It was late in the afternoon. I had just returned from my running practice when the unusual smell of acetone slapped my face. A quick scan of the living room revealed you, majestic as ever in your sky blue evening dress, removing your nail polish on our designer couch. Something was off. I couldn't even remember the last time I had seen you wear such a thing!

Shock made me careless. A louder than usual step on my account made you flinch. You looked up at me, guilt and shame written all over your beautiful features. I raised my eyebrows questioningly, but you just looked away and shook your head softly, a sad, resigned little smile playing on your lips.

I approached slowly and sat next to you, my inquisitive eyes never leaving your face.

"That color would have gone well with your eyes." I said with fake nonchalance.

"It was a ridiculous fancy anyway." You decreed with a barely perceptible wince, eyes still downcast as your violinist fingers removed the last traces of varnish from shortly cropped nails.

"What is it, Michiru?" I asked covering both your hands with mine, getting both palms stained in the process.

You looked up at me at last, faking a smile that would have fooled the world, but not me, never me. I knew you too well for that. At least as well as you did yourself.

"It's not about the polish, is it?"

You shook your head again, your sad smile warming up a bit.

"It's very silly, actually." You said shielding those huge emeralds from me with lush, mascara covered lashes.

"Nothing capable of inspiring such a reaction from you could be silly."

"This is." You insisted.

I squeezed your hands reassuringly and waited.

"They're not feminine enough." You whispered at last, slumping your shoulders a bit and still not meeting my gaze.

"Your hands?"

"My fingers." You rectified my faux-pas coolly. Apparently my question only made things worse.

"They're perfect."

"No. They're not." You said with a frown I knew too well. It was the one that was supposed to keep tears at bay. "They have callouses and the nails are too squarish and short to look good, no matter what I do. Such coarse hands could very well belong to a fisherman!"

"Michiru." I beckoned softly, hoping you'd look up. "These hands create the most sublime music I have ever heard." I said when you finally did. "They are a gift from God and should be treated as such: with respect and reverence." I squeezed your hands for effect, holding your gaze with as much love as I could put into it. "Don't you think that is a small price to pay for your wonderful talent?" I asked softly.

Deep into my personal space, you searched my eyes for any sign of untruthfulness for the longest time, head slightly tilted to a side. Eventually, a slow smile bloomed in your glorious lips and your eyes closed half way in what I knew was an expression of love and gratitude.

"Thank you." You whispered slowly closing the distance between your lips and mine.

"Besides, it could have been worse." I whispered right before you kissed me, making you open your eyes in surprise. "You could have been a lefty." I said with a conspiratorial smirk that, together with my joke, gave you the longest fit of the giggles I have ever witnessed.

I woke up with a start, shocked to find myself alone in a narrow futon, in a bedroom that was familiar yet not our own. Was the concert over? Did I sleep through it and miss it? Were you finally okay with your hands?

After splashing cold water over my face, it still took me a long minute to realize where —and most importantly when— I was. It was like getting hit by a car at full speed wearing no protection what so ever.

Our most recent memories together flashed through my eyes, bringing me up to date with our situation: you refused to spend time with me and brought your car to full speed to escape me when we coincided somewhere.

No. Cold, harsh reality and overworking myself to death wouldn't be enough to take this tender memory away from me, I decided, going back to bed. I snuggled under the futon and let sweet oblivion take me back to better times once again.

Author's note: This is a little omake because everyone loves fluff and it was just too funny an idea to never see daylight, yet too short to stand on its own two feet. It was inspired by me wondering how someone like Hilary Hahn could go about her daily life as a woman with the huge callouses that HAVE to come with the excessive amount of mind blowingly beautiful music she plays. Like, seriously, have you listened to her play Bach's Gigue in D minor (you guys totally should btw)? And that's when she was barely a kid!