The applause was still going when the monitor flickered, cutting briefly to black before the camera caught up. For a second the room was plunged into a hush of static, and then the image returned—stage lights blazing, Takeshi Aiza in the middle of the screen, bowing to a storm that refused to end.
The sound system in the monitor room strained to contain it. The small speaker buzzed, rattling like it was close to tearing, every clap magnified, every whistle stretched thin. The applause was too big for the box it was being forced through, and the screen seemed to tremble under it, colors blurring at the edges as if the stage itself was shaking.
Kousei didn't flinch. His arms hung loose at his sides, his eyes steady on the glowing rectangle. The light carved his face pale, sharp, like someone had erased the warmth from him and left only outline. Beside him, Emi Igawa stood rooted, posture flawless, as though her spine had been poured into a mold. She hadn't moved since the first note. Her hands were folded neatly behind her back, locked there like they were handcuffed. Her expression was still—no smile, no frown, only a line across her lips and eyes that didn't blink.
The applause began to wane in waves, the first surge softening, only to rise again when Takeshi straightened for a second bow. The crowd refused to let him go.
And then Emi spoke.
"It's your fault."
Her voice slipped between the dying waves of clapping, quiet but clean, a blade laid gently on a table.
Kousei's head tilted, just enough to acknowledge it. "...Hm?"
"You're the one who pushed Takeshi that far," she said. Her gaze never left the screen. Her tone was so neutral it almost didn't sound like an accusation, but the words cut regardless. "Everything he just poured out there—it was to catch you. That's what the piano was telling me."
Her voice didn't rise or fall. No emphasis, no dramatics. Just an even line, like a measure marked in ink.
Kousei finally turned, watching her profile under the monitor's glow. Her features were calm, too calm—forehead smooth, mouth pressed flat, no giveaway in her cheekbones. She looked carved, like marble pretending to breathe.
"And you?" His words were soft, almost curious.
Her eyes flicked toward his. For the briefest second, the glow caught in her pupils like a flare. "Don't make me laugh."
The words fell like a lid closing. Her face didn't shift. It was the lack of movement that made it hit harder.
Kousei let his lips thin, but he didn't reply. On screen, Takeshi bent into another bow. The camera cut angles clumsily, catching the crowd mid-rise from their seats, hands clapping above their heads. Then the feed blinked and cut back to the stage emptying, light spilling over nothing.
---
The door swung open with a squeal of hinges. Heavy, uneven footsteps clattered against the floor outside.
Takeshi stumbled in. His shirt clung wet to his chest, dark patches spreading where sweat had soaked through. His collar had collapsed under the damp, his sleeves rolled too high, clinging to his forearms. Strands of hair stuck across his forehead, plastered down by heat. His breath came ragged, chest heaving in waves, every inhale sharp, every exhale dragged. His eyes shone too brightly, a feverish gleam that looked equal parts triumph and collapse.
His hands trembled. Not small tremors, but full shakes, like the piano keys had left their vibration embedded in his bones. He flexed them once, uselessly, as though to prove he still had control.
A man with a clipboard hovered beside him, patting his shoulder with brisk approval. "Good job, good job," he repeated, tone mechanical, like the words were stamped onto the back of the board itself.
Emi's hands unfolded from behind her back. Her shoes tapped softly as she stepped forward. At the same moment, Kousei moved too. Neither acknowledged the other; they simply converged toward him, their paths almost identical.
Takeshi's gaze shot up. Despite the exhaustion dripping from him, his grin spread wide, almost manic. His arm lifted—jerking, shaky—and he pointed directly at Kousei, finger quivering like the last note of a tremolo.
"How was that!?" His voice cracked on the first word. "Did you see that, Arima!?"
The question burst out like steam released from pressure.
Kousei's mouth curved. A smile—small, controlled, but real. "You were amazing."
The air between them shifted, subtly but completely.
Emi's eyes widened fractionally. Takeshi's grin faltered, then re-formed into something softer. He blinked fast, as though trying to make sense of what he'd just heard. The edges of his manic energy bent inward, melting into sheepishness. His hand dropped, rubbing at the back of his neck, the motion awkward, boyish. A laugh sputtered out of him.
"Heh... thanks. It was nothing, really, just—"
"But..."
The interruption landed like a bow pressed too hard into strings, a jarring scrape of sound that silenced everything else.
Emi's head snapped to him. Takeshi froze mid-laugh, mouth still open, breath suspended.
Eh... why not? Perhaps stirring their competitive spirits wouldn't hurt.
Kousei's expression didn't change. His eyes were calm, his tone even. "I'm going to be first yet again."
The smirk that followed was almost imperceptible—a curve of one corner of his mouth, no more. But it was unmistakable. Confidence. Not loud, not arrogant, but coldly certain.
For a moment, no one breathed.
Takeshi's jaw slackened, his eyes flashing wide. The disbelief on his face twisted with something else—shock, offense, and awe, the sudden sting of rivalry reignited. Emi's gaze sharpened like flint striking steel. Heat kindled in her eyes, her posture stiffened, her hands clenched behind her.
Her lips parted, words forming, gathering like storm clouds ready to break—
"Competitor 114. Emi Igawa."
The volunteer's voice cut through, firm, neutral, absolute.
The tension cracked. Emi exhaled, sharp and short, like air forced through her teeth.
Kousei lifted his hand in an easy salute, lips tugged into that same faint smile. "Good luck."
Her glare lingered, scorching, but her body turned. She marched down the corridor, every step clipped and forceful, heels ticking out a beat of defiance.
Kousei watched her go only a moment before he shrugged lightly, shifting the garment bag at his side. His stride back to the monitor room was unhurried, almost casual, as if the words he'd spoken had already vanished into the air.
---
The auditorium was alive with restless sound. Programs whispered as they flipped in laps. Shoes shuffled on carpet. Coughs punctured the air like commas in a paragraph of waiting. The stage lights dimmed fractionally, painting the crowd in a hushed twilight glow.
Watari leaned back in his chair, the program booklet stretched across his knees. His eyes moved lazily over the list of names, lips tugging as if he were reading in another language he didn't care about. Halfway down the page, something snagged him. His brows shot up.
"Oh-ho." He jabbed the paper with his finger. His grin spread instantly, wide and unfiltered. "She's adorable!"
Kaori was already leaning forward, her hair brushing against his cheek as she tried to peek. "Who? Let me see." She snatched the program straight from his hands, ignoring his protest. Her eyes darted quickly, scanning until they landed on the name. "Oh! Igawa-san! She's pretty popular too!"
Beside them, Tsubaki crossed her arms, a small scoff escaping her. "Of course. I've seen them before—Emi Igawa and Takeshi Aiza. I remember them from when we were little. Always ranked just behind Kousei. Like a matched set." She smirked, leaning back further into her chair, satisfaction pulling at her mouth. "But Kousei was always first."
Watari groaned loudly, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. "So what are you bragging for?"
"Shut up," Tsubaki snapped, a pink flush creeping into her cheeks.
He ignored her, leaning closer to Kaori again. "So. This Emi-chan—"
"Already calling her by her first name," Tsubaki muttered, glaring at him.
"—is she good?" Watari finished, grin tilting sly.
Kaori tapped her cheek with one finger, thinking. "Hmm... Lately, not as much. She barely got through preliminaries. Third at the Tanizaki Festival. And at Koumegai..." She tilted her head. "Just an honorable mention."
"So she's been shaky," Tsubaki concluded flatly. "But back then, they always took the top spots. Right beside him." Her eyes flicked back to the program, narrowing. "Hey... tell me I wasn't the only one who felt like we just sent Kousei off to his execution earlier?"
Watari barked a laugh, though it carried unease. "Yeah. Looked exactly like that."
Kaori rolled her eyes, but a knot in her chest tightened. "He'll be fine. He's just tired. Barely slept last night."
Watari leaned back, folding his arms behind his head. "Don't know what's wrong with him lately. He's avoiding music like a cat avoids water."
Tsubaki shot him a look. "...Weird analogy."
"Shhh!" Kaori leaned forward dramatically, pressing a finger to her lips, closing her eyes as if she were scolding a child.
Tsubaki groaned. "You're ridiculous."
"He'll be fine," Kaori repeated, but softer now. Her eyes lingered on the stage, voice dipping. "But jeez... he's cocky."
"Cocky?" Tsubaki arched a brow.
"I mean—declaring first place already?" Kaori puffed her cheeks, her pout exaggerated but lined with frustration. "Who does that? He hasn't competed in forever. What is he, Mozart? He'll fall asleep at the piano. Or worse, he'll bore us all with that soulless perfection and then shrug and say, *'The judges know best.'*"
Her arms crossed tightly over her chest. The irritation was real, but it curled around something else—worry, affection, the ache of watching someone dance on the edge of collapse.
Watari and Tsubaki exchanged a look, their faces deadpan. Neither spoke, but the message was clear: *She's too invested.*
Kaori ignored them, pressing her cheek against her palm, lips pursed. He'll be fine, she told herself again. He has to be fine.
The stage lights dimmed further. A hush rippled across the hall like a single breath being drawn in unison.
The announcer's voice rang clear and steady.
"Next competitor: Emi Igawa."
All three heads turned sharply to the stage.
Kaori's heart thudded once, hard enough she felt it in her throat, as Emi stepped into the light. The crowd seemed to lean forward with her, waiting.
"Hey..." Watari whispered suddenly, though his eyes didn't leave the stage. "Didn't you and Kousei make it to the Tōwa finals..? What happened with that?"
The words froze her pulse. Kaori blinked, lips parting before she could stop herself. She pressed the edge of the program against her lap, paper biting into her skin.
Tsubaki tilted her head, curiosity mixing with something sharper. "Yeah, I remember. You both dropped out, right? And then—" her eyes flicked toward Kaori "—he shows up in Maiohiou instead? What's with that?"
Kaori felt heat climb her neck. Her fingers fumbled at the paper until it nearly creased. She forced a laugh, thin and brittle. "We... we missed the sign-up dates. That's all."
The answer fell flat between them. Watari arched a brow, unconvinced, but let it go. Tsubaki narrowed her eyes, sighed, and looked back toward the stage.
Kaori drew in a slow breath, shoulders loosening as she clung to the excuse. Her gaze locked on Emi, using the girl's stride across the boards as a shield against further questions. The piano bench scraped softly, the hall leaning forward into silence.
Kaori exhaled. Whatever else lingered between them could wait.
The performance was about to begin.