Melody of Two

Hyacinth sat at the piano, his hands resting on the keys, heart hammering against his ribs. This was it—the piece he had spent so many nights perfecting, the melody that had haunted him like a dream he couldn't shake. It wasn't just notes on a page. It was frustration and longing, hesitation and resolve, stitched together into something that felt real.

Yukimura leaned against the wall, arms crossed. His gaze was unreadable, cool as ever. "Well?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "Are you playing, or am I just wasting my time?"

Hyacinth inhaled sharply, fingers curling against the keys. Doubt crept in, whispering that maybe this wasn't good enough—that maybe Yukimura would scoff, dismiss it entirely. His hands were slightly clammy, and he flexed his fingers, willing them to stay steady. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, replaying the melody in his mind, reminding himself why he had composed it in the first place. It wasn't about impressing Yukimura. It was about expressing something he couldn't say out loud. Taking one last breath, he let the weight of the moment settle over him, then placed his fingers on the keys and began to play.

The opening notes were soft, hesitant, like a confession whispered into the wind. Each chord carried weight, a delicate balance between melancholy and determination. The melody climbed, fragile yet persistent, like someone reaching out despite knowing they might be hurt. The harmony underneath was restless, shifting between major and minor, never settling, never giving clear answers. The song spoke of a love that had been tested, one that stumbled, fell, but refused to break. There was pain in the phrasing, in the way the notes lingered just a second too long, as if reluctant to move forward—yet they always did.

Yukimura stood by the piano, arms crossed, eyes narrowed in concentration. He didn't interrupt. Didn't scoff or turn away. He just listened, his expression unreadable as Hyacinth's song filled the empty room. His fingers twitched slightly at his side, a barely perceptible motion, as though resisting the urge to reach for the keys himself. His breathing had slowed, drawn into the pull of the melody. The soft glow of the overhead lights reflected against the polished piano, casting a dim halo around his figure, but his focus remained razor-sharp, locked onto the movement of Hyacinth's hands.

As the piece swelled towards its climax, Hyacinth's fingers pressed harder into the keys, as though trying to hold onto something slipping through his grasp. The melody twisted, darkened, but then—just when it seemed like it would collapse under its own weight—a single, clear note rang out. A turning point. The melody wove itself back together, its edges softened, no longer resisting but accepting. The final notes faded like a breath, not triumphant, not tragic—just true.

The room fell into silence.

Hyacinth slowly turned to Yukimura, nerves coiling in his stomach. The drummer didn't speak at first. He didn't even move. The quiet stretched between them, heavy with something Hyacinth couldn't name. Then, without a word, Yukimura stepped forward. He slid onto the piano bench beside Hyacinth, fingers brushing over the keys experimentally.

And then he played.

His accompaniment was different—sharper, more grounded. Where Hyacinth's melody wavered between hope and sorrow, Yukimura's notes were firm, unwavering. He took the softest parts and gave them weight, took the stumbling hesitations and straightened them out. His fingers pressed down with measured force, each note deliberate, controlled. There was an intensity to his playing, like a sculptor chiseling away at something raw to reveal its true form. His jaw tightened, and for a brief second, his brows furrowed—not in annoyance, but in something closer to contemplation. A flicker of emotion flashed in his eyes—fleeting, but undeniably present.

He didn't drown Hyacinth's music out, but rather, gave it structure, something solid to lean on. Together, the two melodies intertwined, no longer just a song but a conversation—a back-and-forth of doubt and reassurance, fear and conviction. The contrast between their styles created something entirely new—Hyacinth's passion meeting Yukimura's precision, the raw edges of emotion being shaped into something cohesive, something alive. The tempo shifted subtly as Yukimura adjusted, meeting Hyacinth's rhythm with his own, almost instinctively. It was effortless, despite everything.

As they played, Hyacinth felt it. A story unfolding through the music. Two figures, struggling, pushing, falling apart only to come together again. The song was theirs now, neither his nor Yukimura's alone. The resonance of the notes wrapped around them, filling the air with something almost tangible.

The last note faded, and Yukimura pulled his hands back, exhaling slowly. His fingers lingered for a second longer before finally settling into his lap. The silence felt different this time—not awkward, but charged, like the air after a storm.

"That was sloppy," he said at last, breaking the silence. "Your technique needs work."

Hyacinth deflated slightly, but before he could retreat into disappointment, Yukimura continued, his voice quieter this time.

"But… it's good. We'll use it."

Hyacinth blinked, heart stuttering at the words. Yukimura wasn't looking at him, but something about the way he sat there—hands still hovering near the keys, shoulders just a little too tense—made Hyacinth think that, maybe, he had felt it too.

A small, silent smile tugged at Hyacinth's lips. He nodded, gripping his marker a little tighter.

This was just the beginning.

As Yukimura stood, stretching his arms, he hesitated for just a moment before glancing at the piano again. His fingers flexed, as if itching to play more, but he shoved his hands into his pockets instead. "Make sure you don't slow me down," he muttered before turning away, his steps measured, controlled—yet something about the way his shoulders held tension betrayed the fact that the music still lingered with him.

Hyacinth remained at the bench, fingers brushing against the keys one last time. The warmth from their duet still hung in the air, wrapping around him like an unspoken promise. As Yukimura reached the doorway, he tilted his head slightly, a small exhale escaping him. Just before stepping out, in the dim light, Hyacinth thought—just for a second—that he saw something shift in Yukimura's expression. A faint, fleeting curve to his lips. A smile.

Or maybe, Hyacinth thought, rubbing his eyes, it was just his imagination.

His heart felt lighter than it had in days. He had a long way to go, yes. But for the first time, he wasn't walking that path alone.