A Sound in the Manor

Author's Notes (Or Nonsense, whichever you prefer.):

I was going for something with a touch of elegance with this, so I hope I achieved it. Something of a European feel. Now, I'm not saying you should imagine Sasuke and Naruto with British or French accents, but that's the type of world I'm setting them in.

Also, characters may seem OOC. Sorry about that.

I hope you enjoy it.

/// A Sound in the Manor ///

It's not as if I had much to show for myself.

I was born into a family with artistic value. I was brought up with a paintbrush as my rattle, and I always had an eye for color. My father was a painter, and my mother was into dance. But, artistic talent was never really in my genes, it seemed. No matter how hard I tried, I could never produce anything worth bragging over. Sure, I may have gotten a pat on the back or a small gesture of acknowledgement, but that was never enough, and especially for me. I kept trying and trying to create some sort of masterpiece.

Music simply wasn't for me. I couldn't play an instrument to save my life, and my voice could have been compared to something of a dying animal when it came to singing. I didn't have my mother's talent for dancing. Painting was all I had. It was all I could ever come close to if I wanted to make something out of myself in the arts.

When I had turned 15, I had begun to see things on a whole new scale. Memories seemed more vivid, and yet I would wake up in the morning or in the middle of the night wondering if they were real or simply dreams my own mind had created on a blank canvas.

If they were just dreams, they could easily fool anyone into thinking otherwise.

They acted just like memories; some were sad, and some were happy, but all were completely realistic.

It was also at that age that I started to feel things I had never felt before, and see things completely different. Red was a whole new red; more passionate and complex. Yellow was brighter and more vibrant, and green felt like a lush wave of different emotions whenever I saw any shade of it.

It was at that age I painted something magnificent. I had set up my easel outside and painted a tree. Just an ordinary tree, but there was something so... peculiar about it. When I painted the bark, for example, I felt like each stroke of brown or black was a word or a group of words that told a story. The leaves were like voices, and I could just hearing them whispering a song whenever a breeze rolled over me.

It was more than a tree. It was an entire being, just in a more natural form, as if it had another life living inside of it.

I managed to sell it for a great amount of money, and my parents were very proud. Afterwards, however, I couldn't paint anything like it. Nothing with that amount of feeling or emotion. It angered me, to say the least; I hated myself for a long time, doubting my talent, and whenever I saw a copy of that one painting, I felt a wave of sadness wash over me.

Disappointment.

I had given up on painting for a long while. When I turned 18, my parents had died in a fire at a local arts studio. My mother was in a dance performance that included a lot of risky tricks and such, but one of the dancers was off of her footing, and she knocked down one of the torches. It didn't take long for the fire to spread.

I had never wanted to paint ever again after that. I had sold all of my art supplies and what paintings people would buy. When I turned 20, I sold my own home, and I used that money to find a new one.

My name is Uzumaki Naruto, or it was my name, rather.

-----

I had moved to a very small town. It was comfortable, though, as if every house had something memorable to it. I felt like I had already been inside of them, so I never bothered to visit anyone or to make many friends. I lived on the road right beside the Market Place, so it was usually always busy. I would sit in front of the window and watch the people pass by, usually all in fine clothing, since people who were anything below middle class had no business going to Market in the first place.

Everyone had a different face. Some were pouting, others smiling. Some just had an ordinary, casual frown about them that made them all the more different.

The norm in this town, to me, was a foreign, outlandish experience.

I remember taking a walk much farther than I had to go. It wasn't that I was lost or anything, but I had found myself taking longer routes to get home. I took a right road that branched off into a small forested area, or a grove, of some nature. It was there that I found a very intriguing place.

It was a manor, large and elegant, but with many vines growing over it. There were a few broken windows here and there, and the front gate had a slight tilt; broken. Through all this small wreckage, however, there was a tomato garden to the side. I remember my hand lifting to run through my blond hair, and I couldn't help myself.

I had made my way towards the structure, my curiosity peaked to whole new levels. However, as soon as I set my foot down on the first step going up towards the front doors, I heard something.

It was a sound so familiar, yet completely foreign to my ears. A sound nothing could imitate. It was a piano; a piano with a breath of a song.

Each note had me waiting for the next as my mind pieced together what the melody would sound like. It was sad, in all honesty, and I felt my skin tingle, signaling I had gotten goosebumps. I found myself closing my eyes and just listening to the music, completely forgetting where I was or why I was there. The notes were like soft, but strong arms wrapping around me in a sad embrace.

I opened my blue eyes, blinking twice before turning my head to look over my shoulder. I had then stepped towards one of the windows, peeking inside. Dust had given everything a faded appeal, but I managed to see a figure sitting at a large piano.

It was a male, but he wasn't looking at the keys. He was looking up, eyes opened blankly. I had stood there, pondering whether or not I should go in or stay outside. Either way, I turned and made my way home for the day, that song settling into my memory, and then fading into my dreams.

-----

I had stopped by that place every day for an entire month, that same person playing that same song. The same goosebumps of the arms that embraced me, the same dreams that engulfed my sleep, and the same roads to get there for the next visit. It had become a great routine for me, and I couldn't break it even if I had wanted to.

In the first week of December, just as snow has begun to make its way into the town, I had gained enough courage to knock on the doors of that manor. The song from the piano had stopped, and I heard a voice. A low, soft voice that I could hear only because of the broken windows.

"You finally decided you wanted to come inside?"

I had blinked rapidly at that, not sure of how to respond. My hands did that for me, however, and I opened the door to the right, stepping inside slowly before closing it behind me. My eyes looked over the area before settling on the male sitting at the piano. He sat there, still as stone, his fingers still positioned over the next keys he would play.

I stood where I was, frozen. I didn't know what to say or do. He seemed to have gotten that, though, and continued to play the song until the very end. His arms and fingers were very refined and skilled in movement. I knew right then that he had been playing piano for a very long time.

When he had finished, I took a few steps towards him, and he turned to face me. It was then that I realized he was blind. Milky, cold eyes stared in my direction, and I had made a horrible first impression. The first thing I had said to him was the dumbest, most moronic first words to ever come out of my mouth, especially for this particular situation.

"Wow, you're blind," I had said.

The other had simply titled his head, his brows furrowing deeply before he turned and shook his head. "Really? I wasn't aware," he said flatly. I bit my lip and looked down, apologizing, but was obviously ignored. I looked back down to him and studied his figure closely.

Black hair and pale white skin blended in well with his environment, and he wore a long white shirt with long sleeves, black pants that had gathered a small amount of dust, and no shoes. He was thin, lithe, and had a slightly feminine curve to his waist. I smiled and moved beside him, watching his thin fingers stroke a yellowed-with-age key lovingly. He spoke again.

"You've been coming here for a long time."

I nodded and made a small noise of confirmation. He nodded, too, and pressed down on the key softly, tilting his head to the side as if he were savoring the sound like a taste. The corner of my mouth twitched into a soft smile.

-----

His name was Uchiha Sasuke, and he was the same age as me, only a few months older. I spent a lot of time with him, and he taught me how to play a few songs on the piano. He told me it wasn't about hitting the right keys or making sure you had the right sheets of music. It was about what you felt when you played.

He always played sad music, or that's what I had come to think.

He didn't talk as much as I did, to say the least. I ended up starting almost every conversation and contributing the most, but I didn't mind. He didn't look at me, but I knew he was listening. He wore the same thing every day, and was always at that piano.

And it was one day, New Year's Day, that I bought a new easel, and I began to paint. I didn't know what, just yet, but my hands moved on their own.

It was the first time in years that I had picked up a paintbrush.

One day, I had gotten to the manor a bit earlier than I normally did. Sasuke let me walk in whenever I wanted, since he trusted me, and I had made my way through the doors and into an empty room.

I looked everywhere for him, checking the kitchen and the dining room. The parlor and the bedrooms. I had begun to worry when I saw him outside, sitting by the tomato garden. The fingers of his right hand were holding on lightly to a small, almost dead leaf. I made my way outside and sat next to him, watching him carefully.

"Tomatoes are my favorite," he said softly. "My mother used to make me all kinda of foods with them, and I'd always enjoyed what she made." His hand dropped from the leaf, and rested on his knee. I sat still, now staring at his feet. "My parents, along with my older brother, died when I was younger. My father was a traditional salary man, and my mother was an ordinary housewife. My brother was the one who taught me how to play piano. He wrote all kinds of music that I knew I could never compete with."

He shifted some, his toes curling into the soft soil beneath. "My father didn't want my brother to get into music. He wanted him to take on the family business, though my mother supported him. When my father found out he had been teaching me to play piano, matters only got worse..."

-----

"How am I to have an heir, now? Piano will not get you anywhere in life!"

"Piano can get me far in life, because I have passion for it, and--"

"Passion! Ugh, such--! I cannot believe you would use something like 'passion' as an excuse for this situation. Passion will get you no where!"

"It all depends on what a person's 'no where' and 'somewhere' might be, and my 'no where' is ending up like you."

"...."

-----

I only blinked a few times, the story settling into my mind. "My father died a week later, having been shot three times in his chest by someone who was hired by a competing company. My mother died not long after of cancer, and my brother..."

He paused for a moment, resting his head on his arms as I watched him carefully. "My brother had been murdered, as well. A man had stabbed him right in the head and stole his music," he said slowly, carefully, then looked at me with a soft smile. "The song I always play is the song that man took. My brother called it 'A Life Unknown.'"

He sat there, almost sadly, and uncurled his toes. His fingers dug into his shirt. "I wasn't born blind. I lost my sight right after my brother was murdered, when I had gotten sick with something the doctors couldn't diagnose or name."

We sat in silence after that. I looked down to my own feet, my heart beating softly, but I could feel it in my throat.

-----

I worked long and hard on that painting for a long time. Each stroke of my brush, I felt the need to cry. I never figured out why, but my eyes would always sting with tears.

In March, I led Sasuke around the yard of his home more, and then led him beyond the gate. I let him feel the bark of unfamiliar trees, and let him hear the songs of different birds. Later on that month, I took him to town, and then eventually, to my home.

I let him feel my face for the first time, and I told him what I looked like. He said he could picture me, and I simply smiled. It was then that I found myself leaning towards him, closing the already small gap between us. I found my lips pressed against his softly, and he responded by closing his eyes and wrapping his arms around my neck. He pulled me towards him, laying on the bed with me on top.

We made love that night, and I knew that he would be the only person I'd ever make love to.

I worked on my painting right after, while he was asleep, but I had a feeling in the pit of my stomach. It told me to stop, but I continued, anyway.

By April, Sasuke was used to my home. He knew where everything was and where it went once used or done with. I'd always walk him home, but by the end of the month, he had said he wanted to live with me, and I had said yes without even taking a second to think about it.

We made love almost every night, and after each time, I'd paint.

In May, I was able to buy him a new piano, and he played it every day. He had gained some weight, and had new clothes. He looked happy; much happier than from when I first met him, and I was overjoyed. Still, I noticed he would often get tired easily, and needed naps during the day. I worried, and when I asked him if he needed a doctor, he would refuse to go.

I still continued my painting, and one night in June, I had finally finished it. My eyes scanned over the painting and studied it softly as I cried. It was of Sasuke, but he was asleep in a tomato garden; not the same one he had raised and tended himself. I wanted so much to show him this painting. I thought maybe if I could have him feel it while I described it to him, he could imagine it, so I stood and dried my eyes. I picked the painting up and walked into the piano room, where I saw him sitting in front of it.

His head was laying down on the piano, the keys covered, and a bright tomato beside him. I had smiled at the small bite that was on the tomato, then reached over and shook him softly, saying his name.

But, he wouldn't wake up.

I shook him harder and said his name louder, but no matter what I did, he would not open his eyes.

I fell to my knees beside him, dropping the painting on the floor, and I cried.

He had died of that sickness that had caused him to go blind. It had apparently spread throughout his body, and caused his heart to fail. My home had a lingering emptiness about it. I felt so miserable without him there.

I sold that painting, making a fortune of it, and it became famous. I named it after his brother's song, and it was put on display in museums and art auctions and conventions all around. I never kept the original. I never even kept a copy.

It was too much to be in that town, but I couldn't leave. I stayed in the manor alone and made myself learn to play that song just as well as he could.

And when I played it fully, completely, and perfectly for the first time without any mistakes, I closed my eyes happily, and smiled. I laid my head down and closed my blue eyes. Dust from the piano scattered and blended with dulling, almost gray, blond hair, and I drifted off to sleep.

And I never woke up.

////////////

Sorry if that was crappy or too sad or both. I was in the mood for something sweet yet tragic. .__.;

Please R&R.