Chapter Text
Winter in February had not been kind to Nanami Kento. Every day he trudged through narrow streets that had become wind tunnels, ice camouflaging itself along the asphalt, snowstorms and slush dirtied by the city. His attire was dark, and the world was grey. Even his dog, Argo, had taken to a false hibernation, snuggling beneath his special blanket on the couch and staring longingly out of the large windows spanning the walls of the loft apartment. Winter has hard, but the second month of the year was particularly cruel, so he was thankful when it had passed. Even if the weather hadn’t changed much, the beginning of March still signaled time passing. He was grateful. Or he thought he would be. Instead, like the past year and the one before, he’d felt lost.
None of that mattered when he heard the music.
It was late morning when he heard it. Nanami stood at his kitchen counter, staring into the rippling surface of his coffee, and preparing himself to brave the cold. Argo had already gone with him on his morning run, which had lasted a bit longer since the cold snap broke and was now comfortable on a patch of the floor warmed by the sun that managed to clear the sky that day. For that, he was grateful. Argo’s snore brought him back to the present, where he settled against the counter, drinking out of his mug. Even after calling out of work, he managed to rise without an alarm clock, cradling his pillow until the room brightened. And he was grateful for it. As impatient as he was, he liked to take his time. He ambled through his apartment, enjoying his time alone, and silencing his phone when the texts from Gojo began to disrupt his quiet. Nanami never realized he quite liked stillness until moving out on his own. After everything he’d been through, he felt he deserved it. It was well-earned, even though he was a few years from 30. Lord knows he’d lost enough by them. So, he took his time.
His phone continued to bother him as he left his apartment and ignored it well enough to greet his elderly neighbor and landlord, Mr. Kimura. Nanami smiled warmly and softly, to which the older man grinned and greeted him cheerily in Japanese. It’d been a joy to happen upon a historical building owned and maintained by someone who wanted nothing more than to have good people live in a beautiful place. Nanami shared so much history with Mr. Kimura, even if it existed on a different time frame, and each time they interacted, he often wondered what could have happened to make someone so generous. That day was no different, and it had warmed him to chat with someone who knew his first language, and after a gentle goodbye, Nanami decided he could no longer ignore the buzzing in his pocket. Glancing at Gojo’s name, he frowned but sighed, accepting that he was only to blame for his situation when he chose to answer.
“Why are you calling me?”
“I need signs of life. You’re fragile.”
“I sent a text 45 minutes ago asking to confirm plans.”
“And I confirmed with my texts!”
“A simple thumbs up would have sufficed.”
“Would you have accepted a simple thumbs up from me?”
“Yes.”
“But—“
Nanami didn’t hear whatever retort Gojo had thought up because it was then that he had heard it. The music. It was slow and sweet, rich melodic notes coming from somewhere beside him. He recognized the timbre as that of a piano, the quick precision of the keys, and the note extension that could only come from an intentional use of the pedals.
“Nanami—“
“Be quiet.”
He heard his friend release an outrageous gasp, and begin to grumble about something, and Nanami hastily confirmed their plans for the day before hanging up.
He strained until he could hear more, and moved closer until he was sure he looked strange, trying to follow sound floating through the stairwell. He had walked back towards his apartment, and Argo surely could smell him, since he could hear the faint jingle of the dog’s collar from behind the door as he rushed past it. Even that wasn’t enough to stop him from reaching the end of the hall, where he paused and closed his eyes. It wasn’t a song he recognized, but that did not keep him from swaying until he had to place his hand on the wall, letting it hold him up.
Until the musician jumbled a note and stopped playing altogether. Nanami almost cried out, and waited a few moments until they’d start again…but it doesn’t. And he let himself be disappointed, hovering for a while before retreating down the hallway. He stopped in on his own apartment, petting and snuggling Argo for a few minutes before leaving again, this time making his way out of the building completely before the phone rang again.
“Where am I meeting you?”
“The diner on Maple, 3 blocks from the train stop.”
He was wondering why Gojo chose a diner, but when he arrived, it made him happy to see that it was small. There was a counter a few older patrons sat at, enjoying coffee, a sandwich, and their preferred dessert, but it was quiet. Behind the counter were shelves to the ceiling decorated with trinkets, family pictures, odd pieces of décor and plants. On an old refrigerator there were drawings of people with large circular heads and spindly bodies, and he knew why Gojo picked it. Yu would’ve loved it there.
Nanami wanted to have a pout on his face at lunch with his friends, but upon seeing them all, looking warm as they laughed and leaned on each other, he couldn’t help the smile it brought to his face. Even Shoko’s smirking face was on the phone, propped up near the end of the table so she could see everyone. By the time he sat down, he could tell Gojo was in the middle of some asinine story that was prone to embarrass someone at the table. And by the slight grimace Utahime had on her face, it was likely her.
“So Yu sees her and immediately starts screaming bloody murder, because, oh my god, Hime is—she, she’s rolling around, pants slipping down to her knees, and you would not believe what is smeared up her side all the way to her armpit—”
“It was not my armpit, more like my ribs—”
“I think once you hit rib territory, that’s your armpit,” Gojo said, grabbing fries from the dishes in the middle of the table.
“Maybe the two of you because you’re so freakishly tall. It’s damn near impossible to reach your armpit.”
“What do you think, Shoko?”
“Nope, I’m working. Only person I’m entertaining today is Kento.”
“Was it above your elbow?” Geto asked, and Utahime’s face scrunched up in irritation.
“Yes.”
“That’s your fucking armpit!”
Nanami glanced around at the table and noticed the empty place next to him. He had thought it was meant for Shoko, but once he realized, another wave of sadness washed over him so quickly he felt dizzy and gripped the edge of the table.
Many laughs were shared over rounds of dishes, and for a while, Kento forgot to be sad, chiming in and sharing memories with the rest of his friends, repeating some missed dialogue or interaction into the phone so Shoko could stay caught up, even telling stories of his own that made him tear up in laughter. He always forgot how it felt to laugh until his stomach cramped.
The waitress came over holding a small cake with four lit candles and a knife that she set in the middle of the table. The silence that fell over them, especially Nanami, was noticeable and the smile on his face dropped slowly. They slid the cake down until it was set in front of the empty place next to him, and as Gojo leaned over to light the candles, Nanami made eye contact with Shoko, who mouthed “I love you” into the camera. Nanami watched each of his friends close their eyes and bow their heads, and he did the same, still unused to the tradition, and mouthed a prayer to his dead best friend.
Everyone looked up and at him when he cleared his throat, and Gojo raised his mug of hot chocolate, signaling everyone to follow him. Nanami was the last to lift his, and he could feel his throat tightening.
“To Yu Haibara,” He started, and it was unbelievably hard to know what to say that could capture all the love he felt. “There’s nobody better than you. I love you.”
“To Yu.” The toast was in sync, and everyone sipped from their mugs at the same time, and Nanami could not help the burning in his eyes or the slight wetness he felt in them when each of the four physically present blew out a candle on the cake. Utahime sliced and served it, cooing over how rich it must be given the inside of the cake, and Gojo politely offered to eat Shoko’s.
“So, Nanami, what were you doing when you very rudely told me to shut up and hung up on me?”
“He’s allowed to be rude today,” Shoko chimed in, face out of frame.
“And I wasn’t rude. I told you to be quiet, and I talked to you how I normally do.”
“I don’t think so,” Gojo pouted, shoving a fork full of cake into his mouth.
“Cite a conversation where I haven’t told you to shut up or a phone call where I haven’t hung up on you.”
“How’s that fair? You hardly answer the phone.”
“And when I do?” Nanami looked him dead in the eye, and when he lifted his eyebrow at him, Gojo scrunched his nose and stuck his tongue out in return. Clearly his version of admitting defeat.
“But what were you doing?” Geto asked.
“I heard music. One of my neighbors was playing piano and I wanted to listen.” Out of the corner of his eye, Nanami saw Shoko’s head perk up and look at him, and he tried to ignore it.
“Do you know who it was?”
“I know the apartment, but I don’t know who lives there. They must have moved in recently.” Geto leaned forward on his elbows, hand gesturing slightly as if to get him to continue. “They were very talented. It was unexpected, and I enjoyed it.”
The finality in his tone and the mood of the day both signlaed to everyone not to push it farther, so they did not. Nanami was surprised even by Gojo, who he’d expected to make a joke of him being a bad friend, but he didn’t. Utahime shared another funny story about Yu to finish their dessert, and after long hugs, they began to depart slowly. Shoko had ended her video call on Gojo’s phone, and when he exited the diner, he looked at his own screen to see her face pop up.
“How do you have so much time to talk on the phone? Isn’t this the busiest you’re supposed to be as a resident?”
“I have interns rounding on my patients.”
“Aren’t you worried they’ll kill someone?”
“I round on patients before and after the interns, and I’ll kill them before they have the chance to breathe wrong. Right now, I’m enjoying a snack.” Shoko was sat in an empty exam room, phone propped on a tray table as she munched on a bag of pretzels.
“And you chose to call me instead of micromanaging?”
“Of course I was going to call you. How are you doing, Kento?” Shoko asked gently, and Nanami blinked slowly, staring at her face. It was the first time someone asked him that that day.
“I miss him. More than I thought possible, like it happened yesterday, and it’s been 2 years.”
“Grief has no time frame. You know this.”
He did and could only sigh and sat on the bench outside the diner. He knew it was not a conversation he was going to get out of quickly.
“When you miss him, what do you do?”
“I text you. Or I do something else to distract my mind when I’m not at work.”
“Do you feel it?”
“Feel what?”
“The grief, Kento. Do you let yourself feel it?” He paused, rubbing his jaw.
“Not really. It hurts.”
“It’s supposed to. Yu was your best friend, and you’ve known him for so much of your life. You have a lot of love for him, and now it has nowhere to go.”
Shoko was right—but that was never new to him. As long as they’d been friends, he knew her to always be honest with him about his feelings, his behaviors, and even when he’d fucked up. Shoko always set him right.
“I have a thought.”
“You always have thoughts.” He smiled at the camera when she rolled her eyes and chuckled. “What are you thinking?”
“When was the last time you played anything?” He was silent and looked away from her in that moment. “You said you heard the music, and I imagine you walked down the hall until you figured out where it came from.”
“I did. It was…something came over me, I can’t explain it.”
“Maybe you should start playing music again. It’ll help you move through these feelings. I’m not saying you should become a concert level performer but give it a shot.”
Shoko watched him sigh through the screen, letting tears pool in his eyes and drip down his face. She leaned her cheek against her palm, wishing she could give him a hug through the screen.
“I don’t want to let him go.”
“You don’t ever have to, Kento. Keep loving him. And let yourself feel that love. Because he knew you loved him, too.”
He remained silent after that—what could he say in response? It was almost the only thing that could be a palm of the pain he felt of remembering his lost friend. Nothing but bringing Yu back go push it away, but being reassured that Yu knew how much Kento loved him…helped. So he sat quietly, listening to the miscellaneous noises coming from her end of the phone until a timer beeped in the background. Shoko said goodbye and he promised to talk again soon before she left him to his feelings, and he took the space to feel them.
When he returned, Argo greeted him and he smiled, letting it reach his swollen eyes as he scratched the sheepdog behind the ears, filling his bowl with food and a treat as an apology for the late lunch. When he stood upright again, he found himself staring directly at the harp. And was unable to look away from it.
Eventually, he silently paced in the living room, and Argo watched him from the couch, his tail wagging every few moments or so.
“It’s just staring at me. Do you see that?” Nanami looked at Argo, who stared at him, head tilted until he followed Nanami’s hand, gesturing at the harp sitting near the fireplace. He kept it tuned, took care of it, but hadn’t sat down to play in a very long time. It was nearly a decorative piece.
“What would I even play, Argo?” He muttered to himself before settling behind, leaning it on his right shoulder. He plucked experimentally, and blinked quickly, surprised from the warm feeling spreading throughout his chest. Nanami thought it a fluke at first, but it spread through his limbs, and he stood so quickly he stumbled as he filled a glass with water, kneading his chest with his knuckles to soothe the ache that surfaced.
“I can do it, I’ll do it. Just one. We can do a scale,” he practically whispered to himself in encouragement flexing his fingers before he settled behind it again. It took another couple minutes for him to raise his hands to the strings, and even hovering near them made them tremble with anticipation.
He held his breath as a plucked slowly, letting each note ring for two beats before moving to the next, and he breathed a bit easier when he completed the scale, the sound echoing in his ears.
He meant to get up then, to walk away. Instead, Nanami let his fingers lead him slowly until another scale moved from his fingertips. Argo watched as Nanami played, the sounds new to his ears for the first time. When he stopped playing, he sat, sniffling, until his throat constricted and tears poured down his face, and Argo came to him, laying his head in his lap. Nanami laid his hand on Argo’s head, petting him softly.
“You’re good. So good.” And Argo stayed still, feeling wet drops slide into his fur until they stopped.
**
Erika and Lark were sprawled across the floor when you walked into the living room, and you dropped a bottle of water on each of them, smirking at the slight groan at the impact.
“Why did we agree to help you?” Erika complained, and you peered over her, squinting as you looked directly in her face.
“Because it was your idea for me to move here?”
“You have so much shit.”
“Yeah, because it’s my entire life. At least I got you some water.” She groaned and sat up, begrudgingly accepting the bottle of water. She gulped it down and Lark snorted as you walked into the kitchen.
“You drinking like you been in the desert for 40 days and nights.”
“Might as well have been, it’s hot as hell in here.”
“I know you ain’t breathing heavy,” Lark turned away from Erika’s glare to avoid laughing at her. She moved to the kitchen to help you, loading the dishwasher while you unpacked them.
“It’s been a long day, Erika.”
“Girl, she hired movers. You ain’t even lift anything.” At that, you burst out laughing, only able to see the wrinkle in Erika’s forehead from behind the kitchen island.
“Anyway…” Erika stood, taking out her phone, beads on the ends of her braids tinkling together. “Lunch is on me. Sandwiches good?”
“Always,” You called over, and she gave a thumbs up, bopping back and forth as she tapped away on her phone. You looked over at Lark, who started on the next box after the dishwasher began to thrum. “Thanks for helping me unpack.”
“Well, we been trying to get you to move for a while, and we’re happy you’re here.” There was thick subtext beneath her careful choice of words, and you knew. A small smile grew on your face.
“Go ahead and say it.”
“Say what?”
“What you thinking. You always thinking something.”
“Nothing I wanna say. Just glad you’re here.”
“What she wanna say is ‘We’re happy you’re giving yourself a chance to be happy and this move will make you come unstuck’. Or something like that,” Erika called, taking a box cutter to the full box of pans on the other side of the island.”
“What she means is—”
“I know what you mean, and I’m happy to be here too,” You replied, taking a sip of water to keep from getting choked up. Erika came around the edge of the counter and planted a kiss on your forehead and you leaned against her in response.
“So when do you start work? What’s going on there?”
“I started shadowing the counselors next week, so I still got some time to unpack. It’s like a fellowship before I see patients. Once I figure that out, maybe I’ll do lessons again.”
“Who will you be working with?”
“Kids.” At that Lark smiled and rubbed your shoulder, and you beamed. “Piano tuner came this morning before y’all, so I’m all set to play when I want to.”
“And how’s your hands?” Erika asked as gently as she could, and you shrugged.
“Winter is always hard, and this is coldest month. So there’s good and bad.” You tried to remain optimistic, but the pain in your hands was more constant during the first couple months of the year. As long as you remained busy, or hand something warm in between them, you could ignore the dull ache. Like then. It was when it escalated to throbbing or pulsing that you began to lose function.
“I know it’s been a while, but don’t go too hard. You need your hands.”
“Whatever’s left of them, you mean,” you said, a sudden wave of bitterness.
“Nah, they’re all there. And whatever you can’t carry, we’re here to hold.” Lark reached out to lift your left hand and kissed the knuckles gently, her thumbs massaging them while Erika held your right between hers. It was so intimate, so caring, that the tears came back to your eyes, and this time you didn’t fight it.
“What would I do without y’all?”
“Probably drop something,” Erika quipped, and you snatched your hand away to lightly smack her, laughing when she dipped backwards to dodge it. Her phone rang and she hurried to meet the delivery at the door, while Lark dove into some other box, asking where to put its contents.
You massaged your hands, rubbing them together. Right then, after so long of doing hard things alone, it felt so good to not have to anymore.
A few days passed of you unpacking and rushing around the apartment, and once the boxes cleared out, it began to feel like your space. It was a gorgeous loft in a historic building restored by an older couple who refused to design based on modern trends. Even a lap around the living room made you take sight of the exposed brick and stained glass in the doors and high windows. Sometimes it was hard to believe everything had worked out so smoothly.
There was still about a week until work was to begin, and nearly everything was unpacked, apart from décor to be hung. Yet, time seemed to stand still and pass so slowly. When Erika and Lark weren’t busy with their own work, you managed to spend time with them, but it was a day where you were left to your own devices. So, after eyeing the piano sat so beautifully beneath your bed, you finally sat at it, stretching your fingers across the keys.
Morning was nearly gone, so it was a reasonable hour to practice, and when you skirted off a few scales, you launched into one of your favorite songs, something to refamiliarize your hands with the stretch you often asked of them. You hummed along with it, only glancing at the sheet music in confirmation of the next measure when you were not sure muscle memory would carry you through.
For having learned the instrument as an adult, you were proud of being able to perform complex pieces that matched your dedication for the instrument and your commitment to being better. It’d only been three years since you first sat at one, but your progress was noticeable. Even better, your hands had come so far in their healing. Still, it was hard to be gentle and acknowledge your progress when it was quickly disrupted. Like then.
A tiny shift in your wrist caused pain to shoot up your wrist and into your fingertips, and it felt like your left hand was on fire.
“Fuck!” And you stopped playing abruptly, cradling it against you until it subsided, breathing and flexing through the pain. Your physical therapist had told you there would be frequent bouts of pain due to the nerve damage, and while you wanted to be patient, it often came with the slightest wrong move. Naturally, the weather outside was not helping but you couldn’t help the pout on your face as you walked away from the bench, reaching for the warm compress to increase the circulation and keep it from going numb.
“It’s a journey not a destination,” you muttered bitterly as you settled into the couch with a bowl of cereal. For now, a movie would do.
The next day, after trekking to the grocery store, you came back to your apartment to see a note on the door. And you stared it for a few minutes before carefully taking it down, holding it in your hands.
Thank you for playing. You brought me back to myself. Please play longer next time.