Team 8 fic, with Shino Piano, Hina Violin, and Kiba Trumpet.

I posted this as an originial work on fictionpress, then realized it fit them too.

There are few things in this world as beautiful as the sound of a perfectly tuned piano playing in sync with an equally perfect violin—until they are joined by the glorious crystal clear sound of a trumpet.

That's the way I saw them. The three of them were a trio—the exact traits and final touches to balance one another out into the most peculiar and spectacular piece.

Watching them play together, they fit with each other like a puzzle; each had a specific place in the final movement. But alone, not only did they advertise their individual isolation, but also that they were fractured and jagged in ways that refused to fit with any other.

He was the piano—flowing with the same rhythm of his hands, swift and quick in his movements with ranging thoughts like the keys to fit everyone's needs. He was grand like a piano too; slightly taller than anyone else, shrouded in coats and colars, the sun glinting off dark frames. Still, he was secretive--always speaking of others and sharing nothing; too calm and pliant to be trusted with a role as he refused to move from the sidelines. And so for it, others shut him out, calling him weak and selfish.

He was the bass of their music with his strength and his patience.

She was the violin—bright and haunting in her music and eyes, once drawn out from her polished shell. She was light and waving like her bow, moving from emotion to emotion with a single stroke of a string, and soothing to the soul when she smiled at them through pearly eyes. But still, she was too sweet, too shy--like putting too much sugar in one's tea; she left a bitter taste in their minds and a small, shadowed vision in their hearts. Never more than a soft whisper in the world, never fitting the true tune just right. And so others removed her from their pieces to be lost in their sound.

She accompanied their music with her love and her balance.

At first, they were alone; outcast in everything. They held close to each other, and floated as driftwood, tossed violently through life, battered and wary of the bigger picture.

Until him.

He was a phenomenon in their world--a bright and glinting silver trumpet full of vibrancy and life in their slow waltz. His rough hair, those long red marks that framed a smile full of fanged teeth and blunt words: all were too wild and loud for any of the others. Amidst a world of brass and plastic, he was too great, too loud, too strong for the others. No matter what he tried, he could not force his way into a niche of his own, and for it he was cast off with the trash.

Shut out and singing solo, his lone sound caught their attention.

She started it; playing a sweet pianissimo sound that flitted around his bright tune with promises of joined laughter and long days of happiness together. And because her voice was so soft, he found he needed restraint to hear it, over time teaching him patience and beauty of soft and quiet. Soon, their Grand Piano joined in the fun, his steady song giving purchase to the new comer's frantic blasts and guiding him where he was lost.

The silver trumpet at last had his piece, and to it he found he had much to offer:

Where her strums were quiet, his forte pushed and hurried her to be distinguished from the rest and wrapping her up in a flying rendition of The Tempest. Her focus would consume her as she rose to meet him, she would never notice as her spirit soared into forte.

Perhaps, his greatest trick with her was that just as she reached the peak of their crashing voices, he would cease, leaving her to play her loudest and best alone in the spotlight for the entire world to hear.

Emboldened by his grin, she grew strong enough to stand alone.

Where his strings were soothing and easy-going, he found a constant and undeniable fight in his friend's breathy tones, both as they played and as they lived. A fight, he quickly learned, he could not pass or solve without rising to the challenge with a fast tempo and intense, passionate words and notes that forced him, unknowingly, into subtly controlling their piece.

Frustrated by his stubborn ways, he was brought out from his calm façade.

He was the melody of their music with his fire and his force.

And now, lurking here in the dark of the room, watching them gather their things to wander back into their own private world, I am reminded once more of the indescribable peace that hangs over them. Like that breath-taking feeling at the end of a masterpiece that seems to crash back onto you, giving you a sense of awe, as if you have just touched on something beyond you. It lingers in their smiles and permeates the room as he wraps his arms around his friends, tugging my own mouth into a grin.

Each instrument, once alone and unheeded, found its voice in the embrace of these extraordinary people.

And through this trio, I have witnessed the birth of the Most Beautiful Sound.