Symphony

MysticShadowWanderer

Disclaimer: And one day, Duane E. Scott, the elevator necromancer, said to the nation of the elevator-people that he would be the greatest elevator necromancer in all the land...

Second Movement

"Good afternoon, Kamiya-san!" the wizened little man greeted her happily as she stepped through the door of the piano shop. "It is very nice to see you again."

"And you Tanaka-san," she replied with a smile.

"Are you here to listen this afternoon?" he asked as his wrinkled old hands ran a soft, white cloth over the smooth finish of a baby grand piano to make it shine.

"No, sir," she said, much to the surprise of the man. "I was thinking that maybe today... maybe I might buy a piano."

His bespectacled eyes widened, before he scurried to set his cloth down and return to Kaoru's side. He took one of Kaoru's hands in both of his in the way that only a kindly old man could and began to question her in earnest. She smiled brightly as she answered his inquiries as to the size of the room, the doorways through which the piano would have to be maneuvered, and the style of piano that she wanted.

"It's a very large room," she said softly, biting her lip as she considered. "But the door is not very large. I would dearly love to own a grand piano, or even a baby grand, but I doubt we could get one in my apartment and I am still a college student, after all. A piano is expensive."

"Ah yes, Kamiya-san, you are right." Tanaka nodded sagely. "You should look at all that we have here on the floor and see what might suit you best. Please take your time, a decision like this should not be made in haste."

Kaoru nodded her thanks and began to slowly walk about the store, occasionally running a hand lovingly over the ivory keys of a particularly attractive instrument. She looked wistfully at the showy grand piano in the corner, but forced herself to turn her attention to the ones that were more in her price range. She would have to stretch herself thin to afford this in the first place, but she was sure she could do it. And she wanted to have a real piano to practice on, not just a keyboard. She wanted, needed, that full, rich tone that could only come from a strings encased in carefully fitted wood.

Finally, after much deliberation, she settled on a cherry-finished piano that wasn't overly small nor overly large. It would fit nicely in the corner of her apartment, and it was attractive. The price made her cringe slightly, just over three thousand dollars was going to keep her living frugally for a while, likely even after it was paid off, but she didn't mind so much. For the first few years after her father's death, she'd had to live in a shabby, rundown apartment, and next to the life she'd lived before she got her internship, cutting back on some of her expenses was meaningless. She was still a good two steps above her former living situation.

With a smile and some new papers, she left the store and headed for home, where her books were waiting for her. Tomorrow was Wednesday, and that meant a full day of classes.

Kenshin tapped his finger thoughtfully against his lower lip as he sat on the hardwood floor of his apartment, bracing himself with one hand as he stared out over the city through the floor to ceiling window that his piano sat in front of. He wondered about many things, his mind racing as he leaned back and settled to lie on the floor with his arms behind his head. The blood that constantly stained his hands was always prominent in his thoughts, but today it had taken second chair to one Kamiya Kaoru. His face twisted in a frown, and he questioned himself harshly.

Who was she? Why had he allowed her to simply come into his home before he even asked her name? It was unlike him to be so unguarded. But he knew from the instant she studied his hands that she was different. She wasn't like the rest of the world, who focused so quickly on the scar that marred his face. Unconsciously, he shifted to allow his fingers to trail down that mark, his hand cupping his cheek. It wasn't that he was self-conscious about the imperfection, it was that other people were. It was a reminder of unpleasant times, yes, but didn't people realize that if you block out bad memories they only return to haunt you? Didn't they understand that if he didn't have that reminder, he wouldn't be all of himself? And didn't they see that by treating it as if it weren't there that they refused to accept all of him? He didn't want people asking about how he got the marks, because it was a story that he wouldn't, couldn't, tell for several reasons, but he'd rather that they ask and be disappointed when he wouldn't divulge the information than treat him as if they didn't see it. Because they did. He and they always knew that they did, yet it was as if there were some unspoken law about strange scars like that.

Discontented by his own train of thought, he sighed and jumped easily to his feet in a martial arts move that was so ingrained in his nature that it didn't seem unusual to him. Thinking like that only made him unhappy, he knew, unhappy with who he was in the past, who he couldn't forget. The only cure for that unhappiness was his piano, something he could throw himself into wholly so that he could forget that the world existed, so that there was no past, no future, just here and now and the music that surrounded him.

He seated himself at the piano and, taking care to avoid looking at his hands, tapped at the keys for a moment, his fingers tinkering out a few short melodies to stretch his hands and exercise them to play seriously. Eyes closed, he ran his fingers over the keyboard and found the exact spot, right where he wanted them. He didn't want to see his hands, didn't need to see them. It would ruin the piece if he saw, looked down at them to find them dripping crimson onto the ivory perfection of the keys again. How he hated to scrub the keys clean.

Perfectly relaxed and with his eyes closed, he began to play. Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D Minor. And it was beauty, pure joy wrapped in the pretense of misery, and all underneath his fingertips. Here, at the piano, he was God, and he was all that there was. This was his to command, and this was rightful. Now it was safe, now he could see his hands; the crimson was gone and he could admire the speed and precision of his own hands that looked like someone else's.

Kaoru smiled as she sat on her balcony and scribbled idly along the edges of her psychology book in pencil. She could get back to her studying in a moment. Her eyes closed as she listened, she could hear the music as clearly as if it were being played in her own apartment. That was him, her new teacher and paragon. Was it right to apotheosize him in such a manner? The thought passed her by in a brief moment of dissension. No; he was godlike, in his own way. Wasn't everyone? She didn't know, but now wasn't the time to think of it.

"Toccata..." she breathed. "Beautiful."

It was darkness and it was light, and she saw nothing but color and emotion. It was sad, but she smiled through misery. When he played... it wasn't the same as when someone else played. When Kenshin played it was as if the world stood still for him, as if no one else had ever played before and no one else would ever play again. And she knew it was different, from the moment she'd first heard him play, she'd known. He could bring those eighty eight strings and hammers to life, make them tremble and cry or jump and laugh. As the song ended on a thundering note that sang of despair and loss, she jumped to her feet.

Just to glimpse him, to see him as he sat at the piano, was all she asked. Now that she knew where his apartment was, it was amazing to her that she hadn't seen the instrument before. It was in plain sight, sitting before a huge window. She leaned over the rail slightly and rested her elbow on the cold metal, setting her chin in her palm. Though his figure was slightly blurred through the pollution of the air and the transparency of the window, she could see him there, unmoving as he sat. His hands were still over the keys, and she knew that his eyes were closed. Something about the way he was, statue-still, made everything stop. And she could see those dancers again, and she could see him in black and white, ruffles and silk, one hand in the air and one foot forward, as if frozen in the middle of a dance step, so still that it was almost unnatural. And it was right, and it was meant to be. And then it was shattered.

Kenshin glanced up and their gazes locked. It was as if she were standing right in front of him, instead of in a separate apartment across the street. Their faces were stoic, reading each other. The feeling was too eerie and she shook herself, smiling and waving slightly and then shoving away from the railing and sitting back at her table to pretend to study.

Kenshin turned back to his piano quickly, staring down at his hands, which trickled crimson onto the white of the keys. He swore softly to himself and jerked his hands away before they ruined his piano. With a sigh, he ran his fingers through his bangs. That had been a strange moment.

He had finished his piece, and sat with his eyes closed as he usually did. And as he had sat there, time stood still, and he could see the dancers that plagued his dreams, and he could see her in dark blue and white, silk and lace, her hands at the skirt of her elegant dress as she gave an elaborate curtsey, as though she were fixed in an intricate dance. And it had felt so right that it was impossible. But it seemed meant to be. And then it had fallen to pieces.

He had felt her eyes on him and looked up. It had felt like she were right there with him, standing in front of his piano bench instead of high above him and a city street away. He had tried to read her, just as she'd tried to read him. And then she had smiled and waved shakily, as if she were trying to fool both him and herself. But she hadn't. And he hadn't even been able to wave back, his gaze had fallen on his hands in desperation.

Another curse left his mouth as he stared at the piano from where he sat with his bench pushed away. He'd looked, he'd ruined it all. Now he had to clean up the blood before his piano stopped working. It had happened before. The first time he looked, it had happened.

He'd let the blood drip all over the keys, unaware of what was happening, and he'd failed to clean it up. And then, when he sat down to play again the next day, his piano just wouldn't play. His fingers had fumbled over the keys and the sound had been unartistic. He'd had to buy a new piano, because that one was stained with his own ugliness. And he'd cried. No one knew, but he'd cried. He'd cried for his ruined piano, for the reasons his hands had been stained, and for innocence, but never for himself. He never cried for himself.

Mumbling and swearing, he went to the kitchen to retrieve a bucket of mild, soapy water and a toothbrush from under the sink. There was a chamois cloth in the third drawer on the left, he reminded himself. And with trembling hands that were covered with thick rubber gloves, he began to lovingly, carefully clean the keys of his stained piano, tears streaming unnoticed down his face.

A/N: Does that strike anyone else as extremely heart-wrenchingly sad? I don't know why that ending affected me like it did... Weird... Anyhow, there's a lot of confusing things in this chapter. Some parts are less confusing than others, but I have to say that the entire thing came out being quite strange. But I said what I wanted to, and finally got some good, solid angst in there. Ok, maybe it's not so solid, but it's good. And I really like how this came out, so I'm not going to mess with it. It's supposed to be confusing, so don't worry about it. Hm... that's sad... I think I'm going to go cry and think about that for a while...

On a side note... I really like showing this gentle, softer side to Kenshin. He's so vulnerable! It makes him so cute that I just want to squeeze him until he can't breathe to "oro."