A place for all this writing stuff...

Even before he finished the Shinobi Academy MA Kakuzu’s career had exploded. Winning the Hashirama Senju Lieder prize had opened a lot of doors for him, even though he never performed Lieder anymore now. And despite the aching misery of that last term there without Hidan, his effect on his playing had never left him. It was agonising - always - and at the same time it was also pretty much the only comfort he had now.

But he never talked to anyone about that. As far as any of his college friends knew, Hidan was long forgotten. A brief, intense fling that had paved the way for Kakuzu’s career to blossom. A catalyst, at most, and not relevant anymore.

Kakuzu tried his hardest to believe that himself. It was a difficult act to maintain. Hidan’s international career had begun the week after he left with Jashin and didn’t come back. He’d gone from height to height, the brightest new star on the opera scene, and he was everywhere. Every major opera house, every high profile festival. Turning on Classic FM or Radio 3 was a risky business - Kakuzu had to have his hand on the remote at all times. And listening to Lieder - any Lieder - was absolutely no go. Even though, like Kakuzu, Hidan never did it any more.

It was lucky, he considered, that his own career tended to take him round the concert halls rather than theatres and opera houses. There was little chance of any actual overlap, even if their schedules happened to take them to the same city. And if his success brought him far less satisfaction than he could ever have imagined, at least he was always busy, always moving. He told himself there wasn’t time for dwelling on the past, and sometimes he almost believed it.

That was a lot harder at night, when he slept as badly as ever. He still had the CD Hidan had made him but he didn’t resort to listening to it anymore. In the early days when he’d still had some hope that Hidan might come back he had done, but not now. Still, it travelled with him - it was the only thing he had left of him and he knew he’d probably never be able to let it go.

When he woke at 4am on a Monday morning in a hotel room in London, jet-lagged and jaded beyond belief, he nearly did crack and try it. He got as far as having it in his hand before he came to his senses and made himself a chamomile tea instead. He’d been dreaming of Hidan again - a mixture of his old prison nightmares and Hidan’s face the last time he’d seen him. White and anguished. Unable to quite believe what was happening. He could still hear in his head his voice croaking, ‘Kakuzu, wait!’ Sounding broken. Desperate. Kakuzu remembered how he’d turned back from the door and Hidan was still staring after him. Then Jashin had stepped forward and taken him in his arms, a hand in his hair, cradling his head protectively. For a second Hidan had still peered out at him, eyes wide, but after another heartbeat he turned away, burying his face in Jashin’s chest. Kakuzu had left the room with a snort of derision, letting the door bang behind him.

He knew now that he’d destroyed his own happiness forever in that moment. At the time, though, it had felt like the only thing he could do. And maybe there had been a part of him that thought he’d see him the next day, they could talk things over, make things right again. But Hidan was uncompromising. More so than he’d ever realised. The next morning he wasn’t there. Or the next day. His phone had gone straight to voicemail - eventually that number would be disconnected. And when Kakuzu, desperate and half out of his mind with worry, had gone to the Dean to plead for anything they knew, any explanation, he was told Hidan had left, withdrawn from the course. His room in halls was empty - he had packed up and simply gone.

And in four weeks time he’d surfaced in Pesaro at the Rossini Festival, having stepped in at the last minute to play Lindoro in a production of L’Italiana in Algeri to rave reviews. A part they’d learned together, Kakuzu had thought bitterly. His future on the opera circuit assured, a debut at La Scala followed in less than three months, as Count Almaviva. Before the end of the year he was booked as Lensky in Eugene Onegin, playing opposite Jiraiya. By the time he was back on home turf with Rigoletto at Covent Garden, the youngest Duke of Mantua there in the last 50 years, Kakuzu had left the Academy too, and was touring Eastern Europe, something he strung out as long as he possibly could. He’d timed his return deliberately to miss it. Already by then he knew that to see his face once would be more than he could bear.

But all that time there was no word, not a phonecall or a letter. Certainly no olive branch like concert tickets or an appearance at one of Kakuzu’s own performances. Kakuzu knew he’d hurt him, but it seemed extreme. And the fact that he’d dropped all of their other friends too was as much of a worry as a comfort. Every time Kakuzu saw his picture on a poster or programme he looked a little thinner, a little darker around the eyes, and his heart broke a little more. By this point far too much time had gone by. There seemed no way he could reach out.

Finally, Kakuzu had dropped back into an uneasy sleep after resorting to taking half a melatonin. It was hard to believe from the way he felt the next morning that he’d had any sleep at all. He had a concert that evening at The Wigmore Hall - an unusual venue for him, more usually it was a showcase for singers and chamber music. But he’d been keen to fit in something else before a bigger event at the Royal Albert Hall at the weekend.

He’d woken later than usual, and after a breakfast that made him feel a little more human, he walked across Green Park to the venue to remind himself of the acoustic. They’d be doing the BBC Radio 3 lunchtime concert, he knew, a live broadcast, but he thought he’d probably have a chance to spend some time in the auditorium after that, and maybe they’d let him listen to the end.

They were just finishing up when he arrived, but he was recognised and let in straight away. And it was disastrous. The programme was Die Schöne Müllerin, and as the young baritone Kakuzu didn’t know began his final song, Des Baches Wiegenlied, he knew he couldn’t bear to hear it. His heart yearned for Hidan so much it was physically painful. No one, he thought, could sing it the way he had done. He left again, as silently as possible and went up to the green room, where he sat alone with his head in his hands for the next quarter of an hour. He’d managed not to hear anything he and Hidan had done together for a long time now. It was even more painful than he’d thought it would be.

When the recording equipment had all been packed away and the BBC sound engineers and producers were gone, Kakuzu emerged and took an hour in the auditorium practicing. He told himself he felt a little better, but he didn’t really. In fact, because he wasn’t really able to repress his feelings while he was playing anymore, he felt even more sad and unsettled. He packed down the feelings as best he could and went to buy a sandwich in the Pret a Manger across the street. At least he wasn't a heart-throb tenor who’d be recognised, he considered.

When he got back to the Wigmore Hall green room to eat it, someone else had been in there and left the radio on. It was Radio 3’s ‘In Tune’ programme. Kakuzu had been on it himself a few months ago and he recognised the presenter’s voice. Samui. He’d liked her.

“And so you flew in from New York this morning?” she was saying. Kakuzu listened with interest. Someone else with jetlag then...

“Yeah,” her guest agreed. “After an afternoon matinee.” Kakuzu froze. “I haven’t slept in like… I don’t even know--! I couldn’t sleep on the plane and then it was morning... Actually, what day even is it? I’m so fucking confused...”

It was him. His voice, just as Kakuzu remembered. Hooking him in and flipping his stomach and making him want to listen to every word at the same time as cover his ears and curl up on the floor. His pulse pounded in his ears and his heart thumped sickly hard as they talked briefly about the new production of Rigoletto he’d been doing at the Met, and the recording that had been made.

“Now, I have a question tweeted in from a listener here,” she was saying, “reminding me that you used to be something of a Lieder specialist in your Conservatoire days - you even won a very prestigious prize in your final year. But you don’t sing Lieder anymore?”

Kakuzu’s heart sank further. He found his hands were clammy. And he knew from the quality of the pause before he began to speak, and most definitely from the short sharp inhale that followed it, that Hidan was as unhappy with the question as he was.

“Huh, yeah… well I. Yeah, I don’t,” he said. He sounded exhausted, like his defences had all gone down. Kakuzu frantically looked around the room for some way to turn this off before it became completely unbearable. “I just don’t. I can’t.”

More than exhausted; he sounded broken. “I… you know, back in college I had someone. Someone I had a real connection with. And once you’ve had that. And then you don’t anymore. I couldn’t, with anyone else.”

Kakuzu barely took in what Samui was saying, but Hidan’s answers were burning themselves across his mind. “He… knew exactly what I’d do… where I’d go…” Hidan’s breath caught in his throat. “What I needed from him. He used to say, take it where you like, I’ll follow.”

Kakuzu dashed his hand across his eyes, clenching his fists, his jaw, screwing down the emotions that threatened to completely overwhelm him. Hidan took another little shuddering breath. “But then, in the end, he didn’t,” he said, almost inaudibly. There was one more quick little gasp of breath, and suddenly a pre-recorded track was playing. The Rigoletto Overture.

Kakuzu didn’t wait to hear more. Abandoning his sandwich, he turned around and ran back out to the street. Broadcasting house was a 5-10 minute walk from here, but he wasn’t walking. He sprinted up the road towards Cavendish Square. The only thought in his head was that Hidan was there in studio 80A racked with grief for the loss of what they’d had together. That last breath he’d heard - god, he still knew every sound he made so intimately - he knew he’d been about to lose control completely.

He hurled himself across Harley Street, not even stopping to look, vaguely aware of horns blaring through the pulsing of blood in his ears. He suddenly remembered vividly sitting with Hidan in that concrete stairwell outside Jashin’s teaching room, holding him while he cried as though his heart would break. He’d sounded the same that day, spiralling into his darkest memories. And Kakuzu knew that today he’d already lost it by the time he was quoting him saying he’d follow him anywhere - he’d just been operating on borrowed time.

As he veered left into Chandos street he had to slow a little. His breath was coming in ragged gasps - he wasn’t fit enough for this anymore. That wouldn’t have happened with Hidan... The thought shamed him and he pushed through, upping his pace again. He crossed the quiet street on a diagonal and then he was in Portland Place at last. And there was Broadcasting House straight ahead of him.

He hadn’t given any thought at all to what he’d say when he got there. He played it by ear, on autopilot. “I’m late for ‘In Tune,’” he panted at the door attendant, and luckily it was the same guy who’d been on duty when he actually had been on the show.

“Right you are, Mr Taki, I’ll call one of the producers to come and get you,” he said, reaching for the phone.

“No need - I remember the way,” Kakuzu told him abruptly, making for the stairs fast and taking them three at a time. Fingers crossed he wouldn’t bother calling up. Though if he did, someone would probably come out to politely head him off, someone perhaps who would be prepared to take a message to Hidan for him.

As he panted up the 3rd flight of stairs it occurred to him that they might be back on air by now, and then what would he do? There was a green room down the corridor, he supposed he’d just have to wait it out there. As he reached the 4th floor landing the lift doors opened and a woman came hurrying out and down a corridor. Kakuzu charged for the lift and dived into it, slamming his hand onto the button for the 8th floor.

Leaning against the wall, hands resting on his knees and gasping, he tried to compose himself a little as he got his breath back. But it was impossible. Hidan, he thought desperately, are you that unhappy? Have you been all this time, like me?

The doors opened, and he found himself in the familiar corridor. There were the studio doors, right ahead of him, and to the right the door to the cubicle where all the tech stuff went on. A glance above the door told him they weren’t recording now, and as he strode towards it it opened and a harassed looking producer came out. Atsui. He remembered him from last time he’d been here.

Mr Taki!” he hailed him, rather desperately. “I’m so sorry no one was there to meet you, we’re running somewhat behind schedule--”

Kakuzu was almost amused. So they needed content now and we’re going to try and pretend he’d been expected?

“Can I show you to the green room and we’ll try and get you sound checked in the next few minutes?” Atsui was clearly very keen to keep him away from the studio.

He tried to urge Kakuzu down the corridor ahead of them, but Kakuzu just shook his head. All the breath he’d regained in the lift had suddenly left him as the studio door opened again and he caught a glimpse of Hidan.

An assistant producer leaned out and told Atsui they were playing the quartet from Rigoletto and had six minutes thirty-five seconds. Peering over her outstretched arm he could see him again, hunched over in a small armchair in front of the cubicle window. Samui the presenter sat next to him, awkwardly proffering a glass of water, clearly making no headway at all in her attempts to soothe him. He seemed to be gasping for breath nearly as much as Kakuzu was, almost hyperventilating, gasping out something unintelligible to Samui. On the verge of a panic attack, Kakuzu thought. There was no time to ask anyone’s permission.

“I’m so sorry,” she was saying. “I had no idea it was a sensitive subject… do you think if we kept questions strictly to the new recording you might, in a few minutes--”

By that point Kakuzu was halfway across the room. He passed the Steinway, neatly dodged a mic stand, then skidded to a halt on his knees in front of Hidan.

“Hidan!” he rasped, breath still coming hard and fast. “Hidan I--”

Hidan looked up, and anything else he might’ve said to him lost itself as their eyes met. Hidan’s widened, and he found he was holding his hands, he didn’t quite know how. But Hidan didn’t take them away.

“Kakuzu?” His voice wasn’t steady and his face was wet with tears, but suddenly his breath seemed to be coming more easily.

“I heard you–” Kakuzu began. “Hidan if I’d known you wanted– if I’d thought you– I’d have been there, I’d have followed you anywhere, I swear–”

“Fuck, Kakuzu,” Hidan gasped. “You’re actually here? How did you–? Wh-where were you…?”

“Wigmore Hall,” Kakuzu said quickly - none of this mattered. “I have a concert later--”

“You ran here?” Hidan asked. “You heard me say that and you fucking ran here…?”

“Yes,” Kakuzu said. Tears were dripping off Hidan’s chin, and he let go of his hands to get out his handkerchief and give it to him.

Hidan wiped his face and blew his nose. “Still carrying one of these everywhere then,” he said shakily, balling it up in his hands.

“Just in case,” Kakuzu said. He lightly gripped his elbows, just feeling like he wanted to steady him as much as he could. They looked at each other a moment, both momentarily lost for words. Then Hidan put out a hand to touch his shirt front.

“You fucking worked up a sweat didn’t you?” he said uncertainly.

“It... felt urgent,” was all Kakuzu could say. He looked at the floor, then looked up again. “I just– I couldn’t leave you like this– knowing you felt this way–”

“How did you know I was?” Somehow Hidan’s extended hand was resting against his chest now. “Like this, I mean. They censored me, didn’t they?” He giggled a little hysterically. “I wasn’t exactly what they signed up for…”

“Your... last breath before they took you off the air…” Suddenly Kakuzu could hardly meet his eye any more. “I could tell.” He dropped his head down onto Hidan’s knees, almost sobbing himself now. “You were right…” he croaked. “I could always tell.”

He felt Hidan’s hand come to rest on his head, hesitantly at first, then with more confidence. “I’ve missed you,” he mumbled against his thigh. “I’m so sorry… I didn’t want you to go, I never wanted that… I– I’d’ve given anything to take back the things I said...”

Hidan leant forward so that his cheek was resting on Kakuzu’s hair. “Fuck, me too…” he whispered through fresh tears. “I don’t know what the fuck I’ve been doing without you, Kakuzu. Seriously, even without them asking about you I feel like I was pretty much due to go to pieces right about now anyway…”

“I’m not going to let you go to pieces,” Kakuzu told him, holding onto him as though the last two years hadn’t even happened.

The intensity between them was so all-encompassing that Kakuzu had actually completely forgotten there were people all around them. He jumped when he heard a little throat clearing sound next to him.

“Ah, Mr Taki, Mr Yu, I really don’t want to interrupt but…”

Kakuzu lifted his head, and saw Samui the presenter gazing at them in wonder and considerable relief.

“We do have a programme to get on air, and, well... do you feel up to going on, Hidan?”

Hidan gave a gasp of a laugh, then took a deep breath. “Fuck that unaccompanied shit I was going to do,” he said suddenly. He turned to face her, with a bright and distinctly unsteady smile. “Samui, this is him! This is my guy!”

“I - I gathered… I’m absolutely– Kakuzu Taki– I had no idea there was this connection…”

The producer Atsui joined her, looking in a calculating way between them as Hidan grabbed Kakuzu’s hand again, his energy suddenly filling the room. “Let’s do some Lieder, Kakuzu!” he said irrepressibly. “Something we used to do! Show that fucker who tweeted in the question we’ve still got it!”

Kakuzu got to his feet, pulling Hidan after him. “At your pleasure,” he said, almost lightheaded, hardly able to believe this was really happening.

“Do you think it was Shikamaru Nara?” Hidan asked, swaying towards him and laughing. “Accidentally making my day once again!” He was hyped, flying too high, Kakuzu could feel the nervous energy radiating off him.

“This is shit hot!” Atsui was muttering to Samui. “This is real-time drama, like once in a career type stuff right here. I’ve already had the guys mic up the piano, we just need a two minutes to sound check Mr Taki--”

Samui turned efficiently towards them, decision made. “It’s a sudden change of plan but we’re used to that here,” she said. “Are you happy to go straight into it? If so I’ll give a brief introduction once you’re warmed up and sound checked and then it’ll be over to you. We’ll tease it with an announcement about something special coming up, then stick another track from your recording on to give you time,” she added to Hidan.

Kakuzu glanced across at him. He didn’t really have eyes for anyone else right now anyway. He was still holding his hand. It still felt like the day after they’d won the Hashirama Senju Lieder prize. He wasn’t sure if once the surprise had worn off they were both going to come crashing down and remember everything that had pulled them apart, but now - right now - he was going to ride this for all it was worth. “What do you want to do?” he asked him.

Hidan shrugged. “Let’s decide when we get there,” he grinned. Kakuzu’s heart flipped.

Things moved fast then. Kakuzu was ushered to the piano and asked if he needed the team to find any sheet music for him. He shook his head. “I know everything we used to do by heart,” he said. He was half in a daze. They asked him to play something, just anything, and Beethoven’s Ich Liebe Dich found itself under his fingers without him making any conscious decision at all. Hidan came in with, “so wie du mich...” in the second bar without a moment’s hesitation, and he looked up and held his gaze as he played until he became a Hidan-shaped blur with the tears filling his eyes. Once it had been true - not a day had passed without them sharing their feelings and troubles. And now it had been years. How could they ever have let this happen? How could they have done it to themselves, let alone each other?

The sound guys indicated that they were happy with the levels, and he stopped abruptly at the beginning of the second verse, ‘drum Gottes segen über dir...’ for a second almost wondering if he could really do this. Then Hidan came over to him, lightly singing to the end of the line, “du meines lebens freude…” And at least it had never stopped being true that Hidan had been his life's joy from the moment he met him, Kakuzu considered. I just didn’t have any without him.

“Shall we do that one, then?” he asked softly, in the pause while everyone was waiting for the extra track from Hidan’s new recording to come to its finish, before Samui could get on and introduce them.

Kakuzu nodded. “If you’re happy.”

“I am,” Hidan said, and Kakuzu didn’t think he just meant about the song. “We... made it a bit hard for God to hold both of us…” he said, after a moment, taking out that rosary and holding it to his mouth the way he always used to. “Didn’t we…?”

“Schütz und erhalt uns beide,” Kakuzu murmured, taking his hand where it rested on the end of the keyboard. “Let’s make it easier for him from now on, hm?”

Hidan nodded, his mouth twisting a little. Samui, in headphones over at the interview table, was listening to the end of the track so she could begin her introduction over the fade out, and before they could say anything else she lifted her hand to signal that they were live.

“And that was our guest in the studio today, tenor Hidan Yu, singing the part of the Duke of Mantua in Verdi’s Rigoletto, in a new recording released on the New Dawn label later this week. The aria we just heard was Parmi veder le lagrime, as the Duke, believing he has lost Gilda, sings, ‘I seem to see tears’. And now…” Samui paused for just a moment, “after having seen quite a few of those in the studio today as well, we have an unexpected pleasure for you! I’m sure a lot of you listening were moved to hear Hidan speak earlier about a pianist he sang with during his college days, and that special bond they’d shared, and then lost. I know I was. We tapped into a well of emotion there that was much deeper than we realised.” A pause. Hidan made a sad face at Kakuzu, who made a rueful one back. There was a lot they were going to need to talk about, sometime soon.

“But, absolutely miraculously,” Samui continued, “that very pianist happened to be listening to our programme, and upon hearing Hidan’s heartfelt words he… quite literally sprinted here from Wigmore Hall, where he’s due to be performing tonight.” Another pause, letting it sink in, then she spoke again, letting her voice drop a little. “And yes, all the Shinobi Academy of Music alumni who've been tweeting and texting me - you're quite right. After an incredibly touching reunion here in the ‘In Tune’ studio we have Kakuzu Taki and Hidan Yu, performing Lieder together once again, seeing each other today for the first time in two years.”

It was their cue. They were on. Kakuzu looked at Hidan, and knew from the look in his eyes that he had his note. That first ‘ich’ came in unaccompanied, perfectly in tune, and when Kakuzu joined him after the upbeat and felt that sweet connection again, and that sense of supporting him, underpinning him, following wherever he wanted to take it, he knew he’d do anything not to lose this again.

Somehow after that they were at the interview table to say a few words, which was embarrassing and far too intimate as both of them were feeling far too raw to put on any kind of act.

“We just... had a stupid fight,” Hidan explained, when Samui had said how incredibly special it had felt to be part of their reunion, and asked how it was that they’d been apart so long. “He walked out, I... ran away... And then lives– our careers– we were never in the same place…” He looked at Kakuzu, frowning back fresh tears that were threatening to fall. “So many times I wanted to call you, and I just couldn’t.”

Kakuzu barely knew what he was saying. He nodded. “The words you’ve just sung.. it’s everything I’ve wanted to say to you all this time,” he heard himself say, kind of hoping the listeners’ German wasn’t that good. It was all too personal but he couldn’t help himself right now. “I wish I had. We’ve both been idiots, letting this go on so long.”

Hidan was nodding ruefully. “We... really messed up, didn’t we?”

Kakuzu reached for his hand across the table. “It doesn’t matter. It’s in the past now.”

When they left the building together it was nearly half past four. “Where are you staying?” Hidan asked, and the question reminded Kakuzu uneasily of the distance that was still between them. He named his hotel, and asked Hidan the same.

“I have a flat here, out in Hackney,” Hidan told him. “Barely get to use it, but…”

Kakuzu knew the feeling. He was very loosely based in Berlin again, but hadn’t actually been home in the last two months.

“Will you come, tonight?” he asked him suddenly. “To the concert?”

Hidan looked at him, a little smirk turning into a more sincere smile. He nodded. “Sure.”

“Join me on stage at the end maybe…” Kakuzu suggested boldly. “I’m doing a bunch of Beethoven sonatas, it would fit right in…”

“Okay…” Hidan was still looking at him as if there was more to come. “Okay, sure.”

“Shall we– Let’s just go there now.” Kakuzu’s heart started thumping hard and he just started saying any rubbish that came into his head. “There– there’s a green room that’s pretty private… actually I left a sandwich there… and the auditorium’s free for me to use, we can try out some things…”

Hidan laughed and took his arm. “I could really use a sandwich,” he told him.