In the velvet dark of the old music hall, the piano’s a concert for the unforgiven.
Osamu steadies his grip on the curtains, paints himself into reddened shadows. Every breath, every rustle is a susurration on the musty breeze that stirs these lush interiors, high ceilings filigreed in gaudy, tarnished gold. Abandoned, or so he’d thought. There are cobwebs on the front doors, and the paint on the facade’s long faded into dust and sickly pale sepia, a kind of shade more forgotten than truly vintage. Abandoned, and yet—
As Osamu lets go, surrenders, he realises the piano is perfectly in tune.
"I've been expecting you," says the figure on the bench. On cue, a stage light blinks, sputters into weary life.
Osamu’s first thought is: he’s smaller than they say.
Clad in a well-cut black jacket with folded red cuffs that peek out from the sleeves, he does not turn. He sits, poised for performance; his posture would have made their old maestro cry, if not his touch on this étude. His fingers pick out arpeggios like flickering switchblades, and they sing, silver-tongued.
“Don't stand on ceremony, Osamu," Kita Shinsuke remarks. His voice is like black tea, without sugar. "Come closer. I've always been partial to Liszt."
He's—
“A monster.”
Osamu, a sigh trapped between his lips, tips his chin sideways to face a familiar footstep, and a smirk that’s more familiar still. It has never been the mirror of his. For that, he knows it better than Atsumu does himself.
Atsumu emerges from the wings, tie loose around his collar and shirt half-untucked. He’s got his hands in his pockets as he saunters forward, closes the distance between himself and Osamu.
“Anyone who can play Liszt like that is a monster. I know what you’re thinking, Osamu. By the way, I think you have something of ours.”
Atsumu stops, reaches out to brush the back of his hand against Osamu’s lapels, runs his fingertips down the front of his jacket. Osamu watches. He keeps his breathing even as a thread snags in one of Atsumu’s nails, snaps away.
“You still bite your nails,” he murmurs.
“I wouldn’t bite my nails if a certain phantom thief didn’t have such a nasty habit of sneaking into our hideouts,” says Atsumu, a petulant pout on the corner of his mouth.
His fingers find the docket of papers in Osamu’s jacket lining, and he presses closer, raises his eyebrows.
Osamu meets his gaze without blinking.
"Are you going to shoot me?" he asks, because he knows Atsumu will not lie to him.
Atsumu shrugs. He takes a half-step back, glances towards the piano and nods at Kita.
“Only if he says so. But don't worry. It won't hurt. Just for you, brother mine, I'll make it fast.”
The piano swells, grandiose, and still Kita says nothing, makes no gesture. The very dust around him seems to rise, a tempest that’s been waiting, waiting, patient and dormant and deadly. Osamu tries to find the embrace of another shadow, but there is no place he can hide now.
Atsumu lights up a cigarette and offers Osamu one too. The scent is intoxicating. Osamu’s on the verge of accepting, when the music stops. It stops, not with a dramatic flourish but with the hint of a whisper, with finality that blossoms like a bruising kiss, and Kita turns at last.
Osamu swallows. Atsumu takes a long, unhurried puff, breathes out, lets the smoke swirl slowly around them both.
"Now, Atsumu, don't be uncivilised. Why would I want you to shoot him?"
Atsumu scuffs his shoes into a loose floorboard. “Why not?”
“I’d probably shoot me,” Osamu concurs.
Kita makes a sympathetic tutting sound. “Osamu, Osamu. You’re more than that. You’ve broken into two of my warehouses, infiltrated the back of my bar, and now you’re here in one of my favourite hideouts in the city. You’ve even got some papers from my private safe in your pocket. Impressive.”
Osamu doesn’t miss the way Atsumu’s hand drops to his side, where his revolver should be. It’s not there now, but the thought doesn’t reassure him, not for a second. They have never needed guns to win a fight, for well-brought-up young boys who made the streets their playground as much as their mansion learned that everything could be a weapon, and they’ve got more than mere guns at their disposal.
“Like I said,” says Osamu, “I’d probably shoot me.”
“And that’s why you’re thieving for a small-time gang, and I—am the head of a family. I prefer to think long-term.”
Kita stands up. He folds his arms, looks Osamu straight in the eye.
“You’re just doing your job. I have a better job for someone with your talents. Join us. Be my bodyguard.”
“Excuse me, boss,” Atsumu interrupts, in a lazy drawl. “You have a bodyguard.”
Kita cocks his head towards Atsumu. “You’ll be his partner.”
Osamu stares. “Excuse me?”
Atsumu’s mouth falls open. The cigarette drops, and Kita crosses the stage, puts it out with the toe of his finely-polished boot without missing a beat.
“I’m serious,” he says to Osamu. “And I can guarantee you some excellent benefits. But don’t take my word for it.”
Even before Kita’s finished, Atsumu’s already whirled round on his heel, grabbed Osamu by the shoulders so hard that Osamu thinks he might break a bone, or two; he’s always been like this, so awfully impulsive, heart on his sleeve, and Osamu aches to think about it, feels that ragged pang twist in his chest again. Atsumu, fists up, tears running down his face—Atsumu, with his knuckles grazed and bloody on the day they took Osamu—
It’s been a decent enough life, Osamu supposes. He has lived, survived. He never thought to dream of anything different.
“Samu,” Atsumu breathes, and for that smile, Osamu would build empires, softly, softly.
FILL: TEAM GRANDSTAND, T
Other Tags: Smoking
Word Count: 991
This is the piano piece I imagine playing in this fic: Liszt's Transcendental Etude No. 4
***
In the velvet dark of the old music hall, the piano’s a concert for the unforgiven.
Osamu steadies his grip on the curtains, paints himself into reddened shadows. Every breath, every rustle is a susurration on the musty breeze that stirs these lush interiors, high ceilings filigreed in gaudy, tarnished gold. Abandoned, or so he’d thought. There are cobwebs on the front doors, and the paint on the facade’s long faded into dust and sickly pale sepia, a kind of shade more forgotten than truly vintage. Abandoned, and yet—
As Osamu lets go, surrenders, he realises the piano is perfectly in tune.
"I've been expecting you," says the figure on the bench. On cue, a stage light blinks, sputters into weary life.
Osamu’s first thought is: he’s smaller than they say.
Clad in a well-cut black jacket with folded red cuffs that peek out from the sleeves, he does not turn. He sits, poised for performance; his posture would have made their old maestro cry, if not his touch on this étude. His fingers pick out arpeggios like flickering switchblades, and they sing, silver-tongued.
“Don't stand on ceremony, Osamu," Kita Shinsuke remarks. His voice is like black tea, without sugar. "Come closer. I've always been partial to Liszt."
He's—
“A monster.”
Osamu, a sigh trapped between his lips, tips his chin sideways to face a familiar footstep, and a smirk that’s more familiar still. It has never been the mirror of his. For that, he knows it better than Atsumu does himself.
Atsumu emerges from the wings, tie loose around his collar and shirt half-untucked. He’s got his hands in his pockets as he saunters forward, closes the distance between himself and Osamu.
“Anyone who can play Liszt like that is a monster. I know what you’re thinking, Osamu. By the way, I think you have something of ours.”
Atsumu stops, reaches out to brush the back of his hand against Osamu’s lapels, runs his fingertips down the front of his jacket. Osamu watches. He keeps his breathing even as a thread snags in one of Atsumu’s nails, snaps away.
“You still bite your nails,” he murmurs.
“I wouldn’t bite my nails if a certain phantom thief didn’t have such a nasty habit of sneaking into our hideouts,” says Atsumu, a petulant pout on the corner of his mouth.
His fingers find the docket of papers in Osamu’s jacket lining, and he presses closer, raises his eyebrows.
Osamu meets his gaze without blinking.
"Are you going to shoot me?" he asks, because he knows Atsumu will not lie to him.
Atsumu shrugs. He takes a half-step back, glances towards the piano and nods at Kita.
“Only if he says so. But don't worry. It won't hurt. Just for you, brother mine, I'll make it fast.”
The piano swells, grandiose, and still Kita says nothing, makes no gesture. The very dust around him seems to rise, a tempest that’s been waiting, waiting, patient and dormant and deadly. Osamu tries to find the embrace of another shadow, but there is no place he can hide now.
Atsumu lights up a cigarette and offers Osamu one too. The scent is intoxicating. Osamu’s on the verge of accepting, when the music stops. It stops, not with a dramatic flourish but with the hint of a whisper, with finality that blossoms like a bruising kiss, and Kita turns at last.
Osamu swallows. Atsumu takes a long, unhurried puff, breathes out, lets the smoke swirl slowly around them both.
"Now, Atsumu, don't be uncivilised. Why would I want you to shoot him?"
Atsumu scuffs his shoes into a loose floorboard. “Why not?”
“I’d probably shoot me,” Osamu concurs.
Kita makes a sympathetic tutting sound. “Osamu, Osamu. You’re more than that. You’ve broken into two of my warehouses, infiltrated the back of my bar, and now you’re here in one of my favourite hideouts in the city. You’ve even got some papers from my private safe in your pocket. Impressive.”
Osamu doesn’t miss the way Atsumu’s hand drops to his side, where his revolver should be. It’s not there now, but the thought doesn’t reassure him, not for a second. They have never needed guns to win a fight, for well-brought-up young boys who made the streets their playground as much as their mansion learned that everything could be a weapon, and they’ve got more than mere guns at their disposal.
“Like I said,” says Osamu, “I’d probably shoot me.”
“And that’s why you’re thieving for a small-time gang, and I—am the head of a family. I prefer to think long-term.”
Kita stands up. He folds his arms, looks Osamu straight in the eye.
“You’re just doing your job. I have a better job for someone with your talents. Join us. Be my bodyguard.”
“Excuse me, boss,” Atsumu interrupts, in a lazy drawl. “You have a bodyguard.”
Kita cocks his head towards Atsumu. “You’ll be his partner.”
Osamu stares. “Excuse me?”
Atsumu’s mouth falls open. The cigarette drops, and Kita crosses the stage, puts it out with the toe of his finely-polished boot without missing a beat.
“I’m serious,” he says to Osamu. “And I can guarantee you some excellent benefits. But don’t take my word for it.”
Even before Kita’s finished, Atsumu’s already whirled round on his heel, grabbed Osamu by the shoulders so hard that Osamu thinks he might break a bone, or two; he’s always been like this, so awfully impulsive, heart on his sleeve, and Osamu aches to think about it, feels that ragged pang twist in his chest again. Atsumu, fists up, tears running down his face—Atsumu, with his knuckles grazed and bloody on the day they took Osamu—
It’s been a decent enough life, Osamu supposes. He has lived, survived. He never thought to dream of anything different.
“Samu,” Atsumu breathes, and for that smile, Osamu would build empires, softly, softly.