A/N: This… is quite possibly the weirdest thing I've written. As I would insist, it's an 'art piece'! XD Truth is, my sister was using my computer, and while I was waiting I went to read what she was working on. (Her fic is 'How Not to Fall in Love', by PockyPirate, if you care.) Now, she had just started a scene where Tamaki had burnt his fingers but was going to play the piano anyway. She later went on to develop it entirely differently- particularly as she is STRICTLY Hikaru/Haruhi- but, in the meantime, I ripped it off and ended up with this. I'm still not sure how… Having a cold and writing late at night prolly don't mix. (Sweatdrop) Anyways, I'll shut up now, before this A/N is longer than the drabble itself…

Disclaimer: I do not own Ouran, or, indeed, the first few sentences. "Tamaki sat down" down to "from a distance" was written by my sister. As you can see, she's starting to pick up my bad habit of abstract descriptions that don't actually mean anything! XD

Crescendo

Tamaki has burnt his fingers, but plays the piano anyway. He plays to travel to a far distant place, where there is no-one and nothing; except…

Tamaki sat down at the piano stool, trying out a scale. His fingers stung, but so many of the customers had requested his performance, his host instincts were making it difficult to refuse. He began to play, the music still beautiful, although the pain shooting up his hand sometimes made him mess it up. His audience listened, captivated with the tales told in the piece, the feelings that rose up from it. It felt as though the music was alive, thinking and feeling. They lost themselves to it, finding comfort in it. The pain in Tamaki's fingers seemed to fade slightly, like he was feeling it from a distance. His mistakes lessened. His mind let go. The notes moved in and washed his thoughts and feelings away. It was a feeling he rarely had, not an excited passion like he had for so many things, but a comfortable welcome, the warmth of an embrace with an old friend. This was the place he came to forget, and also to remember. A place where joy and sadness were indistinguishable from one another. A place of hypocrisy, of oxymoron's, the very nature of it's existence suggesting it shouldn't be. Or maybe it wasn't any of these things. How could one describe a state like this? A state of being?

He continued to play, to breathe. His hands whirled and waved gracefully over the keys, summoning up sounds, weaving them easily together. Those watching were as entranced by the magician as by the magic itself, as he kept a small smile on his face. This was his and his alone, some sympathy, some bond, between him and the composer. Music was not meant to be listened to. It was meant to be played, to be felt, to be wrapped around one's heart and to heal the soreness there, just for a little while. A drug, a painkiller. Rather like what he felt when she…

He hit an accidental without meaning too, and quickly smoothed it over into a appoggiatura, merging it into its proper place. Careful, now. Don't let anything in here, don't let it enter in. Empty your mind into this silent world, fill it again with the science, the magic, the fusion that was the notes. He let his fingers continue to dance, and let his mind slip quietly away. His heart ached a little, remembering the time it had taken to reach this place, how his mother had praised him every step of the way; every new phrase learnt a source of joy. How she had asked him to play just a little longer, every day. The doctors couldn't have helped heal her, the sickness was not an illness, but inside her heart, body and soul consumed. He liked to feel maybe he had taken her there with him, his mother, made it a little… easier. He wondered if she still made it there without him.

Jump an octave, bring it up, drag it away along with everything else. Ignoring the loud protests from the blisters on his fingers, he continued. Because he couldn't stop. To stop playing was to let go. To stop now would be a discord, a tragedy, a dishonour. He couldn't stop, not just yet. He wanted to stay here just a little longer. Just until the music was ready. He felt it strain against him, and slowly released it into a crescendo. It left the piano like a contented sigh. Rather like what he wanted to do whenever she was close.

Another accident, another slip. Another smooth transition into a trill. He couldn't leave this place before the music, after all. Couldn't leave her- it behind. He considered bringing up the dynamics a notch, but didn't want to push too hard. Rather like the reason he would never tell her.

A dud note, cunningly disguised as a grace note. Rather like she disguised herself.

Again! The blisters were making his fingers clumsy, for certain. He had to disconnect from them, let them do their own thing, make their own decisions. He couldn't let his head interfere with matters of the heart. His fingers knew what they were doing, and he couldn't force his own ideas upon them. He'd just watch, encourage, and pull them back when they fell. Rather like he watched her, from across the room, and saw her with-

A cadence. He pulled his fingers back just in time to let the music catch it's breath, and his own, and then dropped them back down, starting again, entering into the final phrase. It had to be gotten out, rather like his feelings. Some things couldn't be contained, but would be dangerous if not controlled. He made sure the timing was just right, let the piece draw to a close, and withdrew from that warm comforting presence. He came back to reality to the sounds of awed clapping and cheering. He felt better, released, relaxed, just as he always did.

And the blisters on his fingers were weeping, rather like…

Rather like they had burst. That was all.

Kyouya approached him, smirking. "Did I detect some improvisation in there, Tamaki?" He asked, quietly, having known the piece well- though not played like… that.

Tamaki rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. "I messed up a little… my bad, my bad…"

Kyouya continued to stare levelly at him. "Really… I wonder, what could have distracted you?"
"My fingers hurt."

"Is that all? I thought you played with unusual passion, Tamaki, beyond your usual mere elegance. What was on your mind?"

"Nothing." Tamaki answered, truthfully. Kyouya raised an eyebrow but said nothing. That place was his escape, a world with no thoughts. Nothing reached him there, surely. The two gazed across the room to where Haruhi was serving guests.

That place… was nothing. And it was nothing like her.

"I think they want an encore." Kyouya said, and to the delight of the crowd, Tamaki nodded and turned back around to the piano, to go back to that place. He couldn't help wanting to spend time there. Rather like he couldn't help wanting to spend time with her. He saw her smiling at the music, and sensed her happiness, rather like he felt his own, and the nothing-ness came and swallowed him again.

But it couldn't be helped. He was happy to spend his days in nothing, when that same nothing was everything to him.

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A/N: There. THE END! Hee. I said it was odd… Thanks for reading!