Symphony

MysticShadowWanderer

Disclaimer: There once was an elevator necromancer named Duane E. Scott...

First Movement
Day by day, she listened for the music, that exquisite flawlessness. And day by day she sank deeper into depression as she heard nothing but the hum of the people and the hiss of the cold, cruel city streets. If she could not find the pianist, what then would she do? Sink away into nothing, never knowing what it was in her that demanded answers? She hoped that would not be the case.

Even her dreams were taunting her now, tantalizing her with all too evanescing pieces of just single chords, but giving her nothing substantial to hold fast to. Then there were the strange images, the blurred faces and figures, always dancing in silence. There was no music to this scene, but her heart told her that there should be. Colors blurred together as dancers twirled and wove between each other, always synchronized, as if each knew exactly where to be and when they were to be there. The dance was nothing short of amazing, but in some way, this dream was torture, a nightly crucifixion that she could not understand. Each morning now she woke in tears, not knowing for whom or what they were cried.

It could not go on like this forever. She had to know what she had heard, whose hands had pieced together such a blow to her heart. Each day she awoke with the hope that perhaps this day would be the day that she would find the musician. And each day she went to bed, tired and mentally beaten, knowing that she was one day closer to falling apart.

Obsession was unhealthy, she knew that well. How could she, a psychology major, not? But where was the fine line between a desire to find someone and becoming all-consumed by that desire until it was all that she thought of. Was it when she couldn't sleep at night? Or was it when her days seemed longer? She didn't know. She didn't want to know. So long as she ignored the problem, she wouldn't have to see past what was staring her in the face: she was making herself sick.

Some days, she decided not to go to school or work. She would call in sick at the office where she interned, and not show up for her classes that day. It was alright, she told herself, as long as it was only once in a while. Instead of handling her responsibilities, or at least getting some extra studying in, she would go out. But only to one of two places. Her entire day would be spent in either the Barnes and Noble down the block, where she would always treat herself to a new classical CD, or the piano store across town.

The piano store was her favorite place to be, despite the fact that she couldn't even pick out a melody with the index finger of her right hand. It was a wonderful, cozy little shop that was family owned, and the people were wonderfully polite; it was always so very busy, with piano students coming in and out and the like. She spent hours at a time, just sitting on a bench in the corner, her silver, wireframe glasses perched sharply at the end of her nose as she listened, her legs crossed and her chin rested in her palm. To any observer, she seemed perfectly normal. The people that stopped in regularly, either to visit with the owners or to play, would always favor her with a warm smile, and she would return the gesture with a polite nod. No one would have seen her nearly insane fixation, though it lurked just beneath the surface. To them, she was just the sweet girl that sat in the corner, dressed all in stylish black, who loved to listen to music. There was nothing wrong with that. It was nice to have someone to play for, they thought. How wonderful that she appreciated the music that they'd dedicated themselves to.

But dedication was so much different from her obsession. Never did she spend a moment not listening to some classical piece or another. She had never been a fan of classical music before, preferring music with lyrics and finding the nuances and intricacies of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth century's composers to be too boring, too alike. But now she could distinguish Mozart from Beethoven, Tchaikovsky from Handel, Bach from Chopin, and each from each other. She didn't understand what made each one different, didn't know pianissimo from fortissimo, staccato from legato, or a glissando from a crescendo, but she knew that they were different, just as she knew that night was different from day.

This newfound knowledge would have been a positive thing, an opening to another level of culture, had it not been for the desire that drove the interest. Sometimes she thought that if she didn't find her pianist that she would go crazy. Though she didn't know how to go about finding this person, she was sure that she could. To her, it was as if she were searching for a book on a library shelf; it was no great task. But in reality, the shelf was twenty feet tall and spanned a hundred feet, and she didn't know the title or author of the text she was looking for; it was an impossibility.

There was no name to attach to the musician, and not even the name of the piece so that she might find someone who could tell her just who it was that had mastered it. If ever there was such a thing as an unattainable goal, this was it. She had set her sights on the stars, and didn't realize that she could fall and never be caught as she drifted off into space.

But she knew, as well as she knew her own name, that she would be able to find this person. It occurred to her that she might hear other people playing the same song, but she just knew that when she heard the 'one' that she would know it. She would be able to tell the difference. If it took days or weeks or even months, she was determined to find her pianist. If not, she would likely kill herself before she went insane. As a psychology major, she knew what it was like in psychiatric hospitals, and she would rather be dead than be in one. There were so many locks, so many guards, so many things that would make her lose whatever sanity she might have salvaged.

Chewing thoughtfully on her black fountain pen, though she knew she shouldn't leave bite marks on such an expensive writing utensil, she stared almost blankly out over the city. Her books and notes lay scattered and forgotten over the small table that she sat at, and she set the pen down to rise and stand at the railing of the balcony, resting her weight on her hands as she leaned out to look over the edge. It was so far down... What if she were just to jump? She shook her head slightly; where had that thought come from? It was atypical of her to think such morbid things, but every so often now, she would recognize death when she stared it in the face, and she would have to force herself to think of something different. It was almost disturbing.

"That music..." she sighed. "Where could it have come from?"

If she didn't find it again, she didn't know what she would do.

It was a beautiful Saturday, with the breeze blowing at the hair that was loose around her face and the sun warming her shoulders genially. She smiled to herself, for the moment content to just be walking down the street, one headphone perched in her right ear and quietly sending Mozart's "Turkish Rondo" to her brain to sweeten her steps. Today she'd decided that it was too nice to sit in the piano store all day, and she was going to the park, her sketchbook and Prismacolor pencils under her arm. Studying could be procrastinated, and she hummed as she walked, pleased with her decision.

Just as she was turning the corner, only at the corner of her apartment complex, she froze, causing the man behind her to bump into her and spill an overpriced cup of Starbucks' coffee down his overpriced silk shirt. Entranced, she didn't hear him as he swore loudly at her. That was it! That was the song, and it was coming to her clearly. Her eyes scanned the windows of the apartment building across from hers, but she couldn't see anyone playing. That was where it was coming from, though! All this time and the object of her obsessive search had been so nearby.

Still clutching her sketches and pencils, she rushed across the street, not noticing that she was nearly stuck by a speeding car, and pushed open the lobby door to the building with her free hand. One of the rooms, she thought, but which one? Her heart in her throat and pounding wildly, she scrambled up the stairs, intent on loping down each floor until she found the apartment from which that beautiful music was drifting. When she made it to the eleventh floor, her efforts were repaid.

Skidding to a halt, she stood outside the door, unsure to do now that she was within reach of her pianist. Though she'd been so intent on finding the person, now that she was close to doing so, she didn't know what she would actually say. As the song ended, she gathered her courage, and rapped lightly on the door.

A few moments of tense waiting, and she heard the shuffling of a piano bench, and then light footsteps. She held her breath as the knob turned and the door slowly opened. Her eyes went wide as she stared, if somewhat dumbly, at the man who stood before her. Beautiful was the only way he could have been described, even though he was a man. He stared back at her unassumingly, his violet eyes serene yet curious. Kaoru had to fight the urge to reach out and run her fingers through his hair, a deep red waterfall that cascaded down his back. A cross-shaped scar marred his left cheek, but she paid it fleeting notice as her gaze unconsciously traveled down to his hands. These were the hands of a true artist; his fingers were slender and long, strong-looking. They were gorgeous hands.

"May I help you, miss?" he said quietly, his voice not so high but not so low.

Suddenly realizing exactly what she'd been doing, Kaoru blushed deeply and averted her eyes. Had she still been looking at him, she would have noticed immediately the soft smile that lit his features.

"Oh... I-I'm sorry," she stammered. "I just... I heard the music, and I... Was that you playing?"

Glancing up, this time she witness the smile that spread across his face, and he nodded. Did it seem odd to him? she wondered. Here she was, a complete stranger, standing in his doorway and asking if it was he that was playing the piano.

"It was beautiful..." she murmured, unable to help herself. "Please, sir, please... could you play it again?"

Though he looked as though he were taken slightly aback, he nodded again, and then opened the door a bit more, stepping aside so that she could come in. Bowing hastily, she accepted his silent offer and allowed herself to be led inside. Part of her marveled at the beautiful interior of his apartment, the rich wood flooring and the lovely paintings that adorned the walls, but most of her focus was on the piano that sat in the corner. It was obviously meant to be the centerpiece of the room, despite its offset position, and she thought that perhaps she had never seen a more beautiful instrument in her life. It was a magnificent grand piano, black, sleek, and so shiny that she thought she might see her reflection in it if she dared step so close. Though she desperately wanted to peer into it as he played, to wonder at the magic of the hammers hitting the strings with precision, she sank carefully onto the floor a safe distance from it.

Without a word, the man sat at the leather-cushioned bench and poised his fingers over the keys. His eyes closed briefly, and he appeared to be deep in thought. After a moment, he reopened them and began to play. The song started slowly and built in intensity. Kaoru closed her own eyes, trying to withhold her tears at the melancholy that he elicited from the composition and at the sheer beauty of the experience. This piece was unfamiliar to her, she realized, but that ceased to matter as the volume increased and she failed to control her tears.

She cried silently as he worked his fingers over the keys. Though she'd thought that she would savor this moment by watching every move the pianist made, she found herself unable to do so, and was forced to remain with her eyes shut as the music swelled around her in a sea of misery and delight. The dancers of her dreams swirled before her eyes, moving in perfect time with the music that was tearing at her soul.

As his fingers slowed and the piece ended, Kaoru sat completely still, scarcely moving but to breathe. Unwillingly, she pulled herself from her tortured enchantment, and she opened her eyes that glistened still with unshed tears. The man at the bench was openly staring at her, quiet shock reading in his intense eyes.

"Are you alright?" he asked softly. He'd never seen anyone so affected by his playing.

"Yes, I'm fine," she replied, wiping her eyes dry in embarrassment. Her cheeks were tinted pink; how could she have cried in front of a stranger like that? Suddenly it hit her. He was still a stranger. He had invited her in, played for her, and she didn't even know his name. "I'm so sorry," she said quickly.

He tilted his head to the side inquiringly. Confusion wrote itself across his face before realization dawned on him. Her name, he didn't know her name. Smiling again, he reached out a hand to where she sat.

"Himura Kenshin," he said politely. "And you are?"

"Kamiya Kaoru. Himura-san, I am so very sorry! I don't know-"

"No, it's alright," he interrupted her firmly and kindly. "I see that it was important to you." As he said the words, he noticed the sketchbook at her side. "You're an artist?"

Kaoru nodded and shook her head at the same time. "Not like you are, Himura-san. I just sketch things."

"May I see?" he asked. "I happen to be quite fond of art." He gestured at the paintings scattered about his apartment walls.

She nodded again and he picked up the sketchbook, flipping through the pages and stopping to study the ones that interested him more. Kaoru remained on the floor, staring at her hands as she twisted them nervously in her lap. One certain picture seemed to fascinate Kenshin more than the rest. He stared at it for some time before he looked up at her.

"When did you draw this?" he asked gently, holding the book out so that she might see which drawing it was that he was looking at. It was the one that captured the images of her dream's dancers.

"Just the other day," Kaoru answered, unsure of why she was so anxious. Usually she was happy to show off her work, but something about the way he was examining this one set her on edge.

"What's the inspiration, may I ask?"

"Oh... just a dream I've been having," she replied, the response noncommittal.

"I see..."

"Himura-san..."

"Kenshin, if you please."

"Kenshin, what piece is it that you played?" she asked earnestly, steering the conversation back to what she truly wanted to discuss.

"Something I wrote," he responded. "I haven't titled it yet."

"It's beautiful," Kaoru said. "Absolutely beautiful. Thank you for playing for me."

Kenshin rose to help her to her feet, then handed her the sketchbook that he still held. She closed it carefully and bowed slightly to him.

"If you would be so kind, I would love to hear you play again someday," she said quietly, embarrassed to be practically inviting herself to his apartment again.

Understanding what caused her anxiety, he smiled kindly to alleviate her fears, and nodded. "Please, come any time of the afternoon," he said. "It would be nice to have an audience. Do you play?"

She shook her head furiously, a wistful look falling on her face.

"Would you like to learn?"

"Oh yes," she replied without hesitation. "I would love that more than anything."

"I would be honored to teach you," he offered politely. "If you wished, you could come by every Saturday afternoon at two, and I could give you a lesson."

Kaoru blinked in amazement, this was more than she could have possibly expected. "That would be wonderful," she said quietly. "Thank you so much."

Kenshin smiled warmly and walked her to the door, waving slightly as she made her way down the hall. When she'd reached the stairway, he shut the door and went over to the window to look out at the busy street and take a minute to think. She had fascinated him the moment he laid eyes on her. Something about Kamiya Kaoru was very different, and the way she'd been affected by his music attested to that. And the drawing... those dancers... How was it that the image she'd drawn from her dream was the same that he'd seen before his sleeping eyes for years, the same that had inspired his piano composition?

A/N: Oo! Plot twist! I'm really enjoying writing this. Can't you see Kenshin as a pianist? It works, I swear... I don't know why. Maybe because he has the hands for it :smiles dreamily: Plus, I think it takes a lot of emotion, especially sorrow, to be able to get a piano to really sing, and Kenshin has that, even if he keeps it bottled up. Two years ago, at a talent show I performed in, I heard two pianists. One was a girl that played an INCREDIBLY complicated Beethoven piece. Despite the fact that I utterly despise this girl, she was amazingly talented, and the music was beautiful. But it had no soul. Then a boy played a piece that he wrote entitled "Distance." It was simplistic, but it almost brought me to tears. It was so heartfelt and melancholy that you could almost feel the emotions that he put into not only writing but playing it. That's what's piano's about. That's what I think Kenshin has. Of course, since it's anime, I'm never going to actually get to hear him play, but life sucks sometimes, doesn't it? I'll live... Anyways, this chapter seemed fairly self-explanatory... I think I'm actually going to take my time on this one and let it really develop. There's opportunity here for a lot of deep meaning and some beautiful stuff to happen. Here's hoping! For now, I hope you enjoyed the First Movement (what am I going to do when I run out of movements??), and I'll be seeing you next time. Ja ne!