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Why am I here again?
Why am I doing this again?
The instant Haruto stepped onto the stage, the heavy silence shattered under a barrage of applause, loud and unrelenting like a storm's core where any misstep could rip him apart amid the crowd's fervour. Spotlights pinned his compact, solitary frame in place, flooding him with unwanted scrutiny that made his breath hitch—not from a fear of mistakes, but from the predatory gaze of an audience he could only describe as ravenous demons eager to devour him whole. The path to the piano stretched out endlessly, longer than the tangled network of veins in his body, and his shoes felt glued to the polished floor beneath. This venue, drenched in echoes of acclaim and opulent prestige, was, for Haruto now, nothing more than a larger hell, insatiable and vast, where these unintelligible creatures take pride in harassing him. When he finally reached the keys, he offered a curt bow, dipping just his head in a gesture so restrained it bordered on defiance, as if reluctant to lower himself before their audiences. His bangs shifted across his eyes, but beyond them, the ghostly silhouettes resembled court watchers —perhaps old teachers or former classmates he'd once bantered with—but now they were all transformed into this insatiable, grotesque being devoid of any art appreciation, only here to see him fail the case and swallowing shit up.
Fuck the audience.
Fuck humanity.
Fuck life.
Haruto settled into the bench with no delay, though the chair was squeaky, and a bit too low for his liking, but bearing this blaze that burns his body, his heart, his soul up in flames for any second is simply too much. As he pressed down the keys, ghosts of keys screamed in an amalgamation of torment and understanding. Upon hearing the ghastly notes he played, his dinner was demanding escape - everything was just wrong. The keys chased him, interrogating him why an artist of his calibre has to play them with such fervent disrespect, it is not like he can play them elegantly and consideringly. It is kind of funny - why were his live performances always “heated with an intensity too big for life?”, as critics and his friends always say?
HAVEN’T YOU HEARD WHAT YOUR HEART SAYS?
You, the audience, were always judging, too fast, too slow, too loud, too soft, too bland, too personal, too emotional. I know what you think, of course, we all do that too, but don’t you hear how selfish, disgusting, and egocentric you are sounding? Two thousand spectators, each demanding a unique piece—one craves a limb, another an organ—and you have so little to give: ten fingers, two feet, one heart. They'd consume your entire being and life if they could, hoarding it selfishly to inject meaning into their own drab existences by shelling out cash for "music." If your stubby, centimetre-length fingers fall short—and that's when the real drama unfolds. Before any critique of the music itself, you've already soured someone's evening, and they're likely muttering curses about how you've wasted your existence controlling mere sound waves with your finger that should’ve stayed stuck in your ass. Good job!
That’s not fuckin’ art at all. It should be so precious that any ounce of expectation contaminates it.
For who knows how long, the recital ended with bursts of bravo and claps that seemed to go on for ages. Returning to the backstage, endless praise and liveliness suffocate him, like cockroaches swarming into his brain through his ear canal.
“Congratulations! It was a stunning recital, your playing was as dramatic and fiery as your last recital 6 years ago!”
To all, Haruto laughed in response.
“Thank you. I know.”
…
“That… doesn’t explain much.” Kouki scratched his head, puzzled by the lengthy story that explained nothing of what he was asking.
“Basically, after a bullshit recital, I came here looking for alcohol for a meltdown!” Haruto exclaimed, slamming his hands on the keyboard in a childish outburst. “This bar’s nice… reallllll niceeeee… I love it.”
“No, I mean, uhm… what are you shouting for just now?” That happened just before the pianist vented about his recital, just when Kouki played a few Chopin pieces on this antique piano tucked away at the corner of the bar.
“Oh… ahah. You play so well. I haven’t heard poetic playing like that in such a longgggg time… What’s your name, little buddy? You work here? Hehe.” Haruto, well drunk after 5 cocktails in a gay bar, was now tracing his hand on the neck of the bartender.
“... Just call me Kouki.” His idol's arrival at the bar, followed by this tipsy praise, sent a flush to Kouki's cheeks; though having to keep his cool intact, he pushed away the finger tracing down to his collarbone.
“Heh, you’re cute. Sooooo damn cute! What’s it feel like being praised by the most pathetic pianist in history?” Wearing a grin unbothered, the pianist continued to test the bartender by poking his arm, seemingly a different person than the whiner just now.
“... Okay, Sato-san, you need some water.” Kouki rose calmly from the piano, moved behind the counter, and poured a glass of iced water for the inebriated musician.
“Oh-C’MON!!!! I am sincere! I mean it!” Smacking the table, he gulped the iced water as if chugging down another gallon of beer. “Both your face and your music.”
Bashful to the point of wordlessness, Kouki stepped away from the counter and resumed his cleaning to keep his cool. “Sato-san, the bar is going to close in 10 minutes. Please get going soon.”
“Awwgh… when was it 2 o’clock? Don’t call me…. sssato-san, I AM HARUTO! HARRRRUTOOOO!!!”
The incoherent rambling persisted until Kouki finished tidying and found the pianist slumped asleep on the counter. Principled as he was, Kouki couldn't just bundle his idol into a cab in this state. After some internal debate, he half-carried Haruto the short distance to his nearby apartment.
Still ashamed to use the first name, he stuttered after opening the door to his flat, “um… Sato-san, you could stay here until you feel like more of yourself.”
"Heh, one cute bartender hauls me home—I'm still damn young, fuck you, 29!" Haruto quipped with a cheeky smirk, collapsing to the floor in a heap.
“I’m 30 though…”
“You look like 21…” Haruto squinted up at him playfully, sprawling out while Kouki rummaged in the fridge for a sports drink.
“Hey, have some.”
“You’re too kind…” Haruto gently took over the bottle from others’ hands, gulping down a good amount of it. “Will you too fuck me with kindness? Heh?”
Caught off guard by the invitation, storming a whole new thunder of debate in his head, his tired mind was again kick-started. He assessed Haruto, who slumped into the corner of his entryway, and was in perfect shape for him. The concert gear under the overshirt with its button slightly loosened, his small stature and rather pale anatomy under the shirt could be well-appreciated, or to say, drool-dropping. But he, a loyal music fan of his, is going to contaminate the perfect image of this holy person, if it hadn’t been done by the artist’s complaint, even further down the gutter? Not only could he probably not forgive himself for taking advantage of someone drunk, but this drunkyard is being the one he looked up to; that is simply a whole lot to regret post-haste.
“... You should take a shower first before you say nonsense, if you ain’t leaving soon.” At last, the demon won the tugging war. “I’ll get you hot water prepared.”
“Yay~” Haruto stretched out his arms in a childlike invitation for a lonely embrace, and Kouki not only obliged but lifted him effortlessly to the bed. For Haruto, nothing felt better than someone willing to pound away his troubles and inner turmoil.
A breezy shower didn’t take too long, as Kouki did all the work to make sure that he did not faint in his bathroom. Just as the split second they entered the bedroom, Haruto surged forward, knocked Kouki back onto the bed and climbed astride him, kissing like he was trying to pour everything unsaid into it. No pauses, no gentle buildup. Just the same relentless intensity he brought to the keys, as if silence itself was the enemy.
-----------------------------------------
It had been an hour or two, anyhow incomprehensible for the duo. Splattered in various juices, Haruto had finally gotten his drunken mind out of the matter, but what old friends awaited him were depression and anxiety. He glanced across the bed, Kouki seemed to be sleeping tight and fine, but he ain’t, not that he despised, he wished to, so much more than his pills allowed. Rolling out of the comfortable blankets, Haruto snatched a box of cigarettes from the pocket of his pants, now lying on the open floor. In boxer briefs and a flailing white shirt, he got to the balcony through a neatly decorated living room. There was some accompaniment on the balcony, aside from pots of lovely flowers that were probably used for cocktails; sounds of mingling could also be heard somewhere near, maybe a few apartments away. Being the tallest building in the area, he got a nice view of the glamour of the city, though hardly shimmering at 4 am, under the pitch blackness that he so longingly wished to emerge in.
Just as he lit a cigarette, a crackling sound caught him off guard, the door to the balcony sliding open. “Hey,” Kouki said, voice still rough from sleep and everything before it. He stepped out, wrapped only in a loose jacket, bare beneath.
“Yo.” Haruto’s gaze flicked over him—refined muscle lines, what a good fuck it was—and exhaled smoke into the dim city glow.
“Awake from the alcohol yet?”
“Sadly so.” A blow of smoke into the endless urban glow, Haruto tilted the pack, “Want one?”
Kouki’s mouth curved faintly. “I don’t smoke. But if it’s with you…”
Haruto laughed under his breath. “Don’t get addicted.” He cupped the lighter, shielding the flame. Kouki leaned in, cigarette catching fire on the first try. Silence settled for a moment, broken only by distant moanings drifting from another apartment and the low hum of the traffic below.
“You know, I hadn’t got such a nice pump in a while. Ain’t huge but damn good.”
“I’m honoured.” Flustered, Kouki brushed a finger under his nose. “Not in a million years would I picture having sex with you, of all the people I met in the bar.”
“Isn’t it fun? Life’s so unpredictable.” Haruto shrugged, then nodded toward the living room visible through the glass. “I hope your fan image hasn’t been broken.” He pointed to the huge collection of his records in the living room.
With a sigh, the bartender had to feel more conflicted than privileged. Kouki followed his gaze to the shelf of records—too many of them Haruto’s own. He exhaled slowly. “You started it. I didn’t need to know certain… details about my idol.” It wasn’t the most pleasant experience to ruin an ideal image in your own hands, and things were indeed quite raw and memorable an hour ago. But it was his decision.
“Heh, but, no matter what, I love your music-making, Haruto.”
“Why?” He turned away, his gaze lingering elsewhere, seemingly uninterested in the answer.
“... I have read a dozen reviews of your controversial recordings, but I think you speak for yourself.”
Climbing his finger across the stacks of vinyls, flipping through various colourful records, Kouki pulled out a vinyl, a picture of an empty living room, with the words “Brahms Intermezzi, Opp.117, 118 & Op.119” sitting at the corner of the cover. He glanced at the balcony, seeing that the pianist was not interested enough to come back in, he fit the vinyl through the stick, and began spinning it anyway.
As the needle came in contact with the grooves, gentle piano music followed a nostalgic pop. As the delicate piano tone lingered in the air, another sigh escaped Haruto’s mouth. His fingers trembling, his arm unable to remain still, his body shivering upon listening to his sound. How awful playing it is.
“What’s your point?” Haruto couldn’t bear the sound and lifted the needle from the vinyl.
“I am certainly no musician to begin with, but…” Kouki landed the hovering needle on the track he knew so well, the Op.117 No.3. As the Intermezzo unfolded, Kouki didn't speak. He just held Haruto's hand against his chest, letting the music fill the silence. Haruto's fingers curled involuntarily against the warmth, his breath catching on a note that sounded too much like sobbing.
“It’s like nothing I have heard. I hear you talk through the notes, I hear the suffering you are sharing, you… Frankly enough, being yourself.”
“... Not At All.” He was determined to stop the track, just as his hand reached to the vinyl player, Kouki held his wrist tight, despite his attempt to fling away his gripping fist.
"Let me go! I have had enough!"
"Just for once, listen."
“You understand nothing, you shitty bartender!” In an outburst, Haruto blocked his ear as his touch and sound corrupt him inch by inch. “This is why I get shitty reviews! That’s why I changed my style! I did all this to-”
“To please the audience.” Kouki held out another hand, holding the pianist in tears. “I am a bartender, I know what disguises I have to wear. The wise bartender who everyone vents their shits to, and tries to give unsolicited advice to people who probably have more life experience than me. I know that feeling of being used by the audience.”
“Don’t you dare to say you know what I have been through… You know nothing!”
“Hear what you really want to say, Haruto.” Kouki pulled him into a hug and gently took away the hands blocking his ears, and only for Haruto to shrink into his body further as he listened.
“You used all you can to tell a story, and… it made me realise there’s someone who knows the pain I am experiencing.”
“…”
“It feels like you enjoy being yourself.”
“I…”
The rubber band had finally snapped.
Haruto's knees buckled. He folded forward into Kouki's chest, a broken sound escaping him—not quite a sob, not quite a laugh. His fingers dug into the jacket like he was trying to anchor himself to something solid. Tears came hot and sudden, soaking the fabric in dark patches. Kouki didn't shush him, didn't move. Just held on, one hand cradling the back of Haruto's head like he was something fragile, finally allowed to break.
“I hate myself for still loving what I did before my hiatus.” Amidst chaos, Haruto finally found a gasp of air to catch his breath. “But… I need those exaggerated actions and fake passion to reach more audiences and give them a reason to love me, other than doing what I do.”
“I must lie to survive, but no matter how, I still want to live honestly.”
The track ended, and Haruto lifted the needle himself. Kouki offered a gentle kiss on the forehead, as no additional words would have further explained how much he treasures the existence of Haruto; he had made his point across.
“Sorry for dumping all that on you.”
“That’s my job, Haruto,” Kouki said, a faint smile tugging at his mouth as he mimed straightening an invisible tie.
Haruto huffed a wet laugh. “One of thousands of lost little lambs, right?”
“You’re the one who got special service.” Kouki pinched his cheek lightly, like reprimanding a kid. “Don’t tell the others.”
A real chuckle broke through then, small and surprised. The breeze from the open door lifted Haruto’s damp hair; this time, he didn’t brush it away. He met Kouki’s eyes—steady, unflinching, asking for nothing but what was already there.
“Hey, Kouki.” Haruto’s voice dropped, his playful edge creeping back in. “Wanna round two?”
Kouki groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re impossible.” But his body had responded before he did so with his mouth. “Pretty sure your company wouldn’t approve,” he added.
“Already been thoroughly ruined by your cock,” Haruto said, grinning through the tear tracks. “Might as well finish the job.”
“You’re the one who said my technique was good.”
“Wait till I fuck your brains out.”
Laughter spilt between them as they stumbled back inside, the balcony door sliding shut on the quiet city. Moans and breathless gasps rose soon after, tangled with a pain that hadn’t vanished—but for the first time, shared without judgment. In the half-lit room, two hypocrites finally dropped their masks, if only until morning.