Something Left Behind
1/1
It hurt to look at that piano, the keys gathering a thin layer of dust and the ebony wood graying. But he knew damn well he couldn't get rid of that thing, that miserable instrument that he couldn't understand. The notes spun into melodies sounded sweet, he could love the pleasant sounds that it produced. But to sit behind it and translate a song that had formed in his head, to get the thing to cooperate with him... that seemed something impossible. True, he didn't try, he never had. It wouldn't have seemed right. But this seemed to only intensify the dread he felt when he looked at it. But truly, the reason why the site sickened him so had to be that the instrument was not his. He didn't own it, he could not and would not play it. It had no place in his house. It was Matthew's, he knew that, and that wretched thing seemed to recognize that as well. Positioned by the French doors so that the shafts of sunlight streamed onto the dust-coated ebony wood and ivory keys, it stared at him, stared at him until he would sigh and turn so that his back no longer faced it and he was looking straight at it.
Doesn't belong there.
He wished that Matthew could have taken that fucking thing with him. Anything was better than it rotting in his house, fading in the sunlight as it gathered more dust. Doesn't belong there. Just some ghost that Matthew had left behind. Sometimes when he had his back facing towards it, he half expected to hear the delicate progression of notes wafting from it, just as they had before. Matthew would sit and play that piano whenever he wanted, without warning or notice. The house would suddenly be filled with the sweet music, sometimes Liszt, Rachmaninoff, Tchaikovsky, and then at other times the things that Matthew had come up with, revealing both Matthew's inspirations and influences as well as the unique touches of his own that were prominent throughout the pieces.
Dom came to recognize the melodies that Matthew played, sometimes humming along softly, and took pleasure in hearing the music as a backdrop to whatever he may have been doing, whether it was anything from cooking to watching the telly. Then it would come to a stop, and soon he would see Matthew walk through the room, usually not even stopping on his own to acknowledge Dom. But Dom would look over and say how he thought it sounded beautiful, and Matthew would turn in his direction.
"Thank you, Dominic," he would always say, nothing else, while he kept his blue eyes fixed awkwardly on the floor. Every time, Dom knew the answer he would get, but for reasons he didn't know, he kept telling him anyways: "That was beautiful, Matthew."
But how long had it been now since the last time he had heard the music coming from the piano, as Matthew's long, lean fingers flew over the bright keys? How long, exactly, has it been since he'd had the chance to tell Matthew how beautiful the music was? He couldn't remember, didn't want to figure it out. But all of those times when he had imagined the music, how he had felt the desire to turn around and say once again that it was beautiful. And then what would he be faced with, but the neglected instrument that produced no music and had no pianist? His throat wold tighten, choke on the words that he wanted to be able to say, but with no one there to speak them to.
And so he let the thing sit there, not having any other option. It was too damn big to ignore or avoid. Even if stowing it away somewhere else was an option, he couldn't do that either. Where could it fit? Not that it mattered, as he wasn't going to touch it to move it. He remembered how he used to tap softly at the keys occasionally, and wonder about the things that Matthew felt as he played it. He didn't know if Matthew had ever heard him meddling with it, although he tried to play it quietly to avoid him hearing it. Not that he suspected that Matthew would be angry, it just seemed it would be an embarrassing thing to be caught doing, like a child discovered rummaging through his mother's makeup kit. But now, he hadn't touched the thing since Matthew had gone, and shuddered at the thought of caressing it only to look at his hand and discover gray dust smudged across his fingers.
Why couldn't he have fucking taken it with him? But there it sat, a specter, with nothing he could do about it. The pianist had gone and left that fragment of himself behind, nothing more than a ghost, to be bathed in the sunlight coming through the French doors and rotting before reluctant gray eyes.
Doesn't belong there.
He wished that Matthew could have taken that fucking thing with him. Anything was better than it rotting in his house, fading in the sunlight as it gathered more dust. Doesn't belong there. Just some ghost that Matthew had left behind. Sometimes when he had his back facing towards it, he half expected to hear the delicate progression of notes wafting from it, just as they had before. Matthew would sit and play that piano whenever he wanted, without warning or notice. The house would suddenly be filled with the sweet music, sometimes Liszt, Rachmaninoff, Tchaikovsky, and then at other times the things that Matthew had come up with, revealing both Matthew's inspirations and influences as well as the unique touches of his own that were prominent throughout the pieces.
Dom came to recognize the melodies that Matthew played, sometimes humming along softly, and took pleasure in hearing the music as a backdrop to whatever he may have been doing, whether it was anything from cooking to watching the telly. Then it would come to a stop, and soon he would see Matthew walk through the room, usually not even stopping on his own to acknowledge Dom. But Dom would look over and say how he thought it sounded beautiful, and Matthew would turn in his direction.
"Thank you, Dominic," he would always say, nothing else, while he kept his blue eyes fixed awkwardly on the floor. Every time, Dom knew the answer he would get, but for reasons he didn't know, he kept telling him anyways: "That was beautiful, Matthew."
But how long had it been now since the last time he had heard the music coming from the piano, as Matthew's long, lean fingers flew over the bright keys? How long, exactly, has it been since he'd had the chance to tell Matthew how beautiful the music was? He couldn't remember, didn't want to figure it out. But all of those times when he had imagined the music, how he had felt the desire to turn around and say once again that it was beautiful. And then what would he be faced with, but the neglected instrument that produced no music and had no pianist? His throat wold tighten, choke on the words that he wanted to be able to say, but with no one there to speak them to.
And so he let the thing sit there, not having any other option. It was too damn big to ignore or avoid. Even if stowing it away somewhere else was an option, he couldn't do that either. Where could it fit? Not that it mattered, as he wasn't going to touch it to move it. He remembered how he used to tap softly at the keys occasionally, and wonder about the things that Matthew felt as he played it. He didn't know if Matthew had ever heard him meddling with it, although he tried to play it quietly to avoid him hearing it. Not that he suspected that Matthew would be angry, it just seemed it would be an embarrassing thing to be caught doing, like a child discovered rummaging through his mother's makeup kit. But now, he hadn't touched the thing since Matthew had gone, and shuddered at the thought of caressing it only to look at his hand and discover gray dust smudged across his fingers.
Why couldn't he have fucking taken it with him? But there it sat, a specter, with nothing he could do about it. The pianist had gone and left that fragment of himself behind, nothing more than a ghost, to be bathed in the sunlight coming through the French doors and rotting before reluctant gray eyes.
♠ ♠ ♠
This came to me very suddenly and was written down quickly in one go.