407Concerto
Kiasidira Ixari & Aventria
Standard Disclaimer: Prince of Tennis, the characters, and any recognizable trademarks of said series all belong to mangaka Konomi Takeshi and are rightfully disclaimed. The authors of this fanfiction own no more than the original characters used and the story's plot. Furthermore, the use of Tokyo Ongaku Daigaku's name in this story does not give ownership to the writers. Property, name, and all trademarks are disclaimed. Anything else that needs to be disclaimed will be mentioned in their respective chapters.
Warning(s): Drama, Angst, possible Mature Content (Lemon). Ratings might go up.
IMPORTANT NOTE: This is an AU (Alternate Universe) fic, meaning the story will NOT be following the anime/manga (canon) timeline and characters' ages. Ages will be disclosed later on in the story.
We realize that we will be using musical terminology within this fic that might not be familiar to most people. Do not fear; we will be providing definition at the beginning of each chapter, numbered and made comprehensible for even those who have little or no formal musical education.
A note on Tokyo Ondai: we will be using the NAME of a real school, but we will not be patterning over the actual floor plan and campus map, or anything of the sort. In short, we are only borrowing a name. Everything else is make-believe. Nothing more.
OVERTURA
"I was born with something to live up to. I'll be standing on the path I can't turn my back on."
(1) Da Capo – Literally "repeat from the beginning"; an Italian musical term used to direct the musician to repeat the said part of the music.
(2) Tokyo Ongaku Daigaku (Ondai) – Tokyo College of Music. This is an institute that exists in real life, and can be found in Ikebukuro, Tokyo. It is the oldest private music school in the country, having been founded in 1907 in Kanda, Tokyo. (Founded as 'Tokyo Conservatory of Music / Tokyo Ongaku Gakko')
(3) baba– A derogatory petname that literally means "hag"; roughly translated to "old hag" in modern slang.
(4) double stops – The act of playing two notes simultaneously on a stringed instrument (i.e. violin, cello) or a melodic percussion instrument (i.e. timpani). This is considered to be an advanced technique. (Variations: triple stop, quadruple stop; the latter being almost impossible.)
"Do I really have to go?"
"Yes you do, darling," bustled Rinko as she placed several gift wrapped boxes and a stack of airtight food containers into two huge paper bags. The wintry cold swept into the room as Nanjiroh opened the balcony to check if they left anything outside. "You know that we rarely see Ryuuzaki-sensei—she's always out and about, the sweet lady! I would swear she is not her age…"
Ryoma grumbled. "But I'm still tired from the competition," he whined. It was another one of those annual things he was invited to join every year. Strange as it was, he still agreed to do so obediently year after year after year, even if he was more than fed up with the repetitiveness of it all.
This was his life; the life of a child prodigy, a celebrated young musician, a violin talent to be remembered.
In all honesty, if he could write down his life as sheet music, he would put 'Da Capo' (1) at the very end. This was more than just routine; this was no ordinary repetitiveness. This was the boring, leading-to-nowhere type of repetitiveness—the type of repetitiveness he never felt up to playing in his musical pieces.
The soft chilly breeze faded as Nanjiroh slammed the balcony glass doors shut, locking them and drawing the curtains close. "Tired?" he snorted. "You can't be tired, seishounen! You did nothing but stand there, make them all gape in awe at your music, bow, and then hightail it out of the theatre!"
Ryoma scowled. This was one of those moments when he wanted to bury his father six feet under.
"I mean, honestly," sniffed Nanjiroh, standing behind the kitchen chair Ryoma was slouched against and mussing the prodigy's hair. Ryoma batted the intruding hands away. "You're too antisocial, you know. Especially for someone who's been exposed to crowds and who's been performing since childhood. You need to go out some more and make some friends. Like, you know; the real kind."
"I have Kevin," muttered Ryoma under his breath, intending for neither his father nor his mother to hear it.
However, Rinko quipped, "Friends, Ryoma—note the 's' at the end. Plural. Your father is right—you need more social exposure. We don't want you growing old all crabby without anyone to talk to. That's too sad an existence."
Ryoma rolled his eyes inwardly. As if my current existence is any improvement.
"Whatever," he mumbled, casting his eyes down and grabbing one of the bags. "Let's go before it gets any later. It's already seven." Nanjiroh just sighed and shrugged to his wife as the teen walked out of the kitchen.
Ryoma shivered slightly as they crossed the parking lot of the hotel. Prague was not as cold as Stockholm during the winters, but it was still far too cold for Ryoma's taste. Wrapping his coat snugly around his lean form and crossing his arms, he tried to prevent his teeth from chattering. "Why did we have to go tonight again? I mean, we could have gone tomorrow noon, when hopefully the thrice damned temperature would have already risen a few degrees!"
"That old hag is leaving for Paris tomorrow afternoon, Ryoma—you know that already," sighed Nanjiroh. The older man took off his scarf and wrapped it around Ryoma's neck. "And where the hell did your scarf go? That's the fifth you've lost this week, Ryoma."
"It is not!" sniffed Ryoma childishly, pouting. Losing scarves was his other specialty aside from music. For some reason, he just could not keep a single scarf for longer than a week. (His current running record was a week and a day.)
Nanjiroh chuckled. "Oh yes it is," he chided.
It wasn't long before they stepped into the hotel's reception area, and Ryoma heaved a sigh in relief. "Ah, blessed warmth." He smiled a small smile to himself, taking off his gloves and rubbing his hands together and flexing his precious fingers. It would be disastrous if his hands and fingers were damaged in any way; they were his investment. Without them, he would be meaningless.
"Cold, darling?" his mother asked as they strode into the elevator. His mother took his hands into her own and rubbed warmth into them. "We should really get you a new pair of thermal gloves."
"Or we could just get out of Prague as soon as possible, mum," grumbled the young man. "You know I don't do cold weather."
"London will be just as cold, darling, if not colder," Rinko reminded him. "And besides, this will be our first Christmas in Prague since you were ten!" she cooed. "And think of all the places we could go to on your sixteenth birthday!"
"That was just six years ago," Ryoma mumbled, shaking his head. A comforting pat was all he got from his silent father. It was understood between the males of the Echizen family that when the only female—otherwise known as the Alpha—spoke, her word was law. That was it, and that was final (or else).
Room 407 was not far from the elevator—much to Ryoma's relief—and soon, they were face to face with the suite door. In all honesty, Ryoma couldn't care less about Ryuuzaki.
Ryuuzaki Sumire was Nanjiroh's first music teacher, and arguably one of the best music coaches Japan. Well-known and demanded all over the world, she traveled far and wide to discover and cultivate young musical talents when she was young—her first student as a music teacher had been Nanjiroh, a long time ago in Tokyo. Ever since then, she'd been tracking Nanjiroh, and in return, Nanjiroh kept in close contact (for fear of being pummeled to death should he do otherwise).
The critical and sometimes overly wise woman—in her mid-fifties but still working tirelessly to scout new talents—was just another presence in Ryoma's life. She was somewhat Ryoma's second teacher—second to Nanjiroh, who had coached him through and taught him every single thing he knew about music. Every time he would perform, she would somehow get her hands on a copy and write a short e-mail about things Ryoma could improve on in his music. Of course, as time passed, the pointers decreased gradually—a sign that Ryoma was growing.
The last e-mail, however, had thrown Ryoma out of axis that he'd sulked in his room for a whole day.
"I have nothing else to teach you, Ryoma. There is nothing left that neither I nor Nanjiroh can teach you. But there are still plenty you must learn before you can call yourself the best violinist virtuoso, young man, and we will not be the ones teaching you those lessons."
"Nanjiroh, Rinko-chan! And my, Ryoma-kun," smiled Ryuuzaki, ushering them in. Nanjiroh steered an apathetic Ryoma into the suite after the two ladies before them, who were chattering away like they hadn't talked to each other in ten years.
Soon enough, Ryoma was coatless, ungloved, and scarf-free. He was situated snugly between the squishy arms of a huge squishy brown leather couch. Ryuuzaki promptly placed a mug of steaming hot white chocolate spiced with peppermint in front of him, and he promptly grabbed it to warm his still freezing hands.
"Oh, did you have another guest, Ryuuzaki-sensei?" noted Rinko. "Ever the famous, are we?" she smiled.
"Ah," Ryuuzaki picked up the empty mug on the table and headed over to the adjacent small kitchen to deposit it into the sink. "It was one of my students, Yukimura-kun. Excellent young lad. Very proficient. He's a cellist."
"Oh. Is he another one of your Ondai students?" inquired Rinko as she seated herself.
"Ah, yes," nodded Ryuuzaki as she went and seated herself beside Rinko. Ryoma's eyes wandered over to where there were a few stacks of DVDs and videotapes by the flatscreen. "I first met Yukimura-kun in Vienna. He was quite the prodigy. A genius, I say. His father eventually consented and let him go to Tokyo Ondai (2) with me after a few months of persuasion." There was a pause, and then Ryuuzaki chuckled, "Go ahead and play with them, Ryoma."
Ryoma scowled. "I'm not a little kid." However, he did stand and move over to where the videotapes were, pulling with him a pouf. As he sat and started rifling through the organized stacks, his ears listened attentively to the discussion behind him.
"How's Tokyo Ondai been treating you, Ryuuzaki-sensei?" Rinko said. Ryoma could almost see her gentle smile.
"The usual," replied Ryuuzaki. "Students being the headache-inducers they're supposed to be; fellow teachers are being the uptight old geezers they were born to be. We have quite a group of talented students out there." She glanced at Ryoma. "I think Ryoma will get along well with them."
"I'm not going to Japan."
Nanjiroh rolled his eyes. "Don't barge into adult conversation."
"I'm not a kid."
Rinko giggled. "Ryoma-chan, don't be so grouchy."
"I'm not grouchy."
A jab at the remote.
"And don't call me 'Ryoma-chan'."
A slender hand snatched the ringing mobile phone from the table, flipping it open and placing it by an ear. The other hand reached for the glass of water on the small plastic table, raising it to full and smiling lips.
"Hello? Ah—Genichirou?" came the gentle and almost feminine voice. A smile, and then, "Mm, it was an excellent line-up. Yeah. I enjoyed it a lot."
There was a pause as the glass was set down once again and a pencil was picked up. There was a brown portfolio lying open and half-occupying the table, and a litter of worn and well-reviewed music sheets were piled on top of it. The pencil tapped a steady three-fourths rhythm according to the topmost sheet's time signature. It read Anitra's Dance (for cello) byE. Grieg.
The young man chuckled. "Has Akaya been giving you trouble again? Oh, now that won't do. Could you get him on the phone—oh, he's asleep. Ah, well, just tell him that I won't be giving him his souvenir if he doesn't behave until I come back. He'll listen."
A ruffle of papers ensued when his elbow brushed against the edge of the portfolio, and a leaflet containing the pictures and a brief introduction of the concour he had attended fell to the side.
One name caught his eye, and he smiled a knowing smile.
"Say, Genichirou?" he started. "Do you think we have enough space for one more prodigy over there?" A pause, a chuckle, and then, "Oh, no, no. It's just that I have a feeling someone quite remarkable will be joining us pretty soon. Granted it won't be easy, but he'll come."
There was a moment of stillness and silence, and then a mild laugh erupted from the young man. "Okay. Okay, I'll leave you to your devices, then. Good luck with Akaya." Another pause. "Yes, of course. Yes. I will. You go to sleep too—it's four in the morning over there, right? Of course. Good night."
A small smile was curving upon those lips as the phone was gently replaced on the table. The fallen leaflet was lifted up to eyelevel.
"Echizen Ryoma, huh…"
"…and that one, if I'm not mistaken, is Chitose Senri from Kyushu. He was quite something. Unfortunately, he stopped joining competitions about a year or so ago," Ryuuzaki explained as Ryoma watched. "He would have been a fine addition to my orchestra."
Nanjiroh snorted. "You talk as if they're your private collection or something!"
"Well, aren't they?" exclaimed Ryuuzaki indignantly. "The wondrously talented young people—the future of music!"
"Shut up, baba (3)," grumbled the Echizen patriarch, only to receive a pillow to the face.
Ryoma tilted his head to one side. "Hmm… mada mada da ne," he shrugged. "His double stops (4) falter quite a bit and it makes his sound very… unclean."
"Well, that was years ago! He was sixteen there. He's turning nineteen now," shrugged the music coach. "He could have improved, for all we know. A few years is a long time."
It was always like this whenever Ryoma viewed Ryuuzaki's old videotapes and records. Ryoma would view, and Ryuuzaki would promptly explain the background of the musician on screen. Ryoma did not even have to ask questions—he never did, anyway. All the adults understood that that meant that Ryoma was just not interested with what he was seeing.
Ryoma disinterestedly fast-forwarded through the ear-prickling renditions of Schubert's Serenade and Chopin's Nocturne. Some people just did not know their own boundaries; the rest of them were just ignorant and plain disrespectful to the deceased and honored composers, daring to desecrate the music as such.
He sighed.
If you're gonna do something, then do it properly!
He stabbed the 'Next' button on the remote and guzzled down his now warm chocolate. Behind him, chatter was resuming between Rinko and Ryuuzaki, with constant interruption by Nanjiroh, but he could care less. He wasn't really paying attention to anything except the nice tingle the peppermint in his hot drink induced at the back of his throat and the pleasant warmth that was cocooning him in a comfortable embrace.
And to top it all off, there was the perfect background music—
Wait.
Background music?
His eyes flew to the screen, and stayed glued there.
Here was a bespectacled young brunet, most probably only a year or two older than he was. Ryoma's eyes watched the hands—the fingers—as a hawk would watch its prey; they were smooth and flawless. Unconfused by the fast notes, undaunted by the multiple stops—it was completely flawless.
Who is this?
The sheer emotion behind each note sends a tremor of anticipation shimmying up and down Ryoma's spine. He stiffened in his seat and resisted the urge to childishly sidle up to the screen and press his nose against it. If music was a living image, this would have been a fire and a rose. A passionately burning fire—blues and greens and yellows and oranges—and a velvet red rose; flames licking along the dew-dripping rose's petals—licking, but never really burning—
Who is this person?
Perfection and brilliance beyond comprehension; that was what this person embodied.
"Ryuuzaki-sensei."
It was perhaps the fact that he rarely—if ever—spoke voluntarily without being prompted first during these visits that made Ryuuzaki ignore him unintentionally. Under the chatter Rinko was making, Ryoma was quite sure his voice had been a mere whisper lost in the wind. His mother was normally as quiet as a mouse, but a mouse stepped on was a mouse as loud as a lion after all.
"Ryuuzaki-sensei."
"—can't believe that!" exclaimed Rinko as the two ladies exploded into laughter.
"Ryuuzaki-sensei!"
"—didn't really do—y-yes, Ryoma?" Ryuuzaki snapped out of the flow of the lively chatter. "I'm sorry, I didn't quite hear—"
"Who is this?" Ryoma asked forwardly—almost brusquely, keeping his burning eyes fixated on the violinist featured on the screen.
Silence pervaded for a full minute.
"I'm sorry?" Rinko voiced in wonder.
"I asked you who this is!" Ryoma exclaimed.
Ryuuzaki chuckled. "That, Ryoma," she said, leaning forward eagerly. She chided herself inwardly why she hadn't thought of this before—of course Tezuka would fascinate Ryoma! This way, she'd have more of a chance to persuade Ryoma into joining Ondai. "That is Tezuka Kunimitsu. He is currently a third-year student at Tokyo Ondai, and is widely known across and outside campus. He is the head of one of the major dormitories, and he also holds a lead position in my orchestra. He assists supervisors and prefects, excels in every subject, and is well-respected among his peers. Some even view him as an older brother of sorts."
Ryoma slowly turned back towards the screen and listened to the last few well-played notes of Brahm's Third Sonata, Fourth Movement—Presto Agitato.
"Tezuka Kunimitsu…"
Ryuuzaki smiled in victory, while Rinko merely clasped her hands in delight. Nanjiroh rolled his eyes, inwardly groaning at the fact that he would now have to travel back and forth Europe and Japan to simultaneously keep up with his work and to teach his son. That would mean more expenses, which would in turn mean less magazines.
"Oyaji."
A resigned sigh.
"Yes, Ryoma."
"I'm going to Japan."
A squeal and a grin.
"…I know. Damn it."
To Be Continued
(Revised Version)
Kiasidira Ixari & Aventria
First Draft: 14 Dec 2007
Uploaded: 14 Dec 2007
Last Revised: 04 Dec 2007