[fic] Fading Stars and Piano Keys (2/6)

[kiyala.livejournal.com]

Two. It’s an uncomfortably warm night. Klavier’s somewhere in the quieter part of town. Somewhere. It takes a lot of effort to bother paying attention to things around him. Most of the time, he doesn’t bother. He’s changed a lot over the years—he knows it without being told, but that’s never stopped anyone. Klavier knows that anybody with half a brain would be able to figure out that he’d slowly been changing since that one year he’d lost both his brother and best friend. It’s amazing how few people are left with half a brain. He walks into a little hole-in-the-wall bar that he has never noticed the several other times he’s walked past it. It’s a curious string of events that bring him here—a short-lived career as a solo artist, which had been wildly successful but extremely lacking in satisfaction; several failed relationships, including a carefully secretive one with Apollo Justice. He’s a star who is beginning to fade, but of his own accord. Klavier is not the kind of person to reminisce about what has passed. It’s a simple matter of self-preservation. He’s made few public appearances outside of court and people have eventually forgotten him. With his hair cut short and skin no longer spray-tanned, he makes it even easier for them. Sitting by himself with a bottle of beer, he takes a look around at the small establishment. He doesn’t even notice the piano until the people at the table in front of him get up and leave, giving him a clear view of the instrument. There’s a man hunched over it, clearly masculine despite the straight, shoulder-length hair that falls across his face. Now that Klavier knows to listen for it, he can hear the soft tune. It becomes clearer and louder as Klavier listens to it and the pianist is lost in the music he is playing, fingers moving gracefully over the keys. There is a quiet, but fierce passion behind the playing and Klavier feels his chest tighten with appreciation. It reminds him of his own times performing in front of others, playing with equally fierce passion, alongside— He forces himself to stop thinking at that point, pushing the name and all the unbidden thoughts that follow out of his mind. He waits for the rush of emotions to pass so his head can clear once again. He fixes his gaze on his bottle of beer, but finds his attention gradually drawn back to the pianist. It is impossible to deny the attraction, or the feeling of familiarity and recognition. Just something between musicians, Klavier muses to himself. Something entirely one-sided—nothing more than Klavier reaching out to something he doesn’t want to admit he misses. A pianist in a forgotten corner of a no-name bar is nothing like a famous rock star on stage in front of hundreds of fans, but Klavier cannot stop watching, allowing his mind to fill in the blanks. It’s already too late when he realises that it isn’t himself that he is projecting onto the pianist. From the very moment he begins to admit this to himself, his thoughts become panicked, gradually becoming louder at the same time as the music does. Crescendo. Klavier visibly shudders as thoughts run through him, the dam in his mind that has been holding them back finally broken. Crescendo—the word still hangs in his mind when the music gradually becomes softer. Diminuendo. Daryan. Klavier thinks the name, loudly. He forms it silently with his lips. He feels overwhelmingly lonely, and relieved at the same time. It’s been five long years. Daryan had always loved the irony of his last name. He’d taken to incorporating the symbol for crescendo in his signature. It wasn’t uncommon for him to sign things with Cresc. Gradually increasing in volume. Daryan had been the loudest person Klavier had ever known—though he spares a thought for Apollo Justice with his Chords of Steel, who comes in a close second. Klavier sits with his head in his hands as he allows himself to think every thought of Daryan Crescend he has done his best to block over the years. His mind reels as he hates, misses and loves the same man in the space of a few seconds. He thinks of getting himself another beer, but he hears the piano music coming to an end and doesn’t want to interrupt. Dramatic chords, gracefully executed trills. Once again, a crescendo. The final combination of notes is loud enough to fill the entire bar. The pianist receives scattered applause, which he doesn’t even seem to notice. Klavier does not join in, frozen in place as he looks at the man sitting at the piano. Hair thrown back, Klavier can finally see his face. If that alone isn’t enough, the man then takes a hair tie out of his pocket and pulls his black hair back into a shorter version of an extremely familiar ponytail. Daryan. Klavier doesn’t even realise he’s said it aloud until the man, close enough to hear, turns to him. It is him and while his face remains expressionless, his eyes widen when he recognises Klavier. Daryan, playing the piano in a no-name bar. It makes no sense. Neither of them move or look away from each other until the bartender walks over with a bottle of beer for Daryan. He takes it, hesitates, and then motions for another as he walks towards Klavier. “…Hey.” “Hello.” Daryan sits slowly, looking unsure of himself. It’s a strange expression to see him wear. “Didn’t think I’d see you here.” “Neither did I.” “You look different.” “You cut your hair.” “I’m serious, man. You look like shit.” “And whose fault do you think that is?” Daryan grimaces, looking away just in time to see the second bottle of beer arrive. He passes it to Klavier and they both drink in silence. “Heard you were with that Forehead kid,” Daryan says, for lack of anything better to say. “He’s not a kid and I haven’t seen him outside of court for a year. Where did you hear that?” “Ike told me.” “You speak to him?” “Yeah. Rest of the band too.” Klavier looks at him in disbelief. His voice is quiet when he asks, “All of them? And not me?” Daryan looks away with a shrug. “Difference between you and them is that they didn’t start pretending like I didn’t exist. None of that ‘Daryan who?’ bullshit. They know what I did was shitty. I know what I did was shitty. But we hang out when we can.” “They never told me.” Daryan nods a little. “Apparently you started holing yourself up at home.” “They could have called. You could have called.” “And said what? Oh, hey man. I know you hate my fuckin’ guts but I thought you’d like to know I’m outta prison now.” Klavier frowns. Daryan’s voice has a bitter edge to it that he recognises all too well. Perhaps, years ago, he would have apologised, knowing full well that it was in no way his fault. Now, he says nothing. “Well?” Daryan asks, his voice even. “Not telling me I’m wrong. Klavier I know would jump right up with objections. If you hate me, why are you still sitting here?” “I am not the Klavier you knew,” comes the reply. Emphasis on knew. He’s trying to convince himself as much as Daryan, he knows this, but he doesn’t let himself hesitate. He gets to his feet, glances at Daryan and adds matter-of-factly, “And you are not the Daryan Crescend I once knew.” He leaves without so much as a look backwards. He can feel Daryan’s eyes on his back, but he doesn’t dare turn around and meet them. He won’t do that to himself, not now. He walks, and he keeps walking. • A week passes and every single day, Klavier is assaulted with memories of Daryan. He thinks of the good times—on stage, backstage after their performances, lazing on the couch, content with each other’s company—and of the bad—their arguments, so quick to escalate, Daryan knowing just the right thing to say to hurt Klavier—and all of it wears him down, makes him feel like his soul has been sucked out, empty and lonely. He spares a moment to feel both proud and terrified of the way he’d compartmentalised all of this before, locking it away in the back of his mind and refusing to acknowledge it. He can’t do that now, not any more, because the thoughts refuse to fade. His mind won’t shut up and then somehow it’s Friday night again and in the past seven days, Klavier would be lucky if he could say he’s gotten even thirty hours of sleep. You look like shit, his mind informs him as he stares blearily into the mirror. It sounds like Daryan and he’s too tired to try forcing the thoughts out of his head. He puts his jacket on and walks into the night, suddenly cold since last week; he can’t remember when the weather changed. Daryan’s already at the piano by the time Klavier shuffles into the bar. He’s lost in the music and doesn’t look up when Klavier sits at the same table as before. It’s comforting to know that Daryan hasn’t been able to escape the pull of music. It almost makes up for the times Klavier’s strumming his own guitar and starts thinking up a counter melody for a second guitar. The piece Daryan’s playing tonight is one he’s written himself. Klavier knows, not because he’s heard it before, but because he recognises the style. There’s a pattern to it, the chords, the timing, the grouping of notes, that makes Klavier think of their old jam sessions. His only consolation is that if he’s dwelling on it, then Daryan is too and for a moment, Klavier feels a sudden, overwhelming ache to find some magical way to fix this, to make it all better again because he misses what they once were, as distant as it feels to him, now. He sits there, his bottle of beer mostly untouched, as he listens to Daryan play. When the music stops, Klavier looks up briefly, and it’s just long enough for Daryan to catch his eye. Klavier looks away, fixing his gaze on his bottle. Daryan sighs, sitting down a table over with his own drink, pushing the other chair out with his foot in obvious invitation. Klavier looks up at him and stands, leaving his bottle where it is. Daryan watches with a raised eyebrow and Klavier forces himself to look away, to turn and leave before he does something he might regret. The thing is, he regrets walking away all the way through the next week. It eats away at him and Kristoph notices, when he goes to visit. Kristoph knows him so well that he probably even knows why he’s so distracted. Klavier tries not to dwell on the fact that his brother knows everything about him when he apparently knows nothing in return. He asks himself why he forces himself through this. He hates these visits and it’s clear that Kristoph only humours him out of having very little else to do, yet he comes here regularly, the way he never had for Daryan. Kristoph has ruined so many lives, killed so many people, but Daryan… He stops the thought there, horrified to think that he’s defending Daryan—to himself, of all people. It’s different. It has to be. Kristoph is family, and Daryan is only—only the best friend he’s ever had, only someone he’d loved with everything he had. Klavier sighs, leaving the visitor’s room. This is why he’d pushed away all the thoughts of Daryan for so long. It’s far too easy to miss him, if he gives himself the chance. He returns to the bar once again on the following Friday. He’s better rested this time, and actually makes an effort not to look like the wreck that he’s been for the past few years. He sits at the same table as always, his gaze fixed on Daryan the entire time he plays. The music’s beautiful and Klavier doesn’t even try to keep himself from tapping his fingers against the table top to keep track of the rhythm, thinking of all the ways he can add to it with an acoustic guitar. Piano with guitar had always been more of Klavier’s thing. He tries not to think of Guitar’s Serenade. There’s scattered applause as always when Daryan stops playing and this time, Klavier joins in. Daryan turns in his seat—searching, Klavier realises with a sudden jolt, for him—and when their eyes meet, it’s Daryan who turns away first. He sits at a table by himself, not sparing Klavier a second glance. This is it. Klavier steels himself and gets up, taking his drink with him. “Can I sit?” Daryan looks up at him and shrugs. “Do whatever you want, man.” Klavier sits with a frown and Daryan rolls his eyes. “Now there’s an expression I don’t miss.” “I do hope you weren’t expecting me to be all smiles, Daryan.” “Seriously, man? I was expecting absolutely nothing from you. Considering that’s all I got so far.” He sounds bitter, angry, and Klavier knows that he’s using this tone specifically to get a rise out of him. He forces himself to stay calm as he looks at Daryan. “I can leave, if you’d prefer that.” “Stay here, damn it.” Daryan scowls, clearly hating the fact that he’s asking. Klavier can understand how he feels. He hates the way they can’t stay away from each other, and he says as much. Daryan chuckles, his expression darkening. This would be so easy if they just hated each other, but it’s a lot more complicated than that. They watch each other, silent and careful, the same way they did the first time they’d sized each other up for a fight. Finally, Daryan speaks up. “Should I even bother inviting you over to my place?” Klavier pauses for the briefest moment, recognising the tones their voices are taking, realising that they have a lot to talk about, and that it’s a very bad idea to do so in public. With a sigh, Klavier says, “If that was an invitation, then yes. Fine.” Daryan smiles grimly, downing the rest of his bottle and getting up. “This way, man.” “If you think I’m getting in a car with you—” Klavier begins, but he falls silent when Daryan looks over his shoulder at him, unimpressed. “We’re walking. Think your diva feet can handle it?” “Fuck you, Crescend,” Klavier mutters, pushing past him and out the door. He walks down the path until Daryan whistles for his attention, jerking his head in the opposite direction. “Wrong way, Gavin. Think you could let me lead for once?” “I hate you,” Klavier says savagely, even as he walks toward Daryan. “I loathe you. You’re the worst thing that has ever happened to me.” There’s a flicker of something in Daryan’s eyes—hurt, Klavier’s mind supplies, and it makes him feel like shit. But it’s not as bad as the fact that none of what he’d said is true. • Three.