Yu Yu Hakusho Fan Fiction ❯ The Piano Man ❯ One-Shot

Author's notes: I heard this on the radio when my alarm when off at quarter to six one morning. I'm only using a small portion of the song, but since I had had it stuck in my head all day, I had to go with it. The lyrics aren't until the end though. The Piano Man is sung by Billy Joel. YYH belongs to Yoshihiro Togashi/Shueisha, Studio Pierrot, and so on.

Warnings: Quiet shonen-ai and angst. It only works if Kurama grows old and dies without reverting to his youko form. Just... pretend.

The Piano Man
A Yu Yu Hakusho Song Fic by Kitsuneko

"Kurama, what's in this box?" He looks up from his work, the various text books that were spread across the dining room table. He smiles softly and pushes back from the table to walk over to where I stand. He runs a hand over the smooth, darkly polished wood.

"It's not a box. It's a piano, a musical instrument." He lifts the top, propping it up, and moved back the cover from the front. Sitting down, he strokes his fingers lightly over the white panels. Thus settled, he starts to play, thin fingers dancing and clear, flowing notes ringing from the instrument. I have never heard the song before, but it is as though that song, that *person*, could see into my soul. It is a surprising comfort. I had known, though it took years to admit it, that he knew me, better than anyone, that I had lost all my secrets to him. Slowly, I notice that the music is fading and Kurama has looked over at me, still with that kind smile.

"Would you..." He looks afraid. Why? "Would you like to learn to play?" I open my mouth, a harsh comment on my tongue, but hesitate. I consider for a moment and silently nod. He scoots over on the bench indicating that I sit next to him. He moves my hands to the keys, explaining the motions and pointing to the sheet of music propped before me. And so I learn.

---

Years later, I am seeing the last friends and relatives from the house. Our house. Shiori died long ago, leaving the house to the two of us. Now, he is gone as well, leaving the house to the one of me. To stand there, in the living room filled with flowers and cards and memories, I realize just how large the house is. It had always seemed comfortably small, keeping me close to him. Now, I feel lost in this open space, alone and cold in a way that ice could never chill me. Yet everything is familiar, lovingly and painfully so. I wander aimlessly, trying to find something that would settle me. I rub slowly at the band circling one finger, the worn metal warm from my skin. I find myself at the piano, opening it with practiced ease and fond familiarity. I start to play, an unintended melody taking shape, becoming that same song he played (how recent it seems) when he first taught me to play. He had wanted me to play at the funeral, that I call up the memory from so long ago, but I was unable, unwilling, to share it with the others. So I play for him now, with my heart in the notes, and remember our better years.

He says, "Son, can you play me a memory?
I'm not really sure how it goes
But it's sad and it's sweet and I knew it complete
When I wore a younger man's clothes"

Sing us a song, you're the piano man
Sing us a song tonight
Well, we're all in the mood for a melody
And you've got us feelin' alright