Chapter Text
It’s a Thursday afternoon. The sun is shining through the wide-open curtains, light glinting off of ivory-white piano keys and varnished, black-painted wood. Mewo slinks through the room, her fur brushing against his bare foot as she curls up underneath the piano bench, her body half lying on his toes.
Sunny is home alone.
He’s not sure what time his mom is getting back— that morning over breakfast, she’d said there was some kind of event at work, so she wouldn’t get back until later than normal. Mari’s off at her first year of college, studying piano and chasing her dreams of becoming a world-famous composer. His dad… his dad is gone. Disappeared in the middle of the night after a big blow-up fight between him and Mom, a month before Sunny’s thirteenth birthday. Sometimes he misses him, but other times it’s hard to see past his favoritism and temper— he’d always loved Mari more, the cancellation of the recital only cementing that opinion.
Sometimes his father’s words the day before he left still ring in Sunny’s ears. Disappointment. Useless waste-of-space. Couldn’t even suck it up to help your sister with the most important recital she’s ever had to perform.
He takes a deep breath, forces himself to remember the things that his mom had told him. That his dad was wrong— wrong to say those untrue things.
But being here in this room, remembering his father… his memories of that day begin to play in his mind.
The day he’d quit the violin.
“Again!”
Sunny’s hands stung as he pressed them into the strings of the violin in the pattern of the first note he had to make. His attempts to be gentle were useless— his fingertips were bruised and scabbed, the silvery-white strings of his violin stained rust with his blood. He’d done his best to wipe it off when his sister wasn’t looking— the last thing he needed was her scolding him for getting it dirty.
His cue came, and he played. The note was a little shaky, his grip on his bow tensed and painful— he could see Mari gritting her teeth at that— but she let it go, continuing onward. He’d still played the right note.
He began to switch chords, changing up the notes he was playing with just a press of his fingertips in a different spot. Barely even a few months ago, he’d found that enjoyable, fascinating— so many different sounds, so much different music, all from one instrument. It was amazing, and he had felt so lucky to be able to learn to do that himself.
At least that had been the case back when it was fine if he didn’t want to practice— which he never did, preferring to spend time with his friends instead. But the upcoming recital tonight, and the months of practice in preparation for it, had sucked all of that joy away from him. Forced him to spend hours and hours and hours a week locked away in that room with nobody but the piano, his violin, and Mari.
Mari, who was always mad at him because he couldn’t play right. Because of this stupid violin that just wouldn’t cooperate.
The instrument had always been a little big on him— Basil had told him that was intentional, on the day he’d gotten it. They wanted to make sure that he could use it for a long time, that he wouldn’t outgrow it and have to spend more money on another. It only made it that much harder to hold it steady, to keep his hands from shaking and adding a vibrato to the music that Mari most certainly didn’t want.
Slam. It took him a moment to realize that his sister had slammed the lid of the piano shut. “I’ll be right back,” she hissed through gritted teeth. “Practice measures seven through twelve until I get back.”
He flinched as she shot to her feet and marched out of the room, her recital dress swishing around her ankles as she slammed the door behind her.
His thoughts spun. Mari was mad at him again. He didn’t even know what mistake he’d made this time— it had sounded fine to him, if a little uneven, but that would be masked by the piano. He’d even hit all the notes correctly for once!
Sunny looked at the sheet music. He raised his violin, put his fingers in the position for the seventh measure of the waltz, and began to play.
He missed an eighth-note in the ninth measure. His stomach growled.
When was the last time he’d eaten? He tried to remember. Today was a weekend, so no school lunch; their parents were out of the house right after breakfast, preparing for the recital; what time was it, anyway? He and Mari had both skipped lunch.
The rumbling in his stomach demanded attention. His eyes drooped from waking up at ungodly hours of the morning to stare at sheet music. His arm was sore from seven hours straight of holding the heavy violin on his shoulder and his other arm was sore from the same amount of time dragging the bow across the strings. His hands felt like they’d be stuck in their painful, wrist-aching positions forever. His fingers bled.
Oh, his fingers were bleeding. He’d cut them open again.
As he swiped the fresh blood on his pants, his eyes fell on his violin. The source of all this pain. The reason that Mari was mad at him; the reason his fingers bled; the reason his arms ached and his legs were numb and he had to skip meals. The reason he wasn’t allowed to play with his friends. The reason for everything going wrong in his life.
Something bubbled up in his chest. He wanted to get rid of the violin. Then everything would go back to normal. He could play with his friends once there wasn’t a violin to practice, Mari wouldn’t be mad at him if there wasn’t a violin to be mad about, his body wouldn’t ache if there wasn’t a violin to hold.
He dropped his bow unceremoniously on the sheet music stand, the smooth, polished wood clattering against the treated metal. A few pieces of sheet music slipped free, following in his wake as he left the piano room, violin clenched in his right fist— it hurt too much to grip with his left.
Ascending the stairs felt like he was walking through water. Sounds were muffled. His ears rang. His hurt and pain felt doused like cold sand on a campfire, leaving a chilling emptiness in its wake.
It would have felt wrong, had he been in a position to feel anything.
But he wasn’t, so he carried on.
Reaching the top of the staircase took no time at all and yet almost too much time. His thoughts were muddled, his focus single-minded. His left hand clenched into a fist, his right hand tightened its grip before he raised his violin up as high as his achy arms could get. He turned to face the stairs, preparing himself to throw it and finally get rid of it once and for all.
The lock on the bathroom door behind him clicked, the quiet sound somehow reaching his fog-wrapped mind. He turned to lock eyes with Mari.
His sister’s expression was inscrutable. He froze under her cold gaze, violin still held high and fist still clenched.
To date, he wonders what exactly that moment had looked like to her. There stood her baby brother, expression stonier and more cliff-faced than she’d probably ever seen, caught in the act of flinging his extremely expensive, extremely delicate Christmas gift down a staircase.
He remembers how conflicted she’d looked. Anger and confusion and maybe even a little fear warred in her expression, fighting to dominate her reaction. If she had chosen anger, he knows, he would have thrown the violin down the stairs without a second thought. Angry Mari showing her face would have only strengthened his resolve— made him feel more confident in his idea that the violin was the cause of her anger. After that, he has no idea what would have happened.
It was a good thing that she’d chosen to give him the benefit of the doubt instead.
Mari crept forward on unsteady feet, hands raised as if to placate him. He didn’t move— he couldn’t move, except for his chest rising and falling with his quickening breaths and his eyes tracking her movements across the landing and his arm shaking a little from holding the violin aloft.
“Sunny,” she said, fighting to keep her tone under control. “Little brother, what are you doing?”
The longer he stared at her without so much as an outward reaction that he’d heard her words, the more her fury shifted to concern. Her tone was noticeably warmer when she spoke again. “…Sunny?”
His lip quivered. The arm holding his violin up finally gave in, dropping to his side. The violin thudded lightly against the wooden floor. The numbness was receding, making way for a deep misery.
Sunny burst into tears. Shaking, gasping tears.
Mari’s expression lost every trace of anger. She immediately dove and enfolded him in a hug, rubbing his back affectionately. He wailed and sobbed into her shoulder, tears and snot staining the white of her recital dress— which only made him cry harder.
“Basil,” she’d said after a moment— he wasn’t sure when his best friend had gotten there, but there he was in khaki shorts and a polo shirt— “Basil, can you please take Sunny’s violin and put it in the piano room? And get him a glass of water from the kitchen.”
He was happy to let that cursed instrument slip through his fingers. Footsteps thudded down the stairs, fading the farther they got.
As his big sister whispered soothing words of comfort in his ear, Sunny’s sobs slowly softened to light hiccups and sniffles. Basil pressed a glass of cool water into his hands, and he downed it in just a few gulps.
“I’m sorry,” he’d whispered, once he’d felt better enough to talk.
Mari pulled back, looked him in the eye. He awkwardly glanced away, his gaze falling on where Basil was crouched on his right. “Sunny,” she said slowly, not letting that deter her, “why were you going to throw your violin down the stairs?”
Basil started, eyes widening. Sunny felt himself shrinking back at his friend’s shocked look— apparently he hadn’t seen that part. His gaze dropped to the floor in shame. What had he been thinking?
Then he felt a hand atop his own, looked up to see blue eyes filled with warmth as his best friend smiled encouragingly.
His gaze drifted to his sister, who looked nothing but earnest and caring. Her anger was naught but a distant memory.
So Sunny haltingly opened his mouth to explain.
By the end of his tale, both of his friends were in shock. Basil had his hand over his mouth, his eyes filling with tears— his other hand had woven itself into Sunny’s right hand somewhere near the middle of his story, gripping tight. Mari’s expression was filled with pure misery. Guilt shone in her eyes as she realized what exactly she’d put her brother through.
She caught a glimpse of his left hand balled into a fist and hidden at his side, where it had been since the moment he’d broken down in her arms. “Show me your hand,” she croaked.
Sunny obliged, turning his left hand over and showing them the bruised, scabbed mess the tips of his fingers had become.
Mari immediately traced her own smooth fingers over his hand, stammering out apologies.
“I’m s-sorry too,” Basil choked out. “It— it was my idea to get you a v-violin for Christmas.”
Sunny didn’t blame Basil one bit. He made sure to tell him that, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze.
His big sister stumbled to her feet. “I have a call to make,” she announced out of nowhere, and wobbled her way down the stairs, disappearing into the living room. She came back a few minutes later, hugging him again. “You’ll never have to play again,” she vowed.
The call had been to their father, telling him they were dropping out of the recital.
Now, four years later, Sunny doesn’t feel quite so sad when he recalls the memory of that day. Time had turned the thought bittersweet, dulling his painful memories of recital practices and bringing his happy memories of the whole ordeal to the forefront, like those first few months that he’d been excited to learn new songs on the violin and show them off to his friends.
And then there was the aftermath of his confession atop the stairs— proof that Mari and Basil love him to the point that Mari had cancelled the recital for him and Basil had stuck to his side like glue when he’d had to explain his decision to quit to Kel, Aubrey, Hero, Mom, and Dad. Everyone had supported him, except his father, and that conflict had come to a head when he walked out of their lives. His friends are as close as ever, he’s in a happy relationship with his best friend, he doesn’t have to deal with the verbal abuse from his father for dropping the violin, and nobody expects him to ever play again— the thought of that in itself is freeing, almost. A huge relief.
So why does it still feel like something is missing?
The thought has been nagging at his mind for months.
Sunny doesn’t know where it came from. It had been there in his mind when Kel, Basil, and Aubrey had come over four months ago to watch Saturday morning cartoons like old times and the TV had turned on to a live orchestra performance somewhere he can’t remember the name of. It had been there when he’d gone to find Aubrey at school in the band room one day, practicing guitar with her friends, and caught sight of the racks of string instruments against the walls. It had been there when Mari talked over video call about the violinist, flutist, and drummer that she’d been grouped with for a composition assignment.
It’s just there, now. Settled into the grooves and recesses of his mind, a feeling waiting to form words. Rising to the surface every time he catches sight of a familiar amber-brown shape, swirly curlicues cut into the body and silver strings running its length and shiny black knobs practically asking to be twisted and tuned until it sounds just right.
The feeling only intensifies every time he’s in the piano room.
Which is why he’s here, in the piano room on a Thursday afternoon, homework left unfinished on his desk as he stares at the keys of Mari’s piano.
Eighty-eight keys. Black and white and black marching all in a row down the keyboard, shiny and sleek as though they’re as new as the day their parents had purchased the instrument.
Familiar by sight. He can recognize each key, Mari had taught him that much. He knows the difference between the black keys and the white keys. He can play a basic C major scale. But anything more than that, and he can’t do it. Because the piano isn’t truly familiar— not in the way his violin had been.
Sunny doesn’t actually know where Basil and Mari had hid the instrument— or just Mari, really, since Basil had been bandaging Sunny’s fingers in the bathroom. But it has been four years since then, and he’s ruled out enough places that he’s fairly confident in where his sister had put the violin. There’s only a couple rooms he hasn’t seen every crevice in, after all, and Mari hadn’t gone past the bathroom to their parents’ room that day or he would have seen her.
Which leaves the piano room, with only one place to look.
Mewo scrambles back, claws scrabbling for purchase on the smooth floorboards, as Sunny steps forward to open the piano bench for the first time in four years.
And there it is.
The case isn’t dusty— not altogether surprising, considering it had been sealed away in a mostly airtight container for the better part of three and a half years instead of left out on a shelf. He traces his fingers over the gold letters embossed on the black material— OMORI, the same brand as Mari’s piano.
His fingers trail down to the case’s latch. He gently pulls on it, then lifts the case open, revealing the red velvet interior.
Revealing the violin.
It’s… smaller than Sunny remembers. Less intimidating, less dread-inducing, less of a looming presence in his life. Rather, seeing it now, it kind of feels like greeting an old friend after a long period of separation. A little awkward, a little painful, a whole lot of nostalgia.
As he unstraps it and lifts it from the case, testing its weight experimentally, he wonders. Isn’t it strange to feel such fondness for his violin when it had been the bane of his existence four years prior? Sure, he’d used to like it, back when he first started to play with Mari… but by the end, he’d loathed every second.
If he’s being honest, though, Sunny doesn’t hate it. He… misses it, honestly. Misses how things used to be, when he’d liked playing the instrument. When he thought it was the coolest thing ever to get to play alongside his older sister.
He settles the violin on his shoulder, setting his chin on its varnished wood. It falls into place naturally, like he’d never stopped playing— actually, it feels even better than it did before, like he’d finally grown into it.
Sunny sets the violin down for a moment and pulls the bow out, tightening the hair and rubbing his long-overused bar of rosin on it, pulled from the storage pocket in the case itself. He adjusts his hold on the grip, making sure it’s spread wide— his tutor had told him that was meant to keep the bow more stable and easier to maneuver.
The violin goes back in its place on the shoulder. Sunny closes his eyes, raises the bow to the violin, and plays.
An unholy screech fills the room— he freezes, nearly dropping the instrument in his shock. How out of tune had the violin gotten after not being touched for four years?
Mewo gives him an unimpressed glare, then leaves the room, tail puffed and head held high.
He giggles, then laughs, harder and harder until he’s practically doubled over. Because for a moment, a singular, perfect moment… the thought bouncing around his head had finally formed words.
Sunny wants to play the violin again.
He tucks the violin case away before his mom comes home, not ready to reveal his newfound itch to learn the violin again just yet. Dinner is quick, rushing through his homework is just as fast, and then he has to get ready for bed.
Maybe ten minutes before ten pm, he can hear his mom’s bedroom door shut. Now’s his chance to sneak down to the piano room.
Sunny takes care to avoid the one creaky stair five steps from the top, making sure he sticks to the corners of the steps by the railings to minimize the chance that he’s heard. He makes it downstairs easy enough, then disappears into the piano room. It’s soundproofed— a huge relief for what he’s trying to do.
Moments later, his violin is unpacked and ready. He leaves the bow tucked away in its case— he doesn’t need it right now. None of the strings are broken, all the tuning pegs aren’t sticky with disuse and still move smoothly, and the fine tuners at the base of the strings aren’t overly tight or loose.
He plucks one of the strings— E, if he remembers correctly— and cringes. It sounds horrific.
Quickly, though, as he stares at Mari’s piano, he runs into a problem. Sunny doesn’t remember which octave is supposed to help him tune his violin. Hardly unexpected, considering how long it’s been since he’s done this, but frustrating nonetheless.
Sighing, he steps over to the bookshelf in the corner of the room where Mari had stashed the majority of her piano books. Hopefully his violin books are still there— Mom is notoriously bad at remembering to throw things out, and it’s not like Dad would have done it. Sunny certainly hadn’t cared enough. He’s not sure about Mari, though… would she have gotten rid of them? She’d taken the effort to hide the violin from him….
He can’t find the books. Maybe she had gone and tossed them.
Sunny turns around and switches the lights in the piano room out, sneaking back to his room. His old Duets for Piano and Violin book might still be there, in the toybox. Sure, it’s the book with that song… but he has no better option, short of going on the internet.
A part of him knows that a book meant for people proficient in either instrument isn’t going to help him figure out how to tune his violin. What else is he supposed to do, though?
He closes the door to his room and switches on the lamp, then heads over to the box in the corner of the room that his and Mari’s old toys had migrated to over the years. Digging through it rewards him with absolutely nothing but an old sprout mole plush from Basil that he’d forgotten he had and a dried lump of modeling clay to throw in the trash. He leaves the plush on his bed, tossing the clay in the trash can by his desk on his way to search Mari’s side of the room.
It, too, yields no results— at least until he bumps into the handle of the drawer at the bottom of her bed and remembers that, oh yeah, their twin beds have storage underneath. Last he’d checked, Mari’s was full of her old school notebooks for him to reference, while his was crammed to the top with plushies. Fully expecting to find nothing, he pulls the drawer open.
There— in a small stack on the side under a few folders, making it so he never would have noticed had he not been looking for them— are all of his violin books.
All of his violin books. All four of them, plus the folder of loose sheet music, that he’d thought Mari had thrown away. Even Duets for Piano and Violin is there, stuffed at the bottom of the pile.
Pulling them out and laying them on Mari’s bed, he picks one up and flips it open out of curiosity— then instantly recoils. It’s scribbled out in harsh, permanent black marker. Unsalvageable, unreadable, unrecognizable.
Further flipping through the book shows that the only ones scribbled out are the pieces Sunny had gotten to learn with his tutor. There’s a surprising amount of those, but still— most of them had been for practice, and he’d never played them again after learning the concepts they’d been teaching.
Mari must have really been paying attention to remember all of them.
Who else could have done it, anyway? The books were hidden under Mari’s bed, Mari was the one who’d made him practice regularly, so of course she could be the only one.
The gravity of that hits Sunny on his way back down the stairs, one of his beginner violin books— sheet music scribbled out but tuning instructions pristine and mark-free— under his arm. He has to sit down on the stairs, leaning against the railing, cold nervousness forming in his stomach.
Mari had scribbled out his violin books. Mari had scribbled out his violin books. Why would she do that other than her never wanting Sunny to play the violin again?
If Mari finds out what he wants to do… how would she react? If the mere thought had upset his coolheaded, calm sister to the point that she scribbled on his violin books… he has a bad feeling she won’t react well at all.
The worry and fear and anxiety persisted as he went through the process of tuning the violin, as he dragged the violin case upstairs and left it on Mari’s bed. Other worries begin to take shape as he lays in bed, cuddling the sprout mole plush, and tries to go to sleep.
What if he grows to hate the violin, just like he did the first time? What if his mother pays for lessons, but he abandons it when things get hard, wasting her money? What if his mother refuses to pay for lessons based on his experience with violin in the past? Is it even worth it to learn the violin if his college degree is going to be in art, not music like Mari? What if he’s good at the violin and disappoints his friends and family for pursuing art anyway and wasting all the money for lessons? What if he doesn’t have time to practice and never gets better? What if he does have time to practice, but can never bring himself to… like back then?
If he does start playing again, would that have proven his father right in trying to make him start playing again? Would he have triggered his parents’ separation for nothing?
When he finally drifts off, his dreams are full of an angry fifteen-year-old Mari scribbling on him with permanent marker while he begs her to let him learn the violin, his father screaming at him while his mother and friends stare blankly in the background.