For Him I'll Play 'Till My Fingers Break
Suou-chan
Disclaimer: Sailor Moon isn't mine. It belongs to a wonderful woman who, despite being so wonderful, doesn't put enough General/Shittenou in her manga. No legal ramifications please.
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It used to be the two of them.
It used to be like "Barnum and Bailey" or "Thelma and Louise" – it used to be "Ami and Zachary".
Nowadays, it's just "Ami".
She sits there by the shiny black piano and plays the same pieces each night. The same pieces, over and over again, in the same rhythm, the same tone, the same style. Over and over again.
The first few scores are always the same, and the people there know not to ask for any others. And the piano always sounds beautiful, despite the glaring emptiness in each of the pieces, an emptiness once filled by the mellow tenor of saxophone. Sometimes the young woman would stop – but the people at the bar know that the song hadn't ended yet, because they could see her lips moving as she counted to herself, filling in the parts where the sax used to play with her soft, lilting voice. But the people there know not to complain.
Then after she finishes those scores, and only then, does she ask the people for their orders. It used to be that she'd ask every night. "Does anyone have an order…?" her gentle voice would say. Now she no longer needs to, as the people who frequent the dusky bar are the same people who go there every night, and they'd always ask for the same songs anyway.
Once, there had been someone new. He had sat over there, in that corner of the bar closest to the piano – close enough for him to have seen the tiny little hammers in the piano's insides softly striking the chords, but far enough so that he could still slide his empty glass over to the bartender for another gin and tonic. The people could tell that this guy was new, because they could almost see the man's face from the light that was always centered on the piano. Everyone else in the bar kept away in the shadows, drowning himself in alcohol and whatever song it was she was playing. Of course, now he's someone old, and no one new had come to the bar for a while.
But when he was still new, he had ordered a song. "Can you play -----?" he had asked, and his rich baritone had made the other people wince. His voice was too loud for the dusky old bar, with the people there silently sharing the drink called loneliness (1). "I'm sorry sir," she had replied, in her soft, lilting voice, "but I only play sad songs."
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When they had first seen them, the two had been together.
He was carrying an instrument case and she had been clutching a leather purse. Although they had walked slightly apart from each other, there was no space between the two. She was laughing, and he was smiling tenderly at her. They couldn't see the smile since his mouth was hidden behind a thick woolen scarf, but they knew that he undoubtedly was because his eyes were soft.
The young man and woman had been moving from bar to bar for a while now, and were quite popular among the regular patrons of such locales – not simply for their talent, because their abilities as very capable musicians could not be argued, but also for their chemistry. The trust and love they possessed for each other was obvious to all onlookers, and it was a very sweet sight that they made, playing together beneath the dim lights in some dusty bar corner.
He played the tenor sax while she accompanied on the piano. Before each piece, the woman's thin fingers would be poised delicately over the ivory keys and she would close her eyes, as if waiting for some invisible voice to probe her into playing. The man would then close his eyes, cradling his shining golden sax, and await his unspoken cue. Nevertheless, they were never off beat or out of tune, and they played with a perfect synchronicity that could only be established by musical duos with the utmost trust in each other.
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They finally stopped moving when they found B L U E. It was in some nondescript corner of some nondescript street, but it was close to the apartment complex that they had found earlier on during that day. That was what made it best – Ami didn't want Zach to have to travel unnecessarily. And the bartender was a nice chap; he didn't mind when the pair had to leave earlier in the night than usual, a practice which they tried not to employ regularly but which would still occasionally occur.
For such an unremarkable place, B L U E seemed to be a surprisingly popular rendezvous for young people. They were each from different walks of life, be it the youthful astronomy major that doubled as the bartender of B L U E or the somber young businessman with stormy eyes of midnight, who would casually chat with the bartender while solemnly sipping his drink.
"Nathan – I see that you've hired some new pair around here," the businessman drawled out, eyeing the murky contents of his drink before downing the cup. "Are they any good?"
"Why Darien, I thought that you only came to B L U E to enjoy my spectacular company?" Nathan's blue eyes twinkled merrily as he answered the surly young entrepreneur who merely chuckled and slid his empty glass across the counter.
"Of course, but I wouldn't want to monopolize all of your precious time – Lita'd have my head." Glancing at a tall, auburn-haired waitress chatting with a customer in the corner, Darien laughed. Nathan joined in, blew his girlfriend a kiss, and turned to watch the newcomers. Ami was helping Zachary assemble his sax while he leaned against her petite frame and briefly closed his eyes. She turned, with him still leaning on her, and gently unwound the gray scarf that had become entangled in the man's golden locks. He slowly blinked open drowsy green eyes, looked up at the young woman and tenderly smiled.
"Yeah…they're really good."
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They never talked when they were both at their respective instruments. She would be completely immersed in the shiny black piano, lithe fingers skipping over ivory keys like they would skip over the smooth skin of a lover. Though the young woman was not normally plain of appearance, it was the general consensus that she looked best at the piano. At the piano, the young woman's pale skin would flush and she would transform: from beneath her naturally demure nature, a sensual, passionate spirit would emerge.
And he would caress his saxophone like a mother would stroke her child, or perhaps like a jeweler hoarding a precious diamond. His fingers were gangly and bony, so their appearance may have suggested weakness – like the hands of a rheumatic old man – though his were strong and firm, perfect in manipulating his instrument. Bronzed like the hands of a construction worker, one could see veins that pumped life beneath the surface skin like the branches of a tree. His fingers would travel softly across the length of the saxophone in sure, fluid movements that reflected an impressionable feeling of utter tranquility, comfort, and ease.
The two made a beautiful pair.
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Spasms rocked his thin frame, and his glasses flew from his face as he staggered towards the table. Brilliant bottle green eyes flashed with the sudden seizure, but immediately dulled to a pain-filled olive as he silently heaved. It was only a small consolation when he saw that he hadn't vomited anything substantial, for it only further verified the fact that he hadn't been eating. He tsked to himself – Ami would not be happy, had she known.
Zachary shuddered forcefully, and violent tremors shook hands that were clasped over a trembling mouth, gasping laboriously for breath. When he finally calmed down and unclasped his hands, he realized that the alarming tinge of red had spread so that it now covered most of his palm.
"Zach, are you alright?" Ami queried softly, coming quickly to his side with a glass of water and a collection of pills, at which he looked distastefully. Zachary hastily wiped off the blood with his handkerchief, crumpled the offending cloth and tossed it into the wastebasket. "Yes love, I'm fine…just got a slight cough. You know I have rather weak health, and it is winter now, " he replied, before methodically arranging the pills onto his palm and swallowing them all.
He stood, stretched, and pulled Ami into a loving embrace. "Let's go dearest, we don't want to be late."
Ami gently returned the hug, placing her hands upon Zachary's back and squeezing lightly. She glanced at the wastebasket, closed her eyes, and willed herself not to cry.
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Ami was an American-born Japanese, the only child of two industrious entrepreneurs who had decided to search for adventure in the United States. Growing up in a loving family, Ami was blessed with very liberal parents who believed in giving their child the freedom to pursue whatever it was she fancied. In turn, they were blessed with Ami, who at a surprising young age had already the presence of mind so that her two fun-loving parents needed not to worry about disciplining her or otherwise coaxing her in the "right direction". In the wake of such avid, compulsive parents, it was only natural for their only progeny to develop a healthy dose of passion and impulse, herself.
Ami was a young bird that could not wait to leave the nest.
While she was happily learning to love freely and pursue aggressively, across the ocean, a sallow-faced young master sat wilting in a gilded cage of gold. Zacharias Rolfe Hargreaves (though he preferred Zach, or at least Zachary) was the eldest son of wealthy English estate owners, who had bred the young master like they would their prized English foxhounds (2). Though a pale, sickly little bird as a child, Zacharias managed to grow into a dashing – if shy and slightly apprehensive – young man.
The two found each other in college one day, in the twisting halls of the music department. She was late for an audition and had bumped – quite literally – into the young saxophonist. Her flushed face, breakneck apology, and the dignified manner in which she picked herself up and began to walk away (a walk which had turned into a mad dash not quite after she had rounded the corner) refused to leave his slightly dazed mind. And by some inexplicable force, they continued their acquaintance in that ad hoc manner for several days, before they decided that their impromptu encounters led to too many bruises in questionable places. That day, they went out for coffee.
They complemented each other flawlessly. Despite the inconveniences they encountered – predominantly on the part of the Hargreaves family, who originally had difficulty accepting a "loose American harlot" into their esteemed family – Ami and Zach were exceedingly happy together. She taught him to give smiles freely and he became the forest that stoked her fire.
Her fire and his reserve, her vivacity and his silent strength…
Together, they were perfect.
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"Do you really want to go to B L U E tonight? I'm sure that Nathan would understand if I called him up and told him that we couldn't make it."
"No dear, I'm fine. Nathan's already been more than accommodating, letting us leave early those last few nights."
"Zacharias Rolfe Hargreaves, you are sick. You need your rest –"
"Ami, I'm fine, really. Please don't bother yourself about it. It's just a bad cough."
"But –"
"Love, let's go. Darien had said that he'd be bringing his fiancée today, and we had promised to congratulate the two with a song, remember? I wouldn't want to disappoint."
Ami paused, looked at her hands, seeing what Zach did not – the thin piece of paper stamped with red, clasped tightly in her enclosed fist. Her hands trembled.
"Alright then, Zach."
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Gershwin's Summertime never sounded so beautiful, as it did that night.
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Sometimes, Ami and Zachary would not be together. When Ami went to the local grocery store to buy the day's breakfast, Zachary would be in the apartment, patiently awaiting her return. Many were the occasions when Ami would return to find him still sleeping; when that was the case, she would first clean up the apartment and afterwards prepare the meal. And then, she would gently arouse the exhausted musician and the two would have a nice Japanese-styled breakfast.
And Zachary never asked Amy to come with him whenever he went to the nearby drugstore. Or when he visited the doctor's – which didn't happen very often, but often enough so as to arouse concern, if Ami ever knew about it. She had accompanied him once, the first time, but Zachary would always be very careful about his later appointments. He didn't tell her when he continued to see the doctor, or when he started a new regimen, or when the doctor had told him to stop taking medication altogether. He had resolved not to say a word when the doctor handed him a thin slip of paper, stamped in red, and told him that he could stop making more appointments.
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It used to be the two of them.
Nowadays, it's just "Ami".
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Author's Note:
The phrase "sharing the drink called loneliness" is actually a line in the song sung by Billy Joel, called "The Piano Man": they're sharing a drink they call loneliness, but it's better than drinking alone. It's great imagery, eh? I couldn't resist using it, since I wanted to lend that sort of atmosphere in B L U E. I wanted Ami to be the "piano man" that everyone went to hear.
Zacharias Rolfe Hargreaves' last name was taken from Kaori Yuuki's manga "Count Cain", whose protagonist's family name is "Hargreaves". I really couldn't think up an appropriate-sounding English last name, so I resorted to flipping through that particular manga for ideas. Originally, I had come up with "Rolfe" – I must admit that the only movie with "Englishmen" in it that I could actually remember at the time was Pocahontas, and I didn't like the sound of Zacharias Rolfe (I didn't particularly like John Smith's character, and having a surname after Radcliffe would have just been insulting)However, I wasn't able to relinquish that name either, so I stuck it in as a middle name. Rich people always have their egocentricities, so I figured it'd be alright.
There is no "3" in the story, but I stuck this in to explain Ami and Zoicite's possible OOCness. Ami, I realize, is generally characterized to be a timid, painfully shy, quiet, bookwormish girl. However, I believe that she is a very passionate person, as evidenced by her love for her friends, and that she is entirely capable of acting as she does in this story: she gives her love freely, cares deeply, and is a very perceptive and intuitive person. She knows that Zoicite is terribly ill, but pretends that she doesn't, because she knows that he has painstakingly tried to keep it a secret from her.
And I've read tons of Ami/Zoicite fanfiction (though unfortunately, there aren't enough good ones around) that have Zoicite as a dashing, debonair player. In this story, I wanted to portray him as a more serious, "strong and silent" type person. Perhaps it's because I had just watched "Corpse Bride", but I think that I might have been trying (maybe just a bit) to model him in perspective of Viktor.
There is also no "4", but I just can't seem to stop blabbing. This is a rather pastiche piece, where I once again tried a different approach – I'm afraid that my sorry attempt at a "deeply- moving-but-not-in-an-overly-dramatic-manner" story may have failed miserably. I was listening to Goodbye Julia from Cowboy Bebop while writing, and had wanted to portray the mood of some dingy, half-empty old bar full of old, depressed people who've sunk so low into lethargy that the bar stools have their own personalized butt-prints on them…with some young, apparently happy hottie playing some phenomenal jazz (remember Gren?). Unfortunately, words continue to fail me.
But please folks, press the pretty button. Even an errant "you suck" would be welcome feedback.