Harmony

Midorino Mizu

Disclaimer: Tennis no Ohjisama and all associated characters are the property of Konomi Takeshi. Rikkai High School jazz band is all Tongari’s idea.

Author’s Note: Having heard Yukimura’s Love of Prince song, I’m actually pretty sure he wouldn’t be that great of a jazz singer. Maybe if he was doing a Billie Holiday raspy kind of thing. Maybe. But for the purposes of this, it’s not the same voice. I guess.

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When Yukimura Seiichi’s fingers danced across the keyboard, soft, moody melodies came out – complicated chords that elicited simple emotions or very sparely strung together notes that made people feel things they didn’t quite understand.

It was his gift, Yanagi Renji thought as he stood just behind his pianist, watching the delicate play of Seiichi’s fingers on the ivory keys of his piano. Seiichi was both technically brilliant and intensely creative, and he always seemed to be tuned in with the emotions that surrounded him.

And he always seemed to be able to weave those emotions in his music. But something seemed off today, and it wasn’t just the frustrated line forming between the pianist’s eyebrows that told Renji that.

No, he thought, as lovely as the song was, there was something that sounded…off about it; something almost hollow about the blend of melody and harmony.

“It sounds beautiful,” he said as the music faded and Yukimura lifted his fingers from the keys.

Seiichi tipped his head back. “Thank you, Renji,” he said with a soft smile. “But it’s not nearly ready yet. It’s missing something.”

There was something about it, the pianist thought, that sounded discordant in his head. It sounded perfectly fine to his ears; it had the haunting, wistful quality he’d been seeking…but something wasn’t quite right, and he didn’t know exactly what that was.

Seiichi started as he felt Renji ease onto the piano bench next to him, and he looked at the vocalist with inquisitive eyes.

“What do you think is missing, Seiichi?” Renji asked as he looked back at the pianist through half-closed eyes.

“I’m not sure,” returned Yukimura with a shrug. “It’s nice, the way it is, but I’m not completely satisfied with it. You know?”

Renji nodded. “Of course.”

He and Yukimura Seiichi were the principal songwriters in their band – occasionally they would cover other music, and occasionally the band’s manager, Sanada Genichirou, would write them something – but mostly it was Renji and Seiichi who were the composers. And Renji knew the frustration of an unperfected piece well.

“Why don’t you play it again?” he suggested. “Maybe I can hear something.”

“Okay,” Yukimura agreed. He flexed his fingers slightly before lowering them to the keys.

And then he began to play, and Renji could feel the simple notes and chords pull at something inside, making him feel almost lonely – making him feel like he was going to lose his hold on something nameless and important.

He closed his eyes completely as Seiichi’s music filled the room. He could hear, in his head, the notes that Kirihara’s moody saxophone would play, and the thrumming rhythms of Jackal’s double bass and Marui’s percussion; he could almost hear himself singing the words Seiichi had jotted down in the margins of his sheet music.

But there was a little something he could hear missing in the melody the other boy had written, something that would make the emotion of the song rawer and more intense.

“Maybe if you did something like this, here,” he said slowly as he reached his hand over Seiichi’s and picked out a series of complicated chords. “It would sound more like this, then,” he added as he replayed a section of the song to demonstrate. “See?”

Yukimura nodded, and his face lightened with a relieved smile. “Yes,” he said. The melody was the same, he thought, but it was richer, and somehow more poignant. “That’s it, exactly. Thank you.”

Renji lifted his hands from the keyboard and smiled. “It wasn’t a problem,” he murmured as he watched Seiichi swiftly change the notes on his sheet music.

Seiichi smiled as he stacked the sheets of music neatly and rose to his feet. It was never a problem, according to Renji. The singer was always perfectly polite in all things.

He also played the piano beautifully, with a sort of spare elegance that was perfectly suited to the jazz they performed – but he never played the instrument in their group. Only when he was composing, or when he was demonstrating something. Never in a performance.

“I’ve always wondered why you never perform at the piano,” Seiichi said abruptly as he turned to look up at Renji. “You’re a wonderful pianist.”

Renji shrugged. “Why don’t you sing?” he asked. Seiichi had a good voice, perfect for the slower, sadder songs that he tended to compose, but he never sang, ever.

“You do it better,” Seiichi said. And it was true; somehow the music was emotionally charged when Renji sang the lyrics – it was a little strange, since their vocalist was invariably calm, and rarely demonstrated his feelings.

“And you play the piano better – changing something like that would ruin the band’s harmony,” Renji explained as he stuck his hands in his pockets and followed Seiichi out of the music. “I think it’s better for the group that we remain where we are.”

Sometimes he did want to change some things, he reflected as he pulled the heavy door shut. Sometimes, he wanted to do something that would probably change everything drastically. But he never did.

He thought, maybe, that he was afraid of what it would do to them – afraid that he would destroy whatever tenuous relationship he had with Seiichi.

He and Yukimura Seiichi, Renji mused, had a delicate harmony built between them. He didn’t want that to shatter.