The Tuner with Broken Fingers and the Pianist Who Admired Him
In the city of Sonare, where every street hums with melody, Fujisaki Minato lives a quiet life as a piano tuner—his once-brilliant career as a concert pianist shattered eight years ago when his right hand froze onstage at the height of the national competition. Now he pours everything into caring for the instruments of others, hiding the tremors in his fingers and the memory of the performance that destroyed him.
Then he hears the name Kiryu Kanade.
A nineteen-year-old prodigy on the verge of
The Tuner with Broken Fingers and the Pianist Who Admired Him - Kiss and Afterglow — The Night Before the Results
Morning light poured through the tall windows of Arcadia Hall. The polished stone floor caught it and threw it back, quiet and cold. In the great hall, still empty of people, only the low hum of the ventilation system filled the air.
Fujisaki Minato stood in the shadows of the wings.
His right hand was trembling.
It had started the moment he woke that morning, and it hadn't stopped since. Last night, in the tuning room, he had tuned the Steinway for Kanade. The instant that concentration broke, everything that had pooled deep in his body came flooding into his fingertips at once.
"...You all right?"
He cradled his right hand gently in his left. The fingertips were cold, and a numbness ached down to the marrow.
Eight years ago, on the day these fingers broke, the morning light had been white and cold like this, too.
—Just like that day.
He closed his eyes. Deep in his ears, the applause of a distant day and the sound of his own fingers striking the keys flickered faintly back to life. And always, that sound cut off halfway through.
"Minato-san."
At the voice, Minato opened his eyes.
Kiryu Kanade stood in the dim light of the wings. His soft chestnut hair stirred gently in the draft from the vents. The piano-note earring on his left ear glinted faintly in the dark.
And his right hand — wrapped tight in white bandages, suspended from a sling around his neck.
"...Did you sleep?"
"Not much. But I couldn't sleep because I'm nervous. That's all."
Kanade said it with a forced smile. When he smiled, his canine tooth showed. In the morning light, that smile was almost painfully transparent.
Minato couldn't take his eyes off the bandages on Kanade's right hand.
The doctor's diagnosis: competing in the finals was impossible. The tendon damage was deep — three months to full recovery. To mask the pain with painkillers and take the stage at all would be to gamble with his future as a performer.
And still, Kanade was standing here.
"...Did you take the painkillers?"
"I didn't."
The answer was far too clear.
"Why not?"
"If I kill the pain, I feel like my sense of touch will dull along with it. I want to feel every note of the piano you tuned for me, Minato-san — with these fingers. It can hurt. I want to play while it hurts."
Kanade's voice wasn't shaking.
Minato let out a breath. A long, long exhale.
"...You really are an idiot."
"Yes. That's the second time you've said that to me."
Kanade smiled, just slightly, with a mischievous edge.
The moment Minato saw that smile, something deep in his chest tightened with a small, sharp sound.
—This young man truly intends to take the stage.
—With fingers half-broken, he intends to sit before that Steinway.
—And he intends to surpass the sound I made eight years ago.
"Fujisaki-san, Kiryu-kun."
A low voice cut between them.
Minato turned. Stage director Kuroda Takeshi stood there — short hair shot through with white, eyes weary but sharp. Forty-five years old, the man who had granted special permission for last night's tuning.
"One hour until you're up. Wait in the dressing room. Fujisaki-san, the tuner, will do the final check before the finals begin. Kiryu-kun — prepare yourself."
Kuroda said only that, then vanished briskly toward the far side of the stage.
Watching his back recede, Kanade murmured softly.
"Kuroda-san seems a little kinder than yesterday."
"...Are your eyes just for decoration?"
"No. Kuroda-san glanced at my right hand just now, and then looked away immediately. He's just clumsy — he's actually worried about me."
Kanade said it, then turned toward Minato.
"You're the same, aren't you, Minato-san."
"...The same how?"
"You're just clumsy — you're actually terribly worried about me."
Minato couldn't say anything.
Instead, the trembling in his right hand grew stronger.
—No. Worry isn't the word. It's nothing that gentle.
—I'm afraid.
—That you'll break, on that stage.
—The way I did, eight years ago.
"...Let's go. Rest a little in the dressing room."
He shoved his trembling right hand into his trouser pocket.
Kanade watched the movement closely.
But he said nothing — only nodded quietly.
———
The dressing room was hushed and still.
Kanade sat on the bench against the wall, back straight, his bandaged right hand resting gently on his knee. He looked like a soldier about to march onto a battlefield.
Minato stood by the window, gazing outside.
In the forecourt of Arcadia Hall, a line of audience members had already begun to form. Old and young, in every color of clothing, waiting impatiently for today's finals. Among them were young women holding small boards with Kanade's name written on them.
"...So many people."
Kanade murmured, following Minato's gaze.
"Yeah. Apparently it's a full house."
"Twenty-five hundred, huh."
"Scared?"
"...Honestly? A little."
Kanade stroked his right hand gently with his left.
"But more than that, I'm looking forward to it. That I get to play your favorite piece on that stage, on the piano you tuned."
His voice was quiet.
And that quietness sank deep, deep into Minato's chest.
"...Chopin's Ballade No. 4, then."
"Yes. The piece you were supposed to play in the finals eight years ago."
Kanade lifted his right hand into the light from the window. The fingertips wrapped in bandages glowed translucent, their outline rising into relief.
"The first time I heard this piece was on a television — you, Minato-san. I was in fifth grade then, and I'd never even taken piano lessons. But the moment I heard your sound, it was like lightning struck me — my whole body shook. And I thought: I want to make this sound too."
Slowly, Kanade lowered his right hand.
"So today, on this stage, I'll make your sound. That's how I fulfill the promise of where everything in me began."
Kanade's eyes pierced straight through Minato.
Minato couldn't look away.
—This young man is always like this.
—Direct, dazzling, and somehow, always on the edge of something dangerous.
"...Kanade."
Minato left the window and stood before him.
"You making my sound — that's not my sound anymore. It's yours. You're going to make your own sound on that stage. That's enough. No — it has to be that way, or it means nothing."
His own voice was clearer than he expected, clear enough to surprise himself.
Kanade's eyes went wide.
"Minato-san..."
"My sound died on that stage eight years ago. But your sound will be born on that stage today. You're not my substitute, and you're not my memory. You're Kiryu Kanade. That alone is enough."
The words spread through the quiet air of the dressing room like ripples.
Kanade pressed his lips tightly together.
In those large amber eyes, tears began to well.
"...Minato-san, that's cheating."
"What is?"
"If you say things like that, I'll cry. And if I cry right before the performance, my eyes will get all puffy."
Kanade tilted his face up desperately, fighting the tears.
The gesture was so childlike that Minato couldn't help but let out a small laugh.
"...You laughed. Minato-san, you just laughed."
"I didn't."
"You did. You absolutely did. Ahh, laughing at my tears — what a cruel person."
Kanade wiped his tears and pouted.
That face — so funny, so dear — and something in Minato's chest gave another small, tight sound.
—Ah. I see.
—Maybe this is the face I wanted to see.
"...Kanade. Let me hear your sound."
Minato dropped to one knee before him.
He brought his eyes level with Kanade's.
"On that stage, let me hear your sound. That's my one and only wish."
Kanade stared at him, eyes wet with tears.
"...Yes. I'll let you hear my sound, Minato-san. Absolutely."
His voice was trembling.
But deep in those eyes, a flame-like resolve was burning, unmistakable.
———
Fifteen minutes to curtain.
The wings were wrapped in their own peculiar tension.
From far off, the murmur of the audience pressed in like waves. Twenty-five hundred souls, waiting, any moment now, for the next performer.
Kanade stood alone in the shadows of the wings.
His bandaged right hand was clutched tight against his chest. His shoulders were trembling in small, rapid shivers.
Minato stood three paces behind him.
Just watching that trembling back.
—I want to say something.
—But I can't find the words.
—No. That's not it.
—Words aren't enough.
Minato took one step closer.
Then another.
He brought his chest gently toward Kanade's trembling back.
"...Minato... san?"
Kanade started to turn.
In that instant, Minato placed his hand on Kanade's shoulder.
With his trembling right hand, as if to gently enfold Kanade's trembling shoulder.
"Stay facing forward."
Low, quiet voice.
The trembling in Kanade's shoulder eased, just slightly.
"...Minato-san, your hand is shaking."
"I know."
"...I'm shaking too."
"I know."
For a while, neither of them moved.
In the darkness of the wings, only their breathing quietly overlapped.
"...Hey, Kanade."
"Yes."
"Let me hear your sound."
He put a gentle pressure into the hand on Kanade's shoulder.
"Let me hear your sound. Here, in front of me — make your sound."
Slowly, Kanade turned around.
Those large, tear-wet eyes looked straight up at Minato.
"...Minato-san."
Kanade's lips softly shaped his name.
In that instant, Minato was already bringing his face close to Kanade's.
Before thinking.
Before hesitating.
Minato's lips touched Kanade's, softly.
Soft, and warm, and just slightly tasting of salt.
The taste of tears.
"...ngh."
Kanade's body gave a small jolt.
But he didn't pull away.
He received Minato's lips, gently.
It was a strange span of time — a second that felt like an eternity.
At last, Minato slowly drew back.
Kanade's face was flushed scarlet, all the way to the tips of his ears.
"...Wh— wh— wh—"
Kanade stammered, face bright red.
"...Quiet. That was a pep talk."
He said it brusquely, to cover his embarrassment.
"A pep talk — with your mouth — mouth to mouth—"
Kanade pressed his own lips with his palm.
"...You have a complaint?"
"...No. No complaint. How could I have a complaint? If anything, I'm happy — or rather, my heart feels like it's going to explode — or rather, I'd like you to do it again..."
"There won't be a second time."
"What!? You're taking it back!? I wasn't mentally prepared!"
"Quiet. Focus on the stage."
"Th— that's so unreasonable... Minato-san, my heart is already at its limit..."
Kanade clutched his chest and sank down where he stood.
The sight was so funny, so dear, that Minato fought hard to hold back his laughter.
—The tension was unraveling.
—Kanade's, and his own.
—This ridiculous exchange was loosening them both.
"...Get up. You're on."
He held out his hand to the crouching Kanade.
His trembling right hand.
Kanade gripped it with both of his.
"...Minato-san. I'm going."
His voice was calm — as if the trembling from before had been a lie.
"Yeah. Go."
He gave Kanade's back a gentle push.
With his trembling right hand.
From the shadows of the wings, Kanade stepped out into the light.
———
Applause greeted him.
Not thunderous — not yet. Still the warm applause of courtesy.
Kanade stood before the Steinway.
Twenty-five hundred gazes pierced his back.
He bowed deeply to the audience.
Then lowered himself onto the piano bench.
He placed his bandaged right hand gently on the keys.
—In that instant, a small stir rippled through the seats.
The bandages.
The audience had finally noticed the strangeness of his right hand.
"...Are you all right?"
In the wings, Minato watched, holding his breath.
The trembling in his right hand wouldn't stop.
His heart pounded violently against the inside of his ribs.
—Let me hear your sound.
—Let me hear it.
Kanade closed his eyes.
Breathed in deep, deep.
And exhaled.
The murmur of the audience slowly quieted.
Twenty-five hundred souls held their breath, watching Kanade's fingertips.
Kanade opened his eyes.
Those large ambe
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