AN: Hooray for writing a fic instead of doing my mathematics assignment. I've always thought that Q and T needed more musical fics… even if they're just pathetic one-shots. Of course, it could be that I don't frequent 3x4 sites. Anyway. "Subito," for the world's enjoyment. It might be especially enjoyable if you're a classically trained musician, but My hope is that even the most tone-deaf of 3x4 fans will enjoy it.
Subito
Quatre didn't make a point of playing in minor, but today it seemed as though his fingers could only form to fit the diminished thirds and fifths. He loved to play piano. Not only did it help to keep his manual dexterity sharp, but it soothed his soul and granted him some privacy with his thoughts. No one dared interrupt a concert pianist while they were in this state. He watched his fingers in fascination as they flicked easily through mordents and grace notes. He imagined a vocalist sighing through an extended malisma as he held a chord. The melody returned to him, taking its own time progressing. It was slow, steady, mourning, unerring; decidedly larghetto. It was easy for him, the actions more subconscious than anything. The information on the paper in front of him seemed to go directly from his eyes to his fingers, not registering in his vacant mind. It would be too much information on a conscious level. Pedaling, key signature, time signature, melody, countermelody, bassline, chord structure, tempo, dynamic markings, accents, line, phrasing…
He could let his mind go completely and flawlessly blank. He could fall into a trance so deep and perfect that only the end of the ten minute rhapsody could stop him, often it didn't, and his own abilities for composing would take over… but that never lasted long. When improvising he had to pay a little more attention and that diluted the process of erasure.
Yes, it was ephemeral. He could play longer on piano than on his violin; the strings had made his fingers bleed more than once. But it would end, as all things did.
While playing piano, Quatre could slide into despair darker than hell, or euphoria shaming the sun. He could feel himself headed on a downward spiral toward cocytus. He could feel tears forming in his eyes when another sound split the air.
A flute.
It was a low, simple sound. It searched for a moment for its place in the song; a song that had no place for a flute. There were a few tentative moments of dissonance, and then suddenly, a solid connection. The two instruments met at a perfect major third. The chord held eerily in the air for a moment, a strange instant of sunshine during a wild storm of depression. The flute gently prompted a key change, and, trusting, the piano followed.
This new song, Quatre thought, was astoundingly beautiful. They flew together in a melody of their own invention. Climbing, descending, skipping, all the while working through grand crescendos and heartfelt diminuendos. The chords felt like conversation, the unisons were in perfect synchronization.
Neither knew exactly how they were communicating, how this strange connection had been forged. They really weren't interested in analyzing it.
Quatre was shocked out of the musical reverie by something on his cheek… he was crying. A single tear dripped onto the keys, and then another, and another, until he was sobbing uncontrollably. Trowa would do this with him, unknowing that he was the cause of his amnesia.
The music stopped, and Quatre cried. Trowa, somehow, did not complain, as the young man clung to him. He allowed his turtleneck to become tear-stained, and gently stroked his platinum hair. Though Quatre was obviously so sad, Trowa felt strangely content. And for now, that would have to be enough.