aim for the top. So someday they can have a penthouse apartment together instead.
*
It’s long after midnight and Shuu is lying awake, thinking about what he doesn’t like about the chorus he’s been working on, and what groceries to get tomorrow, and how now he knows that Rom is weak to having the inside of his wrists gently nibbled on.
Rom is half asleep with his hand slung casually over Shuu's bare waist, murmuring into the soft hairs on his neck. It’s mostly the usual affectionate nonsense and Shuu’s only half listening.
“Shuu,” Rom says suddenly, just a little bit louder. Like he’s steeling himself for something.
“Mm?”
“I don't mind if we never really make it big if I can be with you, you know. I want it, of course. I want everyone to hear you. But if all I manage to accomplish with my life is getting to play alongside you, to hear you, that's enough.”
Shuu’s blood runs cold.
How dare he. The man who taught Shuu to want. The man who promised him the view from the top, together. How dare he settle for anything less than that now, after what he’s made of Shuu.
*
The offer comes soon enough. Connections and training and all the marketing budget Judas has to offer, at the cost of Amatelast.
That’s fine. He'll learn to be sociable and clever and saleable and remind Rom of his ambitions. Their ambitions. It’s only a temporary sacrifice. Shuu knows how to negotiate now, after watching Rom deal with their fees. Once he's proven his star potential, he’ll have the leverage to make Judas offer Rom a contract, too. If seeing him up there makes Rom remember what he felt the first time he saw Shuu, then all the better.
If this is destiny, then Rom will understand and follow him. He just has to make a dramatic enough gesture. It's always worked before. It wouldn’t work with anyone else, but they’re not anyone else.
*
It doesn’t work.
It’s not all bad. He meets new people. He meets the twins, whose raw talent stops him in his tracks, and wonders if this is how Rom felt that day at the train station. He learns more and more about hard work, about how to claw your way to the top and stay there. That’s his responsibility alone now, though he tries to make sure the twins learn what they need to along the way.
He watches the rain fall through his penthouse window and wonders if Rom misses playing alongside him.
He knows Rom hears him. Nobody can avoid hearing him, he’s made sure of that. The streets run with his voice now. His name’s in lights on the side of every building.
Every once in a while, he plays the piano again. Sometimes he even records it. Somewhere out there in the city, Rom will hear his voice and his piano, and maybe one day he’ll understand what Shuu has been trying to tell him.
Until then, Shuu will hold the space at the top for him, like he promised.