i. movement one; pianissimo
august, 2012

Many things happen at once.

A café door opens to welcome in a flurry of customers, amongst them a few tourists, a young couple, a college professor, and a woman whose name tastes like spring, and a small, silver bell above the doorframe chimes happily as if to greet them, although its song is mostly lost in the medley of sounds in the busy shop.

The pitter-patter of the rain outside is quickly drowned out by the lively roar of the customers' chatter and laughs, the clinks of their half-filled coffee mugs, and the muted clatter of little dishes being washed in the kitchen sinks, but shoulders still shudder as damp, cold air wafts through the gap of the closing door. The orchestra symphony being played by an old phonograph in the corner of the room goes almost unnoticed, but a few finely-tuned ears listen to it with rapt attention, and a certain pair wishes that it could.

Most faces are alight with smiles or at least marked by a slight upturn of the lips, but one face remains grim, mouth pulled downwards so tautly the expression seemed permanent. Like his lips, the male's eyebrows are cast down and furrowed as well, and his long, thin fingers are coiled so tightly around his cup of hot coffee that his knuckles whiten. But despite his tension, he is alert and aware, and his eyes immediately dart to the side as a figure passes his booth.

A woman walks by with a bounce in her step and a grin on her features—she doesn't seem to be affected by the dreary weather—and she happily meets the nonchalant gazes that flicker her way with brief nods.

When she reaches the front station to place her order, the man leans forward a bit but is out of earshot, though he wouldn't have been able to hear her speak even if he had been close enough. The woman signs her receipt with the flick of her wrist and a practiced flourish, and he idly notices that the tips of her dark tresses are shocked with a dull pink that must have been ten shades brighter when first dyed. Probably was a wild teenager, he muses to himself.

She bows her gently at the cashier when he hands her a cup of vanilla latte and then turns on her heel gracefully, like a perfect ballerina, skimming the crowd for an empty seat.

There are none in the café—Tuesday afternoons are always the busiest—besides the vacant portion of his booth, and, expecting her to leave, the man shifts his attention to his own coffee and the feathery wisps of steam rising from the mug in loose curls. He lifts the cup to his mouth halfheartedly, takes a small sip, and almost instantaneously grimaces at the taste—much too sweet for his liking.

Pushing the mug away, he leans back against the cushioned chair and sighs deeply. His eyelids begin to feel heavy, but before he can let them flutter close, he catches a glimpse of rosy pink, and his head lolls to the side.

It is the lady from before, bright smile and all. Dark brows arched, he forces himself into more of an upright position, and although his scowl deepens, her smile remains. Her pastel lips move to form words and to part in soft laughter, but the sounds do not reach his ears, and they never will. She speaks, but he does not listen, though he might have if he could.

The woman's smile falters only once, as a pretty blush dusts her face, and she tries again, raising her free hand from her side to gesture. She first points to herself and next, the empty seat adjacent from him, face hopeful.

After a few moments of unsteady silence, he relents, exhaling before giving a tense jerk of his head. The woman beams, and for the first time in who-knows-how-long, he forgets to frown.

Clutching her oversized tote, she slides into the booth and sets her drink to her diagonal left. Her mouth parts once more, and when the man does not lift his gaze from his coffee to acknowledge her, her thin eyebrows crinkle together. "Excuse me," she asks, raising her voice in attempt to catch his attention. "Sir, can you hear—"

Then the rhythmic drumming of her fingers against the mosaic-covered table ceases, and she realizes.

Her hands dart to her bag, and she pulls out a piece of slightly crumpled stationery. With a click of a pen, she writes in small, neat script.

'Can you hear me?'

The man's eyes narrow in suspicion as she slides the note across the table's surface, but nevertheless, they skim the words. He meets her eyes and shakes his head once, almost threateningly.

She pulls the paper back and writes again.

'Are you deaf?'

And much to her surprise, undefined loops of his handwriting form under her own, appearing abstract beneath her uniform letters.

'Is that a problem?'

"No," she breathes, with a horizontal jolt of her chin.

The paper remains in the center of the table, between their half-emptied cups of coffee, and silence resumes. The woman's fingers return to the table's face, moving sinuously and with precision, tapping delicately like the ongoing rain. Her eyes close, and the man can't help but watch her slender fingers dance across the mosaic.

How beautiful, he thinks to himself, and he has only thought so of something twice.

He finds himself mimicking her movements, her perfect staccatos, her gentle trills. Completely immersed by her motions, his facade fades for the first time in a century, and it only returns after she stops.

Her hand moves to her face, catching his attention, and she smiles when she sees that he is following her. Her lips move again, and this time, he watches closely—his unique way of listening.

"You'd make a great pianist," she murmurs.

He reaches for the pen and begins to scrawl on the last line of the sheet but stops. He folds the paper over, tucking it away.

When he looks up to her, she is still smiling.

"I could teach you how to play, if you'd like," she says. "I've been playing the piano since I was a girl."

He tips his head, as if to ask 'why?' and she shrugs.

"I feel like... I feel like I was meant to teach you," she pauses. "It's a strange feeling, but that's what it is."

And inside, he understands; he understands because he feels the same way, too, for some odd reason. But instead of falling into deep contemplation, he lets a shadow of a smile ghost his face and slips the paper into his pocket, finding it too personal to share but too important to forget.

'I've always wanted to play piano,' it reads.

a/n: Hi guys, it's been a while! I was writing this piece for a competition at school, and out of habit, I gave the characters similar personalities to Sasuke and Sakura, so I decided to go ahead and upload it here.

I was considering posting the whole story in one chapter, but I feel that it's just a tad bit long for a single chapter and has potential to span out to at least three chapters—and I've been mainly writing oneshots for a while, so a change in that would be good.

Anyway, the middle and ending are already completed, but I'll be tweaking and hopefully lengthening them in the meantime. I'll most likely have chapter two uploaded by next week!

As always, thank you so much for reading, and tell me what you think of 'harmonious'! Any suggestions of things that could happen in upcoming chapters would be greatly appreciated as well!