(On the prompt 'music' for dn-contest. Gosh, Light. Your misogyny is showing. This was supposed to be a silly little story and then Light made it depressing with his psychology—gee, thanks, Light; is this your revenge for me not letting you into a fic with L for awhile?)
There was a certain elegance about this instrument; a certain grace in the silver-tinged sound and its effortless dexterity within the scale. It was compact. Indispensable. It had a good deal of subtlety. With practice he had mastered nigh-unto three octaves and was tackling Mozart sonatas with relative ease. He had every right to be proud of his accomplishments.
Light Yagami wished he wasn't the only boy in the section.
He stared down at his lap and at the flute. It had seemed like a good idea at the time.
Damn, he thought. Though he was only twelve he thought it was an appropriate word for the circumstances, if kept to oneself. He thought damn again, for emphasis.
His mother had played it once in college and he'd discovered her old flute years ago; when he was nine years old he'd been enchanted by its songlike quality and the amazing complexity of the fingerings. He'd seen no reason why, really, when the time came, not to sign up for intermediate orchestra with an instrument he played already than make a spectacle of himself at a beginner's level. Girls didn't like that. He remembered. People in general didn't like that. Better to make something look easy; to never struggle while anyone was watching. Don't play the high C unless you know it won't go sharp. (Though it hadn't for a good, long while.)
He was good at math, literature, science, physical education, history, civics, being polite. No one ever took issue with that. And girls liked it. And when girls liked it they did pretty much anything he wanted them to.
--but.
Too many girls!
Silently he counted them: three to the left, one to the right, and five more in the row behind.
This was…embarrassing. Was he playing a 'girl's' instrument? But that was stupid, it wouldn't—but—
At least I'll be better than all of them.
(though he probably would have been.)
He wanted to smirk or sigh but did neither, instead taking a polishing cloth out of his case and attending to some smudges on the headjoint. He always liked it to look—
"Yagami-kun?"
--shining.
He glanced to the right.
"…Takada-san?"
A small smile.
"…is that right?" he added, with sincere apology. "You were in—"
"Advanced algebra this morning, yes," said Takada-san. "You know, I didn't know you—"
"It's my mother," Light interrupted, quickly affecting a rueful sigh. "She played the flute, and you know how parents are, I had to—"
"—were so good at math." Takada raised an eyebrow.
Stupid!
"…Thank you." Light cleared his throat. "I study very hard." No, I don't.
Well, I don't, thought Takada.
Light looked at her. She was pretty. He was sorry he had said something stupid in front of her.
"How long have you been playing?" A gesture to the flute. Her dark eyes glinted when she noticed the open holes. "A while?"
"A few years," Light said modestly. "I have a lot to learn." People generally liked it when he said things like this. "You?"
"Two." She smoothed her skirt. "I've been taking private lessons."
Light nodded. "Me, too. What's your teacher like?"
"Miura-sensei?" –pausing, pursing her lips thoughtfully. "She's very good, I think. Whenever I ask for something more difficult to do she lets me, and I like it when she has recitals. What about yours?"
"Arakaki-sensei's okay, I guess." Their director—Light couldn't recall his name—began to pass sheet music down each row; he took the stack from Takada (Kiyomi, wasn't it? Yes, Kiyomi), smiled and set his music on the stand before passing the rest on. "But she insists on playing duets every lesson…"
"You don't like duets?"
"Well…I don't know." He shrugged. "They can be interesting, but what if the person you're playing with makes a mistake? Then the whole thing's ruined and it doesn't sound right…"
"That's true," Takada agreed, thoughtful, "but even so, sometimes—"
"It has to sound right."
Light didn't notice how emphatic he sounded, nor how Takada seemed somewhere between intrigued and taken aback.
"It has to," Light repeated, "because it can sound so good. Like…your voice through singing metal or—more perfect, you know? More right. Without anything—" (anyone) "—getting in the way…"
Takada scooted her seat imperceptibly closer to his.
The teacher had them each play scales, to judge their skill level for the seating chart. Takada did reasonably well. She had a nice clear tone, not rough around the edges like some of the more screechy girls would turn out to be. When Light's name was called there were a few titters of surprise—
a boy in the flute section? Really?
but the moment he began to play that low B dispelled all the clutter of gossip.
Later he would realize he knew that it would. Of course. It was something he'd known somewhere all his life and would remember as long as he lived: if you did something well enough, no one would care what it was you did—
But for now it was just the scales. He'd be first chair. That was sure. He didn't waver out of tune once, not even a little. Scales made sense when they were perfect.
Kiyomi Takada listened, blushing. He was really good. Maybe they could play together someday or…no, he'd have to ask, she was never the one who asked…but she wanted to her hear him play music, actual music, you know. This was music but it was…well. Scales. Music in exact order. Though there was a kind of beauty in this, she supposed. In that it was simple.
She watched his fingers on the keys as the notes climbed higher and higher and higher.
--
"Do you still play?" Kiyomi asked him once, in bed, years later. There was a hint of static in the hotel radio as it played a soft Mozart sonata for flute and piano. There was a smile in her voice, too.
Light was staring up at the ceiling and into the dark.
"…Light?"
"—sorry?"
"I asked, do you still play."
"Play what?"
Kiyomi shivered, moving closer to Light. He didn't look at her but absently put an arm around her shoulders. His body was warmer than the conditioned air—almost too warm, like something was burning inside of it.