This sprung to life after I downloaded a copy of Hakkai's Theme from somewhere--you know, that sad little piece of music that plays when he's thinking of Kanan. Somebody keep me away from all things Hakkai, for the sake of your sanity.

DISCLAIMER: Saiyuki isn't mine, dearies.

Pianoforte

I hear it almost every day, soft as a breeze in my mind. It seems this music will never leave me alone, like Sanzo's voices and Gojyo's red flowers.

I can see the two of them now, sitting at the old and worn piano, side by side. They are playing something beautiful, their two pairs of hands working as one, but it is because the music breaks my heart that I cannot look away.

I know I must, because I am looking at myself.

And the song was mine and hers.

I recognise the young woman playing very well. Her long brown hair is tied in a braid that flows down her back like a night-dark river. The yellow dress she wears fits her perfectly. I know the young man bought it for her when they went Christmas shopping one winter, although he had to eat cup ramen for a week after that. She laughed at him, but wore the dress very often. The cross that she wears round her neck is her own, although neither of them are Christians. It's just for aesthetic value. Anything looked good on her, the young man always said.

The young man following her lead is also easy to recognise, in some ways. His thick, rather scruffy mop of hair falls almost to his shoulders. He wears glasses. His clothes are simple, but smart, befitting his profession of teacher. He is playing the same bars over, but a few shades down the scale. A little smile plays over his face as he adds his own embellishments to the bars, smoothing the transition to her part of the song.

She takes over the main role again without missing a beat. Although I cannot see it from here, I know her head bobs up and down slowly as she continues the music and her free hand reaches out for the young man's, holding it tightly. She said many times she loved those hands, and their long beautiful fingers.

The young man definitely liked a lot more of her than just her hands, I'll tell you that.

I listen for a while, lost in my own thoughts before I realise with a touch of franticness that the piece is coming to its end. The last soft notes hang in the air for a moment, and then die in the darkness. Before I hear the laughter that escapes them, springing from the joy of yet another piece played out in perfect harmony, the darkness closes in.

If only I could tell the young man that for him, the darkness will never die. If only I could tell him his flower would be ravaged by another, petals crushed and wilted in a pool of blood. If only I could tell him he was fated to become a demon like those who had torn his Kanan away from him.

The music has ended forever, but for better or for worse, it is the only melody that stills his atrophied heart.

Kanan, itsu made mo...aishiteru.